Tainted Tokay (9 page)

21

V
irgile knew that Alexandrine had a lovely apartment next to the Quinconces Esplanade, and from her balcony one could almost touch the winged woman atop the Girondins Monument. Although he had never been there, he could envision the high ceilings, the sweeping drapes, the Louis XVI chests of drawers, the large mantelpieces above the fireplaces, the chandeliers, the old-fashioned parquet floors, the Oriental rugs, and the walls covered with faded wallpaper that needed
to be replaced.

Virgile also knew that Alexandrine's finances wouldn't allow for any restoration. Most of her salary was going
toward upkeep.

He had just walked past the colossal statues of philosophers Michel de Montaigne and Montesquieu and had positioned himself to see the entrance to Alexandrine's apartment building. He knew exactly where it was, having attended more than one event on the massive square lined with trees and picturesque streetlamps, which at nighttime gave the promenade a magical aura. Alexandrine had pointed out her windows at the last wine festival they att
ended together.

Because Alexandrine was afraid to go home, Virgile wanted to assess the danger for himself. He settled himself in under the trees and took out his tablet to catch up on reports. He looked up from time to time, watc
hing the door.

He spent the whole morning there and didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. There were the usual passersby, parents with young children, a few teenagers trying to look cool, and an older man camped out on a park bench. He looked too well dressed to be a bum, but too unkem
pt to be sober.

Just as his stomach was beginning to grumble and he was about to go get some lunch, Virgile did a double take. A man he recognized was trying to get i
n the building.

22

G
ábor got his forints. He did his best to win an extra tip, but Benjamin stood his ground. Zoltán indicated with a gesture that haggling would get the driver nowhere. The taxi disappeared in a
cloud of dust.

“I'm thirsty and very hungry
,” Claude said.

“I'm famished too, my friend. Let's see what we ca
n find to eat.”

When Consuela came down to meet them, Claude told her about the phone call from
the ambassador.

“A Syrian national had your passpor
t?” she asked.

“I imagine with everyone leaving Syria, an altered French passport could go for thousands of euros
,” Claude said.

“As much as ten thousand,” Cons
uela corrected.

Benjamin, Claude, and Elisabeth all turned and
looked at her.

“I read it in the paper,” Consuela added, giving th
em a coy smile.

“Let's not think about that now,” Benjamin said. “We're on vacation. Right?” They took a table under an arbor. The bees were too occupied with gathering pollen to notice the diners, who were basking in the warmth and admiring the view. Below, the Tokaji vines were unfurling like
green ribbons.

Benjamin ordered a Zempléni sauvignon blanc. The dry white, served at eight degrees centigrade, had a smoky aroma that delighted the men. The women weren't quite as impressed. After a few sips, however, Elisabeth began to appreciate the subtle notes of citrus and green apple and the well-contr
olled acidity.

“It's surprisingly fresh,” Elisabeth
finally said.

The meal included copious servings of freshwater fish soup. Consuela had dropped her diva airs and seemed genuine for a change, while the wine had loosened Claude's tongue. Benjamin was feeling better with each bite, but h
e said nothing.

“Benjamin, you're being very quiet,” Elisabeth said, interrupting her hus
band's musings.

“Just enjoying myself, dear,” he answered, patting El
isabeth's hand.

Despite Elisabeth's urgings, Zoltán hadn't joined them for lunch. Instead, he left to eat with his cousins Pavel and Vilmos. Then he wanted to see a young lady from Szerencs about a business matter. Elisabeth took this to mean an old love affair. Their tour guide promised to return later to take them to th
e wine cellars.

The Cookers and Claude and Consuela were fine with that. They were in no hurry. Tokaj was at their feet, and that was all
that mattered.

“One week might not be long enough,” Benjamin said as he enjoyed an aszú sorbet, made from the world-famous, topaz-colored sweet wine. “Unfortunately, there's too much going on in Bordeaux for me to extend our stay. I‘ll need to get back before things really ge
t out of hand.”

23

A
fter grabbing a
jambon-beurre
sandwich from a bakery, Virgile went back to his apartment and surveyed the chaos. There was no way he could invite a woman into his place, much less Alexandrine de La Palussière. His was a true bachelor's haunt, and his liaisons almost always took p
lace elsewhere.

Now, however, he had to do something. He sighed and got to it, racing through the rooms, dumping the dirty laundry into the hamper, throwing away the trash, doing the dishes, and cleaning out the
refrigerator.

An hour later, his pad was still badly in need of a sense of style, but it was clean enough. Alexandrine could set foot in it. He took a final look before locking the door behind him and heading off to Saint André Hospital, where he found Alexandrine waiting for him, her things neatly pa
cked in a bag.

She declined a wheelchair and took Virgile's arm, drawing closer when they got outside. On first glance, anyone would have thought they looked like lovers. But then the passerby would have noted that Alexandrine was clutching her companion like a lost child, and she was hiding her face behind her hair and dark sunglasses. Nothing, however, could conceal the unsightly banda
ge on her nose.

“Is everyone staring, Virgile?”Alexandrine asked, nervously checking out each person th
ey encountered.

“No one is staring, Alexandrine. Everyone else is too self-absorbed to give you
a second look.”

They walked in silence until they reached Virgile's car, which was parked under a fragrant linden tree. Alexandrine's face relaxed,
and she smiled.

“Even under this bandage I can smel
l it, Virgile.”

The moment passed. Alexandrine got in the car and made sure the door was locked. Large drops of rain were slapping the windshield, but Virgile didn't turn
on the wipers.

“The rain will pass. It'
s headed east.”

When Virgile unlocked the door to his apartment, Alexandrine took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were glistening with tears, and Virgile could see the relief on her face. He led her to a chair and helpe
d her sit down.

“Somebody left something for you,” she said, pointi
ng to the door.

Virgile looked back and saw an envelope with a heart drawn on it. Someone had slipped it under the door. He walked over and picked it up. Without giving the envelope any attention, he slipped it into the pocke
t of his jeans.

“So, you have a stalker?” Alexandrine
said, smiling.

“One of many,” Virgile answered, grinning back a
t Alexandrine.

“What did you say back at the hospital about self-ab
sorbed people?”

“Okay, okay. You know I'm k
idding, right?”

“Yes, Virgile. I know y
ou're kidding.”

Seeing that the apartment was too dark, Virgile opened the living-room shades, exposing the disgraceful fountain of the Three Graces that obscured the limited view of the
Garonne River.

Alexandrine got out of her chair to look at herself in the mirror. Her smile vanished. Touching her cheeks and forehead, she coll
apsed in tears.

Spontaneously, Virgile went to her and wrapped her in his arms, just as he would his little sister. His cheek brushed Alexandrine's hair, and he smelled her perfume. He felt her chest heave with each sob. The woman curled against him was crying out for tenderness, and Virgile smoothed her hair, not daring to touch her battered face. But as he did this, he could sense his feelings change. She was no longer a little sister. He would have been embarrassed, but Alexandrine's need for comfort was more important than anything else. He kept smoothing her hair while rocking her gently. Eventually she stopped crying, and her breathing became even. Virgile gent
ly pulled away.

“I have nothing but wine to offer you,” he sa
id, getting up.

“The doctors advised me not to drink alcohol. I'm on an antidepressant, and the
two don't mix.”

“I might have a little orange juice. Let me check.” Virgile was relieved to put a little distance between himself and the woman who was arousing unexpected feelings. He headed to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “I lied. I only have
tomato juice.”

“That's fine.”

He returned to the living room with the tomato juice, a bottle of Listrac—a Château Lestage—and two glasses. He fill
ed the glasses.

“Virgile, I need to ask you
for something.”

“If it's in my power, it will b
e my pleasure.”

“I may need more time before I can go home. Can I stay here until
I feel better?”

Virgile nearly choked and rushed into the kitchen to drink a glass of water. He had been thinking only in terms of a day—maybe two at the most. He really hadn't thought it through. Of course she needed to stay in a place where she felt safe. Of course she could stay here. He'd sleep on the sofa, and she could take the bed. T
hey'd make do.

When he came back to the living room, Alexandrine was standing at the window, watching the storm shoot bolts of lightning well beyond Bouliac. She opened the window to feel the warm breath o
f the downpour.

“Thank you, Virgile. I always knew I could count on you,” she said softly without
turning around.

The wind was blowing the rain into the room, drenching Alexandrine's face like so many tears. Virgile walked up behind her and, during a clap of thunder, kissed her tenderl
y on the neck.

24

A
lime-green Trabant with a battered fender and a dilapidated bumper was waiting for them in front of the inn. Zoltán was showboating at the wheel. His cousin Pavel was sitting next to him, laughing. Evidently Vilmos was a no-show. Perhaps he had stayed behind in the vineyards? At this time of year there was plenty
of work to do.

Above the River Tisza, the sun had given way to thick charcoal-gray clouds driven by winds from the Russian plains. The air was more breathable now, much to Elisabeth's delight. She unbuttoned the collar of h
er silk blouse.

The backseat clearly didn't have enough room for both couples. But as it happened, Consuela was tired. More to the point, she was drunk and therefore excused from any visit. Benjamin wouldn't have minded taking a nap himself. There wasn't enough time, though, and Zoltán made it clear that he had arranged everything with
his relatives.

Pavel didn't look much older than his cousin, but they hardly resembled each other. Pavel had coal-gray eyes, cropped chestnut hair, a handshake that could reduce a person's fingers to crushed grapes, and rather crude mannerisms. While Zoltán was hardy and cheerful, his cousin seemed clumsy and nondescript, even
simpleminded.

The Cookers and Claude packed themselves into the backseat of the Trabant, which had most likely come off the assembly line when Leonid Brezhnev ruled with an iron fist. Benjamin wondered if that was being too generous. For all he knew, the car had been put together during the Khrushchev era. The winemaker had to give credit to the person who was keeping this jalo
py on the road.

They were heading toward Mád. Vilmos was waiting for them there. So said Zo
ltán and Pavel.

When they arrived, a wrought-iron gate designed to go up and down like the entrance to a castle barred their access to the cellar. A gate as impressive as the wines themselves, Benjamin mused, thinking about the five hundred years of winemaking
in this region.

Vilmos was holding the keys. A well-built man with thick eyebrows and darting light-colored eyes, Vilmos didn't resemble either his brother or Zoltán. It was hard to read into his gestures and intermittent smiles. He exuded something that could be interpreted as either distrust
or deviousness.

“If these guys are cousins, I'll eat my hat,” Claude said, mopping his brow with
a handkerchief.

The wine cellar was built into a hillside and was almost undetectable from a distance. The visitors had to climb a steep path to reach the entrance. It resembled that of a chapel, with climbing roses clinging to the frame of the Romanesque door. Benjamin saluted the work of the builders of old. It was part of a huge subterranean labyrinth originally dug out to defend against Tur
kish invaders.

Elisabeth stopped in her tracks after Vilmos gave two turns of the key and opened the way into
the dark tomb.

“What's w
rong, darling?”

“Benjamin, I can't go in. I'm feeling claustrophobic.” Elisabeth's breathing had changed, and she was leaning agains
t the entrance.

“You have nothing to worry about, sweetheart. It's all well ventilated, and for the most part, the tunnels are wide. Remember the cellars in Champagne? It's
the same idea.”

“I have a bad feeling about this. Maybe I should have stayed behind, like Consuela. My he
ad's spinning.”

“Take a few deep breaths
,” Claude said.

“Let's just go on in. The coolness will do you good.” Benjamin's words came out sharper than he had intended. Unlike his wife, he was eager to s
ee the cellars.

Elisabeth closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said, opening her eyes aga
in. “Let's go.”

When everyone had descended the stairway leading to the dirt floor, Pavel turned on a string of bulbs that threw puddles of bluish light on rows of 140-liter casks lining the walls. The glass bungs atop each cask gleame
d in the light.

The cellar was actually a tunnel cut right through the volcanic rock, with passageways on either side. Dark fungus carpeted the walls. Elisabeth reached out
and touched it.

“Feel it, Benjamin. It's as soft as a
rabbit's ears.”

“It's like the
Baudoinia compniacensis
black mold in the Cognac wine warehouses, dear. The wine feeds the fungus as it evaporates. That's the angel's share. But first, before the wine ever gets here, the grapes are crushed into a syrupy aszú paste and mixed with a base wine that has already fermented in steel vats. The idea is to extract the natural sugars and aromas. Only then does it come here for a second fermentation, which could last years. Isn
't that right?”

Benjamin turned to Vilmos and Pavel for an answer. They said nothing and just lo
oked at Zoltán.

“Yes, yes. Aszú wine must age at leas
t three years.”

Zoltán pointed out that the humidity was nearly ninety percent, and the temperature was no higher than eleven d
egrees Celsius.

“Tell me, Zoltán, why are these wine casks called
göncs
?” Benjamin asked as he surveyed the walnut-stained barrels arranged in neat rows. The vintage and parcel were chalk
ed on each one.

“Actually, they're called Gönci.” Zoltán responded. “Gönc is a town in the Zemplén Mountains that's famous for its coopers. Even casks that don't come from there get
the name now.”

Benjamin lifted one of the glass bungs and listened to the Tokaji. It was fermenting. He invited Claude
to lend an ear.

“Listen to the wine sing,” he said. “It's always the same refrain, but I never ge
t tired of it.”

Vilmos picked up a glass pipette. He dipped the tool into the cask and inhaled until the pipette took on an amber color. Then he filled three glasses, the first of which he hande
d to Elisabeth.

Elisabeth shook her head, and Benjamin saw that she
was shivering.

“Just a sip, sweetheart,” he said. “It's not every day that we can have an experie
nce like this.”

She acquiesced and took the glass. But no sooner had she lifted it to her lips than she fell to the floor, dropping the glass and spil
ling the wine.