Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) (2 page)

“It’s intriguing, like the path a drop of Armagnac takes before it comes out of the alembic.”

“That’s a fine image,” Elisabeth said, “but sometimes it is better not to know all of the mysteries lying in the dark.”

“This is one area in which my wife and I differ. I believe you should always seek to uncover secrets.”

“I don’t really have an opinion on the subject,” Virgile said, studying the bottom of his empty glass.

Benjamin Cooker stood up and folded his napkin.

“My dear Virgile, from now on, consider yourself my assistant. We’ll discuss the conditions later. I hope that this wine cleared your mind, because I believe you will need all of your faculties. We have a particularly delicate mission awaiting us.”

“And when will I be starting?”

Cooker took a last sip of Haut-Brion and set his glass down slowly. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket, looked Virgile in the eye and handed him a set of keys.

“Right now.”

A
FTER
VIRGILE HAD NEGOTIATED a few bends, Benjamin Cooker felt reassured. His new assistant handled the old Mercedes 280 SL convertible with tact. He hadn’t needed much time to adjust to it. Virgile had no doubt that handing him the wheel was less a sign of trust than a test. He felt his employer eyeing his slightest moves with a distant vigilance barely masked by the drowsiness that was beginning to slow him down. As they drove through Bordeaux, Benjamin did not regret having let Virgile drive. He was beginning to feel the night of insomnia, and he let the comforting purr of the six cylinders soothe him. The accelerations were smooth, the braking soft, the turns balanced. The boy must have some hidden fault!

As they approached the limits of Médoc, traffic slowed little by little until it stopped entirely on the boulevards. Construction bogged the city down, disfiguring it everywhere with orange-yellow signs that looked like they belonged in a cheap carnival. Cranes stood with empty hooks, and aggressive bulldozers lumbered like large lazy insects. The tramway—silent, shiny and bright—would soon rise from this tangled mess that had mired the city for several months. Some irritated Bordeaux residents honked without any illusions of being able to move along, while others just put up with it silently.

“We’re trapped,” Cooker grumbled. “Take the first street to the right, and let’s head to Pessac.”

“Are you sure?” asked Virgile.

“Go on. I know a shortcut.”

The driver put on his blinker and turned onto a lane lined with gray shops whose scaly facades could have used a serious facelift. The city was being transformed, but it would take a lot of work to restore the gleam of years past, before Bordeaux would find its glory again. It would have to clean the stonework blackened by pollution, uncover its long-neglected gilded facades, and then Bordeaux would again open up to the Port of the Moon, shedding its rags and coming into its own.

Cooker dictated directions. Take the second street to the right, then the first left, followed by another left. Straight ahead to the sign. Watch out for the speed bump. To the right. Now, a little farther along, after the blue signs, keep right. Bordeaux’s suburbs filed past in a confusion of cubical houses dropped there during the happy-go-lucky 1950s, ugly sheet-metal warehouses and deserted workshops, faux rustic houses with small well-kept yards and mocking gnomes, storefronts and 19
^th
-century working-class homes with stylized figures, sculpted friezes and zinc festoons.

“We’re not far from the wine school,” Virgile said, surprised.

“Indeed, it’s nearby. At the next light, take the small road that heads downhill. We’re almost there.”

Cooker asked his assistant to stop the convertible in the parking lot at the entrance of a large estate that was drowned in greenery and surrounded by a stone wall; shards of broken bottles lined the top to dissuade dishonest visitors. Virgile, who had not asked any questions during the trip, could not contain his curiosity any longer.

“Is this already Pessac?” he asked. “I’m a little lost.”

“Yes and no. We’re at the Château Les Moniales Haut-Brion. The estate is located where the three towns of Pessac, Mérignac and Bordeaux meet. It is the only vineyard still found within greater Bordeaux.”

“Is that so? I thought that there weren’t any more on the registry.”

“You are quite mistaken! This is one of the originalities of the Moniales Haut-Brion.”

“So, it’s the last vineyard planted
in
Bordeaux itself?”

“Or the first, depending on how you see things, Virgile,” said Benjamin, who thought it right to add, “Above all, it is owned by one of my best friends.”

Before going through the heavy wooden gate that opened to the grounds, Cooker glanced around, and it seemed that the landscape had changed again since his last visit some eight months earlier. The estate was locked in by suburban housing developments dating from the happy time before the first oil crisis tarnished illusions. A little farther north, blocks of white subsidized housing rose in stripes against the blue sky, insulting the eye.

Now, right in front of the main Moniales entrance, there were new two-story buildings that already looked like they would age poorly. The architects who designed this tidy, soulless complex clearly lacked taste and culture but had shown a very advanced knack for economy. It was easy to detect the second-rate developer’s stinginess in the hastily built structures. No consideration had been given to the families that would take out 20-year mortgages on homes in this suburb, where the tiniest concrete block was accounted for, the piles of sand measured to the last grain, the woodwork negotiated at the lowest cost and the gate put up without any grace.

Benjamin entered the estate and immediately headed toward the cellars, which were at the other end of the grounds. He felt at home. Virgile followed three steps behind, not daring to walk beside him, still wondering what they were doing here.

A man of stature was walking in their direction. Cooker waved at him and turned to his assistant. “Denis Massepain, the estate owner.”

Massepain’s steps were heavy. But his bearing was that of a natural gentleman farmer devoid of all affectation. He wore a white herringbone shirt, putty-colored pleated dress corduroys, a tweed jacket and English shoes. It looked like he and Cooker had the same tailor. Both had that elegant bearing that comes from being born into well-to-do families. Nearing the age of 50, neither had concerns about fleeting trends. Denis was an old friend, one you do not need to see often to feel as close to as you did the day you met him. From time to time, they crossed paths, getting together with their families for an evening in Grangebelle, meeting for a long lunch, just the two of them, at Le Noailles in town or seeing each other briefly during a tasting among experts. Luckily, Elisabeth got along well with Thérèse Massepain, the daughter of wine merchants from the Chartrons neighborhood. She too had highborn elegance and reserve.

They were a charming couple. Their children were educated, and their company was always pleasant. Benjamin was pleased that Denis had married so well. It was as if Thérèse’s smile and the pearl necklace she always wore brightened him up. He had studied to be an embryologist and had worked for a long time for a large pharmaceutical company in Castres before he took over operations at Moniales Haut-Brion, which belonged to his in-laws. Denis had finally put away his test tubes and potions to dedicate himself to presses and oak barrels. He worked hard, was blessed with a pragmatic approach and was extremely rigorous in his winemaking. It took him only a few years to make this wine one of the most prestigious in the appellation.

“Benjamin, it’s a disaster!”

“Hello, Denis.”

“A total disaster!”

Cooker had always known his friend to have an abrupt nature, but to not even greet him?

“Smell that!”

Cooker carefully sniffed at the vial that Denis held out. He paused.

“I’m going to be very honest with you,” the winemaker said right out, wrinkling his nose. “This is the worst kind of smell. It’s a real mess, and you never know how the wine will turn out.”

“Are you thinking the same thing I am?”

“I’m afraid so,” grumbled Benjamin, moving his nose away from the flask.

“
Brettanomyces
?” the estate owner stammered with a worried look that seemed to refuse the answer that he already knew was obvious.

“I’m not going to hide anything from you. And it seems to be very advanced already.”

“I don’t understand. It happened all at once. I went to Germany for a week, and when I came back, I found four barrels like this.”

“Denis, you are not the first to be the victim of this kind of thing. But it is rather rare to find a Brett infection in a winery of your standing.”

“That’s why I called you so early this morning.”

Suddenly, Denis Massepain noticed Virgile. He glared at him with suspicion, knitting his eyebrows.

“Virgile Lanssien, my new assistant,” Cooker said to reassure him, and then he went into the cellars.

“Pleased to meet you,” Massepain murmured.

“The pleasure is all mine, sir,” the young man said, forcing his voice a little.

They followed the winemaker, who had already started ferreting among the barrels. The cellars, which had recently been renovated and enlarged, were kept remarkably clean. There were small 1,000- to 2,000-gallon tanks used to ferment grapes from each parcel separately. The wine was then aged for about 18 months in oak barrels before being bottled. The small Moniales estate had long lingered in the shadows of the prestigious Château Haut-Brion and its neighbor, Mission Haut-Brion, yet it could now easily rival the best vineyards in the Pessac-Léognan appellation.

Denis Massepain was aware of the challenges and duties the Haut-Brion name imposed on him, so he had called on the advice of experts, notably the invaluable guidance of André Cazebon, an eminent researcher and dean of the Bordeaux Wine School. Cooker had great esteem for this specialist in monitoring phenolic maturity. He had perfected a technique that made it possible to precisely determine grape maturity so that the fruit could be harvested at the optimal time. With this, you could adapt the winemaking process for each tank and get unique results from each parcel.

“Did you tell your wizard?” asked Benjamin.

“I wouldn’t have bothered you if he had been around. I think he is in Lyon for a conference.”

“We’ll need his opinion. I’d like to talk it over with him.”

“I haven’t been able to reach him.”

“We’ll take samples from all the barrels, and we also need …”

“It’s done already,” Denis interrupted. “I prepared a sample from each barrel.”

“In that case, I’ll take everything to my lab and ask them to fast track the tests.”

“I would like this to stay between us,” the estate owner said with a sigh.

“Who do you think we are? It seems to me that Cooker & Co. has a reputation for being more than discreet!”

“I’m sorry, Benjamin. That’s not what I meant.”

“Virgile and I will be the only ones who know. We won’t use any labels or names, so nothing will leak out. Don’t worry.”

Cooker nodded at Virgile, who took the crate full of numbered flasks from the small stainless steel table. The assistant lifted it effortlessly and followed his employer, who continued to talk with the master of the Moniales as they walked up the central drive on the grounds.

“Virgile will come back tomorrow to take further samples from the barrels that are still healthy. In the meantime, you have to isolate the four contaminated barrels,” advised Cooker. “That is a basic measure, and it needs to be done quickly. Better safe than sorry! You don’t have to walk us to the gate. I know the way.”

The two friends shook hands without saying anything further. His arms around the wooden crate, Virgile took leave of the estate owner with a nod and a smile that tried to be encouraging.

“This estate is really magnificent,” the young man said, looking around at the large trees dotting the grounds that had been designed by Michel Bonfin, the landscaper who did the Chartreuse Cemetery in Bordeaux.

Virgile did not hide his admiration. He stopped for a moment to contemplate the Moniales Haut-Brion manor house, built on a hill in front of the cellars. It was surrounded by rows of grapevines and dominated the landscape without arrogance. The château was not huge, but the balance of its slate roof, the curve of its front steps and the proportions of its facade, with wings that had white Doric columns on both sides, gave the building elegance. A creek called the Peugue flowed at the foot of the knoll, ending among the loose moss-covered cobblestones of a fountain. A small baroque chapel, built in the 17
^th
century, with a pink-marble encrusted pediment, stood in the shade of a chestnut tree. Flocks of birds chirped in the pale April light, and leaves rustled in the breeze.

“It is hard to imagine such a place in the middle of the city.”

“It’s a small piece of paradise, my dear Virgile, with a whiff of sulfur in it.”

“I get that impression too, sir,” the assistant said, arranging the samples carefully in the trunk of the car.

Cooker drove back. They had to move quickly. Very quickly!

B
ENJAMIN RUBBED HIS EYES. Once again, the night had been short. He gulped down half a teapot of Grand Yunnan, took a very hot shower, splashed on a healthy dose of Bel Ami aftershave and dressed quickly, not really choosing his clothes. He had spent the entire night rereading his tasting notes, and he had a sharp pain in his lower back.

Elisabeth was still sleeping when he let Bacchus into the convertible. The setter sat in the passenger seat, his nose to the wind, a proud look in his eyes and his ears perked to the understated accents and streamlined drama of a Gluck opera. Cooker whistled the first measures of
Iphigenia in Taurus;
he was out of tune, but his heart was in it. This was his favorite opening of all, not because he thought it greater than the major works by Mozart or Verdi, but because it was concise. Cooker had a predilection for openings, prologues and introductions, whether they were symphonies, oratorios or lyrical works. He had recorded many tapes and enjoyed them the same way he enjoyed a bottle of wine: for the pleasure of tasting, without feeling obliged to finish it.

The road was short between Saint-Julien-Beychevelle, where Grangebelle was nestled, and the pier in the small port town of Lamarque. Benjamin drove the nine miles slowly to savor the crisp morning air and make the most of the always-comic show his quivering dog put on, his impertinent snout up to take in the view. The car was quickly loaded on the Médocain, a modern functional ferry stripped of all poetry. Benjamin was nostalgic for the old Commander Lemonnier, who skillfully piloted a straight-from-the-past boat called Les Deux Rives, an ancient pot-bellied tub whose curves became graceful when, in the hands of a real sailor, it caressed the sea foam. Lemonnier, a former Cape Horner and a formidable master mariner, started piloting this fresh-water crossing between inland Médoc and the Blaye citadel when he was well beyond 70. He was capable of steering his boat through fog and dark nights without using any navigational instruments. All he needed was a compass, a chronometer and a tide schedule to avoid the mud banks and skirt the treacherous islands of Île Verte and Fort Pâté, with its headlands. It took him barely 20 minutes to reach the other bank, and it was a pleasure to watch him in the wheelhouse, examining his little black Moleskine notebook, where he had noted maneuvering speeds and course durations, giving orders with a strong voice and landing at the pier without even lifting his eyes from his chronometer’s silver box.

The other side was a foreign land, a place that you could reach with a cannon ball, if not with the lob of a slingshot. Like the kids from the Médoc, young Benjamin had dreamed of bloody attacks, galleys in distress, pirate raids, toothless buccaneers and wild mutinies when he had spent summers here. And after a stormy night, when the current carried knotty peat, empty containers and puffed-up plastic bags, he could still imagine combats and skinned corpses, their bellies filled with saltwater.

As soon as Cooker landed on the right bank of the Gironde, he had the same feeling of adventure that had carried him away when his grandfather Eugène had taken him to visit Blaye. He parked the convertible in a downtown lot and immediately headed toward the citadel. Bacchus barked and had already gone through the king’s gate when Benjamin started over the bridge leading to the ramparts.

Their walk continued for two full hours. Dog and master explored the fortress at great length: the Minimes Convent, the barracks, the prison and the powder magazine, the Dauphine counterscarp, the Liverneuf gate, the central pavilion and the fortified flanks. Benjamin perched on the Cônes stronghold, pausing for a long time to watch the estuary’s slow-moving muddy water. He stared at a swirling eddy in the distance, then set his gaze on a sailboat before eyeing some lone branches washing against the foot of the cliff. Afterward, he climbed the Eguilette tower and took out his spiral notebook. He unscrewed the top of his fountain pen and jotted down some notes in his precise, swirled writing:

“Vauban, a man from Dijon
[develop this idea] …
the two visits from the King
[check the dates] …
Fort-Médoc kids … fishing for freshwater river shrimp … plaice fillets, court-bouillon
[recipe with fennel] …
Roland de Roncevaux
[be concise] …
do not forget Ferri, layout of Fort Pâté … arms factory, troop housing … the water is yellow, brown even, flowerbeds of the houses on the right … shops without giving any details, clock above the bridge, stone watchtower.”
He crossed out
“stone”
and replaced it with
“suspended.”

It was nearly noon when he turned back toward the middle of town. Bacchus was thirsty and was beginning to show signs of fatigue. Benjamin walked over to a cast-iron fountain and knelt beside the running water, cupping his hands to catch it for his dog to drink. They had enough time before the next ferry to visit an antique shop downtown. As soon as they passed through the beaded curtain, a lean man greeted them. He had the profile of a wading bird, as though he were an ancient hieratic sculpture carved in dry boxwood and lost among the shop’s odds and ends.

“Mr. Cooker, I was just going to call you.”

“You say that every time, my good man. One of these days I’m going to end up believing you,” teased the winemaker.

“No, I mean it. I just received some marvels that have your name all over them.”

“Show me your latest finds, but let me warn you, I did not come to Blaye to hunt for antiques. I do not even have checkbook on me.”

“Who even mentioned money?” the shopkeeper asked with a wily look in his eye. “Take a look, just for fun. And of course, if you have a little weakness for it, you can pay me later.”

“Who says I have weaknesses?”

The secondhand goods dealer unlocked a storage trunk lined with tarp and took out an old brightly colored enameled metal plaque depicting a wine from Saumur. Benjamin was among his best customers, or at least one of the most loyal, and the dealer knew he collected all manner of objects having to do with vineyards and wine. He had already sold him some fine pieces, notably still lifes full of bunches of grapes brightened with tin pitchers, well-made 17
^th
- and 18
^th
-century paintings, several mythological engravings of Bacchanalia and various antique corkscrews from all over, some of them very rare. Among Cooker’s finest acquisitions were two well-preserved posters from 1937, one drawn by a certain A. Galland for the Ministry of Agriculture, which touted French wines for “Health, Gaiety and Hope.” The other one was created by Jean Dupas and glorified the city of “Bordeaux, its port, its monuments and its wines.” It had a naked woman standing between the steeple of Saint-André Cathedral and a column generously endowed with clusters of grapes, from which emerged an ocean liner ringed with steam and an old sailboat. These posters brightened the winemaker’s offices at 46 Allée de Tourny in Bordeaux.

“I already have this plaque,” Cooker said, somewhat disappointed. “It is very beautiful and typical of the period between the two wars. It looks a little less rusted than mine, but one is enough.”

“Well then, I also have a magnificent tun barrel lock that could interest you.”

“Magnificent! A
barre de portette
. This was used to keep the small opening at the bottom of a large cask closed. It is really beautiful!”

Benjamin brushed the bronze plate lightly with the tips of his fingers. It was decorated with two stylized fish crossing their fins and rubbing their scales in a wave-like movement. The bolt was attached to a wooden support that had the patina of age, and it worked perfectly.

“Are you going to charge me too high a price for this, as usual?”

“I haven’t shown you everything yet,” the salesman whispered with a mischievous look.

He slid his tall, emaciated body between two armoires and came back out with an average-sized painting he placed in front of Cooker.

“And what do you say about this?”

Benjamin kept silent. There was much to say. He had been looking for this type of representation for quite some time. It was clear that the canvas dated to the end of the 19
^th
century. A stocky winemaker armed with a glass pipette stood next to a line of oak barrels. A candle on a stool gave off enough light to brighten the cellar. The simple balanced composition, the fluidity, the blended colors and the steady strokes gave this work a timeless feel while placing it in a clear framework. The man’s clothing was the only element that spoke of the period, while the entire scene had the scent of eternity. How many times had Cooker found himself in exactly the same position, among the casks, pipette in hand, sampling wine in nothing but candlelight?

“Do you even dare put a price on this painting?” the winemaker inquired without looking up.

The antique dealer dared and even quoted an amount high enough not to need repeating.

“You know I don’t like to haggle. I have always found that to be somewhat vulgar, but nonetheless …”

“Neither do I, and there is no discussion,” the salesman said with a tact that Cooker appreciated, “and that is why I’ll give you the barrel lock if you take the painting.”

There would be no more bargaining. Benjamin left carrying both items and promised to send a check within the week.

The crossing home seemed longer than it had earlier, but as usual, the ferry only took 20 minutes to reach the Médoc embankment. Had he gone by land, he would have had to drive over to the Aquitaine Bridge, which would have cost him an hour and a half.

Benjamin was eager to show Elisabeth his purchases. She liked the painting but made a face when she saw the bronze lock. She was glad he did not come back with yet another grape-harvesting basket, wooden topping-up utensil or silver tasting cup.

The evening was pleasant. Bacchus recovered from the day’s excitement in front of the fireplace, where a fine blaze was crackling. The couple enjoyed a tête-à-tête with a meal that was simple and frugal enough to allow them to get to bed early.

When his wife had finally fallen asleep, and he felt her calm breathing, the winemaker got up quietly, put on a robe and went to his office. He checked the ink cartridge in his fountain pen, placed a blank piece of paper at a slight angle under his left hand and began to write about the Blaye citadel.

“History sometimes has an irony that’s worth recalling. The land of Bordeaux owes its salvation to a child of Burgundy. When King Louis XIV ordered Vauban, who was born in 1633 in Saint-Léger-de-Foucheret, to build a fortress, several projects had already been …”

Benjamin sighed. A bad start. Not entirely useless, but a little heavy-handed. The city of Blaye had already made it through several centuries before the man from Burgundy unrolled his plans. Yes, Vauban did leave behind a 94-acre fortress with a 2,640-foot-long wall around it and underground passages to protect 2,000 people, but the city’s inhabitants hadn’t waited for him to build rough-and-ready bastions when violent confrontations reddened both estuary and dry land.

He opened the cigar box at the corner of his desk and lit up a sweet San Luis Rey robusto, drawing in a deep puff with great pleasure as he leaned back on the headrest. The vitola immediately delivered spicy flavors of green pepper and cinnamon. The smoke, which was not too ample, rose up, round and light. The tobacco was not strong, but developed an aromatic richness in which he could easily discern honey, caramel and cacao. Benjamin remained in the same position for over half an hour, his mind elsewhere. Then he returned to his pen.

“Blaye is called Bordeaux’s first rampart. Much is said about this rocky headland. Many popular legends and a few invented stories surround it. Some say that its name comes from the Latin
belli via
(translation: war road); others affirm that a Gallic warrior named Blavos (
Blavius
in Latin) founded it; people also talk about
Blavia
, a Celtic word that landed here on the battle path. In any case, Blaye’s history is above all …”

Benjamin started yawing. The muscles in his back were sore, and his eyes were stinging. He set down his pen without capping it, crushed out his half-smoked Havana in the ashtray, turned out his lamp and joined Elisabeth, who, snuggled in the warmth of the comforter, grumbled when she felt his cold body.