Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) (4 page)

T
HE SKY SUDDENLY TURNED overcast in the early afternoon. The tide change swept in darker clouds, and a light, damp wind began to blow. The shrieking of the seagulls dissipated along the docks, a reminder that the ocean lapped right up to the city gates.

Before returning to Grangebelle, where he hoped to work on his manuscript, Benjamin Cooker made a detour to Moniales Haut-Brion. He found Virgile busy in the cellars with two of the estate’s workers. The contaminated barrels had been isolated, and they were preparing to decant them into stainless steel tanks. The winemaker’s arrival was not particularly appreciated when he announced that two other barrels needed to be set apart as quickly as possible. Alexandrine de la Palussière had left a message on Benjamin’s cell phone, indicating the numbers of the barrels in which she had detected worrisome quantities of the yeast.

“I haven’t yet fully realized what’s happening to me,” Denis Massepain said with a sigh.

“Keep your spirits up. We will find a solution,” said Cooker. “I can’t guarantee that we will save the entire production, but we will limit the damage.”

“Six barrels! Do you realize what that means? Six barrels are already ruined.”

Benjamin quickly calculated the extent of the disaster. That represented around 1,800 bottles, as each barrel held just over 59 gallons. If they didn’t find an effective parry, this would be a serious loss for the winery, which had only 12.85 acres of vineyard. He was not the full-time winemaker at this estate, but he knew its ins and outs perfectly. They left nothing to chance here, and the Moniales could have served as an example for any winemaking school. They set their planting density correctly at 9,500 plants per 2.5 acres. They grew grape varieties that corresponded to the
Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée
for Pessac-Léognan, with 40 percent merlot, 15 percent cabernet franc and 45 percent cabernet sauvignon. The average age of the vines was 30 years. They neglected none of the necessary steps in caring for the vines’ development, with experienced personnel removing shoots, pruning buds and thinning out leaves and plants. Hand harvesting meant that each parcel got the greatest care. Each batch spent a reasonable period of 15 to 24 days in tanks. Barrel aging lasted around 18 months, favoring the most traditional malolactic fermentation. And nobody could reproach sanitation on the premises.

“I just can’t figure out what’s gone wrong. This is very strange indeed,” Benjamin said.

“What can we do?” Denis asked, running a nervous hand through his hair.

“OK, so we have three new barrels and three others dating from last year. Is that correct?”

“Yes, you know that I renew half of the barrels each year. That is exactly what I can’t explain. It can’t come from the wood!”

“I know your supplier. It’s impossible that he would produce inferior barrels. My secretary called the cooperage, and they checked their orders and delivery dates. No problems have been signaled in other estates. But I don’t agree that it doesn’t come from the wood.”

“Why? What’s your idea?”

“Wood is the only vector to facilitate such a quick contamination. You know as well as I do that it harbors and protects all kinds of contaminants. One slip in monitoring or a sulfur dioxide addition that’s a little shy and …”

“Let me stop you right there,” Denis Massepain interrupted dryly. “If the wood were contaminated, it would not be limited to a specific number of barrels. The whole production would be polluted, if only because of handling and the cross-use of cellar equipment.”

“Virgile!” Benjamin cried out in the direction of the fermenting room. “Come here. I need to ask you something.”

The assistant appeared without delay, his face sweating.

“Do you think you are able to decant the six barrels?”

“Right now?” the assistant asked, a little taken aback.

“Why? Are you in some hurry? Do you have a date?”

“No, sir, but, uh, that could take some time. We won’t finish before the middle of the night.”

“In this line of work, you need to know how to stay up late, young man. And I think that today you are going to experience your first night nursing the sick.”

“I can ask my two workers to stay,” said the owner. “And I’ll change, because I think that four will not be too many to manage the task.”

So Denis Massepain returned to the manor house to change out of his city clothes, and Cooker took his assistant aside to talk to him in a soft voice. He reviewed each of the steps involved in decanting the barrels and asked him to make sure he eliminated the lees and deposits, to do it sheltered from air and to reference the metal tanks using the barrel numbers. He also asked that each of the empty barrels be set outside the cellar and covered with tarps.

“Do you have any questions?” the winemaker asked, looking at his watch.

Virgile promised that he would follow his instructions exactly and reminded Cooker that it was a bad time to take the beltway or the main streets. He would end up stuck in traffic with everyone coming home from work.

“You’re right,” Benjamin said, making a face. “I had better not return to Médoc right away. I’ll drop in on someone who is not expecting me.”

DR. Pierre Baldès had cleverly distributed the folds of his shirt in a vain attempt to hide a slight paunch. He had a plain elegance found in men who have been established for some time and a certain bearing despite his growing portliness and skin exposed too often to the sun. Benjamin nodded a greeting as he entered the office, feeling a little sleepy after spending two hours in the waiting room browsing the mundane gossip in the magazines and listening to annoyed patients snort.

“Please sit down, sir. What can I do for you?” The ENT doctor asked with that particular indifference found in older clinical practitioners.

“Well, I’m quite healthy. My nose is intact, and my palate still alert. I do not have any problems to speak of, Doctor.”

The doctor stared at Cooker, wondering if he was dealing with a joker or a depressive.

“Please excuse me. I have not introduced myself. Benjamin Cooker here. I have come to discuss something that is, well, uh, personal.”

“I’m reassured. For a minute there, I thought I had a crazy one on my hands.” Pierre Baldès smiled, pinching his lips a little.

“I would like to talk to you about a painting,” Benjamin said, getting straight to the point.

“A painting? Correct me if I’m wrong, you are Cooker, from the
Cooker Guide?”

“Yes, and as it turns out, we both bought the same painting. Well, nearly the same. Let’s just say that we have two paintings that look very much the same.”

“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” said the doctor. “We have two paintings that are the same, but they’re not really the same painting? And what work of art are you referring to?”

“A late 19
^th
-century overmantel that you had restored on Rue Notre-Dame. It is a rural scene showing grape harvesting under a blue sky, with a building in the background.”

“Yes, I have that painting. And you are telling me that you own the same one or nearly the same one? I won’t hide that I am very surprised. It is a rather minor work. Well done, yes, but fairly naive. I do not think that it could have been interesting enough to copy.”

“That is what I think, as well,” interrupted Benjamin. “And that is why I have come to see you. Would it be too much to ask to have five minutes of your time to see your overmantel? I won’t be long. The time of an appointment, no longer.”

“An appointment that’s not covered by your insurance?” the doctor joked. “In that case, it could end up costing you a lot.”

“I don’t want to impose on you. I could stop by another day.”

“No, not at all. Follow me.”

They went through a hidden doorway and climbed the stairs to Baldès’ apartment. It was well appointed, elegant but conventional. It looked like a spread in an interior decorating magazine, with just that touch of originality, that fanciful detail and hint of color acceptable and necessary to justify the decorator’s fee.

The overmantel reigned over a white marble fireplace in front of two large purple sofas. The frame had been restored with gold leaf, and the original mirror seemed to be just as mottled as Cooker’s. There was no doubt about it, they were made by the same artist. The same soft light, subdued by dark leafy vegetation, bathed the scene. The rows of vines formed waves descending toward the bottom of the hill, giving an identical perspective, with the sole difference being that the people here had their backs turned to the painter and were harvesting in small groups of two or three. In the distance, it was easy to make out the stout silhouette of the manor house, whose roof could belong to none other than the Haut-Brion château.

“Just what I thought,” Benjamin murmured, moving closer to the painting.

“And that is?”

“You see those two square towers on the left and the projection on the right wing, with its two pointed-roof turrets? It can be none other than Haut-Brion.”

“I confirm,” Baldès said in a near whisper, as if he did not want to disturb Cooker’s thoughts.

“That is a very fine surprise. Very fine, indeed! I own your painting’s twin, except that mine represents Mission Haut-Brion.”

“And it is a harvest scene, as well?” the doctor asked.

“With just a few minor differences. It has the same perspective, the same tones, the same characters and the same trees. I have a snapshot from before it was cleaned and restored.”

Benjamin stepped back a couple of feet and took out the picture that Pascale Dartigeas had lent him. He closed one eye and held it at arm’s length toward the overmantel.

“Yes, I’m under the impression that these two painting form just one, Dr. Baldès. Look closely. Yours is on the right, and the trees on the left side fit perfectly with the trees on mine.”

The doctor took the photograph and lifted it to see it in perspective. He half-closed his left eye and looked perplexed.

“Focus on the left side of the painting,” Benjamin advised. “After awhile, it will jump out at you.”

“You’re right. The two scenes go together. It’s incredible. There is a perfect continuity between the poplar trees, the cloud, the little pond and the rows of grapevines.”

“Do you know where yours came from?” Cooker asked.

“I bought it from an antique dealer in Maynac. For next to nothing, I must admit. But the restoration cost me quite a bit.”

“I found mine in Blaye. The price was not particularly excessive either, but there is quite a bit of restoration work to fix some serious tears and fly specks, and the sky needs touching up.”

“They must have been stored under terrible conditions.”

“I have to admit that I would be curious to find out where they came from.”

“Probably a local château or some bourgeois home. You’ll need to ask an art specialist or historian. I know of only one person who could tell you, if he were willing to talk to you.”

“And where would I find him?”

“In Pessac. His name is Ferdinand Ténotier, and he lives in the Cité Frugès. He’s easy to find, and you can’t mistake him. A strange fellow, but he has a brilliant mind. He used to teach at the university, which apparently fired him for some serious fault. He’s been retired for as long as I’ve known him, and there is no telling how old he is.”

“A historian?”

“Better than that. He has no specialty but is an expert in everything. You can always try to see him, but I wish you luck with that.”

Before taking his leave, Benjamin offered to buy the doctor’s overmantel, clearly admitting that he was willing to pay a nice sum for it. The doctor gave an evasive and polite response of, “Perhaps. I’ll have to think about it.” Benjamin could tell from Pierre Baldès’ voice that he would never sell his painting. He hid his disappointment and agreed to autograph a copy of the latest edition of the
Cooker Guide,
which the doctor had on his shelf.

C
OOKER DROVE SLOWLY THROUGH the town of Pessac and then parked his convertible in the shade of a scraggly pine tree. It did not take him long to find the old Ferdinand Ténotier in the Cité Frugès, a working-class neighborhood designed in 1925 by Le Corbusier at the request of industrialist Henri Frugès. The homes were made of reinforced concrete and had angular facades and suspended decks. A few had been renovated over the years, their original blue and green hues covered up. On the whole, however, the modernist garden housing development was a chaotic landscape, with blocks of eroded buildings emerging from sickly vegetation.

When Benjamin asked around to find Ténotier’s address, some people tensed up, while others joked. All agreed that the former professor was crazy and dangerous. He lived at 12 Rue Le Corbusier in a ramshackle building where the dreams of the great visionary architect were showing a number of cracks. Benjamin planted himself in front of the structure and observed the leprous walls, the original wooden shutters all askew, the rusted drainpipes, sheet-metal roofing that was falling in on one side and the large patches of mold that marbled the gray cement.

He knocked several times before a red, somewhat bitter-looking face deigned to appear in the half-open doorway. Benjamin Cooker introduced himself, smiling pleasantly and saying his name in a clear voice that didn’t seem overly ingratiating.

“I know who you are,” the man said curtly.

“Thank you for seeing me. I need your insight, Mr. Ténotier. I was told that you are the only …”

“Who’s talking about me?”

The interview was going to be touch and go. The man was suspicious, but Benjamin had expected this. Ténotier had an extremely piercing look and poor teeth behind thin lips. He had gone several days without shaving. His greasy hair fell under the collar of a grimy shirt. He neglected his nails. His nose was spongy, his cheeks hollow and full of blotches, his back was hunched and his breath was bad enough to asphyxiate a herd of buffaloes. He reeked of solitude and hatred, intelligence and abandonment. A man to avoid.

“Dr. Pierre Baldès told me that you most certainly could …”

“That one still thinks about me, does he?”

“He had nothing but good to say about you.”

“Compliments are cheap.”

“I assure you …”

“Will it take long?” the old man spat out in a wine-dripped hiccup.

“I’ll be quick, no more than a quarter of an hour,” Benjamin said with a composure he often called upon in prickly situations.

“In that case,” Ténotier grumbled, disappearing to let the winemaker pass.

As soon as Cooker entered the main room, a violent smell of ammonia stung his throat and nose. A cat brushed between his legs, followed by two others, and then came a whole drove of raw-boned felines he could vaguely make out in the darkness. A shredded blanket covered a picture window, and weak rays of light filtered through the torn fabric.

“Sit down,” Ténotier muttered, pointing to a chair where a tabby, as scrawny as all the others, was sleeping.

Cooker preferred to sit on a heavily clawed stool. The old man set two sturdy glasses down on the table, grabbed a cardboard pack and poured some red wine.

“We’ll drink together. I’m sure it’s been quite some time since you tasted a wine like this one, ” Ténotier threw out, with a hint of provocation in his raspy voice.

Without letting himself be disconcerted, Benjamin lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of revolting plonk that burned his throat.

“That’s true. It has been a long time,” he said, making a face.

“Everything is going to hell! I drink something that doesn’t deserve to be called wine from square packs and cardboard kegs. I drink shit because I’m poor, sir, but I’m not ashamed to be poor. I’m only ashamed of the times we live in, of what people throw to guys like me. I’m ashamed that people actually dare to sell crap like this on the pretext that others like me can’t afford anything else. It’s shit, I’m telling you!”

Despite his advanced state of alcoholism and his dirty fingernails, the havoc on his face and the feverish look of a man at the end of his rope, Ferdinand Ténotier had a lyrical disillusionment like that of a wise man who had probed humanity until he reached self-disgust and hatred.

“This is the first time I’ve been here. I had no idea that the development was so spread out,” Cooker noted, thinking it best to change the subject.

“It’s a ghost town, a concrete cemetery, that’s what it has become! And the middle classes get off on moving into a historical area. It’s all being bought up by architects, doctors, lawyers—people who think they know something. They invest in cultural heritage. Some heritage. Just junk!”

“It is a surprising place, though. Have you lived here for a long time?”

“Fifty years. A little more even. My parents lived here before me. They were real working-class people. Good people. Nothing in their heads, but huge hearts. We’re all screwed. The working class is all gone.”

Ferdinand Ténotier downed his glass in one shot, and served himself another, a lost look in his eyes, his head down.

“It was a pioneering idea in the 1920s,” Cooker threw out. “This concrete housing development with large picture windows, private bathrooms and gardens.”

Benjamin regretted his words as soon as they came out. The old man threw him a ferocious look and spilled his wine on his shirtsleeve.

“Le Corbusier was just a bunch of theories. He was an ideological con artist, a communist asshole who sold his body to patrons to build dumps for the proletariat. I shit on those illusionists who preached social justice, humankind and all that crap, who filled their pockets until they burst. And above all, sir, they continue to sermonize, to give us lessons about how to live.

“Mediocrity killed off all the real thinkers. Nobody ever listens to people who really think, because thinking is harmful. You understand, nobody will lend an ear to anyone who says what we really are and where we are really headed. We should blow up all the universities and schools where they don’t even know how to speak Latin anymore, where everyone thinks that Roland Garros was a tennis player. They harbor soft asses, ignoramuses, little neat and clean people, career-minded shit eaters who will go on strike only when it doesn’t interfere with their schedules and their vacation leave. They want to pretend to carry out a revolution, but only if it doesn’t threaten their mortgages, their lawnmowers and their savings accounts. They are dying of comfort, with empty heads and full stomachs.

“Le Corbusier loved glory, medals and money. The bastard hated the people. He knew nothing about the little people. Because they stink, they smell of sweat, they shit out kids by the truckload, they use bad words, the people! Mind you, Le Corbusier had at least one thing going for him, his first name was Charles Edouard, and that nobody could take away from him. He had a very French first name, a small saving grace.”

He drank two glasses of wine, one after the other, wiped off his mustache with the back of his hand and stared at his visitor. His eyes were bright, very black, and it was impossible to make out the pupils.

“Why are you here?” he asked, rubbing his stubble-covered cheeks.

Cooker took out the picture of his overmantel and held it out to the old man, who slid it under a ray of warm light.

“Ah. You too,” Ténotier chuckled.

“You certainly know that Pierre Baldès has a similar painting. I guess he also came to see you.”

“Yes, he came, and he refused to drink my poison. Spineless!”

Benjamin took this as a compliment.

“Come on, let’s drink to all those delicate doctors! Bottoms up! Raise your glass to all those savant monkeys who can’t read Hippocrates in the original.” Ferdinand burped and filled up his glass.

They clinked glasses loudly.

“Your painting is Mission Haut-Brion. The doc’s represents the Château de Haut-Brion. I have nothing else to tell you.”

“That I knew already,” Cooker said, without showing any impatience. “But what is most astonishing is that they go together. The right side of my painting joins up perfectly with the left side of Baldès’. They must be part of a two-paneled work made for some sort of mural.”

“Probably,” grumbled Ferdinand.

“And I would be curious to know where they come from, since the theme is rather rare.”

“Your lousy paintings aren’t famous. They’re hackwork.”

“I think they are rather well done for that kind of painting,” Benjamin said. “A little naive, yes, and rather broadly drawn, but they are not lacking in character. And the lighting is well mastered, particularly where the sky meets the trees. They have a nice brushstroke to them.”

“Well, sir, my basic principle is that one should account for one’s taste. Only the spineless say the contrary. But I don’t have time to lose on two worthless sketches just because they were painted locally.”

Cooker caught the reference as it flew by.

“You are sure that these works were painted by an artist in the region? Perhaps a painter from Pessac?”

“When the doc came to see me, he brought his painting, and I admit I had the feeling I had seen it somewhere before. But at the time, I couldn’t for the life of me remember where.”

“And has it come back to you since?” the winemaker asked, trying not to look too insistent.

“I think so.”

Ferdinand Ténotier filled up their glasses again. He threw the empty cardboard carton to the back of the room and leaned over to grab another one from the floor.

“These overmantels were in the reading room at the Château de Vallon,” the old man said, clicking his tongue. “I saw them at the beginning of the 1950s, when they were still hanging in the back of the room, above the chimney made of Pyrenees marble.”

“The Château de Vallon?” Cooker said, surprised. “I seem to recall seeing a label with that name on it on an old bottle.”

“If you still have that bottle, guard it with vigilance. It’s a relic!”

“I don’t have it in my wine cellar, but I certainly saw it at an auction or something like that.”

“Those damn urban planners made their way through there!” barked the old man. “The Château de Vallon was totally destroyed in 1966, and you’ll find a housing project where it stood. Isn’t the republic a beautiful thing! Always ready to trash what belongs to us! The châteaux in Pessac that have been torn down in recent years all belonged to us, to you, to me, to everyone! We all own our history! The people of France. I tell you, it all belongs to the people of France! What a wretched shame. A handsome château like Vallon. It was built in 1777 by Victor Louis, the same architect who built Bordeaux’s Grand Théâtre. It had a sloping roof, a large flight of stairs, huge grounds, and then there were the vineyards. Several acres that produced a fine red Graves. If my memory still serves me, I believe it got a silver medal at the Bordeaux fair in 1895.”

“I can check my archives, if you’re interested,” Cooker offered.

“You want archives. I’ll show you some you’ll never see again.”

Ténotier had trouble standing up, then staggered to the greasy buffet and brought back a shoebox full of sepia-colored photographs and ancient postcards. He hands trembled.

“Look at that! Château Fanning-Lafontaine, torn down in 1980. The grounds were remarkable, with rare tree species, including some Louisiana cypress that the Baron Sarget imported. There were acres and acres of vineyards right next to the Haut-Brion estates. There was a workers clinic there before it got sold off. Now, if you go there, you’ll find a housing development. Here, this is a picture of the Château Condom, which belonged to Dr. Azam, the father-in-law of the great historian Camille Jullian. Another housing development. In 1921! They drew a road right through the middle of the estate, right there where you see the orange trees. It’s sickening. What a waste!”

He gulped another glass of wine as he continued to go through his documents. His commentary became harsher and harsher. There was sadness mixed with violence in the pathetic drunk’s voice. Benjamin couldn’t help feeling something himself in seeing these images of a time that had already been forgotten, lost in gravel and cement blocks. The Château Monbalon, an estate that spread over 120 acres, including 12 with vineyards, five with prairies, five more that were farmed and 89 of pinewood forest and private hunting grounds. There, in 1927, the Mirante housing development grew up like a wart, before the château itself was destroyed in 1982 because it had fallen into disrepair. The same thing happened to the Domaine de Macédo and the Château Haut-Bourgailh. Just like the great estate of Haut-Livrac, one of the oldest noble homes in Pessac, which produced 15 barrels of fine wine annually before urbanization devoured it. The same destiny was reserved for the Château Haut-Lévêque and its six barrels of red wine, the Château Bersol and its 15 barrels and Château Halloran, which gave 26 barrels of well-structured wine before being turned into a hospital. All these elegant monuments, surrounded by landscaped grounds and domesticated vines that disappeared at the dawn of the 1960s to create an industrial zone.

Ténotier had a few words, a date, a reminder, a legend, a political allusion, a sharp comment or a mean statement to make for each photo. This man’s bad-mouthing and his endless knowledge began to seduce Cooker, who enjoyed listening to the point of sipping his cheap wine without balking.

“Here is a postcard I always have a hard time looking at,” the old man continued. “The Château Saige-Formanoir pissed out 15 or so tanks of red wine at the end of the 19
^th
century, and then the 15 acres of vineyards were pulled out in 1956, the same year the Garonne River froze over. That was the beginning of the end. Starting in 1970, they built eight 18-story buildings on the estate. All that so that 4,000 idiots could have hot water, an elevator, a tiny balcony and the opportunity to hear their neighbors fart.

“But the worst was the university, with its 30,000 students who arrived in 1979. Are there really 30,000 kids capable of reasoning and writing a dissertation without any spelling mistakes? Do we really need all those fact-stuffed brains to keep the country going? They tore down the Château de Rocquencourt to set up a sports complex on the campus: nearly 620 acres of intellectual desert for brats who drink soft drinks and don’t give a shit that it wrecked acres of vineyards!”