Treachery in Bordeaux (The Winemaker Detective Series) (6 page)

V
IRGILE STEERED THE CAR with his left hand and scratched his head with his right. He looked preoccupied. His lips were scrunched, and his eyebrows were knotted.

“That Montesquieu wrote some bullshit.”

“Who hasn’t?” Cooker sighed.

“I remember one of my French teachers telling a not-so-glorious story about him.”

“Is that so?”

“In one of his books he wrote that King François I had refused gifts offered by Christopher Columbus, but François I wasn’t even born when Columbus discovered America!”

“Just goes to show you, my dear Virgile, that you should always check your sources. That said, I’ve always been suspicious of that philosopher. In fact, Montesquieu seriously gets on my nerves. I shouldn’t tell you that, because in this town it is not looked well upon to criticize local heroes, particularly when that glory reaches beyond the nearby Libourne hills.”

“Mum’s the word, I promise!” Virgile smiled.

“Lesson givers have always exasperated me. Montesquieu spread all kinds of holier-than-thou theories about slavery, none of which kept him from stuffing himself when Bordeaux’s slave traders invited him over. The world is filled with moralizers who forget to sweep in front of their own doors. Are you interested in history? You know, in those things that often bore young people your age?”

“When you’re born in Bergerac, you can’t escape the past. Take my word for it,” Virgile responded. “I’ve always found it fascinating, but sometimes I feel crushed by all those old stones and a little overshadowed by the illustrious dead and memories of grand battles.”

“Battles that had no reason for being,” added Benjamin, “But we have to know about them to keep history from repeating itself. Yesterday, I met an amazing fellow. One day I’ll take you to see him. If you like the little stories that make up the big picture of history, you’ll spend an enriching, albeit slightly frightening, time with him.”

Benjamin told Virgile about Ferdinand Ténotier, sparing no detail, including the overpowering cat smell, the cheap wine, the sorry state of the apartment, the singular atmosphere that reigned in the small Cité Frugès streets, the postcards and the terribly destiny of Pessac’s châteaux. Virgile listened carefully, and the drive seemed short, despite the traffic on the boulevards and the inevitable bottleneck as they neared the Barrière de Pessac intersection. He asked a few questions about Le Corbusier, whose name he vaguely recognized, although he had never seen any of his work. Cooker offered an explanation that he tried to make impartial, without any value judgments. The young man would have to make up his own mind, and he did not want to influence him on a topic about which he was no specialist. Le Corbusier had left his mark in the Aquitaine region, from the first experimental houses he built in Lège-Cap-Ferret in 1923 to the futurist buildings constructed in Pessac two years later. The winemaker did not feel especially moved by these structures, but their innovative spirit commanded respect.

Through this winding discussion, Virgile discovered his employer’s passion for antiques and painting. The assistant’s attention sharpened when Benjamin talked to him about the two paintings of the Château Haut-Brion and the Mission Haut-Brion, especially when he mentioned the mysterious third painting. The young man did not comment, though. He finally admitted that he didn’t know exactly what an overmantel was. Cooker was happy to explain.

“It’s a painting or a decorative panel. At the beginning of the 17
^th
century, these panels were often set in moldings and had mirrors. Overmantel used to refer to the decorative woodwork that went along with the artwork, but now it has come to mean the entire piece, which often hangs over a fireplace. Painted canvases most often have a frame with a small mirror underneath. In French, it’s called a
trumeau
, which comes from the Old French
trumel
, which meant leg fat, or for a butcher, a beef shank. The word evolved to mean the part of the wall between two windows.”

“That’s wild,” Virgile said. “You could make a fortune on game shows!”

Cooker smiled and asked him to slow down when they entered Pessac. They crept along the Avenue Jean-Jaurès, a ribbon of pavement bordered on both sides by waves of vineyards whose undulating movement broke the monotony of the suburbs.

“Turn at the next gate to your right,” Benjamin said.

“Are we going to …”

“Yes, we are,” Cooker said, suddenly curt.

Virgile skillfully maneuvered the car and drove slowly under a brown stone archway, stopping in the shadow of Château Haut-Brion. His hands were still grasping the steering wheel when he looked up like an incredulous and timid child, visibly impressed to find himself in the heart of an estate whose prestige had long been the thing of dreams. Benjamin was barely out of the car when a tall, thin man, who was wearing a twill suit and appeared to be in his 40s, greeted him with notable respect. Benjamin asked if it was possible to disturb the steward.

“I am sorry, Mr. Cooker. He is absent, but you are always welcome at Haut-Brion. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I won’t be long. I just need to make a topographical check for the next edition of the guide, and I need to take some notes from the top of the plateau.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

“Thank you. That will not be necessary, I know the way.”

The winemaker and his assistant took off on foot amid the rows of grapevines, climbing the hump of greenery without saying a word. It would have been like being in the countryside, were it not for the incessant dull humming from the north. It sounded like a distant storm brewing in the heat, but in reality it was the barely muffled sound of Bordeaux, mixed with the peripheral grumblings that spread across the suburbs.

They reached the top of the hill in no time. Benjamin caught his breath while he scanned the urban landscape that extended below. He knew immediately that his intuition was correct and that he had finally found what the old Ténotier was referring to. Why didn’t he figure it out sooner? Virgile observed his employer’s satisfied stiffness without understanding what was going on.

“Of course,” Cooker mumbled. “It jumps out at you!”

He approached the water tower that stood in the middle of the Haut-Brion estate, an enormous concrete wart planted right in the vineyards, like a constant reminder that here nature was on shaky ground, barely accepted and on borrowed time. Benjamin looked up. It was not so much the structure’s ugliness that caused him to despair, but all those cubic meters of water standing over one of the most prestigious wines in the world, like a vulgar form of provocation.

“This is the water the old man was talking about!” Cooker said, touching the tower’s roughcast.

He took out the picture of his overmantel and looked toward Mission Haut-Brion dozing at the foot of the hillock. It was all there: the dormer windows in the slate roof, the chapel with its stone cross, the two columns at the front gate, the barn transformed into a cellar flanking the building. Of course the trees had changed. Some were gone, others had grown. The lines of the vineyard had also evolved somewhat, and now the surrounding area bristled with buildings and electric poles. Modern housing encumbered the horizon, but the perspectives fit perfectly, only slightly transposed and compacted by the artist. More than a century earlier, a local painter had set himself up with his easel in this very spot, prepared his paints, drawn his sketches and placed his spots of color amid a group of grape harvesters.

All he had to do was turn his head a little to the right, toward the south, and Dr. Baldès’ overmantel appeared in turn, with the emblematic facade of the Château Haut-Brion, its two conical turrets transported to the wing as if to lighten the main central square of the building. The earth was combed as straight as a die, and not a single rebellious plant intruded. Benjamin paused for a moment. He already knew what he would discover but waited a few seconds to better enjoy the instant when he would find the landscape of the third painting.

A quarter turn to the right toward the west, and he saw it by just looking toward the base of the hill. The Moniales Haut-Brion was there, yes, hiding behind the plants, but very much there. It was so obvious. He would have realized it earlier, had he taken the time to think about it. Benjamin kicked himself for not being more perceptive, and he felt gratitude toward Ferdinand Ténotier. The third painting was right there under his nose, and, unlike the other two, it had to be the only one that didn’t correspond exactly with reality. The Moniales château was now hidden by greenery the landscaper Michel Bonfin had planted at the beginning of the 19
^th
century. The painter must have had a clear view, as the trees were less filled in and shorter, and he must have been able to make out the flow of the Peugue, the moss-covered stone fountain, the small pink marble chapel and the grapevines. With a little imagination, it was easy to picture the scene.

Virgile was standing off to the side, but he quickly picked up on his employer’s speculation. He walked up and squinted, examining the landscape and forming a frame between the right angles of his thumbs and index fingers.

“In my opinion, sir, if you pretend the strip housing, apartment buildings and suburban homes around the estate are not there, you can almost believe that …”

Cooker imitated him, closing one eye to focus.

“Indeed, all that’s missing are the grape harvesters,” he said, as he was sure that the third painting had workers in the vineyards, like the others.

“So there you have it, your third overmantel. It’s the Moniales.”

“Unfortunately, that is not so. Reality is just an illusion, my dear Virgile. Only the artist’s eye captures the truth, even if it seems distorted or interpreted. Do you see what I mean? I would really like to know where that piece of truth is hiding.”

“We’re not really going to hit up all the antique dealers in the region, are we?” the assistant asked with a little too much familiarity.

“Watch what you say. I’m perfectly capable of doing that,” Cooker replied. It was hard to discern any joking in his tone.

Virgile rubbed his neck and felt it best to keep a certain distance. He regretted letting himself go and saying something that could have been interpreted as a lack of respect.

“There is something bothering me, sir. What’s the link between the Moniales and the Haut-Brion estate?”

“There isn’t one today, except that they share the same
terroir
on the Graves plateau. The Moniales estate belongs to the Fonsegrive-Massepain family, and it has since the beginning of the 19
^th
century, when Aristide Fonsegrive, a wine trader in Bordeaux and a direct ancestor of Denis’ wife Thérèse, bought it. During the French Revolution, when all the land belonging to the Church was confiscated, the estate became state property, and the Moniales did not escape.”

“It once belonged to the Church?”

“To the Order of Our Lady of the Moniales, for two centuries. At first, there was nothing but a small watermill surrounded by prairie and vineyards. Toward the end of his life, Jean de Pontac, who was the true founder of the Château Haut-Brion, thought he would win his way into heaven by giving this parcel to a religious order. He was a bourgeois Bordeaux merchant and had bought the manorial rights. He was born in 1488 and died in 1589, was married three times and had 15 children. He was a busy one.”

“He lived to be a 101?” asked Virgile.

“Don’t you count fast. Jean de Pontac did, in fact, live under the reigns of kings Louis XII, François I, Henri II, Charles IX and Henri III. Some years are good and age exceptionally well,” Cooker sighed. “I have tasted some wines that have crossed the century and lived through a dozen French presidents.”

The winemaker sat down on a small pile of stones at the foot of the water tower and invited his assistant to do the same. He then recited the full details of the Pontac family dynasty. Arnaud II, the fourth son of the centenary, was the bishop of Bazas, and his funeral procession was over nine miles long. Geoffroy, president of the Bordeaux parliament, lived in the Daurade, a private mansion overflowing in gold and mirrors. Arnaud III wallowed in the same luxury as his father and became the first president of the local parliament. And finally there was François-Auguste, who also headed up the Bordeaux parliament and was the last direct Pontac descendent to own Haut-Brion.

“From then on, things became terribly complicated,” the winemaker continued. “François-Auguste lived in such luxury that the château was seized twice to pay his debts. When his sister Marie-Thérèse inherited the estate in 1694, the land was split up, and she managed to keep only two thirds of it. I’ll spare you the details of who slept with whom and who was the widow of whom.”

“Too bad! That’s often the most interesting!” said Virgile.

“You’d be disappointed. There is nothing very spicy, just stories of alliances and marriages for money. No light favors or pillow talk, I fear. At this stage, François Delphin d’Aulède de Lestonnac, Marie-Thérèse’s son—she had married the owner of Château Margaux—inherited both Haut-Brion and Margaux. And that explains a rather astonishing tradition. Haut-Brion, which is in the Graves, is still classified as a Médoc premier cru, in accordance with a very ancient formulation that did not take into account its geography, but rather its age-old noble codes of usage.”

“And that’s still the case today?”

“Don’t forget that Bordeaux is a land of traditions. Never forget that! So, stop me if it gets too complicated, OK, Virgile? This François Delphin, Marquis of Margaux and owner of Haut-Brion, died in 1746 and passed down his land to his sister, Catherine d’Aulède de Lestonnac, the widow of the Count François-Joseph de Fumel, who had a son named Louis who would die at a very young age. Are you still with me?”

“Yes, yes. I’m closing my eyes to concentrate better.”

“In the end, it was the grandson, Joseph de Fumel, who developed the estate, adding an orangery, operational buildings and very large grounds. He also contributed greatly to the renown of Haut-Brion wine abroad, trading with England and Sweden. He was guillotined in 1794. From then on, the same lot was reserved for the Moniales: The estate was sold as state property, and Charles-Maurice Talleyrand bought it in 1801. At the time, he was Napoleon’s minister of foreign affairs, as you know.”