Vintage (16 page)

“That's a quaint observation. But it belongs in the
National Geographic
, not in my column. Say . . . not to change the subject . . . but I hear you're working on another book. Is that why you're here?”

“Where'd you hear that?” Bruno asked, hit with the sudden wave of panic and nausea that all writers feel when they suspect someone could beat them to the story. As much of a hack as Thomas was, he did have ability. His prose was passable. He had a nose for a story. He had readers. He was good on talk shows.

“Isn't every writer always working on a new book? So what's it about?”

Bruno snorted. He was certain that Harley had shared his idea.

“Well, I don't mean to pry. Hey, so what did you bring?” Thomas asked, gesturing to the bottle protruding from Bruno's coat pocket. Still fuming, Bruno pulled it out and dribbled a bit into the critic's glass, saving the last dozen drips for his own. He reluctantly clinked glasses and then swirled, sniffed and sipped in the darkness. Thomas began pacing.

“Good heavens. Holy shit! What is that?”

He came at Bruno with his cell phone and used it to illuminate the label. Then he let out a low whistle.

“How did you get your hands on that?”

“Sylvie Trevallier gave it to me,” Bruno offered, not without great satisfaction.

“You talked to Sylvie?”

“Sure.”

“Anything on the record?”

“Some.”

“That's a major coup. I've tried before. She doesn't talk to wine writers.”

“No, Parker, she doesn't talk to wine
critics
.”

Bruno could see the artificially whitened teeth of Thomas's ear-to-ear grin in the moonlight as the critic sniffed the traces of the '73 Trevallier in his glass. “You know, Bruno, you're an asshole. But I like you anyway.”

Thomas slapped him on the shoulder and walked away, leaving him standing on the edge of the pool. Bruno picked up a flat stone from the footpath and tried to skip it on the sheer surface, but instead it plunged in, sending out a circle of rings that slowly closed in on each other until they disappeared.

*      *      *

Back inside, the crowd had thinned. The chamber quartet was replaced by the accordion and fiddle of a
groupe folklorique
. A short farmer in overalls was dancing to the sad tune with a much taller, elegantly gowned woman with silver hair, his head pressed against her breasts, her arm resting on his shoulders, grasping a bottle of Beaujolais. There were other couplings hinted at by movements in the shadows in the tight, dark alleys between stacked wine barrels. People were flushed, joyful and tired, conversing with their arms draped over strangers, leaning on one another, glasses held against the light. It was a mass of people knit steadily closer together with every sip.

Bruno wandered through the coagulation, enjoying the sights, making a mental catalog. Perhaps there was an article for the
Sun-Times
in this. Maybe he could talk Ernie into buying a stringer piece for the travel section.

He suddenly felt lithe hands encircling his arm, and Annette
from earlier was holding him and guiding him toward a group of her friends, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. Someone served him a cool, clean pour of a bracing white that must have been Aligoté, and he found himself looking at a lovely group of young people.

“Why didn't you tell me you were a famous writer?” Annette was saying in his ear.

“I think
famous
may be an exaggeration.”

“Nonsense, everyone here knows who you are.”

She smiled up at him and he wanted to bend to kiss her. He considered leading her back out into the topiary.
Have you seen the gazebo? No? Let me show you . . .

“I've read your book,” said a young man with a trim mustache and tortoiseshell glasses that Bruno suspected were merely an affectation. “I'm a writer, too, you know . . .”

Bruno enjoyed the attention but was beginning to tire of the chatter when he spotted Sylvie leaning against the far wall, talking with another vigneron, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her jeans. He thought he noticed her glancing his way, and suddenly Annette felt like a great weight on his arm.

He half reluctantly broke away, though the feeling of Annette's fingers on the inside of his arm and the softness of her breasts through the rumpled fabric of his blazer lingered. He vaguely heard her calling to him as he weaved through the crowd, but he didn't look back.

He reached Sylvie as she was sipping on a glass of
marc
. He could smell the pungent alcohol on her breath. She smiled wryly.

“So, how's the famous writer?”

“It's nice to know that some people still remember.”

“That lot was in the nursery when your book came out. It must be flattering that they know who you are.”

“I suppose.”

“And you can still charm the ladies. Who was that gorgeous creature?”

“Annette? She's just a kid.”

“Tonight, of all nights, is a time to sample a little of that
vin nouveau,
is it not?”

“Actually,” Bruno said, swaying a little closer, “I prefer the complexity and character that comes with a little age . . .”

“What a terrible line.” She laughed. “Do you have any more?”

“Quite a few, actually.”

*      *      *

Sylvie was aware that it was clichéd and maybe even old-fashioned to smoke in bed after making love, but it was a ritual she nevertheless enjoyed. Since she'd started her tryst with Claude she'd gotten up to four or five cigarettes on some days, and she was beginning to worry that it might affect her health.

Bruno's appetites seemed, surprisingly, as robust as the more athletic Claude's, though the pauses between were longer and more enjoyable. Claude liked to turn on the television and watch the shopping channel after a quick fuck, which was fine with her because this was actually more mentally stimulating than attempting a conversation with the young man. But Bruno punctuated the silence between deep drags on the cigarette with the most absurd and charming banter. The man had no shame. He couldn't possibly be sincere . . . or could he?

She heard the paper of the cigarette burn as she sucked and then expelled a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. Bruno pulled the sheet off of her shoulder and kissed her collarbone, his whiskers tickling her neck. She breathed in deeply. He
pulled the sheet down farther to reveal one breast and he kissed it gently.

“You're a remarkable creature,” he said, and she smiled around another drag of the cigarette. It couldn't be true, but she still enjoyed it. Her ex-husband had once lauded her breasts when she lamented that they may be too insubstantial. He'd called them
guilleret
, “perky,” but that buoyancy was long gone. “Absolutely gorgeous,” Bruno purred now, pulling the sheet down lower and kissing her stomach just above her navel.

“Such talk,” she said, crushing out her cigarette and lacing her fingers behind her head to watch the shifting cloud of smoke that hung below the ceiling. “Please continue.”

Bruno propped his head on his elbow and stared up at her. “What's it like, being the best in the world at what you do?” He gave the sheet a tug, pulling it lower.

“I'm no Aubert de Villaine, Bruno. Trevallier is not Romanée-Conti. I'm a farmer's daughter with a mountain of debt.”

“But surely you have to admit that your reputation, the reputation of Trevallier, is unassailable. It's almost mythic. By anyone's definition, you're a success.”

“In that part of my life . . . perhaps.”

“And the other parts?”

“Well. When it comes to finances, I don't always make the wisest choices. I cling too much to tradition, and those that embrace the more modern practices are passing me by. I'm stubborn, opting for quality over cash. I don't have many close friends. I work too much for that. And my marriage was something of a disaster.”

“Was that really your fault?”

“Maybe. You see, my insides don't work the way they should
for a French country girl. Michel, my former husband, didn't appreciate that the noble line of his genetic material would end with him. He has three children now with his second wife. All girls, the fact of which I imagine still causes him some consternation.”

“Good. Still . . . is that really your fault?”

“Who else's? Also, I'm a bit of a tyrant, really.”

Bruno laughed.

“No, it's true. Ask my employees. I'm in charge. My ideal man would be someone to occasionally fuck, make small talk when I feel like it and stay quiet when I don't. And then he could make me breakfast, keep the house in order, help with the entertaining and then generally stay out of the way until I have some other chore for him. I have no patience to tolerate ambition outside of my own. Of course, I'd expect him to pitch in with the work or at least pay his own share. What male ego would be really happy with that sort of arrangement?”

Bruno frowned and shrugged. “Sounds like you need to date more writers.”

“I'm no prize, Bruno. When we separated, Michel said I was too bitter to be capable of love.”

“Too bitter? What rubbish. I'd say you're perfectly balanced.” He kissed her stomach below her navel, and slowly worked his way down. She felt his breath against her skin.

“Ridiculous,” she said, her smile broadening as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “What else?”

“So complex. I taste strong acidity. Soft tannic structure. A hint of sweetness. Gorgeous mouthfeel . . .” As he worked his way lower, his muttering became incomprehensible right at the point where words no longer mattered.

*      *      *

When Sylvie awoke the next morning, the bed was empty. All that remained of Bruno was a not-insubstantial impression on the mattress next to her and a few brownish-gray hairs on the pillow. She stood and stretched with a mixture of relief and disappointment. But then the aroma of breakfast drifted in from the kitchen, along with the operatic humming of Bruno's voice, and both emotions were replaced with a sense of satisfaction. She recognized the tune as an
opéra-bouffe
by Offenbach, though she couldn't recall the exact name. She smiled because it had been ages since a man had spent the entire night in her bed, and she somehow had slept well despite Bruno's occasional snore. With Claude, it was always a quick morning screw, and by her last years of marriage to Michel they'd been living in separate cities.

She threw open the windows and let the cool air wash over her bare skin. She couldn't find her silk robe usually draped on her chair so she pulled on a soft wool sweater and tights. She combed her hair with her fingers and tucked it under a cap, avoiding the mirror, fearing the woman she might see would look a good twenty years older than she was feeling right now.

The wood floors of the old stone house creaked under her feet, but Bruno was busy at the stove with his back to her. He danced as he tossed a pan full of wild mushrooms, garlic, onion and something else she couldn't quite place but smelled wonderful. He didn't notice her until she laughed at her pink robe wrapped around him.

This made him spin and he spotted her leaning against the doorjamb. He winked and smiled and continued the circle, reaching to crack eggs, two at a time, into a bowl in a fluid motion.

He whisked briskly and in moments was sliding omelets onto plates next to slices of butter-softened bread. The surprise ingredients were a pesto he'd made of diced
noisettes,
Saint-Nectaire
cheese, oil and basil. They sat on stools at the rough slab of granite that formed an island in the kitchen, eating in comfortable silence.

“You didn't ask me any more about my grandfather,” she said after a pause.

“I thought you were finished answering questions.”

She chewed slowly, measuring how best to respond. Bruno's questions had stirred something inside of her and the evening before, after she'd finished her work and showered and was waiting to head to the bacchanal, she'd carried a glass of wine to a storage closet in the back of the great cellar. She sat on the cold floor rummaging through a box of her grandfather's things. She found his ledgers and notebooks. He had recorded the weather and sugars, and he made notes on the tannic structure of the wines by the very unscientific method of chewing a mouthful of grapes until only the seeds were left, then mashing them into a pulp and noting their bitterness, rating them on a scale of “green” to “woody.”

What surprised her most was a bundle of letters written to and from her grandmother that she hadn't read before. They contained more detailed accounts of the day-to-day operations, the comings and goings of family and workers, what was prepared for meals and also descriptions of the family's struggles during the war years. It reminded Sylvie how intimately involved her grandmother was in the business compared to how little recognition she received. She knew that the information would be helpful to Bruno and the only reasons to keep it from him were pride and spite.

She began talking between bites and without looking at him. “After your visit yesterday I spent some time in the family archives, which consists of a pair of soggy cardboard boxes in the
cellar. I sat on the floor until my ass froze and I lost feeling in my legs. So many memories . . .”

Without looking, she could feel that Bruno had stopped eating and was watching her carefully.

“I learned a few things that might interest you.” A quick glance told her that Bruno now studied her with surprise, an incipient smile somewhere inside his beard. “There was one Nazi officer whose name was frequently mentioned in my grandmother's letters. Von Speck. They called him the
weinführer,
and all of the region's producers were accountable to him. My grandmother also mentioned a neighbor boy who was young enough that he stayed behind when the other men left. He still lives here and if you speak to him it may help you on your quest.”