Vintage (23 page)

“Well . . .”

“Claire?”

“I told him it was your money, and that you were supporting him. I thought that maybe it would show him that you still love him.”

“What? Claire!”

“Do you still love each other?” Claire was crying now.

“That's not the point. You lied!”

“I had to . . . You know he wouldn't have accepted it otherwise. And you're overreacting. When he publishes his book, he'll pay it back and then some.”

“Overreacting? He's not going to pay it back. You just threw away your future.”

“He will pay it back. He's a good writer, Mom. He just needs us to have faith in him.”

“I'd love to have faith in him, honey, but I've known him too long.”

“Well, there's nothing we can do about it now.”

“Yes, there is. We need to call him and make him come home before it's all gone.”

“He won't listen to you.”

“I'm not going to ask him, Claire. You are. And you're going to tell the truth about how you deceived us.”

“I can't, Mom. He's doing important research!”

*      *      *

At that same moment, Bruno was standing with a raised shot glass at a polished rail in a Moscow hotel bar, his Cubs cap askew, his coat rumpled, swaying slightly on his feet in a cluster of stylishly dressed people smelling of perfume and cologne, including one lovely young woman named Svetlana who stood at Bruno's elbow. She wore a white cocktail dress that sparkled, her hair pulled in a tight ponytail, bright red lipstick anchoring her face, as the rest of the world seemed to shimmer and spin.

“Budem zdorovy!”
Bruno shouted, hoisting his glass higher.

“Budem!”
the young people rejoined.

They tossed back their vodka.

Bruno was celebrating. It had been a hard trip to Moscow, full of misread timetables, bad food and long stretches without a drop of alcohol. But he had made it, armed only with a loose translation of a sixty-year-old shipment invoice from Naumburg and the name of the man who had received it. The business card that Parker Thomas gave him at the bacchanal back in France had also come in handy . . . Bruno managed to get himself invited to a press junket given by a Moscow wine distributor, with a deluxe room thrown in. Now he was reveling in his good fortune. “I'm buying another, who wants another?” Bruno said, fishing a pile of wadded rubles from his pocket and scattering
them on the bar. But his guests had started to disperse. Svetlana disappeared and Bruno's heart broke just a little.

Nikolai, the contact on Thomas's business card, appeared at his elbow, a short, stocky man with a trim beard and wearing a smart blue suit. “Mr. Tannenbaum, please, you are our guest,” he said, scooping up the rubles and tucking them into Bruno's sport coat pocket while the bartender glared at him.

“I was just buying my friends a drink,” Bruno slurred.

“Please come with me. Our presentation is about to begin.”

Bruno nodded and plucked a bill out of his pocket, tossing it back on the bar. “ 'S for you,” he said to the bartender as Nikolai dragged him toward the hotel's conference rooms.

“You know,” Bruno said, waving generally at the conference center around him, with its nondescript corporate art, clean, sterile lines and overall uninspiring construction, “there's nothing Russian about this whole fucking place.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. We could be in the Marriott in Des Moines or Akron.”

Nikolai shrugged and guided Bruno to a small side room with a projection screen and several dozen chairs arrayed facing a podium where a dignified fellow with a shock of white hair and an upturned nose was droning on in a proper English accent. The place looked to be set up for a time-share sales pitch. The moderator wore a blue blazer with a Sotheby's monogram on the breast pocket. The seats were half filled and a few people stood at the fringes nursing plates of cheese and pâté and sipping from Riedel glasses.

Bruno kicked a chair over despite Nikolai's best efforts to guide him, and the moderator paused and cleared his throat and heads turned to inspect the commotion. Bruno grinned and wiggled his fingers in a wave.

He broke away from Nikolai and helped himself to a plate of goodies. He studied the labels and had to do a double-take because he saw a bottle of Silver Oak and also a Margaux, both from the nineties. He poured himself a generous glass of the Margaux and tasted. He couldn't verify its authenticity by a single sip, but it certainly seemed like the real deal, as it was excellent. He whistled loudly, again interrupting the moderator as he found a seat in the back row.

The speaker, whose name Bruno would later learn was Nathan Hedges, RSA (Royal Society of Auctioneers), leveled an icy glare at him until he was settled. Bruno sank his teeth into a buttery slice of Edam and half listened as Hedges continued.

“Yes, well . . . again, welcome. We are grateful to all of you for joining us. You must be wondering why we've summoned the finest food and wine writers here to Moscow. I'm sure you've brought a great deal of skepticism to the notion of this city as a great wine destination. After all, there isn't a vineyard of note within a thousand kilometers. But in truth the hubris of the oil boom has led directly to the concentration of some of the most brilliant vintages right here within the city. There are also amazing collections dating back to the Soviet and even Czarist eras. While the modern Moscow sports an array of wine bars and haute cuisine establishments with brilliant lists of wines from across the globe—truly there are no favorites here—it is the collections that provide the pinnacle of the experience of wine in Moscow. Over the next several years, the contents of these collections will be made available at a series of exclusive auctions . . .”

Bruno tried to follow the thread, but the Margaux on top of the vodka made him sleepy. He dozed, then began to snore, but then an elbow in his side jolted him awake. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but he now found Parker Thomas sitting
next to him while Hedges walked the audience through a series of slides of absurdly priced bottles and rare vintages.

“Hey, Bruno, glad you could make it,” Thomas whispered. “What do you think of this whole thing?”

Bruno blinked at the screen and shrugged.

“Hey, is that a '47 Latour?” Parker said, pointing at the screen. After a moment the critic leaned over again. “Say, you didn't come all this way for this little dog-and-pony show, did you? Tell me, what are you really working on?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Thomas laughed out loud, drawing another stern look from Hedges. He bumped Bruno's shoulder. “So secretive! I bet it's going to be good, whatever it is. Cheers!”

Thomas raised a glass and sipped. Then he gestured to the plate in his lap.

“You should try the caviar, it's out of sight.”

Bruno managed to stay awake for the remainder of the presentation and then he made another trip to the snack table. Despite the rare wines, Bruno opted for the coffee to regain some of his faculties. He wasn't here to give this serious consideration. He merely wanted the free food and accommodations, the invitation merely to secure a home base in Moscow while he investigated the Trevallier. But he did understand that there were people here who might be able to point him in the right direction.

As the crowd thinned, he cornered Nikolai, who gestured to his coffee.

“Not trying the wines?”

“I need to clear my head.”

“Of course. So what do you think of our little concept?”

“Elite wine tourism in Moscow? It'll take some pretty amazing bottles on the block to draw people here. Especially in the winter.”

“I can assure you, we have such wines in storage. Quite a treasure trove, actually.”

“Well,” Bruno said, gesturing around the room, “you should get some serious ink. You have some heavy hitters here.”

“I hope that's the case. You write for the
Sun-Times
, correct?”

“Um . . . yes.”

“And this is something you might cover?”

“Sure.”

“I'd wanted to simply pay writers a few thousand euros each, but I understand from my colleague that this is not how things are done. So instead we have to put on this charade and provide free flights and hotel and caviar, theater tickets . . . and we're not even guaranteed a story. How much more efficient would it be if we could just hand over a nice, clean envelope, eh?” Nikolai said, winking.

“How nice indeed,” Bruno said, wondering if it was worth the risk of taking the bribe even though he had been fired from the paper. “So these collections . . . how did you acquire them?”

“There've been a series of state auctions. Some of the oligarchs who perhaps strayed too far had their collections impounded by the state, for example.”

“What about older collections . . . from the Soviet era?”

“Those exist, too.”

Bruno thought of the name on the receipt he'd found in Naumburg.

“Like that fellow, what was his name, Constanoff?”

“Ah, the agricultural minister. Unfortunately, we've never tracked down the Constanoff collection. He was a fan of French wines, I understand. Interesting you should bring him up. How did you learn about him?”

“A Russian pal in Chicago. He owns a few restaurants and likes his vino.”

“I see. Well, if you'll excuse me.”

While Nikolai tended to other guests, Bruno worked the room a little more to learn what he could, and he was surprised that the name Constanoff was recognized by a few of the writers. Under the guise of agricultural minister in the fifties and sixties, he'd amassed quite a collection (on behalf of the people). The minister had been a survivor, one of the few members of the old guard to have made it through the purges, and was quietly put to pasture when Khrushchev was replaced, given a pension and a small apartment in Moscow and a humble and nondescript dacha on the Oka River. Rumors persisted that Constanoff had secreted away the prizes of his collection in the cottage, though no evidence was found there after his death.

Bruno felt that he was beginning to sober, though it was clear many of his colleagues were quickly slipping the other way. Bruno spotted Nikolai across the room chatting with Hedges and looking at him. He tipped his coffee cup and the stout little man made his way over, pulling Bruno to a quiet corner.

“Mr. Constanoff collected wine for many years on behalf of the state. And as you know, state property was quickly and quietly auctioned off shortly after the collapse in the nineties. My colleague,” Nikolai said, tipping his head toward Hedges, “believes that portions, if not all, of the collection were sold during the liquidation of state assets in the voucher period. However, no vouchers or any records have ever been found.”

“Who would have known about those auctions?”

“The insiders. The Mafia. The oil barons. Some of the sales weren't exactly open to the public.”

“Any speculation on what may have been in the collection?”

Nikolai's eyes brightened. He leaned closer to Bruno. “You wouldn't believe. Every classic you can think of. Imagine a 1928
Bordeaux, or how about a 1900? I even hear tell of some war vintages.”

Bruno drew a breath. “How can I learn more?”

Nikolai scanned the room and scratched his beard. “There is one man. A collector's collector. I've always had my suspicions, though he would never talk to me. But to you . . . because of your reputation and because you're an outsider . . . he just may be willing to open up.”

“I need to speak to him.”

“That would be difficult. He is in Butyrka Prison.”

“Do they allow visitors?”

Nikolai chuckled and patted Bruno on the shoulder. “Well, who knows? In the New Russia, anything is possible! You just need the right connections, plenty of cash and a clean envelope. Do a Web search on the name Anatoly Varushkin and you'll find out more than you need to know.”

From across the room, Bruno caught sight of Thomas staring at them over the rim of his glass of Margaux.

*      *      *

Bruno's hotel room had a view of a bend in the Moskva River. He sat on his bed looking at the illuminated cityscape, waiting for Aleksei to pick up the phone. When Aleksei answered, he asked Bruno to describe the scene and then there was a long silence after Bruno did so. Bruno could picture him sitting in his corner booth, his eyes heavy-lidded and staring through the far wall of the restaurant.

“I wish I could see it,” he said, finally.

“I think you'd like what they've done with the place.”

“Someday, perhaps, I'll be able to return. So, what do you need, my friend?”

“I need information. I'm still on the trail of that wine.”

“Are you getting close?”

“Very close. But I need some logistical help.”

“Of course. I still have a few friends there.”

“I would like to get into Butyrka Prison.”

“Are you looking to contact tuberculosis? Forget it. You're in Moscow. The Third Rome! There are thousands of restaurants. Tens of thousands of beautiful women. Spend your time exploring the City of Golden Domes. In Butyrka there is only death and misery. I left Moscow to stay out of that place.”

“I've come a long way. It's my only lead.”

Bruno could hear the clink of a glass, and he knew that Aleksei was pouring himself tea from his samovar. He heard him swallow.

“Well,” he said finally. “Suit yourself. I know someone. I'll make some calls. Oh, and do you have cash?”

“Some.”

“Good. You will need it.”

*      *      *

Bruno took a cab to Butyrka, or rather two blocks from the prison, because the driver would go no closer, despite the fact that Bruno had bought a lovely circle loaf of
lepeshka
from a street vendor and shared it with the driver, who talked in broken English about how expensive Moscow had become.