Flambé in Armagnac (5 page)

6

“I am very sorry, but we’re full,” the restaurant owner said, looking exhausted but acting gracious nevertheless.

The dining room was filled with boisterous voices and the clatter of knives and forks. The conversation at the long table dominating the room was free-flowing. The faces of the diners were flushed from all the alcohol, and they had unbuttoned their shirt collars—the better to enjoy this midday feast. Busy servers filled their glasses as quickly as the men emptied them.

Benjamin Cooker instantly recognized Jean-Charles de Castayrac, who ignored him. At the head of the table, a distinguished-looking man with a white mane and aquiline nose appeared to be orchestrating the proceedings. He had a medal of honor pin in his lapel. Probably the agricultural merit award, Benjamin surmised. With his salt-and-pepper goatee, he resembled a musketeer, a highly regarded figure in these parts. Benjamin guessed that he was Aymeric de Nadaillac, father-in-law of Alban de Castayrac. The description Philippe would give him that same night would confirm his hunch.

“Try your luck at Au Trou Gascon. It’s a mile from here,” the woman suggested. By the looks of her apron, Benjamin imagined that she officiated in the kitchen, as well as the dining room.

Leaving the inn, Virgile teased Benjamin. “I guess we won’t be enjoying any foie gras ravioli today.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Benjamin muttered. “We are here to work, after all.”

“We won’t be getting the inside scoop on the Armagnac committee either. You know, boss, my mom taught me not to eavesdrop.”

Benjamin didn’t deign to respond. Virgile turned away and started peeling off the bandage Valmont had wrapped around his hand. Patience had never been one of Virgile’s virtues.

“Just let it alone for now, Virgile,” Benjamin said. “We haven’t finished our work at the château, and I don’t want you getting that hand infected.”

Fortunately, Au Trou Gascon more than satisfied their appetites. The waitress was plump and eager to please. “How is it?” she asked time and again. “Do you need anything else?” This finally exasperated the winemaker, who just wanted to enjoy his meal.

Virgile grinned, hardly looking up from his guinea fowl with wild mushrooms. After a few minutes of silence, he gave Benjamin his assessment of the Castayrac cellar. In his eyes, the only tangible elements were the barrel hoops. With four to a cask, it was easy to estimate the number the baron’s paradise had housed, assuming they were all full. As for the demijohns, he had managed to locate nineteen bottle necks. At best, twenty demijohns, swaddled in their wicker casings, had been tucked away in storage.

The assistant took a paper napkin and scribbled a series of numbers. When he was done, Benjamin put on his reading glasses to take a look. Satisfied with the final figures, he copied the calculations into his notebook.

“Good work, Virgile. It seems that we’re far from the figures Castayrac gave us. His numbers are significantly higher—three times higher as far as the demijohns are concerned. It’s a classic ploy: pad the reserves to bring the business back to an even keel and enjoy the serendipitous flow of cash from the insurance company. And then he can plead ignorance under the pretext that Francisco was the one in charge of the books.”

“Yes, but to take us for idiots! I don’t care if he’s a baron. I’m going to let him know that we’re onto his game.”

“You’re not going to say anything, Virgile.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“It’s better not to rush things. We still need to gather evidence.”

“But, boss, we have the proof.”

“Of insurance fraud, perhaps. But I want to know more. Just to make sure we’re not missing something.”

Benjamin fell quiet. He had opted for coffee and was now staring at the bottom of his cup. The winemaker’s habit of silently musing sometimes irritated his assistant, who always wanted to know what he was thinking. But Benjamin continued to peer into his cup, as if the solution to his investigation lay there.

“I must tell you, I’m not very good at reading coffee grounds,” Virgile said.

“I suggest a few drops of Armagnac in the bottom of our cups, Virgile. Perhaps a fresh idea will wind up staring us in the face.”

The winemaker called the waitress and ordered a Laberdolive. Benjamin had only to request the vintage from Virgile’s year of birth to make his protégé’s face light up. Benjamin poured a few drops of the very amber Armagnac into each coffee cup, ignoring the two balloon glasses brought by the young woman.

“I have a hunch,” Virgile murmured, “that some liquor might just loosen the baron’s tongue.”

“I think the same thing, Virgile. But for now, tell me what this eau-de-vie brings to your nose.”

“Quince, definitely,” Virgile said.

“Exactly!” Benjamin responded. “I will add: quince paste, and little by little, it tends toward prune, doesn’t it?”

“I’m staying with quince. Perhaps with a hint of lime?”

“Do you know, Virgile, how the Latin poet who shares your name described the quince?”

“No idea.”

“He described it as ‘pale with tender down.’ Lovely, isn’t it? He was referring to the fuzzy skin, of course.”

“Since we’re displaying our knowledge, do you know where people used to plant quince trees?” Virgile asked, mischief written on his lips.

Benjamin shook his head, feeling a bit embarrassed because he didn’t know the answer.

Virgile was quick to fill him in. “Quince trees were often planted in the corners of a vegetable garden to officially mark where the plot ended.”

Benjamin smiled at the play on words in French, the word for quince,
coign
, sounding the same as the one for corner,
coin.

Finishing his Armagnac, Benjamin glanced out the window. The sky looked as ashen as the rubble in the Blanzac cellar. Farmers in the area were predicting that a change in temperature would accompany the new moon. On this point, their waitress happily concurred.

“The weather’s going to get milder,” she said as Benjamin paid the bill and buttoned up his Loden.

It had become obvious that this gracious and well-endowed waitress was none other than the owner. The food and the Armagnac had restored the winemaker’s spirits, and he was sure that he would be seeing this woman and her restaurant again. The marinated duck had been a real treat, the duck breast cooked to perfection.

“So, Virgile, how was that?” Benjamin asked, grinning as Virgile and he slipped into the beige leather seats of the Mercedes. Benjamin started the car and turned on the radio. The local news was on.

In a surprise upset this afternoon, Aymeric de Nadaillac was elected chairman of the Armagnac Promotion Committee by an overwhelming majority of those voting. Albert Pesquidoux, outgoing president of the APC, had backed his rival, Jean-Charles de Castayrac, owner of Château Blanzac. Nadaillac is the father-in-law of Alban de Castayrac, the baron’s elder son. Château Blanzac’s cellars were burned to the ground in December, and cellar master Francisco Vasquez died in that fire. An investigation conducted by the Saint-Justin Police Department concluded that an explosion in the still caused the fire.

“The baron may not be in the mood to see us,” Benjamin said.

“I won’t argue with that. Boss, can you drop me off at the Cantarels? I need a shower after spending the morning in all that rubble. And frankly, I don’t think I’m needed at your meeting with the losing candidate for chairman of the Armagnac Promotion Committee. Unless you object, of course.”

Without saying a word, Benjamin turned left at the first fork in the road and headed toward Labastide-d’Armagnac. He let his assistant out at the front entry to the half-timber house. He imagined a cozy room fragrant with a wood fire and goose fat. In his mind, he saw copper pans shining on a wall and a hanging lamp casting a golden circle of light on the table. A figure at one of the windows caught the winemaker’s eye. It had to be Evelyne Cantarel. No doubt, she was pleased to see the return of her houseguest.

§ § §

“What happened to you, Mr. Virgile?” Evelyne Cantarel cried when she saw the young man’s bandaged hand.

“It’s nothing, Mrs. Cantarel, just a little work accident. Nothing serious.”

“Let me have a look.”

Just as she was peeling away the bandage, a man came into the room. He was wearing brown corduroy pants and a heavy jacquard sweater. Under his hoary eyebrows were two mouse eyes, and under them were puffy bags that gave away his age. Virgile looked at the man’s hands, speckled with liver spots, and saw that he was holding
La Terre
, the weekly farmer’s communist-party newspaper. The old man nodded politely and headed toward the worn armchair that was close to the stove. He grimaced as he sank into the cushion. Evelyne had told Virgile that the cold exacerbated her father’s arthritis, but he refused to let it slow him down.

“Did you know that our new boarder and Joachim share the same birthday? And Mr. Virgile played rugby, too. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

Mr. Cantarel barely acknowledged her remark and opened up his paper.

“My father isn’t very talkative,” Evelyne said.

The next moment, a young man came running down the stairs. He was in a navy-blue sweat suit, a baseball cap on his head.

“So, there you are!” Evelyne exclaimed. “Let me introduce Virgile, our houseguest. You two have a lot in common.”

Evelyne’s effusion made Virgile feel uncomfortable. He put out a strong and sincere hand to this Joachim. Although he was not very chatty, the Cantarel son soon warmed up. Before long they were talking about rugby, the Bayonne festivals, Pamplona, the Armagnac that was no longer selling very well, Joachim’s recent job as a volunteer firefighter in Saint-Justin, and then, of course, girls. Joachim apparently was in love, but he didn’t have much to say about this, as it wasn’t a subject that was discussed under the family roof.

Evelyne went to the kitchen and returned with four dishes, which she set on the oilcloth-covered table. Of course Virgile would stay for the meal. “I was sure you two would become thick as thieves,” Evelyne said happily as she filled two shot glasses with a dark and murky but deliciously scented liquid.

“It’s walnut liqueur, homemade!” Evelyne said, loosening the cap of the relic-like vial.

The menu that followed confirmed the culinary talents of the former Château Blanzac servant. Pan-fried duck liver, stuffed goose neck, arugula salad, and flakey apple pastries made up this “simple” meal, so called by the creator of the feast. She claimed that she had thrown it together. Virgile, who had just finished eating at Au Trou Gascon, didn’t know how he could eat any more, but the food on this table was too tempting. He dug in.

Then they lingered over eau-de-vies from Bas Armagnac: Domaine Boignières, Domaine Roger Luquet, Domaine d’Espérance, and, naturally, Château de Briat.

The elder Cantarel went upstairs, and after clearing up, Evelyne retired to her own room. With the help of the brandy, the two young men discovered that they had even more in common. Joachim had been drawn to oenology himself. He didn’t have the money to study in Bordeaux or Montpellier, though, so he had accepted a job as warehouseman in the nearby township of Le Houga. It didn’t pay well, but at least he could stay in the area. At any rate, his mother wouldn’t hear of his moving away. He dreaded the day he would have to tell her that he was in love and wanted to marry. He was eager to have a home and life of his own.

“And what about your father?” Virgile asked hesitantly.

“What, my father?” Joachim said. “He took off the day he found out my mother was pregnant. A son-of-a-bitch, that guy! The closest thing I’ve ever had to a dad is my grandfather.”

“But your mother never told you anything about your dad?”

“Never.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. All I can say is that as soon as my mother got pregnant, her troubles began. The Castayracs fired her that year, and my grandmother died. She’s been single her whole life.”

“She never wanted to marry or have a serious relationship with any other man?” Virgile asked, realizing that he was venturing close to the line.

“No, she always said that two men in the house—my grandfather and me—were enough. At least I don’t think she ever loved anyone else. Well, yes, maybe…”

Joachim wrapped his oversized hands around the nearly empty glass of Armagnac. He was holding it too tight. Virgile looked up and saw that his new friend’s eyes had taken on a steely hue.

“You have suspicions?”

“I think, when she was very young, she had a crush on Francisco, the Castayracs’ cellar master. Anyway, we have those bastards to thank for our problems.”

“And what if Francisco was your father?”

“Stop talking bullshit! Why do you say that?”

“Simple hypothesis.”

The glass broke, and blood gushed over Joachim’s fingers. But instead of letting go, he began to squeeze the glass shards, driving them into his hand. He stared at Virgile, the veins in his neck bulging. Then, to Virgile’s horror, he rammed his head into the glass. Witnessing Joachim’s self-mutilation, Virgile sprang into action and put him in a judo hold, preventing him from harming himself any further. Now on the floor, Joachim could not overpower Virgile. He surrendered. His breathing became more regular. Color returned to his cheeks. His eyes lost their deathly fixedness, and his mouth began to tremble. Virgile let go and grabbed a kitchen towel, which he soaked in Armagnac and dabbed on the cuts. Despite all the blood, they looked relatively minor. Virgile heaved a sigh of relief. No stitches needed. He had repeated the first aid that Valmont had administered to him that very morning. Decidedly, in Armagnac country, the truth cut like a knife!

Joachim gave his rescuer a weak smile. When, little by little, he recovered his senses and he stammered a few awkward words of excuse.

“Francisco used to take me in his arms when I was little, on Sundays, when we picnicked with Mom by the Douze River. But he never was man enough to admit it and take his responsibilities. Mom won’t talk about it. But you don’t even know me. What made you say that?”

“I’m a Virgo, like you,” Virgile said, patting him on the shoulder. “We know how to put two and two together.”