Tainted Tokay (2 page)

Copyright information

All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

First published in France as
Buveurs en série
by Jean-Pierre Alaux and Noël Balen

World copyright ©Librairie Arthème Fayard, 2006

English adaptation copyright ©2016 Sally Pane

First published in English in 2016 By Le French Book, Inc., New York

www.lefrenchbook.com

Translator: Sally Pane
Translation editor: Amy Richard
Proofreader: Chris Gage
Cover designer: Jeroen ten Berge

ISBNs:
Trade paperback: 9781943998005
E-book: 9781943998012

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Wine is sunlight, held together by water.

—Galileo

1

“F
lorence, I'd envy your life in this immense château if it weren't for the ghosts. I'm sure you have one or two lurking in there,” Benjamin Cooker said as he dropped a packet of artificial sweetener
in his coffee.

“Benjamin, you always surprise me. I would have never guessed that France's most celebrated authority in matters of winemaking would be
superstitious.”

Benjamin sipped his coffee and tried not to grimace at the bitter taste of the sweetener. Elisabeth was nagging him to lose weight again, and he had reluctantly given up sugar in his coffee to pl
ease his wife.

“Do you, of all people, really believe in ghosts?” Florence Blanc
hard continued.

“That would depend on what kind of ghost you're talking about. If you mean a disembodied soul, well, I do believe in the soul. It's the seat of life and intelli
gence itself.”

Florence nodded. “That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. If I recall correctly, the Marquise de Deffand, the famous seventeenth-century hostess, was asked once of she believed in ghosts. She answered, ‘No, but I'm afr
aid of them.'”

“I have to say that I'm more afraid of the living and our small-mindedness, which leads to so much deception and duplicity. To respond to your quote, I'll cite Pierre Corneille, who said, ‘Deceit is a game of petty spirits'—those are the
ghosts I fear.”

Sitting in the garden with his host, Benjamin looked up and studied the small cupola atop the château's slate roof. The morning sun was blazing down on the mansion, bleaching its Charente-
stone exterior.

Dating to the 1870s, Château Blanchard reminded Benjamin of the expression “castle in the sky.” It was the kind of estate that landowners with aspirations once dreamed of building. Only a few, however, could afford such opulence. The exterior was ornate and fascinating, with its intricate pinnacles above the top-floor windows. But as far as Benjamin was concerned, the place was entirely too impracti
cal to live in.

“I'm thinking we should restore the pond. You saw how overrun it is with algae and weeds,” Florence said, setting her cup down and casting her eyes over
the landscape.

At times Florence seemed overwhelmed by the family legacy. Château Blanchard was too large and its amenities were too few, especially in the winter, when it was impossible to heat. But she loved it in the summer, when children overtook the grounds and dinners under an old magnolia tree at the edge of the pond extended well in
to the evening.

“One day I'll have the grounds looking like Versailles,” Florence said, turning back to Benjamin. “I remember how well my grandfather
maintained it.”

As the estate's winemaking consultant, Benjamin knew all about the family's history. Florence Blanchard had been born into a family of farmers who had left Algeria during the war of independence in the early 1960s and had ended up in this corner of the Gironde, not far from Château Margaux. This
pied-noir
family had poured all of their resources into their land in the Médoc, and the wines they produced were their
pride and joy.

Florence and her brother, Jules, had lost their parents when they were young and had inherited the Blanchard estate from their grandfather. Of the two of them, Florence was the more attached to the fairy-tale château. In her youth, she had spent hours with her grandfather, whose passion for the vine was tireless and unconditional. His cru bourgeois, generated on thirty hectares in the heart of the Listrac appellation, was an elegant and velvety wine approaching the nobility of a Margaux
or a Pauillac.

Under her grandfather's tutelage, Florence had developed a love for wine and the land. And as an adult, she had nurtured the vineyards, lush with merlot and cabernet sauvi
gnon rootstock.

“Enough about my plans for the future,” Florence said, leaning toward the winemaker. “I have something more pressing on my mind at the moment. Didier seems on edge these days. Should
I be worried?”

Didier Morel was the cellar master for Château Blanchard. After finishing his oenological studies, Didier had interned at Château Pichon Longueville Baron and then at Lynch-Bages. Benjamin had met Didier at Lynch-Bages and was so impressed, he advised the Blanchard family to take him on. They hired h
im on the spot.

The young man had much in common with Benjamin's assistant, Virgile Lanssien. They both had a deeply ingrained passion for rugby, as well as the crafty intelligence of people of the earth. Each had the same diploma signed by the same director of the Institut d'oenologie, the winemaking institute of Bordeaux. These commonalities, however, did not make them allies. Benjamin knew that Virgile was a tad jealous and even reluctant to give his opinion when Florence, Didier, and he presided over the Blanchard blendings. He had concluded that the two were cut from the same cloth, consumed by the same ambitions, and blessed with the same instincts and charm that young women just c
ouldn't resist.

Benjamin smiled. “I wouldn't be concerned. A winemaker's nerves are always on edge during malolactic fermentation. Didier's as vigilant as a lighthouse keeper in a hurricane. His watchfulness is a sign of h
is commitment.”

Florence picked up the silver coffeepot, which was gleaming in the bright sunlight. “Another
cup, Benjamin?”

“Gladly,” he answered, his gaze once again drawn to the cupola on the slate roof. It seem
ed pretentious.

Florence followed his gaze. “What do you think of the cupola? I find it rather elegant. It was actually an observation pos
t at one time.”

“Is that so?”

“Landowners used cupolas to watch over the vines during harvest. From up there, my grandfather could see as far away as the Garonne and spot any evildoers intent on stealing his grapes. It seems that grape theft was once
fairly common.”

“Unlike the vines, trust has never thrived in the Médoc,” said Benjamin. “The people here are capable of fighting over a single vine stalk for generations. They'd even
kill over one.”

Florence sipped her coffee. “Something seems to be on your m
ind, Benjamin.”

The winemaker did not respond, mostly because he didn't think he was being overly pensive. Actually, he had arrived early so that he and Florence could have a conversation before her brother and Didier joined them for their tasting. He liked her quick wit, her candor, and he
r graciousness.

Finally, Benjamin decided to weigh in on the cupolas. “Florence, I don't believe this story about lookouts for the vineyards. In Bordeaux, above the Palais de la Bourse, you see the same cupolas, and as far as I know, there aren't any vineyards around there in danger of b
eing pillaged.”

“Benjamin, in the city those cupolas served another purpose altogether. They were for spotting the arrival of merchant ships, which were so vital to the city's economy. Did you know that in the port's heyday there were as many as two thousand ships trading in front of the rostral columns at the Place d
es Quinconces?”

“Your knowledge impresses
me, Florence.”

“I do enjoy putting the famous
Cooker Guide
author in his place when I have the chance. After all, your expertise is said to be b
eyond compare.”

“I've never claimed to be infall
ible,” Benjamin

answered.

“I should hope not. However, I worry about anyone who believes in ghosts, has no faith in humankind's integrity, and uses artificial sweetener
in his coffee.”

The Blanchard heiress capped this string of reproaches with a warm smile that spoke volumes about th
eir friendship.

Before the winemaker could respond, he spotted Jules and Didier hea
ding their way.

2

V
irgile Lanssien's bachelor pad on the Rue Saint Rémi was one of those small apartments without much character behind old Bordeaux's beautiful eighteenth-century facades. It had a tiny living room with a modest amount of molding, a fireplace with a cracked marble surround, a wood floor, a hallway leading to a cramped bedroom with a window, a bathroom, and a kitchen barely larger than a t
elephone booth.

The best feature of this home was its balcony. The landlord had described it as a “gorgeous little balcony with a view of the Place de la Bourse and the Fountain of the Three Graces.” Actually, it was a merely an opening with a metal barrier in front. From it, Virgile could see a muddy strip of the Garonne River and the plump hips of the muses scu
lpted long ago.

No matter. Virgile was fine with it. The apartment was neither spacious nor comfortable, but it was two steps from the Allées de Tourny and a stone's throw from the laboratory on the Cours du Chapeau Rouge. Good thing, too, because he was late. He was supposed to meet Alexandrine de La Palussière—Cooker and Co.'s lab director. She wanted his help because of his ability to discern TCA, or 2,4,6-trichloroanisole, in wine at about two parts per trillion. Not all tasters could pick up cork taint in such sm
all quantities.

Thank God—anything to get out of going to Château Blanchard. He couldn't stand Didier Morel. His boss loved to compare them, but all Virgile could see was that Didier's shoulders were just that much wider than his, his features a tad more chiseled, his legs stronger, and, worse, everything Virgile did, Didier tried to do better. It had started at wine school. Virgile would propose a project about organic farming and the effect on wine production in Bordeaux, and two weeks later Didier would hand in something on biodynamic grape husbandry in Burgundy. Even at the bar, Didier would hit on the same women. It was annoying—like being trailed by a gnat. And now that bloodsucker was hanging around the lab—where Virgile was supposed to have been fifte
en minutes ago.

Virgile rummaged through the jeans and underwear strewn all over the floor for something clean to wear. Housekeeping wasn't in his wheelhouse. Sometimes he paid his next-door neighbor to tidy the apartment, but she hadn't been there in a while. She was out of town, visiting her sister in Mimizan. The place was even grubbier and more cluttered than usual, a dump where a mother cat wouldn't be able to fi
nd her kittens.

He tripped on an empty wine bottle, catching himself on the coffee table, where he knocked over a box from the Indian
takeout place.

“Dammit.”

After brushing his teeth and splashing on some Gentleman by Givenchy, he headed to the kitchen to brew some coffee. Three days of dirty dishes were piled in the sink. He opened the refrigerator, and a rancid odor hit him in the face. Hi
s phone buzzed.

It w
as Alexandrine.

“Don't get your panties in a bunch, Alex.
I'm on my way.”

There was silen
ce on the line.

“Alex?”

“Is this Mr. Vir
gile Lanssien?”

“Who's this? What are you doing with Alexandrin
e's telephone?”

“This is the emergency room at Saint André Hospital. Ms. de La Palussière is here with us. She asked tha
t we call you.”

3

“B
enjamin! It's good to see you. How's that beautiful wife of yours?
” Jules asked.

“Elisabeth's positively giddy. My publisher is whisking us away to Hunga
ry via Vienna.”

“Lucky dog. Good thing you could come to see us before you go tasting the king of wines and the
wine of kings.”

“Yes, that is the reputation of the Tokay wines—ever since the Prince of Transylvania gave a bottle to King Louis XIV, and the king called it
vinum regum, rex vinorum
. I admit I'm looking
forward to it.”

“Tokay or Tokaji, Mr. Cooker?
” Didier asked.

“Good point, young man. Tokay refers to wines from the Tokaj region in Hungary, although for centuries that name had been used for other wines: neighboring Slovakian wines, a pinot gris in Alsace, an Italian grape variety, and even an Australian sweet. Then in 2007, the Eastern European wine region won the right to be the only ones to use that name, no matter how you spell it. The ‘i' at the end of Tokaji means “from” Tokaj, where they make more wines than just the sweet nectar we commonly refer to as Tokay. So, you are right.
Tokaji it is.”

Didier flashed a grin and ran his hand over a head of curls. Then he added, “
How's Margaux?”

“My daughter isn't budging from New York,” Benjamin said. It came out sharper than h
e had intended.

“So you're still keeping her away from the locals like Didier here?” Jules sa
id with a wink.

“Going by the scratches on his forearm, I'd say that's a good thing,” Benjamin said, pursing his lips. As much as he liked the boy, neither he nor Virgile were suitable matches for his beloved daughter. They were still busy pla
ying the field.

Didier looked down, then shrugged. “Rough mat
ch last night.”

Florence cleared her throat. “Why don't we start? Wh
ere's Virgile?”

“He won't be joining us,” Benjamin said. “A cork-
taint problem.”

“Too bad,” Didier said. Benjamin couldn't tell by his tone if he was disappoint
ed or relieved.

The three men and Florence walked over the grounds to the wine cellar. Benjamin welcomed its coolness. He put on his glasses and took o
ut his notepad.

On a pedestal table covered with an oilcloth, several bottles awaited the verdict of this jury of tasters, just as several other bottles had awaited them the previous year, when, after a gloomy spring and a hot, dry summer, the grapes had been harvested under a copper sun, yielding a perfectly balanced wine bless
ed by the gods.

What would this tasting bring? Benjamin was eager to find out. His conclusions would make their way into his updated
Cooker Guide
.
The guide, five hundred pages long, had become the definitive wine bible, as well as a bestseller, to the great satisfaction of Claude Nithard,
his publisher.

Florence filled the wineglasses without spilling a drop. Benjamin plunged his nose into his glass, sniffed, and scribbled in his notebook. He sipped. Silence. Just as he was about to say something, his cell phone vibrated. He frowned and pulled the phone out of his pocket. It was Virgile. “Bad news,” the screen read. “Serious!
Call me, ASAP.”

“Please excuse me,” he muttered as he put his glass down and took leave of the Blanchards. He tapped callback and put the ph
one to his ear.

“Yes, Virgile. More troubl
es at the lab?”

“No, boss, worse. You've got to come. Someone attacked Alexandrine. She's in bad shape. Her face is a mess. I'm with her in the emergency room at
Saint André's.”

“I'll be there as soon as I can. Who would do such a thing? To Alexandrine,
of all people.”

“I don't know, boss. She hasn't told me anything, and I haven'
t pressed her.”

Benjamin ended the call. Hurrying back to the Blanchards, he asked that sample bottles be prepared for
him right away.

“There's something I must tend to, and I need to leave. It's an emergency. I'm terribly sorry. I'll share my tasting notes with you lat
er. I promise.”

“Nothing serious, I hope,”
Florence said.

The winemaker mopped his forehead with his linen handkerchief and collected himself. He didn't want to look as frazz
led as he felt.

“I'll know better when I get back to Bordeaux. Thank you. I'l
l be in touch.”

Benjamin hurried to his Mercedes convertible and sped away. Fortunately, traffic was light. Saint André Hospital, founded in the fourteenth century, was in the center of town. The buildings, situated around a garden, had managed to retain a certain his
torical cachet.

Benjamin rushed into the emergency room, and a nurse pointed him to the cubby where Alexandrine was being treated. When he got there, another nurse was helping her int
o a wheelchair.

“Mr. Cooker,” Alexandrine said. Her words were muffled, as she could barely move her swollen lips. Her face was puffy and bruised, her
eyes fleeting.

“Don't speak, child. The doctors will take good care of you.” The nurse wheeled her away, down the bright
ly lit hallway.

“Did you see that? Her nose is probably broken, and the bone above her eye looks smashed. Whoever did this had it in for her,
” Virgile said.

“Has she told you
anything yet?”

“No. She just wanted me to tell you not to worry and to go ahead and take that trip to Budapest, as you and Mrs. Cooke
r had planned.”

“I
can't do that.”

“Listen, boss, it's not every day that your publisher pays for a cruise on the Danube. ‘The Blue Da
nube' and all.”

“That, son, would be ‘On the Beautiful Blue Danube' or, in the original German, ‘An der schönen
blauen Donau.'”

“Whatever. I know for a fact that Mrs. Cooker is packed and waiting. Go. Live it up. I'll make sure Alexandrine is okay, and I'll cover the wo
rk at the lab.”

Benjamin wouldn't leave. They sat in silence for a good hour, but Alexandrine had not
yet reappeared.

“Boss, getting her X-rayed will probably take forever, and who knows what they'll need to do after that. You should go. You've got some papers to sign at the office and
bags to pack.”

“I feel terrible about
this, Virgile.”

“No worries, boss,” Virgile said, mustering a smile
. “I got this.”

“You'll have your work cut out for you while I'm gone. Keep me posted o
n Alexandrine.”

Benjamin left the emergency room more slowly than he had come in. He said a silent prayer for Alexandrine's recovery and got back in his car to drive to the Cooker & Co. office. If he couldn't be in Bordeaux over the next couple of weeks, at least he could make things a little easier for
his assistant.