Tainted Tokay (5 page)

11

A
great crested grebe dived from the sky and vanished in the Danube waters. Just as quickly, it resurfaced with a small fish in its beak. Benjamin and Claude, who couldn't summon the concentration to focus on the manuscript he was reading, silently watched the predator's attack—that is, when he wasn't staring at the predators interest
ed in Consuela.

Consuela, stretched out on a white canvas deck chair, her eyes half-closed, was offering her body to the Hungarian sun. With a delicate maneuver and a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she carefully lowered the straps of her jersey dress and gently pulled the skirt above her knees. It looked like she had done it not for Claude, but for the crewmembers in white shirts who kept trying to attract her attention with whistles and comments Benjamin could
n't understand.

Elisabeth, who had slathered on the sunscreen and found a chair under an umbrella, was dressed modestly in a loose top, capri pants, and espadrilles. She looked lovingly at Benjamin, who, like Claude, was struggling
to read a book.

“Benjamin, walk with me,” she said, setting down her cr
ossword puzzle.

Benjamin got up and tossed the paperback on
the deck chair.

Elisabeth took his arm. “What were you t
rying to read?”

“It's a gift from Claude, although who knows why he gave it to me. It's a forensic science thriller with cadavers turning up in every nook and cranny of the Paris Natural History Museum. The plot is convoluted and saturated with anatomical details. It's truly not
to my liking.”

“Perhaps he'd like you to write a thriller next, after
the cookbook.”

“Ha. Give me a classic any day, or some underappreciated gem written by a
gifted writer.”

“I've caught you reading nonf
iction before.”

“Hi
story, mostly.”

“Darling, I suspect that it's your distracted mind, not the book, that's
at fault here.”

Elisabeth knew him too well. The vacation, the taste of freedom as he headed toward the Black Sea, the soothing landscape unfolding before his eyes—none of this could wrest him fro
m his thoughts.

They stopped behind the bearded artist, who was sketching the boat's crew. After a few minutes,
they walked on.

“You're still back in Bordeaux, picturing yourself in the vines and consumed with
the blendings.”

“You're right, my dear. I'm worried about Alexandrine. Who would do that to her? And what really happened? She knows more than
she's saying.”

“Why don't you
just ask her?”

“It wouldn't be right. I'm her employer, and there's a fine line I ha
ve to respect.”

“She's in good hands with Virgile. He'll charm the information out of her—whe
n she's ready.”

“That boy has too much charm, if you ask me. I'm glad he's spending time with Alexandrine, but I'm worried about the lab. Virgile needs to be there too. The tests are piling up. This is the worst possible time to b
e on vacation.”

“Stop kicking yourself. Virgile is handling everything—and quite capably, I'm sure. Meanwhile, remember that you are supposed to be an easy-going disciple of Epicurus who forgets his worries. The sky is blue, the glass is full, and the pleasures of the flesh close at hand, so unless you're suggesting my company isn't excellent, drop
the glum face.”

Benjamin felt the tension drain out of him as he watched the graceful gesture she used to move the hair out of her eyes. There was something of a younger Charlotte Rampling about Elisabeth. Her blue eyes, even without makeup, were piercing and alluring. He admired the nonchalant and discreet way she had taken it upon herself to make him feel better. Sh
e was his rock.

“You and Claude make quite a couple. We're floating past all this peaceful Hungarian landscape, and he's got his very affectionate Consuela to keep him warm at night, yet he's d
istracted too.”

They both looked over at Claude. A dark cloud seemed to hang over his face. Then he smiled at them and ran his fingers through his silver hair as if to hide his un
spoken sadness.

“You know that his divorce from Pilar was long and painful. I don't think he feels capable of
happiness yet.”

Benjamin and Elisabeth both swung around at the sound of an argument. With lightning reflexes, the artist was grabbing his sketchpad back from a teenager who seemed intent on stealing it. The artist was yelling and waving his fist as the kid ran off before anyone got a go
od look at him.

12

W
hen Virgile showed up at Cooker & Co., he found Jacqueline, the office manager, laughing and Didier Morel half sitting on her desk, his hands clasped and a perfect smi
le on his face.

Virgile shot Jacqueline a questioning look, and then, feeling harried and annoyed, he peered around the office, with its Second Empire feel and jumble of modern devices. His eyes landed on his own desk. He was about to ask if any reports from the lab had come in when Didier strode over to s
hake his hand.

“Virgile, my friend! It's good to see you. We missed you at the Blanchard tasting. I was glad to see B
enjamin again.”

“Didier has come in to help us,” Jacqueline said. “Mr. Cooker called to tell me
this morning.”

Now Virgile was really irritated. He had already charged Emmanuel Ladevèze, a lab assistant whom Alexandrine had recruited the previous year, with overseeing the analyses at the Rue Chapeau Ro
uge laboratory.

“I heard what happened to Alexandrine,” Didier said. “
It's terrible.”

Virgile hated how Didier used first names so casually. He'd seen Alexandrine talking with him on several occasions at the lab—and even arguing, now that he thought abou
t it—but still.

“Yes, Ms. de la Palussière will be away for a while, but we've got the lab
under control.”

Now Jacqueline was looking at Virgile over the top of her glasses, as if she wondered whether he truly understood how fortunate they were to have Didier's help. He sighed. He didn't want to be anywhere near Didier, but this was what t
he boss wanted.

“It's true, with the mildew attacks throughout the southwest, we've got a lot on our plates,” Virgile finally said. “We'll have to get out to each grower and adjust t
he treatments.”

“No sweat. I'm happy to help. We'll need to verify the extent of the damage, the stage of vine growth, and the temperatu
re variations.”

“Of course,” Virgile said. He knew all that. Didier was being so patronizing. Virgile would have to keep two steps ahead of him to hold this man in check. Some
help this was!

13

U
nable to sleep that night, Benjamin got up, threw on his sweater, and went up to the deck with thoughts of lighting a cigar. The boat was docked in Bratislava, and the city lights obscured any view of the night sky. Still, the air was refreshingly cool, and Benjamin allowed himself to be lulled by the gentle swayi
ng of the ship.

Leaning against the railing, two crewmembers, apparently just off duty, were smoking cigarettes and making jokes. Were they drunk? Benjamin gave them a polite smile and quietly headed toward the prow, where he spotted Claude's silhouette and approached without
saying a word.

“You couldn't sleep either?” Claude said without
turning around.

Benjamin took a Montecristo from his cigar case and offered one to Claude. His fr
iend demurred.

“Not toni
ght, Benjamin.”

“You're right. It's hard to smoke when you've got a lump in your throat,” the
winemaker said.

Claude didn't respond. The crewmembers' laughter was getting louder, but he didn't s
eem to notice.

“Consuela?” Benjamin
finally asked.

“Yes, I know what you're going to say. She's much too young for me.” Claude turned toward his friend. “She's a terrific lo
ver, you know.”

“I wouldn't doubt that for a minute,” Benjamin said, puffing his cigar
to keep it lit.

“I know she'll leave me one day. Maybe it would be better to leave her before she en
ds it with me.”

“Carpe diem, Claud
e. Carpe diem.”

Claude smiled and patted B
enjamin's back.

“I'm glad you came, Benjamin. You really are
a good friend.”

The two men spoke awhile and then went to join the lively crewmembers, who, as it turned out, we
re Hungarians.

The older one—Viktor—held up the keys to the bar and lifted an invisible bottle to his mouth with a grin that revealed a missing lower tooth. Benjamin and Claude shrugged and accepted
the invitation.

Viktor tossed the keys to the younger man, Attila, who went off to fetch some beers, which the four men downed under the stars. Attila suggested that they take in a few of the shady bars in Budapest, where the girls weren't shy, as long as the customer had
a fat wallet.

Benjamin declined, but Claude didn't say anything. Viktor, the more resourceful of the two freshwater swabs, scribbled his cell phone number on a scra
p of newspaper.

“Let me know if you're looking for a good time,” Viktor seemed to be saying, handing the phone number to Claude. The tipsy crewmember then made a show of licking his middle finger, running it under his half-unbuttoned shirt, and rubbing his nipple like a performer i
n a peep show.

Benjamin was repelled. He flicked his spent cigar into the black waters
of the Danube.

The Hungarians said “
joestét
.” Benjamin and Claude said “good ni
ght” in return.

Claude waited until they were out of sight before crumpling the slip of paper and tossing it into the river. The two Frenchmen staggered back t
o their cabins.

14

I
t was almost noon when the Hungarian capital rose above the calm waters of the Danube. Benjamin hardly recognized the city. His last visit to Hungary had been decades earlier, when he had come with a group of Aquitaine investors who wanted to buy forty hectares in the Tokaj wine region. Communist rule had just ended, and state-owned farms were being privatized. Benjamin and his clients had flown in, and the winemaker still remembered the acrid yellow smoke hovering over Budapest. At the time, Csepel Island was a forest of fa
ctory chimneys.

On the ship's deck, all eyes were on Gellért Hill. On the left bank, Pest languidly revealed itself. It was the threshold of the fertile Hungarian plains. On the opposite bank, stately old buildings lined the steep hills of Buda. The rococo-style homes, painted yellow and ocher, seemed to be basking i
n the sunlight.

Benjamin had just talked to Virgile, who was grumbling about his executive decision to bring i
n Didier Morel.

“How's Alexandrine?” E
lisabeth asked.

“Virgile says she's still in the hospital. He goes every day and says the nurses think the
y're a couple.”

“Are they? I thought he was
still sweet on

Margaux.”

Benjamin stiffened a
nd looked away.

Consuela joined them and began sharing information gleaned from
the guidebooks.

Cigar in hand, Benjamin wandered off and found Claude, who was taking in the spires, belfries, rounded roofs, and onion domes. At times like this, Benjamin regretted giving up art. He would have enjoyed rendering the scenery. But his days as a student artist were long gone, and he had chosen an altogether different journey. He looked at his friend, relit his cigar, and silently watched the lan
dscape pass by.

When the landing came into view, the passengers started moving about. His moleskin sketchbook in hand, the bearded Scotsman—or Englishman—was still busy drawing the contours of Buda and seemed indifferent to the activity all around him. The crewmembers had donned their caps. Their smiles were sincere, and their bright eyes augured a promising stay. Benjamin recognized Viktor. He gave him a firm handshake, as did Claude. Consuela flashed the Hungarian a killer smile before walking do
wn the gangway.

On the dock, in a uniform a bit too large for him, a young man was brandishing a sign that read “Astoria Hotel.” Consuela quickl
y waved to him.

The chauffeur merely nodded and took their bags with no hint of subservience. He invited Benjamin to take a seat in the front with him but didn't b
other to smile.

The Astoria was the legendary palace of Budapest. In its salon, the country's first democratic government was formed in 1918, after the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. A century later, nothing seemed to have changed, other than the computer screens at the reception desk. The spirit of the early twentieth century still reigned, with its exquisite elegance, stucco, copper, and mah
ogany woodwork.

“I would have preferred the Danubius Hotel Gellért
,” Claude said.

“It is an art nouveau jewel, isn't it,” Benjamin answered. “I stayed there the last tim
e I was here.”

“Unfortunately, it was
fully booked.”

In the backseat, Consuela turned to Claude. “How are we ever going to s
ee everything?”

“We'll have time enough,” Claude countered. “We can take in the Erdody Palace, the royal Buda Castle, the Church of Saint Anne, and maybe Grassalkovich Pala
ce in one day.”

But he failed to satisfy his lover. “Claude, it's impossible to do everything you said. I want to visit the baths. And Mrs. Cooke
r, too. Right?”

Claude leaned forward and tapped Benjamin's shoulder. “We'll do whatever you ladies wish, won't
we, Benjamin?”

The winemaker mumbled a “yes,” and then clearly said, “On
one condition.”

“What is that?” a
sked Elisabeth.

“I'm hungry. I'm starving, in fact. I'd like some paprika chicken
with
galuskas
.”

“With
what
?” Cons
uela jumped in.

Benjamin responded. “
Galuskas
: little pastas they make here, a sort of gnocchi,
Miss Chavez.”

“No need for such formality. You can cal
l me Consuela.”

“If you wish,” the winemaker said. Actually, he didn't want to call her by her first name. She was such a flirt, he needed to keep her a
t arm's length.

The cab pulled up to the hotel, and Benjamin was relieved to end the conversation. He quickly got out and waited for the driver to remove the bags from the trunk. But before he could hand the driver a tip, the man pulled out a notepad and jotted
something down.

“For you, pretty lady, if you need anything,” the driver said, handing the paper to Consuela, who smiled and giggled, moving cl
oser to Claude.

The menu at the Astoria restaurant offered paprika chicken, naturally, but without
galuskas
, the little dumplings Benjamin was pining for. He bit his tongue and didn't complain. Elisabeth and Consuela opted for
pörkölt
, a spicy stew that disappointed Elisabeth after a few mouthfuls. Consuela took just a couple forkfuls, as was her habit. Claude, as it happened, was just as famished as Benjamin and ordered duck breast stuffed with cheese. A cool riesling accompan
ied the feast.

Consuela didn't eat much, but she wasn't holding back on her drinking. After a few glasses she was hanging on Claude's shoulder and describing the sensuality of the
abrezo
, the embrace in tango dancing, and the
engache
, when a dancer wrapped her leg around her partner's. Consuela, it turned out, was a professiona
l tango dancer.

“I have the blood
del pueblo argentino
flowing in my veins. I've danced the floors in Latin America, New York,
and Montreal.”

She went into a long discourse on the subtleties of the
cabeceo
, the technique of selecting dance partners from a distance, using eye contact and
head movement.

“How did you meet?” Elisabeth asked, including Claude in
the question.

“We met in Toulouse, the birthplace of the great Argentine singer Carlos Gardel,”
Consuela said.

“That's interesting. Your accent when you speak French almost sounds like you're from Toulouse or maybe from the Riviera,” E
lisabeth said.

Benjamin took note. His wife was sounding nonchalant, but she
was suspicious.

“Claude, I've never known
you to dance,”

Benjamin said.

“I don't. I was in town visiting an old friend, an author who had been drafted to judge a huge dance competition. It wasn't his thing, so he talked the organizing committee into giving me his place. He sold me as a bigwig in the publishing world, and they were all too happy to let me judge. My friend thought I m
ight enjoy it.”

“I guess you got to kiss the winner,”
Benjamin said.

“We were both staying at the Grand Hotel de l'Opéra on the Place du Capitole,” Consuela said. “And soon we were in
the same room!”

Benjamin gla
nced at Claude.

“Claude is so irresistible! An
d so cultured…”

Claude was quiet now. He listened as Consuela related their story: their night of lovemaking, their inability to be apart afterward, and the fact that Claude s
poke Castilian.

Benjamin knew that Claude would never say anything about the previous love of his life. He was a gentleman, after all. But the winemaker was aware of one other important woman in Claude's life. Her name was Pilar, and Claude had met her in Seville, when he was a student backpacking across the Iberian Peninsula. It was there that he had learned to roll his tongue to the beat of the jota folkdance and how to kiss with the finesse of a matador. Pilar lived near the bullring in old Seville. She was a brunette and dark-skinned, and her eyes were the color of green water—li
ke Consuela's.

By the time they finished their meal, there was no further talk of the cultural program that Claude had masterminded. In the magnificent Palace of Arts, with its Greek design, friezes, and caryatids, there was a painting exhibition, but neither Benjamin nor Elisabeth had any desire to run through the picture galleries with the
other couple.