Tainted Tokay (8 page)

19

“S
o, boss, h
ow's it going?”

“Not exactly
la dolce
vita
, I fear.”

The winemaker told Virgile that Claude's problems had sapped much of the joy from their trip. First, he had chosen to come with a vixen. Then he had been robbed. Claude had filed a complaint with the police and had contacted a higher-up at the French embassy, thanks to Benjamin
's connections.

“His lady friend is furious that he had to cancel his credit cards. That limits her spending—at least until he gets replacements. And to think, we have yet to taste a d
rop of Tokaji.”

“How'
s Mrs. Cooker?”

“She sends you her best and keeps telling me that I'm unbelievably fortunate to have such an intelligent and efficient assistant. I'm inclined to agree with her. You might even see that reflected in your next paycheck. So, what about
Alexandrine?”

“She'll be out of the hospital tomorrow. But I don't think she'll be ab
le to go home.”

“What?”

“She told me she was afraid. Her voice was shaking, and she was almost crying. She thought the person would be wa
iting for her.”

“I don't understand. If it was a random mugger at the parking garage near the office, she has nothing to
fear at home.”

“Exactly. Yesterday I was chatting with a nurse at
the hospital—”

“Spare me the details of your conqu
ests, Virgile.”

“It wasn't like that, boss. We were just having a coffee during her break. I was waiting for Alexandrine to wake up from a nap. Anyway, the nurse works at the hospital's center for victims of violence. I rather led her to believe that Alexandrine was family, and she suggested that her behavior seemed more like that of long-term abuse than a s
imple mugging.”

“So you mean her girlfriend cou
ld be abusive?”

“I don't know, but the story hasn't added up from the beginning. I'm pretty sure she was attacke
d at her home.”

“So what is sh
e going to do?”

“Well, um, I invited her to stay at my plac
e for a night.”

“Virgile!”

“What, boss?”

“Well, please reassure me that you have no girlfrie
nds there now.”

“Of course I don't. Boss, she feels safe with me. It's the l
east I can do.”

“No funny business, d
o you hear me?”

“Boss! First you want me to take care of her, then you don't. Have a littl
e faith in me.”

“Your reputation does precede you. Keep me posted, in any case. Tomorrow we'll be leaving the Danube and trave
ling by train.”

20

T
he Budapest Keleti train station was a door to the Orient. Under its canopy, the Orient Express and the Bartók Béla set out to conquer the large plains of the Great East. Claude had told Benjamin that taking the train to the Tokaj region would be more enjoyable than renting a car. Once they arrived, they would see wh
ere they stood.

Though not quite smiling, Claude didn't seem unhappy to be leaving Budapest. Consuela, who had been furious with her lover the previous day, was lavishing him with affection. Elisabeth, meanwhile, couldn't hide her delight in taking the train, which, in a single night, could reduce Europe to a mere
jigsaw puzzle.

Elisabeth had always preferred taking the train to flying. She still had fond memories of the Transcantábrico in Spain, the Blaue Wagen in Germany, the Golden Mountain and the Rheingold in Switzerland, the BB Blue in Austria, and, of course, the princely Royal Scotsman in Great Britain, which was Benjamin's favorite. Actually, even in luxury trains, comfort was rarely at the level one read about in novels, but the staff was always assiduous, the cutlery spotless, the napkins well ironed, and the wine
list extensive.

It was an opportunity to watch the scenery parade by: deep valleys, armies of holm oak trees, steep and eternally snow-covered peaks, endless green pastures, churches with bell towers, and houses perched on the riverbanks. Elisabeth loved all of it, and Be
njamin did too.

Zoltán was with them, even though Benjamin and Claude had their doubts. The theft of Claude's things had shaken their confidence. But Consuela had suggested it, and Elisabeth had remained a loyal supporter of the
ir tour guide.

“That young man was sent to us from heaven!” she had argued. “Claude could have been robbed anywhere in Europe. It didn't have anything to do with Zoltán. Let's stop being suspicious. We could
use his help.”

The five of them were in the same compartment. Consuela and Elisabeth were taking in the scenery. Claude was reading his manuscript again, although he still wasn't engrossed. Benjamin was directly across from Zoltán, silently staring at him. Zoltán was sitting straight and holding the winemaker's gaze. The winemaker had paid the guide's train ticket, and, in exchange, Zoltán had spontaneously tended to the baggage and gotten cold drinks for his clients. Consuela may have suggested the guide come along, but she had objected to givin
g him her bags.

“
¡Gato escaldado del agua fria re
huye
,” Consuela

had whispered.

“We're hardly scalded cats getting dunked in cold water,” Elisabeth had responded in a tone that surpris
ed her husband.

“I believe the translation for that is ‘once bitten, twice shy,'” Claude said, taki
ng his own bag.

Hungary was now unveiling its monotonous agrarian landscape. The train rolled past patches of corn, geometric orchards, sparsely populated villages, teams of animals, and scattered pieces of
farm equipment.

At certain moments, Claude seemed worried. He'd clutch the manuscript he was marking up with a red felt pen and look
out the window.

“I'm surprised you still work on paper,” Benjamin said, trying to get his friend's mind off his concerns. “Don't you all work on compute
rs these days?”

“Yes, we do,” Claude answered. “But old habits die hard, and every once in a while I like to do it this way. You should appreciate that, Benjamin. You pre
fer paper too.”

The air conditioning wasn't working properly, and Benjamin loosened his collar. He had to admit it—the train, named for the famous Hungarian composer, wasn't as luxurious as
he had hoped.

A few minutes later, the Bartók Béla slowed, and the conductor announced the Szerencs station. When it came to a stop, several people boarded, including two old women in scarves who were carrying shopping bags overflowing with vegetables. They peeked into the compartment to see if there was room. Zoltán intervened, telling them firmly that it was full. The old ladies muttered a
nd walked off.

The train resumed its easterly course, and soon the landscape changed. The boring fields gave way to a valley planted with wide rows of vines. Tokaj could n
ot be far away.

The train marched by a handful of villages clumped around churches. Benjamin thought he recognized the Disznókó estate and beyond it, the grands crus Deák, Szarvas, and Hétszóló leading to the verdant skirts of Tokaj, with its magical
volcanic soil.

The winemaker glanced at Zoltán. He seemed to be regarding this familiar horizon with a feeling of belonging but also reserve. The guide pointed out the other villages, the roads leading to the whitewashed wine warehouses, and the various properties. Benjamin was already familiar with the region's rivers: the Bodrog and the Tisza, which, like the Ciron tributary of the Garonne in Sauternes country, created a perfect environment for the
botrytis cinerea
fungus responsible for the noble rot on grapes when the conditions were right, resulting in some of the world's finest
dessert wines.

When they came out of the small train station, Zoltán fiercely negotiated the taxi fare to the inn and from there to the top of Mount Tokaj. Scowling, the driver crammed the luggage into the back of the station wagon. Fortunately, the inn was on the way to Bodrogkeresztúr, only two or three kilometers from the
train station.

The inn was actually a yellow house with seven bedrooms. There was no real décor, just the embroidered curtains on the tiny windows. But the place exuded cleanliness and hospitality. Benjamin thought the accommodations would be
perfectly fine.

Consuela wanted to rest in her room. Claude was tempted to stay with her, but exploring the countryside was an itch he needed to scratch. The Cookers, meanwhile, were eager to get to the vineyards. Didn't their guide want to introduce them to his cousins Pa
vel and Vilmos?

The taxi driver was waiting outside the inn. He and Zoltán were joking now, looking thick as thieves. Benjamin regretted not seeing right through the boy's act at the train station. Zoltán and the driver were bent on taking them for a ride. But the winemaker wasn't having it. He was nobody's fool, and this driver, Gábor, wouldn't get one more for
int out of him.

When they reached their destination, Benjamin and Claude contemplated the panorama from the slope of Mount Tokaj. Zoltán stayed at Elisabeth's side, pointing out the Zemplén Mountains, which were covered with oak trees used to make the barrels. Looming in the distance were the Carpat
hian Mountains.

“Dracula Castle,” Zoltán said. He grinned, and with alarming familiarity, he leaned in and feigned a desire to bite Elisabeth's neck. Benjamin, who had turned around to join her, almost rushed ove
r to intervene.

“Our guide has quite a sense of humor,” Elisabeth said when h
e reached her.

Zoltán continued his commentary with charm and spontaneity. He indicated the contours of the Bodrogzug wildlife protection area and pointed to some large birds circl
ing in the air.

“Black storks
here,” he said.

“No, really?” Elisabeth was incredulous. “I've never seen black storks before. Have
you, Benjamin?”

The wine
maker shrugged.

Their guide continued his narrative as if he were the master of this playground of his childhood. He told them about the Bodrog, the unfaithful river that would abandon its course in the springtime and flood the fields. The lowlands would become big muddy lakes covering everything. The region's seasonal wetness and the foggy weather that followed were actually the winegrowers' secret weapons. Combined, they created prime conditions for noble rot. The infected grapes, if picked at just the right moment, produced an especially fine and concentrat
ed sweet wine.

Benjamin almost wished he had made the trip during Indian summer, when winegrowers would dare to predict the harvest. What they needed at that point was a wind from the great plains of Russia to raisinate the grapes—to dry them up like raisins, concentrating the
sugar content.

Here, in northeastern Hungary, the interplay of moisture and sunshine stoked by the winds of the Ural Mountains produced the only grape of its kind in the world, as well as the most expensive. Its name was aszú, mean
ing desiccated.

Benjamin had taken over the commentary. He was on familiar turf now, where Zoltán could
not rival him.

“On the face of this earth I don't know of any wine that has more residual sugar than the Tokaji produced here,” Benjamin said. The great Yquem vintages have 100 to 150 grams per liter, while the sweetest Tokaji—the eszencia—has more than 450 grams per liter. Some exceptional vintages can have as much as 900 gra
ms per liter.”

“That's enough to make my teeth hurt,” Cl
aude responded.

“That's why it's called dessert wine,” Benjamin said. “When the grapes reach maturity, they have a rather low sugar concentration but high acidity. It's not until the end of September, when the grapes reach true overripeness and botrytis, and the raisinating occurs, that the high sugar content is reached. The result i
s liquid gold.”

“I told you, gold wine,” Zo
ltán enthused.

By now the afternoon heat had cleared the haze shrouding the countryside. Both Elisabeth and Claude had taken off the wide-brimmed hats they had brought with them. Zoltán had shed the zippered top of his jogging suit. Benjamin, the traditionalist, however, was still in his corduroy jacket. It wasn't the heat that was bothering him. It was his hunger. He wanted to return to the hotel and get so
mething to eat.

But before the winemaker could usher his companions back to the cab, his cell phone vibrated. He didn't recogn
ize the number.

“Mr. Cooker?”

“Speaking.”

“This is the office of the French ambassad
or to Hungary.”

The winemaker recognized the voice of the man who had been so affable the previous day, when he had helped Claude handle hi
s difficulties.

“Please hold for t
he ambassador.”

In less than a minute he heard
another voice.

“Mr. Cooker, I'm delighted to speak with you. I love the
Cooker Guide
. It's my Bible. How is your visit going? Better than yest
erday, I hope.”

“I'm o
n Mount Tokaj.”

“Hungary's Mount Athos, except the monasteries here are underground in a vast system of cellars carved out of solid rock between 1400 and 1600, and the holy wine, I believe, is the most expensive in the world—and the oldest botrytized
wine there is.”

“To be honest, Mr. Ambassador, I've yet to take co
mmunion today.”

The French ambassador laughed and then fell silent. “There's some news concerning your friend, or at least concerning
his passport.”

“Yes?
Please go on.”

“Mr. Nithard's passport was recovered by Hungarian police during an unrelated arrest in Budapest yesterday. It was in the possession of a Syrian national. We don't know exactly what he intended to do with it, but we suspect that he planned to doctor
the document.”

“For what purposes, M
r. Ambassador?”

“We think he was going to sell it on the black market. Considering everything that's going on now, a French passport can fetch a lot of money. The police are questioning the man, and we might have more information later. Meanwhile, Mr. Nithard should be able to continue traveling safely on the emergency passport we issued yesterday. I wish you all the best, Mr. Cooker. And if you come through Budapest on your way home, I'd be delighted to have a glass of wine with our country's leading w
ine authority.”

“It would be a pleasure, sir.” Benjamin
ended the call.

“Why are you staring at me?
” Claude asked.

“Claude, you promised me a delightful cruise along the Danube and a leisurely stroll through the vines. But you never told me there'd be so
much intrigue.”

Claude broke into a grin. “Benjamin, you're a fine one to talk a
bout intrigue.”