Terroir

Title Page
Dedication
Quotes
Terroir
Leverets
The Shoemakers of Nakasero
A Glass of Water
In Theory, Theories Exist
Pianoforte
Angie
Bulrushes
Jenny Brown's Point
Solomon
Where Stories Go
The Glover
Cherry Tree
The Dig
Fire Fox
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright

Terroir

Graham Mort

for Maggie

‘We are our own dark horses'

Laurens van der Post,
Venture to the Interior

‘Terroir can be very loosely translated as “a sense of place”, which is embodied in certain characteristic qualities, the sum of the effects that the local environment has had on the production of the product.'

Wikipedia, 2014

‘In spite of the arguments, I remained firmly convinced that consciousness was not reducible to science, namely that there would always be something – the terroir of the individual – that defied science to explain.'

Sophieb,
Brooklynguy's Wine and Food Blog

‘Laissez le vin de se faire.'

(Let the wine make itself.)

Old French saying

TERROIR

André turned from the road, dropping the bike into a lower gear, twisting the throttle, taking the sloping track gently. Through the wrought
-
iron gates, past the closely planted vines to the white house with green shutters and pantile roof. His breath misted the visor as the bike slowed, gravel popping from its tyres. Something felt right about this: the way the vines fell away from the house, the spire of the church beyond, gun
-
smoke clouds, the metal roof of the winery glinting. He'd arrived: André Arnault.
Enologist
. That sounded good. Fresh leaves shone on the vines. They were young, grafted onto American root stock. The yellow flowers of hawkbit and the white trumpets of convolvulus showed where the weeds were moving in. It would all need work, and quickly.

A black Mercedes saloon was parked on the forecourt, beside it a battered bicycle and a dusty Peugeot van with a dented wing. André switched off the engine, resting the bike on its side stand. It was a BMW twin: sixteen valves, air
-
cooled and fast as a snake. He could feel the heat coming off the cylinders against his legs. He hung his helmet from one handlebar and draped his leather jacket over the saddle. Since his last visit someone had put up curtains in the plain two
-
storey house and there were new padlocks on the winery doors. An old man in overalls was brushing out the garage, pulling his head back from the dust. He paused to watch André dismount.

Lower down the valley he'd passed a scarecrow dressed as Osama bin Laden. The locals must have a sense of humour. The old man put a finger to his nose and blew out a stream of snot before wiping his fingers on his trousers. Maybe not. André gave him a curt nod as he passed.

–
Monsieur.

Raising a hand from his brush, the old man nodded back and muttered something towards the bike. He reminded André of his grandfather, knotted to the land like thorn roots, a real
paysan.

The door opened before André could ring the bell. Gaspard dressed like an American: Nikes, a blue polo shirt pulled tight over his gut and low
-
slung Levis. He was a head shorter than André with flat ginger curls and moist blue eyes. He held out a damp hand, small in André's grip. His arms were hairless, his eyelashes pale. He wore a gold watch with a chunky metal bracelet.

– André! You're on time. Cool! Come in.
Ça va
?

–
Ça va,
Gaspard. Good to see you.

He'd insisted on first names. Now he walked ahead of André, slightly bow
-
legged; a walk that made up for his lack of height with its swagger
. Like a dog with two cocks
, his father would say. The house had been tastefully furnished with plain modern cabinets and armchairs. The only gesture to tradition were the lace hangings in the windows. The house was new by local standards and stood in just over thirty hectares of vines, west of the village with its square
-
set church and tidy houses with gabled windows. All built from clean honey
-
coloured stone. Typical Bordeaux country.

A slim black
-
haired woman appeared behind Gaspard carrying a folded newspaper. Maybe ten years younger, thirty
-
ish, dressed in a dark pencil skirt and cream blouse.

– Ah, Ghislaine. Meet André, my – our –
enologist
.

Gaspard smiled as he said the word, rolling it around his mouth as if tasting wine before spitting. He said it the way André thought of it, with relish. As if he'd been taught a certain pronunciation. As if he'd learned to savour things he had no right to. His wife had a firm nose, small ears set close to her head, strong dark eyebrows that gave her face a slightly severe look. Green eyes, like slate under water. She didn't smile. Her hand was cool. André noticed a single silver bangle on her wrist above a square silver watch. Matching. Tastefully understated. Expensive, of course.

–
Enchanté!

He thought he noticed a glimmer of amusement at the formal greeting. Maybe she thought him old
-
fashioned. Maybe he was trying too hard. Her husband was scratching his chest under the polo shirt. He had white scars on the underside of both arms as if he'd defended himself against a blade. It was weird how someone as meaty as Gaspard Hubert could have such a delicate wife. Gaspard turned to her now.

– Coffee, darling. Do you mind? We have to talk.

She smiled then, a formal grimace. No make
-
up.

– Of course.

Her calves flexed as she walked away. Her voice was smoother than Gaspard's with no trace of a regional accent. As soon as Gaspard had called him – after that first contact from Gaultier – André had him as a Breton. Cider country. What he knew about wine was questionable. What he knew about making money? Well, that was something else.

Place de L'autel was a typical small vineyard on Bordeaux's Right Bank. After generations of the land being split into small parcels, younger wine growers were trying to build up their hectares again. Place de L'autel had been sold to pay inheritance tax. The old wine grower was the last of his line and his kids couldn't wait to part with it. It was tiny by the standards of Bordeaux or Languedoc where André's father managed a cooperative that drew in over a dozen growers. In Burgundy, where they grew wine on a handkerchief, they'd understand. The only way to get land there was to marry it.

Place de L'autel had been bought up by a
garagiste
. One of the new breed with new ideas.
The idea had been to rip out the old vines, re
-
plant, reduce output, increase quality, sell the wine on the stock market before bottling, then sell the land at an inflated price. Only in Bordeaux was that possible, where wine was sold as a future – like tin, or copper or coffee. So far, so good, but the new owner had been in a hurry. More interested in growing money than wine. Without the quality – and without a good wine agent to get him into foreign markets – the enterprise had gone under after two poor harvests. And it wasn't just the harvest that could do for you. The old wine
-
growing families still controlled a lot of Bordeaux. Aristocrats or
nouveaux riches
who'd blended in after a few generations.
War profiteers and grocers,
his father called them. They could freeze out newcomers if they thought they were rocking the boat – and it had been rocking for a good few years now.

Truth was, most of the
garagistes
had made their money doing something else. They could afford to take a long
-
term view, wait for their investment to mature. It was wine, after all, something that was harvested, that lived and breathed, that was aged to perfection. Or close to it. After all, nothing was perfect. Gaspard was a typical entrepreneur. He was getting rid of a chain of small supermarkets in Tours and Limoges. He didn't believe in standing still. Better to shift your money around. Some here, some there, some hidden. He was worth millions. Part of the money was going into a new chain of internet cafés, part of it into wine. The rest into property and … well, who knew what? Somehow, André didn't want to know.

They moved into the living room. When the coffee came, there were brown sugar cubes in a bowl and a homemade almond biscuit on each saucer. André murmured his thanks and again he thought he saw a glimmer in Ghislaine's eyes.

Gaspard was talking about Gaultier, the wine agent who'd tipped him off about Place de L'autel, suggesting that André – only in his third year as an enologist, but one of his best students for years – should be brought in to inspect the property and the vines. Gaultier had been a visiting lecturer when André was studying for his degree. He'd survived Dien Bien Phu as a teenager, walked with a stick and had a lazy eye where a bullet fragment had hit the nerve. Wine had made him successful, charismatic, and he had connections all over the wine
-
growing world, from Chile to California, Bordeaux to the Barossa Valley. So André owed him one. And the
terroir
was promising – well
-
drained, gravelly soil with plenty of limestone on south
-
facing slopes. The last owner had got most things right, planting Merlot vines on the lower slopes, Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Franc a little higher on lighter soil. The winery was well equipped with a new hydraulic press, stainless
-
steel fermenters that were temperature controlled and inspection tables that could be steam cleaned. There was a white
-
tiled laboratory that doubled as an office with refractometers and a computer. The cellars were in a long hangar
-
like building, also temperature controlled. The house and the annexe were eighties build. There was nothing of the chateau here. Everything was modern, built from breeze blocks and cement, but, above all, hygienic.

They sipped the coffee. Gaspard crossed his stubby legs and looked expectant. André's plan was simple: to reduce production, discarding excess fruit; to de
-
leaf, discouraging mould; to harvest and sort as late as possible. All by hand. Then to carry out the second fermentation in new oak barrels. The result, if the harvest was good, would be a new
-
style Bordeaux – rich in berry and cherry flavours, high in alcohol and with a long chocolaty finish. None of that leather and incense taste that the old wines had. The rest would be up to the agent. Gaultier was on first name terms with Robert Parker and a decent score in
The Wine Advocate
would ensure that the whole batch could be sold before bottling. If not in the first year, then maybe in the second or third. But none of that was André's concern. He was here to make wine, that was all, to have the free hand that Gaspard had promised him back in April, slapping him on the knee as they sat in the garden with a beer and looked down at the vines.

– I'm in your hands. I know about marketing and finance…

Gaspard took a pull at the bottle, wiping his lips.

– I love wine like I love women – but it's just as mysterious.

He grinned, showing teeth that were too white, too even. They looked unnatural. Veneered. Expensive.

– But I learn quickly. And what I learn…

He tapped his forehead with the bottle neck.

– …I don't forget.'

André was watching a white van speed along the road towards the village. He knew already what his father would think of Hubert. An
arriviste
. A bullshitter. Get rich quick and then fuck off out of it. He was still talking. Talking about André's future somewhere beyond the veil of heat that made the treeline shimmer.