Vintage (14 page)

Bruno, in short, had his work cut out for him, and he fully expected to return to town with his tail between his legs. Anna had proved that he was little match for a formidable woman.

The sun rose higher and he was beginning to sweat, so he removed his sport coat and folded it over his arm, sitting on a stone wall mopping his brow with a bandanna before climbing farther. He was whistling the prelude to
Carmen
when the buildings came into view. There was nothing to announce the winery save faded, stenciled lettering on the mail drop in the stone fence:
Trevallier
. He entered the gate to find himself in a courtyard with a simple plain barn and buildings, tractors, a forklift and huge steel doors that opened to a vaulted cellar set back into the hillside. There were few contemporary adornments of any sort, and the scene could have materialized out of a photo from the 1940s.

Two field hands worked on a tractor while a handsome if slightly underfed peasant woman rinsed barrels on a concrete pad. She may have been his own age, perhaps a tad older, with the healthy weathering of someone who spends her life mostly out of doors. She wore work clothes and a bandanna tied back around her hair. He figured she must be seasonal help, and he expected to encounter a Polish accent, maybe Moldovan, as he approached her. It was very much like Bruno to fall temporarily in love with the very first woman he saw on any given day (Lisette hadn't been at the desk when he left his hotel that morning), but something about this hired woman appealed to him. Maybe he should skip his attempted interview with Sylvie Trevallier and spend the morning with her instead.

*      *      *

Sylvie rinsed a barrel, purple stain spreading on the concrete pad in front of the cave, when the bearded man came into view. Her first impression, when she viewed him through the rainbow arc in the cloud of mist rising from the stream of her pressure washer, was that of a frumpy salesman, perhaps a new account representative from the tank manufacturer in Beaune or the glassware producer in Chalon-sur-Saône. There was something familiar about him, as if he'd attempted a lame pass at her some years ago when such things still regularly happened to her. He was unshaven, with bloodshot eyes, mussed hair and a rumpled sport coat thrown over his shoulder.
He won't last long in this business,
she thought.

He leaned against the wall and waited for her to finish. Ordinarily she'd be annoyed by this stranger's appraisal of her, but there was something inexplicably charming about the way he whistled and politely pretended not to be watching while still sneaking glances her way. She gritted her teeth and finished the task at hand, then finally paused and straightened up, back aching. She'd been working since before sunrise and she'd lost count of the number of barrels. Each one weighed sixty kilograms and they seemed to get heavier each year.

Across the yard, Claude pulled his head out of the engine of the temperamental Bobard tractor. He was shirtless, his muscled shoulders covered in grease and sweat, and Sylvie had a momentary twinge of lust as he flexed and gripped his wrench, gesturing toward the salesman with his chin and a questioning look in his eyes, asking her if he should chase the fellow off.

Sylvie shook her head. Claude had grown too protective since they'd become lovers, and even though he was half her age he was beginning to act like he owned the place. She was going to
have to end their relationship soon before it grew too complicated. This made her a little sad; Claude was a reliable morning fuck, if a tad unimaginative in bed.

She approached the salesman, drawing off her bandanna and shaking out her hair, and he blushed slightly. She liked that she still had this disarming effect.

As the salesman began to talk, he struck her on two accounts: he was American, although he didn't look like a tourist, and his French was quite good. He held her gaze, though she could tell by the sparkle in his eye that he was struggling mightily to not size her from head to toe, and she allowed herself to be flattered. In the background Claude flexed and craned his neck curiously.

“Excuse me, miss, where might I find Madame Trevallier?”

Sylvie wiped her brow and tipped her head toward the cave. “This way, follow me.”

This wine cave was an actual cave . . . dark, damp and musty . . . not the sort of marbled, tiled or otherwise adorned grotto that one finds so often in the modern Disneyfication of the wine industry. There were mosses and lichens by the door and then a damp, musty darkness farther in, relieved only by dim yellow bulbs that hung in metal cages overhead above the stacks of barrels.

Bruno followed her to a dingy office at the rear of the cave with fluorescent light and rusting metal furniture. She cleared stacks of papers from two folding chairs, taking one for herself and gesturing for him to sit. Recognition dawned on his features. She liked that he was surprised.

“This is my office. I'm Sylvie Trevallier,” she said. She paused and let the realization settle on him.

“Oh, excuse me, Madame Trevallier, I didn't . . .”

She waved him off. “Don't worry. Most people are surprised by the fact that I'm just a farmer who couldn't afford to drink her own wine.”

The man smiled. It was then, as she scanned the row of notebooks, manuals for machinery, press clippings, a few wine compendiums and some crime novels on a shelf above his head, that the flash of recognition she'd felt earlier when she first spotted him came into focus. This was no salesman. This was an older version of the American writer who'd spent a year traipsing about the slopes of Hautes-Côtes de Beaune in the early nineties. The book was one of her favorites, and she'd read it several times over the years. He had talent. Or at least he did when he'd written that book.

“So, Mr. Tannenbaum, how can I help you?” She smiled. He was clearly shocked that she knew his name.

“I'm flattered by your recognition . . .”

“You used to work in the vineyards of Michel Leroux? You're that American writer.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I miss Michel,” she said, rising from the chair and taking the dog-eared copy of his novel from the shelf above his shoulder. She handed it to him and he flipped it over, smiling at the younger version of himself on the back cover. “It's a wonderful book,” she said, folding her arms and leaning on the desk. “But just so you know, I don't speak to journalists or wine critics.”

“I'm not a wine critic, nor much of a journalist. I'm just a writer.”

“All the same, I don't grant interviews.”

“I'm not looking for a byline, just some information.”

“I don't like questions.”

“How about just one? Then I'll leave you alone.”

She pondered this, standing to pace and running her fingers through her hair. She thought about the barrels that needed cleaning. “Okay, one,” she said, finally.

“Is this real?” he asked, proffering a cork from his pocket. She looked at it, sighed deeply, and then took it, rotating it slowly and squinting at it in the fluorescent light. She needed reading glasses, but she'd been avoiding a visit to her optometrist in Beaune.

She opened a drawer in the metal desk and pulled out one to compare. It was a '51, and the lettering matched. “It's one of ours. Or a very good copy. But I'm not an expert.”

“I did check with an expert. He thinks it's real.”

“So?”

“You notice the date?”

She looked again and then raised her eyebrows. She turned on the desk lamp and studied it while he waited.

“Where did you get this?”

“In a locker in Chicago.”

“Then it's a fake.”

“Are you sure?”

“You've had your question,” she said, tying her bandanna back on her head. Bruno stood up and followed her out of the office.

“I know that during the occupation, the Nazis shipped the '43 vintage back to Germany, starting with the best, the Grand Crus, the Premier Crus . . .”

“I'm sure you can read all about that in some book.”

“Your grandfather lived through this. He saw it happen. There must have been stories. Did he ever talk about it?”

“I'm not going to help you hunt treasure.” She walked faster. She was disappointed in him. She had wanted to like him, but like all of the other journalists, he seemed more interested in the family history. The legendary vintages. She just wanted to make
the best wines within her ability and allow them to speak for themselves. Wasn't that enough? Evidently not. The writer was still at her heels.

“The '43 was the best of the war vintages, wasn't it? I studied the weather charts. And many of the other Pommard vintages turned up later at auctions. Some of them undoubtedly recovered from the Nazis. But never a Trevallier . . . Why?”

“Most of the men were away at war. Or in hiding. Or fighting with
la Résistance
. Many vintages weren't even produced, or the women and children brought in the harvest. Anyway, this is a private family matter,” she said, emerging from the cave and squinting at the light, frustrated with herself for talking too much.

“What I'm wondering . . .” Bruno said, but then he was stopped short as Claude suddenly appeared and applied a strong hand to the man's shoulder, pulling him away from Sylvie. Then Sylvie turned around and walked up to the American, placing her finger in his chest.

“Let me ask you a question,” she said, waving Claude away. He reluctantly sulked back to his tractor.

“Okay, shoot.”

“How much would a bottle of my grandfather's '43 fetch at an auction?”

“A lot.”

“How much is a lot?”

“Ten thousand. Maybe more, if it were authenticated.”

Sylvie smiled dryly and turned to scan the vine-laden hillsides. “My grandfather would not like that. He was a simple farmer. And to him, all wine was
vin ordinaire,
everyday wine. The thought of a bottle of his wine fetching a fortune would not please him.”

Bruno looked sheepishly down at his shoes.

“And you want to know about the stories I heard of those times? They were not romantic tales of adventure or resistance. They were stories of hunger. Of starving families. Of fear. The SS or the
Milice française
coming to your door in the middle of the night. No . . . my grandfather's wine now worth a fortune because of that . . . he would not like that. And neither do I.”

The American met her eyes with a gaze filled both with respect and determination. He held up the cork. “I'm going to find out if this is real. And if it is, I'm going to find the wine.”

“I can't stop you from looking. But I won't help you.”

“Okay. Fair enough,” he said. He flipped the cork in the air and tucked it in his pocket. “Thank you for your time.” He nodded at her and turned for the road. Her instincts screamed to let him walk away. Intriguing men always disappointed her. This was the one lesson she'd drawn from her failed marriage. But Bruno was almost through the gate when she let slip a call for him to stop. “Are you going to the bacchanal?”

“Wouldn't miss it.” He smiled.

“Wait a moment.”

She disappeared into the cave and then returned in a moment with a dusty bottle. It was a '73 Premier Cru, with a yellowed label and cobwebs around the cork.

“Take this,” she said with a smile. “It will cause a stir.”

Bruno studied the label, astounded. “I couldn't . . .”

“It's a gift. Because you wrote a lovely book.”

He grinned and touched his forehead with the end of the bottle in salute, and then he walked away, whistling. Sylvie watched him for only a moment before returning to her work.

When you make that hard choice to end an affair, and you so rend your soul in the process that you feel as if you will never love again, I have a secret restorative: your own personal bacchanal. Press a pound of foie gras into a terrine, then slice an entire black truffle, paper-thin, layering it on top. Add another pound of foie gras and glaze with a dash of brandy. Cook rare for 30 minutes at 190 degrees, pour off the juices and chill overnight. Eat it in slices the following day with a bottle of the best Volnay you can find and some day-old farmer's bread. After a fortnight of celibacy you'll have trouble conjuring your former lover's visage in your mind's eye, and after six weeks you'll be eager to embark on your next romantic voyage.

—
B
RUNO
T
ANNENBAUM,
T
WENTY
R
ECIPES FOR
L
OVE

B
runo walked the edge of the long, curving drive to the manor, past manicured shrubbery and bubbling fountains. Headlights splashed the trees as an odd collection of cars, ranging from long
black Mercedes, Citroën field trucks and battered old Renaults, streamed past him.

When he reached the chateau, he paused to take in the scene. White-gloved attendants stood on either side of the door with trays of clean glasses. Guests filed past, each plucking a glass to balance the bottles of wine held in the opposite hands. A parade of passengers disembarked as smartly dressed valets slipped into the driver's seats of Jaguars and Opels alike, speeding them off toward some distant lot amid a cloud of racing fuel or oil smoke.

A pair of farmers arrived in coveralls and berets, each with a dusty bottle under his arm that had to contain some undiscovered elixir. Next came a gull-wing Mercedes and a pair of long legs followed by the hem of a shimmering cocktail dress. The woman stood and slipped her arm into one offered by a young man in a sleek suit tailored to fit in such a way as Bruno had never been able to emulate even back when he had money and fewer inches on his waistline. Next were two gray-bearded men, one in tweed and the other in a black turtleneck: professors, surely. A pair of grand dames in flowing gowns followed by a stout, red-cheeked woman with two children in tow. Then field hands in plaid and jeans.