Vintage (29 page)

“Chateau de Beaucastel Chateauneuf-du-Pape Blanc Vieilles Vignes,” Bruno said with a slight bow and a smile. Varushkin sniffed and contemplated. He furrowed his brow. He sniffed again and tried to suppress a smile. He sniffed a third time, and then sipped. He slowly lowered the glass from his lips. His eyes glistened. “It's quite good,” he said, with emotion in his voice.

“Madame?” Bruno asked.

“Please.”

He poured and she drank and smiled, looking now at her husband as if surprised by the effect the wine had had on him.

“Delightful,” Varushkin said, recovering. “I'm excited to see what you will serve with it.”

“Ah,” Bruno said, snapping his fingers. Vasili uncovered the bowls of oyster bisque with snipped parsley arranged in a nautilus pattern, setting the bowls down gently. Bruno presented the torn bread, toasted golden, a careful dab of salmon roe caviar glistening like a sunset captured in tiny shining orbs that reflected the candlelight and seemed to illuminate the whole room. Bruno stepped back into the shadows, smiling and waiting patiently.

Katya removed her coat, deciding she was going to stay and humor her husband. The sparkle in his eyes, the precursors to tears that he had exhibited when tasting the Chateauneuf . . . that emotion was so unlike him that she had to wonder if he had learned he was dying. Or maybe they had finally broken him. He was too stubborn to have changed any other way. The stone room was still cool on her bare shoulders, so she took a sizable gulp from her wineglass to warm herself, taking a whiff of the bisque and inhaling the rich, milky cream of it, beneath which was the clean smell of the ocean. Her stomach growled audibly and Varushkin laughed.

“Will you be joining me after all?” he asked.

“I could never resist you, could I?” she said with a sigh.

As she ate she was aware of two things: the circumstances and surroundings disappearing, and also her estranged husband's careful attention. He seemed to search for some sort of reaction. She ate quickly and with little self-control, mainly due to nerves from being in the prison and also because the meal was excellent and she couldn't wait to find out what was next.

The chef served broiled asparagus with cracked pepper and a small slice of prosciutto. He poured more wine. Katya kept glancing at the American, who emerged from the shadows to attend to her every need, removing plates, brushing crumbs, arranging silverware, filling her glass, and she began to regard him as something of a sorcerer, more so after every bite. She could tell as she spoke to her husband that the American understood no Russian.

“Where did you find him?” she asked.

“He found me.”

“That's quite interesting.”

“We share . . . a common interest.”

Katya smiled. She grew light-headed from the wine but didn't care. She stared at Anatoly now and squinted, trying to see the man that she had once found dashing. She knew when they'd first met that his age meant he would decline in desirability far more rapidly than she, even despite the societal double standard that accelerated that process for women. And she always told herself that she would look for other things to love about him. She was still searching, and she doubted that she could find them in here.

After the asparagus, the American laid plates of lovely pale pink fish before them, a cross pattern of glaze seared to the top, and paper-thin slices of fresh truffle arranged along one edge.

There was the pop of a cork in the shadows, and then glasses were set before them and Bruno presented the label of the new wine to Varushkin.

“Ah, a Pinot Noir,” he said in English. “With salmon, eh? Something of a risk.” There was a touch of condescension and skepticism in his voice that she recognized, a trait of his that had always annoyed her. He liked to flaunt his expertise, as if anything that didn't conform to his worldview should be called into question.

“It's actually steelhead, and I'd be happy to pour more of the Chateauneuf instead, which should also pair nicely.”

“I'd love some Pinot,” Katya said, thrusting her glass to Bruno and smiling at him, feeling her husband's eyes on her. “You haven't led us astray yet.”

Bruno filled her glass and then Varushkin also nodded for some. In the silence that followed, Varushkin concentrated on his meal, taking a bite and a sip and a bite and a sip. The fish was stunning, and Katya reveled in the way, after breaking through the glazed, seared crust, it melted on her tongue almost like a salty seawater crème brûlée.

“Bruno,” Varushkin said finally. “In my opinion, matching
this lovely fish with such a rich Pinot Noir is quite a risk, eh? A risk, and in this case, a triumph.” He leaned back in his chair and raised his glass. “Katya here will tell you that I need to stop being such a pompous ass.”

This admission surprised her. Was prison turning Anatoly into a different man?

“Pour yourself a glass, chef,” Anatoly ordered. “To our chef,” he said, clinking glasses with Bruno and Katya, and they drank. She thought the wine was quite good, though she still preferred Burgundies. She'd become quite a connoisseur in her own right, and it frustrated her that Anatoly never acknowledged this.

As they finished the fish, Bruno disappeared to the kitchen. They were both full and still eating for flavor rather than sustenance. Both of them quiet and contemplative.

Katya caught herself staring at her husband, or rather through him.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“I see the man I used to love.”

“Used to love?”

“I believe love requires trust. But there were the other women, for example. You just assumed that I would take you back.”

“I regret that. And I was wrong. You can at least trust me now, in here. The Russian state guarantees my fidelity.”

Katya smiled. She took a cigarette out of her purse. She handed a lighter to Varushkin and he clicked the flame, leaning toward her.

“You haven't changed,” he said as smoke curled out of her nose.

“That's not true. Besides, I'd like to return to the subject of trust. If you loved me, wouldn't you trust me with some of what remains of your fortune?”

“Let me ask you this. If I gave you what I have left, would you stay with me? Would you wait here in Moscow for me? Truthfully?”

Katya didn't answer. She leaned back, her elbow propped in one hand, holding her smoldering cigarette by her ear.

Bruno reentered with two cups of espresso. He seemed pleased that both of their plates were empty.

“Well, Mr. Tannenbaum,” Varushkin said, taking a cigarette out of Katya's pack and lighting one for himself, “you've made us a splendid meal.” He kissed his fingers. “How did you find dinner, my dear?”

“Astonishing.”

“I wanted this evening to be memorable.”

“How could I ever forget my first meal in prison?”

Bruno, who watched the exchange without understanding a word of it, saw Katya beam at her husband with a radiant smile and a sparkle in her eyes. He was a touch envious.

*      *      *

Bruno left them in privacy for their coffee and waited in the hall, smoking with the guard and Vasili. The guard, whose name was Evgeny, was having difficulties with his wife. Because of the ever-climbing rents, they'd recently been forced to move into a flat with his parents. Living in one room with his wife and daughter and sharing a kitchen and bath with the retirees had frayed her nerves. And he feared that she now looked at him as a failure.

Through Vasili's translation, Bruno recommended that he send the old couple and the child out to the park, or perhaps the Obraztsov Puppet Theater and ice cream, and then prepare a late afternoon meal just for the two of them. While Vasili was
excited about the glazed salmon, Evgeny said his wife's favorite dish was stroganoff, so Bruno suggested a small cheese course,
boef bourguignon,
a salad with pears and black walnuts, and the cheapest bottle of Volnay he could find.

“I've never cooked a thing for her before,” Evgeny said.

“All the better,” Bruno replied.

The door opened and Katya emerged, her eyes smoldering, tying the belt of her short trench coat. She was about to storm past when she paused by Bruno, leaned close and straightened his collar. She smelled like cigarette smoke and expensive perfume.

“The meal was extraordinary,” she said, in almost a purr that made Bruno's knees wobbly.

“It was a pleasure serving you.”

“Hmm. A pleasure.” She smiled, a twinkle in her eye, and then she left, with Evgeny at her elbow. He watched her walk the entire length of the hall and disappear around the corner.

The guards went in to fetch Varushkin, and he emerged in shackles with one guard on either side. He looked small and weak again. He shuffled up to Bruno, his eyes vacant.

Bruno's stomach had risen to just below the bottom of his throat. He was dizzy. Here was the moment. The instant that could define the rest of his life. He had put his trust in this wasted and shrunken soul. Was Varushkin still even sane after years of confinement and isolation? Had everything that Bruno hoped for—for his career, for his daughter's future—really come down to this instant? Varushkin was pale, with a greenish cast, in the fluorescent light.

“That was brilliant, Mr. Tannenbaum,” Varushkin said, the words forced.

“Thank you.”

“I've caused my wife an enormous amount of grief over the years. That's why I wanted your help to convince her that I still love her.”

“So, were we successful?”

“No,” Varushkin said, and Bruno clenched his fist to keep it from trembling. “But through no fault of yours. The meal was a triumph. In truth, I don't love Katya anymore. I'm not sure I ever did.”

“So where does that leave me?”

“Oh, don't worry, Mr. Tannenbaum. You've convinced me of the transformative power of food. To restore love, a meal, a glass of wine, must be given with all the heart. And love must still exist in the hearts of the participants. But between strangers, the most we can hope for through the breaking of bread is to create a space for civility and discourse. Perhaps Katya and I finally know one another for the first time.”

One of the guards coughed. Bruno fidgeted.

“I must thank you,” Varushkin continued. “I had, you know, a spectacular collection once.”

“Had?”

“Some may have considered it obscene . . . the amount I spent on wine. It was worth a substantial fortune.”

“Was?”

“My accountant made off with a good deal of what was left after the other vultures had their share. The state repossessed whatever Katya didn't drink.”

“It's all gone?”

“Why, no. There's some left.”

“The Trevallier?”

“We all have our oases, don't we? Those places we run to for comfort when the world spins too quickly and the heavens begin
to collapse. For me, it was a little café below street level. Good meals. Intelligent friends. An impressive cellar of just the right temperature. It was there that I stored my favorite wartime vintages. Those Burgundies were a small obsession buried within a larger compulsion of mine.”

“The café?”

“I know. There are thousands in Moscow, no? But the description I've given so far . . . this should be enough. With a little effort, and a few weeks' time, you'll be able to find it, I'm sure. A resourceful writer like yourself?”

“I don't have a few weeks.”

“It's funny. All I have is time. But for the rest of the world, it's such a precious commodity. It's interesting that you've had the answer in your hand the whole time. That puzzled me. I almost thought you were toying with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's all so strange.”

“An address?” Bruno said in a harsh whisper as Varushkin was about to shuffle away, a guard tugging at his arm.

“Oh, of course,” he said, reaching for Bruno's hand with both of his, clasping it, chains rattling. He palmed a square of paper into Bruno's hand and pressed his cheek close to one side of Bruno's face and then the other in the traditional Russian kiss, whispering as he did so, “I've written down the address and some instructions for the sommelier. He'll allow you into my vault when he sees my handwriting. You'll find your answer there.”

The guards tugged him away and he laughed. Bruno thought that the man's mental state had visibly deteriorated in the two days he'd known him.

“You're suddenly in possession of a small fortune, Mr. Tannenbaum. How does it feel?”

“I don't know,” Bruno said, slipping the paper carefully into his hip pocket.

“Neither do I,” he called as he disappeared around the corner.

Bruno was tempted now to rush from the prison. As Khramov returned to lead him out, he embraced Vasili and promised to write him letters of recommendation for a kitchen job with any of the chefs he knew in Europe. As he left the prison he wanted to skip, which somehow didn't seem appropriate. So instead he surprised himself by whistling the pop song that had been on Anna's kitchen radio the last time he cooked with his daughters.

Wine is meant to be a humble companion to food. Yet there are times and wines that call for a single, solitary glass, due to the greatness of the vintage or extremity of the circumstances.

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

T
he sun had slipped low behind the neighboring tenements when Bruno exited the outer gate to an empty street and the smell of sewage. As soon as he turned a corner and was out of the sight of the guard towers, he ducked into a doorway and reached into his pocket to look at the slip of paper. Of course it was written in Cyrillic cursive and he had no hope of making any sense of it. He wondered whom he could trust. Certainly not Nikolai from the hotel. He'd look for some studious young person at a coffee shop, and failing that he'd return to his friends Janice and Dima, if he could find his way back to their flat.