Cognac Conspiracies Page 10

  Marie-France was not asleep. The waning crescent moon was keeping her company. Twice she asked the night visitor to identify himself before she opened the Château Floyras gates. Who would show up at this hour? But even in the darkest night, she would have recognized her brother. Time and distance had not erased the memory of that arrogant silhouette.

  “Claude? Is it you? What are you doing here?”

  “Well, as you can see, I’m back in the country. Am I still welcome?”

  “Of course! Come in.”

  The taxi driver was waiting for his money. Claude-Henri had only a Visa card and a fistful of Canadian dollars. Marie-France hastened to pay the fare. No, he hadn’t changed. No, he wasn’t hungry. No, he had no other bags.

  “I can’t believe you’re really here after all this time. Can I touch you to make sure I’m not seeing things? Are you wearing the same cologne?”

  Marie-France patted his wrists, his sides, and his chest to confirm that she wasn’t dreaming. During her moon baths, she had often imagined the day her Claude would come home for good. And here he was, smiling, beaming, loving.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  “No, but I wouldn’t turn down a Lavoisier.”

  The sister rushed to the cabinet beneath the Chinese tapestry in the Floyras breakfast room. This piece of furniture was from an old dispensary on the Rue de Condé. Pierre had salvaged it after the elderly pharmacist, Guilhem, had put cyanide in his ratatouille to end the agony of throat cancer. On the upper shelves were stoneware pots bearing Latin names. In the center, in small sepia-colored bottles, were all the Lavoisier vintages since the founding of the company. Two centuries of cognac graced this display cabinet. Marie-France took one of the vials, the lightest in color. The cork slipped out with a sinister squeak, and she quietly confessed, “This is Pierre’s last blend. Full of finesse and subtlety. Taste it.”

  Claude-Henri warmed the glass in his hand, as if putting off the moment of communion with this little brother, who had gone to heaven without getting even a good-bye wave. He was angry with himself for missing the funeral. He had been in Vancouver when his associate informed him of Pierre’s death, and there wasn’t enough time to get to Jarnac.

  “I should have written or called. I behaved like the most egotistical and stupid jerk. But you know, my life in Canada, all the real estate deals I brokered, all the money I made, it just did one thing for me…”

  Marie-France poured herself a bit of the cognac that had won the gold medal in Paris. She swirled her glass to watch the full-bodied liquid run in tiny rivulets down the sides. A fine fragrance of apricot and yellow peach caressed her nostrils.

  “It made me realize how much I missed Jarnac and how much I missed you. And living far from the Charente is impossible for me.”

  “So you’re not going back to Montreal?”

  “No, Marie-France, it’s over. I’m staying here. That is, if it’s okay with you.”

  “God, how silly you can be sometimes!”

  Brother and sister drank to the last blends Pierre had produced, which, year after year, had been the best cognacs of Grande Champagne. By now Claude-Henri was sobbing, Marie curled up on the sofa and pulled her Shetland-wool sweater over her knees. She watched her brother tenderly. Finally, she was not alone. Nothing bad could happen to her.

  “I’ll move into the greenhouse. I don’t want to bother you or disturb your life in any way.”

  “No, you will live in the château. With me.”

  “As you wish.”

  Then the two remaining Lavoisiers fell into each other’s arms, as they had during haymaking season when they were children. They had rolled in the bales and laughed until they couldn’t breathe. When the sun’s rays broke through the château windows at dawn, spreading the aromas of truffles and ripening peaches, brother and sister were still entwined.

  That evening they would celebrate the feast of Saint John the Baptist and the summer solstice. The laughter of boaters on the Charente was already drifting up from the park.

  Marie-France asked Justine to serve breakfast on the terrace. “Quince jelly and fig jam, please.” The sun was as sweet as honey, and she intended to indulge. She was wearing a T-shirt that seductively hugged her breasts and bore the company slogan: “Cognac Lavoisier: Of course you deserve it!”

  The aroma of coffee lured Claude-Henri out of his torpor. Though still fatigued from jet lag, he said he was starving. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “At least nine o’clock.”

  “Perfect. Can we add a cup to the table? I invited our new consultant to have breakfast with us.”

  “A consultant? What’s this nonsense?”

  “Last night, I completely forgot to tell you that I liquidated all my assets in Canada. Yes, Marie-France, I’ve sold everything. Cashed out. With the little nest egg the sale of my assets generated and on the strong recommendation of my new consultant in France, I purchased the shares your Asians held—at thirty percent less than what they paid for them. You don’t need to teach a man from Charente how to use an abacus! I think they decided to throw in the towel because of the financial crisis hitting the Far East. I dealt with a man named Guo Liang. Do you know him?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Cheng was fired, though I’m sure he left with a tidy little sum of his own.”

  Shocked by the news, Marie-France spilled her coffee.

  “Do you have anything else to tell me?”

  “The best is still to come, Marie-France!”

  “You know I love you, right?”

  Brother and sister embraced in front of a wide-eyed Justine, who would not fail to alert all of Jarnac about the powerful duo now presiding over Lavoisier Cognacs. Justine Pergaut had been in the family’s employ for more than thirty years and had stood by during the glory years, as well as those that were full of misfortune.

  A roaring engine interrupted the happy mood scented with jams, which were now drawing honeybees from the surrounding bushes.

  “Well, here’s our new consultant right now!” Claude-Henri exclaimed.

  “My respects, Ms. Lavoisier. I was absolutely convinced that we would see each other very soon,” Benjamin said with a sly grin.

  “Marie-France, you can thank Benjamin Cooker for my return. I was wallowing in guilt over missing Pierre’s farewell when he called and convinced me we could still honor our family heritage.”

  § § §

  That day, Benjamin Cooker enjoyed some of the sweetest moments of his profession. He was invited to sample the amber treasures that decorated the dispensary shelves. In a tasting orchestrated by Marie-France and Claude-Henri, he discovered the diverse aromas that dominated Little Pierre’s brandies. He took in the scents of pear, apple, kirsch, cherry, strawberry, cranberry, fig, apricot, plum, quince, muscat, lemon, orange, grapefruit, citron, and Mirabelle plums. He wafted fragrances of violet, mint, verbena, fern, moss, anise, fennel, linden, gentian, angelica, tobacco, lavender, and mushroom, along with some spicy aromas, including cinnamon, pepper, clove, ginger, nutmeg, licorice, and saffron.

  “Your brother’s oldest cognacs smell of wild animals, don’t you think?” Benjamin said. “Fur, leather, civet, and musk.”

  He could see that Claude-Henri was also discovering an entire paradise of enchanting fragrances. It was as if he knew nothing about the cognac world, even though he had grown up in the midst of it.

  As the black, green, and blood-red wax stoppers were ceremoniously doffed, Benjamin displayed his extensive knowledge.

  “Dried-fruit and nutty aromas predominate in many of your distillations: almond, walnut, prune, hazelnut, pistachio, sometimes even peanut. However, your brother had a penchant for citrus fruit. His cognacs smell like lemon, orange, mandarin, grapefruit, and sometimes citron.”

  Marie-France compared her impressions and intuitions with Benjamin’s, which were indisputable. This blend had aromas of coffee, cacao, toast, flint, tea, or even tar. That blend gave off fragrances
of butter, caramel, hot sand, hummus, or beeswax.

  The winemaker continued. “But the most beautiful Lavoisier relics have woody notes: rancio, of course, oak, tropical wood, and unseasoned, even resinous, wood.”

  The entire morning was devoted to tasting and envisioning the glorious future of Lavoisier Cognac. The company would tap into an ample foreign market. Claude-Henri would take advantage of his North American connections. Every decent restaurant in Quebec, Montreal, Toronto, and Vancouver would insist on serving Lavoisier. Claude-Henri also knew influential people in Manhattan and Boston. They would hit the Russian market, too: Saint Petersburg and especially Moscow. And they would not forget about China and Japan, where the brand now had a serious reputation. The future was full of promise. Benjamin relished the excitement he could see in the eyes of the brother and sister. The two of them invoked Pierre as a sort of guardian angel who would guide new blends every year.

  “Justine! Mr. Cooker is joining us for lunch. Set another place.”

  “Yes, ma’am. By the way, I cleaned the greenhouse, just as you asked me to. I vacuumed everywhere and washed the windows. And look what I found under your brother’s desk. An old cigar box held together with rubber bands. I didn’t open it.”

  “That was wise, Justine. Thank you. Put it on the coffee table.”

  “It’s strange. Mr. Lavoisier didn’t smoke cigars,” Justine said.

  “Yes, he did, I think, on occasion,” Marie-France responded.

  From his chair, Benjamin was inspecting the box, labeled “Château Latour.” He had quickly identified it. This was a rare box that had once contained Coronas known for their excellent craftsmanship. These cigars had been created by Zino Davidoff in the nineteen forties and were manufactured in Cuba by Hoyo de Monterrey. Davidoff, who knew the reputation of Bordeaux wines, sold the exceptional cigars in five boxes labeled “Château Margaux,” “Château Haut-Brion,” “Château Lafite,” “Château Latour,” and “Château Yquem.” Unfortunately, when the Davidoff company was kicked off the island in 1993 after a falling-out with Fidel Castro, production of the châteaux boxes and cigars ended.

  Benjamin hoped to find a few old Coronas in this box. Aged Davidoffs, even those that were decades old, were said to be some of the finest, cleanest-smoking cigars a connoisseur could ever lay his hands on.

  “May I?” Benjamin asked.

  “Please,” Marie-France said, holding out the dusty cedar box.

  With the eyes of a child, Benjamin handled the box as if it contained the Holy Grail. After removing the two rubber bands, he opened it. The contents were covered with a cedar leaf that had a thumb index, in accordance with the packaging of the best Havanas. Benjamin removed the cover and frowned. The tobacco odor had gone stale and for good reason. There were no cigars in the box.

  What Benjamin found was an odd collection. There was a program for a play in London. The winemaker looked inside and found Nathan’s name in a listing of the cast. Benjamin picked up a postcard with a picture of the iconic double-decker bus. He turned it over and read the message: “Sorry you missed me. The production was fabulous.” Underneath the program and postcard were three photo-booth pictures of Nathan and Pierre, a smiling couple. And there was a receipt for a 1,200-euro bottle of men’s perfume: Annick Goutal’s Eau d’Hadrien. Of course Pierre had purchased this for his companion. Its scents were Sicilian lemon, mandarin orange, grapefruit, citron, cypress, and extracts of a plant grown in Madagascar. Finally, there was a letter. The envelope bore a stylized rose.

  Not wanting to appear too indiscreet, he handed the box to Marie-France while he skimmed the letter.

  See you Thursday evening, as we agreed, at the causeway mills. I have bled myself dry for Nathan. You are well aware that he is having a difficult time and needs more than what I can provide. Your financial support is crucial, even urgent. If you ever loved my son, you will do this one thing. And if that’s not enough to persuade you, let me make it clear that both Nathan and I are aware of your liaison with your sister. Talk is one thing. Proof is quite another.

  Benjamin gave Marie-France the letter, the harbinger of Little Pierre’s death. He asked to be excused and headed toward the terrace. When he reached the Charente, he had just enough strength to sit on a bench near the landing and watch the river spread its murky waters toward the causeway.

  § § §

  When Benjamin burst into Sheila’s rose garden, she was focused on a Cardinal de Richelieu, an old garden rose with mauvish-purple double flowers. Armed with pruning shears, she was fiercely snipping away, paying the sneaky thorns no mind.

  “Maybe you were expecting Virgile?”

  “Oh, him. I haven’t heard from Virgile since the night he came over here and caused a scene with Nathan. He practically accused Nathan of killing Pierre Lavoisier.”

  There was something intoxicating about Sheila’s roses that the winemaker, with so keen a sense of smell, found especially provocative. He took his friend by the wrist and unceremoniously drew her away from her bushes, which were getting more attention than necessary.

  “What manners! You used to be more polite.”

  “Tell me, that meeting at the mill with Pierre Lavoisier, was it polite? I don’t think so. I think it was confrontational. Don’t deny it. I know everything now: how your son was using Pierre, taking advantage of his depression, and how you were whispering in Nathan’s ear the whole time. I have records of the amounts, the dates, and the threats.”

  “Let me go. You’re hurting me!”

  Benjamin held Sheila’s wrist tight, hoping she would give up. She struggled, and as she fought his hold, her clothes became tangled in the thorns of the rose bushes. Benjamin did not let go, and yet he held back. It wouldn’t have taken much to overpower this body he had desired for so long, this woman, who was now at his knees. She was weeping but would not confess. Nathan intervened.

  “What are you doing to my mother, you moron? Let her go, or I’ll break your face!”

  “Nathan. Don’t concern yourself with this. Go away, please!” Sheila yelled to her son, who, despite his threat, made no move to take on the winemaker.

  “No, Nathan, I think you should stay. After all, it was your greed that caused this, wasn’t it? Your mother, living on her inheritance, couldn’t give you everything you thought you were entitled to, so you exploited and manipulated Pierre. He loved you, and what did he get in return? An arrogant man who wasn’t worthy of him.”

  Sheila Scott stopped fighting. The thorns had lacerated her arms and face, and she was panting.

  “Get up,” Benjamin ordered. “First, tell your son who I am. Tell him about Paris, the Beaux-Arts, and all the rest. Your son should know about your past, your list of lovers, long and varied, up until just a few months ago, when you tried to compromise my own assistant, a naïve womanizer whose brain is in his boxer shorts. Go ahead, Sheila. Tell him before he hears it from the authorities.”

  Nathan Styron helped his mother off the ground and watched as she straightened her clothing. Her dress was ripped and stained with mud. The scratches on her arms and face were oozing blood. Benjamin pulled out his handkerchief, but Nathan pushed him away before he could hand it to Sheila. Nathan pulled out his own handkerchief and dried her tears and wiped away the blood.

  “What is he saying, Mother?”

  Sheila then confessed, slipping from French to English and then back to French.

  “I knew Nathan was taking money from Pierre and threatening to leave if he didn’t keep the checks coming. Pierre had finally had enough. He told Nathan not to expect any more money. He could go ahead and leave. But Nathan needed the money. He was planning to move to the United States. I asked Pierre to meet me. I wanted to explain that Nathan just needed a little boost in his career, and then he could stand on his own two feet. But when Pierre got there, he reeked of alcohol. He had been drinking. He called me a pimp and other names, too. By this time he was shouting and getting too close. It scared me, and I pushed him aw
ay. He fell into the river. I think he hit his head. I didn’t hear him scream. Nothing...Just the deafening sound of the water.”

  Sheila collapsed in tears on a carpet of rose petals. Her chest was heaving beneath the bodice of her frayed dress. The rose gardener had never looked so desirable. Benjamin cut through the garden to get to the landline in the house. He called his assistant.

  “Virgile, I guessed right. Sheila is definitely not the sort of person we want to be seen with. Oh, by the way, before I get back to Bordeaux, think about this saying by Jules Renard: ‘It is not the rose that draws the bird to the rosebush, but the aphids.’”

  Epilogue

  Sentenced by the Court of Angoulême to eight years in prison for manslaughter, Sheila Scott is writing a guide for rose growers, which the London publisher Huston expects to release next year. Nathan Styron is writing erotic novels and just made the cover of Vanity Fair. In an interview in the Times, the son of the famous writer said he intends to give up modeling to devote himself to intellectual pursuits. In Migron, Samson’s Mill was sold to an allegedly dissolute Parisian antiquarian. Meanwhile, Lavoisier Cognacs has been restored to its former status and is a financial success. Marie-France and Claude-Henri continue to reside at Château Floyras. Many in Jarnac say that brother and sister live together as husband and wife. It is well known that the waters of the Charente have always been troubled.

  § § §

  Benjamin removed Bacchus’s leash and walked into the kitchen. They had just returned from their morning walk. Elisabeth was at the window, gazing at the garden. Benjamin went over to her and kissed the nape of her neck. It had always been one of the most exquisite parts of her body.

  “I’m thinking about redoing the garden,” she said, smiling at her husband and pointing to a spot to their right. “Maybe pulling up that part of it and planting some roses. Maybe tea roses. What do you think?”