Cognac Conspiracies Page 2

  “My sister will see you, if you will kindly wait here,” was all that he said before leaving. “Have a seat, please.”

  “We’re not really tired,” Benjamin responded as he inspected a large lithograph of Jarnac in 1830.

  The winemaker, a connoisseur of antiques and an occasional historian, reached for his glasses. With great interest, he examined this panoramic view of a former chateau, which had been sacrificed for a suspension bridge spanning the Charente River. On the embankments, imposing homes reflected the good fortune of their owners. Along the river’s edge, only a few trees dared to tip their boughs, lest they hinder the passage of the barges. Benjamin took a few steps back to better appreciate it and then turned his attention to a family photo. He recognized Pierre, standing proudly next to a beautiful woman with blonde hair. Seated in front of them was an elderly man—presumably the patriarch. Off to one side was another man, whom Benjamin presumed was the infamous Claude-Henri.

  “Strange, very strange,” Benjamin mumbled.

  Virgile wasn’t paying much attention. He was busy staring out the window at this Pierre, who had undressed him with his eyes, like a slave trader.

  “There’s something suspicious about him.”

  “What’s that, my boy?”

  “I’m saying that he’s strange, too.”

  “Who?”

  The door opened, and Marie-France entered the room. She was wearing a pink silk suit that complemented her astonishingly radiant complexion. Her wrists and neck were unadorned, but she had several extravagant diamond, sapphire, and ruby rings on her fingers. Her handshake was firm and formal. Ms. Lavoisier knew how to hold her own.

  “So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

  Benjamin shot a glance at his assistant before tactfully and a bit solemnly explaining the assignment he had been given. He confessed that he had not met his client, Shiyi Cheng, in person.

  “We have only exchanged correspondence,” the winemaker said, hoping to gain a semblance of consideration from Lavoisier. Her pale eyes were making him uneasy. “I believe your shareholder simply wishes to know the status of the accounts.”

  “I don’t have to tell you that there are certified public accountants for that, Mr. Cooker.”

  She lashed out his name, and Benjamin could almost hear a whip cracking. Then her eyes fell on Virgile. She stared not at his face, but at his body, from sternum to crotch. Benjamin could feel his assistant’s embarrassment. Virgile crossed his legs and pulled himself straighter in his chair as she continued her indecent and perverse inspection.

  Benjamin tried to correct himself. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear, Ms. Lavoisier. Our assignment has more to do with how we can help the company evolve. We’re here to study the business. Cognac is going through difficult times. I hope, in the framework of this mission, you will consider us allies, rather than enemies.”

  “You can be sure, sir, that I have always chosen my allies, and I don’t let anyone impose them on me. Allow me to point out that your so-called mission is in no way endorsed by the Lavoisier Cognacs Board of Directors. I could throw you out, but I have too much respect for your knowledge and skills, which I know are extensive. However, Mr. Cooker, I strongly advise you not to overstep the bounds of what you call—what was it again?—your study and what we should or should not be doing to further this proposed evolution of our company.”

  Benjamin refused to be deterred. He employed the persuasive—and clever—diplomacy that he was known for.

  “Thank you, Ms. Lavoisier, for your valuable cooperation. We will try, my associate and I, to do nothing to hinder your work, and we will foster the best possible atmosphere for a profitable collaboration. Isn’t that right, Virgile?”

  Marie-France Lavoisier studied the young man with the eyes of a raptor ready to dismember its carrion. Virgile, clearly aware that he was almost in the clutches of this femme fatale, managed only a stammered response: “Ma’am, our…our…interests are mutual.”

  “Mutual? You’re getting ahead of yourself, my boy. Allow me this familiarity, because you could be my son.”

  “I take that as a compliment, ma’am.”

  “Marie-France.” The woman corrected Virgile with a sweet and poisonous smile.

  Virgile thrust out his chest a bit, and one of his shirt buttons came undone. Benjamin glimpsed a bit of tanned skin and pectoral muscle. Marie-France crossed and uncrossed her legs. Benjamin pretended that he hadn’t seen a thing.

  2

  The pendulum of the old grandfather clock had a golden hue, not from the copper it was made of but from the reflection of the liquids in the large and small bottles lining the white shelves. The bottles were carefully labeled, ranked by vintages and crus: Grande Champagne, Petite Champagne, Borderies, Fins Bois.

  The ticktock of the timepiece cut through the heavy silence. The sole guardian of this depository of cognacs considered it calming. A large oak table dominated the space, and spread across it was a black canvas registry. In long, broad columns, it recorded the many and varied blends. It was always in the same purple ink and careful handwriting, with capital letters dancing on the upstroke. This was Pierre’s private territory, “his sacristy,” as he called it with some affectation. Here, he could make reverential music with his eau-de-vie and cruets. He knew the score of every cognac and possessed an exceptional nose, which made him an authority in all of Charente and well beyond.

  It was not quite noon when he heard someone enter the sanctuary without warning. Pierre was a man who practiced his religion in privacy. He couldn’t tolerate being watched as he experimented with and sampled his brandy.

  “Who gave you permission to enter the sacristy?” the youngest member of the Lavoisier family grumbled, turning to see Benjamin Cooker.

  “No one, to tell the truth,” Benjamin said. Pierre heard the apologetic tone, but that didn’t matter. He didn’t want him there.

  “Let me work in peace.”

  “I promise to be quiet,” the winemaker said.

  “You’re not being paid to be quiet. Leave immediately!”

  “As you wish,” Benjamin answered. “In any case, we’ll run into each other before long.”

  “Get lost! Can I make myself any clearer?”

  Benjamin put his hand on the brass knob and started to open the French door. But it got stuck. The winemaker found the pebble that was blocking his exit and kicked it away.

  “Um, Mr. Lavoisier, your sister told me to ask you for the keys to the wine warehouse, but I was hoping you would accompany me. May I—”

  Pierre was trembling. “You can’t gain entry to our paradise just like that, even if your Cooker name is revered. You can see that I am busy.”

  Benjamin stomped off without closing the door. Pierre didn’t care if the fine-wine expert from Bordeaux heard him swearing behind him. He took the pencil he had stuck behind his right ear like a grocer of days gone by and inscribed a formula on the dark yellow vial he had placed on the lab counter. He smiled with satisfaction as he watched the winemaker’s silhouette disappear under the arbor. He was pleased that he had overcome his shyness and dismissed the man. He found him a bit too cocky.

  A few minutes later, Virgile entered his sacristy. And Pierre was unable to repeat the same act of rebellion.

  § § §

  Pierre’s forehead was glistening, and his hands were shaking so hard, Virgile feared he would drop the vials he was holding. He looked away, as he didn’t want to make the man feel even more uncomfortable.

  In Armagnac a few years earlier, Virgile had learned about distillation and the art of blending, but he had never seen such a display of eau-de-vie lined up like incunabula on the shelves of a monastic library. He noticed a group of vials ranging in color from light amber to dark brown labeled with the year of his birth. He was intrigued.

  “Nineteen eighty-two, right?” Pierre murmured.

  Virgile smiled in agreement.

  “It was a great year for Bordeaux.” Pier
re delivered his verdict in a tone that left no room for dispute. “Of course, there were exceptions.”

  “I hope I’m not one of them!” Virgile joked, walking over to the alchemist.

  The man backed away, as if intimidated. A gust of wind slammed a window closed. The branches of a quince tree scraped the glass. In the distance, Virgile could see forsythia blossoms pelting the garden greenhouse.

  “We’re making up for what we didn’t get earlier this spring. Sooner or later, you have to pay,” Pierre said, reaching under the counter. He pulled out a tulip glass and ran it under the copper faucet.

  “You’re tall, young man. Get that vial on the upper shelf. No, not that one. The other one, the fourth from the left. There you go. Thank you very much… Gentleman—that’s it!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not following,” Virgile responded. “Were you calling me a gentleman?”

  “No, I was referring to your cologne. It’s Gentleman cologne by Givenchy, right? May I call you Virgile?”

  These days, Virgile was about as faithful to his cologne as he was to his lovers. He remembered only the one he last reached for. The Givenchy cologne in his toiletry case had been a gift from Carla, the most recent woman in his life. This Pierre Lavoisier had quite a sense of smell. And to think Benjamin took him for a wet noodle. Virgile, nostrils quivering, edged toward Pierre. The older man began trembling.

  “Vetiver, I’m sure of it!” Virgile pronounced. “But don’t ask me the name of the perfume. I don’t have your talent.”

  “Yes, it is vetiver. You’re absolutely correct,” Pierre concurred. “I use it sparingly. In my profession any ostentatious fragrance is forbidden.”

  Virgile noted Pierre’s flattering tone and was tempted to continue complimenting this stranger, who was actually more sociable than he had thought. Still, he did not want the younger Lavoisier brother to interpret anything he said as a pass or sweet talk. So he simply sniffed the neck of the bottle Pierre was holding. The scent of prunes was intoxicating, and Pierre filled the glass of friendship one-third full. Benjamin’s assistant took a sip and approved this baptism by fire with a happy face. Pierre turned the bottle around to reveal the label:

  1982

  GRANDE CHAMPAGNE

  Blend Y 201-408-13

  “Well, damn, that’s good!” Virgile said.

  Pierre took the glass, sipped the liquid gold, sniffed it, and savored a second sip.

  “That’s my glass!” Virgile joked.

  “The better to share your thoughts…”

  A silence ensued.

  “Well?” Virgile asked, embarrassed.

  “Well, I am…reassured,” Pierre declared, looking at him coolly. He handed the glass back to Virgile.

  Virgile did not know where to look. He studied Pierre’s hand. No wedding ring. Fingernails a bit too long. Not a trace of nicotine between the index and middle fingers. This man was so featureless. An odd number. Then Virgile focused on the famous Lavoisier nose, with its excessive dark hairs, and in the space of a moment, the man became eminently likeable. Virgile emptied his glass in one swallow.

  “Excellent year.”

  Pierre handed the bottle to Virgile. Now his hands were steady.

  “Here, it’s yours.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Call me Pierre, will you?”

  “Thank you, Pierre,” Virgile mumbled. “May I ask you another favor?”

  “Anything you want, if it’s in my power, that is.”

  “A visit to the Lavoisier wine warehouse.”

  “Let’s see if I have the keys.”

  Marie-France’s brother made a show of feeling around the pockets of his corduroy pants. His face lit up when he pulled out an enormous bunch of keys.

  “Saint Peter’s keys,” Virgile enthused.

  “Yes indeed, these are the keys to our paradise,” Pierre said as he led Virgile toward the door. He put an affectionate hand on Virgile’s shoulder.

  The familiarity was a stark contrast to Marie-France’s coldness. But even though he had spent only a few minutes with Marie-France, Virgile could tell the two family members shared some characteristics. They were both aware of their seductive power and the effects their charm had on others. Each made ample use of it and knew it worked equally well on both sexes.

  § § §

  Benjamin was in a heated discussion with Marie-France when he spotted Virgile and Pierre passing beneath the arbor on the way to the moss-covered wine warehouse. He wanted to see the company’s books and the rest of the records, but Marie-France was refusing to budge. He would have to wait.

  It was lunchtime, and the winemaker needed food to soothe his exasperation. Virgile was off with Pierre, so he sought refuge by himself in a restaurant on the Rue du Chêne-Vert. He ordered a steak that he shamelessly enjoyed with a glass of 2001 Maine des Aireaux. Benjamin would definitely include this Domaine Brillet in the next edition of his guide. And to think the Charente region was so often dismissed as a brandy-only producer.

  § § §

  Pierre Lavoisier turned the key. A cool, moldy smell greeted them. Pierre switched on the light, sending shadows across the gray walls of the immense nave. It was lined with stacks of casks marked in chalk. Virgile silently walked behind Pierre as he pointed out the various barrels. The entire Lavoisier treasure, accumulated over the course of more than two centuries, was before them, standing at attention and ready to be shipped off to the Americas and the Far East, provided, of course, there were buyers. Along with James Delamain and Thomas Hine, the Lavoisiers were the founders of the eau-de-vie business in Jarnac. Under Napoleon, they had known some reversals of fortune. But through all crises, they had managed to survive and ward off ruthless bankers. After the two world wars, they had wisely and stubbornly refused to merge with sweet-talking unscrupulous brands.

  Pierre explained all this while strolling along the rows of barrels. He mentioned the wine cellar fungi—often called “angels”—the ethylic vampires that sipped at least five percent of the reserves. Pierre raised his eyes toward heaven, as if imploring God to keep the mischievous seraphs from taking too much. But what Virgile saw when he looked up was just more mold.

  “I know all these black spots have a useless Latin name,” Virgile said, grinning at the opportunity to show off some of his own knowledge. “Torula something or other.”

  “Torula conglutinate compniacensis,” Pierre replied. He headed toward a rusty gate, behind which demijohns were nestled in straw. “And tell me, Virgile, what is the propagating agent for this strange fungus?”

  “Oh please, Pierre, you remind me of Mr. Cooker with your two-buck questions. It’s a spider that proliferates in alcohol vapors. A wino, you could say. Call it what you like.”

  “If we called it Arachnea compniacencis, we wouldn’t be far off. You can ask your Mr. Cooker tonight.”

  Virgile tried to move away from the man, who kept touching his arm, as though knowledge were passed via his fingers. The reluctant apprentice approached the locked gate, expecting to enter what he sensed was the holy of holies.

  Pierre turned to Virgile, looking him in the eye. “Nobody forces their way into paradise. Here you need a guide.”

  He flipped a switch that turned on a string of old lightbulbs. “Everything is indexed, itemized, numbered, and codified. We have nothing to hide.”

  With the space illuminated, Virgile could see that the demijohns in this damp cellar were draped with spider webs, which spanned decades and even centuries. Some of these vessels had rubbed shoulders with Chateaubriand, Balzac, Napoleon III, Hugo, and the Romanovs. Virgile was speechless. He had the sense that he was standing before the Shroud of Turin. On the back of his neck, Virgile could feel the excited breath of his mute companion. He was so close, Virgile didn’t dare turn around.

  “Virgile?”

  “Yes,” Virgile answered. A minute earlier he had been standing on the threshold of paradise. Now he was smelling sulfur.

  “I wanted
to tell you that—”

  “That what?”

  There was a long silence.

  “That even if you are being paid by the Asians, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “I thank you for your trust, Mr. Lavoisier.”

  “Won’t you call me Pierre?”

  “Thank you…Pierre.”

  Virgile looked for the shaft of light that had led them to this cellar full of bulging casks and voracious spiders. He made for the exit with the swift foot of a thief. Pierre Lavoisier was hot on his heels, like a priest pursuing a poor sinner resistant to absolution.

  Outside, the sun was drenching the soft grass. The wind had stripped the cherry trees of their petals, but the golden chain trees were giving out their first yellow clusters in an orgy of heady fragrances. Virgile announced that he was ravenous. Pierre offered to share a soup of garden snails and wild nettles. Virgile was hesitant to accept, but he couldn’t say no to escargots. Benjamin had a weakness for frog legs, but Virgile would sell his body for a plate of snails. Oscar Wilde, allegedly his employer’s great-great-uncle, was right: better to submit than resist!

  3

  After his meal, Benjamin asked the pimply waiter to bring him a Lavoisier cognac. The unattractive youth in a barely clean shirt apologized profusely. It was a rare brandy that was hardly ever offered at this establishment, whose patrons were mostly business people in a rush. The winemaker was disappointed but accepted a Frapin VIP XO while he took a Cohiba Siglo VI from his sharkskin case. Thick billows of smoke isolated him from the rest of the room, where a few customers were hastily gulping down a second cup of coffee. This quarantine pleased him; each puff fanned his reflections.

  This business was beginning to seem like a bad undertaking. Shiyi Cheng had already asked for a report in an e-mail that had arrived that very morning at Benjamin’s Allées de Tourny office. Benjamin had asked his devoted secretary, Jacqueline, to respond with a quote from the French Renaissance writer François Rabelais: “Everything comes in time to those who can wait.” Being in Jarnac, his initial thought had been to quote François Mitterand, who was known for saying, “Give time the time it needs,” but he had decided against it.