Mayhem in Margaux Read online

  He stretched out his legs, clasped his hands behind his neck, gave a blissful smile, and immediately fell asleep.

  9

  Could anyone be hungry enough to eat such an ugly fish? Thick dull-colored flesh, large flat body, fleshy lips that looked almost human. The grey triggerfish seemed to come straight from the imagination of an animated film whose aim was scaring children. Benjamin examined it for a moment, turning it over and evaluating it with a look of disgust. He decided to throw it back into the sea. The two little striped bass, a mullet, and some small fish that they had already caught would be enough to fry up.

  Ludovic was quiet, fixed on the red and white floater on his line. Benjamin usually loved these calm interludes when he didn’t need to talk, when the landscape was still asleep, and everything seemed renewed. But today, between the rolling of the fishing boat, which made his stomach churn, and a throbbing headache—vestiges of the previous night—the winemaker felt wan and spent.

  “You don’t look too good,” Ludovic said.

  “To tell the truth, I feel like my brain’s sloshing around in the kelp. I got my cup filled a few too many times last night.”

  “When I found you snoozing in the back of that vintage car this morning, I almost didn’t wake you up. But hey, you’ve been promising me this fishing trip for a long time, and I figured it would do you some good.”

  “It was quite an evening,” Benjamin said. “Good people who loved talking, singing, and sharing their food and drink. And what a spread it was—a feast, really. They made me feel right at home.”

  “So where’s the car come from?”

  “Oh, that’s Virgile’s new vehicle, the reason behind the expedition that led us to the festivities.”

  The two of them decided it was time to head back. They dismantled their fishing rods, hung up the lines, and started returning to shore. But it was slow going. The motor began to sputter and spit black plumes of smoke. By the time they reached La Vigne, the boat was moving in fits and starts. They had to restart the motor several times before they could tie up at the dock. Ludovic was upset and anxious to get the boat serviced as soon as possible. The middle of August was a bad time for a breakdown.

  After stopping at the market near the lighthouse, they arrived at La Planquette with a bag of pastries and fresh baguettes. When Benjamin pushed open the garden gate, he could hear Margaux laughing on the terrace. He walked around the corner and found her sitting at the table with Virgile. The two were drinking coffee.

  “Papa, you never told me about Virgile’s sense of humor. If he ever decides to quit working for you, he could have a future as a comic!”

  “Is that so?” Benjamin grumbled, making no effort to conceal his irritation.

  “Hello, Mr. Cooker. Did you sleep well?” Virgile asked, lowering his eyes.

  “I’m wondering what was so hilarious. I could hear you laughing all the way from the jetty.”

  “Oh, it’s a secret,” Margaux whispered, batting her eyes. “Isn’t it, Virgile?”

  Virgile was plainly ill at ease. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, cleared his throat, and pretended to be interested in the label on the jar of jam in front of him: “oranges, sugar, gelling agent, pectin. Fifty grams of fruit and forty-five grams of sugar for every one hundred grams.”

  “I see you haven’t wasted any time getting to know each other,” Benjamin said, pouring himself a cup of coffee because there was no tea.

  “I admit that I was very surprised when I found this young man lying on the couch, snoring away,” Margaux said, putting her hand on Virgile’s arm. Benjamin thought she was being entirely too perky. “It was a nice surprise. You and Maman have told me so much about him.”

  Virgile’s cheeks were turning pink. He continued to read the label on the jam. “Calories: 183. Protein: 0.4 grams. Carbohydrates: 45 grams. Lipids: 0.1 gram. Fiber: 1 gram. Sodium: 3.3 grams.”

  “Can we take off when you’ve found the expiration date, Virgile? We have a lot of work today.”

  “Do you want to go right away?”

  “Yes. I just need to take a shower, and then we’re off.”

  On the road to Bordeaux, they hardly spoke to each other. Benjamin mumbled sullenly in response to Virgile’s offhanded remarks. The winemaker was annoyed with himself for reacting this way. He had only himself to blame. If he hadn’t been in such bad shape the night before, Margaux wouldn’t have met his assistant.

  Too handsome, too clever, and obviously too funny, Virgile was a fox in the henhouse. All the more dangerous because his daughter apparently had a weakness for charmers. He hadn’t been aware of this trait before her flirtation with Antoine Rinetti. Benjamin was feeling a twinge of jealousy. But it was more than jealousy. His daughter was in a vulnerable state and needed to be protected. Even if Virgile’s intentions were honorable—and he had reason to question that, based on his experience with the young man—a model assistant didn’t necessarily make an ideal son-in-law.

  As they approached the first vines of Léognan, Virgile slid open the 403’s sunroof and ventured a comment that helped to lighten the mood.

  “I took a look at your white wines at La Planquette. Are you angry with the Alsatians?”

  “On the contrary, you know how much I love Alsace whites. I only go there three or four days a year to taste them on site, but they’re memorable, believe me.”

  “I thought so,” Virgile said. “And I thought you had quite a few of them in your cellar.”

  “Good observation,” Benjamin said. “I didn’t bring any to La Planquette. We have so many great wines in the Southwest.”

  “I did see some Touraine, though.”

  “That was Ludovic. Oh, I grabbed a few Côtes de Beaune, but I wish I had brought some selections from Alsace, which can be quite magnificent.”

  The winemaker stretched out his legs and sank deeper in his leather seat. He launched into a discourse on the way Pfaffenheim and Gueberschwihr wines were improving and the strong personality of Loew estate riesling. Then there was the pinot gris produced by the Domaines Schlumberger, whose cuvée Les Princes Abbés he particularly enjoyed. The list didn’t stop there: André Ostertag’s old-vine sylvaner had sophisticated elegance, and Richard Auther produced a perfectly fermented grand cru Winzenberg riesling.

  “I have a weakness for gewurztraminers,” Virgile managed to get in.

  “Oh, then you’ll love the late harvests from the Rolly Gassmann estate, which are exceptional in every way, and the excellent cuvée Laurence produced by the Weinbach estate.”

  “I don’t even know where that is. All I know about Alsace I learned in high-school geography—I can locate Strasbourg and Colmar on a map, and know the highest spot in the Vosges mountains: the Grand Ballon of Guebwiller. But all those names full of consonants do me in: Rorsh-whatever, Ep-who-knows, and Pfaff-choom.”

  “Make an effort, boy. Use those neurons of yours: that would be Rorschwihr, Epfig, and Pfaffenheim. And please don’t forget Westhoffen and Kaysersberg. Someday I will take you there, and you will see that it’s serious wine country.”

  Benjamin and Virgile slipped into a world that was theirs alone whenever they discussed bottles, labels, vintages, and the infinite range of aromas and textures. There, all worries and disagreements vanished. Grievances dissolved in the heady vapors of wine. Virgile knew this perfectly well, and he was cleverly and delicately bringing about a reconciliation with his employer. The image of Margaux, which had interfered with their usual camaraderie, slowly faded. Soon they were discussing grape varieties, alluvial deposits, fermentation, and wines to age.

  Despite the brutal sun bleaching the earth, the morning unfolded in almost unhoped-for serenity. Even though they were working hard in the heat, their minds were at peace. They were able to accomplish an impressive amount of work in just a few hours. Shortly after noon, however, Benjamin grew weary of walking the rows of vines and suggested that they take a break and have a quick lunch on the terrace of the Régent.
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br />   They drove back to the city. Before going to the restaurant, Benjamin wanted to stop at the office to check the mail, which usually included invoices, expert consultations, activity reports, advertisements, and thank-you notes. Benjamin made a quick inventory of the correspondence and noticed a small blue envelope. Jacqueline, who had left for lunch, had unsealed it, which was customary. Benjamin slipped his fingers into the envelope and pulled out a white card. On it, the sender had pasted letters cut out of a magazine. They formed a crude and possibly hastily assembled message:

  DO YOU WANT TO NO

  ABOUT THE CHATEAU?

  GO SEA THE SHEPE

  AND YOU WILL UNDERSTAND

  “What does that mean?” Virgile asked, looking over his employer’s shoulder.

  “First of all, it means the fellow who sent this can’t spell. Next, he knows us or has spotted us. And finally, he wants to tell us something and has a taste for mystery.”

  “You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you?”

  “It is intriguing. And it’s the perfect opportunity to drive your Peugeot,” Benjamin said, taking the keys right out of Virgile’s hand.

  “We’re not going to eat at the Régent, then?”

  “A sandwich will have to do. Unless you prefer some pitted olives.”

  10

  Benjamin drove slowly as they headed out of town. He inhaled the aroma of the leather upholstery, listened to the engine purr, and gauged the responsiveness of the manual transmission. The memory of his grandfather Eugène was so palpable, it wouldn’t have surprised him if he had looked in the rearview mirror and seen him sitting in the backseat, his nose sticking out the open window, his mustache in the breeze. The scenery rolled past, and warm air and sun streamed in through the open sunroof.

  “This is happiness, Virgile! But don’t forget your maintenance. I think the springs need a bit of grease.”

  “I’ll have Stofa take care of it when we pick up your convertible. By the way, you could ask him to service your own car. I think it’s been awhile.”

  “Excellent idea, my boy. I trust you’ll make that happen.”

  “He’ll do a good job, as always.”

  Benjamin tapped the horn lightly as he drove by a cyclist.

  “You still haven’t told me exactly what we’ll be doing in the Médoc, boss.”

  “Someone sent us an invitation to go see the sheep. So that’s where we’re headed.”

  “Sheep at the Château Gayraud-Valrose. Excuse me, but that sounds like a joke. Apart from the Pauillac lamb that often ends up on your plate, I have never seen anything resembling a sheep in the Margaux appellation.”

  “Of course not, Virgile. But whether this is a prank or a ploy, we have to see what the message means. Someone is giving us a lead. We need to check it out.”

  Virgile remained quiet, his elbow and forearm resting on the open window, his eyes looking into the distance.

  “What’s on your mind?” Benjamin asked as he negotiated a curve in the road.

  “I’ve never really understood this appellation, boss. When you hear the name—Margaux—you think of feminine wines, supple and silky. And yet I’ve tasted all sorts. Some were too diluted, rather dull. Others were more robust and solid. And then there’s the terroir, which isn’t all that easy to identify on a map. Margaux has always seemed rather complicated.”

  “You’re telling me,” Benjamin said, looking over at him. “Defining Margaux in a few words is a real challenge.”

  Virgile shot his boss a nervous smile. At the mention of Margaux, he had unintentionally strayed onto slippery ground, the name lending itself to allusions and double meanings.

  But Benjamin had overcome his morning grouchiness and was feeling much more generous. He eased his assistant’s discomfort by summarizing the history of the appellation, which was spread over five townships: Margaux, Cantenac, Soussans, Labarde, and Arsac. He left out none of the well-known struggles and battles those townships had fought to be included in the Margaux appellation. The regulating body, the INAO, hadn’t delimited the area geographically until 1954, based on the geological homogeneity of the terroir. This appellation now extended over thirty-five hundred acres of gravelly slopes streaked with clay and sand. It reached as far as the shores of the estuary.

  The central diamond of the appellation was the prestigious Château Margaux. Set around it were more or less sizable jewels, some of which had attained brilliant reputations over the years. Benjamin reeled off the names of several grand crus, most of which belonged to the famed 1855 classification established on the recommendation of Napoleon III: Cantenac-Brown, Brane-Cantenac, Boyd-Cantenac, Pouget, Issan, Kirwan, Desmirail, Prieuré-Lichine, Dauzac, Giscours, Durfort-Vivens, Ferrière, Lascombes, Malescot-Saint-Exupéry, Marquis de Terme, Palmer, Rauzan-Gassies, Rauzan-Ségla, du Tertre, Marquis d’Alesme-Becker, and more.

  “Enough already, boss,” Virgile said. “The cup is full!”

  “Am I overwhelming you, boy? Despite a period of post-war decline, all Margaux wines are worthy, and I count some of them among the most delicate in the Médoc. But one would be wrong to expect them to be silky, supple, round, or lacy simply because of the appellation’s feminine name.”

  “It’s true that it’s the only terroir with a woman’s name,” Virgile said quietly, avoiding eye contact with his employer.

  “Certainly, the name Margaux connotes a certain nobility and has something of a regal aura. But in the sixteenth century, the word ‘Margot’ was used to describe a drunk, a girl who couldn’t hold her wine. I believe they still use the expression ‘you’ve got a margot’ in Lyon when you’ve tied one on.”

  Arriving in Cantenac, Benjamin parked under the shade of a billboard in a small square. They left the Peugeot without bothering to lock it and walked toward the town hall.

  “What’s the plan?” Virgile asked.

  “I think we’re supposed to look for sheep, right?”

  “Yes, indeed. And you think you’re going to find them at the town hall?”

  “Not really. We are going to consult the land registry.”

  A secretary led them to the registry without asking any questions. She knew the winemaker, as he had come to the office on several occasions to identify boundaries when land was being partitioned or old vineyards were being consolidated.

  “Take all the time you need, Mr. Cooker.”

  “We won’t be long, miss. Thank you.”

  Benjamin put on his reading glasses and meticulously examined the maps. The Gayraud-Valrose estate extended over some 175 acres, and more than 110 of them were vineyard. The maps contained a wealth of details, including the layout of the plantings, the château, the outbuildings, one well, two springs, and forested areas. At the end of a short trail along the river, there was a rectangular building near a woods. Benjamin put his finger on the map and turned to Virgile.

  “Here it is—the sheepfold. We just have to find the sheep.”

  11

  They hid the Peugeot behind a mulberry hedge and slipped down a narrow path lined with weeds and yellowed nettles. A deafening concert of crickets drowned out the cries of seagulls soaring slowly above the river. Making sure that no one was watching, they jumped over a low wall and climbed up the slope where the last vines of the Gayraud-Valrose were standing.

  “It never ceases to amaze me,” Virgile said quietly. “It’s just a miracle to see all these grapes growing in the middle of the scree. Who would believe it?”

  “I must say that this soil is among the poorest for grapevines. Very little loam and an abundance of gravel. But look at all these beautiful stones! Centuries and centuries of Garonne floods that have carted, rolled, and polished rocks torn from the Pyrenees. Some of them are magnificent.”

  Squatting among the vines, they picked up and inspected the sun-warmed stones. Hyaline quartz—blond, purple, and occasionally white if no metallic oxide had tinted them—Jurassic chert, green sandstone, pink and light gray quartzite, shimmering agate, an
d golden and anthracite flint.

  Benjamin watched Virgile’s excitement grow as he looked for the most enticing specimens. He gathered them one by one, plunging his hands with delight into the precious piles of stones that smelled of the earth. He filled the pockets of his trousers with the finest examples. Benjamin explained that artisans had once fashioned costume jewelry out of these volcanic and sedimentary stones. In fact, the rocks of the Médoc rivaled those of Bristol, Cayenne, Alençon, and the Rhine.

  Virgile listened attentively while continuing his treasure hunt.

  “They say that under the reign of King Louis XVI—I think it was shortly before the storming of the Bastille—Count Hargicourt, who was lord of Margaux at the time, made a big impression at Versailles. He arrived wearing a powered wig, silk stockings, beribboned shoes, and a lace jabot. His coat was adorned with dozens of buttons that sparkled like diamonds. People marveled as he passed by. Women whispered. The petty nobles were envious, and finally this sparkling coat came to the king’s attention. Imagine the scene: the corpulent Louis XVI approached the count, looked him up and down—from his feet to the last hair on his wig—and before all his courtiers, said, ‘Sir, you look like the wealthiest man in the kingdom!’ Imagine Hargicourt’s embarrassment. He must have been red in the face. But then, with great wit, he gave the monarch a simple and provincial response. He looked at his king with humility and said, ‘Sire, I am merely wearing the diamonds of my land.’”

  “That’s a great story, boss.”

  “Legend has it that other aristocrats asked local children to gather diamond-like rocks for them. It seems they paid a high price for the times. I don’t know if this story is true, but it’s fun.”

  They whispered as they remained crouched in the foliage and tried to go undetected. But this plot at the edge of the property was deserted. No workers. No sounds of agricultural equipment. The way seemed clear, so they carefully stood up and searched the horizon, which was quivering in the heat. Behind a copse of trees, a stone building with a crumbling roof was hidden under ivy and other growth. Benjamin and Virgile approached cautiously, still wary of being spotted.