Late Harvest Havoc (7 page)

“And he was right to do that,” Fauchié said. “He'll get a copy of your statement. Would you like to add anything, Mr. Cooker?”

“Yes. I don't mean to interfere in your affairs, but you should interview a man named Séverin Gaesler. He owns a café on the Place de la Cathédrale. An older man, very round and ruddy. At first he doesn't seem very nice, but he's not a bad guy. He said he knows things about the vine cutter.”

Virgile was disappointed with his boss. Why hadn't the winemaker told him? Despite his desire to leave Alsace immediately, he was conducting his own investigation at that very moment, and it was even possible that he was one step ahead of everyone else.

“All this can't be the work of a single person. He must have accomplices, or maybe there's a gang of crazies raiding the vineyards just to create havoc,” the inspector suggested, fiddling with a paperclip.

Virgile decided it was time to add his own insights.

“So the nutcase—or nutcases—destroyed two vineyards more than twenty miles apart in one night. Of course, it's feasible, but considering all the rain we had yesterday, you'd think the vehicle the perpetrator used would leave tire tracks in the mud. If he parked on a paved road before going into the vines, at least he'd leave footprints.”

“To this point, young man, you've been stating the obvious,” the inspector said as he motioned to his subordinate to print out the statement so the winemaker could sign it.

“I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss what my assistant is telling you,” Benjamin said. “Let's take a closer look at this. Continue, Virgile.”

“We have, to date, four attacks in less than a week, and it seems to me the gangrene is spreading. The destruction of thirty, fifty, one hundred vines is not the act of extraterrestrials or supernatural creatures. I know witchcraft is still practiced in your land, but still. The guy in question must be having a blast, considering the way he's screwing you every night. For him, it's almost a game. In my opinion, he has some know-how, because he's good with a chainsaw and he can do his work quietly. I'd guess he's fairly athletic too.”

“Okay, Virgile, but that's really not much to work with,” said Benjamin.

“Let me finish, boss. I think the guy is acting kind of like an arsonist. The first time, it was to settle a score. Given the uproar the initial crime caused and all the attention he got from the press, the guy decided to take another shot at it and hit harder and better. Like the arsonist who gets more excited the more the forest burns, this guy was getting more exhilarated each time he took a chainsaw to a vineyard.”

The inspector leaned in a little closer.

“Now, humor me in my comparison,” Virgile continued. “The hills are vast and deserted, and the weather forecaster predicts a strong wind from the south. Soon the idea of setting a fire spreads to other disturbed minds. Little by little, the whole countryside is on fire. Each arsonist is settling scores with little risk of being found out.”

“An intriguing theory, Virgile,” Benjamin said. “Tell us more.”

“Now there's not just one suspect, but many,” Virgile continued. “Consider what happens around the Mediterranean some years in the summer. And I don't think a gang is behind this. You'll see. I predict much more chainsaw vandalism in the vineyards. I'm willing to bet on it.”

“I, for one, am always reluctant to bet against you, Virgile. Perhaps we shouldn't be looking at the possibility of many culprits, but definitely we should be considering the possibility of two or more.”

“Yes,” Virgile nearly shouted.

Seemingly unimpressed by Virgile's enthusiasm, Fauchié presented the statement to Benjamin and indicated where it needed to be signed. The winemaker took out his pen and scribbled his signature without even reading it.

“Where can I reach you in the next few hours if I have any more questions?” the inspector asked, getting out of his chair and straightening his shoulders.

Virgile took note of his long neck and skinny legs. Fauchié reminded him of an old featherless wading bird ready to pounce on the first young carp to swim by.

“I'm leaving tomorrow for Germany, but Virgile will be my envoy for another few days.”

“In that case, young man, don't hold back what you learn. I'll be eager to take any information you deem pertinent.”

“I'm not so sure,” Virgile said.

“And why is that? You doubt my sincerity?”

“I wouldn't say that. I'm just not a man who waters down my wine.”

“Does that mean I have to convert to wine?”

“Yes, Inspector. I'd advise doing just that,” Benjamin said. “And make it red wine. Any man paid to look for criminals has to be familiar with the unique smell of blood. And is wine anything other than the blood of the earth? So you know what you need to do. One to two glasses at each meal.”

“And if I don't?”

“Go back and read Louis Pasteur: ‘Wine is the most healthful of drinks!'”

When Virgile and his employer took leave of the water drinker, the two undocumented boys were still languishing in the reception area.

The younger one was sleeping, as he had been when Benjamin and Virgile arrived. Virgile wondered how he could do that, because the other one was spitting and shouting at the cops. He couldn't tell exactly what the boy was saying, but he understood swearing enough to know he was strongly advising the cops to go have sex with each other.

Virgile grinned. Maybe then they wouldn't be so full of themselves.

8

The vines descended the mountain in highly regimented rows. They were battalions in golden armor ready to do battle in the valley. But these vines would never cross the Mosel River. Such a maneuver would have been suicidal. Riesling needed exposure to southern sun and a steep incline in slate-rich soil that furrowed in stormy weather. The steeper the slope, the better the wine. It had been this way since the eighteenth century, and no one would have dreamed of experimenting with new vines in the valley near Niederemmel, except to make
Qualitätswein mit Prädikat
, so-called superior quality wines like Kabinett de Moselle.

No one, that is, but Fritz Loewenberg, with his light wines containing less than eight percent alcohol. Loewenberg himself drank only his honey-scented and delightfully sweet Goldtröpfchen, except on certain special occasions. According to some, he was the richest man in Piesport. Benjamin thought this could be true. But the man's production was minor in relation to his ambitions. He had set his sights on Saint Émilion.

“I need that to completely satisfy myself,” he had told Benjamin.

Benjamin Cooker had been in Piesport for two days. He was staying in Loewenberg's pretentious mansion with gables and a slate roof. It was filled with ancient armor and tapestries that were tended daily. The furniture, copper pots, and wood floors gleamed. And as far as Benjamin was concerned, the house lacked even an ounce of charm. He couldn't abide the cold Germanic severity.

The night before, he had dined with Fritz Loewenberg. He was a somewhat agreeable man who spoke refined French almost without accent, and he sprinkled his conversation with touches of humor. In truth, the vinification posed no major problems. It was just a little exercise in style for the winemaker from the Gironde, a sort of stroll through the vines on the vertiginous slopes and in the wine warehouses, each of which was polished like a ship's deck. Benjamin's real assignment was boosting the estate's reputation, which the previous cellar master had tarnished. That wouldn't be too hard to accomplish. The job was straightforward and paid well.

More delicate was the role of mediator Loewenberg intended to have him play in the purchase of a premier cru at the gates of the Saint Émilion citadel. For more than twenty years, Benjamin had been the regular wine expert for this château, which was highly coveted by the Bordeaux wine-trade network. Benjamin could intercede on behalf of the German wine producer, guaranteeing that Loewenberg would respect the network's interests in the distribution and sale of the estate's production. Meanwhile, the acquisition would help Loewenberg spread his winemaking investments and serve as a cushion if German wines experienced a decline.

Loewenberg had brought out the most beautiful bottles from his cellar. Despite the businessman's somewhat intimidating bearing, he was a knowledgeable lover of French, Swiss, and Italian wines. His palate was reliable, and so was his judgment. He was assuring Benjamin that the transaction would be a smooth one. Unfortunately, Loewenberg had the bad habit of going on and on.

Benjamin simply nodded every time Loewenberg said, “I'm sure you understand me, Mr. Cooker.” Yes, he was enjoying the great vintages, but other than that, the dinner was a boring affair, especially because his host hadn't found it necessary to include any female guests at his table.

It was rumored that Loewenberg's wife had become infatuated with a yacht manufacturer who frequently partied in Monaco. Loewenberg, however, wasn't inclined to make any confessions regarding his marital status. Benjamin idly wondered if more wine might loosen his tongue. He had packed a late-harvest 2010 Fronholz muscat with the intentions of sharing it with this man who aspired to forge a name for himself among the Saint Émilion Jurade, an elite group founded in 1199 by King John Lackland of England. Its members were dedicated to serving as ambassadors for Saint Émilion wines throughout the world.

“Even though your noble ambitions take you from the banks of the Mosel to the banks of the Dordogne, you need to taste this nectar, which is closer to the land you love,” Benjamin suggested as he poured the amber wine into his host's glass.

“Gladly!” exclaimed the German winemaker. He brought the glass to his nose and methodically enumerated the perfumes emanating from the Alsace muscat.

“Candied mandarin, orange flower, acacia. Extremely aromatic,” he noted.

“I doubt that it ages very well, though,” Benjamin said, checking the viscosity of the muscat clinging to the side of his glass.

“All the more reason to drink it right away,” said Loewenberg. “Here's to French viticulture.”

“It wasn't very long ago that you could have owned these late-harvest wines,” the winemaker pointed out with a twinkle in his eye.

“Let's forget the past, Benjamin. Let's drink to the reconciliation of people and the universality of wine.”

They smiled and clinked their glasses, but as he sipped his muscat, Benjamin couldn't help musing about the havoc in Alsace. Whole nations could sign sophisticated peace accords, but personal enmities—between families or within families—it seemed, couldn't be resolved with the stroke of a pen.

Benjamin thought about the Deutzlers and his visit the day after the family's vineyard was damaged: Véronique's nervousness and the surly look on Andre's face. What secrets—and sins—was this family hiding?

Virgile called Benjamin every evening. He reported all of his activities, including his conversations with the authorities, the winemakers, their workers, and others. Virgile related what was in the national and local news. On the radio and television, the commentators had dubbed the vandalism “the Alsatian chainsaw massacres.”

Unfortunately, the investigation was getting bogged down, despite the long hours Roch and Fauchié were putting in and the ever-widening blanket of official and unofficial vigilance. Law-enforcement patrols roamed the countryside from dusk till dawn, sometimes venturing onto muddy tracks at the risk of getting stuck and becoming the laughing stock of nearby winegrowers. Winemakers were organizing clandestine meetings and even militias. The prefect was fiercely opposed to these shadow armies that spread out under the cover of darkness, ready to take on any intruders.

When the nights became too chilly and damp, the vigilant winegrowers lit fires on the hills the same way they would on the cold nights of March, when frost threatened the first buds. Some winemakers, experienced hunters, loaded their hounds onto the backs of their pickups and drove into the vineyards and forests in hopes of tracking down the most wanted man in Alsace. It looked like a wild boar hunt, with high tension and much barking and yowling. The sound of gunfire rang out now and then, and someone thought he spied a stocky figure on the Wintzenheim hills. Another person reported that he had seen an intruder crouched in the vineyards near Heiligenstein. In fact, they were deer frightened by the nocturnal circus.

Haughty and authoritarian, Captain Roch led the patrols in the countryside around Colmar, while neighboring police forces patrolled their respective jurisdictions. The Strasbourg prosecutor himself went out one night to observe the operation.

For two nights, all their efforts seemed to be paying off. Nothing happened. But then the assailant struck again, cutting down thirty grapevine plants in the heart of the Osterberg Grand Cru.

Anger rose another notch, and a demonstration involving all the winemakers in Alsace was planned for the following Saturday at the gates of the prefecture. The agricultural trade unions weren't ruling out the possibility of things getting out of hand. Roch, who refused to deal with Virgile, had tried several times to reach Benjamin. The connections between the various vineyards targeted by the chainsaw-wielding attacker or attackers seemed more and more tenuous and, indeed, nonexistent.

Virgile's arsonist theory was becoming increasingly credible to Inspector Fauchié, who invited him to lunch at the Échevin on Saturday.

“Do you think I should go, boss?”

“Of course,” Benjamin ordered. He was beside himself with envy. Why hadn't he stayed in Colmar, where he could have enjoyed the food and had more stimulating conversation? At any rate, his assignment in Piesport was coming to an end. He'd be done in a day, two days at the most.

“Anything else?” Benjamin asked, eager to know everything.

“No, boss, just that the archbishop of Strasbourg is officiating at a Mass this Sunday at the Notre Dame Basilica in Thierenbach. He's asking for prayers to stop the evil attacks. I tell you, the devil is getting drunk on riesling and sylvaner.”

“Stop joking around like that, Virgile. Go have lunch with Fauchié, and call me as soon as you get back.”

Benjamin pulled into the parking lot of Les Violettes Hotel and Spa in Jungholtz, and his arrival did not go unnoticed. Alerted that the winemaker was parking his car, Philippe Bosc came outside to greet his renowned guest. Like the winemaker, he was a lover of vintage cars. He himself had a dozen gleaming touring cars, all of them in perfect condition.

Benjamin was happy to be back in France, with its charming hotels and cordial greetings. Hanza, a friend from Biarritz and a wealthy descendent of industrial pioneer Frederic Japy, had heartily recommended Les Violettes. She was in the habit of spending her fortune in the best hotels on the planet.

This hotel, with its Vosges sandstone facade, was nestled in the small Rimbach Valley and surrounded by the bluish foliage of Le Grand Ballon. From the window of his suite, Benjamin could see the Thierenbach basilica's gray-green onion dome. He had secured a huge room in the style of high-mountain chalets. The rustic woodwork, old beams, antique furniture, and parquet flooring exuded the aroma of beeswax polish. A cozy bed with feather pillows and quilts, thick drapes, and old Persian carpets assured him a peaceful night's sleep.

The road from Germany had been long and tortuous, so Benjamin wasn't inclined to linger in the hotel restaurant, with its elegant but understated décor. But he couldn't resist the Alsatian cuisine, and he finally gave in to the temptation of vegetable
confit
in balsamic truffle vinaigrette, pork jowls braised in pinot noir, and
baba au rhum
in a bath of fresh fruit.

A Gustave Lorentz 2007 Altenberg de Bergheim grand cru riesling, followed by a Blanck “F” pinot noir from the same year accompanied this high-calorie meal. When the clock of Les Violettes struck eleven, Benjamin and the sommelier were still chatting, recalling their latest finds.

A plum brandy, along with a double San Luis Rey Corona smoked on the terrace, brought the winemaker the gratification he had missed during the few days he had spent with the ambitious Fritz Loewenberg.

The following day, Benjamin attended Mass in the impressive Notre-Dame Basilica, a place of pilgrimage for worshippers the world over. He admired the dimensions of the church, the baroque altar carved from Carrara marble, which was bathed in light pouring through four stained-glass windows, and the intricately carved pews. In the end, the archbishop had not made the trip, but had sent a message of encouragement. The priest was on his own.

Women sat in the first pews, while the men chose to sit at the back. The sermon was dogmatic and devoid of the passion that was the hallmark of great orators. Benjamin quickly tired of the repeated references to “the evil beings undermining the persistent efforts of the laborers of the earth.” Instead of listening, he looked around the church, first at the ceiling, with its ensemble of holy figures that seemed to be suspended from the arch. He had to search his memory, but he thought he recognized the saints Dagobert II, Casimir, and Francis de Sales. Then he looked at the walls, covered with frescoes by the Alsatian painter Martin Feurstein. Benjamin, a former student at the École des Beaux Arts, admired the
Wedding at Cana
and
Jesus Found in the Temple
for their mastery of light and drapery.