Mayhem in Margaux (3 page)

4

“Go. I’ll be fine.” Margaux looked as beautiful as ever, even with her hair mussed and a complexion so pale, it barely contrasted with the white hospital sheets. “Besides, I’m asleep most of the time. I’m not good company.”

Benjamin and Elisabeth had just announced they would stay in Bordeaux with her. The friends they had planned to vacation with would have sole use of their rented villa.

“It’s out of the question that you languish here in the heat because of me,” she insisted.

Elisabeth had finally acquiesced. “As you wish, darling,” she said, taking her daughter’s hand. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Benjamin sighed. “Stubborn and ardent clinging to one’s opinion is the best proof of stupidity.”

“Michel de Montaigne,” Margaux said.

“I see you’ve come back to your full senses, at least. How could you have gone out with that… that, madman?”

“Papa! Antoine was every bit a gentleman! We had an accident. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Had he been drinking?”

“You sound like the cops who questioned me. I won’t even answer you.”

“Benjamin, Margaux, that’s enough,” Elisabeth said.

Margaux turned to her mother. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He’s still in intensive care, darling. We don’t know. It doesn’t look good.”

Margaux turned her head away. They remained silent for several minutes.

“Go,” Margaux said.

As they reached the door, she called out, “Papa, I know you’ll be coming back to town to work. Come see me.”

5

Hoping he could get his mind off the accident, Benjamin stopped to look at the boats. It was one of his simple pleasures. He could stand on a dock or sit on an overturned boat for hours at a time and stare into the haze shrouding the white silhouette of Arcachon. Around the Île aux Oiseaux, swarms of sailboats were gliding over the waves. Farther away, toward the Banc de Bernet, speedboats were growling noisily, disrupting the slow and sinuous dance of the brightly colored fishing vessels whose slender bows were gracefully negotiating the turbulence. A stone’s throw from the pier, between the oyster beds, one had to withstand the onslaught of the Jet Skis and water scooters. Benjamin couldn’t hide his glee when one of them ran aground on a sandbar or flooded its engine. He felt the same happy vengeance that he experienced when he crushed a mosquito bent on disturbing a peaceful evening.

Benjamin didn’t have the soul of a true sailor, but he couldn’t live far from the ocean. He often left the tranquility of Grangebelle and the bustle of Bordeaux to go walking along the seashore, even for just an hour. He loved hearing the surf and feeling the spray of the saltwater—alone or with Bacchus gamboling beside him. In his mid-thirties, he had bought himself an Artaban 660, a pretty second-hand colonial-style boat with a white canvas canopy and navy-blue hull. It had the dated elegance of boats that were made between the two world wars. For a few years, Benjamin contentedly sailed along one shore or another in the Arcachon Bay, depending on the temperament of the tides. Then time became scarcer, and he sold the boat to a young radio announcer who daydreamed as much as he did and had a taste for lazy traveling.

He sauntered a bit wearily toward the port of La Vigne and arrived at La Planquette, where Elisabeth was unpacking the suitcases. It was the third year the Cookers were renting this simple villa, designed for idleness and relaxation. They were sharing it with their Parisian friends, Leslie and Ludovic Lamotte, who had fallen in love with the bay and the peninsula. They couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in the summer.

Leslie worked for an advertising company that specialized in cosmetics and ready-to-wear apparel. Her work both excited and exhausted her, and she looked forward to devoting her vacations to her children. Victor and Aristide had delicate features and such fair skin, even a raffia beach bag full of sunscreen was hardly sufficient.

Ludovic, who had long blond hair and blue-gray eyes, was an unusual mix of idealism and pragmatism. Benjamin had met him at a sale of rare vintages at the Hôtel Drouot auction house in Paris. They had struck up a friendship while commenting on the exorbitant prices of certain private cellars and had continued their conversation at a little neighborhood brasserie. Ludovic was delighted to find himself in the company of the brilliant winemaker, whose guide he knew well.

After trying his hand at selling old furniture, pop art paintings, and nineteen-seventies memorabilia, Ludovic had finally decided that he was more of an antiquarian than a dealer of bric-a-brac. He changed direction and started searching out rare items from the wine-making world: stamped pewter pitchers, china cabinets from châteaus, wood and metal wine racks, crystal carafes, and hand-blown wine glasses.

Eventually, Ludovic became interested in rare old vintages. Picking up bottles during his travels, he managed to acquire an astonishing reserve of rare finds with faded labels mottled with mold that attested to several decades of storage. This unusual business earned him frequent consultations with billionaires from the United States and Lebanon, a country that had an ancient viticultural region but where popular acceptance of wine drinking was relatively new. Ludovic served as a sort of wine archeologist for these rich clients.

Benjamin, who considered himself more of a taster than a drinker, understood perfectly how Ludovic had happened upon his chosen field. Life was full of back roads and wrong turns. But for the person with vision and passion, those meanderings inevitably led to the right place.

Benjamin always arrived at the coast with suitcases full of wines from his cellar, which he fully enjoyed sharing with his guests. The foursome generally indulged in white wine during their shared vacation. They would have their first glass after returning from the beach in the late afternoon. They had agreed that no one would drink at lunchtime, and this proved to be a wise decision, as the daytime temperature was almost always hovered in the high eighties. When it came to the early evening ritual, Benjamin would offer a Côtes de Gascogne, a Meursault, a Bergerac, or perhaps a Bugey. He also took pleasure in pouring a Puligny-Montrachet, an Entre-Deux-Mers, or a Côtes de Provence. Sometimes he teased his wife and friends by combining prestigious estate vintages with harmoniously structured table wines.

Ludovic, on the other hand, had a sentimental affection for the Carbonnieux he had discovered a few years earlier at a Cap Ferret wine bar. He couldn’t imagine a vacation at La Planquette without a case of this amber-colored Pessac-Léognan with mineral properties and a delicate mint bouquet enhanced by fine notes of toasted brioche. He was equally fond of a competitively priced Touraine wine that offered the sauvignon’s refreshing qualities and aromatic elegance.

They gathered shrimp, snails, and oysters and ate them with garlic butter and a glass of wine as the waning light of the afternoon sun shimmered through the upper branches of the pine trees. Sometimes they nibbled pistachios, toasted almonds, slices of Aveyron sausage, or slivers of a good Laguiole cheese while watching the children play and preparing a fire for their dinner of red sea bream, marinated mackerel, or tuna.

“If only our everyday lives were this relaxing,” Elisabeth sighed, delicately wiping a spot of condensation off her wineglass.

“It feels like we’re at the end of the earth,” Leslie said quietly. “I can’t wait until Margaux can join us.”

“When do you expect her to get out of the hospital?” Ludovic asked.

“The doctor wants to keep her a little longer,” Benjamin said, uncorking a bottle of Côtes de Saint-Mont, Les Vignes Retrouvées. “But I hate the thought of her alone in Bordeaux. If she hadn’t absolutely insisted that we keep our plans, I’d be back there right now. As it is, I feel guilty that we’re enjoying ourselves while she’s still recovering.”

Elisabeth put her glass down and stared at her husband. “Benjamin, I feel guilty too. But you know how stubborn she can be. She wouldn’t hear of us staying in Bordeaux, and she can get the rest she needs in the hospital. She’s recovering from a trauma, after all.”

The Lamottes agreed with Elisabeth and insisted that it was best to trust the doctors, who believed that Margaux needed to remain in the hospital. Benjamin, however, was intractable and grumpy.

“What are they doing for her that we can’t? She can get all the rest she needs while staying with us. And Cap Ferret is known for its spa therapy centers. She could regain her health much better here, with our care, the fresh sea air, and all these trees.”

He lifted nose and inhaled the aromas of pine resin and the sea to underscore his point.

“The best way to recover and forget the accident is to enjoy life. She can’t do that when she’s surrounded by the smells of disinfectant and hospital food, along with scores of nurses and doctors interrupting her sleep. She shouldn’t be spending her vacation this way. I know my daughter. If she wouldn’t let us stay with her, we should have insisted that she come with us, and I could have won her over. Even now I’m willing to march into that hospital and sign the discharge papers myself.”

He had gotten carried away. Elisabeth and the Lamottes were staring at him.

“Benjamin, think about it,” Elisabeth said, putting her hand on his. “We were willing to stay with her, but Margaux wouldn’t have it. She didn’t want us to change our plans, and she assured us that she would be perfectly fine in the hospital. She’s a grown woman. She has the right to make decisions for herself. Give her some credit.”

But Benjamin was still vexed. He got up and decided to take a stroll on the jetty by the docks. Haloed in pink light, the last boats were coming in and slowly tying up. A couple of amateur sailors in their sixties were hosing down their little catamaran while a tanned and muscled young man in a white tank top and kaki shorts was polishing the deck equipment of his Riva. Benjamin pulled out his cell phone and entered a number.

“Good evening, boss. Mission accomplished, but what a tough day!” Virgile’s voice was weary.

“Thank you for all that you’re doing. We’ll take stock tomorrow. Does the name Rinetti mean anything to you?”

“A brand of shoes?” Virgile said. “Pasta, maybe?”

“Stop being an imbecile, Virgile. He was the manager of Gayraud-Valrose.”

“The guy who was with your daughter?”

“Yes. I’d like to get some information on him. See what you can find out, but be discreet.”

“I know the Château Gayraud-Valrose pretty well. I did an internship there when I was in my second year at La Tour Blanche. We could head over there if you want.”

“Tell me more, Virgile.”

“I said ‘pretty well,’ but I meant ‘very well.’ I spent a little more than a month there, and I mostly worked with the vineyard manager. An old guy, not easygoing by any stretch, but a recognized expert: Georges Moncaillou. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

“That name does ring a bell.”

“I was mostly in the vineyards, but I still got to know the cellar master, Stéphane Sarrazin. I think he’s still there. Actually, I’d like to see him again. He was a quite a guy.”

“In what way?”

“I might as well confess. He fixed me up with the château’s secretary, who was a bit stuck up—the type who knows very well that she’s pretty and looks down on you. I don’t know how Stéphane did it, but as soon as he walked into a room, all the girls noticed him. He had a knack for making women laugh. Still, he never took advantage. He was a family man and faithful to his wife. At any rate, he introduced me to the secretary, and thanks to his charm, she warmed up to me. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.” Benjamin smiled. “It seems your internship at Gayraud-Valrose was especially beneficial in the area of women’s studies.”

“You have no idea.”

6

Benjamin took in the château perched above the estate and knew it was exactly what tourists expected to see when they drove along the wine roads of the Médoc. Built in the late nineteenth century, the aristocratic residence of the Gayraud family was situated on a hilltop covered with fine gravel and sandy soil. It was a structure commensurate with the once-powerful family’s commercial success. The massive square mansion topped with a slate mansard roof stood at the end of a driveway lined with palm trees and rosebushes, which once grew wild here. Cast-iron Medici vases lined the entry steps, and little windowpanes reflected the green of the surrounding vineyard. The nearby buildings, used for winemaking, had a proud, solid, and graceful allure. Surrounded by ampelopsis shrubs, they blended with the landscape.

The winemaker studied the eroded sculpture of a beautiful disciple of Bacchus, a layer of moss covering her tangle of grapes. Virgile, meanwhile, headed to the wine cellar to look for Stéphane Sarrazin, walking past a man wearing a beret who was squatting next to a moped with a wrench in hand. When Benjamin joined them, the two men were already deep in conversation. Sarrazin greeted Benjamin with a strong handshake.

“I will be with you in two minutes, Mr. Cooker. I just need to give some instructions on topping up the barrels.”

Benjamin and his assistant left the building and sought shade under a chestnut tree. It was only ten, but the sun was already beating down. Benjamin missed the sea breeze he’d left behind in Cap Ferret that morning.

“So?” he asked, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. “Was he surprised to see you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Virgile said, shrugging. “At least he didn’t say so. It was as if we’d seen each other just yesterday.”

They didn’t have time say more. Stéphane Sarrazin emerged from the wine cellar. He motioned to them to wait where they were and joined them under the tree. Benjamin guessed that he was in his forties, and he was still a handsome man: average height, rather slim, short slightly graying hair, broad forehead, bushy eyebrows, and playful eyes. But his somewhat weary gait and nonchalant bearing suggested underlying disappointment. No bitterness or regret, but an awareness of pain.

“From your description yesterday, I was expecting a more jovial-looking man,” Benjamin said.

“Well, they’ve just gotten some unsettling news, boss. But it’s true, I remember that Sarrazin could be cold sometimes, and he didn’t have any illusions about people.”

“I’ve come to see you on unofficial business, Mr. Sarrazin,” Benjamin said when the cellar master reached them. “You probably know why I’m here.”

The man sized up Benjamin with amused eyes. He didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed to find himself in the company of one of France’s best-known wine experts. Courteous, respectful, and full of himself, Benjamin was thinking.

“Virgile mentioned that he knew you,” Benjamin continued. “So I’ve taken the liberty to come see you. I hope you will forgive the interruption.”

Stéphane Sarrazin grinned ever so slightly. The small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes accentuated his impertinent look.

“No need to beat around the bush, Mr. Cooker. You want to know about Antoine Rinetti.”

“Absolutely. I assume you know that his condition is serious.”

“Of course. He works here. The château is in touch with the hospital. And I do read the
Sud-Ouest
, like everyone else, so I also know that your daughter was in the car.”

“Do you think someone may have wanted to harm him?”

“Why are you asking?”

Benjamin took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

“I might as well tell you right away what the newspapers will be reporting. His car was sabotaged.”

Virgile, who had been standing off to the side, stepped in and joined the conversation. Benjamin sensed that the cellar master’s grin, verging on smug, was starting to annoy his assistant.

“That his car may have been sabotaged doesn’t seem to surprise you,” Virgile said.

“Not really.”

“Or bother you,” Benjamin added.

“You’ve gotten straight to the point with me, so I’ll level with you. The accident didn’t upset me much.”

“Even though he’s the château manager, and you worked together every day?”

“I’m not very good at playacting, so I’ll just tell you: since Rinetti has been here, we’ve had some changes that were difficult to swallow.”

“I’m not asking you to betray the trust of your employers, but maybe you could enlighten me about…”

“My code of silence is relative,” Sarrazin interrupted. “Beyond our winemaking techniques, I am free to speak my mind, and I can tell you what everyone else is thinking.”

Sarrazin began talking about the estate, and while he had promised to be candid, he chose his words carefully, measuring his allusions and calculating the effects of surprise. Some of his pointed remarks seemed to have hidden meanings Benjamin couldn’t make out. Sarrazin winked at Virgile when he spoke of an old employee or certain aspects of the property’s operations. At times, the winemaker wondered whether Sarrazin was joking or serious. On the whole, though, what Benjamin heard was a cautionary exposé.

The last heir of the Gayraud family had made some bad investments and suffered setbacks related to the mismanagement of the estate. A legal battle to resolve a contested inheritance had finally worn out the man, who wasn’t even a direct descendent of the original founders. He was forced to sell the property to avoid bankruptcy. At the beginning of the year, Helvetica-Sûr, an insurance company from Bâle, had acquired the estate for a relatively paltry sum. People in the area said the land had been sold off for a gulp of wine, and since this pitiful transaction, no one had seen Gayraud.

“Indeed, I’ve never run into him in Bordeaux,” Benjamin said.

Stéphane Sarrazin didn’t acknowledge this remark. He continued. The insurance company quickly examined the books and hired experts to provide an accurate assessment. They recommended bringing in an administrator to restore order. The company saw fit to appoint a young man trained in statistical analysis and austerity marketing. Antoine Rinetti had arrived in April, and the following day, he took draconian measures. He slashed overhead and operating budgets. He knew nothing about the winemaking world. He had never set foot in a wine cellar or a vineyard, and he had no interest in learning. His mind was made up: the estate would be managed like a manufacturing company that turned out gizmos.

“Then one day, Rinetti called everyone into the reception room,” Sarrazin said.

“Which room?” Virgile asked. “The one with the cherubs and flowers on the ceiling? You know, where you introduced me to that beauty?”

Sarrazin gave Virgile a dull look and went on. “He was so arrogant. He said yields were too low and production costs and salaries were too high. We needed to amortize investments, communicate more, and upgrade our image. He kept going on and on about what was wrong. Then he looked us in the eye, one after the other, and promised he’d turn the château into an efficient business in no time.”

“Clearly, he’s not from the wine world,” Benjamin said.

“He made it clear that he intended to stanch the flow of red ink, and he would begin with the payroll. He would keep the steward, Phillipe Cazevielle, and me. But two laborers and an assistant cellar master would be let go. He was almost cheerful about it. Interns or temporary workers, depending on seasonal needs, would take their place. Finally, he announced that Georges Moncaillou, the vineyard manager, would be afforded—in other words forced to take—an early retirement at the age of fifty-seven. No one dared to question him. We went our separate ways without a word. I’m surprised Rinetti didn’t deduct the half hour we were in there with him from our paychecks.”

“What happened then?” Virgile asked. “Did he implement the changes immediately?”

“The next day, Georges Moncaillou committed suicide: a shotgun blast to the neck. He was a hunter, you know.”

“Shit, Moncaillou!” Virgile nearly shouted. “Fucking shit!”

The cellar master was quiet for a moment, clenching his jaw in a seeming attempt to contain his emotion. Benjamin couldn’t tell whether Sarrazin was suppressing grief or anger. He then spoke briefly about the funeral, when the residents of the town and employees of neighboring châteaus in the Margaux appellation came together. Antoine Rinetti had even had the gall to show up.

“What about Moncaillou’s son?” Virgile asked.

“Gilles? Oh, he’s still working for the estate, kowtowing morning and night, just like he always has.”

“It must be tough on him,” Benjamin said.

“He doesn’t show it, but he’s taken to wearing his father’s threadbare beret out in the vineyards. There’s no telling what’s brewing in his head.”

“Who’s managing the vineyard now?” Benjamin asked.

“A man named Francis Gardel, from the Charente in the Cognac area. He’s nothing like old Georges.”

“Boss, Moncaillou was one of the good ones,” Virglile said. “He’d served Gayraud-Valrose for, what, thirty years? And he’d done tons to improve the state of the vines.”

“He was really passionate about terroir. He made replanting, irrigation, and soil improvement an art form. He’s sorely missed,” Sarrazin said. “Here at Valrose, there are more thorns than petals these days.”

Sarrazin seemed ready to walk away. But instead, he looked Benjamin in the eye.

“You know, Mr. Cooker, you judged us harshly in the latest edition of your guide.”

“Not really. I was actually full of praise for your last two prestige vintages.”

“That’s true, but you criticized the tannins. I believe your words were ‘unpredictable extraction,’ if I remember correctly.”

“I think they shouldn’t have been so pronounced. They should have been better blended and fuller.”

“Everyone here was complaining about you when the guide came out. But I have to admit that I agreed, more or less, with your assessment. That’s just between us, of course.”

“Of course. My silence in that regard goes without saying,” Benjamin replied.

They shook hands with the firm grip of men who honor the soil, the grapes, the art of winemaking, and the labors of those who worked the vineyards.

In the distance, the convertible, parked near a clump of old rosebushes, gleamed in the sun. Not a hint of cloud disrupted the sky. Seagulls were flying overhead, carried on the warm currents floating above the river.

“I didn’t expect him to be such a talker,” Benjamin said.

“Why do you say that?” Virgile asked.

“Because he’s cynical and intelligent. He doubts everything and believes in no one. But beneath that façade, there’s a kind of desperation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a violent streak.”

“It sounded to me like he wanted to justify the pronounced tannins,” Virgile said, with a shrug.

“Do you think so? I don’t know. There something in his eyes…something kind of borderline.”

“Oh, he’s not crazy. I can assure you of that,” Virgile said. “He’s too self-contained.”

“That’s precisely what worries me.”