Tainted Tokay (12 page)

32

W
hen Virgile sat down to call Benjamin, he wondered how he was going to skirt the question of Alexandrine and whether he should tell his boss about the Blanchard family's saga. But the man who answered the phone sounded distracted and distant, hardly the focused and self-confident Benjamin Cooker, one of the world's best-known wine experts and student o
f human nature.

“What's g
oing on, boss?”

“I don't have the time or energy to tell you the whole story, son. We're in an impossible mess. Elisabeth's passport and wallet have been stolen, and we've been victimized by a ring of identity thieves, one of whom just eluded us, leaving us with his rotten jalopy, which is certainly a stolen car. I haven't had the chance to cancel Elisabeth's credit cards yet. Claude's girlfriend has just been sent to the hospital. They found her unconscious in her hotel room. And to top it off, he's been hauled to the p
olice station.”

“Talk about a Hungarian rhapsody! I think I hear som
e wrong notes.”

“You can s
ay that again.”

“What's wrong with Claude
's girlfriend?”

“I'm not sure. The innkeeper said it was an alcoholic stupor, and she was found in her room with three
dead soldiers.”

“Three stiffs?”

“No, three empty bottles
of Champagne.”

“As if your bubble weren't
already burst.”

“You don't have to try so hard to be funny, son. I'm no
t in the mood.”

“Surely she couldn't have drunk all three by herself. Claude won't be too happy if he finds out she had help. Anyway, what can I do for you, boss? I feel pretty powerless back her
e in Bordeaux.”

“Don't worry. You have your hands full with Alexandrine and the work at the lab. By the way, how are things going? Is she out of
the hospital?”

“Yes, she is.”

“And?”

“And, well, let's just say she still needs some time
to recuperate.”

“Did she tell you anyt
hing more about

her attacker?”

Virgile went silent. “Well, actually, no, she didn't. She told me some other things,
but not that.”

“Well, keep trying. And
how are things

with Didier?”

“Now, that, too, is full of surprises. He isn't who I thought he was. It turns out he might not be so
bad after all.”

“Pray tell.”

“Let's just say that life at the Blanchard château isn't so serene. The family has some ghosts
in its closet.”

Virgile summarized
the situation.

“Florence didn't seem at all troubled when I saw her. She's even tougher than I thought. No wonder I'm s
o fond of her.”

“Well, she has Didier to provide moral support. Meanwhile, I hope you're thinking about saving your own skin. We have enough problems without the cops throwing you in the slammer for driving stolen property—a useless Trabant, no less. As for Alexandrine, she intends to get back to the lab as soon as she's up to it. She knows the work is piling up. By the way, we received the Blanchard samples. They
're excellent!”

“Good, good,”
Benjamin said.

33

T
he sun had been beating down on Tokaj all day, and the heat had become stifling. Even with night approaching, the air was still hard to breathe. Separated from the Nithard-Chavez couple, Elisabeth and Benjamin dined alone under the arbor. In the small inn, the afternoon incident was the topic of much gossip, and Benjamin had cajoled the innkeeper into giving him mo
re information.

Early in the afternoon two men had shown up, asking for Miss Chavez. They described her perfectly. They said they were friends of her traveling companion and had a gift for her. They showed the innkeeper a box. It seemed innocent enough, so she gave them the room number. Miss Chavez ordered Champagne, and they stayed for quite a while, making a ruckus. Then everything went quiet, and the two men sneaked out like thieves, nearly running when they got ou
t of the hotel.

“It felt off to me,” the innkeeper said. “So I went and knocked on the door. When nobody answered, I unlocked it and discovered Miss Chavez lying half-undressed on the bed. The place was a mess, and there was a line of powder on the
coffee table.”

Benjamin was telling Elisabeth what he had found out over the meal. But he didn't have an appetite and couldn't eat much of his stuffed pike, although it was perfectly fine. The bottle of szamorodni that accompanied the fish also went unappreciated. Elisabeth wasn't especially hungry either. She just picked at her overdressed
chicken salad.

“So she was doing drugs and drinking with two strange men in her room,” Elisabeth said. “Who is this tart Claude found? Clearly not who she says she is. And to think that I had almost starte
d to like her.”

“There's a lot we don't know, darling. Who were those men, for example? We know for sure, though, that they weren't Zoltán and Pavel, because they
were with us.”

“Unless Zoltán has a clone. I think I'll try some of this szamoro
dni after all.”

“Perhaps they were two homegrown gigolos?” B
enjamin asked.

“I don't think they were gigolos. No woman with a body like hers would be p
aying for sex.”

“You have a point. Still, she doesn't seem to be too discerning when it comes to men, especially when she's had too much to drink. Remember the other night at the Budapest Astoria? She was practically straddling Zolt
án at the bar.”

Elisabeth sighed. “Poor Claude. She managed to pull the wool
over his eyes.”

“Don't go believing Claude
is that naïve.”

“You don't think those two men have anything to do with my passport and wallet being s
tolen, do you?”

“Probably not…”

“That's reassuring,” Elisabeth said, wiping her mouth with her embr
oidered napkin.

“Unless she's in caho
ots with them.”

“Benjamin, you are tot
ally paranoid.”

“Right now, dear, a measure of paranoia seems t
o be in order.”

The couple passed on dessert and just ordered coffee. Benjamin drew a Havana from his cigar case and fell silent. The evening had failed to usher in cooler air. A rainstorm would have been a blessin
g, he thought.

The Cookers retired, knowing the next day would be trying. It was imperative that they contact the French embassy and get an emergency passport for Elisabeth. She needed the documentati
on to get home.

But first they had to report the theft to the police and recount how Zoltán, with the help of some accomplices, had taken advantage of them from Budapest to Tokaj. They would also tell the police about the Trabant parked outside the inn. They would need an interpreter to make sure the Hungarian authorities understood the entire story. Meanwhile, as far as they knew, Claude was still at the
police station.

Unable to sleep because it was still too hot, Benjamin sat on the balcony of his room, smoking a cigar. Just as he began to study the Big Dipper a shooting star flashed across the celestial vault. He took it
as a good sign.

Shortly before midnight, a police car pulled up to the inn. An officer got out and opened the rear door. When Claude stepped out, Benjamin rushed down to m
eet his friend.

“Two double whiskeys, plea
se,” he said to

the innkeeper.

They ducked beneath the deserted arbor. Claude looked haggard. His shoulders sagged, and there were dark circles
under his eyes.

“Benjamin, they treated me like a common criminal, until they ascertained that my papers were real. They asked a long list of questions about Consuela before taking me to the hospital in Sárospatak to see her—or rather to
question her.”

Claude paused and stared at the ice cube floating in the
amber whiskey.

“It was a horrible place. The paint was peeling. The linoleum floors reeked of ammonia. The few nurses were overwhelmed. A man in one of the rooms kept crying out. I didn't know if he was in pain or was crazy.
Probably both.”

“Sounds li
ke a hospital.”

“Believe me, Benjamin. I'd pick a French hospital over this one any day. While we were waiting for Consuela to regain consciousness, the officers told me the buildings were former army barracks. The place was converted to a hospice at the beginning of the twentieth century and to an urgent-care facility when Hungary
was liberated.”

“What a
bout Consuela?”

“Her doctor said they'd found cocaine and alcohol in her system. Apparently the cocaine offset any fatigue that she might have felt, and she wound up drinking more than she could handle. Fortunately, she didn't choke on any vomit or stop breathing. And her liver see
ms to be okay.”

“Claude, does she usu
ally do drugs?”

“Not with me. But I don't know. When I went into the room, she didn't say anything, not even hello. She just stared. But I swear, it almost looked like she was smirking. The cops and I just stood there and she didn't utter a word. It was as if she had lost the abi
lity to speak.”

“Do you think she has
brain damage?”

“The doctor said it was a possibility
,” Claude said.

“So the cops left empty-handed,”
Benjamin said.

“As did I,” Claude said with a sigh. He sipped his whiskey. “They're taking this matter ve
ry seriously.”

He fished the ice cube out of the whiskey and tossed it on the ground. Then he emptied the gla
ss in one gulp.

“Did you get the feeling that Consuela understood what you were saying?” Ben
jamin ventured.

“Do you want to know what I really think?” Claude answered, looking Benjamin in the eye. “She's faking aphasia. She's too ashamed of what she did. She's a proud woman, you know. She'd never confess to anything as embarra
ssing as that.”

“And, my friend, ‘some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.' You have to face reality, Claude. The woman who's sharing your life is not who she claims to be—it's more than the alco
hol and drugs.”

“Okay, stop right th
ere, Benjamin!”

“Claude, we're friends, and I don't think you're totally aware of your ravishing tango d
ancer's flaws.”

“What
do you mean?”

“Consuela wasn't alone while we were sipping Tokaj
i in the dark.”

Benjamin told Claude about the two visitors who had come to C
onsuela's room.

Benjamin knew he was being harsh, and he felt a tinge of guilt. But his friend deserved far better than what he was getting from the pretentious and unfaithful woman now in
the hospital.

Claude stood up, took his glass, and looked for one last drop of whiskey. It was hopelessly empty. Furious, he threw it
to the ground.

34

F
irst came the squeaking brakes, then the thud of metal against plastic, followed by hydraulics and scrunching. But Virgile didn't open his eyes until the smell of the garbage truck on the street below wafted through t
he open window.

“Dammit,” he said, jumping
up to close it.

Alexandrine mumbled something and turned over, covering herself with t
he white sheet.

Virgile tiptoed out of the room. In the kitchen, he dug out a package of Blue Mountain coffee beans he kept for special occasions. From the top shelf of the cupboard, he took down the electric coffee grinder. He looked around the tiny space and hesitated. Then he stuck the grinder in the refrigerator so the noise wouldn't wak
e Alexandrine.

Five minutes later, he was back in the bed with two steaming cups of fresh
ly brewed java.

Alexandrine propped herself up on the bed and thanked Virgile with a smile. She held the cup with two hands and enj
oyed the aroma.

“
It's not free.”

“What are you
talking about?”

“Well, in exchange for this fine cup of the best coffee in the world, I would like you to tell me th
e whole truth.”

Alexandrine's e
yes went dark.

“You haven't actually told me what your stepfather was doing at your place. Nor have you told me what actually happened the day you
were attacked.”

Alexandrin
e said nothing.

“Nobody is trying to reprimand you. I just want the name of the lout
who hurt you.”

Alexandrine sipped her coffee and closed her eyes as she savored the taste. She took
a deep breath.

“The day it happened, Dadou showed up at my place. I know. It's a ridiculous nickname, but I've never been able to call him Papa or Dad. Actually, his name is André. You know that my family never wanted much to do with me after they found out I liked women. But Dadou would still show up every once in a while. He's a drunk. He was always three sheets to the wind when he came to my room. At first, he was never mean. That came later. I think he's beaten my mother a few times, but she'd never admit i
t, even to me.”

“Perhaps especially to you,
” Virgile said.

“Anyway, he was drunk when he came to my apart
ment that day.”

She set her cup of coffee down next to the bed and wrapped her arms ar
ound her knees.

“He said on the intercom that he had something important to tell me. Like a fool, I let him up. I should have known he was drinking. He came into the apartment and looked around. Then he saw a photo of Chloé on the mantel. ‘Who's the slut?' he asked. I tried to distract him, but he wouldn't let it drop. He said he didn't like lesbians, that he was ashamed of his daughter and her depraved morals. I told him I wasn't his daughter and I never would be. Then he came at me, calling me a
little bitch.”

A single tear rolled
down her cheek.

“At first he slapped me, and then he starting punching. Dadou's a big guy. He could break you into little pieces without much effort. The more I screamed, the more he hit. I started gushing blood. Then he got scared and ran off, threatening to kill me if I told anyone. You believe
me, don't you?”

“Of course I believe you. God help the guy if I ever lay eyes on him. He won't know
what hit him.”

“Do you understand now why I don't want to go back to my apartment? The blood stains are still all o
ver the place.”

Once again Virgile took her in his arms. He stroked her hair and her back. Alexandrine had confessed the unspeakable. Her stepfather had stolen her virginity and her childhood dreams. And he had come back, haunting her like a ghost and beating her. Worse, he was still out there, lurking. If only she could move past this and find a sembl
ance of peace.

The sun was already high in the Bordeaux sky when Alexandrine and Virgile abandoned the rumpled bed, where their lovemaking had unraveled Alexandrine's dark secrets. After a cool shower, they ventured out to the Place Camille Jullian and shared a l
ate breakfast.