Requiem in Yquem Read online

  Benjamin reached the end of the article and folded the paper. He reflected on Bommes, a quiet village he knew well as one of the five communes that made up the Sauternes wine appellation, along with Barsac, Preignac, Fargues, and the namesake Sauternes. His mouth watered at the thought of the most famous wine of this region, Château d’Yquem. About three kilometers from Bommes, the prestigious Yquem estate had been producing the exquisite nectar since at least the sixteenth century. Not even bitter lawsuits in the late nineteen nineties, when the estate was bought out by the international luxury goods conglomerate LVMH—of Louis Vuitton, Moet & Chandon, and Hennessy fame—had interfered with that.

  Benjamin shifted in his chair. Although Pierre Lurton, the manager of the château, had upheld the Yquem tradition, Benjamin didn’t like breaches in estate lineage. Until the buyout, those vineyards had been in the same family since 1785.

  The winemaker closed his eyes and imagined the enchanted hills around the estate, whose ridges evoked the curves of a woman’s body. There were several other notable properties in this appellation. He still remembered his first tasting at the Château Rieussec, before its acquisition by the Domaines Barons de Rothschild. The owners, Chantal and Albert Vuillier, had called Benjamin when it was time for the first tasting. The ritual took place in the grand room, whose windows faced the ocean of vines.

  It was twilight when the proprietors of Rieussec submitted their bottles to Benjamin’s judgment. As he tasted, Benjamin discerned the sweet wine’s aromas and mused on his hosts’ observations. First, there were the vegetal fragrances of linden, verbena, mint, green tea, hawthorn, and forest honey. But soon the fruity scents—citrus, apricot, quince, and Zante currant—took over. Benjamin also detected floral fragrances of old roses, acacia, and honeysuckle. The winemaker further noted sweet spices, including paprika, and cumin.

  Sauternes was a vin de méditation, a wine to contemplate. So Benjamin walked over to the vast window and took a Lusitania from his cigar case. After a few puffs, he tasted the wine once again. By then it was exuding notes of caramel, vanilla, coffee, wax, honey, and toast.

  Since that first tasting, Benjamin had sniffed and chewed the wine from this estate many times. But he remembered that first experience with a measure of poignancy. There was a sumptuous dinner of cured ham baked in a cream sauce with leeks and pistachios. Of course, wonderful wines accompanied the feast. In addition to the Sauternes, they drank Paradis-Casseuil—another family jewel. The vineyards yielding the grapes for this red wine were in the Entre-Deux-Mers appellation.

  When the meal finally came to an end, there was no question of Benjamin taking to the road. It was much too late. The Vuilliers offered Benjamin a guest bedroom in the vine-covered square tower. The winemaker had heard about this room, with its creaky floor. It was said that writer Jean Cocteau slept here when he visited Arcachon Bay with his dear friend Raymond Radiguet. Benjamin called Elisabeth to assure her that he was fine and slipped under the covers. A first-edition copy of Radiguet’s The Devil in the Flesh was on the night table, but he was too satiated to pick it up.

  This corner of Gironde had a special place in Benjamin’s heart. For a moment many years earlier, he had considered settling here. But instead, he had planted himself in Saint-Julien-Beychevelle—at Grangebelle—where he and Elisabeth had raised their daughter, Margaux.

  For the winemaker, the Médoc was as comfortable as a pair of exquisitely made Lobbs. Sauternes was something else entirely—just as exquisite, but not as familiar. This terroir, the size of just four handkerchiefs, was a world unto itself. It was never more breathtaking than in autumn, when the morning mist hanging above the Garonne would float toward the highest hills before dissipating under the first rays of sunlight. The delicate white coat would blanket the perfectly trimmed vines just long enough to cool them and allow the Botrytis cinerea, dreaded elsewhere but coveted here, to do its work.

  The winemaker never tired of witnessing the strange miracle that occurred from October to late fall and even early winter. Every time, he couldn’t wait for the sun-soaked grapes to fall into the pickers’ hands. But the wise estate owners were in no hurry. The mist needed to caress the clusters, and the sun had to strike gently.

  The grapes would become sugar-gorged, spoiled, shriveled, wilted, and, finally, rotten. This, however, was a sublime rot that perfectly exploited the fog and sun. The estate owners would then set loose their pickers to gather the candied fruit, some of it covered in mold as thick as fur.

  In Sauternes, the harvesters were picked as carefully as the grapes. They were usually women, who were more naturally skilled at the job. They would slip the tip of their secateurs onto the vines, stripped of their russet leaves. Then the grapes were given over to the press. The cellar master would issue his orders, and from this rather unsavory mixture, a thick and deliciously fragrant juice would flow like gold from a spout.

  Until his dying day, Benjamin would recall the gentle crystalline hiss of the juice languidly flowing into the barrel.

  After a generally long period of fermentation, the wine would age in the dark wine-cellar cathedrals.

  Benjamin sighed and motioned for his check. His busy schedule was draining the sweetness from his life. He thought of his assistant, Virgile Lanssien. For him, life was still an amuse-bouche. Maybe that had something to do with the two years Virgile had spent in Bommes, at the Viticulture School of La Tour Blanche, before going on to the University of Bordeaux.

  The newspaper article had touched off a flood of memories, and Benjamin wanted to re-experience the Sauternes region. He took out his cell phone and sent Virgile a quick text message: “Come to Grangebelle for lunch!”

  5

  It was more than an invitation. It was a command. Virgile knew his employer well enough to suspect that something was bothering him. He cut short his sample-gathering at a Côtes de Bourg vineyard in Saint-Ciers-de-Canesse and headed for Saint-Julien-Beychevelle. If he had to get on the road and pass through Bordeaux, he’d never reach Médoc in time for lunch, and he’d have to listen to his boss’s reprimands. But if he hurried, he could catch the ferry in Blaye.

  Virgile took the winding road toward the ancient Vauban citadel and spotted the Médocain, still docked. He arrived just in time to drive his car onto the ferry. Now he could enjoy the experience of crossing the Gironde. It was low tide, so it would take less than thirty minutes to reach the other shore and see the towers of Château Lamarque.

  The brief passage always made Virgile feel like he was leaving on vacation. The first time he was on a boat, he wasn’t quite six. His parents had taken him to Oléron. At the time, there was no bridge between the mainland and the island. The sea was huge and deep, and his mother wouldn’t let him go anywhere near the railing. Then they had visited the Chassiron lighthouse, which his father confused with the Baleines, or whale, lighthouse on the northwest coast of Île de Ré. Virgile was disappointed to learn that the whales had stopped spawning off the coast many years earlier. But taking the boat still felt like a treat. And his mother was no longer around to make him stay away from the railing. He leaned against it with pleasure.

  The wind had come up, and the air was cool. Just a handful of passengers were heading to the “otherworld”—what those on the right bank called the prosperous wine-growing region. They marveled at the current stirring up the Gironde before retreating to the salon, a euphemism for a tight space with hard benches and filthy windows.

  Virgile pulled on an old parka he had grabbed from the trunk of his car and looked around the ferry. Standing at the front was a young woman in tight jeans, a backpack slung over her shoulder. They locked eyes just as she was brushing her hair away from her face. Her eyes were a warm brown. Virgile smiled and walked over.

  “Brisk, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yeah,” she answered, zipping up her hoodie. “I should have worn a coat.”

  For once, Virgile felt at a loss for words. In other circumstances, on a seasonable day, perhaps,
he wouldn’t have had any trouble. Flirting was second nature. There was something about this young woman, though—something familiar but unique. She seemed to be entirely at ease with herself. Virgile followed her lead as she spotted a heron ready to plunge its beak in the water. A second later it took off with a fish while the seagulls squawked. She laughed, and Virgile’s heartbeat quickened in an unexpected way. He found himself wishing the crossing would last longer.

  She gazed at the water, seemingly lost in thought. “You never know what might be down there. I love the mystery of it, imagining all the things so close to us that we can’t see.”

  “Well,” said Virgile, “I guess that heron saw his lunch.”

  The young woman smiled and brushed the hair off her face again. Virgile pointed out the contours of Île Verte and conjured up some tales he’d heard about the promontories. She hung onto his every word and asked him about some of the châteaus whose towers seemed to touch the clouds. Virgile told her everything he knew about the area.

  “So you’re not from around here?” he asked.

  “No, I’m from Marseille, but I have relatives in Blaye. I work the Saint-Estèphe harvest at Château Calon-Ségur to make money for school. I’m studying oceanography.”

  Virgile nodded. He also had worked the harvests at Bordeaux estates to make money and gain a measure of independence. He could have stayed at the family property in Montravel, but his father would have expected him to work without pay. So once he reached a certain age, he offered his youth, his drive, and his strong arms to the owners of vineyards whose wines he admired.

  “What’s your name?” the young woman asked spontaneously, as if crossing in the same pitiful boat granted them some sort of intimacy.

  “Virgile, and yours?”

  “Virgile? What a funny name! I’m Camille,” she answered. Virgile was struck by the natural color of her lips.

  Fishing cabins on stilts, which announced the end of the crossing, were already visible on the shore. But instead of gliding into the Lamarque dock, the ferry slammed into it, jolting them. Camille grabbed Virgile’s wrist. Once everything stopped moving and the Médocain was moored, Virgile pulled away and gave her hand a soft squeeze. The student seemed sorry to let him go.

  Virgile started walking toward his car. “I can drop you off at Saint-Estèphe,” he said, knowing full well that this would make him late for lunch, but he couldn’t help himself. “I happen to know the cellar master at Calon-Ségur.”

  Camille appeared disturbed to hear this. “No, don’t bother. Drop me off on the road to Bordeaux.”

  “You’re not going to Calon?”

  “No, I’m not going to…” She sighed. “Okay, I lied. I’m not a student. I don’t live in Marseille, and my name isn’t Camille. I liked your smile, that’s all. So you can leave me alone now. I’ll take care of myself.”

  “But, Camille, listen…”

  Virgile didn’t know what to make of the situation. Already the stranger had her backpack slung over her shoulder and was heading for the road to Lamarque. Virgile rushed to his car and drove off the ferry. He sped up to reach her, and when he did, he lowered the window.

  “Really, just forget we ever met.” she said. “Have a nice life.”

  Her lower lip was quivering. Virgile wasn’t sure of the color of her eyes anymore. Disappointed, he left the beautiful and strange young woman on the highway.

  The sky suddenly turned dark, and the wind began whipping the leaves on the plane trees. A few seconds later, the clouds unleashed a heavy rain. Virgile turned on his windshield wipers. In the rearview mirror, the intriguing passenger from the ferry was no more than a frail figure. Finally, she disappeared under the downpour.

  6

  “You’re as white as a sheet,” Elisabeth Cooker said as she took Virgile’s wet parka and hung it up. “What happened to you?”

  It was difficult to conceal anything from his boss’s wife. But how could he tell her about a disturbing encounter that wasn’t worth talking about? The girl was unbalanced—or he was losing his touch. Why attach any importance to this chance meeting?

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Cooker. And you? How’s your work with the foundation coming along?”

  Elisabeth smiled and shook her head. “Okay, Virgile. Change the subject. I didn’t mean to pry. My work is going quite well, thank you.”

  Virgile and Elisabeth Cooker had an understanding. He was in love with the Cookers’ daughter, but his boss was adamantly opposed to any serious relationship. He thought Virgile was incapable of settling down, and Virgile had to admit that his sundry flirtations, including the one he had just had on the boat, were evidence of that. The whole issue was moot, anyway, because Margaux wasn’t in France. She was in New York. Still, Virgile knew that his boss’s wife had a certain fondness for him, and the feeling was reciprocated. Maybe she even put in a good word for him on occasion. He’d never ask.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cooker. You weren’t prying. I’m just a little fatigued. That’s all.”

  “So Benjamin’s working you too hard again, is he? I’ll have to speak to him.”

  “Oh, no!” Virgile feigned alarm. “I’m in enough hot water most of the time. I don’t need any more!”

  Elisabeth laughed and led Virgile into the library. They both sat down in comfortable armchairs. As soon as he was seated, Virgile felt something brush against his leg. It was Bacchus, the couple’s Irish setter.

  He leaned over to scratch the dog behind the ears, but he was still thinking about the young woman on the ferry. He couldn’t get her image out of his mind. Maybe she wasn’t a stranger after all. Perhaps she was embarrassed and angry that he didn’t remember her. Had he met her in Bordeaux or on a job somewhere else? Her hair, aquiline nose, and captivating eyes—these traits were not foreign to him.

  “At any rate, Virgile, you should try to get a little more sleep. Maybe cut back on all those nights out?”

  “No. I swear, Mrs. Cooker, I’m not burning the candle at both ends. Just one good night’s sleep. That’s all I need.”

  “All right, Virgile. Just take care of yourself. Benjamin needs you.”

  “I don’t know about that. But thank you for your concern.” Hearing his boss’s footsteps, Virgile turned around.

  “Ah, there you are, Benjamin,” Elisabeth said. “You made Virgile come all the way over here in this deluge. His parka’s soaked.”

  “Virgile’s just fine. Aren’t you, son? I’ll bet you played plenty of rugby matches in the rain. Besides, we’ve been needing this.”

  Virgile was used to hearing the couple’s affectionate banter. There was a warmth between them that was sorely lacking in his parents’ home. His parents’ marriage was cold and bitter. It was no wonder that when he turned eighteen he fled Lamothe-Montravel in southwest France, sixty-six kilometers from Périgueux and its famed prehistoric cave paintings, and took up residence in a shabby studio in Talence, a suburb of Bordeaux. Later on, he found his tiny abode in central Bordeaux.

  Once he was hired as Benjamin’s assistant at Cooker & Co., Elisabeth lost no time making him feel welcome at Grangebelle. Sweet aromas from the kitchen often greeted him when he arrived for a meeting with his boss.

  “I just tried out this new recipe for brownies,” she told him on one of his visits. “It calls for coconut. Do you believe it? Those Americans don’t think we know how to make brownies. But if you like these, take them home. I’ll make another batch for Margaux.” She winked at Virgile. “I don’t want Benjamin getting his mitts on them. He needs to watch his waistline, you know.”

  Virgile was fond of Elisabeth Cooker’s way of talking, often with a quaint turn of phrase and always witty and thoughtful. He knew that his boss sensed their complicity and sometimes felt excluded. “Stop ganging up on me, you two,” he’d say. “Or I’ll call Margaux! I know she’ll defend me!”

  Virgile smiled at the memory as Elisabeth rose from her chair.

  “I need to tend to our lunch. Porcini mushro
oms are on the menu, Virgile.” She left the library, with Bacchus on her heels.

  Virgile could already smell the savory aromas wafting from the kitchen.

  “A steak grilled on vine shoots and cèpes from Périgord: how does that sound?” Benjamin said.

  Before he could express his delight, Benjamin added, “And to top it off: a Cahors, a 2005 Château Lagrezette. Any objections?”

  “Not in the least, boss.”

  “You seem preoccupied. What’s on your mind, Virgile?”

  “Nothing, boss.”

  Like his wife, Benjamin Cooker could read Virgile. But it wasn’t the same. With his boss, it was a spirit of teamwork. The winemaker, for example, could sense when Virgile was lost in thought. For his part, Virgile could tell—more or less—what was on his boss’s mind. He could anticipate what his employer needed when they were examining the vines for a disease or what to expect when the celebrated author of the Cooker Guide conducted a tasting. And when they found themselves trying to unravel a crime together, as had become their habit, Virgile could automatically see where the knot could be pulled apart.

  Benjamin Cooker put it another way. “You see, Virgile,” he’d say, “the truth is at the bottom of the glass!”

  And invariably, Virgile would reply, “I told you so, boss!” They both knew, however, that it was rarely as simple as downing a glass of wine.

  Benjamin got up from his chair and motioned to Virgile. “Let’s join Elisabeth in the kitchen.”

  They found her as she was taking off her apron and smoothing her hair. She smiled at them, and Benjamin immediately opened the bottle of mellowness snatched from the Lot River Valley. Then they sat down to lunch and drank the promised Cahors.

  “This is a wine that knocks before entering!” Benjamin intoned, bringing the glass under his nose.

  A bouquet of aromas—cassis, mulberry, thyme, and rosemary—teased Virgile’s nostrils, and he responded without thinking. “As smooth as a baby’s bottom!” He immediately grimaced. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cooker. I didn’t mean to offend.”