Dying on the Vine (10 page)

The luxury was unrelenting. All the bathroom fixtures were cut from solid lapis lazuli and the knobs were of gold. A helicopter crouched on the aft deck and, Gregali told me, could be airborne at five minutes' notice.

“Stupendous,” I said as we left the mind-boggling technological wizardry of the control room.

Gregali smiled, proud of his domain. “It is impressive, is it not?”

I thanked him and wandered away, leaned on the mirror-polished rail, and looked at the Royal Palace, all pink and white, up on top of “the Rock.”

Voices nearby attracted my attention. They came from a group where a tall, ungainly man with a shock of unruly hair was talking loudly. Two men and a woman were listening and I strolled over and joined them.

“… is well accepted that the planetary bodies influence Earth and everything on it,” he was saying. “The moon affects Earth's oceans and controls the tides—the Romans knew about that—so naturally it affects all that happens on the solid portion too. The giant planets, Jupiter and Saturn, are farther away but they are so huge, they still affect us. Jupiter has thirteen hundred times the volume of Earth and Saturn is almost as big, so how can there be any doubt that they influence us?”

“By us, you mean people?” asked the woman.

“Yes, although my current studies concern plants,” the man with the unruly hair replied.

“All plants?” asked the Italian.

“Principally grapes at the present time.”

The ungainly man speaking had an awkward way of moving, almost like a puppet. His arms and hands seemed to be uncoordinated and he gesticulated wildly to emphasize his words. His accent evaded me. Mention of his study of grapes did not, though.

“What influences have you found to be exerted by planetary bodies on grapes?” I asked.

He turned his gaze in my direction and stared at me. Then he held out his hand. “Professor Rahmani,” he said and went on:

“Grapes have a close association with man and respond more readily to the influences of the universe. I chart the orbits of the planets and use them to define the best times to plant, to prune, to harvest, and to ferment. I can counsel which grape varieties respond best and I can advise which soil components yield the best results.”

I was fascinated by the professor's exposition and so were the others.

“Professor, are you saying that you can produce better grapes this way?”

“Much better!” he said enthusiastically. “I can grow grapes that are twice as large and contain three times as much juice. The juice is tastier and fuller bodied.”

“Are you being supported by the wine industry?” I asked him.

“No.” He shook his voluminous head of hair. “They are reactionaries. They don't want to see any change, not even if it's progress that can be proved. The wine industry is stuck in the mud of centuries.”

It wasn't an appropriate metaphor but it reflected his ire. I pursued my line of questioning now that it had a definite destination.

“Perhaps individual vineyards would see an advantage in being involved in your work?”

The professor looked at me without answering immediately. Before he could do so, a short Italian with the pragmatic viewpoint of a businessman said, “Perhaps our host, Grant Masterson, might want to invest in your ideas?”

The professor took out cards and handed one to each of us. They were impressively and expensively embossed. They displayed the name “Institute for the Study of Planetary Influences” and had an address in Provence.

“Please feel free to visit whenever you wish to see what we are doing,” he said. “We have excellent facilities and you can witness some fascinating experimentation. We always welcome visitors.”

The Italian saw an old acquaintance and turned away to chat. Professor Rahmani gave me a nod of dismissal as if to say that his presentation was over and stalked away.

I
LEANED ON THE
rail of
Windsong
and looked out into the gentle blue Mediterranean through the gap in the harbor wall. I declined another hors d'oeuvre and thought about Professor Rahmani. Research into ways of growing bigger and tastier grapes went on all the time, although the professor's approach was decidedly less orthodox than most.

A voluptuous blonde swayed in my direction. She looked like a weight lifter but said she was a member of the Swedish women's soccer team that was here to play in Monaco's magnificent stadium. When she learned I was a journalist, she made sure that I would spell her name right, but then was gone when she learned that I wasn't here to cover that event. I caught a glimpse of Monika with Masterson. He had his arm around her in a way that suggested he was more than just her race sponsor but I lost sight of her as a new face appeared.

“We haven't met. I'm Alexis Suvarov—call me Alex.”

He was a tall, well-tanned fellow in his late thirties and had flowing golden hair that gave him a look that is usually described as that of an Adonis. He had a lithe athletic build and a friendly manner.

When I commented on his Russian name, he explained enthusiastically.

His great-grandfather was one of the aristocrats who had come to the Riviera every year after the opening of the Leningrad-Nice railway in 1864. He had been acquainted with the grand dukes and duchesses and other members of the Russian royalty. Alex's grandfather had been trapped in Russia under the Communist regime but his father had come to the South of France, which he remembered from his childhood. Alex himself had been born here and was a French citizen.

He asked me what I was doing here and listened to my tale of being a journalist without showing either the dismay of bank manager Terence McGill or the indifference of the Swedish midfielder.

“Writing about vineyards owned by English, are you? We have one of them near us—Willesford own it.”

“That's one of the vineyards I'm writing about.” It occurred to me that if I said this many more times I would really have to write something about it.

“That Simone's a great girl, isn't she?” he grinned.

“She certainly is,” I agreed. This job was leading me into a lot of prevarication.

“We delivered a case of wine for them one time,” he said. “It was urgently needed at a banquet.”

It was another thread of information but like most of them, it didn't seem to lead anywhere. Still … “You delivered it?” I asked casually. “You have a delivery service?”

“Only special stuff—high speed, emergencies—that sort of thing.”

“Must be a lot of demand for that here.”

“There is. We had an interesting one last week. You know they've reopened La Victorine?”

“The famous film studios in Nice? No, I didn't know that.”

“Yes, well, they found that the next day's shooting script had several pages missing so we had to rush another copy to them. We did it without their losing a minute of their valuable time.” He laughed and winked. “Mind you, the film's a stinker. It might have been better if they'd lost the entire script. Still, we did our share, rushing the script from the hotel in Orange to the studio in Nice in an hour and a half.”

“That's incredible—you must employ race drivers,” I said, amazed.

“We do when necessary. Didn't I see you come on board with one of them?”

“Monika? She drives for you?”

“Like a demon—only occasionally, though. She's usually too busy modeling or shooting photos for a magazine or leading scuba diving teams out looking for wrecks. We have a faster system than even Monika—” He broke off as Grant Masterson joined us.

“Glad to see you two got acquainted. Valuable man, Alexis,” he told me. “Delivers the goods when no one else can.” A thought struck him and he eyed me more keenly. “You write about wine … you must know something about food too.”

“I—er, well, yes, I do.” I saw no reason to deny it altogether.

“Know anything about truffles?”

“Yes, I wrote an article on them,” I answered.

“I'm going up to Aupres in the Var day after tomorrow. How about coming with me? I'm going to the truffle market and need all the expertise I can gather. Between you and me, I'm opening a chain of delicatessens and I'm scouting a good source of truffles. It's a hit-and-miss business, as I'm sure you know. Can I count on you?”

“Yes, I'd like that. Might be another article in it—truffles are a fascinating business.” I was vaguely aware that I should be concentrating on wine and vineyards, but an opportunity to get to know a man like Masterson couldn't be passed up, and besides, in my real life as the Gourmet Detective the experience would be useful.

He clapped me on the back. “Right. Pick you up then—where are you staying?”

I told him as a smart white-uniformed girl crew member came to tell him that a call from Cairo awaited. He excused himself and left. Suvarov called out to an elegant woman in a clinging flowery dress. “An old customer,” he explained with a dashing Errol Flynn smile, “must take care of business—oh, and don't forget, if you need anything taken, fetched, brought, or delivered and it's really urgent—I'm your man.” He whipped out a card and handed it to me. Then he was gone as fast as his reputed service.

A producer on Monte Carlo television was the next person I talked to but his interest in me waned fast when he learned I was a journalist and he escaped quickly. Monika finally reappeared with a dark-featured man in a silk suit whom she introduced as being from Iran. A car rally was being planned, she said, crossing the deserts of six nations and she was eager to participate. The way the man looked at her suggested that it was not her car-handling abilities that interested him.

I assured her I understood why she was going back to the Metropole Hotel with him to study a map of the proposed race across the deserts, agreeing that a knowledge of the route would be highly advantageous. I watched her go and with the sun sinking slowly over neighboring Spain made my lonely way back to Saint Symphorien and the Relais du Moulin, meditating on life, women, and other related and unrelated subjects.

M
ADAME RIBEREAU AT LE
Relais du Moulin could not understand why I didn't want a full meal that night even after I told her that I had lunched at the Louis XV.

“Hélas,” said Madame with a dismissive toss of the head, “that was lunch. Now you are ready for dinner.”

My continued protestations were brushed aside and all I could do was trim down the size of the meal and tell myself that I had to eat in order to stay in Madame's good graces. I had a cup of beef consommé, a poached trout and some parsleyed potatoes, a half bottle of white wine, and a crème brûlée. A stroll around the grounds helped it to digest and I managed to stay awake through a two-hour television program extolling achievements in French literature at the turn of the century. I went to bed rather than wallow in the excitement of
Dragnet
that followed.

For once, the French breakfast of coffee and a croissant was adequate and I set off for the Willesford vineyard. The morning was bright and clear, so clear that the Alps with their sparkle of fresh snow covering were clearly visible. I drove through forests of mimosa trees and fields of red soil. A wooden hut was selling fresh milk, cheese, and yogurt and already doing a brisk trade.

The courtyard of the Willesford vineyard was again quiet. A couple of old cars were parked at one end of the buildings and I put my Citroen alongside them. Simone was once more at the desk in her office. She looked up as I went in, brushed a lock of blond hair from her cheek, and said petulantly, “Oh, it's you again.”

I smiled my friendliest smile, said a cheerful “Good morning,” and sat down on the one rickety chair.

She eyed me suspiciously. “You need more information?” she asked in a voice suggesting that I wouldn't get it whatever it was. The progress I thought I had made in my last visit had apparently evaporated.

“I'd like to look around a little more—if that's all right with you.”

She had her mouth open to say something negative as I went on: “I can just wander round. I need to get the feeling of the place, the atmosphere—so I can pass it on to the readers,” I added, as a reminder that I was writing an article.

I had another reason, too. I was curious to know if she had any objection to my going through the place on my own. If there was anything to hide, she would promptly refuse.

She shrugged. “Go ahead if you want.” She returned to the files in front of her as if I had already left. I pressed on with another question.

“I was wondering … do you have any research going?”

“Research?” That took her attention from her files.

“Yes. You know—cloning, grafting, hybridization, that kind of thing …?”

She pursed her lips. “We are too busy with production to be doing research.”

“Well, you don't have to do it here. Some vineyards support programs in laboratories and research institutes; that way, it doesn't interfere with their everyday work.”

“Research is kept confidential,” she informed me.

“Do you know Professor Rahmani?”

She sighed and put on a pained look that said plainly, I don't have time for all these silly questions. She shook her head.

“Or the Institute for the Study of Planetary Influences?”

There was a brief hesitation, then she said, “Oh, is that what his crackpot organization is called?”

“Is that what it is?”

She shrugged again. “Astrology and wine making have nothing in common. He may have conned a few vintners to subsidize him but—”

“He has?” I interjected quickly.

“I suppose so … well, he must have … he has a lot of very expensive equipment, large modern buildings … it all costs money …”

“Yes,” I murmured. She knew plenty about a man she had never heard of.