Nightmare in Burgundy (2 page)

Non abscondas faciem tuam a me;
in quacunque die tribulor

Cooker took out his fountain pen and jotted down the phrase before translating it.

Do not turn your face from me
In my day of trouble.

He continued walking to the small locks that constricted the river, abruptly transforming it into a narrow channel. He stopped for a moment to look at the walls on the water’s edge, which were covered with thick patches of moss. Then he turned around to go to the grocery store. He bought the paper, a box of cashews, and a postcard. It was only upon leaving the store that he noticed the graffiti running the length of a low wall near the ancient washhouse.

Inclina ad me aurem tuam:
in quacunque die invocavero te,
volciter exaudi me.

Again he reached for his notebook and transcribed the phrase diligently, despite the biting cold, which was numbing his fingers.

Incline your ear to listen
When I call,
be quick to answer

A gust of wind stung his face, and he pulled his collar up to his ears. In the distance, crows squawked in the vines. Their stricken cawing dissolved in a milky sky that was so low it merged with the snow-powdered earth.

Cooker shivered.

2

The tasting had already begun when he arrived, out of breath, in the large room of Vougeot’s ancient wine and spirits storehouse. The experts were seated in groups of six and moving glasses around on the tablecloths in a slow and formal ballet that seemed almost contrived. Cooker greeted everyone, apologizing for his tardiness, and went to the seat reserved for him as the Tastevinage guest of honor. He went to work immediately.

Dozens of bottles were wrapped in orange silk paper and displayed on the table between stainless-steel spittoons and wicker baskets full of rolls. Each taster had a notebook for comments. There was barely any talking. Wet swishing, tongue-clicking, and elegant gurgling were the predominant sounds rising in the crisp air of the wine warehouse.

Cooker was tired from the night before but quickly managed to concentrate. He had no trouble getting into the spirit of the game. He had prepared long and hard for it back in Bordeaux by studying the Tastevin Burgundy wine reference book. Around him, nearly two hundred fifty tasters—all elite handpicked palates—were assuming the posture of expert connoisseurs, displaying the learned gestures of acknowledged specialists. He had spotted some old acquaintances, several renowned wine growers, important wine merchants, brokers, oenologists, some researchers from the university, heads of viticulture unions, popular restaurateurs, brilliant sommeliers, and a handful of knowledgeable amateurs. Among the witnesses were local officials and personalities, as well as a well-informed assembly of specialized journalists, including several leading Parisian experts whose vitriolic writing made Michelin-star chefs tremble.

The Tastevinage session had been wonderfully well organized, and the hosts from the brotherhood were seeing to its successful unfolding without participating in the tasting. This served to guarantee neutrality. The questions posed by the jury were of devilishly simple precision: “Is this wine worthy of the appellation and vintage that appear on the label? Is it truly representative of them? Is this a wine that I would be happy to own in my cellar and proud to offer to a friend?” There were many fine points that were not to be influenced by preconceptions, moods, natural inclinations, memory lapses, or subjective reactions. Presented anonymously, each of the fifteen bottles swaddled in opaque wrapping was slapped with a concise label indicating only its appellation with no mention of the winemaker or the merchant. Cooker was enjoying the atmosphere of this ritual, which blended the sacred and the profane. All these furrowed brows gave his fellow judges the forbidding—some would say merciless—appearance of courtroom magistrates.

Cooker knew perfectly well that the stakes were high and that winemakers and the rest of the profession awaited these evaluations with a certain amount of anxiety. Initially, he tasted the small bottles fairly quickly in order to feel them in his mouth. His colleagues seemed surprised to see him proceed this way: a quick movement of the glass to make the wine speak, a swallow, and one or two swirls around the palate. Then he would spit it out immediately. Some, convinced that the famous Benjamin Cooker could do no wrong, revised their strategy and imitated him. When he had finished this preliminary trial, he took up each wine again. But this time he lingered over the visual quality, tipping his glass to better observe the transparency, the brilliance, the tint, and the intensity of the color. Then he would bring the wine to his nose to capture the whole aromatic expression in a tight bundle of details that he quickly jotted in his notebook.

After detecting the most harmonious bouquets, he swirled each wine in his mouth with exaggerated slowness, breathing in a little air to oxygenate the liquid. He closed his eyes and held himself straight in his chair while leaning his head slightly forward and putting his hands flat on the table. Then he would spit and start over without changing his posture. He analyzed the subtlest flavors, the astringencies, the delicacies of certain tannins, the powerful first impressions, the disappointing finishes, the acidity, and the roundness. From time to time, he would nibble a roll to cleanse his palate.

Fifteen swallows of red wine carefully swished and re-swished were enough for him. The dice were cast. He put aside his notebook, cracked his knuckles, gave an enormous yawn, and stood to go stretch his legs in the welcome hall. On the way, Cooker shook some hands, patted the back of some old acquaintances, brushed past quite a few people without really excusing himself, and joked with one of the knights of the Order who was observing from the back of the room. After a few moments, he returned to his seat and quickly took a small swallow of each wine without spitting. He reread his notes, crossed out two or three words, and then rose again to join the session chairman.

Seeing him proceed this way, some people lost a bit of their assurance and kept their eyes on him. Cooker felt their cautious curiosity. A number of them seemed to be losing their bearings. They wore doubtful expressions and seemed absorbed in unspoken questions. So this was how the dreaded Benjamin Cooker operated? The man who was believed to be so serious, almost ascetic, was behaving like a dilettante with an approach that would have been considered casual if he had not proven his talent.

Ultimately, one-third of the wines tasted were worthy of the coveted stamp. The award winners would have the distinguished honor of putting the famous insignia created in 1935 by the French artist Hansi—Jean-Jacques Waltz—on their bottles. The insignia was a purple shield with a small barrel at the bottom, a knight’s helmet in the middle, and, at the top, a white-bearded, red-faced member of the Order of the Knights holding a cup and a bottle. A rope of green vine leaves framed the picture. Cooker did not wait for the complete announcement of the results before taking his leave. He said good-bye to the organizers and explained that he had another business meeting. He promised to stop by and see them at the offices of the Confrérie in Nuits-Saint-Georges.

As he left the château, he checked his cell phone for messages. His assistant’s hoarse voice suggested some possible bad news about an Entre-Deux-Mers estate, and he called him right back.

“Virgile, what’s going on?”

“Hello, boss, you don’t need to worry. I solved the problem.”

“Meaning?”

“I went to Sadirac myself to do the decanting, and I brought the samples back to the lab. Alexandrine will analyze them this afternoon if she has time. Otherwise, tomorrow morning at the very latest.”

“Don’t take advantage of her conscientiousness. Miss La Palussière is overwhelmed these days.”

“No worries, sir, I know how to handle it, and, well, she accepted a lunch date.”

“Bravo, Virgile. I see you are not giving up. Aside from that, how’s the weather in Bordeaux?”

“Nice, as usual. I hope we’ll be able to eat outside.”

“Enjoy it while you can! It’s awfully cold here.”

“So the life of a knight is not so easy?” Virgile could not resist joking.

“It’s unbearable. I just tasted some little gems, including a Morey-Saint-Denis that was quite magnificent. I am going to have to spend some more time in this region.”

As he spoke, Cooker was walking toward the village, his wool scarf wrapped around his chin. He picked up his pace to get warmer, gave a few final pieces of advice to his assistant, greeted the lab director, and promised to call back the afternoon of the following day.

As he approached the grocery store, he spotted a police van parked at the corner. Uniformed men were interrogating the shopkeeper, while some of their colleagues were taking pictures of the graffiti on the bridge.

“We can’t let this drag on,” one of them said. “The same thing is happening in Gilly.”

Cooker kept on walking as if he had not heard anything and headed for his hotel. In the distance, the massive silhouette of the Vougeot château seemed to be dozing in the middle of a burial ground of vines whose bony limbs and gnarled stumps were packed all the way to the back of the vineyard. A thick sky was brushing against the points of the towers where the crows were performing sinister and mocking spirals.

§ § §

The canvas top of Cooker’s convertible was sagging slightly under the fine layer of crusty snow, and he had to scrape the windshield with the blade of a Laguiole knife that had been miraculously abandoned in the back of the trunk. It took three tries before the engine started. Cooker waited for the confident purring before getting on the road to Gilly-les-Cîteaux. Traversing the wintry Burgundy terrain in a vintage Mercedes 280SL that he had failed to have serviced only heightened Cooker’s sense of adventure.

As he drove, the land became almost foreign. The highway seemed to serve as a paved border that marked the age-old conflict between the vineyards and the plowed fields, between the noble dryness of the highlands and the ordinary generosity of the lowlands. In less than ten minutes, he was in the deserted town of Gilly. He parked next to a war memorial and walked slowly around the square, where he saw scrawling on the pillar.

Quia cinerem tamquam panem manducabam
et potum meum cum fletu miscebam

He slid his hand into the inside pocket of his coat to grab his fountain pen and notebook.

Ashes are the bread I eat;
and to my drink I add my tears.

On the wall of the church, there was another message in writing that didn’t seem as controlled.

A facie irae et increpationis tuae;
quia elevans allisisti me.

Cooker had more trouble translating this phrase, whose syntax seemed convoluted.

Before your anger and your fury;
since you raised me up and then cast me aside.

Finally, he approached an old house, tastefully renovated with a respect for the materials of the era. The two large panels of the entry door had been defaced with a heavily written message.

Dieis mei sicut umbra declinaverunt,
et ego sicut foenum arui.

Some of the letters were dripping between the granular veins of the oak.

My days are like the waning shadow,
and I am like withering grass.

The writing was identical to what he had seen on the wall in Vougeot. And once again, there were only two phrases, which, put together, seemed to form a coherent stanza. It wouldn’t be long before the police arrived to collect evidence and take photographs. He had to clear out as soon as possible if he did not want to run into them.

Cooker put his notebook and his fountain pen deep in his Loden jacket and then rubbed his hands and blew on them. In this country of silence and mystery, he knew only one man capable of enlightening him.

3

The road stretched before him, gentle and monotonous. There was a soothing quality about the forest surrounding the Cîteaux Abbey, filled with hornbeams and oak and beech trees. Cooker put in an old Verdi cassette. The worn-out tape made the lamenting violins sound even more sorrowful. Listening to the voice undulating between smiles and tears, he imagined this
Traviata
in the faded silk of an over-the-hill courtesan, irrevocably plagued by rapid consumption. He turned down the volume as he approached the entrance to the monastery and parked under a row of poplars.

The abbey’s porter, who had a room near the entrance and had greeted many visitors over the years, welcomed Cooker warmly. Eight years earlier, the winemaker had stayed in the abbey’s guest room while he was writing the first edition of his guide. On the advice of a friend from Burgundy, a winemaker in Coulanges-la-Vineuse, he had written a letter to the father superior. He was hoping to get access to the Cistercian archives. The monks had consented to give this curious man from Bordeaux the privilege of nosing through the abbey’s old papers. For more than a week, Cooker had bent willingly to the monastic discipline, attending all the prayer services, participating in the domestic chores, and spending his free time in the dark corners of the library. There, he had listened to Brother Clément, a small vivacious man of letters, whose humility was as impressive as his knowledge of the history of Burgundy. There was nothing he did not know about this complex and multilayered region marked by dynastic issues, feudal land divisions, the vagaries of commerce and wars, the parceling of vineyards, and the political strategies of the first wine traders. Without the support of Brother Clément, the manuscript would not have had such a wealth of anecdotes and details gleaned, for the most part, directly from Cîteaux’s documents.

Cooker waited nearly a quarter of an hour in the entrance of the cloister. He paced, recalling how the silence and deliberate slowness he had expected were nothing like what he had found here. This meditative place had bustled with activity then, as it surely did now. Memories came flooding back to him—the echoes in the corridors, the blessings in the refectory, the bells, the thundering organ during Sunday Mass, the collective prayers, the rustling robes, the trundling tractor in the fields, and the clinking of dishes in the scullery. Although his business and family obligations absorbed him now, Cooker still thought about these Cîteaux monks. He was moved to find himself back within these thick walls, where minutes seemed to expand and make one forget that time was passing.

In the distant interplay of light and shadow, a small stooped man was approaching. He was taking baby steps, and his rail-thin body was swimming in the folds of a white robe that dragged along the flagstones. Cooker moved toward him.

“Brother Clément?”

“Have I really changed that much, Mr. Cooker?”

The winemaker immediately regretted having spoken so quickly and put out his hand in response.

“I don’t blame you,” the monk said and sighed, slipping his bony fingers into Benjamin’s palm. “I can hardly recognize myself sometimes.”

“You have grown very thin,” Cooker said.

“My dear friend, one must depart light. Clean and light. The body empty and the heart clear. God is calling me, and I am ready. To tell the truth, I have never felt closer to Him.”

“I envy your serenity, Brother Clément. If you weren’t such a chatterbox, I’d mistake you for a holy man!”

“And you’re just as sarcastic as ever,” the monk said with a smile. He sat down with difficulty on the edge of a white stone bench. “Don’t change a thing, and keep saying what you think. With your good manners, you can get away with it. I like that.”

“I always wondered how you managed to take a vow of silence. To spend your whole life being quiet!”

“Who told you that I spent my life being quiet?”

“That’s what people imagine.”

“People have strange ideas about monastic life. You know, there’s no place noisier than a monastery. In fact, I remember you saying that when you were here the last time. At any rate, people imagine all sorts of things.”

“True enough.”

“You see, I think we live in a land of silence here at Citeaux, where a man keeps his word.”

Cooker stood facing the monk. With the tip of his shoe, he played with a small pebble that had come loose from the flagstone.

“I believe some people think you are infallible,” Brother Clément continued. “Everyone who reads your guide believes that it all comes very easily for you.”

“As a matter of fact, no one suspects just how much work goes into the
Cooker Guide
. At any rate, it’s never good to give the appearance that you’ve taxed yourself. You have to put on a smile, look inspired, and give the impression that it is all done with great ease and pleasure. Not many people are interested in knowing the truth.”

“Funny calling that you’ve followed,” the monk said and sighed. “I have often wondered how you manage not to get bored.”

“You just need to have faith. But that’s not something I’m going to be telling you about!”

Brother Clément chuckled and rubbed his hands together with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. His gaunt cheeks looked like they had been carved out of marble by a divinely inspired sculptor. “In the seminary during my youth, I was very interested in the theater. My superiors did not look upon that kindly, but I would often sneak out to see a play. That’s when I realized how much life is like a comedy. I still believe that, by the way. I read many articles by Tristan Bernard, who, as you surely know, was a big theater critic. One thing he wrote bothered me at the time and still bothers me today: ‘If it’s bad, it bores me, and if it’s good, I’m a bore.’ I always found that funny, and kind of pathetic.”

“I think he also said, ‘I never go to see plays that I have to talk about. It might influence me.’”

“At my age, I’m still not surrendering to boredom,” Brother Clément said. “I’m open to a surprise or two. Why settle for the predictable?”

“I can’t agree with that point of view,” Cooker replied. “For me, what’s predictable isn’t necessarily boring. I test, and I have to come to an understanding by experiencing for myself, by seeing for myself, and even more so, by drinking for myself. I don’t know why, but without that, it’s not real for me.”

“I’ve noticed! And what brings you here today, besides the pleasure of chatting with me, of course?”

“I’ve been meaning to pay you a visit, but I admit that I am here sooner than I expected. Some surprising things are happening in these parts.”

“I know,” the old man said as he rose painfully. “Burgundy will never cease to surprise us.”

“You know about the inscriptions they found in Vougeot and Gilly?”

“What do you think? Just because we are enclosed in this abbey, that we are ignorant of the world around us? Be aware, my dear Benjamin, that nothing that touches the world is unknown to us.”

“I’ve copied each of those phrases, and it all intrigues me,” the winemaker said, handing his notebook to the monk. “I translated them as best I could.”

Brother Clément went through the notes and took his time to weigh each word. He was wheezing, as if just breathing was a labor.

“You managed pretty well. It’s actually quite good, aside from a few turns of phrase.”

“I was surprised myself that I still remembered my Latin. I think I owe it more to my years as a child in the choir than to my high school teacher. At least it seems that way, because each time I see a Latin phrase, I can’t help but smell the incense.”

“In that case, I can refresh your memory.” The monk smiled.

“Exactly. I was counting on you. I have the feeling that I know these passages, but their origin escapes me. And who do you think could have painted all of that on the walls?”

“That’s another story! Follow me.”

They walked through the rhythmic shadows of the cloister before slipping under an entryway and following a dark corridor where a few rays of vapid light were trying to pierce the frosty stained-glass windows. Then they stepped through a small secret door and crossed a nearly empty room furnished with only a writing desk. Another door led to an antechamber that was just as deserted, and they finally came to the abbey library. The entire time, they did not speak a word. Brother Clément was walking slowly, forcing himself to control the wheezing and coughing fits that assailed him.

“I am moved to find myself here again,” Cooker said, raising his blue-gray eyes toward the high shelves. “I have nothing but fond memories of this place.”

The monk did not respond but turned toward the shelves containing hundreds of works bound in cracked leather, bundles of tied-up documents, and volumes of canon law probably no longer consulted. A fine film of dust rose up as the two men passed. Cooker felt rooted in centuries of history and timeless knowledge. At one corner of the maze, Brother Clément pulled from the stack the
Breviarium Monasticum
published in 1892 under the guidance of Father Paul Delatte from the Abbey Saint-Pierre de Solesmes. He placed the massive volume on a stand, paged through it quickly, and stopped at page ninety-four. He ran his index finger slowly down the page.

“Psalm 101 from the Book of David. This text is often called ‘Prayer in times of misfortune.’ It’s in fact the prayer of an afflicted person who has grown weak and is pouring out a lament before the Lord. The psalm is very well known and is often quoted, too. I am surprised that you didn’t remember it.”

“I have lapses, Brother Clément. I don’t mind admitting it. And it’s been quite a while since I have immersed myself in the Bible.”

“Sometimes the psalm is referred to as Psalm 102, especially in the Hebrew Bible, which predates the Greek Bible and the Vulgate by centuries. Let’s look at the
New Jerusalem Bible
, which most Catholics use today, where it’s Psalm 102.”

Cooker leaned over the narrow table to get a better look at the opened volumes. He put on his reading glasses and knit his brows.

“Indeed, my translation is not so bad,” he said without hiding a certain satisfaction.

“It’s well done. You did not suffer in vain on the school benches. The phrases you copied down in Vougeot correspond to the first verse of the psalm, and the ones from Gilly correspond to the fourth.”

“That could mean that two are missing. They might be scribbled on some other walls. Who knows? Maybe in another village.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe they were deliberately omitted.”

For my days are vanishing like smoke,
my bones burning like an oven;
like grass struck
by blight, my heart is withering,
I forget to eat my meals.
From the effort o
f voicing my groans
my bones stick out through my skin.

Brother Clement whistled with excitement. “Read the next part. Very interesting.”

I am like a desert-owl in the wastes,
a screech-owl among ruins,
I keep vigil and moan
like a lone bird on a roof.
All day long my enemies taunt me,
those who once praised me now use me as a curse.

Leaning over the monk’s shoulder, Cooker read the words in a low voice. His lips were hardly moving, as if he were praying and absorbed in the soothing rhythm of the chant.

“There you go. This is the passage that intrigues me the most,” the monk said, straightening up with difficulty.

“This one?” Cooker asked. “Why a desert owl?”

“I suppose you wouldn’t have those in your native England,” the monk responded with amusement.

“I would have just translated that as a pelican.” The winemaker shrugged.

“That would not necessarily have been wrong. In medieval Europe, the pelican was thought to be particularly attentive to her young, to the point of providing her own blood by opening up her breast when no other food was available. Pelican or owl, that doesn’t change the problem.”

“I don’t know what to make of all this,” Cooker confessed in a vexed tone. “Why would someone be covering walls with verses from a psalm?”

“Maybe it should be seen as a plea, a way of addressing God or man. I don’t know. This is about someone who surely has serious reasons to complain.”

“Still, there are other ways to express your feelings.”

“It seems all our big cities are covered with graffiti,” the monk said between coughs. “Some people see it as a youthful protest, a cry for help, or even a cry of desperation. Some of it is even considered art. These days, people can find very absurd ways to express their discontent.”

“It’s true that the method, writing with spray paint, makes it seem similar to other vandalism, except the author knows Latin and refers to the Old Testament. You must agree, it is somewhat unusual.”

“I don’t know what to say, Benjamin. You’d have to study the text in order to decipher the code and uncover the hidden meaning. There must be one. At least I hope there is. In the body of the Psalter you find everything and its opposite: threats, confessions of sin, petitions, vows of chastity, grievances, gratitude—everything.”

“You’re right. You’d need to deconstruct this psalm in order to—”

“Take this. It’s a gift,” the monk interrupted, handing him a hardback fabric-covered
New Jerusalem Bible
. “I suppose you don’t have one with you, since you’re traveling.”

“No, I don’t, I confess.”

“In that case, your penance will be to reread certain passages, even if it means you fall asleep doing so!”

The two men promised to see each other before the winemaker left town. Brother Clément stayed in the library, citing overdue research as an excuse, and did not offer to walk his visitor to the door. But he did point Cooker to a secret passage to use as a shortcut.

As soon as Cooker was outside the abbey, he took a deep breath and strolled among the poplars. Then he slid behind the wheel of his convertible and sat quietly, as though protected by the fog of condensation on the car windows. With his hands on the steering wheel, his eyes half-closed, and his lips moving over the verses of the psalm, he dwelled on the powerless lamentations. At last he took out his cell phone and pressed the contact button, where his assistant’s number was on his list of favorites.