Nightmare in Burgundy (5 page)

“You’ve already heard?”

“One would have to be deaf not to hear what is said in these parts.”

“I have trouble believing that two kids barely eighteen years old would be amusing themselves by scrawling Latin sentences all over the walls of their towns!”

“Who knows? You must never jump to conclusions,” Brother Clément suggested wisely. “But using the Old Testament to tell everyone that you are suffering is something that comes from another era!”

“They might have been taking advantage of the situation to add fuel to the fire, if only to frighten or irritate the townspeople. Perhaps they wanted to liven things up a bit.”

“A type of game? It’s possible. There’s not much going on around here in the winter. The young people get bored.”

Virgile was quiet and stood off to the side. He wasn’t missing a word, but he seemed not to dare face the sharp gaze of the monk, who looked at him from time to time.

“They had started to paint some letters,” Cooker continued. “But we can’t know for sure what they planned to—”

“They managed to write ‘In V.’ Is that correct?”

“Yes, just three letters.”

“We don’t need to look too far: it must be the beginning of the saying ‘
In vino veritas.’”

“What an idiot I am. I should have thought of that!” Cooker said, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“Provided, of course, that they knew some snippets of Latin,” Brother Clément pointed out. “But the saying is pretty well known, after all.”

“That’s a theory that could hold water,” the winemaker said. “You wouldn’t have to be a Latin scholar. The Bravart cousins must have gone to Sunday school and were probably in the children’s choir.”

“What intrigues me even more is the time frame. The first writings were found on Wednesday, April sixth, and here we are in the middle of Holy Week, between Palm Sunday and Easter. Next Wednesday is the feast of Saint George, who is a very special martyr in Côtes-de-Nuits.”

“I know, but what is the connection?”

“None, for sure. I’m asking questions. That’s all. Etymologically,
George
means laborer. But the derivation isn’t Latin. It’s Greek. The word is composed of
gé
, the earth, and
ergon
, worker. So he is considered the patron saint of those who live by working the earth. But I digress, certainly.”

Brother Clément was having increasingly more trouble enunciating. His voice was growing weaker, and his body was curling up, as if shriveling in pain. Cooker apologized for having come at such a late hour and suggested returning the following day.

“Don’t worry. We’ve already sung vespers, and it’s not yet time for evening prayer. I have all of eternity before me to rest.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstay my visit,” Cooker said, throwing his coat over his shoulder to show they were going to leave. “Promise me that you will take it easy, Brother Clément, and don’t concern yourself about this story.”

“As you wish, my friend. But think about rereading a very interesting passage from the Book of Isaiah. It’s in chapter five. I know you will appreciate it.”

They took their leave as night was beginning to fall, plunging the parlor into twilight. The monk said good night with a slight nod of the head. He asked the abbey porter to give him a few minutes before accompanying him to his room. The conversation had visibly exhausted him.

Cooker and Virgile got back on the road to Vougeot without feeling the need to discuss their visit.
La Traviata
accompanied them softly in an
addio del passato
that the heartbreaking voice of Maria Callas rendered even more sorrowful each time Cooker played it. The 1953 version on a cassette in pitiful condition was so moving, it drew tears of compassion for the glory and misery of courtesans.

“Don’t you have anything more cheerful?” asked Virgile.

“You’re right. Maybe it’s not music we need,” Cooker said, turning down the volume. “Come on, let’s get back on track. I think I know just the thing.”

Cooker passed by the sign for Vougeot, took the road to Morey-Saint-Denis, and parked in the lot of the restaurant Castel de Très Girard so that they could fittingly celebrate Virgile’s first day in Burgundy. As soon as they were seated in studded armchairs in the main dining room, they opted for the gourmet menu, which included appetizer, first course, main course, cheese, and dessert. Cooker ordered smoked salmon cannelloni in lime-flavored mascarpone on a vegetable aspic and artichoke mousse, then shrimp ravioli on a bed of fennel in chervil broth, followed by stuffed saddle of rabbit in prunes covered with bacon on a bed of spinach and tomato comfit. Overwhelmed by the variety of the menu, Virgile finally chose the same dishes as his boss.

They ate more than they should have, calmly sipping a bottle of 1995 Gevrey-Chambertin from the Domaine Trapet Père et Fils. With a weary gesture they declined the cheese platter, but when the waiter offered the dessert menu, Cooker couldn’t resist a pyramid of red fruit in gewurztraminer with peach sorbet, a wafer, and a sweet almond sauce. His assistant gave in to a chocolate macaroon with vanilla ice cream and a cocoa-bean emulsion.

While waiting for coffee, Cooker carefully took a Montecristo double corona from his cigar case. He rolled the flexible, well-veined tobacco-leaf wrapping between his fingers and then pulled out his little chrome guillotine.
He took the time to prepare his vitole before lighting it. He discretely loosened his belt one notch, stretched his legs, leaned his head back on his chair, and, with relish, exhaled a thick puff of smoke toward the ceiling light.

“You may not believe me, Virgile, but this is the first Havana that I’ve smoked since I’ve been here.”

“It’s about time I got here, then!”

6

As soon as he awoke, Cooker dropped two antacid tablets into a glass of water, dragged himself to the shower, and stayed under its tepid spray for a good quarter of an hour. Then he gave himself a generous splash of Hermes men’s cologne and slipped on a pair of wide-ribbed corduroy pants, a beige flannel shirt, and his comfortable tweed jacket, whose pockets were beginning to lose their shape a bit. He didn’t have the energy to polish his Lobb country shoes while he waited for Virgile, who would certainly be a little late. Instead, he decided to consult the Bible passage that Brother Clément had referred to. He quickly found the Prophesies of Isaiah at the front of the Book of the Prophets. He briefly looked over the first pages before stopping at chapter five, verses one through seven, “The song of the vine.”

Let me sing my beloved the song of my friend for his vineyard. My beloved had a vineyard on a fertile hillside.

He dug it, cleared it of stones, and planted it with red grapes. In the middle he built a tower, he hewed a press there too. He expected it to yield fine grapes: wild grapes were all it yielded.

And now, citizens of Jerusalem and people of Judah, I ask you to judge between me and my vineyard.

What more could I have done for my vineyard that I have not done? Why, when I expected it to yield fine grapes, has it yielded wild ones?

Someone knocked at the door. Three short raps. Cooker went to answer it, the Bible open in his hand.

“Hello, sir. Sleep okay?”

“Listen to this, Virgile,” Cooker said, and read him the passage.

Very well, I shall tell you what I am going to do to my vineyard: I shall take away its hedge, for it to be grazed on, and knock down its wall, for it to be trampled on.

I shall let it go to waste, unpruned, undug, overgrown by brambles and thorn-bushes, and I shall command the clouds to rain no rain on it.

Now, the vineyard of Yahweh Sabaoth is the House of Israel, and the people of Judah the plant he cherished. He expected fair judgement, but found injustice, uprightness, but found cries of distress.

Cooker’s trembling voice remained suspended in the air, as if to emphasize the dramatic effect of the last verse.

“I don’t understand any of it,” his assistant confessed, running his hand through his short hair. “It’s all Greek to me.”

“Actually, you’re not far off.” Cooker smiled. “It doesn’t bother me all that much that you’re a nonbeliever. But not to be moved by the power of words, that always baffles me.”

“Sorry, but for me, this kind of grand speech reminds me of old Hollywood movies. You know, all those togas, Charlton Heston playing the handsome hero Ben Hur fighting on his chariot, and a bunch of skinny slaves in jock straps. I can see the rows of cardboard colonnades as I speak! I love it.”

“All right. I don’t think I’ll get anything insightful out of you on this subject. Your ambivalence depresses me.”

They left the annex to go to breakfast in the dining room. The weather had become milder during the night. The frayed clouds were whitish strips that revealed patches of blue sky. Aurélie welcomed them with a pretty smile and sparkling eyes that stopped Virgile in his tracks at the door. He stared at her and stammered a shy “good morning,” which was not at all like him.

“Well, what’s gotten into you, my boy?” Cooker whispered as he sat down.

“You didn’t tell me that the welcoming committee was so charming.”

“I knew you would be impressed, but I didn’t want to give everything away at once.”

“She’s just my type.”

“I have the impression they are all more or less your type. In the meantime, Virgile, get ready, because the mission awaiting you demands concentration and quite a lot of precision. I am really counting on you.”

“Thank you. I take the challenge as a sign of trust.”

“Most important, you are going to save me time. Please give my excuses to Olivier Lefflaive. He’s a friend. He’ll understand. Tell him that I have too much work to do in Vougeot and that I’ll come by to say hello another time.”

“I know his reputation, and he seems to be a real character, your friend Lefflaive!”

“Yes, we resemble one another somewhat. Very unusual career paths, in any case hardly typical of what people expected of us. Olivier was active in the theater circles in Paris for a long time. He’s the son of a winemaking family, but he wanted to see the world, play some guitar, write songs, experience other things. Finally, the call of Burgundy was stronger than the glitz of the capital. When he returned to Puligny-Montrachet in 1984, he threw himself into his terroir like a madman and accomplished an impressive amount of work.”

“It seems that his white wines are to die for.”

“The reds are not bad, either. The vineyard is a very demanding business, and it’s expanding. But Lefflaive and his people are down to earth, and they respect tradition. They also have a lovely motto: ‘Wine teaches us respect, and the vineyard teaches us modesty.’ But I won’t say anymore about it. I’d rather let you discover it for yourself.”

After gobbling up every morsel of their buttered bread, cleaning out a ramekin of apricot jam, and emptying their cups of tea, they left through the back door. As they passed the counter, Virgile could not resist a conspiratorial and promising wink, making the waitress blush. Cooker shrugged as he watched his assistant. Then he handed him the keys to his Mercedes and gave him some superfluous advice on how to proceed during the tasting. He waited until his purring convertible disappeared at the other end of town before heading for the Rendez-vous des Touristes Café.

When he walked in, the welcome was notably more polite than it was on his first visit. He found the same dice players sitting in front of their green felt cloth at the far corner of the bar. He took a table near the woman with the triple chin and her unassuming husband. Cooker had the feeling that he was at a re-enactment of the scene he had witnessed forty-eight hours earlier, except today they were greeting him amiably. He was now part of the landscape. Everyone knew who he was or thought they did. The night the Bravart boys were murdered, he had been seen coming out of the hotel in a bathrobe, patterned cashmere pajamas, and leather slippers. Cooker was no longer a stranger. He concluded that just having witnessed the face of death with these people was enough to create a rapport.

Cooker ordered coffee and began to chat about the weather, but the conversation soon turned to the events of the last few days. Each person gave his opinion and wanted to share it with everyone else.

“You have the right to defend yourself, but it’s despicable to shoot kids!” yelled one of the dice throwers.

“He’d better be careful, that idiot Ernest,” the man next to him said icily. “If I were a Bravart, I’d make no bones about planting one between his eyes!”

“Justice will run its course,” Cooker objected.

“What justice? Do you still believe in justice? It looks like he’s going to get out tomorrow.”

“I don’t think so. He will probably be released on a bond or perhaps his own recognizance,” the winemaker said. “That doesn’t mean he will avoid a trial.”

“He’ll be watched!” the woman interjected. “And we’d better watch out, or else he’ll gun down all the kids as soon as he’s plastered.”

“Frankly, sir, you don’t kill two kids over a trifle,” her husband dared to say.

“When I was young, I did worse things than write on a wall,” the café owner added.

The exchange, which was growing more heated, was interrupted when a man in green overalls pushed the door open with his shoulder and barged in.

“There’s firemen at Mother Grangreon’s place!”

“Is it on fire?” the café owner asked, surprised.

“On ice, actually, yes!” shouted the man in overalls. “The old woman woke up under a layer of snow.”

“Stop kidding, Mimile!”

“I’m serious. She was in her bed, and when she opened her eyes, she was under a layer of snow.”

“What snow? It’s all melted since yesterday.”

“Up north, where her house is, there were still patches of snow on the slopes, and there was some near the hen house. In any case, someone dumped it on her bed. Apparently she screamed like a pig and began running all around the house. And get this, guys—all the dishes were in pieces on the floor. The furniture was turned upside down, and the curtains were pulled down. Wait till you hear the next bit: there was writing in black paint on the walls. She fainted or, I don’t know, had a heart attack or something like that!”

“Writing in Latin?” Cooker asked cautiously.

“What do I know? In Latin or Chinese, who cares?”

“Is she dead?” a guy at the counter asked.

“No, but she’s drooling a bit, her eyes are rolled back, and she’s all stiff. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“Mother Grangeon never was a pretty sight,” joked one of the customers.

“Let’s not kid around,” the café owner interrupted. “Nobody could stand Mrs. Grangeon, but we’ve never seen anything like this in Vougeot. Believe me, it’s not a good sign!”

§ § §

Cooker spent most of his day in the village, at the Bertagna wine estate, to establish a winemaking protocol on an experimental parcel of land. He had been in touch with the managers of the property for several months and had promised to spend some time with them when he came to the area for his induction. The project was exciting and still needed some adjustments, but the cellar master and the master grower were efficient and cooperative. After long consultation and a methodical test of the decanted samples, Cooker concluded that he would definitely have to come back to Vougeot to put a final touch on this limited vintage. Before leaving, he took advantage of the opportunity to taste several vintages of Clos de la Perrière Monopole, a true Vougeot wine, which was produced outside the château but whose balance he had always appreciated.

Once back at the hotel at the end of the afternoon, he allowed himself a break in the dining room for a cup of tea. Aurélie prepared a smoky lapsang souchong, which he drank in little sips while waiting for Virgile to return. The girl made some overtures to engage him in conversation. He went along, but wasn’t fooled. She finally gave herself away by casually asking one too many questions about his assistant, whose brown eyes had met hers that very morning. Cooker didn’t hesitate to give her the information that she was trying hard to get out of him.

“In fact, here he is!” Cooker exclaimed as he heard the familiar sound of the convertible.

Virgile walked in with the ease of a handsome guy used to making a theatrical entrance. His gaze came to rest on Aurélie’s smooth face.

“So?” Cooker said.

“Nothing but good news, sir,” Virgile said, his speech mildly slurred.

“But you look smashed, my boy,” Cooker said, worried.

“To be honest, I didn’t leave very clearheaded. It was so fine that toward the end, I didn’t have the willpower to spit. But don’t worry. I didn’t get behind the wheel right away. I took a little nap in the car, and the cold air woke me up.”

“That’s not very responsible,” Cooker grumbled. “I expected more professional behavior from you! Let’s see what your notes look like.”

Virgile took out a bundle of pages that his boss almost tore from his hands.

“Very cool atmosphere. I got along very well with Pascal Wagner. He’s a super sommelier. We talked about rock ’n’ roll almost as much as we talked about wine.”

The assistant was effusive and joyfully related his visit with Olivier Lefflaive. The wine tasting had taken place before a nice plate of local cured meats, Bresse chicken stewed in honey, and several local cheeses.

Cooker was not really listening to him and consulted the sheets to see if they were in order.

“Well, I am going to my room to read all of this in peace. Tonight I am skipping dinner. I decided to diet today, and considering your state, I suggest you do the same.”

Once in his room, Cooker raised the thermostat, took off his shoes, pulled on a cashmere sweater, and stretched out on his bed to study his employee’s report. Everything was recorded according to Cooker & Co. criteria. He began with the tasting of the whites, which had been lined up in the 1999 vintage: Meursault, Chassagne-Montrachet, Puligny-Montrachet, Chassagne premier cru Blanchots, Meursault premier cru Charmes, and Puligny-Montrachet premier cru Chalumeaux. The notes were well written, both technical and perceptive, and some made the winemaker smile.

Virgile’s notes were as pertinent as they were impertinent
.
Chablis grand cru Valmur 2000: “Rather citrusy, mineral, with a touch of sweetness, a bit creamy. Superb bouquet. (You could say fabulous without exaggerating too much.) Floral, round, balanced. Very satisfying structure.” In the margin he had scribbled a note that was crossed out. Cooker could still make it out: “Think of asking Mom what perfume she wore when I was in high school. Same lemony, slightly acidic, smooth smell.”

Cooker could see that the finale of the wine-tasting session had been a real joy: Puligny-Montrachet premier cru Pucelles, Corton-Charlemagne grand cru, and Bienvenues-Bâtard-Montrachet grand cru in four successive vintages. Sublime whites that brought the art of chardonnay winemaking to unexpected heights. They were sometimes difficult to spit out. Virgile had done good work. Admittedly, his conduct had been a bit less than stellar, or at least he had drunk without much moderation. But he had written an impeccable wine-tasting report that was sufficiently precise and analytical without losing his personality and refined subjectivity. Obviously, this young man from Bergerac felt comfortable in Burgundy. He understood its authenticity, its rough manners, its gruff simplicity, and its down-to-earth honesty that emphasized doing what you say, not saying what you do.

Cooker placed the notes on his bedside table, picked up his cell phone, and punched in the number for Robert Bressel, the reporter. Night would soon fall on Vougeot.

“Good evening, Mr. Bressel.”

“Ah, Mr. Cooker!”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I have an ear for voices. I only have to hear one once to recognize it among thousands.”