“I’ll say it did! I’ll come straight to the point, Felix. You sold more than any other store in the entire country. You’re going to Australia!”
Excellent. Goodbye cold British February, hello Bondi Beach. “That’s wonderful news, sir. I’m sure the whole Little Chalfont team will be thrilled.” Not as thrilled as me, though.
“Always thinking of the team, Felix. I like it. You must come up to Head Office when you’re back from your travels. It’s the educational trip of a lifetime and the buying team would love to hear what you’ve learnt.”
Big wave surfing, how to barbecue a yabbie, and the Southern Hemisphere’s top shagging positions with a bit of luck. “I can’t wait to study the interaction between soil type and climate in the Coonawarra, sir.”
“Good man. Enjoy the trip.”
***
I did of course. I even learnt rather more about wine than I expected. The Aussies don’t take things too seriously but they do appreciate a good drop, so I was plied with drink wherever I went, from the Hunter Valley to the Margaret River. I won’t give you a blow by blow account of every winery I visited, but I must have tasted over a hundred wines every day.
One highlight was a floodlit, night-time joyride on an automatic harvesting machine, racing giant tractors down the rows of vines, their paddles slapping at the stems and shaking the grapes onto the conveyor belt below. Then, in the winery, we stripped down to our underwear and punched down the floating morass of grape skins into the great concrete fermenting tanks, the purple liquid foaming as the grape sugars turned to alcohol, yours truly getting admiring glances from the young female cellar hands, and maybe a few jealous males too.
And there was some great R&R – there’s nothing like a hard day in the winery to work up an appetite. We ended each day with a massive barbecue overlooking the vineyards, lamb steaks and crayfish hissing over the coals, corks pulled and great beakers of wine poured. Then invariably, an athletic, beach-perfect cellar girl would take me by the hand and urge me back into the vineyard for a grand nubbing between the vines.
By the time I landed back at Heathrow and caught the juddering train back to cold, drizzling Little Chalfont I had decided on the trajectory of my future career. And no, it was not to be a shopkeeper in a sleepy Home Counties village. I’d had enough of armed robbers, underage glue sniffers and dribbling drunks swapping their snot-encrusted small change for a flask of vodka.
My destiny was to be an international wine buyer, a gold-card-carrying traveller extraordinaire following the vintage around the globe, sipping wine in sun-kissed vineyards, doing million-dollar deals with tanned Mediterranean aristocrats and shaping the wine drinking tastes of the world.
I entered the store. One of my cashiers stood behind the counter, arms folded, while a thin, spotty youth placed a two-litre bottle of cider before her. “Do you have any ID?” she asked.
“What’s your fuckin problem? I’m eighteen, all right? Just had my birthday.”
I placed the youth in a half nelson and walked him out of the shop as he struggled and gurgled pathetically. I continued round the corner to where his friends were hiding.
“Afternoon chaps,” I said brightly. “Next time you want to get wankered on cheap cider, I recommend you send someone into the shop with more than two pubes to rub together. If I see any of you in my store again, I’ll give you a Burgundy enema.”
I released the youth, who crumpled to the floor. Returning to the shop, I marched into the back office, picked up the phone and dialled Head Office.
“Hello. This is Felix Hart. I’m phoning to make an appointment to see Clive Willoughby and the wine buying team.”
I had to make this count.
***
The following week I caught the tube into London and arrived at Tinto Towers, the unassuming North London office block that housed the Head Office of Charlie’s Cellar.
Willoughby’s secretary met me at reception and showed me upstairs. The place was cramped, decorated in shades of dark cream, and smelt of stale cigarettes. She knocked on the door marked Director of Wine.
“Come!” I entered, to see the whole buying team sitting around Willoughby’s desk. He leapt to his feet and shook my hand. “Welcome, young Felix! Let me introduce you to everyone.”
I shook hands with each of the three wine buyers: Gillian, a conservatively dressed woman in pearl earrings; Paul, very tall and serious-looking; and Henri, a raffish-looking Frenchman, with a generous head of swept-back silver hair touching his collar.
“Enchanté Felix,” winked Henri.
“And this is Benedict, our Assistant Wine Buyer.”
A pale, sensitive-looking young man around my age, with wispy brown hair, held out his hand. It was damp and limp and he looked away as I shook it. “Soon to be a real buyer, I trust?” he said to Willoughby in a plaintive, whining voice.
“Benedict is studying for his Minstrel of Wine qualification,” explained Willoughby. “We hope he will join Gillian and Paul here so we can boast a hat-trick of Minstrels!”
“Very impressive,” I said, suspecting Benedict might be an impediment to my entry into the buying team.
Willoughby clapped his hands. “So, Felix, let’s hear about your trip to Australia!” In a stage whisper he added, for the benefit of the others, “Felix is our star salesman – he single-handedly turned around two of our most important stores, and he won this year’s Aussie wine competition into the bargain!”
The other buyers nodded and smiled. Benedict sulked and stared at the ceiling.
“I took the liberty of bringing a couple of samples with me.” I’d made sure to bring home a couple of rare bottles from my trip down under – wines which would be impossible to find in England. I drew the first bottle from my bag. It was a Sangiovese from Victoria, made by an Italian whose grandfather smuggled the vine cuttings out from the old country. I poured each of them a glass and humbly suggested some differences between this wine and an Italian Chianti which, as you may be aware, is made from the same grape variety.
I then revealed my second bottle. It was a fifty-year-old Australian Tawny Port. It normally cost a fortune, but the sales manager in Rutherglen had taken a shine to me and, to cut a long story short, she was happy to swap the bottle for a sampling of British beef. The buyers’ eyes opened wide, and even Benedict appeared to be impressed for a second before he remembered himself and reverted to his sickly sneer.
“You’re spoiling us here, young Felix,” smiled Gillian, the female buyer. “I must confess I have never tasted a fortified Rutherglen as old as this!” The others concurred as I poured a short measure of the treacly liquid into each glass.
“Ohh. Zat is ’eaven!” declared Henri. The others nodded and a lively conversation ensued regarding the merits of fortified wine from Portugal, Spain and Australia.
“Well, Felix,” said Willoughby. “You’ve done us proud – we never expected to be educated by one of our own store managers!”
“Oh, not at all sir,” I protested, brimming with false modesty.
“Benedict! Why don’t you take Felix through to the tasting room and we’ll join you shortly.”
Benedict looked as though someone had asked him to sample a range of used cat litter.
Willoughby turned back to me. “We’re tasting a flight of fine white Burgundy this afternoon. You must join us. It would be interesting to know your thoughts.”
“I would be delighted, sir. Thank you so much.”
Benedict rose and pushed open the door, as aggressively as his puny arms could manage. I followed as he marched down the corridor, making no effort to wait for me. He paused at the entrance to the tasting room. “That awful, unbalanced, loutish port of yours has quite overwhelmed my palate. I need some water.”
“Is there a tap somewhere?”
Benedict snorted, incredulously, and pointed to his mouth with both hands. “Does this look like a palate that drinks tap water?”
It looks like a palate that needs a
strong punch, I thought. “Would you like me to fetch you some mineral water?”
“Good idea, store boy.”
In under a minute I was down the brown-carpeted stairwell, through reception and into the street. As I perused the fridge in a nearby corner store a plan leapt, fully formed, into my mind.
I had never shared Madame Joubert’s Lekker Medisyne Trommel with anyone, nor did I want to. I was already a quarter of the way into Mr du Plessis’s priceless gift and I didn’t intend to deplete it any faster than necessary. However, I had a theory that this extraordinary powder not only restored one’s vim, but also created a more exaggerated version of oneself. As an upstanding, generous and wholesome character I became an even finer pillar of society under its influence but someone with less attractive qualities might find those traits magnified. It was only a theory, but definitely one worth testing. In the name of science, of course.
I picked up a bottle of plain mineral water and another of berry-flavoured water. I paid for them and walked back toward Tinto Towers, emptying the flavoured water into the gutter. Before entering the building I fished a sachet of Madame Joubert’s from my pocket and poured it into the empty bottle, then decanted the plain water onto the powder. It fizzed and foamed until it had vanished. I screwed the top back on and gave the pinkish water a little shake. I tasted it and recognised the gentle chalky, fruity flavour.
When I returned to the tasting room, several buyers were already there. “Ah, there you are Felix,” said Willoughby, a glass in his hand. “Wondered where you’d vanished to.”
“Benedict asked me to find him a little palate cleanser,” I explained. I turned to the Assistant Wine Buyer and held out the water. “Here you go. I’m so sorry, they only had lightly flavoured water.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” He grimaced, as though I had asked him to drink horse piss.
“I checked – there are no sweeteners or nasty additives in there. I know how important it is to guard a sensitive palate.”
“Don’t be so ungrateful Benedict,” said Willoughby, rolling his eyes. “Drink the water, for goodness sake.”
Benedict sniffed the bottle and pointed at me. “If this bruises my taste buds… I shall not be responsible for my actions!”
I nodded solemnly as he drank the water.
The door opened and Henri entered. “Alors! Let us taste these wonderful wines.” I could smell a faint whiff of cigarette smoke on his clothes.
“When are we going to ban smoking from this building?” whined Benedict. “I cannot bear it. I have such a sensitive palate.”
You’d have a very sensitive arsehole if I stuck my boot up it, you dreadful little squit, I thought.
“Well, I think the senior logistics chaps might revolt if we did that, Benedict. Live and let live, eh?” Willoughby patted the squit on the shoulder as he sniffed and tutted.
We began the tasting, and a fabulous collection of wines it was too. We started with a series of poised Chablis crus before progressing to some more generous wines from the Côte d’Or.
“Is everything alright, Benedict?” asked Gillian suddenly.
Benedict was staring into his glass, tears rolling down his cheeks. His face was looking rather red and I recognised the twitching and tingling effect of Madame Joubert’s. “If one does not weep over Puligny Montrachet, then one has no soul!” he declared.
“You are a sensitive chap, aren’t you,” commented Willoughby, taking a delicate sip of his own.
We tasted on.
“What do you think of this Chassagne, Felix?” asked Willoughby.
“I’m no expert, sir, but it’s very generous in body. Perhaps a little too generous?”
“Oh please!” spluttered Benedict through his tears.
“Benedict, calm down,” ordered Gillian, softly. Then to me, “Please continue, Felix.”
“Well, I prefer something a touch more restrained. I feel the oak is just a little too prominent.”
“Thank you Felix. Good comment.”
“Perhaps a couple more years will help integrate the oak,” I added.
The buyers nodded to one another. Christ, I was good at this. I was delighted to see Benedict writhing with frustration at the attention I was receiving.
“And ’ow about this Bâtard?” asked Henri, an eyebrow raised as he nosed his way into a new glass.
For a split-second I thought he meant Benedict, then I recalled Bâtard was the name of a prestigious Burgundian village. It was time to turn the ponce dial up to eleven.
“If Puligny is a symphony,” I began, my face turned upwards as if receiving inspiration from the good Lord himself, “then Bâtard is a string ensemble. It may not have the majesty but it has the more exquisite poise.”
That did the trick.
“For the love of God!” screamed Benedict.
“Goodness, Benedict, will you pipe down!” snapped Willoughby.
“No, I’m sorry, I will not be silenced! What does this shop-boy know of Bâtard-Montrachet? I see you for what you are! You’re a blunt tool!”
“Benedict! That’s enough!”
But Benedict was on a roll, dipping up and down on the balls of his feet, swirling his wine faster and faster. He had a wild stare and was shaking with rage. “You’re nothing but… but… a slut! You’re a slut! A wine slut!” He laughed maniacally looking at each of us in turn. Then, still spinning his wine glass like a dervish, hurled the contents at me. “Taste that, you slut!”
“Goodness,” I muttered, removing a handkerchief and dabbing the fine Burgundy from my face. In the interests of full disclosure, I should confess that I emptied a double dose of Madame Joubert’s into Benedict’s bottle, completely against Mr du Plessis’s clear instructions. Still, strictly speaking, he said that I should never take more than one teaspoon – there was no injunction against giving a larger dose to someone else.
“Good God, Benedict, what the hell’s got into you?” demanded Willoughby. “Felix, are you all right?”
“Fuck Felix! Fuck the slut!”
The others had edged away from Benedict now – he was sweating profusely and had puffed up his hollow chest. “I shall be the minstrel! I shall taste and then, I shall dance!” He began to hop up and down, then to spin on the toe of one foot, arms held above his head, like a bad ballerina. He emitted a single, high falsetto note as he spun faster and faster. I made a mental note never to take more than one teaspoon of Madame Joubert’s myself.
Gillian lifted a jug of water and hurled the contents at Benedict’s face. He staggered and stopped spinning, looking at us in shock. “You bitch!” he whispered and slapped Gillian in the face.
“Right, you arse ’ole,” shouted Henri, grasping Benedict from behind. With Paul’s help he wrestled Benedict into the corridor. We piled out after them, just as Benedict broke free. He aimed a kick at Willoughby, catching him in the groin. The Director of Wine doubled over, his glasses falling to the floor.
“You slut!” screamed Benedict, and ran at me.
I caught him in the stomach with a well-timed upset punch. He doubled up and collapsed, then vomited heavily. Oh well, better out than in, I thought, particularly if he suspects someone slipped him a mickey and visits a doctor.
Henri and Paul grabbed the now rather limp Benedict and dragged him down the corridor, while Gillian put her arm around poor old Clive Willoughby, who was wheezing heavily, and helped him to a chair. I followed the others down the stairs and was pleased to see Paul instructing the receptionist not to allow Benedict back in the building.
We all returned to the tasting room where Willoughby had finally caught his breath. Gillian handed him his spectacles.
“Well, that was a more eventful tasting than I expected,” he said. “What the hell’s got into Benedict?”
I saw an opportunity to provide a little context. “It’s not really my place to say, but I saw him taking a rather long swig from a flask in the tasting room.” I shook my head. “It’s tragic to see a young man
with a problem like that. I just hope he finds the help he needs.”
“Well, we’ve not shown Charlie’s Cellar in the best light today, Felix. I’m sorry about that,” sighed Willoughby. “We do, however, have an immediate vacancy for an Assistant Wine Buyer…”
All eyes turned to me. I bowed my head solemnly.
“It would be an honour, sir.”
2.1
Bulgaria’s Finest
I paused for a moment, gazing at the standard lamp in the corner of the interrogation room. A tiny moth flitted around the shade. By contrast, my interviewers were quite still. The man had made a few notes while I was talking and he occasionally fiddled with the recording machine.
“Is this the kind of thing you’re after?” I asked them.
“We’re after the truth, Felix,” said the woman. “There’s a lot of detail about your rather immature school friends and flatmates. I’m sure that’s not necessary.”
“My old school friends Dan and Tariq play an important role later on, officers… should I call you officers?”
“Yes, you may.”
What did that make them then? Police officers? Military officers? Something else?
“My flatmates Wodin, Fistule and Mercedes are intimately involved in my story, too.”
“There’s also a lot of stuff about wine,” growled the man. “We’re not studying for the Minstrel of Wine exam, you know.”
“Wine is central to the whole story, officers. It’s the whole point.”
“Wine isn’t your only vice, is it Felix?” The woman pursed her lips and removed a piece of paper from a folder. Staring down at it she began to read, “Cannabis, cocaine, amphetamines, opiates, hallucinogens, barbiturates. Various legal highs… but most are quite illegal.” She looked up. “Congratulations. You’ve tested positive for every single narcotic on our list of substances of concern. I think that’s a first.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not something to be proud of, Felix. With test results like that you should be in a coffin, or at least a mental asylum. Nevertheless, you still appear to be able to function at a high level. How do you manage that?”
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