by Tim Heald
‘The wine’s not important,’ said Ebertson. Like everybody else he was drinking a tequila-based cocktail. ‘It’s a pretext.’
‘That sounds unduly cynical.’
‘He is unduly cynical,’ said Aubergine Bristol, ‘or hadn’t you noticed?’ The sun had turned her an instant brown. No sign of burning at all. ‘Aubrey and I are going to try out one of those parachute things this afternoon. The ones you tow behind boats. Why don’t you join us?’
‘I’d need a few more Margaritas before I go up in one of those,’ said Bognor.
‘The point is,’ said Blight-Purley, who had not been listening, ‘the wine won’t pass muster.’
Just as he said it a silence reverberated out from the steps at one side of the pool. Conversation died away under a chorus of shushing noises and the banging of a gavel. A loudspeaker system gave a sudden ear-splitting whine followed by a click. A man in a red coat said, ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, messieurs, mesdames, I bid you welcome to the tasting of le premier vin rouge Britannique and pray silence for Madame Delphine Bitschwiller of the House of Bitschwiller.’ There was applause and outbreaks of chatter in Spanish and Italian from isolated portions of the audience. These were loudly hushed by the Anglo-Saxons and the French. La Veuve spoke in French, and she spoke briefly. Then with a wide but frigid smile she introduced Freddie Pendennis who spoke at greater length and some tedium, inducing still more mutter from the Latins and flashing glances of disapproval from his allies. When he had finished, a band of Mexican wine waiters trooped out from behind him and began to circulate with glasses of the Château Petheram.
‘I suppose we have to,’ said Bognor, who was enjoying his second Margarita.
‘Indubitably,’ said Blight-Purley.
The little knot of English, huddled together for security, if not warmth, all went through the sniffing and gargling in unison, like a circus act. There were no spittoons, and the crush was too great for spitting on the ground. Bognor toyed with the idea of doing it into the hibiscus-littered pool but thought better of it. Similar thoughts clearly passed through the minds of his compatriots, but after hesitation they all swallowed. After doing so there was a moment’s contemplation, and then a chorus the tenor of which was ‘Gosh, I say.’ The wine was good.
‘Somewhat akin to what took place at Cana,’ said Blight-Purley.
‘What?’ asked Aubergine Bristol.
‘Water into wine,’ said Bognor. ‘Blasphemous joke. It does seem to travel well though, doesn’t it?’
Blight-Purley was holding his glass up to the sun. Then he put his nose in it. Then he poured some into his mouth and gargled. After he had swallowed he held the glass to the sun again and rotated it. He was frowning. ‘That’s not from Petheram,’ he said. ‘That’s from between Lyon and Avignon. What’s more, I can tell you exactly where.’
‘But Erskine,’ said Ebertson, ‘it says it on the bottle. Look: “Vin d’Angleterre”. And the note on the back about how it’s done. I admit it’s improved beyond recognition in the last few weeks, but it has to be Petheram. It can’t be anything else.’
‘That wine you’re drinking,’ said Blight-Purley, speaking very distinctly, ‘comes from a vineyard a few miles out of the village of Condillac in the Rhône valley. It’s called the Château Oreille de Cochon.’
‘Pig’s Ear Castle,’ translated Bognor, partly for the benefit of Ebertson and partly to make sure he’d got it right.
‘How on earth do you know that?’ asked the American, addressing the query to the Colonel rather than the interpreter.
‘It belonged to Delphine’s uncle, Yves,’ said Blight-Purley, staring into space. ‘I last tasted that thirty years go. It’s the suggestion of loganberries that’s so distinctive.’
‘But it’s very good whatever it is,’ said Bognor.
‘Of course it’s good,’ said Blight-Purley, ‘that’s the whole point. They can produce a lot of it, but because of the snobbery of the international wine market they were never able to get anything like a proper price for it. Côtes du Rhône just isn’t fashionable. It’s always been like that. Hence the château’s unlikely nomenclature.’
‘You mean,’ suggested Bognor, now groping, ‘you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.’
‘Precisely.’
‘But I don’t see …’
Blight-Purley put an arm round Bognor and shifted him away from the others. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘this is quite serious. If I’m right, and I’m certain I am, then there’s some hanky panky going on.’
‘Explain.’ Bognor thought he saw what the Colonel was getting at.
‘Yves is dead,’ said Blight-Purley. ‘He had no children. Oreille de Cochon went to Delphine. It’s hers. The wine’s good but they can’t sell it for enough because it comes from the wrong place. It’s every bit as fine as all but the best burgundies but no one believes it. Prejudice, pure and simple, but there it is. So the Bitschwillers have never bothered to put it on the market. Some of it they drink themselves, some they adulterate with rubbish, probably Algerian, and pass it off as a French carafe wine of indeterminate provenance. You follow?’
‘I’m beginning to.’
‘Now Pendennis comes up with this hare-brained scheme to make an English red. Right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s like anaemic vinegar.’
‘Yes.’
‘So he does a deal with Delphine. She puts her useless wine into his bottles, and they flog it for double what she could get for Oreille de Cochon and a million times what he could get for his undrinkable Château Petheram, so-called.’
‘Is that possible?’
Blight-Purley grimaced and regarded the inky red wine with a baleful expression. ‘I wouldn’t have said so, but that’s what they’ve done.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’ Watching the crowd Bognor was aware that those not awash with tequila were approaching Pendennis’ product with surprised appreciation. They liked it, to judge from the satisfied smiles; their satisfaction, to judge from the way it was being studied, was mildly incredulous.
‘I shall raise the matter with Delphine.’
‘You won’t report it?’
‘To whom?’
It was a fair question. Bognor had no idea. ‘The authorities,’ he said, feebly.
‘The Mexican authorities, I suppose,’ said Blight-Purley, baring his teeth in an expression which made it quite plain that as far as he was concerned the idea of Mexican authorities was patently ludicrous. ‘The gentlemanly and correct course of action is to present Delphine with my evidence.’
‘But you have no evidence as such.’
‘I have the evidence of my palate. That is perfectly sufficient. Besides, Delphine is a lady. She would shrink from deception.’
‘But deception,’ Bognor was plaintive, ‘is what you’re accusing her of.’
Blight-Purley was not listening. ‘Yves would be unamused,’ he said, turning, and making off into the crowd.
It was an hour before Bognor saw him again. He had by then taken a great deal more alcohol and was leaning on a balustrade staring out to sea. Bognor on his own approached and enquired, ‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘The wine. Is it Oreille de Cochon or Château Petheram?’
‘The palate cannot tell a lie.’
‘But what does Delphine say?’
‘She says it’s Château Petheram.’
‘And you don’t believe her?’
Blight-Purley swung round to face him. The eyes looked more than usually bloodshot. It was probably the drink, though for a second Bognor wondered if it might not have been some lachrymose evidence of a maudlin disillusion.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Did you tell her that too?’
‘Yes.’
That would not have gone down well. No one, least of all a Bitschwiller, enjoyed being called a liar. Particularly when they have already just been accused of fraud.
I
t was difficult to know how to continue conversation after this since, all else apart, the Colonel was clearly (in the nautical phrase Bognor vaguely remembered from some naval relation) three sheets in the wind. They were saved by the intervention of Aubrey Pring and Aubergine Bristol. ‘Come on then, you two,’ exclaimed Aubrey. ‘Come for a whirl in the bateau.’
‘We’re parachuting with José,’ said Aubergine.
Bognor and Blight-Purley nodded in a bemused manner. A trip round the bay was certainly not what either man wanted, but one was too drunk and the other too polite to say so. They moved off, clambered aboard one of the hotel’s pink and white jeeps, and drove down the hill to the spot where José, a squat hairy individual in a silvery G-string, was waiting with an immensely powerful speedboat and a battalion of equally diminutive helpers. The parachute lay limp on the sand.
‘Lady first,’ said José, doing an unnecessary amount of waist and elbow clutching to which Aubergine did not seem averse. The three men took off their shoes, rolled up their trousers and waded out to the boat. The helpers gathered around Aubergine and issued instructions as she was strapped in. Then José returned to the boat. ‘Now we go,’ he said to his passengers.
‘Shouldn’t she be wearing swimming things?’ asked Bognor. Aubergine was in a white trouser suit, though she had now abandoned the jacket.
‘She land on sand,’ said José, revving the engine. He looked back at the beach and received a thumbs-up sign from one of the helpers. He returned it and nudged the engine into gear. The boat shot forward like a jet on the runway, giving Bognor the same jolt in the back and also inducing the same fearful nausea. He shut his eyes for a few seconds and prayed, then raised his head to the sky behind and saw that the parachute had filled with air and was now rising like a gaudy toadstool with the Honourable Aubergine dangling underneath it. They were racing towards the middle of the bay and Bognor began to relax.
‘Looks quite easy,’ he said.
‘Dead easy,’ said Aubrey, shading his eyes with his hands to get a clearer view of his girlfriend, who was now barely distinguishable as a human being. ‘You come down with a mild clunk, but nothing to worry about. You going next?’
‘I’m not very good at heights,’ said Bognor.
‘We’ll send Erskine then. Sober him up.’
Blight-Purley already seemed refreshed by the salt and the wind and the exhilaration of speed. The boat was bouncing along the waters of the bay at a terrific rate.
‘You next?’ shouted Aubrey.
‘Right you are,’ said the Colonel, unflinching.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Bognor, concerned. ‘He’s still half cut, and he’s got a game leg and a probable heart condition. And he’s old.’
‘I said there’s nothing to it. Easy as falling off a log.’
They had swung round now and were heading back inland. The parachute still soared. Aubergine Bristol was still safely attached to it. By a series of manoeuvres Bognor was unable to understand, parachute and pilot moved away from the water until they were hovering over the sandy beach. José cut the engine, and the boat slowed to a placid amble and finally nothing. Behind them the parachute floated gently down until coming to rest a few hundred yards away on the beach where the minions immediately surrounded Aubergine, dusted her down, and sent her back to the boat.
‘Fantastic,’ she shouted as she strode out to them. ‘That has to be the most amazing experience. I mean the most amazing.’
‘What’s it like?’ asked Bognor.
‘It’s a bit like hash, only healthier.’ She laughed. ‘Fanbloodytastic. You feel as if you’re floating on air.’
‘That’s what you were doing,’ said Bognor sourly. He turned to Aubrey. ‘You’re not going to make the Colonel do it, are you? I’m really not sure you should.’
‘Oh, don’t be so priggish.’ Aubrey had already swung himself over the stern of the boat and was standing up to his thighs in the ocean holding his arms out for Blight-Purley. ‘You want to try it, don’t you?’ he was asking him. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve parachuted since the war. I don’t imagine this is quite the Balkans or occupied France.’
‘I should say not,’ said Blight-Purley. ‘Naturally I want to try it. Try anything once.’
He started to clamber out of the boat, slipped slightly as he straddled the side, but was held firmly by Pring and ended the right way up in the water.
‘Come on. I’ll help you get strapped in.’ Aubrey helped the old boy through the sea to the beach. Bognor watched apprehensively as they waded through the breakers, which were less aggressive than they had been the day before, and reached the apparatus.
‘Is easy,’ said José, catching his worried state. ‘Is so easy a niño may do it. Little boy only five year old, he can do it.’
‘Colonel Blight-Purley isn’t a niño. He’s probably seventy.’
‘Honestly, Simon, don’t fuss. It’s potty,’ said Aubergine.
‘I’m not fussing,’ said Bognor, heatedly. ‘He’s rather pissed, and he’s rather old and rather infirm, and I don’t think he should, that’s all.’
‘He’s a grown man. He can make up his own mind, surely?’
‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’
It didn’t take long for the Colonel to be locked into position. From the shore Aubrey Pring shouted through cupped hands, ‘I’ll stay here and see the old boy off. Ready when you are!’ There was another exchange of thumbs up, the engines roared, the boat surged forward, and the Colonel was borne aloft under his sail of silk.
‘There you are!’ shouted Aubergine, above the din of the diesels. ‘Nothing to it.’
‘He’s got to get down, too,’ said Bognor only half appeased. They craned their necks as the parachute climbed higher and higher until, like Aubergine, he became only a dull black speck.
‘Is very high,’ shouted José, grinning broadly and turning the wheel so that the boat executed a careening semi-circle. Bognor hung on tightly and watched the wash spread out behind them.
Suddenly there was a shriek from the girl. ‘Oh God, no!’ she screamed, covering her face with her hands. For a moment Bognor imagined she had hurt herself but then, realizing that she was physically unharmed, he quickly looked back up to the parachute. ‘Oh, God,’ he said too, only softly. The parachute still floated prettily in the sky but the spiky human form beneath was no longer attached to it.
Blight-Purley was falling with a rapidity which Bognor fatuously realized was 32 feet per second per second. The three of them watched mesmerized as the body plummeted seawards, gathering speed as it did until it hit the waves. The impact made a light smack of sound, like a stone which has been dropped into a well. There was a small explosion of white spray. Then nothing. For a second the three of them stayed watching agog, waiting absurdly for some sign of life, some movement to suggest survival.
‘For Christ’s sake man, hurry. Get over there now. Before it’s too late.’ Bognor’s voice was raucous, nearly hysterical. It was already too late. He knew that, but there was a need for action, if only as therapy. Aubergine Bristol was very pale under her tan, her face drained of expression. José pointed the bows in the direction of the splash and the vessel leapt across the bay bumping ferociously. As they neared the point where the body (which was what Bognor was already mentally describing it as) had fallen, he slowed and leant over searching the clear turquoise waters for some sign. The boat rocked rhythmically from side to side, and Bognor and Aubergine Bristol also stared hopelessly into the water. From the shore there came the buzz of another engine as Aubrey and some of the Mexicans powered out to assist.
‘It’s no good,’ said Bognor, still staring forlornly. ‘No one would survive a drop like that.’
‘No,’ agreed Aubergine. She sank back into her seat and put her hand to her forehead. ‘It’s a long way up. You can hardly make people out when you’re up there. They’re like …’
‘Ants,’ said Bognor without thinking.
The other speedboat arrived.
Pring was standing in the bows wearing an expression of tight-lipped, efficient concern.
‘What in heaven’s name happened?’ he called across.
‘Your guess is as good as ours,’ Bognor hailed back. ‘Probably better,’ he added under his breath. A nasty suspicion was beginning to form in his mind.
‘You go clockwise, we go anti-,’ Pring shouted. The two boats began a circular trawl of the area, with everyone leaning out, eyes straining.
When they had completed one circle they made another smaller one, then another until they had covered the whole area surrounding the point of entry. ‘I wonder how deep it is here?’ Bognor asked out loud but of no one in particular.
‘Very deep,’ said José mournfully, ‘very, very deep.’
‘And I suppose there are currents?’
‘Very bad currents. Very, very dangerous to swim here.’
Pring’s boat came alongside. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t think that there’s any point in going on,’ he called. ‘Manuel says it’s very deep here and there are quite fierce currents.’
‘But we can’t just leave him.’ Aubergine had begun to cry silently, the tears smudging her green mascara and trickling down the laugh lines. ‘We should never have let him go. Simon was right.’ There was an awkward silence.
‘OK,’ agreed Bognor at last. ‘Let’s go home.’
The parachute had come down now, as well, and they hauled it aboard, a mess of soggy silk, tangled wires and cords.
‘Don’t fiddle with it,’ snapped Bognor as José began to disentangle it. ‘The police will want to have a good look.’
‘The police?’ Aubergine seemed not to understand. ‘You don’t mean …’
‘I don’t mean anything except that if someone falls to his death from a parachute in Acapulco Bay people need to know why. In England the police would be called to look at the evidence. It doesn’t mean that what happened wasn’t an accident. There are different sorts of accidents though. There is such a thing as culpable negligence.’
On the beach Aubergine pressed her head against Aubrey’s shoulder. Aubrey held her stiffly and caught Bognor’s eye with an expression of compassionate contempt. Bognor wondered if there was self-satisfaction there as well.