CHAMPAGNE BLUES

by Nan

  “Do I need a receipt?”

  “Most definitely, Madame.” He reached for a bouquet of yellow roses that had just been delivered. Discreetly, he removed the card and presented them to her. “Welcome to the Louis Quinze.”

  Emma brought the flowers to her face and inhaled deeply. She broke off a small bud and slipped it into his lapel. “It is a far, far better thing that you have done than you will ever know.”

  Claude watched her turn away. Without taking his eyes from her, he turned up his collar to sniff the bud. She was very beautiful. Far more vulnerable than Lily Simon, but no less deadly.

  Emma felt suddenly renewed. She walked brightly across the lobby, where Clifford was proclaiming that he would not tolerate a terrace. “I finally met a man who understands my shoes!” she announced. Pierre looked down at her bare feet in horror. Emma smiled at him and opened her purse. She looked him straight in the eye and asked, “Say, can you change a million-dollar bill?”

  AS soon as the Benjamins left the lobby, Gaspar walked to the reception desk and raised his hands in disbelief. The bellboy prodded the duffel bags as though he were a hunter uncertain that the animals at his feet were dead. André pointed to the champagne that had never been opened. The cashier poked her head above the barred partition and pressed her nose with thumb and forefinger as though announcing an appalling odor.

  Jean left the reception desk and walked across the aisle to Claude. With each step, he slapped the four American passports against his open palm. “Now they are all here,” Jean said.

  The moment Claude took the passports from Jean, he began to sweat. He turned abruptly, reached for the key to Suite 300 and walked to the elevator. He held up the key to show the operator where he wanted to go.

  His hand trembled as he unlocked the Presidential Apartment. Once inside, he leaned back against the door. It was as though he had entered another dimension. All that he saw was real, but did not yet exist. Suite 300 would come to life at four o’clock. The setting would remain in suspension until the Simons, the Benjamins and the people from NAA had their final meeting. He walked from room to room as a surgeon studies X-ray after X-ray.

  He breathed in deeply and exhaled. It was the only part of his presence he could leave behind. Anonymity was the most powerful weapon of the guerrilla fighter. It was also his greatest frustration. At least he had been called Le Dom. It was a shred of identity. A nameless name hated by the enemy. A symbol that was guarded by his countrymen. Claude knew that the soldiers to fear were not those who donned bright tunics and tapped tin drums. Far more dangerous were the resisters, the saboteurs, the underground fighters. They wore no uniforms. They never fought for so selfish a reason as saving their own lives.

  He stood alone in the middle of Suite 300, inspecting enemy headquarters before his war was to begin. He wished suddenly for a drum.

  Marcel Oriole appeared in the doorway. He had changed from his maître’s uniform into an old brown suit and a green turtleneck shirt. His face was freshly washed and his white hair neatly combed. In one hand he held a book and in the other a silver tray on which was centered a single éclair.

  “Mon ami,” Claude said. The two men felt their eyes moisten.

  “I knew you would be here. I have brought you one last éclair,” Marcel said, sniffing.

  Claude smiled as he took the pastry. He motioned for Marcel to sit on the divan while he sat in an armchair. “It is very good, Marcel,” he said as he bit into it. “Merci.”

  Marcel shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “Bertrand called from Strasbourg. He did not say you told him to. But I knew.”

  Claude lowered his eyes as he continued to eat. “Think of it this way, Marcel. It is time you began to steal from someone else. I am sure Bertrand does not keep such careful books. You will be able to take good care of your dog and your sister.”

  For a moment, the two men smiled at each other. Then Marcel’s lips grew tight. “Le Dom, I am sorry. I—”

  “You are a patriot, Marcel! Un enfant de la Patrie. You have fought many other battles. I will fight this one for you.”

  Marcel sighed. “And if I die before you, who will take care of me in Heaven?”

  Claude laughed. “Marcel, what makes you think you’ll go to Heaven? After all the men you’ve killed?”

  “I never killed a man,” Marcel said proudly. “I killed only Nazis.”

  “And how you did kill them, mon ami. Between you and Petit Meurice . . .”

  Marcel began to cry. “I think of those times. Of how terrible they were. And then I feel ashamed, Le Dom, because I miss them. I miss those times.”

  Claude stretched his legs. “It was unfortunate we had to kill all the Nazis. I would have preferred to bottle them for storage next to the wine. How satisfying it would be, after Sunday dinner, to bring up a Nazi from the cellar. The ultimate digestif.”

  There was a silence. Then Marcel said softly, “I wanted to fight for France just once more. To rid her of the Simons and the Benjamins.”

  “I am sorry, Marcel. But I am concerned about Pierre. He must not suspect anything.”

  The telephone rang. Both Claude and Marcel were startled. Claude picked up the receiver quickly. Who knew he was there?

  “What are you doing there?” Pierre asked angrily.

  Claude smiled. “Reminiscing.”

  “Don’t leave the tray in the room,” Pierre said. “And get the old fool out before he farts and we are faced with a major environmental crisis.”

  Claude hung up and then helped Marcel to his feet. They brushed their hands over the furniture, plumped the pillows and removed all traces of their presence.

  There were probably other places to say goodbye, but none more appropriate. They put their arms around each other as they stood on the threshold of Suite 300. A tearful Marcel handed Claude a very worn copy of L’Encyclopédie des Maladies Tropicales, Vol. 10, X–Z.

  THE Mayor of Roquefort had recently come into national prominence after banning the song “Am I Blue?” from all local radio stations. He stood up angrily. “I represent a national treasure as valuable as any in the Louvre!”

  Etienne Duvert, the Secretary of Tourism, leaned across his desk. “I have a brother with a vineyard in the Loire valley. Another brother owns a hotel in Cognac. You cannot imagine what is going on in my own family!”

  “I, too, am your family, Monsieur le Secrétaire.”

  “Your Honor,” he said intently, “we are, of course, all brothers. Enfants de la Patrie.” Etienne banged his fist on the desk, making certain to demonstrate great frustration. “If only there were something I could do!”

  “But surely you have influence. They must be made to realize it is an unnatural criminal act to exclude cheese and tour only the wine country. I am perhaps the biggest cheese in all of France!”

  “I agree,” Etienne said.

  “Roquefort is the King of Cheeses. So it was voted at last year’s International Cheese Conference. Of course, I did not attend, since it was held, most unfortunately, in Gorgonzola. We must make the world aware that the ancient caves in Roquefort are as picturesque a tourist attraction as the caves of Champagne!”

  “I agree,” Etienne said.

  “North American Airlines must allow the Simons and the Benjamins to include us in their itinerary.” The Mayor of Roquefort stood up.

  “A wonderful idea,” Etienne said, leaning back in his chair.

  “But I will need help,” said the Mayor.

  “Yes, you will,” agreed Etienne. He told his secretary to hold all calls.

  “I will have to know where the Simons and Benjamins are.”

  “And you might wish to see their itinerary.” Etienne lit a long cigar.

  “I have a great deal at stake, Monsieur le Secrétaire.”

  “Mais certainement,” Etienne said, blowing a long stream of smoke. “Exactly how much do you estimate you have at stake?” Etienne swiveled his chair around and stared out the window.

  “F
ive thousand francs.”

  A puff of white smoke rose in the air. “Surely Roquefort can be sliced thicker than that.”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Of course, Monsieur le Secrétaire.”

  Another puff of smoke. Then Etienne turned around slowly and greeted him with a broad smile. “My fellow patriot, as Dom Pérignon is a legend in Champagne, it will be said in Roquefort that after you, God broke the mold.”

  AFTER the Mayor left, Etienne glanced nervously at his watch. He reached into his pocket and took out the pack of American cigarettes. He repinned to his lapel the small American flag. Straightening his jacket, he walked to the other door, which led to the conference room.

  Murphy Norwalk, head of international sales for NAA, looked up as Etienne entered. There were six other men seated around the conference table.

  “I’m sorry for the interruption, Murphy, but the Mayor had been waiting for an hour.”

  Murphy patted his flat stomach. “That’s all right. We made the corrections on your copies of the itinerary.” He smiled. “Besides, it gave me a chance to tell these Twinkie freaks about the dinner last night.”

  “I am pleased you enjoyed the meal.”

  “Enjoyed? Christ, those were the best quenelles I’ve ever had. You really should have been there, Eddie. You would have come right in your pants.”

  Eddie shook his head. “Goddamn, you know how I love quenelles. I suppose they were coated with a sauce Nantua?”

  Murphy thought for a moment. “Jesus, I don’t really know, Eddie. There were mushrooms in it. Struck me, it might have been a sauce Normande.” His face brightened. “Then, after the quenelles, they brought out the best fucking Escalopes de Veau aux Haricots Verts I’ve ever had!” Everyone was silent for a moment. “You know,” Murphy said, putting a hand on Etienne’s shoulder, “I kept thinking how I used to hate haricots verts as a kid. Can you beat that?”

  “Hey, Murph,” Sid called out. “You didn’t tell us what wine you had. I’ll bet it was a Meursault.”

  Murphy smiled and shook his head. “You guys just aren’t gonna believe it.” He pointed to Etienne. “This man here had the colossal balls to order a Riesling.” He slapped Etienne’s shoulder affectionately.

  “Holy shit!”

  “Jesus!”

  “Now, that takes guts!”

  “Well, for Chrissake, Murphy. Tell us about it.”

  Murphy sat back and smiled. He squinted his eyes as he began slowly. “It was young. Very young.”

  “God,” Sid whispered. “I love them when they’re young.”

  “And just cold enough to be cool in your mouth.”

  “Yahoo!”

  “When you looked at it,” he said, cupping his hand as though it were the bowl of a goblet, “you thought you saw a greenish tint, but not really.” He brought his cupped hands to his nose. “And when you smelled it . . .”

  “You’re killin’ me,” Daryll said. “You know I’m a nose man!”

  “You could catch the scent of something mighty sweet that had just gone by but didn’t stop at all!”

  “Christ! Don’t nobody ask me to stand up!”

  Etienne shrugged his shoulders. “I would be pleased this evening to take you back—”

  “Like hell you will!” Murphy said. “Tonight’s the night you promised me Langouste avec Beurre Blanc!”

  “Hey, Murph,” Chuck said. “I wouldn’t mind a little piece of that myself.”

  “Count me in too!”

  “Beurre blanc! Jesus, I’ve been off that since college!”

  “I’ll hate myself in the morning, but you only live once!”

  Murphy smiled. “I guess we’ve got a full house for tonight.”

  “It is my pleasure,” Etienne said.

  “Terrific! And then we’ll cap off the evening with a big bottle of bubbly,” Murphy said. “You know, I’m hoping the day isn’t far off when you’ll be on our team.”

  Etienne smiled. “But Murphy, I thought I was on your team.”

  Murphy leaned over. “You bet you are, old buddy. We couldn’t have brought any of this off if it weren’t for you.”

  “I spoke to the agency yesterday,” Daryll said. “They’ve already been authorized to double the ad campaign for the first three months.”

  “We’ve got six publishers bidding on subsidiary rights.”

  “Seventy-five major tour operators are co-oping ads with us.”

  “Four hundred and sixty-one affinity groups have already signed up.”

  “We’ve nearly firmed a landmark agreement with the National Liquor and Wine Dealers’ Association to have travel brochures with recipes displayed in liquor stores throughout the country!”

  “You know, if this works, we plan to offer ‘EAT IT UP!’ tours in every fucking country. NAA will be the first airline to provide international gourmet tours, both à la carte and prix fixe.”

  Etienne nodded. “You must be very pleased.”

  “No small thanks to you, fella.” Murphy stood up. Everyone shook hands and began leaving the room. Murphy took Etienne aside. “One last question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Color.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “Did you decide?” Murphy asked.

  “I thought red.”

  “A good choice. I’ll have it parked downstairs for you.”

  “You are very generous.”

  “Yes,” Murphy said. “I am.”

  IN 1944, Heinrich Himmler planned to dynamite the champagne cellars of Epernay if it became necessary for the Nazis to retreat. He wanted to give German manufacturers of sparkling wine a head start during the postwar period. Himmler’s plan was never carried out because a surprise attack by Patton’s Third Army liberated Epernay. And because the location of the dynamite was known to a local resistance leader whose code name was “Le Dom,” and to his aide, Petit Meurice.

  On the southern slopes of Epernay, there is a three-story building beneath which the world-famous champagne of Pommel et Bonnard is made. At the point most wines are merely cellared to mature, the making of champagne just begins. Hundreds of pairs of hands process the bottles stored in Pommel’s eleven miles of underground cellars. The largest of those hands belonged to Petit Meurice.

  It was his job to begin the delicate process of coaxing the sediment down toward the cork. Petit Meurice walked along narrow aisles in a cold, dank cellar wedged out of whitewashed limestone-and-clay walls. He twisted, two at a time, thirty thousand bottles a day.

  Petit Meurice, the head remeueur for Pommel et Bonnard, gave each of the thirty thousand bottles a day a one-eighth turn and, simultaneously, angled them to slide the sediment down to the cork. Once the sediment collected in the neck of the bottle, the old cork was removed by the dégorgeur. Only after the new cork was put in, could the crystal-clear wine be called champagne.

  The man who worked alone in the deepest cellar, turning thirty thousand bottles a day with the precision of a diamond cutter and the grace of a ballet dancer, weighed over three hundred pounds. Under his tan leather apron, blue jacket and coveralls, he wore a sweater, a heavy shirt, long underwear, two pairs of socks and rubber boots to protect his feet from the rats as well as the cold.

  His pumpkin of a head was covered with a plaid woolen scarf tied under his chin. Over the scarf was a lamb’s-wool–lined leather aviator’s cap taken from the body of a Nazi pilot over thirty years before. The earflaps came down on the sides of his head, and the chin straps fell to his shoulders. A huge moustache underlined his bulging black eyes. The hands, which could not be covered, were huge, red and rough—except for the fingertips, which thirty thousand bottles a day had worn smooth.

  In the dim light of the overhead bare bulbs, Petit Meurice, with his earflaps, had the appearance of a huge cocker spaniel. A huge talking cocker spaniel.

  “I don’t care what they say!” he shouted. “Rita Hayworth was a ridiculous partner for Fred Astaire! Where
was Ginger? Was she so busy she couldn’t be in You Were Never Lovelier? Eh?” He glanced for a moment at the brick wall and then continued turning the bottles. “Rita was fine for Gene Kelly in Cover Girl, but she was never the right type for Fred. I don’t care what anyone says!”

  He began to hum a few bars of “Cheek to Cheek,” tapping his toes as he walked from one rack to the next, turning the bottles with both hands. “Even Judy wasn’t right for him. Not elegant enough. Like putting Piaf with Chevalier. No! No! No! What kind of minds do they have in Hollywood? They had the team of all time!” He stopped for a moment and hummed “The Continental,” taking a few steps from one side to the other. “And in they drop poor Rita. Too sexy.” He laughed loudly. “Ah, too much the bedroom, not enough the ballroom. But Ginger, she had both! Eh? What do you think?”

  Petit Meurice glanced again at the brick wall while he turned the bottles. He was talking to the bodies of Gruppenführer Rastenberg, Oberleutnant Koenig and Unteroffizier Shtell, whom he had strangled and buried in the wall thirty-five years ago.

  “I would have liked to see Fred with Jeannette MacDonald. Now, there was a real lady. She had such humor and grace. Ah, but somehow everything seemed to fall apart after The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle. What is one to do? Eh? Nothing goes on forever, does it? Nothing good. Nothing bad. Always something new.”

  Petit Meurice stopped. He had reached nearly the end of his daily quota. He walked along the racks through the cellar to his special place. He looked around. Of course, there was no one there. But he had long ago learned, mainly at the expense of the Gruppenführer, the Oberleutnant and the Unteroffizier, that you just couldn’t be too careful.

  His hands were so cold they didn’t feel the intense heat of the bulb as he reached up for it. At once the area was black. Moving carefully, he felt along the wall for the metal marker. He loosened the screws and then put his hand behind the marker to unlock the hidden door. Click. He pushed open the ten-inch-thick panel and walked inside. He screwed in the light bulb he had taken from the corridor.

  A small room had been carved from the limestone walls. It was here that Hubert Pommel perfected his secret formula for blending the wine that was to make the house famous. Iron bars, which once protected the sample blends in his work area, ran from wall to wall.