Cognac Conspiracies

by Jean-Pierre Alaux

  “No cigar, Mr. Cooker? You must have one with a ’55 Lavoisier. Wouldn’t you agree?” Marie-France was insistent.

  “I don’t think I deserve it tonight.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I think the one who truly deserves your fine cognac—and credit—is your friend here, who intends to free you from the clutches of your foreign shareholders.”

  “But I must tell you that your decision to end your alliance with the Asians allows me to look to the future with greater confidence.”

  “May I suggest, Ms. Lavoisier, that you exercise the greatest caution?”

  “But the government is against a Chinese acquisition,” said the lawyer-turned-businessman.

  “Certainly, certainly. Yet you know as well as I that there is a fine art to finding the right blend,” Benjamin said, looking directly at Marie-France.

  The winemaker and his assistant finally accepted just a few drops of cognac in their coffee. Benjamin sniffed the old eau-de-vie and admired the scents of sandalwood, lychee, and passion fruit.

  “Mr. Cooker, let’s give time the time it needs,” Solmihlac said.

  Marie-France offered more cognac.

  Benjamin and Virgile politely declined. Fauret de Solmilhac held out his glass. He was staying at the château, after all, and didn’t need to worry about driving. Benjamin was dying to get back to the hotel without any more incidents involving the keystone cops. The previous week’s ticket and fine were sufficient reasons to decline any more alcohol.

  Benjamin watched his assistant as Marie-France, the seductress, slipped away in favor of national and family interest. She had luxuriated in having two lovers at her table. In this area, as in so many others, she excelled. Benjamin didn’t know if his young assistant, vulnerable despite all his worldliness, would ever forgive her.

  9

  The next day, Benjamin meandered through the beds of Gallica rosebushes with the curiosity of a botanist ready to delight in each and every specimen. Over there was the Belle de Crécy, with its thorns, alongside the Duchess of Angoulême and the Belle Éveque dressed in purple. He admired the perfect Ombre and the exquisite Tricolore de Flandres and then, farther on, over the little Japanese bridge, the Alba roses, vigorous and rustic and never more beautiful than in June. On this spring morning, the rosebuds were giving off a musky scent under black clouds racing across the sky and squadrons of swallows excited by the ocean winds.

  Benjamin focused on each flower as Sheila dazzled him with her ability to name the varieties planted over the years since her writer companion, Styron, had ended his life for reasons never clearly understood.

  Sheila Scott was already talking about the flowers to come, the ones that would take root there, in the shade of the linden tree, and those that would soon climb the trellises, not to mention the tea roses, the ones from China, their double flowers so lovely in shape and color. Here was a King of Siam, there a Triomphe du Luxembourg. The Englishwoman talked and talked. She seemed to be trying to keep her visitor at any price. Sheila dreaded saying good-bye. Although Benjamin was showing no eagerness to leave, the idea that her friend, her first love, might soon run off was unbearable.

  “May I offer you a cup of tea? I bought some Grand Yunnan. Don’t tell me you don’t have time!”

  “How could I refuse?”

  “So? Where are you with your assignment?”

  “Finished.”

  “Already?”

  “Not that it ever really began.”

  “What do you mean? You have a way of being so secretive, and I found it exasperating at the École des Beaux-Arts. Why can’t you simply say what’s on your mind?”

  “Because with the Lavoisiers, nothing is simple, and the Chinese are not exactly extroverts. Under those conditions, how can anything be clear?”

  For the occasion, Sheila had taken out her porcelain English teapot with a fanciful motif. She delicately lifted the lid and announced that the tea was not ready.

  “She’s going to be devoured by them before you know it,” Sheila said as she set out a small dish of chocolate cookies.

  “Maybe not.”

  “Are you really so naïve, Benjamin?”

  “One of Marie-France’s friends purportedly has convinced the Judas brother to sell him the shares he inherited when Pierre died.”

  “Oh, they found him?”

  “Evidently. He is living in Montreal, and he’s been investing in real estate.”

  “But the Asians will double their offer, and since that guy lives only for money, he won’t be able to resist very long.”

  Sheila’s English accent was more pronounced in the company of her compatriot. Benjamin thought it created a certain intimacy between them.

  “The man says he will vouch for the deal, which is somewhat risky for Ms. Lavoisier, because she will be indebted to him when it comes to controlling the company,” Benjamin said. He pointed to the teapot and asked Sheila to check it again.

  “If he’s a good match and a bachelor with some manners, all she has to do is marry him. It’s as easy as that!”

  “I think he is more or less all of those things,” Benjamin said, amused by his friend’s pragmatism and logic.

  “Do you know his name? Maybe I know him.”

  “Maurice Fauret de Solmilhac, if I remember correctly.”

  Sheila, who had been about to pour the tea, stopped and looked at Benjamin. Her face darkened. Then she began to shake with laughter and spilled the tea on her jeans.

  “Maurice! That bloody Maurice! That idiot Maurice! That bastard Maurice!”

  “Obviously, you know him well. You do have secrets, don’t you?” Benjamin said, pleased that Sheila’s opinion confirmed what he himself thought of this lawyer has-been. He was also hoping to find out more about the mystery man he’d seen on his first visit to Samson’s Mill.

  “Do I know him? You, I can tell. He was my lover for a time when I first arrived in Migron. Oh, he’s a charmer. Good looking for his age, too.”

  “Good speaker,” Benjamin added as he poured his tea.

  “A better speaker than lover! I can guarantee that. He’s a disaster in bed.”

  “That could be a serious obstacle to any marriage with Ms. Lavoisier, at least from what I’ve heard,” Benjamin said, hoping to get more details.

  “He’s a scoundrel. I lived with him for several months without ever knowing where his money was coming from. He was involved in politics and played every angle. I think he took bribes from businesses that were looking for government contracts. He used his influence with the right officials. This is a man who’s involved in shenanigans and always has a beautiful woman on his arm. I can’t believe your Lavoisier woman would be taken in by such an asshole. But then again, I was too. Maurice Fauret de Solmilhac! Him, a Lavoisier shareholder? What a nightmare!”

  “I guess you would know,” Benjamin said.

  “Benjamin, you are not in the pocket of those investors anymore, and if you have any regard for that Lavoisier woman, whom I’ve never met, warn her, please.”

  “How could you have fallen for anyone so—”

  “I was vulnerable. It was a few months after Styron’s suicide. I had just arrived here, and I didn’t know anyone. I was drifting. Alone.”

  The tea had cooled, but Sheila kept on adding sugar and sipping her Yunnan. Benjamin stood up and brushed the cookie crumbs off his pants.

  “I must take my leave now. I have to meet Virgile.”

  “Virgile?”

  “Yes, he’s my assistant. I have become quite fond of him. I guess I consider him an adopted son now, if you know what I mean.”

  Sheila lowered her head. “But it’s already noon. Why don’t you stay for lunch?”

  “It wouldn’t look good. And I do need to see Virgile.”

  “Invite him. I’m dying to meet this young man you’re so attached to.”

  “He doesn’t have a car to get to Migron.”

  “Well, you could send him in
a taxi. I remember you were a bit stingy back when you were a student. But I know you allow yourself a few extravagances these days.”

  “Fine, then!” Benjamin entered Virgile’s number on his cell phone. “Oh, good heavens, I have no phone service!”

  “Use the house phone. On the table inside.”

  Benjamin reached his assistant on the landline. As he made the call, he glanced at Sheila. She looked wistful. A bit nervous, too.

  “I guess I’ll just make myself at home until Virgile arrives,” he said. As he hung up he spotted a flask on a nearby table. It had no label, just a piece of tape that read: “Sample for Nathan, 1979.”

  “Of course, Benjamin. You are at home here.”

  No sooner had she said this than the door banged open. A powerful gust of wind swooped into the front room and blew everything off the table. The dishes and teapot went flying and crashed to the floor. Outside, golf-ball-sized hail was assaulting the plants. The ground was already strewn with broken branches.

  “Oh my God!” Sheila seemed petrified as she stared at the end-of-the-world spectacle through the window. Benjamin felt her edging closer. Her hand brushed his. He pulled it away but then looked at her face. She was holding back tears. Benjamin could no longer contain his feelings. He took the rose grower of Samson’s Mill into his arms. And on the radio in the kitchen, tuned to a golden oldies station, he heard Elton John: “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.”

  10

  Lunch was a simple affair but quite congenial. Too congenial for Benjamin’s taste. He did not care for Virgile’s overly familiar attention to the woman who was blowing on the embers of their past love. Sheila had no qualms about revealing their former relationship. She even supplied details that did not show Benjamin in the best light. But the winemaker, with the help of the pineau, couldn’t help smiling. It wasn’t long before Virgile was taking the beautiful English woman’s side as she gently teased him. Yes, he’d reprimand Virgile on the ride back, but that could wait.

  Sheila praised Virgile’s sense of humor, intelligence, wit, and charm as Benjamin and she sipped their coffee and Virgile inspected the garden.

  “Don’t overdo it, Sheila. He might fall for you. I know what he’s capable of,” Benjamin said, carefully removing the ring from the Cohiba he was planning to light.

  They watched Virgile, the well-educated son of a farmer, examine the damage done by the hail and tend to the wounded vegetation. He straightened a bruised stalk and propped it against a stake. Farther on, he found a pair of pruning shears and snipped off a few branches broken by the onslaught.

  “How old is your Virgile?” Sheila asked.

  “He’s barely thirty.”

  “Sociable?”

  “The ladies find him attractive. Men seem to like him too. He has a weakness for women of a certain age, but I fear he is more vulnerable than he makes out to be.”

  He walked into the entry to take his Loden off the hook. He was in a hurry to say good-bye to the mercurial Marie-France.

  “Is she prettier than me?”

  “Younger, perhaps, but just as naughty.”

  “Benjamin, I forbid you to—”

  “Sheila, you’ve always been a free spirit,” he said, teasing her.

  The winemaker stopped talking when Virgile appeared in the doorway. His assistant had gathered an armful of broken flowers.

  “The hail and wind got to these,” he told Sheila. “They were going to die anyway, so I thought you might enjoy them inside.” He was the image of innocence and kindness.

  Sheila thanked him profusely and even hugged him with affection.

  Driving to Jarnac, Benjamin was quiet while Virgile hummed the last refrain of a Cunnie Williams R&B song.

  “She’s a very attractive woman, your Sheila. I bet she was a knockout when you two were in school.”

  “What are you trying to say, Virgile?”

  “Nothing, boss. She could be my mom.”

  “I know you too well, my boy!”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Don’t push it, Virgile, please.”

  “I have the feeling I’m about to get myself in trouble.”

  “You already have.” Benjamin slid a CD into the player to put an end to the conversation. The overture of Véronique, André Messager’s operetta, lightened the atmosphere. Still, the two men ignored each other all the way to Jarnac. Virgile admired the landscape, while Benjamin grumbled.

  § § §

  Marie-France Lavoisier tried to lead Virgile to the greenhouse. There was a present waiting for him, she whispered. Virgile declined the invitation. He looked blankly at the cognac heiress and simply shook her hand, saying sardonically, “We’ll meet again one day, I’m sure.” Benjamin guessed it was his way of letting her know he was done with Charente ways. Virgile would never understand them. Benjamin was hardly friendlier but impeccably courteous when he said his good-byes at Château Floyras. He said he looked forward to seeing her soon.

  “Give my regards to Mr. Fauret de Solmilhac!” he told Marie-France, who stood transfixed on the front steps of the decadent neo-Renaissance-style mansion.

  “I certainly will. He’s sorry he couldn’t be here to say good-bye.”

  “I’m sure,” the winemaker replied as he revved the engine of his Mercedes convertible.

  “So is that it?” Virgile asked as Benjamin eased into traffic on the N10, heading back to Bordeaux.

  “Is what it?”

  “We just leave Marie-France to that slimy Ferret dude because he’s French and not Chinese? And what about Pierre? Do you really believe it was an accident?”

  Benjamin chose not to say anything, only a laconic “Give time the time it needs. That’s—”

  “I know, I know: François Mitterand,” Virgile spat out, giving Benjamin a look that verged on disdain.

  Benjamin remained silent for a good twenty minutes, and then said, “Pierre’s death may remain as much a mystery as his life was, but I think I can do something for the future of cognac.”

  § § §

  Benjamin Cooker celebrated being back home at Grangebelle by taking Elisabeth out to dinner and going for a long walk the next morning with his dog, Bacchus. Returning from the walk, he dressed for work and drove to his offices on the Allées de Tourny.

  Cooker & Co. was known for its decorum. But Benjamin’s secretary, Jacqueline Delmas, paid it no mind when it came to Virgile. Benjamin was thinking this when he heard his assistant waltz into the reception area. He didn’t have to hear anything to know she was planting kisses on Virgile’s cheeks. This was her way of greeting him.

  “You are like sunshine!” she would tell him.

  And invariably Virgile would reply, “For someone who brings good weather, I’m not paid enough.”

  To which Jacqueline would say in a hushed voice, “You should ask Mr. Cooker for a little raise.” On this day she added two lines. “But you’ll have to wait. He’s been spending an inordinate amount of time on the phone this morning.”

  “Who with?”

  “I don’t know,” Jacqueline said. “He’s been very hush-hush about it.”

  “Whatever,” Virgile replied. “Do you know if Alexandrine is in the lab?”

  § § §

  It was mating season. The frogs had been copulating all night, offering a concert of croaking loud enough to keep an entire regiment awake. The inexpensive bed-and-breakfast had a lumpy bed and windows so thin, Virgile felt like he was right in the middle of a theater of amorous frolicking. The muggy night heralded a sweltering summer. It was only at the first light of dawn that Virgile finally fell asleep. Now he was lying there, thinking about what had brought him back to Jarnac: Sheila.

  At that lunch, he had barely noticed the picture and had forgotten it when he cleaned up the garden, but now it was haunting him. He had to see it again. He’d wheedled the lab’s small van out of Alexandrine de la Palussière, who always claimed that she needed it to get to the vineyards in Haut-Brion or Pape Clém
ent. She made him promise to have it back the next day. Then he’d called Sheila and played his charm card. Now she was expecting him for breakfast—and perhaps a little more, he feared.

  He drove up the drive lined with hazelnut trees and noticed that Samson’s rose grower had pulled back the curtains and thrown open the kitchen window. When he parked the van, he breathed in the scent of wild mint from the river and the aroma of coffee from the house.

  Sheila kissed his cheeks affectionately and invited him into the kitchen, where the table was set with small porcelain plates, fresh baguettes, butter, and homemade blackberry jam.

  “Coffee? Or perhaps you share Benjamin’s tastes?” she said, tossing her hair back. After a beat she added, “I can prepare Grand Yunnan if you like.”

  “Coffee, please,” Virgile said, sitting down and then stiffening when Sheila scooted her chair right next to his. After a few minutes of niceties, Virgile stood up, happy to get some breathing room. He pointed to the framed photograph. “Let me get right to the point. Who is the man in that picture?”

  “Why do you ask? You think he might be a boyfriend?” she said with a flirtatious smile.

  “No, that’s not at all what I was thinking,” Virgile spat out. He immediately realized how that sounded and rushed to soften his words. “I mean I’m just curious. He looks familiar.”

  “Allow me to satisfy your curiosity. That’s the most important man in my life.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s my son, Nathan. Does it surprise you that I have a grown son?”

  “A bit. It’s just that when you told my boss about your life, you seem to have left out the part about a son. At least he didn’t tell me that you had a son. I’m sure he told you about his daughter, Margaux.”

  “It’s my life. What I share or don’t share with anyone else is my own business.”