“Why would I do that?”
“To pay off gambling debts, I would think. It seems that Lady Luck abandoned you long ago, Mr. Castayrac.”
The man collapsed in his Voltaire chair and poured himself another glass of the 1986 eau-de-vie.
“So I guess you consider me a terrible crook.”
“It’s a working hypothesis. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Jean-Charles de Castayrac took two gulps of his old Armagnac and threw the rest into the fire. Instantly, the hearth lit up. Shadows played on the library shelves, and a delicious scent of grilled orange peel rose in the air.
The man’s stooped shoulders and dangling arms cut a pitiful profile. It had been a rough day, and the baron’s reputation had come out besmirched. The oldest member of the Castayrac family seemed to be on the road to ruin. The fleurs-de-lis and blue blood mattered little. Now, whatever the cost, he needed to wrest a few pennies from the insurance company and save what he could.
Castayrac pulled himself together and rummaged in the wood basket for a log substantial enough to keep some flames going, and then he tried a smokescreen.
“I haven’t led the life you imagine, Mr. Cooker.”
“I don’t imagine anything, dear sir! I observe. I listen. I keep records if I can gather sufficient information, and then I send my report to the Protection Insurance. I must say you’re not helping me get to the bottom of this.”
“What do you want me to say? Yes, I sold some demijohns under the table. It was to pay for maintenance on the château and certainly not to…”
He stopped talking and looked at Benjamin, who had picked up his notebook again. Was Castayrac about to try a new tack? Sure enough, the baron began talking about his unfaithful wife and unhappy marriage.
“All my problems began when my wife became unfaithful to me. To think that she was cheating on me with that Spaniard Francisco!”
“I thought you trusted him implicitly.”
“Yes, of course, up until the day I found out. Francisco had gotten involved with the Cantarel girl. When my wife discovered that he had cheated on her—with someone younger and prettier, no less—she immediately fired the good woman, who, of course, had no idea why.”
“So the father of Evelyne Cantarel’s son was none other than your cellar master?”
“It’s hardly a secret. All of Labastide knows, except the boy himself. His mother is as silent as the grave. She’s the perfect daughter-mother figure that you see so often in the countryside. When my wife died, I thought about rehiring her, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because of my own sons. I wanted to show a modicum of respect for their mother. I had put all that behind us, and I wanted to keep it there.”
“Did she have other lovers?” Benjamin asked, pouring himself a bit more of this 1986 spirit, which more than twenty-five years of aging had mellowed perfectly.
“The Cantarel girl?”
“No, your wife.”
“Mr. Cooker, I am familiar with your expertise in the area of wine. I did not know you were so knowledgeable about affairs of the heart.”
“Heartbreak, sir, is your best defense.”
The Blanzac nobleman poked at his fire. He added another thick block of wood. This generosity was a far cry from the cold hearth he offered earlier. Perhaps he was trying to arouse some sympathy. Castayrac leaned against the mantel, his eyes riveted on the black-and-white picture of the descendant of the famed Alvignac waters. Her fleshy lips—the lips that had known so well how to kiss—seemed painted in bold brushstrokes.
“You were witness this morning to the contentious relationship that I have with my older son, Alban. He’s a schemer, and he’s arrogant. Thank goodness he married rather well, even though I’m still waiting for a grandchild. You know, sir, he’s not a Castayrac.”
The confession was both terse and pompous. It wasn’t tinged with any remorse, just a hint of fatalism that gave the man a sort of nobility. His wife had sinned, but in the Castayrac family, reputation trumped conventional morality.
Some embers landed on the rug and began to burn the worn wool fibers. Castayrac crushed them under his heel. After a long sigh, he continued in a lower voice.
“Alban’s father was a Bordeaux wine trader for Martinique. He saw to it that our Armagnacs crossed the Atlantic safely. He had become a sort of family friend, almost like a relative. I don’t need to draw you a picture. He died of pancreatic cancer a few years after my wife.”
“Does your son suspect anything?” Benjamin asked, shifting in his weight on the sofa and feeling a bit uncomfortable with these disclosures.
“Not in the least! And allow me to ask, my dear friend, for your complete discretion.”
Benjamin nodded to show the request had been granted.
The baron cleared his throat and looked more humble now. No longer churlish and haughty, he started talking again.
“I raised him as my own son, and I am very disappointed that he is pouring his invaluable talents into Aymeric de Nadaillac’s eau-de-vie. But can I blame him? Maybe I wasn’t a good father. Do you have children, Mr. Cooker?”
“Yes, a daughter.”
“I would have loved to have a daughter…”
Jean-Charles de Castayrac’s eyes were brimming with tears. Benjamin found this display of emotion both pathetic and distasteful. He got up and started walking toward the shelves of old dictionaries in brown leather bindings.
His cell phone stopped him.
“Excuse me,” Benjamin said, pulling out the phone. It was Philippe. “Hello, Philippe. Yes, please expect me for dinner, as planned.”
From the corner of his eye Benjamin could see that the baron was paying close attention.
“Of course, Benjamin, we’re looking forward to seeing you this evening,” Philippe said. “But I’m also calling with some news. Aymeric de Nadaillac has just died in a car accident. He was driving from Gabarret. Black ice, they think.”
Stunned, Benjamin ended the call and looked at the baron. “Mr. Castayrac, you’ve just lost a rival: Aymeric de Nadaillac. He’s dead.”
8
During the night, the wind from Spain had chased away the blanket of frost that had cloaked the vines and woods of Armagnac for three days. “We’re in for some rain,” Philippe de Bouglon had announced. His weather predictions were never challenged. He could read the sky the same way he could read the color of his Armagnacs. “When you come down to it, the weather is simply a matter of blending: hot and cold uncontrollably subjected to air pressure,” he had joked, smoothing the russet-colored moustache that sometimes gave him the look of an Irish whiskey merchant.
It was just past seven now, and Benjamin was on his way to the Cantarel house to rouse Virgile. Surely Mrs. Cantarel would offer him tea, or at least a steaming cup of coffee. The very thought of it inspired him to quicken his pace.
Two black cats were vying for turf in Labastide-d’Armagnac’s deserted Place Royale, where Benjamin parked the car. A figure shrouded in a scarf slipped out of view as the winemaker passed by. Benjamin heard a lock click, ending any chance of conversation. Then the winemaker, a lover of old stones, stood in the middle of the square and studied the vaulted arcades, which were perfectly aligned along three sides of a quadrangle protected by a church tower. The village had changed very little since the sixteenth century. He thought of what his friend Philippe had told him: Henry the Fourth, who had visited Labastide-d’Armagnac several times, had used this square as his inspiration when he ordered the layout of the Place des Vosges in Paris. Perhaps it was just a legend or a bit of regional boasting, but Benjamin found the idea entirely believable. He was fond of these little encounters with French history, which, in the land of Aquitaine, had merged with that of Old England.
A yellow postal truck interrupted the peace and quiet. Bundled in a dark parka, the driver assessed Benjamin with suspicion and then gave him a nod. The medieval town was
stirring.
Taking the Rue du Café-Chantant, the winemaker imagined the private lives of the residents. Behind a few of the windows, the lace curtains were already pulled back. On the cobblestone street, a balding spaniel was searching for sustenance in a ripped-open garbage bag. He trotted over to Benjamin and sniffed the winemaker’s Loden. Benjamin gave the spaniel a pat on the head and continued on, glad that his own dog, Bacchus, didn’t have to forage for food. Finally, he turned onto the Rue des Taillandiers, where he spotted the half-timber house. He walked up to it and knocked on the door.
“Already here, boss?” Virgile said, sitting at the table with a cup of steaming coffee. Sitting next to him was a young man with a scratched face but lively, almost reckless expression.
With warmth that seemed natural, Evelyne Cantarel invited Benjamin to share their breakfast of plum jam, quince jelly, honey, fresh orange juice, and bread toasted to perfection. Benjamin did not need to be cajoled.
The conversation soon turned to Aymeric de Nadaillac’s death. Edmond Cantarel, emerging from his silence, was both suspicious and stubborn. “It was no accident. You’d have a hard time convincing me otherwise.”
“Papa, stop that nonsense!” his daughter reproached, pouring a stream of strong black coffee into Benjamin’s white porcelain cup with gold trim. “Car accidents happen all the time. Maybe he was worried or tired. I don’t know. In any case, things will work out for the Castayracs.”
“You’ll see. Those bastard wine producers will make Castayrac their chairman, even though he doesn’t have a drop of Armagnac in his blood. Don’t you think so?” Grumbling, the patriarch took a seat at the end of the table.
Benjamin, put on the spot, nodded as he smeared quince jelly on his toast.
“Indeed, I’m afraid your prediction is probably correct.”
“You see, Evelyne, even the gentleman here thinks the way I do!” said Cantarel. He raised his glass of red wine to toast them.
“Here’s to your health! Nothing in the morning like a glass of good wine, a slice of Bayonne ham, duck rillettes, and country bread. Real bread, not some Parisian baguette for weaklings! No, a real round loaf with a crust that sticks to your ribs. Because, sir, woodcock hunting ends today. There’s no time to waste, and lying in wait all day long makes you hungry,” the old man said, slipping the blade of his Laguiole knife into the bread and cutting himself another slice.
Ignoring his grandfather, as well as Benjamin, Joachim gave Virgile a mischievous look. “I think you’re on the wrong track, my friends. It’s not the baron who’ll be elected. It’s the Nadaillac son-in-law. Just wait. The election will end up being between the Castayrac father and son. There will be blood.”
“Why do you say that?” Virgile asked.
“You’ll see. I have a hunch.”
“That’s a clever notion, sonny!” said old Cantarel.
Benjamin observed this exchange with interest. He was feeling so cozy in the warmth of this household, he could almost make coffee his exclusive morning drink.
“I see all the coffee’s gone,” Evelyne said. “I’ll make some more.”
“That’s very nice of you, but please don’t go to the trouble,” Virgile said. He had already left the table with Joachim, who was checking his watch.
“I’m outta here,” Joachim said. “Will I see you later, Virgile?”
Virgile agreed to accompany his new friend to rugby practice later in the day, as long as his employer didn’t object.
“On one condition,” Benjamin said. “That you don’t spend the whole match on the bench, and no celebrating afterward. You know what I mean!”
A wink between the two young men and a smile from the winemaker sealed the deal.
The winemaker would have gladly prolonged the breakfast conversation, but Joachim was gone, and Cantarel was busy getting ready for the hunt. The woodcocks would not wait. Cantarel put on his winter coat, took down his Browning rifle from the gun rack, clipped on his cartridge belt, and headed to the door.
“Anyway, when it comes to those two, one is as bad as the other,” the old man concluded. He whistled to his hunting dog, who turned out to be none other than the spaniel Benjamin had seen foraging in the village street.
When the winemaker and his assistant left the Cantarel house for Château Blanzac, the weathervane on the church was spinning. The wind was blowing from Landes, and the dark sky in the west was confirming Philippe de Bouglon’s prediction.
§ § §
The rest of the day brought little new information. Virgile sifted through the debris of the charred wine cellar, counting and recounting the cask hoops, as well as the necks of the broken demijohns, but his conclusions were unchanged. The estimates and calculations were significantly lower than what the baron had submitted on his insurance claim.
After a heavy lunch at an inn in Mauvezin-d’Armagnac, Benjamin slipped into his room at Château Prada, determined to work on his report. This could only be accomplished, of course, if his friend didn’t try to distract him with an on-the-spot tasting of the robust and fiery eau-de-vie straight from the still. He would never be able to resist temptation if Philippe appeared at his door with vials wafting fragrances of pear, plum, and lime.
In fact, Benjamin Cooker didn’t write more than two lines of his report that afternoon, as the call of the mouthwatering Blanche d’Armagnac, with its finesse and irresistible aromas, was too powerful. It got the better of both Benjamin and Philippe. The two ended the evening slouched in their armchairs. Feeling bawdy, they took turns recalling the women they had romanced in their youth. On occasion, they had even gone after the same girl.
“Those were the days,” Philippe said, his eyes glassy.
“Yes, but these days are better, my friend,” Benjamin responded. He smiled and closed his eyes. “Who would have thought we’d end up with such fine wives? ‘There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.’”
“George Sand.”
“Correct you are,” Benjamin said. Then the look of bliss left his face and he sat up. “But the goings on in Labastide bring to mind Jean-Paul Sartre: ‘Commitment is an act, not a word.’ That is a lesson lost on some.”
§ § §
The strong smell of camphor floated through the Cazaubon stadium locker room. Several players had suffered bumps and bruises, and the trainer, a puny loud-mouthed guy with agile fingers, was busy massaging calves and shoulders that ached from the blows. Joachim and Virgile had emerged unscathed from the practice match against the Villeneuve-de-Marsan team. Despite the minor injuries, the Cazaubon players were said to be invincible.
“Shit, you guys play like animals!” the former wing of the Bergerac rugby team teased his friend as he came out of the shower.
“Friendly game or championship match, it makes no difference. Show no mercy! But you play awfully well for someone who hasn’t touched a ball in a few years,” Joachim replied.
Virgile grinned.
The Cazaubon coach appraised Virgile with the eye of a horse trader. “Is your pal from around here?” he said, looking at Joachim. “Think he’d like to play for us?”
“Ask him yourself, but I don’t think we could afford him,” the striker said, sounding mysterious.
Virgile, with a towel around his waist, pretended not to hear. The man in the sweat suit put a hand on his shoulder and made the offer in a tone meant to be polite.
“Too bad, but I just signed with Toulouse,” Virgile answered without blinking.
“Oh, really?” the coach said, taken aback. “And what’s your name?”
“Galthié. Virgile Galthié. The cousin of the one you’ve heard of. Yes, that one, the former captain of the national rugby team.”
The Cazaubon coach looked stunned and turned to Joachim. “When you have friends like that, let me know,” he said in a hushed voice. “And don’t waste any time.”
As soon as the coach had turned his back, the two accomplices grinned at each other, trying hard to suppress
their laughter.
In keeping with his agreement, Virgile didn’t engage in any post-game celebrating. He settled for a bock beer at the Café de la Poste. This gave Joachim the opportunity to introduce his teammate for a day to his heartthrob, a slender brunet beauty. Her name was Constance.
As soon as he saw her green eyes and graceful figure, Virgile knew he was in trouble. Obviously, he couldn’t compromise his new friendship. So he decided to call it a night and go back to Labastide. He was tired from the match, anyway. But he had a hard time banishing the vision of Joachim’s girlfriend from his brain, and he slept fitfully.
9
The Estang church was too small to accommodate the crowd at Aymeric de Nadaillac’s funeral service. But Father Péchaudoux, addressing the confined assembly in coats reeking of mothballs and dried lavender, was clearly in his element, and the Mass went on and on. The priest’s voice rose to the rafters as he swept from one part of the liturgy to the next.
“Receive, oh Lord, into your kingdom your servant Aymeric, who, during his life on earth, never ceased working with determination, devotion, and selflessness for the good of the vineyards.”
Behind a dark veil, the Nadaillac widow stared at the coffin through the entire service. Looking dignified in black, her daughter and son-in-law worshipped at her right.
When the pipe organ started playing the majestic recessional hymn, the pallbearers picked up the oak coffin and began walking down the center aisle. The family followed. As the casket passed each pew, the men lifted their berets and bowed before the remains of the last of the great figures of the farmers trade union.
Once the mourners were outside the church, though, the gossip started. Everyone was speculating on Nadaillac’s successor as head of the Armagnac Promotion Committee, and there was hardly any agreement.
“The son-in-law will definitely make a run for it,” some said.
“Don’t be stupid. Old Castayrac has the election wrapped up,” others predicted.
From a distance, Benjamin watched Jean-Charles de Castayrac. He was wearing an appropriately solemn expression. But privately, Castayrac had to be gloating. With Nadaillac out of the way, his election as committee chairman was in the bag.
Flambé in Armagnac Page 6