Montmartre Mysteries

by Jean-Pierre Alaux

  But just as Virgile began to occupy himself with studying the glasses and mugs behind the counter, the café owner turned to him.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” he said.

  “Not really. Is it that obvious?”

  “Yep. You say chocolatine. That puts you from somewhere in the southwest. Everyone else says pain au chocolat.”

  This made Virgile smile. He took off his scarf and jacket and laid them on the seat next to him.

  “Don’t say a word. Let me guess. Agen. Lot-et-

  Garonne. Or maybe Bordeaux? Don’t tell me you’re from Gers?”

  “Farther north.”

  “Périgueux?”

  “Farther west.”

  “Bergerac?”

  “Bingo. Actually from a small town nearby. Montravel.”

  “I know the place. They make a pretty good white.”

  A customer, evidently a regular, made his entrance, calling out “hello, everyone.” He was built like a tank and had a craggy face with a fresh gash on the forehead. The owner served the man a glass of white wine without waiting for him to order.

  Virgile was consuming his two pastries when the owner turned back to him and said, “Welcome to Paris, in any case. I’m Fabrice Loubressac. I’m from Monclar.”

  “In Quercy?”

  “No. Monclar d’Agenais. Are you familiar with it?”

  “Who doesn’t know Monclar d’Agenais? Everyone goes there to see Roger Louret’s troupe. He’s the Molière of Aquitaine!” said Virgile, who had a school friend in the famous theater company.

  “Every year, when I go down to visit my mother, who’s in her eighties, I take in a Louret show. It’s always hilarious!” said the owner, who had dropped his refined accent and slipped into his Gascon dialect.

  By the time Virgile had finished his café crème, he had made an ally of Fabrice Loubressac. The two belonged to a community of exiles who could never forget their roots, no matter where their lives took them. They talked about Buzet wines and Côtes de Duras, the cooperative wine cellar in Beaupuy. They debated the merits of local meat pies, brebis cheese, and foie gras. And then they talked about mushroom hunting.

  “The mushrooms were to die for last fall,” Loubressac said as he poured himself a swig of plum brandy.

  Virgile had gone mushroom hunting just before winter settled in for good and had delivered a big basket to Elisabeth Cooker, who had cooked up a savory chanterelle and onion tart. The memories were making Virgile thirsty. He asked his new friend for a swig of the plum.

  “Help yourself, my friend.”

  Loubressac pulled the cork and poured the hooch in a small stemmed glass that looked remarkably like one Virgile’s fussy grandmother kept in her dining room cabinet.

  “Virgile. That’s an unusual name. You’re sure your father hadn’t had a glass too many when they baptized you?”

  Virgile simply smiled and didn’t offer an explanation.

  “So what are you doing around here?” the man asked after a few seconds.

  “I came to check on Arthur Solacroup, the wine merchant a couple doors away. I understand he ran into some trouble.”

  “Are you a friend of Arthur’s?”

  “More of an acquaintance,” Virgile replied. “My boss helped him get his business started.”

  “I still remember when that shop sold hats and was run by an old maid. Apparently it was his aunt or something like that. He was the sole heir when she kicked the bucket. It’s terrible, him dying like that. Arthur was a good man. God help the person who did this if I ever catch up with him. He’ll end up in the Seine.”

  “You mean he’s dead?”

  Loubressac tipped the bottle of his plum brandy over Virgile’s glass, but Virgile stopped him with a wave of his hand.

  “That’s what everyone around here is saying. The attacker left Arthur bleeding to death, and he was in bad shape when the paramedics took him away. I didn’t know him all that well. He was a bit odd, you know? He was tough, but I always sensed there was more to him. People said he used to be in the Foreign Legion. Is that true?”

  Virgile nodded, trying to give Loubressac the impression that he was familiar with the injured—or maybe dead—wine shop owner.

  “Usually, when you join the Foreign Legion, it’s because you’ve done something wrong,” Loubressac continued as he lined up cups and saucers on the counter.

  “Not necessarily,” said Virgile.

  “Whether you like it or not, the Foreign Legion is a gang of cutthroats and renegades of every sort. I’m sure Arthur’s past caught up with him. You don’t have to look any further than that. And how was he with you?”

  “He wasn’t very talkative. We discussed wine mostly.”

  “Well, when it came to wine, no one could top him. He wasn’t a fan of the stuff from our region or even Bordeaux. He said those wines were more expensive than they were worth. There’s some truth to that. No, he swore by Côtes du Rhône. He had me taste some wines that would take your breath away—from the boondocks! Have you heard of Côteaux du Tricastin and Tavel wines?”

  Virgile nodded knowingly.

  “Arthur always bowled me over with his small wines. And his store was a huge hit after he got that mention in the Cooker Guide. The most fashionable people in Paris shop there now, not to mention show business types. I saw Richard Bohringer go in one day. And Arthur said Pierre Richard, the guy in The Tall Blond Man with One Black Shoe, always stocks up at his place. Actually, Arthur was something of a celebrity himself.”

  “Maybe other people envied him,” Virgile suggested.

  “Definitely. But you don’t kill someone just because he does more business than you. This isn’t Sicily. Besides, in Montmartre everyone makes money off the tourists, enough to do okay. Take me, for example. I bought this business twenty years ago, and eventually I’ll be able to retire in Monclar. Maybe we’re not rolling in dough like Arthur was, but I don’t hear many people complaining. By the way, do you know where Arthur was from? I’ve always wondered.”

  Virgile tried to look confident. “From the south,” he said.

  “Listen to you. You’re already sounding like a Parisian. That means nothing—the south. You’re from Marseille or Sète, Nice or Avignon. You’re not from ‘the south.’”

  Loubressac had raised his voice, getting the attention of the man with the scar and a couple seated at one of the white marble tables.

  “From Valréas,” Virgile said with a composure that surprised even him.

  “Ah, yes, I know Valras-Plage.”

  “No, Valréas, near Cairanne. It’s a wine territory, and rather good.”

  “It’s funny. With me, Arthur never talked about his hometown—or said much else about himself.”

  “Do you know if he had any friends?”

  “Friends? I couldn’t say. Some people around here had seen him on occasion with guys who looked like him—tough. You know: short hair, studs in the ears, full-sleeve tattoos.”

  “No women?”

  “He probably got around, but didn’t flaunt it. I used to see a brunette in his shop. Good-looking gal. Some days she’d be in there more than once. We called her the Rhône wine mistress. Karim, the kid who ran errands for him, told me Arthur used to have a steady girl in Rasteau—that’s in Rhône wine country, not far from Vaucluse. No wonder he was obsessed with wine from there. Her name was Julia, I think. Her parents were winemakers, and she supposedly taught him everything. The two of them visited all the vineyards in the region. She took it pretty hard when he broke up with her.”

  “Why did they break up?”

  “It’s just hearsay, but apparently they were crazy in love, until Arthur said no to kids. Then he inherited the shop and took advantage of the move to break it off.”

  The man with the gash on his forehead joined the conversation. “Say, Fabrice, why don’t you tell him about Solacroup’s other secrets?”

  “Virgile, let me introduce you to one of Montmartr
e’s most colorful characters, Hercule Poivrot. He claims he used to wrestle at the Elysée-Montmartre Theatre, and his Saturday matches drew crowds from all over Paris. Now, all the café owners on the butte know him for the only thing he’s still good at: bending his elbow. Right, Hercule?”

  “Cut the crap, Fabrice, or else… I’ll stop coming into your bloody bar.”

  “That would be my loss in more ways than one,” Loubressac quipped as he wiped the counter. “I like your business—true enough. But how could I get by without your entertaining company?”

  “Want proof?” Poivrot asked Virgile. Not bothering to wait for an answer, he pulled out a worn poster from his backpack, which was reverently folded in eighths. It advertised a fight to the finish at nine o’clock on Saturday, December 6, 1967.

  “Give me a refill, Fabrice.”

  “That’s enough for now,” Loubressac responded. “It’s still morning.”

  “Another, I said, or I’ll tell the kid everything.”

  “The kid, as you say, is a friend of the legionnaire. You don’t kick someone when they’re down.”

  “I never was crazy about Arthur,” Poivrot mumbled, cracking his knuckles.

  “That’s because he didn’t coddle you like the rest of us. He wouldn’t slip you a bottle so you could get drunk on the Place des Abbesses.”

  “He’d never even give me a drink, that lousy fascist!”

  “Stop that, Hercule! He wasn’t a skinhead, and you know it. He was an okay guy. He just liked having a shaved head.”

  “An okay guy who didn’t pay his bills. Have you forgotten that one of his suppliers almost took him out? Should I refresh your memory?”

  Loubressac grumbled and took a sip of his steaming-hot coffee.

  “It was two, maybe three years ago,” Poivrot said. “There was this winemaker in Montmirail with a pretty direct approach. He stuck a gun under Arthur’s chin. It seems Arthur owed him for twenty cases. Let me tell you, Arthur may have done Kolwezi, Djibouti, and all that, but he was still scared shitless. He paid on the spot.”

  “Okay, he may have let a few things slide,” Loubressac responded. “He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. You, for example. If I asked you to pay your bar tab right this minute, you’d be hard-pressed. You wouldn’t be so full of yourself then.”

  “It’s not the same with me. I’m honest, sir!”

  “Okay, go sleep it off. And stop bad-mouthing the dead. Let him rest in peace.”

  Virgile watched this exchange without asking questions or commenting. He had learned more about the wine merchant than he thought he would. Arthur certainly wasn’t a scrupulous shopkeeper with a pencil stuck behind his ear. Virgile would need to find out more, but for now he was choosing to believe Fabrice Loubressac’s assessment: “Solacroup loved good wine too much to be a real bastard.”

  Benjamin Cooker’s assistant checked his watch and picked up his scarf and coat. The café owner leaned over the counter and said, “If you happen to find out when the funeral’s scheduled, let me know. I was very fond of Arthur.”

  “Will do, Fabrice.”

  Loubressac threw his dish towel over his shoulder. “See you soon,” he shouted just before Virgile walked out the door.

  7

  Benjamin was gone when Virgile arrived at the Hôtel de la Trémoille. The receptionist handed him an envelope. The winemaker preferred communicating in notes and letters over talking on the phone. On hotel notepaper, he had written that he had a meeting with his publisher, Claude Nithard, in the bar of the Hôtel Lutetia, and “as usual, it might take a while.”

  He suggested that they meet at one o’clock at La Cagouille for lunch. Benjamin had drawn a little map to indicate the exact location of the restaurant near the Montparnasse train station. Then Benjamin had added, in his fairly illegible handwriting, “I’m over the flu already. My ravenous appetite is back. Meanwhile, call your friend Julien Thommasseau, and offer him the winemaking position at Bretonneau. It’s such a fascinating little project, I’m sure he’ll accept. If not, he doesn’t deserve to be your friend. If you feel like it, go check out the Rue Lepic.”

  Virgile grinned. He was one step ahead of his boss. Virgile slipped the paper back into the envelope, crossed the hotel lobby, and went to the bar, which was empty at this time of day. He ordered an espresso and sank into a brown leather armchair.

  A few moments later, a short, well-dressed man with a round face and a wrinkled raincoat walked in.

  “Good morning, Jacques,” the bartender called out. “Your usual?”

  The man nodded and sat down at one of the tables. The bartender hurried over and poured him a glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The man took a few sips and promptly dozed off.

  Virgile downed the coffee in one swallow and took out his cell phone to call Julien. The Cahors wine grower thanked his friend profusely. Of course he would put in the hundred plants. Naturally it would be a gift to the hospital. He would even prune the vineyard if the gardeners didn’t know how to do it properly. He was ready to go to Bretonneau immediately to train the staff. Their wine would surely become the crown jewel of Montmartre.

  Virgile was tempted to caution his friend against being too exuberant. Winegrowing, after all, was a long-term project that required infinite patience. And anything could go wrong along the way. But like Julien, Virgile was an optimist at heart, and he didn’t want to say anything that would dampen his friend’s enthusiasm. With Benjamin’s blessing and the support of the Paris Public Hospital System, surely the Bretonneau vineyard would thrive.

  The two friends promised to meet with Benjamin in Bordeaux to iron out the practical matters. It was all agreed.

  He ended the half-hour phone call and looked around the room. The dozing man, Jacques, and he were all by themselves. Virgile, who had watched a few old American movies, couldn’t help noting his resemblance to Danny DeVito.

  The winemaker’s assistant looked around the room again, making absolutely sure they were alone, and sidled over to the man’s table. He picked up the unfinished glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape and sniffed the aromas of iris, cooked fruit, blackberry, and raspberry. He brought the inky wine to his lips. Violet, berries, and licorice lined his palate. Virgile clicked his tongue and savored the smokiness that crowned the experience.

  “Cuvée Vieilles Vignes, 1998, Domaine de la Janasse in Courthézon,” the man declared, opening his eyes. He yawned, gave Virgile a nod, and got out of his chair. Saying nothing, he walked over to the counter. He picked up the bottle. Then he grabbed another glass.

  Jacques returned to the table and offered Virgile the glass, which he then filled. “To your health, my boy.”

  “Cheers, sir,” Virgile mumbled, looking down at the table. He was feeling sheepish.

  “No, not like that. Eye to eye!” the man ordered, unfastening the top button of his shirt.

  Virgile raised his head to meet the man’s gaze. The two men clinked glasses.

  “I’m superstitious. When you toast someone without looking him in the eye, you’re in for seven years of bad sex,” Jacques said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  Virgile squirmed a bit, wondering if this was another come-on. But the man seemed more focused on the wine than on him, so Virgile shook his head. “That’s a curse, if ever I heard one.”

  Silence settled in as they sipped their Châteauneuf-du-Pape, until, out of nowhere, Jacques said, “Dead yesterdays and unborn tomorrows, why fret about it, if today be sweet.”

  Virgile actually recognized the quote, probably thanks to Benjamin and his habit of throwing out wise words all the time. It was from the Persian poet Omar Khayyam.

  ~ ~ ~

  There was always a table for Benjamin Cooker at the Montparnasse seafood restaurant La Cagouille. With his untidy beard and ever-present smile, the restaurant’s founder Gérard Allemandou greeted the winemaker just as graciously as he had welcomed, some years earlier, François Mitterand, who frequently dine
d here with his love child. The renowned chef, a son of Jarnac like Mitterand himself, showed Benjamin to the small alcove where the former French president and his daughter had savored their seafood.

  In all of Paris, no one could rival Allemandou’s garlic-sautéed octopus, or, for that matter, his cuttlefish, clams, squid, or fried sole. Benjamin had a weak spot for the cognac-marinated shrimp.

  Unlike the deceased president, the Bordeaux winemaker didn’t ask that the velvet curtain be drawn to protect him from prying eyes. On the contrary, Benjamin was eager to see the restaurant, talk with the chef, and acquaint Virgile, who had joined him. He made a point of showing his assistant the shelves that took up an entire wall and housed at least a hundred amber bottles, many of them quite old and some dating from Napoleon III.

  The wood used in this immense bookcase had come from Charente. Gérard Allemandou was proud of this, because in his Montparnasse neighborhood, which had lost much of its soul, he had recreated, with the help of brass, rope, Serge Benbouche watercolors, golden carafes, and seafood flavors, a bit of his native region of Charente, from the Coubre Lighthouse to the Île de Ré.

  Benjamin held this unpretentious man in high esteem. Allemandou was not only a masterful chef, but also an excellent storyteller. He often evoked the aromas of his childhood and memories of the sweet grandmother who had taught him the art of putting together a meal from nothing. It was perhaps because of her that he became a faithful disciple of minimalist cuisine—as long as it was flavorful.

  “You have to let the food speak to you,” he liked to say.

  Once they settled in, Benjamin said, “I recommend the sea bass, or a thick-cut tuna steak, or even the flaked skate in gribiche sauce, or the rustic and savory brandade de morue. Actually, anything you choose will be just perfect.”