The Critic ef-2

by Peter May

  The sound of the car came to her on the wind before she saw it, sunlight catching its roof as it wound its way up the track from the valley below, past the great pile of old tyres holding down the bache that covered the silage. She watched as it drew up in the yard below, and her aunt got out to greet her elder brother, Nicole’s father. They held each other for a long time before he took her case from the trunk and they went into the house. She would be there now until the end, and Nicole had pangs of guilt at the relief she felt. It was like being let out of prison. Or like a runner, exhausted and failing, passing on the baton for someone else to run the final leg.

  The dogs crowded around her, peering up anxiously into her face, sensing her distress. She spoke to them softly, running her hands back over upturned heads, and felt a comfort in their untiring love.

  ‘Nicole!’

  She looked up as she heard her name carried on the breeze. Her father stood on the stoop, the telephone held up in his hand. He was a big man, his ruddy complexion visible from here, beneath the ubiquitous cloth cap pushed back on his bull head.

  ‘A call for you!’

  IV

  Enzo watched as the tractor backed into the shed, maneuvering the blue Rock trailer up to the pressoir. It rose on pneumatic cross-levers until its funnel slipped into the mouth of the press, and the giant screw inside the trailer started turning, gently mashing the grapes into their constituent parts of juice, skin, seed, and stalk. Somehow, somewhere in the machine, the stalks got separated from the grapes and were spat out into large plastic bins, while the juice and skins and seeds were pumped under pressure through a plastic tube leading into the next shed. A man crouched beneath the pressoir, gently feeding clear liquid from a plastic bottle into the mix.

  ‘SO^2. Sulphur dioxide,’ Laurent de Bonneval shouted above the roar of the motors. ‘Kills the bad bacteria without damaging the yeasts, and protects the wine from oxidation.’ He was wearing a wine-stained tee-shirt, ragged shorts, and a pair of green Wellington boots.

  He turned back to sheafs of paper he was examining on a table pushed up against the wall. A table littered with charts and weather forecasts and handwritten notes, test tubes and pipettes. A bin beside it was full of empty tins labelled Lafase He Grand Cru. Idly, Enzo picked one up to read that it had contained “purified pectolytic enzymes” for increasing the “selective extraction of compounds from grape skins”.

  Bonneval grinned. ‘There’s a lot of science in winemaking, Monsieur Macleod. We balance sulphites against Ph. We measure sugar and acidity and alcohol. We use cold to inhibit fermentation, heat to accelerate it. But, really, it’s much more than that. It’s about instinct, and flair, and sophistry. A kind of alchemy. Magic, if you will.’ He turned towards the mixture being squeezed out of the pressoir. ‘Two winemakers can take the same grapes, from the same vintage, and produce entirely different wines. One might give you soft, vanilla fruit, the other tannic green pepper. It could even be argued that a wine reflects the personality of the winemaker.’

  ‘And what do you make, Monsieur de Bonneval? Soft vanilla fruit, or tannic green pepper?’

  Bonneval smiled, brown eyes full of mischief and amusement. ‘Oh, soft vanilla fruit, of course. These days winemakers must pander to the tastes of critics who grew up drinking Coca Cola and root beer.’

  ‘Which says what about your personality?’

  He threw his head back and laughed. ‘Probably just that I’m a man keen to sell his wines.’

  Enzo followed him through to the adjoining shed where red flexitubes, like giant worms, lay about the floor, attached to motorised pumps, moving grape juice under pressure between tanks. Workers were dragging tubes from one black bucket full of foaming pink juice to another, then hauling them up ladders to grilled walkways overhead which provided access to the tops of two rows of huge stainless steel vats. The air was filled with the distinctive smell of mashed grapes and alcohol, thick and heady. And all the time the roar of the pressoir and the pulse of the pumps assaulted the ears.

  Bonneval led Enzo up a steel staircase to the network of walkways above. He pointed to the tube feeding the incoming mix from the pressoir. It was tied to the rail beside the top of the nearest vat, and you could see the grape juice pulsing through its semi-translucent skin as it thundered up and then out and down again into the vast, black emptiness of a container that held one hundred and fifty hectolitres. Enzo did a quick calculation. That was fifteen thousand litres. Or twenty thousand bottles. A lot of wine.

  ‘Once the cuve is filled, we let the juice settle,’ Bonneval said. ‘The skins and seeds rise to the top. So we extract the juice from the bottom and pump it back into the top, re-mixing the must to get the maximum flavour. Sometimes at high speed. Sometimes transferring the entire contents of one cuve to another. Which also helps to oxygenate it, which in turn combines with the yeast to produce more heat, and therefore more alcohol.’ He grinned. ‘Another reason why we want to pick the grapes at maximum maturity. Sugar plus heat equals alcohol. And wine wouldn’t be quite the same without the alcohol now, would it?’

  ‘So you measure the sugar content of the grapes before you pick?’

  ‘Daily, as we get near harvest time. We also taste-test them for sweetness and flavour. And when the seeds have turned brown, and you can crush them between your teeth, you know they are ripe.’ He turned back towards the cuve. ‘Of course, we also need to control the heat that gets generated during fermentation. Too much heat equals too much alcohol, and you ruin the wine.’ He pointed to large black tubes running around the outer walls of the chai. ‘Cold water. We run smaller tubes down into each tank to feed cold water through filaments like radiators that hang down inside them. That way we can stop the mixture from overheating.’

  They went back down to the floor of the chai and walked through to a third shed. ‘We have twenty stainless steel cuves now,’ Bonneval said. Enzo did another calculation and blew a silent whistle through pursed lips. That was four hundred thousand bottles of wine! Bonneval was still talking. ‘Before that we used resin tanks, made from fibreglass.’ He indicated a row of half a dozen tan-coloured tanks with lids that were raised and lowered by an old-fashioned pulley system. ‘But we don’t use them for primary production any more. Before that, the cuves were made of concrete. We store some of our rose in those now.’ He turned to Enzo. ‘But enough of that. Let’s go and taste some of the finished product.’

  They went out through huge sliding doors into the dying light. The air still carried the warmth of the day, and even outside was saturated with the smell of fermenting wine. The fields around the chai were full of ripening corn. Bonneval took them past a disused tennis court, weeds poking up through cracks in the tarmac, and a tall, brick pigeonnier built on arches.

  ‘You see these pigeonniers everywhere,’ Enzo said. ‘People around here must have liked pigeons.’

  The lord of the manor chuckled. ‘In Gaillac, Monsieur Macleod, in the middle-ages, they used pigeon shit as fertiliser in the vineyards. So most vineyards had at least one pigeonnier. Of course, they also ate the birds, and a girl with a dowry of pigeons was considered to be a real catch.’

  They passed a kitchen garden whose season was nearly over, and went through an arched gate into a courtyard bounded by the main chateau on the south side and long, low wings to the east and west. The west wing had been the chai, or wine cellar, since the nineteenth century, Bonneval said. The east wing had been the original chai, then later provided stabling for the horses. The chateau itself, a patchwork of new and old brick, cement and stone, had seen better days. It was impressive nonetheless, standing foursquare at the end of a long, straight, tree-lined drive, its walled gardens just metres from the banks of the river Tarn. The original house was built on three levels, and then extended on two at either side some time later.

  They went up steps to the main door and into a dark, stone-flagged hall. At the far end of it, tall wooden doors stood ajar, opening into a circular room whose walls wer
e lined with elaborately framed mirrors and paintings. It was a clutter of antique furniture and family heirlooms.

  But Bonneval took them east, down a long corridor lit by north-facing windows. All the doors opened into south-facing rooms. ‘To harvest the summer sun, and protect us from the north wind,’ Bonneval said. ‘Our ancestors knew a thing or two about designing buildings.’

  Enzo became aware now of the smell of good things cooking, and his host opened a door into the family apartment, where they were greeted by a soft, warm light and the gentle, welcoming smile of Jacqueline de Bonneval.

  Enzo let the smooth velvety liquid fill his mouth, breathing in through his nose, and experiencing the wonderful flavours and aromas of toasted oak, rich red fruit, and spicy pepper. As he let it slip back over his throat, it left a slight acid freshness on his tongue, and long after his mouth was empty, there lingered hints of blackcurrant and liquorice. For several moments he was completely absorbed by it, before looking up to find Laurent de Bonneval watching him with wide-eyed anticipation. ‘Well?’

  Enzo shook his head, trying to find words to describe his feelings about the wine. He swirled the deep, garnet-red liquid in a wide-bottomed glass that tapered up to a narrower lip. And in the end, he gave up. ‘Fabulous,’ was all he could find to say, aware of how inadequate that was.

  Bonneval beamed nonetheless. ‘It’s our cuvee speciale, 2002. Petty liked it, too. A blend of cabernet, braucol, duras, and syrah. Aged in oak, of course. You know, we decant the wine from the barrels from time to time and move it around. Every barrel is different, you see, so it helps with the consistency. And the oxygenation improves the ageing.’ He put a confidential finger to his lips. ‘But don’t tell anyone.’ He grinned and filled Enzo’s glass as his wife served up platters of confit de canard and cubed roast potatoes with garlic and cepe mushrooms.

  Jacqueline de Bonneval was not at all what Enzo had been expecting. She was a small, plump lady with an unlined, pretty face. Her hair was the colour of brushed steel, thick and luxuriant, and drawn back in a bushy ponytail at least six inches longer than Enzo’s. It had been hard to put an age on Bonneval. Early fifties, Enzo had thought earlier. But meeting Madame de Bonneval he had been forced to reassess his first impression. She was nearer sixty than fifty, and unless she was a good deal older than Laurent, Enzo must have been about ten years out in his initial appraisal.

  ‘I like your ponytail,’ she said to Enzo as she pulled in a chair to the table.

  Enzo said, ‘You know, when I was first in France, and my French wasn’t what it is now, I always used to mispronounce that, and I never knew why people were laughing.’ Neither Jacqueline nor her husband could guess at how me might have mispronounced it. So he demonstrated. ‘ Cul de cheval,’ he said, and they both burst out laughing. It only took a slight mispronunciation for “horse’s tail” to become “horse’s ass”. Enzo smiled ruefully. ‘I’m older and wiser now.’ He paused, and looked appreciatively at Madame de Bonneval. ‘And you have a much more impressive ponytail than mine, madame.’

  They started to eat. The duck was moist and fall-apart tender, with a crispy skin that melted in the mouth. And Enzo thought the potato, garlic, and cepe mix was the best he had ever tasted.

  A door opened from the hall, and a tall young man emerged from the gathering gloom of the chateau. His tee-shirt was torn and stained, his green boots blackened by red grape juice. ‘Papa?’

  Enzo watched Bonneval’s face light up as he turned towards his son, dark eyes brimful of affection. ‘Come in, Charles, come in. Meet Monsieur Macleod. He’s a Scotsman. Come to find out who murdered Gil Petty.’

  Charles glanced distractedly towards Enzo. He nodded and offered a cursory handshake. ‘Enchante, monsieur.’ But his mind was on other things. He turned back to his father. ‘Michel Vidal claims you said he could have the harvester tonight.’

  Bonneval roared with laughter. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think Vidal knows the rain’s on its way and he’s trying to pull a fast one.’

  Bonneval grinned Enzo. ‘The boy’s not daft.’

  Charles seemed embarrassed. His fresh, pink complexion darkened. Large-lobed ears poking out from a tangle of black curls glowed hot and red. He glanced self-consciously at Enzo.

  But his father was oblivious to his discomfort. ‘Just completed a degree course in viniculture at Bordeaux University. He’s the future of the chateau, Monsieur Macleod. The future of the wine. But more than that, he loves driving that harvester. Am I right, son?’

  ‘I’ll tell Guillaume to send Vidal packing.’

  ‘Sit in at the table, Charles.’ His mother pulled out a chair. ‘There’s enough for four.’

  ‘I can’t, maman, I’ve got to get the machine ready.’

  ‘See?’ Bonneval cocked an eyebrow at Enzo.

  ‘It was nice to meet you, Monsieur Macleod.’ Charles glanced at his watch. ‘Excuse me.’ And he beat a hasty retreat.

  ‘He’s going to be a much better winemaker than his father.’ Bonneval’s pride in his son was nearly palpable. Knows more about the science of it all than I ever did.’

  Madame de Bonneval sighed. ‘Just one more in a long line of Bonnevals who’s going to sacrifice his life to the Chateau Saint-Michel.’

  ‘It’s his birthright,’ Bonneval said. ‘His inheritance.’ He paused for momentary reflection. ‘His duty.’

  From where he was sitting at the big table in the kitchen, Enzo could see through a door into a sitting room dominated by a huge marble cheminee. ‘Is this the only part of the chateau you live in?’

  ‘Good God, yes,’ Bonneval said. ‘We could never heat the whole place. And in winter it’s damned cold, I can tell you. My ancestors had notions of grandeur, but they must have been hardy souls, too.’

  ‘How long has Chateau Saint-Michel been in your family?’ Enzo sipped more wine.

  ‘There have been Bonnevals on this land since the thirteenth century, Monsieur Macleod. More than seven hundred years. The chateau isn’t quite that old, but the original building dates back to the fifteenth century. It was my ancestor, Hubert de Bonneval, who was responsible for most of its enlargement in the late seventeen hundreds.’ He took another mouthful of wine, warming to his subject. ‘He had grand plans for the place. Bought a brick factory, just to make bricks for the expansion. But it also made him a lot of money, which helped pay for it, too.’ He paused, his face clouding at some unhappy memory. ‘Sadly, he never finished it, and in fact the east wing of the house was almost destroyed by fire. It was his son who took up the project again in the early nineteenth century, and he’s pretty much accountable for what you see today.’

  ‘It’s an enormous responsibility,’ Madame de Bonneval said. ‘I know that Laurent feels the weight of history on his shoulders. It’s important that the wine of Chateau Saint-Michel is successful just so that we can afford the upkeep of the building.’

  Enzo took another sip from his glass. ‘With wine this good, I don’t see how you can fail.’

  But Bonneval just shrugged. “At eight euros a bottle, monsieur, we’re never going to get rich on it.’

  Enzo shook his head. ‘It’s crazy. There are Bordeaux wines costing fifty and sixty euros a bottle that aren’t a patch on this.’

  ‘Yes, but ask any wine drinker in America if he’s heard of Bordeaux, and he’ll laugh at the stupidity of your question. Ask him if he’s ever heard of Gaillac, and you’ll get a vacant look and a shake of the head.’ The winemaker sipped thoughtfully on the product of his own vineyard. ‘Gaillac is one of the great undiscovered wines of France, Monsieur Macleod. We’ve been making wine here for more than two thousand years, even before the Romans arrived. But very few people outside of the area have heard of it. We were victims of our own geography.’ He waved a hand towards the window. ‘Out there is the river Tarn. It was the only way people could get their wines out to the world. It was our bad luck that the Tarn runs into the Garonne, which takes it to Bordeaux. There, we
were obliged to unload our wines before shipping them on to other destinations.

  ‘Unfortunately, the Bordelaise didn’t relish the competition. So they levied taxes on us, built weirs and damns across the river, and charged us to use the locks to bypass them. Effectively, they choked off our trading route to the rest of the world. Which today is why Americans have heard of Bordeaux and not of Gaillac.’ He sighed. ‘But we made good wines, Monsieur Macleod. The vin du coq was shipped in barrels branded with the symbol of the rooster, and drunk in royal households around Europe. It was a great favourite of Francois Premier. But with the Bordelaise barring our way out, and then the phyloxera wiping out the vines, winemaking in Gaillac was all but finished by the end of the nineteenth century. It’s only during the last thirty years that young, innovative winemakers have restored our wines to their former glory. The trouble is, nobody knows about them. Which is why Petty’s death was such a blow. He was about to introduce Gaillac wines to the rest of the world. Instead, they still languish in underpriced obscurity.’

  The lights of the chai blazed out from open doors into the dark of the night. The sky was ink black, peppered with stars, the merest blush of colour still staining the western horizon. ‘Where did you park?’ Bonneval asked.

  ‘I didn’t. I walked.’

  Bonneval looked at him with surprise. ‘Walked? It’s a good three kilometres back to Chateau des Fleurs.’

  ‘I need the exercise, Monsieur de Bonneval. Besides, I’ve drunk a fair bit of your excellent wine tonight, and it might not have been a good idea to drive.’

  ‘It’s a long way in the dark, though.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You know, there’s a shortcut through the vineyard. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll walk part of the way with you. We have a night pick tonight. By hand. And the machine will be out as well.’