Death al Dente

by Peter King

Situated in the gently rolling countryside south of Vicenza, five massive pavilions housed booths where over five hundred vineyards offered sample tasting of their wares. We signed in—Cataldo had arranged it all—and we were given large badges which identified us as representatives of some organization with several bewildering initials. Francesca glanced at them and nodded, satisfied that she could answer questions about our supposed status. We strolled down the first aisle, admiring the work that had gone into the display boards and backdrops. In one, rows of vines stood out in almost three-dimensional green against the brown soil, and a spectacular old castle converted into a mansion stood proudly on top of a hill. Some had only posters on the wall, some had racks of bottles and boards covered with colorful labels.

  The banquet was to be at eight o’clock but Cataldo had asked us to be there early and suggested that we spend the time in the wine pavilions. It was a proposal not to be declined, and Francesca noted I was having a hard time controlling my salivation.

  “You can’t wait to do some tasting, can you?”

  “It would be unfair to all these vintners who have spent so much time—”

  “Let’s try this one.”

  The Italian wine industry is the most baffling and infuriating in Europe. It can delight and excite but it can also exasperate and disappoint. Great names such as Soave, Frascati, and Verdicchio have been abused by overproduction, and this is a shame because the country has an infinite variety of climate, landscape, and soil. Over a thousand grape varieties mean a treasure trove of rare and original wine tastes—in theory. The planting of too many inferior but high-yielding clones has resulted in an ocean of cheap, cheerless mouthwash.

  Signs of the tide turning are encouraging, though. Chianti has been brought back from the depths of mediocrity and investment in replanting, modern equipment, and the right clones continues to grow.

  The Casa Vinicola Montello had a stand being run by the elderly Signor Montello himself, aided by his two sons and his daughter and a twenty-year-old grandson. Many of the stands here belonged to family-owned and operated vineyards, Francesca told me. Some had been forced to sell to the big-name producers but others like this one steadfastly continued the family tradition.

  “Taste this,” urged the daughter. It was a Mammolo, an ancient variety of red rarely encountered. She poured less than an inch into a large bulb-shaped glass that would hold half a liter. “It keeps in the bouquet for tasting purposes,” she explained. It had a delicate perfume and a rare balance of lean elegance and almost smoky fruit. They were trying to develop a business in up-market reds, aware that they would have to sell at higher prices than they would get for table wines but the decision was influenced by their limited production.

  “Let’s find some whites,” Francesca said and we stopped at La Pergola Giuliano Agricola. Like most booths, it consisted of a counter like a bar with various open bottles. Boxes and crates stood behind the bar ready to replenish the supply. Giuliano himself, stocky and a true son of the soil, was beaming with pleasure and pouring from his selection of Sauvignon, Pinot Bianco, Pviesling Renano, Nebbiolo, Tocai Friulano, and Chardonnay. Francesca particularly liked the Pinot Bianco. “Let’s find some more of that,” she said.

  It was no problem. We found many more—and then many more. We talked to vintners, some old and some young, some sedately traditional and some progressive, some optimistic and some pessimistic. One had sold his vineyard, gone into real estate development, then returned and bought the vineyard back. Another had been to California, marveled at the technological razzle-dazzle of Napa Valley, but come back to his drab cellars in the foothills of the Alps and continued to make wine just as before.

  “It’s as well they only give us a few milliliters of each wine to taste.” Francesca commented.

  “In total volume, we’ve only drunk about a bottle,” I assured her.

  Prices were not displayed anywhere. A prospective buyer could ask and negotiate but this noticeable lack of one aspect of commercialism at least was refreshing.

  We tasted some Merlot, another wine that has suffered not only from overproduction but also from its high yield which has attracted “pirate” vineyards to produce blends with inferior wines, a practice that is illegal.

  This wine has the recurrent problem of the intrusion of a blackberry flavor. A modest amount is essential to Merlot’s rich mellowness, but just a little too much and the blackberries grab you by the taste buds. It is a popular wine in Italy as Italians rate it as the perfect accompaniment to robust pasta dishes.

  A small drinking group had already emptied several bottles which a smiling young man hastily disposed of to make room for us. The group was bewailing the legal entanglements of the wine industry. “There are too many laws,” the young man protested.

  “That’s not just the wine trade,” interjected an older man. “It’s the same everywhere you look in this country. Rules, regulations, statues, canons, decrees, acts, charters—only a lawyer could understand them and most of them don’t. How could they? A lot of laws may be five hundred years old but others were passed only last week. They don’t have time even to read all of them.”

  It was a comment I had heard repeated many times in Italy. The conclusion usually reached at the end of such discussions was that if all the laws were applied, the entire country would be paralyzed. Most of this assembly wanted to talk about the wine industry, though, and the strangulation effect of too many rules and regulations. “In the Middle Ages,” contributed another, “table wines were flavored with herbs and spices. This is now illegal—it is prohibited by law—”

  “Unless you are making vermouth,” called out someone from the end of the bar. “Then you can salvage wines that couldn’t be sold otherwise.” There were rueful laughs at the truth of this. Wine producers in Italy particularly are angry because wines from a bad harvest are used in vermouth, which then becomes saleable.

  On the next aisle, we ran into Bernardo, plant and flower chef straordinario, and his demure wife, Vanessa. He was a little more somber than even his usual eremitic self. He told us he was still concerned about the shadow cast over his style of cooking and his use of natural ingredients. “There have never been any dangerous products in my cooking,” he stated firmly.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Francesca casting an occasional furtive glance at Vanessa, who looked shy and said little. I knew that Francesca was trying to reconcile this image with the woman we had seen slipping into the nightclub, Fica, with the brilliant but obnoxious Ottavio.

  The big pavilions were crowded now, and the hum of discussions, arguments, claims, counterclaims, and customer comments both favorable and otherwise rose to the high raftered ceilings. The sharp clink of glass and the soft gurgle of wine added to the excitement of the occasion. As we walked past one deeply involved group, we were hailed by a familiar voice and face. It was Tomasso Rinaldo, the dapper lawyer.

  After we had agreed on what a good time we were all having, Francesca pointed down the aisle. “I think they could use you there to defend the law. Some harsh words are being used.”

  Tomasso smoothed his smartly trimmed beard and waved a beautifully manicured hand in a conciliatory gesture. “The law comes in for some heavy criticism today,” he admitted. “Everyone has an opinion on it—all find it either too weak or too strong.”

  “The wine business must be a minefield of legal problems.” I said in commiseration. “The food business being not too far behind.”

  “True,” he agreed. “We are having a discussion on labeling. Already we have to show if a wine contains sulfites. Some legislators want to force winemakers to show the percentage of sulfur dioxide on the label. That will mean changing winemaking methods to reduce the amount of it used.”

  “Which in turn will mean more chemical sprays in the vineyard and more complaints of damage to the health of the community,” I added.

  “All bad for the winemakers but good for the lawyers,” said Francesca.

&nb
sp; Tomasso looked rueful. “Not the way we want more accounts, I can assure you.”

  We left him trying to decide whether to stay with his present group or try the other. “The law is full of dilemmas,” he told us, shaking his head.

  Italians are fond of giving their wines extravagant names, and one stand pressed on us a taste of their Sangue di Giuda—the Blood of Judas. We felt betrayed by it. Francesca found some Torre del Greco—the Towers of Greece—but was disappointed when it was not as she remembered. We passed a group at one stand arguing heatedly over “big name” wines. “Customers buy big name wines because they feel secure with them,” maintained a woman with a large hat. “But their reputations were gained by offering quality whereas today a big name means nothing more than that the wine has not been abused.” A thin man with a face weathered by decades in a vineyard said, “I blame the European Community. They support the big producers and penalize the small vineyard trying for quality.”

  We came in near the end of a spirited debate on another stand over the relative merits of wood and glass for aging red wines but at least we were in time to enjoy the full flavor of their clean, well-balanced Montepulciano. Francesca looked at the large clock at the end of the hall. “We should be going in to the banquet room.”

  Her words gave me a tingling feeling. Cataldo was going to try to draw the final curtain and would no doubt do it with an operatic flourish. I had an uncomfortable memory of so many Italian operas that ended in bloodshed and death …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE BANQUET ROOM SEEMED small after the cavernous halls of the exhibition. Tables each seating six or eight people were set, but the couple of dozen people who were here already stood in groups, drinking wine served from the tables round the walls. We went over to one of these and found that they were pouring superior wines from some of the best vineyards.

  I found myself examining the young man handing us two glasses of Principessa Gavi from the Banfi vineyard in Siena. He looked reliable and so was the wine. It was one of the cleanest, crispest, most refreshing white wines I had tasted, and Francesca agreed enthusiastically. After we had confirmed that opinion, I said, “Let’s circulate. Do some investigating.”

  The group I joined was being lectured at by a man with a flowing mustache and a strong voice. “It should not be allowed to be displayed at an exhibition as serious and prestigious as this one,” he was declaring. “It is an insult to the Italian wine industry.” I raised my eyebrows at a red-haired woman standing nearby. “He’s talking about Lambrusco,” she whispered. “Professor Peralto from the wine institute.”

  “It is as near to undrinkable as a wine can get,” the man continued. “Is that so surprising? Everything we know about Lambrusco tells us that. For instance, it can be drunk the day after it is bottled—now we all know that wine needs to age. Lambrusco is eight or nine percent alcohol—any good wine is at least twelve percent. It is slightly sparkling—but for how long? The bubbles die immediately. It is thin-bodied, sharp-tasting, and a sickly pink color that looks as if it came out of a laboratory. It is not rose and it is not red—it is not even anywhere in between.”

  His verbal assault brought titters from his small audience then a voice called out, “Millions drink it—they must like it!”

  The professor shook his head vigorously. “We nickname it Lambruscola. Does that not tell you something?”

  “It’s an insult to a good soft drink!” commented a woman supporter.

  “Millions like it, you say.” The professor pointed to the man who had made that remark. “They are people with uneducated tastes. Isn’t it our responsibility to educate them?”

  “Yours maybe,” grunted someone. “You’re the educator.”

  The professor leaped on the statement. “Exactly. I’m trying to do that now—educate people—and that means condemning the bad as well as praising the good.”

  A babble of voices drowned out the next words as several voluble Italians all started to speak at the same time. I wandered on, unable to resist a scrutinizing look at each waiter.

  A deep voice hailed me and I found Giacomo pumping my hand. “My friend! I am glad to see you. Tell me, how goes the search?”

  “I hope you mean the search for who killed Signor Pellegrini. That is the important one,” I said in my most reproving tone.

  “Of course, of course.” His beard looked fuller than ever, and he seemed to have grown in all directions. He was just as ebullient as before, and my rebuke went right over his head. “I just saw Captain Cataldo coming in,” he said. “Possibly, he has news.”

  “Let us hope so,” I said piously. “I didn’t expect anything like this when I came to Italy.”

  Giacomo shrugged his massive shoulders. “Italy is a bloodstained country. Our people are violent and their emotions are apt to boil over without warning. Husbands kill wives, wives kill mistresses, elder brothers kill men who defile their sisters, young lovers think they are Romeo and Juliet and die together.” He sighed and his entire bulk shuddered. “More Italians have died in all these ways than in all this country’s wars put together. Death is never far away for any Italian.”

  I nodded in understanding. It was permissible for him to say that but as a foreigner I knew that my opinion was not worth a pinch of salt so I said nothing on the subject. Instead, emboldened by this opportunity, I said to him, “Tell me, Giacomo, what is the truth behind this rumor that Signor Pellegrini was using his position to have one of your stars taken away?”

  It caught him a little off-balance. “It may be true.” He recovered quickly. “I hope that others will see me differently.”

  “What about Captain Cataldo?” I asked. “Will he see it differently?”

  He laughed, throwing back his head. “Kill a man for a chef’s star! Not enough motive there, my friend.”

  “Not alone,” I agreed, getting braver. “Another rumor is floating about too, though. It says that you and Pellegrini’s wife have been seen together.”

  If I was expecting a flash of guilt, I was to be disappointed. He laughed again, louder this time. “We have been together once. That was at the Fica nightclub. You know it?”

  No hint of suspicion showed in his voice. He continued, “That was at the widow’s request. She wanted to discuss a rescheduling of the debt I owe.”

  “At a nightclub?”

  He smiled widely. “She is an unusual woman.”

  An acquaintance came and took him away. Francesca rejoined me. “Did you learn anything?” she asked. “You were certainly amusing Giacomo.”

  I gave her the substance of our conversation. “So they didn’t see us,” she said, relieved. “Talking about money in a private booth at the Fica! Was he serious?”

  “You think he was covering up?” I had not considered that. “Maybe I’m too naive.”

  She patted my cheek. “Everyone likes honest persons. On the other hand, deception is useful. There are times when it is necessary because of the evil nature of humanity. So the more you can gain the reputation of being truthful, the more effective you will find it when you want to be deceitful.”

  I chuckled at the shining eyes and eager parted lips as she expounded this bewildering theory. “Did anyone ever call you Signorina Macchiavelli?”

  “Don’t you laugh at me!” she warned, trying to keep a straight face. “Anyway, I have been sleuthing too. I talked to Vanessa Mantegna.”

  I knew Francesca had been bursting with curiosity about Vanessa’s liaison with Ottavio in the nightclub. Was it tinged with envy?

  “Bernardo’s wife … good. Learn anything?”

  “Yes, but let’s have another glass of wine first.”

  “Another Gavi?” I suggested.

  “It was very good. Let’s see what else they’ve got, though.”

  We chose a Bianco de Pitigliano, the knowledgable waiter telling us that this was from the Trebbiano grape grown in the volcanic soil in the south of Tuscany. It was dry and delicate, appetizing yet with a fr
uity acidity.

  We moved away, out of earshot of the people around the busy bartender. “Go on,” I urged, “tell me.”

  “Vanessa saw us, so she knew we had seen her with Ottavio. I didn’t have to prod her much, she was anxious to explain herself. She says Ottavio has been after her for some time and she’s always resisted.”

  “Until now.”

  “She says the reason she went to the Fica was to see what she could do to help Ottavio get the job in London.”

  “You mean Bernardo?”

  “No, I mean Ottavio.”

  “Surely you didn’t believe her?”

  “I’m sure she was telling me the truth.”

  “What?” I protested. “After what you just told me about learning to be deceitful! I don’t understand. She doesn’t want her own husband to get the job?”

  “I think Vanessa is basically an honest person,” she said decisively. “Her reason for wanting Ottavio to get the job was so that Bernardo wouldn’t get it. You see, she’s been to London and would hate to live there. Bernardo doesn’t know this, of course. Oh, he knows she doesn’t like London but she doesn’t want him to know that she kept him from getting the job.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment. “Women’s minds are bizarre, aren’t they?”

  “Not a bit. They are perfectly logical.”

  “Vanessa didn’t have to pay too high a price for this, did she?”

  Francesca shook her head. “‘Virgo intacto,’ she assured me.”

  “You asked?”

  “Of course,” she said, looking surprised.

  “Okay, you did a good sleuthing job.”

  We touched glasses.

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Have you seen the captain?” I asked. “Giacomo said he was here.”

  “I haven’t seen him yet. Who shall I harass next?”

  “This white wine is making you aggressive. Finish the glass.”

  I supposed that Francesca was right about the triangle of Bernardo, Ottavio, and Vanessa. It wasn’t really a triangle after all, just a straight line with a few curves in it. She had a lot of “street smarts” in her makeup and she was shrewd. The story might not make sense anywhere else, but we were in Italy.