9

 

Benjamin and Virgile got an early start the next morning to allow for a visit with David Navarre. The two men were quiet as they drove, and the winemaker didn’t bother to ask Virgile if he had completed his errand. He was savoring the memory of his tasting with François Pinon when Virgile turned to him.

“It’s strange, boss—with all of the region’s fancy châteaus and showy history, they hide a lot of their vineyards, kind of like a secret lover.”

Benjamin chuckled. “There’s no secret. It’s all in the geography, son. Here in Vouvray country, the vineyard is often out of sight. But you feel its proximity. I think of it this way: behind the high cliffs pierced with troglodyte caves and beyond the slate roofs, you sense the presence of an army of vines standing guard in rows, ready to confront the assault of rain and biting sun.”

“So it’s not a lover but, instead, a military division. If you ask me, grape leaves make pretty poor shields.” Benjamin ignored Virgile’s smirk. His assistant still had a thing or two to learn, and Benjamin had much to impart. He launched into another lecture. “Let me fill you in. With two thousand hectares divided among seven communes, the Vouvray appellation is the true kingdom of chenin, one of the finest and most delicate grape varieties on earth. It can repay a grower a hundred times over if he knows how to take care of it.”

Benjamin slowed down to take a curve and then checked on Virgile. He was paying attention. “The Vouvray region lies just east of Tours. It enjoys a rather mild climate. And that’s a good thing, because it’s not necessarily easy to cultivate this type of vineyard. You must not underestimate the oceanic influence that warms the ground. Autumns are usually sunny, which encourages ripeness and noble rot. That said, the grape can be fickle.”

“So we’re back to the lover metaphor,” Virgile said, grinning.

Benjamin suppressed a scowl. “What I mean by fickle is that the sugar content can determine a year’s production. In cool years, production leans toward the drier varieties, including the sparkling Vouvrays. In warmer years, the sweeter Vouvrays tend to dominate.”

“To get back to our geography, the vineyards are often on high rises.”

“Absolutely—stony plateaus on limestone substrate that loom above the valleys. The white Turonian clay is covered with flinty clay, which gives dry wines their characteristic minerality. And then the calcareous clay gives the sweet wines their well-rounded nature.”

“Yes, boss. Turonian. Ninety-four to ninety million years ago, roughly counting. It was the second of six main divisions in the Upper Cretaceous Series.”

“I see you still remember something from your days at oenology school.”

The winemaker kept going, piling on figures while Virgile listened politely. The region produced about a hundred and fifteen thousand hectoliters of Vouvray every year, or fifteen million bottles. On average, fifty-five percent were sparkling, and forty-five percent were still. Dry Vouvray had nine grams of residual sugars per liter. Semi-dry had fifteen grams, while sweet and fortified liquors had fifty grams.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you about Les Bournais, with its unique silty clay soil over limestone. This is the land of bubbly wines, very light and delicate. Over time, they develop candied fruit aromas with a touch of sweet floral, which enhances the freshness.”

Benjamin glanced at Virgile again. He was fidgeting.

“That’s enough, boss. I won’t be able to remember much more.”

“And that makes me sad,” the winemaker said, turning onto the road leading to Château de Tremblay.

When they arrived, Benjamin saw that the police had cordoned off the meadow used as a parking lot the night of the party, as well as the wine cellar. Several TV-station trucks were just outside the meadow, and photographers and reporters were arguing with a broad-shouldered officer of impressive height who had obviously been stationed there to keep them from getting in.

“Sure is a peaceful place,” Virgile said. “Isn’t that what you called it?”

Benjamin turned off the engine. He could deal with Virgile’s teasing during their ride, but now that they were faced with the reality of what had happened here, he wasn’t in the mood for any cracks from his assistant.

“It does, indeed, seem that you’re running out of memory, son. I said it was a place where one could pause and recharge. Do you think you could do that? Pause, I mean.”