2

The Kammerzell House, where Benjamin and Virgile were dining, was one of Strasbourg’s architectural splendors. It had been converted from a pub to a fine restaurant at the end of the nineteenth century, and recently a hotel had been added. Over the course of six centuries, thousands of patrons, both little-known and celebrated, had climbed the spiral staircase connecting the five floors of this food-lovers’ temple. It was said that Guttenberg, Goethe, and Mozart had frequently eaten here. Now it was the winemaker’s turn.

Benjamin, whose trek up the stairs had left him panting and feeling heavy, surveyed his surroundings. He admired the woodwork, the bottle-glass windows throwing iridescent colors on the white table linens, and the frescoes signed by Léo Schnug, an Alsatian painter known for his ruddy faces and naughty scenes seemingly right out of Boccaccio’s Decameron.

Once they were seated, the maître d’ was on guard. No wonder. Benjamin was examining the wine list and menu and pointing out the establishment’s specialties as if he were already quite familiar with them. His serious-diner look could make any headwaiter jumpy, even one at such a legendary restaurant. His tailored British jacket and Virgile’s casually classy attire—gray slacks, ash-rose shirt, and light-gray blazer—would only amplify the mistrust. The man probably suspected that he was a critic for an important food and wine guide—like the Cooker Guide! No matter. Benjamin had a way of making friends sooner or later with a good restaurant’s staff. For him, dining was an experience to be savored from start to finish.

“I’ll begin with the foie gras de canard in gewürztraminer aspic. What about you, Virgile?”

“A dozen escargots Kocher—”

“Kochersberg,” Benjamin clarified. “That’s an excellent choice.”

Ever since they had arrived in Alsace, Virgile had been mangling Alsatian words—for fun. He even suggested they were invented solely for the purpose of winning points in Scrabble.

“And next, may I suggest—”

Benjamin undermined the maître d’s obsequiousness by immediately choosing a cuissot de porcelet rôti aux épices douces.

“Ah, our delicately spiced suckling pig is a fine choice. It’s precisely the dish that I—”

“Excellent.” The winemaker grinned at the waiter, pretending to be pleased that they had the same selection in mind. Virgile, meanwhile, was still trying to decide between beef tartar and the three-fish sauerkraut.

“That is the house specialty,” the maître d said.

“Let’s honor Alsace. Right, boss?”

“Absolutely,” Benjamin said with a nod. “Provided, of course, that the three fish were caught in the River Ill or, failing that, in the Rhine.”

“Alas, sir, I cannot guarantee that. May I leave you in the hands of our sommelier, who will guide you in—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Benjamin interrupted. He ordered a Frédéric Mallo grand cru Rosacker vieilles vignes. “A two thousand five, if you please.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And water for you, Virgile? You must be very thirsty, even penitential, after your lengthy conversation in the confessional today.”

“Don’t blame me, boss. If you remember, I answered the call. I wasn’t making it. Before I left Bordeaux, I met this German chick who was harvesting grapes in Beauséjour Bécot. I was just helping her out, and now she won’t stop calling.”

“Right. You were just helping her out. Whatever you say.”

“She’s a real babe, but—”

“How you talk about women, boy. You met some chick who’s a babe? Come now, Virgile. You have a refined palate, and you love wines with great subtlety, and yet you talk like a stable boy who tumbles in the hay with anything in a skirt.”

“Boss! You don’t give me enough credit.”

“Well, then, prove me wrong.”

As the winemaker and his assistant waited for their dishes to arrive, the pale yellow riesling with green reflections was awakening their senses. Benjamin changed the subject and started describing the wine’s aromas of flowers and spices. Virgile, for his part, commented on the peppery notes coming through in the finish.

“Here we have the typical features of Rosacker,” the winemaker said, chewing his riesling with satisfaction. “This wine comes from heavy clay soil with limestone and dolomite pebbles.”

“Lots of minerality,” the sommelier pointed out.

Benjamin sniffed the fragrances emanating from his glass, aware that the sommelier was watching him intently.

“I’d say lime, boss. Maybe a hint of tangerine.”

“Yes, complex citrus aromas. It’s very elegant, practically ethereal. Did you know the name Rosacker comes from the wild roses that used to grow around the vineyards?”

Finally, the sommelier ventured, “At the risk of being mistaken, aren’t you Benjamin Cooker?”

The winemaker simply smiled, and with a nod, Virgile confirmed what the young man was thinking.

“We are very honored that you have chosen the Kammerzell House during your stay in Alsace, Mr. Cooker.”

“I trust we will enjoy ourselves here,” Benjamin said, taking a sip.

At that moment, a beam of light ran through his riesling, accentuating the golden color. Late autumn promised to be flamboyant in this land of Alsace, where the grape harvest sometimes extended all the way to Christmas. Too bad Strasbourg was only a stopover. His thoughts flashed back to the tour guide, Jeanne, so vibrant one minute and dead the next.

“You seem lost in thought,” Virgile said. “Are you thinking about that woman who died in the cathedral?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Doesn’t it strike you as strange, Virgile, to die in a place like that—a cathedral? And the woman was so well informed. It’s a shame she couldn’t live longer to share her knowledge with more people.”

“Educated or illiterate—it’s all the same. As my grandfather used to say, no matter how brilliant you are, you can’t outsmart death. It must have been her time, boss. And maybe it was fitting that she died in the cathedral that was so much a part of her life.”

“Your grandfather—I’m sorry I didn’t have the opportunity to meet him before he passed away.”

“You would have liked him. I’m glad he was with us for so long and was spry enough to avoid going into a retirement home. He wouldn’t set a foot in a church either. He was stubborn, and he insisted on doing things his own way. I think he just willed himself to live longer than most people.”

“‘A life well spent brings happy death.’”

“He did live a good life, that’s for sure. Maybe his sense of humor had something to do with his longevity. When I visited him once, he put on a woebegone face and said, ‘Did you know that my old school chum Pierre left us?’ ‘No, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘What did he die of?’ My grandfather looked at me and said, ‘He didn’t stick around to tell me.’”

Benjamin smiled. Virgile’s company was helping him recover his usual cheerfulness. It wasn’t so much the tour guide’s sudden death that was dragging him down. It was the prospect of vinifying Fritz Loewenberg’s Moselle wines. Goldtröpfchen was certainly a beautiful German village set in sloping and magnificently maintained vineyards, but the wine that came from its stocks was too sweet. Making honey from grapes was not Benjamin’s cup of tea. He had been clear with Loewenberg and had only accepted the assignment because the man had set his sights on a Saint-Emilion grand cru. The deal was making headway, and Benjamin was lending support to an operation that would cause a stir in Bordeaux. For the German businessman, having a Bordeaux vineyard was a way to restore his image in his Moselle homeland. Bad yeast during vinification had marred his wine the previous year.

It was a matter of spending a week across the Rhine in Germany. Benjamin had used the assignment as an opportunity to visit the hills of Alsace with his assistant, because Virgile was almost completely unfamiliar with its extraordinary wines.

“Tomorrow we’ll drive to Colmar. And from there we’ll start exploring,” Benjamin said before biting into a slice of bread coated with a thick layer of foie gras. “Maybe we’ll even go all the way to Ammerschwihr. This matter of the vines cut down with a chainsaw is perplexing, to say the least.”

“What happened again?” Virgile asked. “How many plants were cut?”

“One hundred and twenty. All destroyed in a single night.”

“Sacrilege! And the papers say the investigators have no leads.”

“Reporters are like pathetic winemakers churning out plonk,” grumbled Benjamin. “We’re lucky if we get half the story.”

“Well, it does seem that the cops are having a hard time with this, boss. What are your thoughts?”

Benjamin Cooker wiped his mouth and took two sips of his riesling.

“Clearly, this is an act of vengeance that dates to some deep-rooted rancor.”

Virgile, trying to imitate his employer, took one sip of his wine, then a second, and then a third. “This is Alsace,” he finally said. “Revenge is bound to be slow in coming, like the late-harvest wines made in this region—and that would certainly wreak havoc. Right, boss?”

“‘Late Harvest Havoc.’ Sounds like the title of a mystery. Virgile, I think you’ve inherited your grandfather’s wit.”