3

On the smooth surface of the Lauch River, a small flat-bottom boat was gliding past the timber-frame houses and cafés without creating so much as a ripple. The boatman, a teenager with curly blond hair and a tanned face, was cheerfully reeling off a historical commentary whose accuracy was questionable. He smiled often at the tourists aboard the old tub, hoping to curry their favor and especially their generosity. He was telling them about the market gardeners who once used the river to transport fruits and vegetables to the thriving market of Colmar.

With a Cuban cigar between his lips, Benjamin Cooker leaned from his high window above a geranium-filled flower box to listen to the young man steering the boat. The view from this hotel vantage point was as grand as a glorious Venetian palazzo.

“At the time, the waterways were safer and faster than the dirt roads, which were overrun with robbers and subject to tolls,” Benjamin heard the boatman say. “That’s why farmers used the river.”

The winemaker imagined the boy as a gondolier with belted pants and a loose shirt, a lean chest, and a cheeky smile. Then he pictured himself gliding along the river, with Elisabeth nestled at his side. His wife often teased him about his romantic bent.

“Benjamin, there’s only one person who knows the truth about our marriage: our daughter. Margaux would tell you in a minute that you’re the romantic, and I’m the pragmatist,” Elisabeth had told him once.

Benjamin had asked Alexandre Bomo, the owner of the Hostellerie Le Maréchal hotel, for the room with the large four-poster bed, “the one on the top floor with the impeccable bedding and extremely soft comforter”—the one whose window opened onto the calm waters of the Lauch.

Benjamin was a frequent visitor here. At every tasting of Alsatian vintages, he would arrive with corkscrews and luggage, settling in on the top floor of Le Maréchal and using the table at the Échevin restaurant as his work desk. The small fried perch was always crusty, the baked foie gras was wonderfully creamy, and the squab was so tender, Benjamin would almost forget to put his fork to the delicate mushroom tart accompanying the dish.

The gondolier and his half-dozen tourists had disappeared under the arch of a bridge. A burst of children’s laughter ricocheted off the river. Benjamin closed his eyes and let the cool evening breeze stroke his cheeks. When he opened them again, the residents of the nearby timber-frame houses were turning on their lights. The winemaker soon began to take in the aromas of soups and pastries wafting from the windows. He fully immersed himself in the moment, when he could vicariously experience the daily rituals of the people who lived here.

His Montecristo was developing notes of leather and, more strangely, wool. The winemaker watched the gray plumes of smoke as he thought about Jeanne and pictured her again in the cathedral. There was something profoundly unfair about her sudden death. He could still see her glasses, trampled by the crowd, her big bright eyes, her barely loosened chignon, her necklace holding a ring, which he had mistaken for her deceased husband’s wedding ring. But Jeanne had never married. At least that’s what Father Sebastian, deacon of the Strasbourg Cathedral, had said when he closed her eyes a final time.

“A saint,” he had whispered, making the sign of the cross.

Benjamin couldn’t get his mind off the woman’s death. When he banished Jeanne’s image from his brain, the Grim Reaper, banging the femur against the clock of human time, replaced it.

The winemaker threw his unfinished cigar into the river and closed the window. He was shivering. A few seconds later, he felt feverish and drained of all energy. He stretched out on his bed and picked up the house phone to call Virgile’s room.

“I’m afraid you’re on your own tonight,” he told his assistant. “I’m planning to turn in early. Enjoy yourself—but don’t overdo it.”

Benjamin ordered room service: chicken broth and Wattwiller—mineral water from the Haut-Rhin.

The proprietor of Le Maréchal was on the phone to him in a matter of minutes.

“Mr. Cooker, you’re eating in tonight? Are you all right? Is there anything we can do for you?”

“Thank you, but there’s nothing that a light meal and a good night’s rest won’t cure,” Benjamin answered. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

But despite his best intentions, Benjamin didn’t turn out his bedside lamp until three in the morning. The Confessions of Saint Augustine finally put an end to his insomnia, and he didn’t hear his assistant tiptoe past his room after spending the better part of the night at the Mango, a Colmar club that was open until dawn.

When he awoke, Benjamin felt energized and ready to start the day. But at the appointed hour in the breakfast room, Virgile was conspicuously absent. The winemaker found a young hotel employee whose sagging posture and drooping eyelids suggested that he had spent the night carousing instead of sleeping. Benjamin asked him to go knock on Virgile’s door. Three minutes later, the young man returned and gave himself away.

“Sir, Mr. Lanssien is in the shower. We—I mean he—didn’t get in until late last night. He wanted me to tell you that he’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Are you sure he said ‘a few minutes’?” Benjamin asked.

“Um… Well…”

“What I’d really like to know is where you two went slumming last night.”

“The Mango, sir.”

“I hear it’s an excellent place,” Benjamin said, stirring his tea. “The girls who go there are said to be very pretty.” Then he added, “Young man, might I have a drop of milk in my tea, please? By the way, what is your name?”

“Théodoric, sir. It’s not a common name. Everyone here calls me Théo.”

“That’s too bad. Théodoric is much more charming.”

Benjamin repeated the boy’s name, trying to get used to the sound of it.

“Ah, Théodoric, I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but tell me about the gorgeous brunette Virgile spent the evening with at your club Mango.”

“How did you know?”

“Never mind. I just know,” Benjamin said, picking up the morning paper and turning to the business section, where he found an article on the wealthy and well-known owner of a Sauternes estate. He had fallen victim to a hostile takeover bid led by his senior partner. Benjamin was acquainted with both men, but they weren’t among his close friends.

Benjamin read the whole article, which was quite long. He was surprised to see that the reporter wasn’t as well informed as many of his associates in Bordeaux. Anyone who had spent a lifetime in the winemaking business knew that much could be hidden at the bottom of the glass. One had to drink to the dregs. Hugues de Jeanville, the esteemed owner of the Sauternes estate, had not spoken his last. His partner was a hopeless alcoholic and would never succeed in a takeover bid. Time was on Jeanville’s side.

When Virgile finally arrived, looking nonchalant with a navy-blue sweater draped over his large shoulders, Benjamin refrained from scolding him. He simply told his assistant to drink his black coffee and eat his two croissants as quickly as possible, because they were expected for an important tasting in less than an hour at Materne Haegelin’s estate in Orschwihr. Benjamin wasn’t sure this important figure in Alsatian winemaking would be present, but at least two of his three daughters would be there.

In past tastings, when Materne was present, he would invariably wait for Benjamin to finish scribbling in his notebook, put his pen away, and look up to say good-bye. Then, with a touch of modesty, Materne would say, “You know, Mr. Cooker, when you treat your wine with loving care, the wine takes care of you.” Benjamin would respond, “Materne, what you have here isn’t a wine cellar. It’s a field hospital. God knows you nurture your wines.” Over the twenty years they had worked together, the exchange had become a ritual.

Benjamin and the Orschwihr winemaker respected and admired each other. Haegelin’s daughters had inherited their father’s savoir-faire and ingenuity and had learned the business from the ground up. Benjamin always showed his loyalty to the family by kissing the daughters on both cheeks when he greeted them. For the usually reserved Benjamin Cooker, this was a rare show of familiarity and fondness.

“Shit!” Benjamin threw up his arms at the sight of his back tires. Both had been slashed, an infuriatingly malicious act.

“And shit, shit again!” Virgile chimed in. “Boss, someone around here doesn’t like you.”

The winemaker studied the other cars in the small square across from Le Maréchal. None of them had been vandalized. Benjamin was unable to contain his anger.

“Don’t take me for an idiot, Virgile! I know perfectly well where you were last night. I’m used to your escapades, and I also know that you borrowed my convertible to get to that club, where you apparently drew some negative attention.”

Virgile, looking stunned, didn’t say anything.

“Along with Théo, your partner in crime, you set your sights on some girls and, as you often do, stirred up some jealousies. This is the reason for all our problems. Look no further.”

“But I swear,” the dazed assistant tried to explain.

“Please, Virgile. Spare me your apologies and lame excuses. There’s a limit to my patience!”

“Geez, boss, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t take the Mercedes to the Mango. The club’s right around the corner. Check it out yourself. The car’s parked right where you left it yesterday.”

“That doesn’t prove anything. You could have parked it in the same spot where I left it,” Benjamin responded angrily.

“Boss, why would I lie to you? I’d hope you’d know by now that I’m not in the habit of doing that.”

“Two tires, Virgile! We’re expected at the Materne Haegelin estate. I don’t have time for this.”

“Let’s go find Mr. Bomo and see if there’s a Mercedes dealer around here. That would help,” Virgile suggested.

Benjamin Cooker continued grumbling about his assistant’s “thoughtless behavior” until he thrust his fists into the pockets of his Loden and felt his keychain. He held up the keys.

“I’m sorry, Virgile. I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

Virgile was finally vindicated, and his brazen smile made Benjamin feel even more sheepish. He tried to apologize again, but Virgile was already negotiating with the hotel owner for a car they could drive to the Haegelin estate.

When the hotelier advised Benjamin to file a complaint at the Colmar police station, he just shrugged.

“The cost of replacing those two tires won’t be high enough to turn in a claim on my insurance. And I’m sure the police won’t be terribly interested in tracking down the hooligans who did this.”

“We live in a far too-permissive society,” the hotelier said, sighing. “Don’t give it another thought, Mr. Cooker. I’ll take care of the tires, and then I’ll keep your 280 SL convertible in my own garage. It’s close by. Meanwhile, here are the keys to my Toyota. It can handle the steep vineyards of Alsace. Have a good tasting.”

On the Rue des Bateliers, the chestnut trees had lost their last brown leaves. The mild breeze coming through the window of the borrowed four-wheel-drive vehicle was like a balm on Benjamin’s face, which was still flushed. Virgile was curled up in the passenger seat. He was yawning, and his eyelids looked droopy from lack of sleep, but he was whistling “Habanera” from Carmen in an obvious attempt to stay awake.

“Please, Virgile, it’s too early, and you’re ruining a beautiful aria. Just go ahead and take a nap.”

“What bad luck you’ve had, Mr. Cooker. I hope you’re not thinking your whole trip is jinxed,” the oldest Haegelin daughter said when she heard about the winemaker’s car problems. “We’ll have to begin your tasting with the Bollenberg.”

“And why is that?” Virgile asked as he studied the golden color of the riesling the Haegelin daughter had just poured for him.

“The Grand Ballon, which is also called the Ballon de Guebwiller, is the apex of the Vosges Mountains. The best wines in Alsace are made on its rounded slopes. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cooker? But some people believe the Bollenberg attracts witches.”

The young winemaker lowered her voice and continued. “Each summer, on the night between August fourteenth and August fifteenth, pilgrims from all over the region congregate near the chapel at Bollenberg. They light a bonfire and burn an effigy of a witch to banish the evil spirits. Some people say it’s an effigy of the devil. I’ve never seen it myself. Anyway, this year—”

“This year what?” Virgile asked before the storyteller could finish.

“This year it was pouring so hard, it was impossible to set a fire. The rain was coming down in buckets. You couldn’t even strike a match.”

“And so?”

“People around here aren’t as superstitious these days as they used to be, but the witches bonfire still has meaning. It seems that in the years when there’s no bonfire, something bad always happens. We might have a bad harvest, or even worse.”

“Meaning?” Benjamin asked.

“A big disaster—an epidemic, for example. In 1862, the year before the onset of the great phylloxera blight, they weren’t able to burn the effigy because it was raining too hard.”

While Virgile hung onto the pretty young woman’s every word, Benjamin busied himself with scribbling down the aromas he was picking up in the Haegelin riesling. When he done, he began telling his assistant about the Bollenberg.

“Did you know, Virgile, that the most beautiful flora and fauna in Alsace grow on the slopes of the Bollenberg? More than one hundred and fifty plants have been identified. It’s actually a protected area. There are wild tulips, clematis, anemones, orchids, thistles, and more. It’s also known for its birds and other wildlife: the buntin, the linnet, and the lark, as well as many insects and reptiles.”

Benjamin repressed a sigh when he saw that Virgile was only half-listening to him. He watched as his assistant took a sip of his riesling.

“I have to say the acidity is quite to my liking,” Virgile said, smiling at Régine Haegelin and taking another sip. She was holding the long-necked green bottle, ready to pour more if they asked.

Benjamin agreed with Virgile as he chewed his wine. Finally, he delivered the verdict.

“This is a gift from heaven!” he said, emptying the rest of his glass into the spittoon. “Trust me. No witch has touched what I just tasted.”

Régine Haegelin handed him a glass of Lippelsberg.

“I hope you’re right,” she said. “I don’t consider myself a superstitious person, but sometimes I feel like knocking on wood, just the same.”

“Yes, boss, you can’t deny that there’s evil in the world. And it can have a human face. Look at Ammerschwihr, at the Ginsmeyers’ vineyard: someone destroyed a decade of work in a single night. You can’t tell me that this wasn’t an evil act.”

“Your assistant is right, Mr. Cooker. Whether it’s devil’s play or God’s will, once the damage is done, it’s done. Okay, in the case of the Ginsmeyers, you don’t feel exactly sorry for them. They’re stinking rich. They have beautiful vineyards and a fantastic terroir, and the two sons married well with those Keller twins, who have the most profitable winstubs in Riquewihr. The daughter married someone with money too. It’s not surprising that they would provoke envy.”

“‘The spirit of envy can destroy. It can never build.’”

“Who said that, boss?”

“Margaret Thatcher, son. So true in Alsace, as it is in the rest of the world. But let’s taste this wine, Virgile. Something tells me it could be the envy of many a winemaker.”

Benjamin picked up the glass and gave it a close inspection. The riesling’s yellow transparency slowly gave way to infinite emerald reflections. Musky aromas wafted to his nose.

Virgile also picked up his glass, looking like a jeweler appraising a precious stone. Then he plunged his nose into the glass, a part of the process he frequently rushed right past. He was always in a hurry to taste the wine.

“Damn!”

“Virgile! Your language!”

“But, boss, all these aromas take my breath away.”

Benjamin said no more and silently watched his assistant taste the Lippelsberg, rolling its freshness and perfectly balanced acidity over his reliable palate.

“Ah, it puts on such a good show,” Virgile said when he finished. “Notes of citrus, tropical fruits, lime, grapefruit… Hats off. Truly.”

At that exact moment, Materne Haegelin entered the tasting room. It was as if he had been listening at the door. Benjamin gave Virgile a knowing wink, and Virgile emptied his glass in one swallow. But instead of looking pleased with the praise heaped on his wine, the family patriarch was wearing a somber expression.

Régine Haegelin went to her father, who reached for her hand and nervously pressed it to his chest. His own hand was shaking. Benjamin thought of Jeanne, struck down by a heart attack the previous day.

Then the Alsace winemaker straightened his shoulders and walked over to Benjamin, giving him a firm handshake and a pat on the back that spoke volumes about the admiration the two men had for each other.

“Benjamin, I’m delighted to see you. Forgive me for being so downcast. I just found out that someone cut down sixty more vine stocks with a chainsaw. It happened last night in Ribeauvillé. Who would do such a thing, and why?”

“Whose vineyard?” Régine asked.

“The Deutzlers’. No one saw or heard anything.”

“Materne, do you think there could be a connection with what happened in Ammerschwihr?” Benjamin asked.

“It’s hard to say. The families aren’t related. But if that’s the case, the idiot sure can get around. Then again, it could be a copycat.”

“Let’s pray that tomorrow it isn’t our turn,” said Louise Haegelin, the youngest daughter.

“God help us. I hope not,” Materne said. “Régine, would you pour me a glass of our local cognac? It’s the medicine I need at the moment.”

“Cognac in Alsace?” Virgile said. “I didn’t know.”

“Yes, it’s a witch’s brew, you young innocent.” Benjamin made a diabolical face and then winked at his assistant. “It’s actually pinot noir brandy, finely distilled the way you would distill plums or potatoes. It’s nothing like the eau-de-vie from Jarnac.”

“Call it poor man’s cognac,” Materne said, drinking the whole glass in a few gulps. “It hits the spot.” His pale face began to take on some color, and he smiled at the winemaker. “So, Sir Cooker, where were you? I don’t see you drinking anything.”

“As a matter of fact, we were finishing the rieslings.”

“It’s time to get to the Gewürz. Let’s start with the best one: the Pfingstberg. What do you say?”

“A work of art. This is an important moment, Virgile,” Benjamin announced in anticipation. “This wine is really a cut above, young man!”

Seeing the dark look on Louise’s face and Virgile’s disapproving expression, the winemaker said, “Um, I’m not sure that’s the best term to use under the circumstances.”

Materne Haegelin concurred. “You can say that again.”