1

Benjamin Cooker, bundled in his Loden, left the lab on the Cours du Châpeau Rouge and picked up his pace as he headed to his office on the Allées de Tourny. He stopped only briefly under the Corinthian colonnade of Bordeaux’s Grand Théâtre to take a look at the musical calendars and posters for the coming weeks. For months now he had been promising Elisabeth a nice evening at the opera, and yet he hadn’t found the time for a proper date with his wife. Maybe he’d been putting it off because of the benign malaise he always felt in winter—as if something could go wrong at any moment.

The quiet intimacy of his home, Grangebelle, the logs crackling in the large fireplace, and the aromas emanating from the kitchen were reasons enough to avoid Médoc’s freezing fog and slippery country roads. Especially when the thought of going to see a performance of Carmen for the umpteenth time left him cold. On the other hand, the new Don Giovanni would hit the mark with his wife, a lover of Mozart.

Benjamin could see his lovely Elisabeth in her black silk gown, leaning on an armrest in a ground-floor box of the luxurious theater, which had served as headquarters of the French National Assembly when the Prussians invaded Paris. The building’s monumental dome had inspired Charles Garnier when he designed the Paris Opera House. Doubtless, the wine expert’s latest extravagance—a diamond necklace bought for Elisabeth from a celebrated jeweler on the Place Vendôme—would sparkle brilliantly under the thousand lights of the chandelier.

Benjamin opened the door and headed through the foyer. He purchased two tickets in the best row and slipped them into his inside coat pocket.

A fine rain was falling when Benjamin emerged from the theater. He could hardly make out the majestic silhouette of the nearby Grand Hôtel, which had recently undergone eight years of restoration to its former neoclassic glory. He pulled up his collar and made his way to 46 Allées de Tourny, where he found his assistant in a state of agitation.

“Virgile, how were things in Languedoc? Did you resolve the fermentation issue for our client?”

“Boss, I need your advice. That Dardanelle dude is very stubborn. For two days now, his densitometer readings have been too high, the temperatures are going down, and he refuses to reactivate his vats. I’m running out of arguments.”

“This calls for strong medicine, Virgile. Laffort enzymes—twenty grams per hectoliter.”

“That’s precisely what I’ve been telling him for two full days. At any rate, he does just as he pleases and insists on letting nature run its course. You’re the only one who has any influence with him.”

“If you insist,” Benjamin said, casting a wary eye at the stack of mail awaiting him on his desk. It had been piling up for three days. “Ask Jacqueline to get him on the phone.”

“Oh, one more thing, boss. Can I have the day off tomorrow? I’d like to train for the Bergerac triathlon. It’s a week from Sunday and—”

“In light of your pathetic performance in the Médoc marathon, I can’t begrudge you a bit of preparation, provided, of course, that it’s not an after-dark workout that you have in mind, if you get my drift.”

“Um, no, I can’t say that I do.”

“Go ahead and take the day off, Virgile. Just focus on the competition and not on any new conquests. I don’t want to see your face again until Monday. In Paris, remember?”

Benjamin closed the door to his office to speak to the vintner at the Dardanelle de Saint-Chinian estate. The man hadn’t managed to get nature on his side. Benjamin gave his instructions, suspecting that they’d be ignored, and hung up. He poured a whiskey and lit a Honduran cigar, which was a bit too narrow in its cedar sheath.

Benjamin knew he had to attack the unanswered letters and e-mail, and yet he let himself be distracted by the city sounds outside the window. For some reason it reminded him of his childhood on the banks of the River Thames.

Finally he picked up his letter opener and put it to an envelope marked “personal.” What could it be? The letter was handwritten and signed “a very faithful reader of the Cooker Guide.”

Dear Sir,

As an expert in French wines, you’re familiar with our country’s vineyards, both large and small. That includes, of course, the well-known vineyard in Montmartre. But did you know that Paris has other grapevines?

I am not talking about a few climbing vines or espaliered stocks against the walls of a forgotten garden, but a true plot of them, which chance has made me, if not its owner, at least its representative by proxy.

It so happens, Mr. Cooker, that a few months ago I was appointed to run the Bretonneau Hospital in the eighteenth arrondissement. This old and beautifully restored establishment was once a children’s hospital. In 2001, it became a hospital for the elderly with 205 beds. Our patients, despite their white hair and unsteady gait, have eyes that light up when they toddle like children down the rows of this vineyard, picking the chasselas grapes.

Unfortunately, this minuscule vineyard is now old, like the patients who love it, and each year the harvest grows more uncertain. Our table grapes suffer from lack of proper care, and many of them seem to be rotting on the vine. It is therefore in desperation that I call a vine doctor to our bedside. In all of France, is there a better choice than you?

I do not know if your busy schedule allows you to take a look at what is certainly the smallest vineyard in France (barely one hundred plants) and hopefully prescribe a cure, but your knowledge would be very precious to us. Unfortunately, I do not have the funds in my modest budget to pay your fee. Could I simply call upon your benevolence and skill?

On behalf of all of our patients, I thank you in advance and hope to count you among the healthy visitors to Bretonneau Hospital, whose entrance is on the Rue Joseph de Maistre.

Yours sincerely,

The name in the signature was perfectly legible, but the unusual letter was on plain paper, not stationery from the Paris Hospital system. Benjamin asked Jacqueline to call and verify that the author was, indeed, an employee of the institution.

Benjamin relit his Flor de Copan, which he had abandoned in an ashtray. Then he stood up and walked over to his mahogany bookcase. He slid his finger along the green leather spines of his Quillet encyclopedia and stopped at the letter B. He pulled out the volume, put on his reading glasses, and thumbed through the pages until came to the one he was looking for:

BRETONNEAU, Pierre. French doctor (1778–1862), a pioneer of modern medicine. He identified diphtheria and croup, as well as typhoid fever, and formulated the doctrine of the specificity of infectious diseases. In Tours, his students included: Jules Baillarger, Armand Trousseau, and Alfred-Armand-Louis-Marie Velpeau.

Benjamin was quite familiar with the name “Velpeau.” He had been swaddled in Velpeau bandages after a skiing accident with his father in Megève. He had just turned ten, and it was his first attempt on skis. Benjamin had managed to fracture both wrists in a single morning on the powdery snow in the Alps.

The cigar was glowing nicely again, and Benjamin was immersed in sepia-colored memories of childhood, when his secretary interrupted his daydreaming.

“Mr. Cooker, I have Mrs. Lacaze, the director of Bretonneau Hospital, on the line. She is very eager to talk to you.”

“Jacqueline, you are frighteningly efficient. Put her through, please.”

The conversation was long and pleasant. Benjamin promised Mrs. Lacaze that he would examine the vines before the month was out. And he would diagnose the problem free of charge.

“‘Do not neglect to do good and share what you have,’” Benjamin, quoting Hebrews 13:16, concluded with a smile. “It’s the least I can offer, considering all the good work you’re doing. I’ll be in the capital next week, so I’ll stop by on Monday.”

With that, the wine expert hung up. The Honduran cigar had not forgiven him for this new abandonment. Only a stick of cold ashes remained on the gold-lipped edge of the porcelain ashtray. The wine expert paid it no mind. He was too intrigued by the invitation to visit the tiny vineyard.

He returned to the rest of his correspondence and when he sent the final e-mail, it was twelve-thirty. Jacqueline had slipped away without warning. Benjamin hastened to meet Elisabeth at Le Noailles, the most Parisian of Bordeaux’s brasseries and one of their favorite haunts. He knew he was already late, but it didn’t matter. He would be forgiven as soon as he displayed the two tickets for Don Giovanni.