Peter May - The Critic

For a moment, Nicole forgot her distress, startled by his intensity, impressed by his eloquence.

‘Petty’s been replaced by Parker, but nothing’s changed. Winemakers talk now about “Parkerizing” their wines. Making it to suit his tastes, trying to win his favour, pitching for one of his high ratings. Instead of following their own instincts, making wines that come from the heart and the soul. The critics are even telling us how to make our wines these days. Filter, don’t filter. Micro-oxygenate. The wealthy chateaux are all employing consultants at hugely inflated fees just to make wines that’ll please Parker, and Petty before him. Which leaves the rest of us, who don’t have that kind of money, fighting for crumbs at the critics’ table.’

‘But if you make a good wine, surely people will recognise that?’

‘What’s a good wine? A wine that Parker likes? Does that mean one he doesn’t like is a bad wine? Of course not. But these people don’t want wines to be different. They want them to be all the same.’ He was on a roll now, and Nicole was being carried along with it. ‘You understand what we mean by terroir?’

‘It’s an area, a region.’

‘In winemaking, terroir refers to the vineyard, and how all the specific qualities of the land affect and change the wine. The type of soil, whether the vineyard is elevated or flat, whether or not it is south-facing. What weather systems affect it, even the micro-climates that exist between one part of the vineyard and another.’ Fabien shook his head. ‘But there are people who refuse to accept the concept of terroir. They want to believe that they can make wines in California, or Chile, or Australia, that they taste just the same as wines grown in Bordeaux, or Burgundy, or the Rhone Valley. Terroir doesn’t exist, they say. Because to admit that it does means they will never makes wines like the French. Which is what they all aspire to.’

‘Don’t you want to make wines that taste like Bordeaux?’

‘Of course not. How can I do that? The soil is different here, the climate is different. We grow different grapes. I want to make good Gaillac wines.’

‘But you also want people to know they exist.’

‘Of course.’

‘So people like Petty and Parker are important.’

Fabien just shook his head. ‘Petty came here. But I wouldn’t let him taste my wine.’

Nicole was astonished, her tears forgotten. ‘Why not?’

It was a long time before Fabien answered her. And when he did, it was in a very small voice for such a big man. ‘I was scared.’

‘What of?’

‘That I would get bad ratings.’ He turned to meet her gaze of consternation. ‘I took over the vineyard eight years ago, when my father died. He was very traditional. Made the same wine his father had made before him. In the same chai, in the same old concrete cuves. But there was a whole new generation of young winemakers at work in Gaillac, and I knew that to compete I would have to change things. Modernise, employ new techniques. So I borrowed. A huge amount of money, Nicole. I’d be scared to tell you how much. I mortgaged everything. The house, the farm. I built a new chai, installed stainless steel cuves, all the latest equipment. I went to Bordeaux and Burgundy, to California and Australia, just to see how other people were doing it.’ His eyes fell away to gaze at the floor. ‘Petty was the first international critic to come and rate Gaillac wines. If he marked down the wines of La Croix Blanche, I’d never have been able to sell them. I’d have been ruined. Lost everything to the bank.’ He glanced at her. ‘How could I ever have faced my father in the next life?’

Nicole had no idea what to say. She became aware that his arm was still around her, and the warmth of his body had taken away her chill. Her tears had dried up, and her breathing had returned to normal, although her heart, perhaps, was beating a little faster. Gently, almost imperceptibly, she leaned into him, soaking up the comfort that he had intended his arm to give. She shook her hair out of her face and turned towards him. He turned, too, and his face seemed very close to hers. She could feel his breath on her forehead. Instinctively she tipped her head back as he dipped his towards her. And the bedroom door opened.

They were startled apart, the moment between them scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind. The formidable Madame Marre stood in the doorway. She did not fill it, as her son had done, but her presence was much more forbidding. She wore an old-fashioned nightcap over hair in curlers and pulled her flannelette dressing gown tightly around her bony frame. ‘Time you were back in bed, Fabien. You’re up at six.’ It was an instruction, not an observation. Fabien stood up immediately. She was not a woman to be argued with.

Back in bed, curled up among the sheets, with the light out, Nicole wondered if they had really been going to kiss, or if it had been a figment of her imagination. She felt a tiny thrill of excitement run through her at the thought-and knew-that had he kissed her, she would have kissed him right back.

It had been a long night. And now Enzo needed coffee to keep him awake. He stood on the terrasse gazing out at the early morning shadows reaching towards him through the mist. The pigeonnier was wraithlike through its gauze, the sun a big, red orb rising above the line of the trees. But there was no warmth in it yet, no strength to burn off the tiny particles of moisture that filled the air and reflected its light.

Across the path, the chateau rose out of the brume, as if out of some timeless mediaeval mist, the east turret lifting above it to catch the light, white stone glowing pink.

The smell of the coffee reached him on the warm air from the house, and he turned back through the open door to watch Charlotte nursing the coffee maker. She wore a black, silk dressing gown embroidered with vividly coloured Chinese dragons. Her feet were bare, and he could see the curve of her calf narrowing to the ankle, and he had a brief recollection of the fragments of a dream. ‘Don’t go today,’ he said.

She made no attempt to turn around. ‘Okay.’ No argument, no rancour, and he felt a surge of pleasure in that single, simple word. She filled two cups and carried them to the table, setting them down beside the sugar bowl and a couple of spoons. ‘Come and get your coffee.’ She dropped two lumps into his cup, knowing he preferred it sweet in the mornings. And he liked that she knew that. He sat down opposite her and took a sip.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘the Chinese police look for everything else first. The who, the where, the when, and the how. Never the why. They believe that if you have accumulated enough evidence, the motive will become apparent.’ He sipped again at the strong, sweet, black coffee. ‘But it’s always the first question we ask. And it’s the question that’s been nagging at me all night. Not just why he did it, but why he went to such lengths to show us. To display his handiwork.’

Charlotte cradled her cup in her hands, as if to warm them, and contemplated the steam rising from it. ‘I think the Chinese are not without reason, Enzo. You need information to be able to answer the “why” question. Evidence. Although, by the same token, seeing a motive can help you look for that evidence in the right places.’ She paused. ‘But you’re asking two questions. Two “whys”. And they’re probably related.’

‘In what way?’

She took a first mouthful of coffee and closed her eyes. ‘If we take your second “why” first, and ask why he would want to display his handiwork, then I’d say he was probably showing off. He’s saying, “Look, I’ve committed two perfect murders, and you didn’t even know.” He wants us to know how clever he’s been.’ Another mouthful of coffee, and she opened her eyes and smiled.