Peter Mayle - A Good Year

“Most kind, most kind.” Charlie nodded his thanks with a faint smile, and followed Fitzgerald down the corridor to the tasting room. The sound of a Bach fugue came softly from concealed speakers. Bottles, glasses, and silver candlesticks were arranged along the gleaming length of the mahogany table, a burnished copper crachoir at one end next to a tasteful arrangement of white linen napkins laid out in the form of a fan. It was the church of Bacchus, a shrine to wine. Charlie half-expected a priest to pop out of the woodwork and give his blessing to the proceedings.

Fitzgerald took a slim crocodile case from his pocket, and passed Charlie a business card. He waited, clearly expecting a card in return.

Charlie had anticipated just such a moment. He aimed the two black barrels of his sunglasses at the other man, shaking his head slowly. “My client sometimes carries discretion to the point of secrecy, Mr. Fitzgerald. He prefers that I don’t advertise myself, and so I don’t carry business cards. I’m sure you understand.”

“Indeed,” said Fitzgerald. “Forgive me. And now, if you feel ready…” He extended an immaculate tweed-clad arm toward the table, inclining his head as he did so.

Charlie had an awful twinge of doubt. If this was a scam, it was a beautifully presented scam, and Fitzgerald-every aristocratic inch of him-appeared to be the genuine Bordeaux article. It was hard to imagine that he was a crook. And then Charlie had a mental image of some of his acquaintances in the top end of the London property business: charming, well educated, well tailored, glib-and more than capable of evicting their grandmothers in order to make a sale; villains to a man. Encouraged by this thought, he removed his sunglasses with a flourish and advanced toward the table as the fugue reached its plaintive conclusion and the room fell silent.

“If I may make a suggestion,” said Fitzgerald, “we might start with the ’99 before going on to the 2000-which I have to say is my personal favorite.” He poured wine into two glasses, and passed one to Charlie.

Hours of practice-at his wine-tasting course, and during a final rehearsal the previous evening, in front of the bathroom mirror-had prepared Charlie for the all-important niceties of this all-important ritual. Holding the glass by its base, between fingers and thumb, he presented it to the light of the candle’s flame, his eyes narrowed in what he hoped looked like knowledgeable concentration.

“As you see,” said Fitzgerald, “the robe is particularly fine, somewhere between…”

Charlie held up a hand. “Please. I need complete silence.” He began to swirl the wine with a gentle circular motion of the glass, his head tilted to one side. And then, judging the bouquet to be sufficiently developed, he buried his nose in the glass, with graceful little waves of his free hand-a rather pretentious refinement he’d picked up in his course-to direct the fragrant air toward his cocked and waiting nostrils. He inhaled, looked up to commune with the ceiling, bent his head to inhale again, and issued a quiet hum of approval.

Raising the glass to his lips, he took some wine and held it in his mouth for several seconds before going through what he always thought of as the sound effects: he sucked in air; his cheeks went in and out like bellows; he chewed; he swilled; and, finally, he spat. In the silence of the room, the sound of wine hitting the copper bottom of the crachoir seemed unnaturally loud, almost shocking.

Fitzgerald waited, his eyebrows raised like two question marks.

“Excellent, quite excellent,” said Charlie. He decided to risk a compliment. “I am reminded of Petrus, but a more muscular Petrus. And yet you say you prefer the 2000?”

The half smile on Fitzgerald’s face grew broader. “You are kind enough to flatter me. But with the 2000, I think you will be surprised, even étonné. Permit me.” He took Charlie’s glass, and replaced it with another, this one containing wine from the 2000 vintage. Once again, Charlie went slowly and deliberately through the tasting ritual while Fitzgerald watched like a cat that was one short jump away from the mouse.

Again the echoing splash of liquid on copper. “Remarkable,” said Charlie, dabbing his lips with a linen napkin. “My congratulations, Mr. Fitzgerald. This is a Bordeaux unlike any others I have ever tasted. A triumph.”

Fitzgerald allowed himself a modest shrug. “We do the best we can,” he said. “Organic fertilizer, of course, and the grapes are picked by hand avec tri -as you know, that’s to guarantee the état sanitaire. ”

What the hell was that? Charlie nodded wisely. “Good, good.”

“And the vinification is always avec pigeage, as we say. Just as my grandfather used to do. Sometimes, the old ways are the best.”

What the hell was pigeage ? Nobody had told him about that in the wine course. It sounded complicated and vaguely unhygienic. “One can always tell,” said Charlie. “God is in the details”-he inclined his head to Fitzgerald-“as we say. Now then. Perhaps we could move on to the more squalid financial details; for the 2000, I think. You’re quite right. It has just that little more complexity, a longer finish, more-how shall I put it?-gravitas. And I’m sure such excellence has its price.”

Fitzgerald, with only the faintest shrug of apology, said: “One hundred thousand dollars a case.” He smiled. “That would include delivery to anywhere in the world.”

Charlie recovered sufficiently to wave aside such a minor matter. “As far as delivery goes, I’m sure the Sultan would want to send one of his planes. He considers the security in commercial airlines far too lax for valuable shipments.” He consulted the ceiling again, deep in thought, before speaking. This time, his tone was brisk and businesslike. “Very well. I intend to recommend that my client take a position with this wine. Let me see now. Would ten cases be possible?”

“You would be stripping our cellar, Mr. Willis.” Fitzgerald did his best to appear reluctant, a man loath to part with his treasures. “But yes, we can just manage ten cases.”

“Splendid.” Charlie looked at his watch. “The time difference is nine hours, which is a little inconvenient, I’m afraid. I won’t be able to place the call until quite late tonight. However, I can use the rest of the afternoon to arrange a bank draft. Credit Suisse is acceptable, I would imagine?”

Indeed it was. Fitzgerald’s thoughts were already turning to the silver Lamborghini he had coveted for many years.

“Shall we meet here again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning?” said Charlie. Putting on his sunglasses, he stopped on his way to the door. “Oh, there is one small service you could do for me.”

By this point, Fitzgerald would happily have stood on his head stark naked and whistled the “Marseillaise” if that had been required. “If it is in my power, I should be delighted.”

“Do you think I might take that opened bottle of the 2000 with me? I’d like to have the taste fresh in my mouth when I make the call tonight. It would give an extra je ne sais qui to my recommendation.”

“Quoi,” said Fitzgerald, unable to resist correcting the foreigner adrift in his language. “By all means. Let me find you a cork.”

Closing the front door behind Charlie, Fitzgerald went back to the tasting room, poured himself a glass of wine, and sat down to better enjoy the prospect of tomorrow’s million-dollar check. Maybe he should start thinking about a bigger apartment in New York, and a bigger boat in the Bahamas. He took a sip of wine. It really was very good; almost as good as he said it was.

Charlie collapsed in the first bar he came to and ordered a large brandy, high and lightheaded with elation. Even though he’d been acting the part, he had the giddy feeling that he had indeed just committed a million dollars of someone else’s money to buy one hundred and twenty bottles of wine. Superb wine, without any question; but was it Roussel’s wine? He gazed at the bottle Fitzgerald had given to him, worked out its approximate price, and marveled that anyone would pay so much for it. The emperor’s new clothes came to mind again.