Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard Read Online Free PDF

his own brand of Bergerac whites, reds and rosés. Then he’d bought a small vineyard near the castle of Monbazillac to produce his version of the sweet and golden dessert wine. Later came the partnership with an English businessman who had bought a run-down château and vineyard outside Bergerac and produced a wine that won prizes at the great fairs in Dijon and Paris. To the right lay the seat of the
cave
’s reputation, row upon row of the finest wines of Bordeaux, year after year afteryear of Latours and Lafites, Cheval Blanc and Angélus, and the famous unbroken run of Château Pétrus. To the left was what was said to be one of the finest selections of malt whiskies outside Scotland and one of the best collections of vintage Armagnacs in France.
    Between these two wings was the heart of the place, six tall plastic cylinders. These gigantic vats, with their gas station–like pumps attached, dispensed wine in bulk. All comers were invited to buy their Bergerac white, red and rosé, their
vin de table
and their sweet white wines for one euro a liter or less, so long as they brought their own plastic containers or bottles and did their own filling. This was where Bruno bought his everyday wine. The air smelled of wine, old and new, freshly spilled and freshly opened, at least some of it breathtakingly costly. Knowing the way to the shelf of Pétrus, Bruno led his small entourage to the altar of this temple to wine, and stopped, looking down mournfully at the smashed bottle on the tiled floor. Out of respect, he removed his hat, and kneeled to see it more closely. The price, carefully written in delicate thin strokes of white paint, was 2,200 euros.
    He peered closely at the largest shard of glass. There was indeed a grease mark, more of a long, smeared thumbprint. He turned and looked at Dupuy’s glistening face.
    “Monsieur, I noticed in the pouch by the driver’s seat of your car a tube of sunscreen, a sensible precaution when driving a convertible, although it can be greasy. How recently did you apply it to your face?”
    As Dupuy shrugged, the door opened and Delaron walked in, his camera around his neck.
    “Monsieur Delaron, how about beginning with a photo of the Porsche outside, and be sure to get the license plate and of course the passenger,” Bruno began. “It may make a story for your paper: the sad death of a bottle of Pétrus ’82. …”
    “I’ll pay for the bottle,” Dupuy said suddenly. “It may have been my fault.” He handed a black credit card to Nathalie. “Let’s forget about the whole thing.”
    “You’re lucky it wasn’t the ’61,” said Nathalie. “That’s 4,100 euros. By the way, Bruno, what’s wrong with your hair?”
    “This is a very generous gesture, monsieur,” said Bruno, ignoring Nathalie but hurriedly replacing his hat on his half-cut hair. “It’s a pity there aren’t more people like you. And I’m sure that, in a spirit of reconciliation, Monsieur de Montignac would like to offer you a small glass.”
    Hubert was already behind the counter pulling a bottle from the cooler. “I was planning on tasting a new shipment of the Krug ’95, if Monsieur Dupuy would care to join me, and mademoiselle, of course.” He tapped the bottom of the bottle to prevent it from bubbling over, and removed the cork with a restrained but festive pop. Jacqueline scurried forward with glasses, and Nathalie stood sternly by the door with the credit-card bill for Dupuy to sign. Max emerged from the vast warehouse at the rear with a mop and a dustpan and began cleaning up. Bruno went outside and invited the bored-looking Mademoiselle d’Alambert to join them for a glass of champagne. She left the car with impressive speed and a flash of thigh, leaving the poodle behind.

5
    His interrupted haircut complete, Bruno took the ancient stairs of the
mairie
up to his office, pondering as he often did how many feet it had taken over the centuries to wear the stone steps into such deep curves.