The Critic Read Online Free PDF

doors into the dying light. The air still carried the warmth of the day, and even outside was saturated with the smell of fermenting wine. The fields around the
chai
were full of ripening corn. Bonneval took them past a disused tennis court, weeds poking up through cracks in the tarmac, and a tall, brick
pigeonnier
built on arches.
    ‘You see these
pigeonniers
everywhere,’ Enzo said. ‘People around here must have liked pigeons.’
    The lord of the manor chuckled. ‘In Gaillac, Monsieur Macleod, in the middle-ages, they used pigeon shit as fertiliser in the vineyards. So most vineyards had at least one
pigeonnier
. Of course, they also ate the birds, and a girl with a dowry of pigeons was considered to be a real catch.’
    They passed a kitchen garden whose season was nearly over, and went through an arched gate into a courtyard bounded by the main
château
on the south side and long, low wings to the east and west. The west wing had been the
chai
, or wine cellar, since the nineteenth century, Bonneval said. The east wing had been the original
chai
, then later provided stabling for the horses. The
château
itself, a patchwork of new and old brick, cement and stone, had seen better days. It was impressive nonetheless, standing foursquare at the end of a long, straight, tree-lined drive, its walled gardens just metres from the banks of the river Tarn. The original house was built on three levels, and then extended on two at either side some time later.
    They went up steps to the main door and into a dark, stone-flagged hall. At the far end of it, tall wooden doors stood ajar, opening into a circular room whose walls were lined with elaborately framed mirrors and paintings. It was a clutter of antique furniture and family heirlooms.
    But Bonneval took them east, down a long corridor lit by north-facing windows. All the doors opened into south-facing rooms. ‘To harvest the summer sun, and protect us from the north wind,’ Bonneval said. ‘Our ancestors knew a thing or two about designing buildings.’
    Enzo became aware now of the smell of good things cooking, and his host opened a door into the family apartment, where they were greeted by a soft, warm light and the gentle, welcoming smile of Jacqueline de Bonneval.
    ***
    Enzo let the smooth velvety liquid fill his mouth, breathing in through his nose, and experiencing the wonderful flavours and aromas of toasted oak, rich red fruit, and spicy pepper. As he let it slip back over his throat, it left a slight acid freshness on his tongue, and long after his mouth was empty, there lingered hints of blackcurrant and liquorice. For several moments he was completely absorbed by it, before looking up to find Laurent de Bonneval watching him with wide-eyed anticipation. ‘Well?’
    Enzo shook his head, trying to find words to describe his feelings about the wine. He swirled the deep, garnet-red liquid in a wide-bottomed glass that tapered up to a narrower lip. And in the end, he gave up. ‘Fabulous,’ was all he could find to say, aware of how inadequate that was.
    Bonneval beamed nonetheless. ‘It’s our
cuvée spéciale
, 2002. Petty liked it, too. A blend of cabernet, braucol, duras, and syrah. Aged in oak, of course. You know, we decant the wine from the barrels from time to time and move it around. Every barrel is different, you see, so it helps with the consistency. And the oxygenation improves the ageing.’ He put a confidential finger to his lips. ‘But don’t tell anyone.’ He grinned and filled Enzo’s glass as his wife served up platters of
confit de canard
and cubed roast potatoes with garlic and
cèpe
mushrooms.
    Jacqueline de Bonneval was not at all what Enzo had been expecting. She was a small, plump lady with an unlined, pretty face. Her hair was the colour of brushed steel, thick and luxuriant, and drawn back in a bushy ponytail at least six inches longer than Enzo’s. It had been hard to put an age on Bonneval. Early fifties, Enzo had thought