Spilt Wine

51. Identification

Friday 9 May 1986

Catherine and I lay in bed relaxing on Friday morning, pleased to have nothing pressing to do. Then leaning up on an elbow with a quizzical look, she asked, "So, do I have this right? You were on the Matterhorn on your way to the Navy. That seems a strange way to get there."

"I've never chosen the beaten path." I gave her a wide grin. "That climb was the first of many I did through July and August. I climbed there around Zermatt, then above Grindelwald, down in the Italian Dolomites, back across to the Chamonix Aiguilles and Mont Blanc. I also spent some time working with Louis. Such a glorious summer."

"And you did all this alone?"

"Much easier that way, no one to worry about, nobody to slow me. I knew going back to school was going to be a grind, a very tough slog. I wanted to have a last great fling, to experience my freedom before being bound. I love my independence."

She reached under the duvet and cupped her hand around me. "It's not always good to be alone. Some things are much better done with another."

Oh, God! I winced at feeling myself expand. Then thinking about what she said last night, I allowed her to continue.

"But, I've interrupted your story. Please carry on. Tell me about your return to school."

I forced myself to refocus, but it was hard. I chuckled to myself. And so is that – but she said she enjoys doing this. "Where was I? Arriving in Victoria on the last day of August, I started school the following week, and a week later I turned twenty-three. There I was still in high school at the age of twenty-three, but it was much better than I had feared. They weren't like the teachers from my bad memories; they were skilled adult-educators, aware their students had experiential education. They knew how to build on our knowledge, and there was much less cramming in.

"It was a five-day schedule of classes, overlaid with Navy routine and discipline, but my weekends were free. I drove up Island most Friday afternoons, into the mountains with my gear, and I climbed.

"I found a small apartment to rent, so I didn't have to live in barracks. I was deeply disappointed with the wine selection on the liquor store shelves. The alcohol distribution was a tightly controlled government monopoly. The only wine from the Côte d'Or was a Village wine from Chambolle-Musigny, bottled by Joseph Drouhin. It was okay, but it lacked the quality I had become accustomed to. I began looking into importing wine from Louis so I would have something decent to drink.

"There were many government hurdles as I tried to find out how to do this. I had to go through an importing agent, but none of them had any interest in all the paperwork involved in bringing in a special order of only six cases. They all said it was too much work for so little money. In frustration, I set up a company and got my own liquor importing licence –"

"You were still the young entrepreneur."

"Often it's necessary to do things on one's own." I shrugged. Often it turns out better – much better. In our communications course in Prep School, we had to prepare and present half-hour demonstrations on topics of interest to us. The first one I did was a slide show on exploring in the mountains. The second one was on the origin of wine quality. My head was still so fresh from all the things I had learned and experienced with Louis – Louis' father.

"I talked about how wine quality begins in the vineyards, explaining how care there can coax the vines to grow finer fruit. I described the careful shepherding of the natural fermentation process and described how the work in the cellar contributes to making great wine. My presentation finished with a demonstration on tasting, explaining the techniques which enable us to best appreciate the quality of the wine. They didn't allow me to use wine, so I used tea.

"The course instructor, a naval officer, was impressed, and he immediately asked me if I would do the presentation at the Wardroom, the Officers' Mess – though this time with wine to taste. I told him I had some bottles of Burgundy left from those I had brought back from Europe. He told me they could charge a small fee to compensate.

"There was a large group, I forget how many now, but during the questions afterwards, I spoke of my importing venture. The interest evolved into the beginning of my wine-importing club and the initiation of my trademark, Taste-Before-You-Buy. We started with sixty-six cases of Louis' wines and –"

"Hold that thought, I've got to pee," she said as she released her grip around me and rolled out of bed, pressing a hand to her – to herself.

She was soon back, looking much more relaxed. "Bladder's still strange, and the thought of all that wine had me almost going." She giggled as she crawled back into bed and reached down to me beneath the duvet.

A long while later, as we were into the third espresso of our late breakfast in the kitchen, Jean-Paul knocked at the door and opened it. He looked quite panicked as he came in, saw us at the table and started talking excitedly. "There are no records of property in the name of Domaine Ducroix on the cadastre. They searched through twice. I pulled out –"

"But that is impossible," Catherine interrupted. "We have a large piece of Clos de Bèze there, aux Combottes, Petite Chapelle, aux Echézeaux, others."

"I had the man look up Clos de Bèze and show me the map. Your rows are listed as belonging to Philippe Grotkopf."

"Bastard! That fucking bastard – pardon my language."

"Don't worry Madame, I speak that one fluently myself. We checked aux Combottes, the same thing."

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuu –"

I interrupted her eloquence with, "The woman you knew in the mairie, what did she look like?"

"About my height, a metre-seventy or so tall, brown hair, can't remember her face, nothing particular, just another woman behind a counter. I would recognise her easily enough, but I can't describe her."

Catherine had dashed to the phone and was dialling Grattien's number while Jean-Paul was finishing. She told the lieutenant, "We've identified the woman."