Cognac Conspiracies Read Free Page A

work in peace.”
    “I promise to be quiet,” the winemaker said.
    “You’re not being paid to be quiet. Leave immediately!”
    “As you wish,” Benjamin answered. “In any case, we’ll run into each other before long.”
    “Get lost! Can I make myself any clearer?”
    Benjamin put his hand on the brass knob and started to open the French door. But it got stuck. The winemaker found the pebble that was blocking his exit and kicked it away.
    “Um, Mr. Lavoisier, your sister told me to ask you for the keys to the wine warehouse, but I was hoping you would accompany me. May I—”
    Pierre was trembling. “You can’t gain entry to our paradise just like that, even if your Cooker name is revered. You can see that I am busy.”
    Benjamin stomped off without closing the door. Pierre didn’t care if the fine-wine expert from Bordeaux heard him swearing behind him. He took the pencil he had stuck behind his right ear like a grocer of days gone by and inscribed a formula on the dark yellow vial he had placed on the lab counter. He smiled with satisfaction as he watched the winemaker’s silhouette disappear under the arbor. He was pleased that he had overcome his shyness and dismissed the man. He found him a bit too cocky.
    A few minutes later, Virgile entered his sacristy. And Pierre was unable to repeat the same act of rebellion.
    § § §
    Pierre’s forehead was glistening, and his hands were shaking so hard, Virgile feared he would drop the vials he was holding. He looked away, as he didn’t want to make the man feel even more uncomfortable.
    In Armagnac a few years earlier, Virgile had learned about distillation and the art of blending, but he had never seen such a display of eau-de-vie lined up like incunabula on the shelves of a monastic library. He noticed a group of vials ranging in color from light amber to dark brown labeled with the year of his birth. He was intrigued.
    “Nineteen eighty-two, right?” Pierre murmured.
    Virgile smiled in agreement.
    “It was a great year for Bordeaux.” Pierre delivered his verdict in a tone that left no room for dispute. “Of course, there were exceptions.”
    “I hope I’m not one of them!” Virgile joked, walking over to the alchemist.
    The man backed away, as if intimidated. A gust of wind slammed a window closed. The branches of a quince tree scraped the glass. In the distance, Virgile could see forsythia blossoms pelting the garden greenhouse.
    “We’re making up for what we didn’t get earlier this spring. Sooner or later, you have to pay,” Pierre said, reaching under the counter. He pulled out a tulip glass and ran it under the copper faucet.
    “You’re tall, young man. Get that vial on the upper shelf. No, not that one. The other one, the fourth from the left. There you go. Thank you very much… Gentleman—that’s it!”
    “I’m sorry. I’m not following,” Virgile responded. “Were you calling me a gentleman?”
    “No, I was referring to your cologne. It’s Gentleman cologne by Givenchy, right? May I call you Virgile?”
    These days, Virgile was about as faithful to his cologne as he was to his lovers. He remembered only the one he last reached for. The Givenchy cologne in his toiletry case had been a gift from Carla, the most recent woman in his life. This Pierre Lavoisier had quite a sense of smell. And to think Benjamin took him for a wet noodle. Virgile, nostrils quivering, edged toward Pierre. The older man began trembling.
    “Vetiver, I’m sure of it!” Virgile pronounced. “But don’t ask me the name of the perfume. I don’t have your talent.”
    “Yes, it is vetiver. You’re absolutely correct,” Pierre concurred. “I use it sparingly. In my profession any ostentatious fragrance is forbidden.”
    Virgile noted Pierre’s flattering tone and was tempted to continue complimenting this stranger, who was actually more sociable than he had thought. Still, he did not want the younger Lavoisier brother to interpret anything he said