Late Harvest Havoc Read Free Page B

reeling off a historical commentary whose accuracy was questionable. He smiled often at the tourists aboard the old tub, hoping to curry their favor and especially their generosity. He was telling them about the market gardeners who once used the river to transport fruits and vegetables to the thriving market of Colmar.
    With a Cuban cigar between his lips, Benjamin Cooker leaned from his high window above a geranium-filled flower box to listen to the young man steering the boat. The view from this hotel vantage point was as grand as a glorious Venetian palazzo.
    â€œAt the time, the waterways were safer and faster than the dirt roads, which were overrun with robbers and subject to tolls,” Benjamin heard the boatman say. “That’s why farmers used the river.”
    The winemaker imagined the boy as a gondolier with belted pants and a loose shirt, a lean chest, and a cheeky smile. Then he pictured himself gliding along the river, with Elisabeth nestled at his side. His wife often teased him about his romantic bent.
    â€œBenjamin, there’s only one person who knows the truth about our marriage: our daughter. Margaux would tell you in a minute that you’re the romantic, and I’m the pragmatist,” Elisabeth had told him once.
    Benjamin had asked Alexandre Bomo, the owner of the Hostellerie Le Maréchal hotel, for the room with the large four-poster bed, “the one on the top floor with the impeccable bedding and extremely soft comforter”—the one whose window opened onto the calm waters of the Lauch.
    Benjamin was a frequent visitor here. At every tasting of Alsatian vintages, he would arrive with corkscrews and luggage, settling in on the top floor of Le Maréchal and using the table at the Échevin restaurant as his work desk. The small fried perch was always crusty, the baked foie gras was wonderfully creamy, and the squab was so tender, Benjamin would almost forget to put his fork to the delicate mushroom tart accompanying the dish.
    The gondolier and his half-dozen tourists had disappeared under the arch of a bridge. A burst of children’s laughter ricocheted off the river. Benjamin closed his eyes and let the cool evening breeze stroke his cheeks. When he opened them again, the residents of the nearby timber-frame houses were turning on their lights. The winemaker soon began to take in the aromas of soups and pastries wafting from the windows. He fully immersed himself in the moment, when he could vicariously experience the daily rituals of the people who lived here.
    His Montecristo was developing notes of leather and, more strangely, wool. The winemaker watched the gray plumes of smoke as he thought about Jeanne and pictured her again in the cathedral. There was something profoundly unfair about her sudden death. He could still see her glasses, trampled by the crowd, her big bright eyes, her barely loosened chignon, her necklace holding a ring, which he had mistaken for her deceased husband’s wedding ring. But Jeanne had never married. At least that’s what Father Sebastian, deacon of the Strasbourg Cathedral, had said when he closed her eyes a final time.
    â€œA saint,” he had whispered, making the sign of the cross.
    Benjamin couldn’t get his mind off the woman’s death. When he banished Jeanne’s image from his brain, the Grim Reaper, banging the femur against the clock of human time, replaced it.
    The winemaker threw his unfinished cigar into the river and closed the window. He was shivering. A few seconds later, he felt feverish and drained of all energy. He stretched out on his bed and picked up the house phone to call Virgile’s room.
    â€œI’m afraid you’re on your own tonight,” he told his assistant. “I’m planning to turn in early. Enjoy yourself—but don’t overdo it.”
    Benjamin ordered room service: chicken broth and Wattwiller—mineral water from the Haut-Rhin.
    The proprietor of Le