Nightmare in Burgundy Read Free

smile, as did the article’s headline: “Winemaker Cooker gets toast, is spared roast at multicourse Vougeot fête.”
    The couple—farmers, Cooker presumed—watched him without uttering a word. The chatter at the bar grew livelier. “They’re real bastards from the city pulling that shit.” Gray coils of cigarette smoke floated upward in the harsh ceiling light.
    “Worse than dogs lifting their legs!”
    “What do you mean, René?”
    From his vantage point, Cooker could see a fine foam moustache under the nose of one of the beer drinkers.
    “They write their crap like they piss against a wall!”
    “Ah, I get it now.”
    The café owner turned on the radio. It was a nostalgic channel that seemed to crackle from beyond the grave. A duo from the seventies chirped with optimism in the sputtering of the radio.
    “It’s taking the cops long enough to get here, as if they had anything else to do.”
    Then they took out a game of dice and a green felt cloth.
    “All the same, if I catch those little shits—”
    Everyone counted their tokens without paying attention to the refrain, in which “Venice” rhymed with “Paris.” The barely snuffed-out cigarette butts continued to smolder in the ashtrays.
    “The cops?”
    “Hell no. The little shits who wrote all this trash—we’re gonna smash their faces in, believe me!”
    Cooker turned to the couple and said, “Excuse me for interrupting. Did that happen last night?”
    “The scribblings?” grumbled the old woman. “We saw them this morning. Definitely weren’t there yesterday, were they, Emile?”
    “Can you tell me where Vougeot’s priest lives?”
    “There ain’t no priest in Vougeot and no church, neither.”
    “As a matter of fact, now that you mention it, I can’t remember seeing a bell tower,” Cooker said, pursing his lips. “I hadn’t even paid attention.”
    The woman rubbed her triple chin and looked at him intently. “In Vougeot, you don’t get married, and you don’t die.”
    “That seems rather reasonable to me,” Cooker smiled as he stood up. He left two euros on the table, nodded politely, and took his leave.
    He walked back up the main street toward the river. Slabs of frozen snow edged the road. On the parapet of the bridge that spanned the Vouge, the same black writing ran across the cement.
    Non abscondas faciem tuam a me;
in quacunque die tribulor
    Cooker took out his fountain pen and jotted down the phrase before translating it.
    Do not turn your face from me
In my day of trouble.
    He continued walking to the small locks that constricted the river, abruptly transforming it into a narrow channel. He stopped for a moment to look at the walls on the water’s edge, which were covered with thick patches of moss. Then he turned around to go to the grocery store. He bought the paper, a box of cashews, and a postcard. It was only upon leaving the store that he noticed the graffiti running the length of a low wall near the ancient washhouse.
    Inclina ad me aurem tuam:
in quacunque die invocavero te,
volciter exaudi me.
    Again he reached for his notebook and transcribed the phrase diligently, despite the biting cold, which was numbing his fingers.
    Incline your ear to listen
When I call,
be quick to answer
    A gust of wind stung his face, and he pulled his collar up to his ears. In the distance, crows squawked in the vines. Their stricken cawing dissolved in a milky sky that was so low it merged with the snow-powdered earth.
    Cooker shivered.

 
     
     
     
     
    2
    The tasting had already begun when he arrived, out of breath, in the large room of Vougeot’s ancient wine and spirits storehouse. The experts were seated in groups of six and moving glasses around on the tablecloths in a slow and formal ballet that seemed almost contrived. Cooker greeted everyone, apologizing for his tardiness, and went to the seat reserved for him as the Tastevinage guest of honor. He went to work immediately.
    Dozens of bottles were wrapped in orange