In the end, Sam’s search was accomplished with far less time and difficulty than he had anticipated. The map of the cellar, an enormously helpful shortcut, led him first to the Rue des Merveilles: ’53 Lafite, ’61 Latour, ’83 Margaux. All these vintages were present in impressive quantities, the years marked in chalk on the small slate tickets that identified each bin, or storage compartment. Vial was safely out of the way; Sam could barely hear his voice in the distance. He took a bottle of Lafite from its resting place and laid it carefully on the gravel floor, label uppermost. Crouching over the bottle, he photographed it, checking the shot to make sure that both name and date were legible before he replaced the bottle. He did the same again with the Latour, and again with the Margaux. So far so good.
He consulted the map, looking for the Rue Saint-Emilion. There it was, next to Pomerol, reflecting the actual geography of the vineyards. There was plenty of the ’82 Figeac. Indeed, there was plenty of everything, wherever he looked, and he wondered how anyone could possibly drink it all before departing for the great cellar in the sky. Perhaps there were some thirsty little Rebouls lining up to inherit. Sam hoped so. It would be sad to see this magnificent collection broken up and consigned to the auction rooms.
He moved next door, to the Pomerols. One of the lower bins was devoted to magnums of the 1970 Château Pétrus. He counted them: twenty, a relatively modest number by Reboul standards. Using both hands, one on the capsule and one on the base, Sam took a magnum and laid it on the gravel, admiring as he did so the ornate design that occupied the top of the label. The artist had among the vine tendrils nestled a small portrait of Saint Peter with his key-the key to heaven. Or, as some like to say, the key to the château’s cellar.
The photograph taken, Sam returned the magnum to its bin with some reluctance; mixed, however, with satisfaction. He had found-and had proof of finding-all the reds on his list. The one wine that remained was the ’75 Yquem, which would be on the opposite side of the cellar.
He made his way back to the central boulevard and tried to establish how far Sophie and Vial had traveled from their first stop among the champagnes. As far as he could judge from the volume of Vial’s dissertation, they were still somewhere in the rolling hills between Corton-Charlemagne and Chablis. Yquem would be last on the list. He had time.
Feeling an irrational sense that he was trespassing, he crossed over to the Impasse d’Yquem, the final section of the cellar before Vial’s office.
As Sam had discovered when doing his homework, Château d’Yquem is often described as the world’s most expensive wine. During its long history, it has attracted admirers as varied as Thomas Jefferson, Napoléon, the czars of Russia, Stalin, Ronald Reagan, and Prince Charles, all of them drawn to the wine’s luminous golden complexion and its luscious, creamy taste. Fewer than eighty thousand bottles are produced each year, no more than a fraction of a drop of Bordeaux’s annual production. And it keeps well. A bottle of the 1784 vintage was opened, drunk, and pronounced by a group of fortunate connoisseurs to be perfect two hundred years later.
Reboul’s collection of Yquems was perhaps the most impressive part of a dazzling cellar-not for its size, which was no more than a hundred bottles, but for the range of vintages. Some of the great years were there, starting with the 1937 and moving on to the ’45, the ’49, the ’55, and the ’67 before ending with the youngest, the ’75. Sam selected a bottle, photographed it, and had just put it back with the other ’75s when he froze. Vial’s voice sounded uncomfortably close.
“Chablis, of course, is one of the best-known white wines in the world. But there is Chablis and there is Chablis.”
“Ah bon?” said Sophie, who managed to imbue those two syllables with fascinated surprise.
“Mais oui. Now what we have here are the best, the grands crus, the wines that come from the hills to the north of the town. For instance, this Les Preuses.” Sam could hear the sound of a bottle being slid out of its bin. “In the glass, this has the most ravishing color, gold, with perhaps the most delicate soupçon of green.” The bottle slid back into its bin. Another was taken out. Holding his breath, Sam tiptoed out of the Impasse d’Yquem and returned to the other side of the boulevard, to the safety of the reds. And there he was discovered by Vial and Sophie fifteen minutes later, studying the bins of Pomerol, camera back in his pocket and notebook in hand.
“Aha!” said Vial. “There he is, your colleague, hard at work. A busy bee, non? I hope he has found something to interest him?”
“Fabulous,” said Sam. “Absolutely fabulous. A quite extraordinary collection.”
“But you should see the whites,” said Sophie. “The Burgundies! The Yquem! Monsieur Vial has given me the education of a lifetime.”
Vial preened.
“I can’t wait to see them,” said Sam. “But I feel we’ve taken up too much of Monsieur Vial’s time already today. Can I ask a big favor? Can we come back?”
“Of course.” Vial fished in his pocket and brought out a card. “Here is the number of my portable. Oh, I remind myself-Monsieur Reboul called from Corsica to make sure you have everything you need.”
After a prolonged exchange of effusive thanks from Sophie and Sam and charmingly modest disclaimers from Vial, they left the twilight of the cellar and emerged blinking into the late-afternoon sun.
They said little on their way back to the hotel, both digesting what they had seen during the past two and a half hours.
“Philippe said he’d meet us here,” Sophie said as they came to the hotel driveway. “He can’t wait to hear what we found. He says it’s like a roman policier-you know, a police story.”
Sam stopped abruptly. “Does he have any contacts with the police down here? Solid contacts? Cops he meets for a drink now and then?”
“I’m sure. They all do, the journalists. Look, he’s here already.” She pointed to Philippe’s black scooter, half-hidden in the shrubbery that lined the drive. “Why do you ask about the police?”
“It’s just a thought, but I’m beginning to feel we may need them.”
Seventeen
Philippe was on the phone, pacing around the lobby, his free hand going back and forth, up and down, side to side, as if conducting an invisible symphony orchestra. He was dressed, as usual, in military hand-me-downs, the pride of place going to a vintage combat jacket with hell on wheels stenciled across the back in dripping, blood-red capital letters. Seeing Sophie and Sam, he terminated his call with an instant dismissal, barely having time to mutter “Au’voir” before the phone was back in his pocket. Sam had often noticed that the French, who like nothing better than to talk, have a brusque, almost brutal way of ending their phone conversations. No lingering farewells for them; odd, for such a loquacious race.
“Alors? Alors?” Philippe was feverish with curiosity, and after kissing Sophie with a perfunctory peck on each cheek, turned to Sam. “What did you find?”
“Plenty,” said Sam. “I’ll explain everything, but first I need to get some stuff from my room. Can you find us a table in the bar? I won’t be long.”
When he joined them five minutes later, it was with an armful of papers-his notes, Reboul’s dossier, and a slim folder with material he’d brought over from L.A. He dropped everything on the table and placed his camera on top of the pile.
Philippe had put himself in charge of refreshments. “Sophie tells me you like rosé,” he said, taking a bottle of Tavel from the ice bucket and filling their glasses. “Voilà, Domaine de la Mordorée.” He made a bouquet out of his fingertips and kissed them. “Don’t let it stop you talking.”