Chapter 1
Wine is wont to show the mind of man.
--Theognis (circa 570-490 B.C.)
In wine there is truth.
-- Pliney (A.D. 23-79)
Roland Bickersford could not help but smile. Comfortable in his 18th century Louis XV armchair whose black Italian crushed velvet he had selected from an exclusive Milan fabric maker, he allowed another sip of the wine to swirl along his tongue. The dark wine seemed especially sweet, and he savored his creation because he knew the Times critic’s words were an understatement.
’The Bickersford Levant ebony proved something of a tease. Its bouquet seemed timid, yet this rather herbaceous wine quickly turned audacious on my palate and refused to relinquish its diabolically sweet gooseberry aftertaste ...’
Audacious ... Diabolically sweet. More ridiculous phrasing from another journalistic quack, but nonetheless it beat reading about another terrorist bombing or some madman’s battering his own child to death. Besides, the old man enjoyed the reviewer’s praise, even if here was another fool who could not see the truth any better than he could write it.
More accurately, here was a fool who could not taste the truth.
Truth proved a bitter pill, that was damned certain. Having a beautiful young wife who could not keep her eyes off their rope-muscled grounds keeper, now there was one truth Roland had a hard time swallowing. He had decided to fire that wetback before Katherine got any funny ideas.
Company was coming, and it was about time. Lately Bickersford’s clientele had proven less than expert and infuriatingly tight-fisted with its check book. He half expected some idiot to demand a cheaper price for his aged wines because their having remained so long on his shelf suggested no one wanted to buy them. If society were judged by its understanding of the finer things, Man was going to hell, all right, and likely he wouldn’t even know the proper wine to bring along for the trip. But this new buyer, this Prentice Blake, showed promise. If Blake didn’t realize that much about himself, at least Bickersford’s ebony Levant did.
The phone rang on cue. The connoisseur felt no rush to answer it.
A young woman spoke Roland’s name ...
Prentice Blake dared not risk going home empty handed on the eve of his anniversary. Last year Megan had pretended it didn’t matter that he had forgotten, even managed a flickering smile for a full ten minutes before locking herself inside their bedroom for the night. Things in bed lately had gone from bad to shit. Blake knew he had best put thought into this year’s gift selections, and the diamond chip earrings from Biddles were safely tucked inside his vest pocket. All that remained was to purchase some good bottles of wine and he was home free, at least for a little while.
No store-bought jug of merlot would do for Meg’s refined palate, no swill sold over the counter for a woman to whom everything often was not enough. Only a private collection could provide what he needed. The new temp had made the call for him, Sally with the long legs whom his horn-dog golfing buddy, Hal Henning, so badly wanted to fuck. Fortunately the Bickersford Estate’s wine cellar was just a little off the Throughway, not much out of his way on the drive back to White Plains.
Blake had heard about Bickersford’s collection during some table talk with a client who mentioned Manhattan’s Carlyle Hotel’s excellent bistro occasionally tapped Roman Bickersford’s cellars. That, and an article in the Times were endorsements good enough for Blake to pay the old wine connoisseur a visit.
Along the estate’s long driveway the grounds were not as manicured as the owner’s reputation warranted. Blake stopped at the gate, announced his arrival into the speaker, and proceeded along the gravel driveway to the main entrance, expecting that when he left the property he would be doing so with a considerably lighter wallet.
In the fading twilight the estate’s means of ingress could have done with better illumination. The smoothed greystone architectural style was of the Gothic Revival period of the early 1900’s complete with turrets and dimly lit circular windows along its second story that made it resemble some Old World English castle. In the early fading daylight of this crisp autumn day the effect gave a visitor the uneasy feeling of being watched by the mansion itself.
Leaving his BMW in the cul-de-sac he walked the path towards the entrance, the crunch of gravel announcing his arrival. The large front door opened before he approached it, and Roman Bickersford himself greeted Blake at the entrance with a firm handshake accompanying a warm smile as if he were welcoming an old friend. His was a face that, although aged, did not suggest old age. His hair, whitened as a snow cap, remained thick and properly combed, and the lined face could never be called wrinkled. Like the famous wines Bickersford had kept securely racked and cooled beneath this mansion, here was a man who had aged well.
“Mr. Blake, I’m gratified that you are a punctual guest, neither too early nor late. Anyone who tends these cellars learns the importance of time, whether it be measured by the clock or the calendar.”
Blake returned the old man’s smile. “No wine before its time ... like the commercial.”
“And like the old proverb says, ’Wine improves with age. It gets better the older I get.’ Come.”
The mansion’s simple interior revealed little of the fortune the old man undoubtedly possessed. Blake saw no servants, and although rumors mentioned a young wife, no woman cooked dinner nor offered the amenities of their home. There was only the elderly man himself, and the lack of ado seemed refreshing enough to put Blake at his ease. Inside his study Bickersford decanted an exquisitely ornate bottle he had at the ready, suggesting to his visitor that the warmth of a good Ramos Pinto Evamoria, a modest ten-year-old port, would assuage the chill of the cellars.
The old man waited for Blake to sip, waited to receive the nod of approval at his selection before he poured a small amount for himself, swilling the liquid inside his glass before he drank. “Did you have anything specific in mind for your wife? Your secretary told me nothing regarding your preference. I would be more than happy to offer suggestions, of course. My vaults are quite extensive.”
“So I’ve heard. Tell me, from what far corners of the world does one accumulate such a massive collection as yours?”
The old man welcomed Blake’s curiosity. “Often from auctions, from others’ collections after the owners have died. Regarding my personal collection from my own vineyards, it’s an interesting story, but I won’t detain you with the long version. Are you familiar with Genesis 9? It refers to the origins of wine following the period of the Great Flood.”
Blake shook his head. His interest in bible study had peaked back in Sunday School the day he realized that several of the girls in the choir were giving him a hard-on.
Bickersford recited the passage from memory. “’And Noah began to be an husbandman, and he planted a vineyard. And he drank of the wine, and was drunken.’ Did you know that some claim God spoke to Noah only while the old man was drunk?”
The notion amused Prentice. “It’s not much of an endorsement of our species to be descended from the first recorded lush in the Bible, is it?”
“Well, the hypothesis goes that many years ago the wild Eurasian grapevine was taken into cultivation and became domesticated in only one region of the world, the wine masters painstakingly creating the considerable varieties of the wines we know today. Of course the vines eventually were transplanted elsewhere - Greece, Italy, France, even to California. They were transplanted from the first known vineyards on Mount Arafat by Noah himself, following the biblical flood that covered the world. It is that very mountain from which all wines originate and from which the grapes are cultivated into the wines you will find in my personal section of the cellar.”
Blake smiled again while picturing old Bickersford himself in the role of an inebriated Noah planting his vines around the world like some biblical Johnny Appleseed. “You’re saying your wine comes from the first wild grapevines, from Noah’s own vineyards? That’s quite a pedigree indeed. A more skeptical man might have a difficult time believing your collection’s lineage, Mr. Bickersford.”
“Please, call me Roland. And my account is entirely the truth, I assure you, although the purest wines I keep generally for my pleasure alone. The wine I offer for purchase does not always come from my own vineyards, of course. That would appear immodest to a discerning buyer. Regarding that wine I drink for my own enjoyment, however ... well, let’s say I prefer not to reveal its biblical ancestry to many people for fear of ridicule. But in no way does that diminish its authenticity. Fortunately, my reputation in the collectors’ community speaks for itself, and that community shares quite a grapevine, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Now Blake’s smile blossomed into a full grin. He had gained the old collector’s confidence even if the man enjoyed yanking his chain. More likely here was just another eccentric millionaire given to grand delusions, having earned a degree of distinction among his peers.
“In any case, Roland, I’m open to purchase whatever wine you may suggest. I should warn you, though, Megan - my wife - regards herself as quite the connoisseur, and she has more than a nodding acquaintance with the best vintages.” The truth was that Prentice Blake also knew quite a bit concerning those vintages, both foreign and domestic, and he felt curious to determine whether Roland Bickersford’s cellars were as impressive as the man implied.
“I doubt your Megan will be disappointed, Mr. Blake. And I promise quite a treat for your palate as well. So, shall we go and have a look?” Finishing his port Bickersford, brandishing a fistful of keys, escorted his visitor to a securely locked antechamber that led to a small elevator - locked also - and to the vaults below.
Like distant ghosts their footsteps echoed within the drafty chamber of the entrance way to a cellar that ran the subterranean length of the mansion itself. Regarding the storage of his collection only temperature rivaled time in the proper care of various ports and sherries, whether the wines in his keeping were reds or whites, dry or sweet. The lights were kept dimmed near the containment cells, for Roland Bickersford admitted he was a perfectionist in the nurturing of his wines and believed too much illumination might affect the tartaric acid of the grapes, creating an undue bitterness. Here were racked the sparkling reds and rosés, the entertaining little currants and gooseberries that might nicely accompany a sumptuous meal.
This first cellar was done in rich redwoods. Cooled with its own refrigeration, its walls were lined with lush murals of the collector’s mountain vineyards.
“That painting is by Pietro Cavallini, and over there is Duccio da Buoninsegna. Thirteenth Century, I believe. Exceptional artists. The wine from those vineyards has always been exceptional as well, dating from biblical times to the present. I’ve extensively researched the origins of my wines. The vintages now seem to me like old friends. Come.”
“I studied French Literature in college, you know,” Blake said, aware their echoing footsteps begged for further conversation. “Your name, like your wines, has its origin in religion.”
Bickersford grinned, knowing where his guest was leading. “’The Song of Roland.’ Twelfth Century, or thereabout. The emperor Charlemagne’s nephew, Roland, became a martyr in the spread of Christianity in Spain. Unfortunately, the legend is just that, and the story much exaggerated. And as his namesake I would hardly call myself a religious man. I would never presume my wines contain the blood of Christ, just some damned fine grapes.”
They walked in silence when Bickersford abruptly stopped and stood motionless as a marble sculpture. He looked about, worrying the air like a forest animal that had picked up a remote sound in the wind.
“Do you hear? Do you? Listen for it. Shhhh ...”
Blake remained still but heard nothing.
“I don’t --”
“Shhhh!”
Blake listened again, or pretended to. The vault remained as still as a crypt. “I’m sorry, but what am I listening for?”
Bickersford looked around as if apprehensive he might be overheard, a ridiculous notion considering they stood isolated in the bowels of the earth. The elderly man turned with a dramatic flourish toward his guest, “Why, you’re listening for the stories, of course. The many stories each of my long-necked children has to tell. Wine remembers, Mr. Blake, love, hate and everything in between. If you listen closely, you can hear each bottle whisper its own special tale.”
The walls echoed the old man’s words, his voice resembling a very bad imitation of Peter Lorre.
“Lee-sen closely ... Whees-per eets own special tale ...”
And then Bickersford broke into raucous laughter like a mad elf.
“I’m sorry, my friend, but I couldn’t resist,” the old collector apologized. “I know how sequestered and genuinely creepy these vaults seem during one’s maiden visit. Forgive my little charade, will you?” He gently removed from its rack a long and thin necked bottle ensconced in straw containing a blood-red wine. “Will you share with me this small token of my appreciation for your humoring the vicissitudes of an old man?”
Blake maintained a forced smile and read the hand-printed label. It was a 1957 Chianti Classico Frascati from Tuscany, a dry Italian table wine he counted among his favorites. Its thin container suggested the possibility it had been recanted from its original bottle.
“And this wine, does it have a story to tell?”
The mad-elf smile reappeared, this time with teeth showing. “Indeed it has. A story as robust as itself. A good wine never disappoints. But you must drink it with me to hear its story.”
Blake checked his Movado. He had a decent window before Megan paced the floor, but to assure no interruption he turned off his cell phone.
The gesture served as the connoisseur’s confirmation to proceed and another pass key reappeared from the jumble. Clearly the wine gourmet had concerns about keeping his belongings secured even deep inside his cellars. He opened a nearby cabinet, producing two long stemmed crystal glasses and a gleaming corkscrew. With a surgeon’s precision he removed the cork from its bottle. He poured a small amount and waited for his visitor to sniff its bouquet.
“Here’s one you and your wife might enjoy. Just a little bit in its glass,” Bickersford said, addressing the crystal into which he poured the liquid. “We must allow this full-bodied Chianti to breathe, you know. It has mellowed with its age, as must we all. Over forty years its age is, similar to your own, eh? That makes you and this Chianti kindred spirits.” He caught his guest’s eye. “Now, Mr. Blake, please listen again and tell me if you hear the whispers of this daring little wine?”
Prentice held the glass close and sniffed. Its aroma was reminiscent of violets. He sat upon a small bench and closed his eyes while he tasted it, remaining silent for a moment, allowing the wine to work on him. And then, an amazing thing.
“Why, yes. I think I can ...”
[ ... a couple, strangers to him, sit inside a small café ... an Italian mandolin plays while a bottle of Chianti glows blood red in the flickering candlelight between them.
... the dark haired woman is very young and very beautiful ... they are holding hands and whispering, yet they do not appear happy ... ]
Roland Bickersford’s eyes never left his guest’s.
“Good, Mr. Blake. That’s very good.”
The 1957 Chianti Classico Frascati
Tuscany, Italy
A Full Bodied Chianti, Daring Red
(1) "A FULL BODIED CHIANTI'
... in the café they are holding hands and whispering, yet they do not appear happy ...
“Then it is settled, Rosa? You are certain you can do this?” the young man asked.
“Certain, Giovanni, as best I can be. I wish only there were some other way to -”
He stopped her words with a finger to her lips. The gesture would have certainly raised eyebrows had anyone seen this, for here was a man who worked many of Tuscany’s vineyards emboldened enough to touch the flesh of Donna Frascati, the young wife of the wealthy Signore Roberto Frascati.
“There is no other way unless your desire is to sell fish in the markets of Rocca d’Orcia for the rest of your life. Roberto is a powerful man, and we can hide our love from him no longer. We act tonight or risk losing all.”
He prepared to pour the young woman another glass of the Chianti, a bottle purchased by the café from her husband’s own vineyards, but she stopped him, covering her glass.
“Then no more wine, Giovanni. Of all nights, tonight I must think clearly.” Her dark eyes met his and she knew he understood. He pushed the bottle aside.
The mandolin player approached their table. Giovanni waved him off. He returned to Rosa, again speaking in whispers.
“It will be extremely hot tonight. In Roberto’s vineyards the men gathering grapes wear moistened towels on their heads. Their work is made slow in such heat, and several fires have had to be put out. Your husband will not be in good temper returning from his inspections of their harvest, and his thirst will be great. You must greet him at the villa with wine and be certain he has more with his dinner. At midnight I will come. Remember to leave the latch open for --”
He stroked the moisture from her cheek. Although her tears belied a woman’s frailties her voice remained strong.
“I love you Giovanni. Enough to do this terrible thing!”
“It is not so terrible if you do not love the man you call husband. Age has not mellowed him. It has only made him more bitter.”
“I do not hate him. You know that. I can never blame Roberto because I was young and a fool. I saw only the Frascati Vineyards and believed ’Yes, this is enough for happiness.’”
“And will you remain a fool, Rosa?” He handed the woman a small packet containing a fine powder. “Place some into his wine at dinner. Pour more into other glasses later, enough to make him sleep. Tomorrow he goes to Villa Petrolo to sell his wine. With so much drinking his drive along the treacherous curves of the Monte Amiata shall be his last. I shall see to that before he awakens. Unless, of course, you have no stomach to do ... ’this terrible thing.’”
“I love you, Giovanni. That is all you need to know.”
Giovanni managed a smile. “I need also to know what to do with the remainder of this excellent Chianti Classico. Adriano serves a fine wine here. Such a pity to waste the fruits of your husband’s labors.”
“Adriano shall not waste it, I assure you. He will dress it up in a spanking new bottle and sell it to some other fool willing to pay full price. I have seen him do the same with a half emptied Lambrusco not one week ago. It might explain why the proprietor of café Rivoli is so rich. If ever I decide to leave you, Giovanni, I shall have my eyes set on him.”
Her young paramour might have tenderly kissed her then, but already they had taken the great risk of having been seen speaking together with such intimacy. Instead, they shared a moment of laughter that passed all too quickly.
Giovanni had been correct. Stinking from the scorching heat Roberto Frascati returned from his vineyards that evening in as foul a mood as Rosa could remember. Although her husband had never once struck her throughout almost three years of marriage, on this night he certainly seemed capable of it. During his angrier nights he often climbed upon her in bed and inflicted such terrible pain inside it seemed much worse than any beating he could administer.
On this evening a chilled glass containing a thirty-year-old Frascati Port awaited him, a favorite taken from Roberto’s vineyards. Awaiting also was a smiling wife as per her lover’s instructions. She had placed the powdered substance, a tasteless and odorless sedative, into the wine, although she took a gamble attempting to fool a palate as skilled as Roberto’s.
The sedative soothed the man’s anger, and following a large meal of tender veal accompanied by assorted fresh vegetables and potatoes - and punctuated by much more wine - Roberto fell into a thick slumber over his dessert at the dinner table. Fast asleep, the man snorted like a bull. Rosa had her husband’s servant place him into his bed, then dismissed the remaining serving staff to their quarters. The man’s body heaved and swelled with thick, heavy breaths while, alongside him in bed, Rosa awaited her lover’s arrival.
Giovanni was punctual and slipped the latch at twelve. He entered the bedroom without turning on the light, for had Roberto awakened, explanations would have been impossible and the plan aborted. But the man slept soundly and Rosa climbed from the bed to embrace her love.
“He has been like this for hours,” she told him. “He drank much this night, and the sedative only hastened the tiredness he felt following such a difficult day.”
“Good. The mountain roads will be isolated. It shall be simple to accomplish Roberto’s unfortunate accident within this hour. The wreckage will not be discovered until morning.”
Roberto farted but did not awaken. Still, Rosa kept her voice low.
“His van is loaded with the wine samples for the Villa Petrolo. It is an hour’s drive, so you must follow the road through Montevarchi as if your intended destination were the Villa.” She located the keys to the vehicle on the dresser and handed them to Giovanni.
Pulling the man from his bed Giovanni managed a weak smile. “Such a pity to waste his fine wine in the mishap. Ah, well, no plan is perfect, not even ours. Grab the legs and help me carry him.”
It would have been less difficult hauling a Brahma Bull down the staircase to the van, but the couple succeeded. The serving staff’s quarters had gone dark and the two were not spotted. With their plan proceeding nicely, Giovanni took the risk of kissing Rosa in the pale Tuscan moonlight.
“Rosa, there can be no contact between us for many days. Act properly shocked when you receive the news. Now go to bed and think only of me.”
Rosa watched the van pull away until it was out of sight. She took her lover’s advice but sleep proved impossible. Tossing and turning, she pictured the events developing between the man she had married and the man she loved.
Now Giovanni is pulling the van to the side of the road, making certain Roberto still sleeps ...
Now he is hauling my husband to the driver’s seat, releasing the brake and pushing the vehicle from the tallest peak of the mountain road ...
... and now perhaps Roberto is awakening to discover he is trapped, the van rolling over and over upon itself like a child’s discarded toy, bursting into flames, and Roberto, he is screaming, oh Mother of God! he is screaming ...
Remaining awake until daylight shone through her window, she waited for the phone call from the authorities that she knew must come. An hour or two passed. Then a third. When the call did not come she began to worry.
Had something gone wrong? Had her husband awakened and, insane with the sweltering heat and his drunkenness, struggled with Giovanni at the wheel? Perhaps Roberto, speeding down the mountain road to his own death, had come to his senses in time to escape? Or, maybe her lover had been fool enough in this heat to stop the van along the side of the Monte Amiata to quench his thirst with the wine he knew he must destroy? And then, perhaps in a drunken stupor of his own, had he driven off that same road?
Such a pity to waste so much fine wine, that’s what he had told her ...
No, no, Rosa repeated to herself a hundred times over, shaking her head to dispel thoughts too horrible to consider. She made some tea to settle her nerves. Too upset to drink it, instead she paced the floor.
Noon arrived, but there was no call, no visit from the polizia. She watched the television expecting an announcement of the tragedy, but there was nothing. Late afternoon came and went, then early evening during which time Rosa had consumed almost an entire bottle of merlot. Of course, she could ask no questions of her servants nor act in any way different from her usual manner. She had been practiced in deception since her affair with Giovanni had begun, but nothing matched the panic-driven confusion she now felt. Rosa lay upon the divan of the great drawing room of the villa and felt warm beads of sweat trickle down her forehead.
Just after the late summer sun sank behind the western slopes the door opened. Barely awake Rosa saw only the blurred outline of the massive figure who stood above her.
“Gio--?” She stopped herself before saying more, pretending to turn her lover’s name into a meaningless mumble.
“My beautiful Rosa, asleep here on her divano living a life of luxury when she should be preparing her husband’s dinner.”
At first she thought she must be dreaming, but no, Roberto stood before her and he was laughing. Always he returned home in good spirit whenever he made another important sale to a wealthy client, and Villa Petrolo was among his wealthiest. Rosa understood her husband well enough to recognize his more favorable temperaments. This evening he was even holding flowers for her.
“These violets were for sale in the Rocca d’Orcia and they whispered your name to me. I could not resist buying them for you.” He placed the bouquet in a vase, stooping to kiss his wife’s forehead. “You are warm, Rosa. Have you a fever?”
Impossible ... Impossible ...
“I feel a little tired, is all, Roberto, and I have had some wine. Perhaps too much.” She made her way casually to the window, stealing a glance through the drapery to study the van he had parked near the entrance for the manservant to later secure inside the large autorimessa. Although darkness was falling she could see the van clearly enough. It did not appear to have a scratch. Nor did Roberto in any way resemble a man who had been engaged in a life or death struggle.
Impossible!
Rosa prepared her husband’s dinner, waiting for - expecting - something, anything to indicate her indiscretion with Giovanni had been discovered and dealt with. But her betrayed husband displayed no suggestion of anything remiss, nothing at all. Roberto, in truth, had never seemed more pleasant.
That was it! He was toying with her, trying to exact some guilt-ridden confession. It must be! He would take her to bed, showing his teeth like a snarling animal when he smiled, then remove his thick leather belt and beat her without remorse until her flesh puffed crimson with welts! Rosa expected nothing less.
But it did not happen, not that night, nor during any of the days or nights that followed.
Giovanni had told her he would not call for a while, and Rosa did not anticipate hearing word from her lover. But a week passed, then two. She looked in the vineyards for him, stopped several times at the café Rivoli, even chanced walking past the small apartment in which he lived on the outskirts of Rocca d’Orcia. She dared not ask for him, not of anyone, for in a small village there are many eyes and many mouths, and there were none who could be trusted. But Giovanni remained nowhere to be seen. It was as if he ceased to exist.
Maybe that was exactly the case!
Day into night the thought haunted her, of Giovanni shoved from a tall cliff, his body twisted and bones broken, his flesh slowly eaten by birds. Or perhaps Roberto had overpowered his wife’s lover, dousing the startled suitor in gasoline and igniting him like a human torch to burn until all that remained was a blackened swatch of scorched muscle and tissue resembling nothing human.
But in the woman’s mind there were images so much worse ...
... of her Giovanni paid off handsomely by a smiling Roberto sending the young man off with a pat on the back.
... and of her robust paramour traveling somewhere far away and even now drinking wine and laughing while in the arms of another.
The waiting for answers was agony, and not knowing, torture. Endless scenarios played out in vivid detail inside Rosa’s head, each new variation worse than the one before. Days became weeks, weeks months, and still no answers came. All the while Roberto revealed nothing, uttering not a single word of anger nor aiming a suspecting glance in his wife’s direction. This only increased Rosa’s torment.
Once in the night she called out to her lover in her sleep, “Giovanni! Giovanni!”
She awakened certain that Roberto must have heard, although her husband continued to sleep soundly.
But years passed and the memory of Giovanni faded. There were times Rosa doubted the man had ever really held her in his arms at all, never had been anything other than a wonderful creation of a miserable young housewife’s fevered imagination. Sometimes it was easier to think of him in these terms than as a living and breathing creature; doing so, she could fashion her memories in any way she chose. During these reveries the eternally young Giovanni desired no woman other than the radiant young girl donna Frascati once had been, and even as old age threatened, the woman forever remained that beautiful child-like temptress. When reminisces did not come of their own accord, a little coaxing with wine always did the trick.
“Giovanni!” she called through wine soaked stupors, and still her husband said nothing.
The more she consumed, the more the wine brought mysterious smiles to the woman’s face, smiles only she understood. The wine whispered to her, shared with her all the truths she needed to know, or more accurately those truths she needed to believe. If the wine stretched those truths at least it convinced her that Giovanni lived and loved her still, loved her always with all the raging passions of a young man’s heart.
The wine whispered those secrets it wanted the woman to know, and even if the explanations fell short of complete certainty, for the remainder of her days donna Rosa Frascati listened and believed ...
“ ... Good, Mr. Blake. That’s very good.” Bickersford’s voice seemed distorted and distant.
“Roland, I’m so sorry. I must’ve nodded off for a moment.”
Prentice checked his watch. Only a few minutes had passed since he had dozed but it seemed so much longer. His mind felt clouded, as if the disturbing aftertaste of the Chianti had affected his brain.
Lusty Italian lovers ... a full bodied woman, a cuckolded husband ... murder, wine ... something, something ...
Like the taste of the wine’s sweetness on his tongue, already details were fading, but the dim memory of a husband betrayed lingered with the tenacity of a bad headache.
“No need to apologize, Mr. Blake. This Frascati Cabernet often sneaks up on you like that. The 1957 Tuscan vintages originate from a particularly rainy season that was followed by intense heat, during which the area’s grapes grew plump and unusually sweet. Sadly, fire from that summer heat destroyed a large portion of the Frascati vineyards. Ironic, eh? Grapes nourished by flood die by fire. Perhaps there is some sort of biblical lesson there? But the wine’s effect is quite temporary. Come, I may have something more to your liking for you and your wife.”
He led Blake to a separate chamber of the wine cellar, this one barely illuminated and finished in a much darker redwood, so somber it appeared almost black as if burnt. The refrigerated chill was palpable, suggesting rich wines that required closer tending.
“Another red wine?” Prentice asked.
“On the contrary, Mr. Blake. A white. The Riesling grapes create the finest German whites and are among the longest lived. They ripen late with a racy acidity as the wine ages. Here, try some.” Bickersford pulled a thick bottle from the racks that had none of the long necked delicacy of its companions. Oddly, the bottle’s label was unmarked, as if its contents were especially mysterious. Bickersford procured another long stemmed crystal glass. Obviously quite valuable, its texture gave the illusion of having been pieced together from broken shards painstakingly smoothed over. He poured, and offered the glass to Blake.
The wine was practically golden in color. Prentice sniffed the aroma. The fruit bouquet had a strange undercurrent that was not entirely pleasant, but with wine first impressions were often misleading. He took a sip.
It tasted bitter and he almost spit it out. Allowing the liquid to slide across his tongue it became more palatable, and then, a miraculous thing. The wine turned delicious and went down smoothly.
[Excellent ... Excellent ...]
“This wine has many personalities, Roland. What is it called?”
“You’re drinking what Germans call Qualitätswein mit Prädikat -- quality wine with added distinction. The German whites are packed according to ripeness, and yeast added by the wine maker acts on the sugar in the grape juice and converts it to alcohol and carbon dioxide. Further elaboration of the fermentation, however, may be unsettling to hear.
“This wine is too excellent to change my opinion of it.”
[Absolutely excellent ...]
“Mr. Blake, you impress me as a true connoisseur, so I will share the process with you. You see, under certain climatic conditions, the grapes may be affected by Botrytis cinerea, a flavor enhancing fungus known in Germany as Edelfäule. You are drinking parts of that fungus in a Rheingau white, although the wine’s unappealing origin is not what is most fascinating about that particular family. No, I think you will find a much more interesting story in that wine’s original owner. Unfortunately, the hour is getting late ...
“Tell,” Prentice said, as if the words came independent of his will to speak them. Drinking more, he shut his eyes to savor the spicy taste.
“This bottle has a history too. I procured it at an auction of the Edgar Kornman estates. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He was considered a mediocre sculptor with the exception of one particular work ...”
The sculpture. It was of a very beautiful woman. Blake’s eyes had closed but he could see it.
Roland Bickersford did not have to utter another sound.
***
The 1979 Rheingau
The Rhine River, Germany
An Aged and Firmly Structured,
Spicy White
("FRIEDA IN STONE")
“Excellent ... Absolutely excellent ...”
Bernhard Krunstadt had created his masterpiece. This time he was certain of it. The white marble sculpture of Frieda Goldstein would be his testament, and more important than that, his salvation. He had only a bit more to do around the neck, some fine chiseling to achieve the unique feminine delicacy that had been Frieda’s; afterwards, he would not need to sculpt one additional chip from a new stone to attain his immortality.
Inside his studio Krunstadt had created the sculpture entirely from memory of the woman, no mean feat for even the most talented artist. He had managed to salvage a faded old photograph of her taken at the peak of her beauty, and the likeness provided inspiration enough to turn a block of marble into a work of genius.
Of course, it would have been impossible to perfectly capture the flesh and blood Frieda in stone. It seemed miraculous that even God had created such a woman. Not so miraculous was the ease it took for one man to destroy her, and Krunstadt had spent a lifetime doing penance with his hammer and chisel. He had traveled miles from his homeland to achieve his atonement, making a new life for himself in America to start fresh, and today it seemed his retribution would finally be paid in total. It had taken him almost fifty years to attempt capturing Frieda’s likeness in stone, although his nearly completed work was more a testament to the woman’s ageless beauty than to his sculpting skills.
[Yes ... she’s magnificent.]
A glass of wine would go nicely now, just before he completed the finishing touches. A few sips, and when he was done with his creation he might do justice to the rest of the bottle of Rheingau as a personal celebration of his triumph. He poured himself a small amount of the white wine, holding it to the light and studying the clear liquid inside the glass as if some lost image might appear in its luster.
[“How easy it is to say you love me, Bernhard ... so easy to say the words ...”]
Krunstadt raised his glass to the woman in marble, his homage to the young nurse plucked from her hospital duties by the invading army during one night in a besieged Warsaw ghetto a thousand lifetimes ago.
“To you, Frieda, and to the brief happiness we were never meant to share.”
He drank the wine in rapid gulps, and its potent bitterness caused his head to spin so suddenly he had to sit. Bernhard closed his eyes and remembered when the world was different, when life itself was unlike any other time.
And he remembered the girl ...
***
... the dark haired girl with the spicy temperament who secretly shared the bed of a handsome young officer. On a winter’s night, their last, while her eyes spilled with angry tears, love and hate had somehow combusted between the two to create something indefinable. A raging fire does not extinguish itself, and on that night Bernhard could not allow its flames to consume the both of them.
“Frieda ... Frieda ... You ask too much of me.”
“Too much, Bernhard? Too much? I have witnessed the Pogrom beatings and rapes in our streets. You are a powerful officer in the Wehrmacht. You know of the executions and disease here. It is not too much to ask that those in your charge allow my family to leave Warsaw and remain unharmed! My mother and father gather the remnants of their belongings even as we speak. There is talk of refuge in Hungary for the displaced families. You have the authority to find them safe passage, Bernhard. You say you love me, but you show no love outside of this bed. Are you like the others, as much a man of stone as the figures you sculpt?”
Perhaps she truly hated him, and what passed for passion was only a despicable means to an end. He had considered this, of course. She had been given no choice when he selected her to come to his bed, and she was a shrewd enough woman to turn her circumstance to her family’s advantage. Now her dark eyes locked with his, and the soothing words that should have come easily stuck inside his throat.
“Frieda, you cannot possibly understand the complexities of--”
He stopped himself. How could the woman comprehend the duty he had to his country? She was a Jewess, too arrogantly proud to recognize that destiny belonged to him and to his race. Krunstadt found the quality of her defiance oddly exciting because he admired her strength, but that same defiance also made him despise her. It was as if some odious poison grew within his heart whenever he held Frieda in his arms, and he did not know whether to make love to her all night or beat her senseless. He could never allow anyone in a position of authority to discover she shared his bed. There were none among the Geheime Staatspolizei, the Gestapo, who would have permitted Krunstadt the luxury of loving her.
“There is talk of the camps, that Warsaw is but a holding place for all of us until --”
“Enough!” he interrupted. “You ask too much! There are things which should not - and can not - be changed. Your family will be fine.”
“Like all the others who are taken to Umschlagplatz?”
“Yes. Fine. All of them.”
That was not exactly the truth. Umschlagplatz was the plaza to which the Warsaw Jews were regularly herded for deportation to Dachau, Buchenwald and Sachsenhausen.
The camps.
He expected the girl was too smart to believe him even if she so desperately wanted to, and when he reached for her, Bernhard felt certain she would spit in his face. Instead, she turned away while saying nothing, and this was much worse. Krunstadt could deal with her anger more easily than her withdrawal. In later years the officer often asked himself if the girl’s refusal of him that night had determined his decision.
Frieda left Officer Krunstadt’s bed, insisting on joining her aged parents during this most treacherous of nights. She put on the crisp nurse’s uniform whose arm band displayed the six pointed star prominently exhibiting in bold letters the word JUDE. The uniform had kept her safe until now, for medical persons were a valuable commodity among the higher ranking officials and none questioned the woman’s frequent visits to officers of the S.S. Still, the star let no one forget what she was.
Bernhard did not stop her from leaving. It would have been foolish to try.
After midnight Krunstadt smoked the first of many cigarettes, taking the short walk to a poorly lit cross street near his quarters. From a distance he watched as soldiers pulled Isaac and Anna Goldstein from their home. The old woman was screaming, but her husband remained silent and did not resist. Under the Warsaw moon Frieda’s elderly parents were herded at gunpoint, along with many others, into the crowded streets.
He saw Frieda push her way into the crowd, toward the soldiers standing closest to her mother. The girl was no longer wearing her nurse’s uniform but instead the drab gray clothing of a factory worker worn by practically every Jew in Warsaw. Had she worn the nurse’s dress a soldier would have spotted her, would have pulled her away from the herded rabble. But this the girl clearly did not want.
“You do not have to do this, Frieda,” Bernhard muttered to himself. “There is no need, no point ...”
Amid cries and shouts Krunstadt stood too far off to hear the young woman’s protests to the tall soldier holding the rifle. Her wild gesticulations suggested first pleading and then anger directed at the man who poked the weapon repeatedly into her mother’s back.
Krunstadt’s mind supplied the words he knew Frieda must have spoken.
“No! Don’t take them, please! No! No!”
And then ...
“Damn you! Damn all of you!”
Krunstadt saw her pound the man’s shoulder, watched him push her aside and set his rifle’s aim on her. Anna Goldstein noticed and threw herself between her daughter and the man, pulling at the officer’s arm with such determination he almost dropped his weapon. He struck her shoulder with the butt of his rifle, and the old woman toppled near the curb. The tall soldier turned and waited for her to stagger to her feet, then shot the old woman in the head.
Hearing the crack of the gun Isaac Goldstein looked behind for only a moment, then pulled his daughter from the tumult. Perhaps he did not recognize the supine body of his wife that lay twisted in the street, her drab clothing freckled with blood; perhaps he did not see the others step around her as if only a fallen bird lay on the ground. From afar the old man’s expression remained unreadable, and his only reaction was to quicken his pace, tugging Frieda’s arm to remove her from danger.
Because the girl was not wearing her medical clothing she would also be shot had she attempted to leave the filing mass of people. Bernhard Krunstadt thought of running to Frieda’s side, revealing that this young woman was his personal nurse, that she had a permit to remain behind. But he did not move.
The girl’s mother was dead, and Krunstadt knew Frieda would never abandon her father even knowing the mass of ragged workers, both young and old, was being led to the trains at Umschlagplatz. There seemed no point to rescue one who chose not to be rescued. He watched father and daughter become swallowed by the moving herd.
Bernhard remained in the streets, the crowds still shambling past him while his cigarette burned to ash. Occasionally the flash of gunfire stabbed the darkness like a sudden crack of lightning. The night had turned especially cold, and the officer tightened his collar against the harsh wind. He waited until two soldiers carried off the remains of the old woman. By then the chill had become bitter, and Krunstadt badly wanted to return to his quarters. But there remained something he had to do.
The door to the Goldstein home had been kicked open. Krunstadt climbed the staircase to the second story and located the girl’s room. As he had imagined, it was a dismal place whose plaster ceiling was badly damaged and whose gray paint was peeling everywhere. He rifled through several drawers. There was no money, of course, nothing of any value, but Krunstadt looked for only one thing.
Inside the parents’ room he found it. The photograph of Frieda must have been taken on a warm summer’s day, and there in an open field she was smiling more radiantly than Bernhard had ever seen. He quickly shoved the portrait into his pocket.
This was the woman he wished to remember. Her astonishing smile had already been significantly altered in the ghetto of Warsaw, a smile soon to be recast into something horrible. He did not want to think about the human skeleton she would become at Buchenwald, nor imagine what living atrocity into which she would have been transformed when death finally took her.
He never was given that choice. As years passed, during the darkest hours of the night Bernhard Krunstadt lay awake imagining the girl’s final days in the camp, imagining her haunted eyes hollowed like black sockets and wondering if Frieda Goldstein’s last words had been screams.
***
The sculptor held the faded photograph in his palm, losing himself in it.
Of course, the name no longer was Krunstadt, not since he had left Germany almost fifty years past, but Bernhard could never think of his identity as anything else. He cared little if the title associated with his art bore the ridiculous American name of Edgar Kornman. He knew who he was.
The ’79 Rheingau had proven more effective than he had anticipated. Curiously delicious, it had diverted him from his purpose. He placed the photograph alongside the wine glass and took hammer and chisel in hand.
The girl’s likeness in white marble had astounded its creator. His heart raced just looking at her reborn smile, recaptured from a moment of happiness somehow miraculously plucked from the past. Krunstadt had no idea his hands possessed such ability. But there remained the neck of his sculpture to complete, and one misguided tap of the hammer could easily annihilate his finished work. He held his chisel before him to steady his hand, then began.
“Tonight, Frieda, the burden is lifted. Tonight you release me.”
He stopped himself before his hammer struck the chisel. Something was different, something not quite right. The change in the sculpture was not readily apparent, and at first Krunstadt believed it a trick of his vision. The figure had altered only slightly, and he could not put his finger on the peculiarity. Bernhard studied his work closely before he saw.
The woman’s cheekbones had hollowed somewhat, turning her face gaunt. The arms and legs also had lost muscle tone and seemed rawboned. The marble’s luster had dissipated and the stone grayed, giving the woman’s likeness a wan and sickly appearance. The smile now was uncertain and tentative.
Krunstadt stepped away from his work as if from some diseased thing.
This was not the Frieda Goldstein he had sculpted!
Rationality quickly returned. The wine had been especially potent and he had consumed an entire glass of the Rheingau rather quickly. Good wine often played nasty tricks. That had to be it. It was the wine!
But when he turned again to Frieda’s marble likeness she had grown thinner still! Her eyes had vanished inside twin darkened pits and her body approached emaciation.
Krunstadt’s lips formed a scream, but he could not make a sound nor could he move one inch, his legs encased in concrete.
“ ... and are you as much a man of stone as the figures you sculpt?” she had asked.
“Frieda, you ask too much!”
Like some filth ridden infection the disease had spread. The woman’s chiseled smile now was gone completely, and with movement almost imperceptible her thin finger pointed toward the sculptor in accusation. Bernhard’s mouth opened, but he could do nothing more than listen to the shrieking inside his head.
“No, Bernhard ... You are the one who has asked too much!”
The gray stone of the figure crunched with movement and the bony arms reached out to him, the sculpture a monolith of human scale struggling to be born. He could not move, could not even turn away so as not to see.
Krunstadt needed no further explanation for what seemed so unthinkable. He had not sculpted this grotesque creature he saw before him. But the lesson came a little late. The marble figure fell upon him, her bony fingers pulling him to her. Skeletal arms wrapped around him crushing him in a lover’s embrace that suggested anything but passion. He felt his bones turn brittle like dried twigs as his marble creation drew him closer while wrenching his breath from him and sapping the last remnant of his strength. Trying to push her he caught a brief glimpse of his own hand, saw his fingers mutate before his eyes, withering as if with sudden advancing age and turning matchstick thin. He wanted to scream, wanted to howl so the whole world might hear, but his lungs retained only enough wind for him to hack and wheeze.
Frieda Goldstein pulled Bernhard closer while every bone inside him splintered, then snapped ...
***
(3) "THE NOAH HYPOTHESIS
Prentice shook the spider’s web from his brain. He hadn’t fuzzed out like this since his Ivy League days getting wrecked with his frat buddies. He was lit, and Bickersford had been watching him the whole time, probably laughing in his sleeve.
“You are a true connoisseur, Mr. Blake. I must admit, at first I had my doubts.”
“ ... dizzy ...” He glimpsed his watch, saw he hadn’t been there an hour. Too much wine could mess with your head.
“So the wine told its story, did it?”
The old man’s comment no longer seemed so crazy.
“It’s a little cloudy now. Bits and pieces. Incredible ...”
“This Rheingau proves quite a jolt to the uninitiated. But the true gourmet comes to appreciate it in time. The trick is to allow a good wine to do its work.
“A man’s humanity - or lack of it - may be judged as much by his inaction as by his actions, don’t you think? And one must tend to the needs of his lover as a wine master must tend to his grapes, otherwise grapes may turn bitter. This proved the sculptor’s most egregious mistake.” Roland allowed a moment for his guest to absorb his implications. “The media reports stated police broke down the door to the art studio of Edgar Kornman, the name the sculptor had assumed. The man had been dead several days and there was this terrible smell and many flies. It seemed Kornman ... Bernhard Krunstadt ... had starved himself until he had the appearance of -- well, the appearance of one who has lived inside a concentration camp.”
Bickersford’s shrug served as his only explanation. If he knew more, he had chosen to make certain that particular vault remained shut.
“What became of the sculpture of the emaciated woman?”
“Emaciated? His Frieda? Quite the opposite. Krunstadt’s creation appeared perfectly robust in every respect and might have earned the man a small fortune had he lived. The woman in marble appeared so magnificent she was exhibited posthumously around the country. I don’t know where the statue wound up. Rumor has it she’s in a museum somewhere along the Rhine.”
Prentice shook his head with dissatisfaction. There were too many pieces missing.
“Wine keeps many secrets, Mr. Blake, and in this case it isn’t telling. Tending to the aged vintages as long as I have, one learns only bits and pieces of the mysteries these rare collections hold. Perhaps darker secrets are best kept hidden. But enough about truth and conjecture, eh? So little of what we think we understand is set in stone.”
Along another of the cellar’s corridors the collector’s wines had presented him with insoluble riddles, and Blake felt like the butt of jokes only the old man understood. The drinks had sent his brain reeling with imaginings he would have attributed to a mad man an hour earlier.
With an unsteady gait he followed his host, descending a small staircase into the deepest subdivision of the cellar. While the two walked in silence, Prentice’s thoughts ricocheted under the influence of the alcohol, and an unlikely memory struck him :
“‘We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs ... ’”
Bickersford turned. “What?”
“Strange. I recalled this passage from an Edgar Allan Poe story. I had to memorize the lines in high school. Something about a wine cellar and a man who is tricked by his host to enter it.”
Bickersford smiled. “‘The Cask of Amontillado.’ Yes, I’ve always enjoyed that one, its being so appropriate to my circumstances. I assure you, Mr. Blake, there is no Fortunato rattling his death chains behind these walls. However, if you are honestly curious regarding my personal collection ...”
“From your secret biblical vineyards?”
“Come. We’ll share a little of my finest, you and I. And I promise I’ll perform no imitations of Vincent Price.”
Blake half expected the collector to pull two flaming torches from the walls and usher him into some rat-infested dungeon, cackling maniacally in the firelight every step of the way like Poe’s dark villain. Despite the refrigeration, Prentice was beginning to sweat. The wine had kept him warm, all right, just like the old guy said. He was not as certain he had kept himself sober. Megan would have a lengthy list of new complaints when he returned home tonight late and half-intoxicated. But he had come for a bottle of the best wine money could buy, and he was not about to show up on his anniversary night without it.
“And is there a wife to accompany you into your golden years?” Blake asked.
The old man grinned. “Quite a beautiful one, in fact. I prefer my wine aged, but my women are another matter entirely. I’ve married several times, which is, I suppose, the hazard of wealth. Money attracts the women, of course, but it takes so much more for them to stay. Katherine is about here somewhere. Young women are rarely content when confined even in a mansion of this size, but I have to admit my wife has no complaints remaining close enough to attend to my many needs. And yourself? Your careful selection of the proper wine for your wedding anniversary suggests you have a good woman at home as well.”
“Perhaps it suggests that I’ve learned how to jump through the proper hoops.”
Too much of a gentleman, Bickersford chose not to pursue that point and returned his attention to his wines. In the farthest recess of his cellar he paused before rows of triple-tiered racks containing many bottles, unpretentious vessels compared to the others, an assortment that ran the entire expanse of the wall. These were the ebonies originating from the collector’s own vines, wines that exceeded a deep blood red hue, approaching black. The old man selected one.
“Mr. Blake, I believe this is what you have come for. This wine’s origins are the Mount Arafat vineyards, its fermentation process dating centuries back to Noah’s time and popular throughout areas of the Middle East. The Levant gooseberry is a rather expensive vintage, well aged and properly worth its price for a discerning collector. Of course, if you intend a wine merely for your drinking pleasure, then may I recommend this other--”
“I’ll have a taste of this one,” Prentice said, not to be diverted from the better choice. Anticipating his host’s concerns, he produced his check book. “I insist you write the figure down for this bottle and allow me to sign.”
Bickersford, again, was too much the gentleman to quibble. Blake glanced at the figure the man had written and tried not to gasp. Then he scribbled his signature. Another pair of wine glasses appeared and Bickersford poured. He lit a thick candle and placed it in a golden holder upon a small table, staring at the jiggering flame as if it contained some secret meaning. This time he held up his glass to propose a toast.
“I drink to your utmost enjoyment of my finest wine, my friend.”
“And I drink to my most gracious host, whose exceptional hospitality will likely result in my wife’s divorcing me.”
Glasses were clinked, bouquets inhaled, and the wine tasted in the flickering light. Prentice responded with a huge grin.
“Roland, you were right on the money. This is the one. Megan will love this.”
[ ... and will most likely polish off the entire bottle in one sitting too.]
It was past 5:45. Perhaps he should call, tell his wife he had been unavoidably delayed, show Meg that he still gave a rat’s ass, even if he were no longer certain he did. Hadn’t Roland made a strong point concerning the terrible events resulting from a man’s inactions regarding his mate? Well, then ...
He put down the wine glass and punched the speed dial of his cellular.
“This will take only a minute,” he assured Bickersford, raising the glass to his lips.
The wine took its effect before his wife’s phone reached its third ring.
***
Well past noon Mrs. Megan Blake arrived in downtown Westchester and swung her T-Bird into the Summerfield Suites lot. There were many spots closer to the building proper, but a classic ’56 model with the MEG-1 tag was too easily remembered. Parking some distance from the main entrance she wondered if all women carrying on affairs were this paranoid.
Megan would have to remember to turn the cellular back on later. She couldn’t expect to sound like herself should her husband call while she was doing ... this. Maybe she should have stopped for a glass of wine just to steady her nerves, stopped to smell the Rosé, as it were. That cheap swill Hal always brought would never do it for her.
A new headache kick boxed her frontal lobe. Swallowing a Tylenol dry she rubbed her temples, then slipped on the kerchief and donned dark glasses. Today’s liaison would have to be a real slam-bam because she had planned a candlelight dinner to celebrate with Prentice, just the two of them, and a decent duck l’orange took time.
She had misgivings meeting Hal on her wedding anniversary, but guilt hadn’t stopped their Wednesday trysts before. The previous week, following her spinning class, she had joined Patsy Henning for lunch at the Carlyle, spent a pleasant hour ridiculing the fall fashions over Caesar salads and wine, then took the elevator to the seventeenth floor and fucked Patsy’s husband raw. Hal admitted he would never divorce his wife, and Megan had to restrain herself from laughing. She had no desire to marry Hal and would have hated losing Patsy’s friendship.
She passed the desk manager like a nervous teenager and walked the two flights to the room Hal had reserved.
“You’re late,” he said removing her glasses, then kissed her. Megan always considered the simulated romance extraneous, but she supposed it was required. The truth was, in appearance Hal Henning couldn’t hold a candle to Prentice. Already his middle aged gut had spread and his hair was thinning. But as her lover, Hal had two distinct advantages over her husband. He was a different man and he wanted her.
“Hutchinson traffic. Sorry.” She loosened the kerchief, allowing her golden hair to spill to her shoulders. Hal read that as his signal to kiss her again. She let his tongue explore hers, felt him grow hard when he grabbed her ass and pulled her close. This was foreplay by the clock, but still Megan’s panties grew moist.
He poured a chilled California Chardonnay whose bottling date probably was last Tuesday, but few men knew wines like she and her husband. Megan dutifully drank and nodded politely through the requisite banter, something about Hal’s kid having made the soccer squad. He was already removing her blouse before she finished her drink.
“Let me tell you what I’m going to do to you,” he said as she climbed into bed.
“I’d rather you didn’t tell me this time, all right?”
She didn’t mean to sound like such a magabitch, but her head hurt and she was already woozy having drunk the wine so quickly. She kissed him, but the effort was dry and passionless. She kissed him again, trying harder. Same thing.
“Something wrong, Meg? You seem distant today.”
“Sorry. I’m having a little trouble getting in touch with my inner slut.”
“Need some time?”
She did, but so did the duck l’orange.
“It’s just that my Catholic upbringing kicks in whenever I’m sleeping with another man on my wedding anniversary. I think Sister Mary Rose is in bed with us. But I suppose I cashed in on my Catholicism the first time I put your dick in my mouth.”
Hal stared at her like she had spoken Swahili, but humor was always lost on Patsy’s husband.
“I’m okay, really,” she said.
Megan decided she could have used some romance after all, even if it were simulated. She wanted to be held more than screwed, but she hadn’t much time for either. Hal reached for her and kissed her neck, making his way down to her breast, and in another few minutes he was inside her. His face glistening with sweat, he pumped his body as if he were on an exercise machine at the spa.
She moaned.
He grunted.
Another grunt, very loud, followed by another much louder. Too loud.
He gasped, puffing for air.
“Hal? Are you all ri--?”
“I--I can’t--can’t breathe ...!”
Hal managed to sit up, hands suddenly turned into claws clutching at his chest. His body jerked as if he had been hot wired, then stiffened. He slumped sideways into Megan’s lap.
“Unnnghh ... !”
“Hal??”
The woman’s jaw unhinged.
“Hal!!”
Megan maneuvered his head to look at him. Hal’s flesh had gone ashen and she could locate no pulse. She propped him up and felt for a heart beat, then pounded at his chest, fists balled together. She had seen George Clooney treat a heart attack like that on “E.R.” but she had no idea what she was doing. Letting go of him, she allowed Hal to slump from her. The realization hit hard.
I’m sharing this bed with a dead man!
Megan got to her feet, pacing naked about the room, her brain on fire.
Have to call for help.
Have to do something.
Can’t let him just --
She picked up the house phone, quickly returning it to its cradle.
“Shit! Shit!”
She took a few minutes to breathe deeply, forcing on herself a semblance of calm. Megan’s headache had become a percussion symphony, but she had to think. There was a way to handle this. There was always a way, some manner to solve even the most perplexing --
It came to her that moment. There seemed no other clear choice. Hal was dead and she could do nothing to alter that. The man had died fucking her, and there was no altering that either. But did anyone need to know she had precipitated his heart attack? She hadn’t really caused Hal’s death; she had merely been unfortunate enough to have been present when it occurred, even if she were thrashing under him at the time. No crime had been committed, had there? This was merely a case of some poor guy who died with his pants off. What to do seemed blessedly simple when her dilemma was understood in simple terms.
The best decision was none at all.
Megan dressed, then stuffed her hair beneath the kerchief so not one strand showed. She returned the dark glasses to her face and took a last look at Hal. Upright in the bed, the man seemed almost peaceful, and why not? He had died doing what he enjoyed best. She half expected him to be smiling. Megan closed the door behind her.
The desk manager was talking to someone registering, and Megan easily made her way past him unnoticed, starting up her car amazed with the simplicity of her getaway. Pulling the T-Bird from the lot she remembered the wine glasses were still inside the room.
Fuck it. This wasn’t a crime, nothing worthy of fingerprinting, and it wouldn’t do to start worrying about burning in hell right now. Better to remain in control, to consider other pressing matters and focus her thoughts elsewhere. She could do nothing about what had happened at the motel, but soon she would be back in White Plains. It seemed best to concentrate on the now.
Megan turned to some easy listening on the FM dial. Streisand was bitching to Neal Diamond that he didn’t bring her flowers any more.
Yeah, that was pretty much how this whole damned thing started.
Today was her wedding anniversary. There was the duck l’orange to attend to for dinner, there was that to worry about. Right now she desired only one thing to get her through this. She wished she could get rid of this damned headache. Megan fumbled inside her purse for another Tylenol, but there was an abundance of shit and she had to poke about for it, going in deep. She found her cell phone and decided she had best turn it on. It immediately chirped.
“Shit!” she muttered, dropping it. “Shit!” she said again louder, and fished for the ringing cell that had disappeared beneath her seat.
Too late she saw the traffic light on Corporate Park Drive had gone red.
But she did see the van that came screeching towards her.
***
Fuzzy. really damned fuzzy.
Megan’s T-Bird. The image was unclear but Blake kept seeing his wife’s car in flickering bits like a badly sprocketed film. Roland’s wine was up to its old tricks again, but this time the story it told played hide and seek with his psyche. He dialed her number again.
“This is Meg and I’m out, so you know what to do ...”
Prentice received Megan’s voice mail. Something wrong there, but maybe she had stepped out for some last minute dinner ingredient. She didn’t often prepare such elaborate meals for him, not any more. What was it about marriage during mid life that turned everything decent to dog shit? He gave Bickersford the ‘wait a minute’ digit and punched the speed dial to his wife’s cellular phone. This time nothing.
Megan often had forgotten to turn on the cell when preoccupied or when she didn’t feel like talking to him. Prentice approached his host. “We should wrap up this transaction, Roland. Let me write another check for two more bottles. I ought to head home or my wife will serve me my own balls l’orange.”
He finished what remained inside his glass. The stuff was potent enough to knock a Brahma Bull on his ass and maybe he downed it a little too quickly, but it was certainly a magnificent wine. He had made himself one hell of a purchase. Still ...
Dizzy. Maybe drank a little over my limit.
Bickersford pocketed the check and located a handsome leather carrying pouch, placing the bottles carefully inside for his guest. “A genuine pleasure, Mr. Blake. I know you’re in a rush, but if you would indulge me a moment longer ...”
“I have only a few minutes.”
“Then I’ll be brief. Mr. Blake, you have a keen understanding of my wines. I’m an old man with a failing heart. Soon I’m going to die. But my wine, it endures. Many of the bottles you see here were fermented before I was born. Many will remain after you and I are dust.”
“An interesting observation, Roland, but I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“I have one more request, Mr. Blake. One additional wine I’ll ask you to try before you leave. I ferment the wine right here and I’ve offered it to only a select few of my visitors.”
Bickersford pulled out his tangle of keys again. The collector slid a long-pronged key into a lock concealed behind a single bottle selected among dozens exactly like it. The entire barrier, racks and all, swung aside revealing a large hidden vault beyond the false panel. The darkness inside made it impossible to see anything clearly. Blake could make out walls lined with wine racks and some oak barrels, but nothing else.
“Fermentation in oak is a slower and more complicated process, but infinitely more rewarding.” Bickersford entered the cell and removed a fresh bottle among dozens along the wall rack. Its appearance was ordinary, even cheap. “I’d like you to try this one.”
“Roland, I’ve had so much to drink already--”
“Only a sip.” He located a glass inside the vault, stepped out, and poured for his guest.
“None for yourself?” Prentice asked. “I hate drinking alone.”
“This wine, Mr. Blake, is meant to be drunk alone.”
The liquid looked like an ordinary store-bought Chardonnay. Lacking luster, its appearance seemed murky. Blake sniffed the bouquet, but it proved not worth the effort. This wine clearly wasn’t up to Roland Bickersford’s high standards. He looked back at his host to see if some mistake had been made.
Roland simply nodded, and responded “Drink.”
Blake sipped. Sipped again out of politeness. The taste was much too acidic. This wine clearly was California swill, but he kept that opinion to himself.
“Interesting.” He could say nothing else that would not appear insulting.
Roland stood staring at him as if awaiting some kind of reaction.
“This wine has a story to tell too. A genuine connoisseur can distinguish the false from the true, not merely with his palate, but with every sense he possesses. Tell me, Mr. Blake. Can you discern the truth in this wine’s story?”
Prentice needed a moment.
He certainly could tell the difference. Hell, yes.
Something coming into focus.
Hal ... Megan ... a half emptied bottle of wine ...
Blake could see Hal pour and Megan dutifully drink, nodding politely as Hal babbled about his kid having made the soccer squad. He was already removing her blouse before she finished her drink.
“Let me tell you what I’m going to do to you,” he said as she climbed into bed.
“I’d rather you didn’t tell me this time, all right?”
“Jesus, Roland! What in Christ is going on here ...?”
“Just the truth, Mr. Blake. Nothing more.”
[Something wrong ... something very wrong ...]
“Hal?” Megan said. “Hal!”
An image of Megan’s car appeared for a millisecond then went black. A second and longer image flashed inside his head and he could see her through the windshield, her face contorted as if she were about to scream. Blake’s fist covered his mouth.
“Some more wine?” Roland offered without losing his smile.
“I’ve seen all I want to see! Jesus, Roland! What kind of sick shit is this?”
Blake pushed past his host, stumbling towards the elevator. The old man would have to show his guest out, of course. A true gentleman never forgot his manners. Besides, Bickersford held the keys to the conveyer. But there remained something he must do first.
In his haste Mr. Blake had not finished his drink.
Roland lifted his visitor’s glass to his lips and sipped.
***
Patsy Henning figured it out first. After Hal’s burial she confessed to Prentice with a phone call, admitting to her third glass of wine. She told him how she had been to the motel room to identify Hal’s body, discovered the wine glasses, and spotted the lipstick smear on one of them. Meg’s favorite shade smudged the glass, and Patsy’s having heard of Meg’s nearby accident on Corporate Park Drive pretty much sealed it. From well meaning friends Blake heard how the bereaved woman began her period of mourning on phone calls while blowing the lid off the whole sordid mess. It was one thing to be fucked over by her husband, she told anyone who would listen; she suspected Hal had been sniffing skirt for some time. But she had always considered Megan Blake her friend.
Megan’s funeral was agony. Hidden behind their condolences Blake read both pity and rebuke in the mourners’ eyes, secret stares that asked “How could you have not known?” Sympathies were expressed, of course, offers of kindness proffered, all the expected niceties of human behavior that amounted to absolutely nothing. Blake smiled through most of it, collapsing on the couch at day’s end.
Prentice hadn’t really mourned. He waited for tears, expected they would come. It was a sad commentary on his marriage, but he had none to shed for the woman who had shared his life.
The sky had appeared ominous the entire day, distant thunder grumbling for the past hour. Blake stood by the window watching lightning flashes dissect the sky. The leather pouch lay on the end table. Blake pulled out one of the bottles of ebonies. There seemed no point in letting expensive wine go to waste.
“Hello darkness, my old friend.”
He poured a glass for himself, savored its aroma, and drank the whole thing. Leaning back he closed his eyes. If he polished off both bottles tonight he owed no one any apologies.
[The trick is to allow a good wine to do its work.]
Prentice needed to rest. He hadn’t really slept since the night of Megan’s accident. Perhaps one more glass would help him nod off. Blake hadn’t enjoyed many ebonies, but this one was unusually superb. He finished the second glass, kicked off his shoes, and spread out on the couch.
The rain pelted his windows in unrelenting sheets, but hopefully the downpour’s rhythm would help bring on sleep. It was raining very hard now, and Blake wanted it to continue all night. This storm looked to be a real gully washer.
Let it rain ... and rain ... and rain ...
***
At 11:00 p.m. Roland Bickersford decanted a Bordeaux, deciding to check the weather forecast before bed. But first he would have to suffer through the news.
There had been another terrorist attack on a bus outside Tel-Aviv. Six dead, and three were children.
In Newark some fool had strapped a bomb to himself, then paced the streets wearing a hand painted sandwich board proclaiming “‘FOR THE GREAT DAY OF HIS WRATH HAS COME, AND WHO IS ABLE TO STAND’ (Revelation 6:17).” Some priest with a bull horn managed to talk the fanatic out of blowing an entire city block into ping pong balls.
Roland sipped his wine, savoring the taste. It was a daring little wine, but surprisingly bitter.
Megan Blake was buried today, and her husband appeared on screen pushing past reporters. The event would have never been news worthy except that the woman had left a dead lover inside a motel room only minutes before her small sports car was crushed by some college kid driving a van. The scandal made for some good reality television during a run of otherwise slow news days.
Roland took another sip, let the liquid play on his tongue, and shook his head.
The Yanks blew it in the 9th, a real heartbreaker.
The weather report called for severe thunder storms to continue into the middle of next week.
Centuries ago an old fool had built his ark in preparation for such an event, instructed to do so by an enraged God who, according to the hypothesis, spoke to the old man while he was stinking drunk. But Noah didn’t have the fortunes of Roland Bickersford nor a massive subterranean wine cellar. There would be no groups of animals led two by two to repopulate Roland’s new world. For that, the wine connoisseur required only one species, and its name was Bickersford.
The world was going to hell, but he didn’t have to stand around and wait for it to happen. He refused to become another loon with a sandwich board preaching the end was nigh to chortling non believers. He would happily allow that crowd to go off with the next Haly Bop Comet. People laughed at Noah, and even Noah’s wife had thought the old man crazy. Hell, you go around preaching the end of the world is coming, of course people are going to think you’ve burned out a few bulbs. But wine speaks the truth, and a connoisseur always recognizes false from true. No one was going to laugh at Mr. Roland Bickersford.
From within the cellar’s hidden wine vault four of Roland’s young wives would attest to that, had they been able. Stuffed inside small oak barrels kept cool in Bickersford’s temperature controlled rooms, fermenting them would have been a tricky business in less competent hands. Roland had loved them all and hoped each would age well, but Katherine wasn’t looking so good.
The old man finished his Bordeaux. He turned off the t.v., then put out the light by his bed. There would be other buyers like Prentice Blake, maybe even tomorrow. He expected lots of them before the end and he would have an interesting wine for each of them.
He couldn’t say when it was going to happen, but The Great Day of His Wrath was coming, all right. And there wasn’t going to be any flood, no forty days and forty nights of rain.
This time there would be fire.
And this time it wasn’t going to be God who finished the job.
####
