Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

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and their sweet white wines for one euro a liter or less, so long as they brought their own plastic containers or bottles and did their own filling. This was where Bruno bought his everyday wine. The air smelled of wine, old and new, freshly spilled and freshly opened, at least some of it breathtakingly costly. Knowing the way to the shelf of Pétrus, Bruno led his small entourage to the altar of this temple to wine, and stopped, looking down mournfully at the smashed bottle on the tiled floor. Out of respect, he removed his hat, and kneeled to see it more closely. The price, carefully written in delicate thin strokes of white paint, was 2,200 euros.
    He peered closely at the largest shard of glass. There was indeed a grease mark, more of a long, smeared thumbprint. He turned and looked at Dupuy’s glistening face.
    “Monsieur, I noticed in the pouch by the driver’s seat of your car a tube of sunscreen, a sensible precaution when driving a convertible, although it can be greasy. How recently did you apply it to your face?”
    As Dupuy shrugged, the door opened and Delaron walked in, his camera around his neck.
    “Monsieur Delaron, how about beginning with a photo of the Porsche outside, and be sure to get the license plate and of course the passenger,” Bruno began. “It may make a story for your paper: the sad death of a bottle of Pétrus ’82. …”
    “I’ll pay for the bottle,” Dupuy said suddenly. “It may have been my fault.” He handed a black credit card to Nathalie. “Let’s forget about the whole thing.”
    “You’re lucky it wasn’t the ’61,” said Nathalie. “That’s 4,100 euros. By the way, Bruno, what’s wrong with your hair?”
    “This is a very generous gesture, monsieur,” said Bruno, ignoring Nathalie but hurriedly replacing his hat on his half-cut hair. “It’s a pity there aren’t more people like you. And I’m sure that, in a spirit of reconciliation, Monsieur de Montignac would like to offer you a small glass.”
    Hubert was already behind the counter pulling a bottle from the cooler. “I was planning on tasting a new shipment of the Krug ’95, if Monsieur Dupuy would care to join me, and mademoiselle, of course.” He tapped the bottom of the bottle to prevent it from bubbling over, and removed the cork with a restrained but festive pop. Jacqueline scurried forward with glasses, and Nathalie stood sternly by the door with the credit-card bill for Dupuy to sign. Max emerged from the vast warehouse at the rear with a mop and a dustpan and began cleaning up. Bruno went outside and invited the bored-looking Mademoiselle d’Alambert to join them for a glass of champagne. She left the car with impressive speed and a flash of thigh, leaving the poodle behind.

5
    His interrupted haircut complete, Bruno took the ancient stairs of the
mairie
up to his office, pondering as he often did how many feet it had taken over the centuries to wear the stone steps into such deep curves. The usual mail and paperwork awaited him, along with the endless to-do list that had grown while he was at the research station with J-J. It ranged from providing certificates of good conduct for people applying for jobs and university places to signing contracts for the musicians who would play at the civic ball on the night of the fair of Saint Louis. As secretary of the council’s sports committee, he had to sign the check for the first stage of the repainting of the rugby stadium. There was a faxed notification of death from the Préfecture de Police in Paris informing him that a resident of Saint-Denis had died in the jurisdiction of Paris, and asking that he please notify the family. The name of the deceased was unfamiliar, but the address was that of the hippie commune that had survived in the hills since the 1960s, probably because they produced the best goat cheese in the market. He would have to find time for that visit before the end of the day, but he would use the occasion to put some questions about GMOs to the commune residents. If anybody knew about the
écolos
,environmentalists who were militants for the Green cause, it would be Alphonse and his people.
    He put his hat on top of the bookcase, beside the FBI baseball cap that a friend had brought him after a vacation in New York, then squeezed between the filing cabinets and the wall to get behind his battered metal desk. He sat down, hearing the familiar squeak of his swivel chair, and looked down through the window at the