Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

help smiling to himself as he ran up the stairs to look at his e-mail and to check for the third time that his phone was on and its battery charged. But there was still no message from Isabelle.

16
    Joe was not particular about the grapes that went into the ancient wooden vat for the pressing. So as well as the bunches from the forty rows of vines in his own vineyard, he welcomed grapes from the shady terraces and hedges of his neighbors. To Joe, grapes were grapes. Nor was he averse to the occasional handful of black currants mixed in.
    “Mainly cabernet sauvignon, a couple of rows of merlot, which is about what I’d expect around here, along with the odd foot of cabernet franc,” said Jacqueline, casting what was evidently an expert eye over Joe’s pride and joy, where men and women of all ages and several children were dragging blue plastic boxes between the rows of vines and yelling greetings at Bruno as they carried the full boxes to the trailer behind Joe’s ancient tractor.
    Bondino, who had been sitting with Jacqueline when Bruno returned to Fauquet’s to pick her up and had asked to come along, stared bemusedly at the scene. “It’s like history, like the nineteenth century,” he said. “No machines.” He bent to look at some of Joe’s undistinguished bunches of grapes and shook his head.
    Bruno shouted out a brief introduction of Jacqueline and Bondino as new volunteers.
    Jacqueline waved cheerfully, then turned to examine the rows of vines. “There’s a couple of feet of
mourvèdre
and
cinsaut
and even a
petit verdot
, but it’s really too soon to pick that,” she said. “And Lord bless my soul but I think that’s a
carignan
, although I’ve never actually seen one before. Where on earth did Joe get this job lot of vines? This isn’t a vineyard, it’s a vine museum.”
    Jacqueline had changed into sneakers and a baggy cotton shirt that was emblazoned with the letters UCD. Her abundant hair was swept back into a loose bun. The tight jeans she’d worn in the café had been replaced with some loose cargo pants that seemed to have pockets everywhere. From one she took some very fine latex gloves and from another a pair of curiously curved scissors that were evidently designed to cut the bunches of grapes. Bruno was always eager to observe a real expert, an expert in anything, so he listened carefully.
    “The soil is terrible for wine,” she said. “No drainage, a lot of clay, not enough pebbles, too much water too close to the surface—and the soil nutrients are probably too good for vines. There are weeds everywhere, and I’m not sure that Joe has ever heard about pruning. The foliage is far too thick for the sun to get to the grapes.”
    She then spoke in a burst of English to Bondino, too fast for Bruno to follow, but since she was pointing at the various vines it seemed to be a translation of what she had told Bruno. Bondino nodded appreciatively.
    “You can identify all those different varieties of grape by sight?” Bruno asked.
    “Well, I cheated on the
carignan
. Back in the hotel I checked my reference books for the kinds of grapes that are grown in southwest France. But I can tell most of the varieties. I grew up on vineyards and then did four years at UC Davis.”
    “UC?” Bruno asked.
    “University of California. There’s a branch in the town of Davis, where they have a famous wine program. Then I took a year in Adelaide, the best place in the southern hemisphere to study wine. My family takes wine very seriously, and if you want to make it in the family business, you have to know your stuff. By the way, Bruno, I wanted to ask you something, since you evidently know everything that happens in Saint-Denis. I really don’t want to stay at the hotel too long. It costs more than I should be spending. If you hear of any rooms for rent or a small, cheap apartment, could you let me know? As long as it’s not too far from town. That nice man at the bicycle shop let me have a cheap beat-up bike so I can travel a bit.”
    Her voice trailed off as she looked over his shoulder. Turning, Bruno saw Max and Alphonse arrive, greeting the other grape pickers. Max was heading toward them, waving at Jacqueline, but she turned her back and bent over a row of vines with Bondino.
    Bruno went off to get a blue plastic basket for each of them and a pair of Joe’s rusty wine scissors for himself and Bondino. As he approached the truck, Max brushed past him, barely grasping his hand with