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y host generously poured me a glass of Bogogno Barlo Riserva 1947; a very rare Piedmont he promised would not disappoint—“wine of kings, and a king of wines” the label on the bottle boldly proclaimed.
The vast wine collection of the Mercedat vineyard is legendary in some circles, renowned for their collections of the very finest and rarest vintages in all of Europe.
Though many negociants claimed to have never actually seen the cellars—or of the extensive bounty of which they hold—the stories of their majesty are no less extravagant. The stories of the Mercadat vineyards even made their rounds through the rather less amiable circles of my trading grounds. Some might call me a practitioner of wine fraud—I merely consider myself an opportunist. It is not my fault when the label on the bottle promises more than what the bottle actually contains. No—it is the buyer’s responsibility to know what they are buying, not merchant’s.
The Mercedat bloodline have been wine connoisseurs of the highest pedigree ever since their settlement in the Loire Valley region of France, hoarding bottles of precious wines over the decades amassing to a variable fortune. There are many that would give their best arm to partake of a mere sampling of those wines—some might even kill for such a luxury.
I grasped the neck of the glass with my first two fingers and thumb, bringing the mouth of the glass to my nose and taking in the refined bouquet. My nostrils danced within the rich aromas of pine and roses, with the faint scent of orange tinge; a customary mark of age. I swirled the wine gently with a circular motion, my eyes catching the remarkable colors of the vintage as it sparkled in the light; a deep, dark burnished ruby.
“Tell me, Mssr. Fulci . . . that that is not the finest wine in all of Europe,” Guberson Mercedat, my host, declared rather boldly in his thick southern French accent.
I took an abundant—though not rapacious—sample of the wine, allowing its flavor to infiltrate every taste bud of my tongue. Mercedat’s proclamation of the wine’s superior texture and taste were justly founded . . . and most impressive.
“Well?” my host inquired, as he played anxiously with the bottle’s cork, “What is your assessment?”
“The bouquet is evolved and balsamic, showing lots of spices, anise and stewed fruits,” I observed astutely, “The flavor is rich, and there is a wonderful follow through onto the palate, which has a hint of dark fruit, stewed prunes and tar flavors.”
“Remarkable!” my host cried.
“Judging by the color, the vintage matures at the end of September . . .” I continued, “Holding it into the light, there are clusters of dark blues and greys, resulting from the abundance of wax that dresses the grape . . . a distinct characteristic of that time of season.”
“Marvelous!” Mercedat shouted gleefully, “Absolutely marvelous! You, my friend, are a true sommelier!”
“I am just an admirer of fine wines . . . not unlike yourself.”
Mercedat smiled.
My humble assessment of his character was no miscalculated effort. In fact, every move up until this point had been carefully planned as though moving the pieces of a chessboard; each piece moved a masterstroke setting up my opponent to his inevitable demise. With some chance—and with some knowledge retrieved after handsomely tipping a comely barmaid—I happened upon the last of the Mercedat bloodline in a local pub and offered to share with him a bottle of cheap flat port, with the design of sparking my host’s vivacity for quality vintage.
By displaying my knowledge of wine tasting upon the lackluster bottle—and after some preliminary banter revolving around the proper climate and soil needed to produce the perfect port—I coaxed an invention to Mercedat’s family estate with the expressed interest in sampling some of his exemplary collection. Modestly, of course, I initially declined and only accepted upon Mercedat’s relentless insistence.
“To say that I am an admirer of fine vintages would be an understatement,” Mercedat confided, “It is very rare that I should share my wines with a gentleman with such precise appreciation for wine as mine own.”
I smiled and bowed my head down with mock humility.
During our coach ascended through the dense wooded hillside to the estate, I confessed to be an exporter of Veblen goods with a select group of high profiled clientele with an insatiable appetite for only the rarest quality commodities. Mercedat sat in silence for several minutes until finally he turned and clutched my arm. He whispered that his family’s fortunes had depleted rapidly over the years—due mainly to his father’s rather scrupulous investments. Although he had tried to rectify these mistakes, the damage had been allowed to progress unabated for too long and he feared that he might have to liquidate some his estate to recover.
I nodded compassionately, reassuring my host with my connections we might develop a business relationship that might be productive for both of us.
“I must thank you for inviting me into your marvelous home . . . this estate is quite impressive.”
“My grandfather built all this . . .” Mercedat gestured grandly with the wine glass in hand, “It was he who ignited my family’s obsession with rare and fine vintages. He turned this barren country land into a luscious vineyard to house his collection of wines from around the world. Below, in the catacombs of this estate, is a collection of reserve so exquisite that could cause even the most surfeited of connoisseurs to drool at the mere sight.
“Yes . . . I was fortunate enough to inherit this land, but most fortunate to have inherited my grandfather’s affinity for this by-product of fermented grapes. He went to great pains in collecting only the finest—and, I dare say—I shan’t disappoint him in my future endeavors.”
I partook again from my glass. It was a marvelous vintage, yet the promise of more below was most tempting—I had to persuade my host to show me them, but I had to be most clever.
“Tell me, my dear Fulci . . .” Mercedat inquired, “What brings an Italian to rural France? Surely, it is not simply to sight see?”
Now, I saw my chance to strike.
“To be most frank . . .” I proceeded, “Growing up in Montalcino, naturally it was impossible for me as young boy not to be aware of the vast wine industry that is prevalent within even the most poor and rural reaches of the countryside. Having my fair share of Brunello di Montalcino, I dreamed to travel all Europe to tour the most famous wine countries producing only the finest wines. I have been fortunate in my profession to garner the security to make such a dream a reality. I hope I may learn all there is about being a wine connoisseur and, perhaps at the end of my travels, I could return home enlightened.”
Mercedat leaned against the mantel of the fireplace for what felt like an eternity, holding the glass of Piedmont to his nose and taking in the aroma, but never sipping. I sat in the chair helpless, hoping against hope that my host would not think my fabrication too trite to be believed.
“If it is enlightenment that you seek, my ami dévoué . . . then you have come to the right place!” Mercedat announced joyously.
Mercedat beckoned me to follow him and I willingly obliged. He led me to the southern section of the house to a massive door, which led into the cellars of the house. At the bottom of the stairs, I could see from the faint glow of a single 40-Watt bulb in the cellar’s ceiling that the room was mostly sparse, containing only a few dusty bottles of Chardonnay and Port—surely this could not be the vast fortune of legend?
Keenly perceptive, Mercedat chuckled at my obvious confusion.
“Merely cooking wine, copain . . .” he explained, “The true treasures lay beyond that door.”
He pointed to another impressive oak door at the far end of the cellar. With tremendous effort, he opened the door revealing a set of long stone steps leading down into a pool of blackness below us. He picked up a pair of old, wooden torches that leaned against the cement wall and lit both. He handed me one and explained that the wine cellars had never been equipped with electricity. His grandfather’s superstition that the—then new—technology would somehow spoil his precious vintages.
At his lead, we descended downward onto the stone carved steps towards the catacombs below. The further downward we stepped, the more mold and dampness assaulted my nose, pressing down on my sinuses like a wet rag. The walls were blanketed with moisture. The depressingly morbid atmosphere was truly something straight out of a Poe tale.
“These cellars provide the precise temperature and moisture which allow the wines to age . . . preserving and enhancing the richness of their bouquets and textures.”
Our torches struggled against the darkness as we plunged further and further into the abyss. It seemed that we were now a hundred feet below the surface, although I could not be certain. What I could be certain of was the unmistakable feeling of claustrophobia as the tunneled walls of the staircase began to get tighter and tighter with each passing step. It was as though we were burrowing into the earth like rodents and into our own hellish graves. Should one become lost within the deep labyrinth, it would be fair to surmise that the retched soul would be lost forever without any hope of anyone above learning of his terrible fate.
“With the all the care and effort your grandfather put into the vineyard,” I observed, “it is a wonder he did not produce any wines himself.”
“As a matter of fact, my grandfather’s interests did extend into manufacturing his own vintages,” Mercedat confessed, “But all of his attempts were merely for personal gratification . . . he never held any serious interest in profiting from his endeavors . . .
“In fact, my grandfather experimented quite frequently with different flavors. I do not assume I need to tell you that the taste of any particular wine is based solely on the species and variety of the grapes used—my grandfather felt that wine should not be limited to this ingredient. He was constantly exploring different fruits and spices, added during fermentation with the grapes to alter the wine’s taste, producing wines never before produced. You could say, he was in search of the perfect wine. Many in my family would debate his success with such hobbies.”
Finally, we reached the lowest level of the cellars. The air was thick with a musk that strangled the throat as it entered the nasal passages. Mercedat took his torch and lit some strategically positioned torches around the cellar. The light from the torches illuminated the room, exposing several hundred wine racks and aging barrels. To say that I was impressed would be a gross understatement. Never in my career in the wine trade had I seen so many bottles of fine vintages, all ripen like fruit ready to be picked.
Mercedat smiled and motioned for me to help myself. I walked causally over to one of the racks and randomly pulled out a bottle, the label of which read Chateau Lafite-Rotschild 1945.
“Yes . . . you can believe your eyes,” Mercedat laughed, reading the expression of amazement on my face, “That bottle which you hold in your hands in one of the rarest wines in all the world. There are a dozen that are known to still exist—bar from the five bottles that reside in this cellar.”
Mercedat nodded to me, signaling me to open the bottle.
“Really . . .” I said, my breath escaping me momentarily, “I really couldn’t think to open it. Surely, there are better occasions for this wine to be utilized towards.”
“Nonsense . . .” Mercedat interrupted, “There is no better time than I can think of than the present.”
He found a corkscrew on a shelf, dusted it off and handed it to me. I could feel my hands shake as I peeled off the wrapper around the cork. Normally, I would be embarrassed to say that a single bottle of wine could shake my nerves so violently—but I would not be remiss to say that the bottle I held in my hands was no normal table wine. I drilled the screw into the moist flesh of the cork and pried it out of the bottle; the cork slid out gently with a slight pop of pressure from its maturity.
Mercedat fetched two wineglasses and I poured the Bordeaux. I lifted my glass to my nose and took in the wine’s rich bouquet. The dense molds of the cellar were now replaced in my nostrils with the bold and sumptuous fragrance of violets and cherries.
“What should we drink to?” I asked dutifully with respect to the vintage.
“To wine!” Mercedat exclaimed, “Let’s drink a toast to fine wines—and to the fortunate few, such as we, who can truly appreciate them!”
Yes—to the fortunate few.
My host could have toasted anything at that point in time. I desperately wanted to taste this rare wine and I would have toasted to Mussolini himself to savor it unabated. I opened my mouth and brought the glass to my lips, allowing the dark red fluids to pour onto my tongue. I was struck by how forceful and vibrant the flavors were, prickling my taste buds with a smooth developed taste—like shaping the tail of a peacock in my mouth. It could quite possible be the best bottle of wine I ever tasted.
“Surely you agree that the baume levels are perfection,” Mercedat noted, “Outside of my grandfather, there was only one other man in the world with an affinity for wines and that would be the man whose name graces the bottle . . . N.M. Rothschild.”
My eyes traced the room as I continued to sip from my glass. All the racks and barrels were marked and organized by wine types, with the reds on the left side of the cellar and the whites on the right. From the labels I could read many different vintages of Chardonnay, Pinot, Chianti, Rhone, Zinfandel, Burgundy, Port, Sherry, and Marsala—just to name a few.
It was at that moment I decided that if I were to subdue my host, now would the most fortuitous. The plan was simple: I would grab an expendable bottle and when the moment was right, I would break it over Mercedat’s skull. I fathomed it would be weeks at the very least before he were discovered, thus affording me plenty of time securing the rarest of the collection and selling it on the black market. I pulled out a bottle of Crianza and turned to my host who had his back trustingly to me.
I then noticed a separate set of racks in the distance with labels I could not easily read. With my curiosity overcoming me, I walked over to the rack and saw that the label above was of wines that I was not familiar. The label read the handwritten word: énergie.
“I don’t believe I am familiar with this vintage,” I confessed.
“I would not believe that you should,” Mercedat smiled behind his glass, “That, my dear Fulci . . . are the spoils of years of my grandfather’s experimentation. Within these bottles house the wines no human, outside of the Mercedat name has ever tasted.”
My interest peaked; I had already been privileged to wines of such uniqueness and rarity that to stop now while holding such a rare vintage would have been devastating. The value alone of such a rarity might prove even more lucrative.
“May I be so bold as to request a taste of such a rare vintage as this,” I said, “I know I must seem rude to demand, but only at your insistence would I ever dream to open it.”
“I must warn you . . .” Mercedat cautioned, “this wine is most unique. My grandfather’s tastes were somewhat limited. I must ask you to be kind in your assessments.”
I agreed.
Mercedat took a bottle from off the rack and opened it. He poured two generous helpings and handed me my share.
I took the wine to my nose and was immediately offended by the fetid aroma. It was a strange fragrance, of which I was not completely unaware of, though I could not quite place as to where I had smelt it previously—surely, not the smell of any wine. I tasted it cautiously and was once again taken aback by the odd taste. I strained vainly not to contort my face so as not to offend my host, whom was awaiting my reaction keenly. The wine tasted off, as if suffering from the most severe condition of bottle-sickness imaginable. I looked over to Mercedat as he took a greedy helping from his glass. He seemed pleased by the taste.
I looked down to the bottled pulled and read the label: énergie de virginité 1978. It was listed as a burgundy . . . but it was unlike any burgundy that I had ever tasted.
“I told you my family’s taste was an acquired one . . .” Mercedat reiterated, judging from my hesitation with my glass.
“Oh, no . . .” I eased gently, “It’s just that we have tasted so much wine tonight and my palate needs to be cleansed in order to properly judge the wine. I must say, though . . . it is certainly unique . . .”
“These were my grandfather’s most prized wines . . . and to be honest, I have taken great pride in carrying on with his efforts.”
I examined the remaining bottles left on the rack and could see only faint handwritten scribbles on the labels; some very faint, others were more recent—all were completely illegible to me since they all were in French.
“So you’ve taken your hand in wine production, as well?”
“Well . . . I do dabble here and there . . . I am not as prolific as my grandfather, but I believe in time I may do him proud.”
Mercedat took another greedy sip of his wine, finishing it all in one broad gulp. I, meanwhile, was hesitant to continue consuming the odd vintage. I held the glass up to my torch to better judge the wine’s overall balance. The color of the wine was very dark, almost deep blue in hue. The liquid was very thick—much thicker than any wine I have ever tasted—the light of the torch struggled to bleed through it.
“What type of wine did you say this was again?”
“It is a special vintage . . . the grapes are from the very finest grown in this vineyard,” my host casually explained.
“But the bottle says it’s a burgundy,” I observed, “That would suggest that the grapes derived from Burgundy, not here in the Loire Valley.”
“That is most astute, Mssr. Fulci . . .” Mercedat smiled, pouring himself another generous helping of the wine, “That is because the label is not named after the grapes, but the special ingredient added to give the wine its unique flavor.”
I took the wine bottle and looked back down at the label. French never being my specialty, I struggled to decipher the words on the label under the flickering torchlight. After a moment’s thought the translation finally came to me.
“Surely, you jest . . .” I remarked, my eyes disbelieving what they were reading, “This label reads Virgin Blood . . . clearly this is some morbid wordplay.”
“No, that terminology is correct . . .” Mercedat explained, “The secret ingredient is the blood of a virgin girl from a small village in Burgundy.”
My mind began to spin violently and my eyes struggled to focus on the smiling face of my host. I could not be certain that the spell I was suffering was of mere shock or sickness due to the consumption of the vile liquid passing as wine.
“Tell me, dear Fulci . . .” Mercedat inquired, “Where did you say you came from?”
“Montalcino,” was all I could reply, as the room continued its vicious circle around me.
“Ah, yes . . . that’s in Tuscany country, is it not?”
I nodded weakly—light-headed.
“I’m afraid, dear Fulci . . . you are not looking very well . . .”
My feet began to weaken underneath me. I reach out to Mercedat, attempting vainly to regain my balance. Mercedat simply stood before me and laughed. I fell to my knee and then to my back. Everything around me went black . . . |
Slowly, I awakened to find that I was in another room. My eyes were still heavy and watery. The torches in front of me burned brightly, making it hard for my eyes to adjust properly to the light. My head was still spinning, but after a few deep breaths, I began to regain my composure.
I could feel something damp upon my forehead. I looked up to see the face of Mercedat as he gently dabbed my head with a wet cloth.
“You must forgive, Mssr Fulci . . .” he spoke graciously, “I realize it was impolite of me, but you understand that it was better to do so this way than to indulge in any violent persuasion.”
“You drugged me . . .”
I attempted to rise from out of my chair, but felt something heavy pressing me down. I looked to my torso and saw that I was being held down by thick rope.
“What is the meaning of all this?” I demanded groggily.
“Again . . . I do give my sincerest apologies . . . but I did not believe you would willingly agree to assist me with this matter—they very seldom do.”
I felt a numbing sensation in my right arm. I looked down to see a large needle inside my forearm. Attached to the needle was a long tube, extracting my blood and spilling it into a normal size wine bottle.
With the bottle nearly full, Mercedat removed the needle from arm and cleaned the wound like a properly trained nurse. He took the bottle and untied the rope from around my torso. I tried to get up from my chair, but my body was still weak and my head woozy from the effects of the drugging.
Mercedat corked the bottle of blood and walked out of the doorway, closing what appeared to be a jail cell door. He locked it; a loud metallic noise echoed throughout the stone walls.
“Certainly a man of your advanced tastes and affection for wines can understand why I must do this,” Mercedat explained, “After all . . . I am a slave to the wine.
“I have many assortments of wines . . . but never had I the opportunity in which you have afforded me . . . Tuscan Wine! I was hoping for a good Chainti, though . . . it is a shame you were not from that region, but I suppose you are not at fault.
“You do understand that I must give this sample I have taken some time to age . . . to properly access the value. If it is successful, then I believe you and I will have a most productive business relationship.”
Anger swelled up in me; I tried to regain my footing, but my legs were still weak and I fell to the floor.
“Please allow yourself some time before trying to stand . . .” Mercedat noted, “I will be down in a little while with some pastries to help fortify the blood cells.”
Mercedat walked away and down through the hallway, and out of my sight.
“Damn you, Guberson!” I cried out, “You can’t just leave me down here! I am not a grape to be picked!”
Mercedat returned, beaming with a smile of morbid amusement.
“Not yet . . .” he said, “But . . . in time, perhaps . . .”
With that, he disappeared into the darkness once more.
Against my fatigue, I managed to lunge at the cell door and held myself up. Peering down the hall, I could see Mercedat’s torchlight disappear around a corner.
I was alone in my cell . . . yet I was not completely alone. I could hear rustling all around me from the other cells that populated the hallway; chains rattling weakly and moans of tortured soul yearning for death’s precious release. I grabbed one all the torches and slipped it through the iron bars of the cell door. In the light, I could see perhaps dozens or more of them—all with nametags above the doors. Some that I could find legible read: SLOVAKIAN WINE . . . PORTUGESE WINE . . . CROATIAN WINE . . . the lists went on and on.
I reached up above my head and found a similar tag above my door. I took it down and read it in the torchlight: |
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| TUSCAN WINE |
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Smooth and Ripe
Fruit driven character
Prime aging: six to eight years. |
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