Modern Wine Fables – Bordeaux: Futures

Tom Smyth slouched at his desk and fumed. He was missing out on going to the en primeur tastings – again. Instead the gig had gone to his colleague at daily drinks report, Nick Miller – again. Nick went every year, a point Tom had raised with their editor, Emily.

‘I wouldn’t worry,’ she said, ‘it’s not really that much fun tasting all that young wine. I’m sure you’ll get to go next year.’

But that wasn’t the point, couldn’t she see? By all accounts it was fun and she said he’d get to go every year but whenever the invitations rolled in she never suggested Nick offer up his place to him instead.

So every spring for the past four years Tom had watched as his Natter feed filled up with pictures of Nick at such and such a château and Nick drinking such and such a vintage with the most celebrated winemakers and writers in the world.

And every year he came back and recounted how they’d had a fabulous lunch at Château Latrine with the 1993 quadruple-decanted from a double Mephistopheles* or how the Cuvée d’Arrogance was particularly unctuous at Château Ziggurat that year.

He was though, in Tom’s opinion at any rate, all fart and no shit – which made it even worse. As Tom saw it Nick’s sole interest in going to Bordeaux each year lay in drinking wines from the top estates and networking constantly using all his oily charm and public school banter to hide the fact that his actual knowledge of wine was skin-deep at best.

‘Like a two hour cold maceration,’ Tom muttered under his breath and smirked at his own joke before realising it was a monstrously poor one.

It was all so unfair. It was Tom that tracked the fine wine market, put in the calls to brusque château owners to ask them how the harvest was looking and was constantly fobbed off with, “we will have to wait and see”.

Tom called the merchants to ask them how the wines might be priced or how they were selling once released, Tom had built up an archive chronicling the rise and fall of the fine wine market and broke the news that a certain Liechtenstein-based glassmaker’s ‘Stemware Research’ project had actually been a front to launder money for African tyrants

But did he get to go to Bordeaux? No. Only darling, poster boy Nick, just because he was post sub-assistant deputy editorial manager – and because he was sleeping with Emily. Maybe. Something had, perhaps, happened at the last Christmas party but nobody was really sure. He probably was, the git.

The root of it all though was that Tom was nothing if not ambitious, vainglorious even in his pursuit of recognition. And of course he was jealous, horribly jealous of Nick’s looks, his success with women and the ease with which he moved through life.

Tom huffed and turned his attention back to his screen. He was reading Nathan Marlin’s initial impressions of the vintage, which the esteemed critic was comparing favourably to the new darling of his iPod, the four-piece indie orchestra from Seattle, ‘Pretending to be British’. Apparently the vintages’ punchy tannins, eclectic acidity and ripe yet classic fruit reminded him of the group’s mock-Tudor-funk-inspired rhythms with just a dash of classic Essex-boathouse techno.

‘It’s probably the greatest vintage of the last three years – although that’s not difficult to say as the other two were so transcendentally crap,’ he wrote. ‘These wines envelope you in exquisite blackcurrant juice and then dropkick you into next week, like a sub-atomic bassline drop from New York ethno-punk rockers Electric Disco Hooker, with an aftertaste that goes on for as long as one of my sentences. Drinking these wines is honestly like downing a bucket of Tennessee Fried Squirrel while listening to Sex Witch Bonk Rotter’s latest bildungsroman of an album.’

Tom gave up, thinking about what he was missing out on was sapping his will to work – and he still had an eight page advertorial on synthetic closures company, ‘Cork Lover’, to do. He hated work sometimes.

His inbox pinged and an email entitled: ‘Comment request’, flashed up.

‘Comment for what though?’ he thought. At any one time he might have four or five stories requiring some kind of comment on the go on top of his articles for the magazine. It was often hard to keep track of them all.

He clicked the link and the email sprang onto his screen.

‘Dear Mr Smith,’ it began, following the usual infuriating French or indeed wider European habit of not quite getting Anglo-Saxon names right, ‘thank you for your questions about the pricing strategy of Château Pique-Interêt in the coming en primeur campaign. Please find underneath the responses of director technique Mr Chanterelle.’

Typical, no telephone call. ‘Well, perhaps the written answer will be worthwhile?’ Tom said under his breath.

He scrolled down and found the answer. He was disappointed. Mr Chanterelle had written: ‘Ch. Pique-Interêt is very pleased with the wine it has produced in the 20― vintage. It will price it at a level that is right for the market.’

Great. Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. This aura of mystique shtick was such bullshit, why couldn’t they just be honest?

Nick rose suddenly from the desk in front of him as if erupting out of the ground. He stretched and arched his back. He knew half of the girls in the office had snatched a look out of the corner of their eye.

He turned, flicked a blond lock back into place and slung his jacket over his shoulder. Who even did that anymore?

‘Gonna have to love ya and leave ya,’ he drawled. ‘It’s going to be pretty busy in Bordeaux next week. Lots of visits planned at super smart estates, need to be top of my game.’ He winked at Imogen who sat on Tom’s left. She smiled and did a sort of simpering, flattered face with a small laugh and funny head wobble which showed she liked the attention.

‘Oh, Nick, you’re leaving,’ said Emily, suddenly standing herself and reaching for her coat. ‘You’re not going to be in next week are you?’

‘No, going to be in Bordeaux.’

‘For en primeurs?’

‘That’s right.’

‘As you bloody well know,’ thought Tom.

‘Great, great,’ said Emily. ‘I have to dash out now too, can I talk with you about what I want you to focus on during the trip on our way out?’

‘Absolutely,’ Nick smiled and the two of them left together. Everyone watched them go.

‘He’s definitely shagging her,’ said Tom after they’d gone.

‘You’re just jealous,’ Imogen fired back.

‘Me? Jealous?’ Tom snorted, feigning insult. ‘Fuck off.’ It was true though, Emily may have been 34 but she was a babe and Tom hadn’t had sex in over a year since his last on/off girlfriend had called him a commitment-phobe and simply stopped texting him. He was randy as hell. But admit he was jealous of Nick? Never.

‘You totally are,’ Imogen continued, ribbing him now.

Tom acted like he was relenting, which he was really but pretending not to. ‘Even if I was…’

‘Were,’ she corrected him.

‘…were. Even if I were,’ he reiterated mock-grudgingly taking her correction on-board. ‘So what? It’s unprofessional.’

‘Ha!’ she said. ‘So we’ve established you’re jealous of Nick and Emily jumping each other’s bones every night and you’d like to be the one doing it instead of Nick. Veeery interesting,’ she giggled. ‘Who’s “unprofessional” now?’

‘Oh, piss off,’ he smiled back. Imogen began to pick up her things. ‘Up to anything tonight?’ he asked her.

‘Hot date,’ she replied and Tom’s spirits sank just a little despite himself. Imogen was kind of cute too.

‘Oh yeah? Who with this time? One of your “Flame” matches?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘He’s called, Will, works in finance.’ She pulled a face. ‘Don’t know why I bother really he’ll probably be totally boring.’

‘Don’t go then,’ Tom suggested.

‘Ummm, desperate!’ said Imogen pointing a finger at herself.

Tom shrugged. ‘Well, just as long as he’s not an half-Belgian environmental jihadist like the last one or a bi-sexual Marxist with a penchant for Led Zeppelin like the one before that.’

‘Yeah,’ Imogen sighed. ‘I do pick ‘em don’t I? Night.’

‘Night.’

He’d been playing with the wheel of his mouse during the exchange and as he turned back to the screen something written in French caught his eye and slowly made him sit up.

‘Operation Eclairissage is green-lit,’ it began. ‘You will be supplied with the necessary quantities of CLTTX-13 to complete your assigned task. Ch. Pique-Interêt is vital to the success of this operation – you must not fail. The events planned for 26^th to 29^th March will change the wine world decisively in our favour and ensure the continued dominance of our region for the next hundred years. Non-compliance will result in severe penalties.’

‘What the f―?’ Tom mouthed as he read and re-read the small but sinister message. It was buried deep down on the page and he’d clearly been copied into an email chain by mistake. As well as M. Chanterelle it had apparently been sent to ’20 autres’.

Tom took a moment to register what he’d just read. The dates were en primeur week, of that he was sure, but what was ‘Operation Eclairissage’? He scratched his head and then googled
‘CLTTX-13’. The results gave him an even greater shock.

‘CLTTX-13: Chloro-Tetrodotoxin-13, an extremely poisonous compound belonging to the Tetradontidae order and Chlorotoxins group. CLTTX-13 is a laboratory-enhanced strain of TTX which is commonly found in the liver, gonads, ovaries, intestines and skin of the puffer, porcupine and ocean sunfish and BmKAEP which is found in the venom of Mesobuthus martensii or Manchurian scorpion. Lethal in small quantities as quickly as 30 minutes after ingestion. There is no known antidote.’

‘No way!’ Tom exclaimed causing his colleagues Cordelia and Mark to turn around in surprise.

‘What?’ said Cordelia.

‘Um, football transfer,’ Tom said. ‘Torres to Inverarity Morton FC.’

‘Ugh,’ said Cordelia turning back again.

‘Mate, that happened, like, last week,’ said Mark.

‘Yeah,’ said Tom. ‘Only just seen the news.’

Mark shook his head sadly and likewise turned back to his screen.

Tom forwarded the email to a personal account and then shut his computer down. He muttered a garbled, ‘have a good weekend, everybody,’ on his way out and then ran for the bus stop and home.

A short while later Tom was pacing up and down in his room. His head was still spinning but, incredible as it seemed, he had decided it was no hoax. The more he thought of it, in fact, the more it made sense. The dates mentioned were indeed en primeur week as he’d thought and all the cryptic wording and poison references pointed to just one thing.

The Bordelais were going to kill off the trade. All of them – or at least a sizeable chunk – using this CLTTX-13 stuff.

‘Poisoned wine,’ he laughed, ‘genius.’

And the motive? It had to be the Bordelais clearing house. Tired of the criticism they were getting about pricing and their supposed arrogance the time had clearly come to do away with the chattering critics and the truculent merchants and make way for another crop. Tom laughed to himself. It made even more sense when one remembered the coachload of leading négociants that had died in an enormous fireball after their vehicle had gone over a cliff only last month. The brakes had failed apparently.

That had been good but what a story this would make. Conspiracy, and murder! Here was his chance to put his name on the map. ‘Get it up and written, Tom boy,’ he said jumping onto his bed and grabbing his laptop – then he caught himself. ‘No!’ Time it. Time it just right so that the news would be breaking as the tasters were about to start hitting the first estates. Imagine it. Panic, suspicion, was it true? It was! Who had saved them? Tom, Tom Smyth! Who? Who? Tom! Tom Smyth!

Shaking with adrenalin he began to write feverishly. ‘Mass murder planned in Bordeaux!’ was his headline; it was a good one. Punchy, sensational; was the exclamation mark too much? It had worked for The Sun, he reasoned with a shrug.

Now for the meat: ‘It has come to the attention of the daily drinks report that there is a conspiracy to poison the international wine trend during the annual en primeur tastings.’ – nice.

‘According to emails seen by daily drinks report, in a move worthy of Lucretia Borgia a cabal [“good word” he commended himself] of producers in Bordeaux are plotting to use a deadly neurotoxin to poison the leading members of the industry during their tour of the famous French region.

He shook his head, barely believing the sensational story that had fallen into his lap. It was going to be the making of him. He was going to be the hero. They’d owe him their lives, all of them. And Nick would have to skulk back to the office and know that he, Tom, had held the power of life and death over him and had saved him. He’d saved him! Saved hi….

He stopped writing. The thought of Nick had caused a reaction swifter than even CLTTX-13 but just as poisonous.

Saved them. Saved him. What if he didn’t save them? Why should he? Had they ever done anything for him? He grappled with his conscious. ‘Don’t think like that,’ he said to himself. He tapped out a few more words on the effects of CLTTX-13. The thoughts came back.

If Nick died, if they all died, there’d be a lot of shoes to fill. They couldn’t get everyone of course, but enough, more than enough. A lot of places to fill. Who’d get to go to all those dinners and tastings? Tom, that’s who. What was it the email had said? ‘The events planned for 26^th to 29^th March will change the wine world decisively in our favour and ensure the continued dominance of our region for the next hundred years.’

The Bordelais would always need merchants and critics to help them sell their wines. The current cull was just to remove a top layer that had begun to ask too many awkward questions. Someone ambitious, willing to ask the right questions…someone like Tom. He could go far in the new order. It meant sacrificing the scoop of course but the final rewards could be much, much greater.

His fingers twitched over the keyboard. ‘Awful secret to live with,’ he said. In his mind’s eye he pictured Nick again, flashing a massive grin and winking. His jaw tightened and, slowly, he deleted what he’d written, closed the lid of his laptop and went downstairs.

*bottle, Mephistopheles, double Mephistopheles, Lucifer, Behemoth, Beelzebub, Satan and St Ignatius of Loyola.

© Rupert Millar
London, August 2015