Chapter 33
A week later, Bente and Didrik traveled to Bordeaux. Elnaz was busy with another production and had decided to stay home, and they were looking forward to spending some time together, just the two of them.
They arrived early in the morning, and after dropping their luggage in their respective rooms, went downstairs for a late breakfast. The small boutique hotel had a beautiful inner courtyard where the staff served a generous breakfast every morning, and cocktails every afternoon.
The air was filled with the scent of honeysuckle and the aroma of café au lait and freshly baked croissants.
Bente got there first and sat down at a table, and Didrik soon appeared.
He gently touched her shoulder and sat down beside her.
She had even asked Frederic about it. He discovered some notes about bottles from the vineyard in an old wine cellar whose list was available on some network he belonged to, but the owner knew nothing more—he had acquired the cellar as part of the house purchase.
Frederic had never personally heard of the vineyard either.
The Bordeaux city archive was quite a distance from the hotel, but after so much time on the train, they were both looking forward to walking on this beautiful early-summer morning.
On the way, they passed Porte Cailhau, which with its medieval turrets and towers resembled a miniature Disney palace.
Bente allowed herself to be enveloped by the atmosphere of Bordeaux, which was always warm and welcoming.
Maybe she would record a piece for her YouTube channel at a sidewalk café later?
Following her appearance on Krissie, her channel had gained considerably more viewers and subscribers.
Despite her reaction when Didrik showed her the news item—one bordering on terrified panic—she had plucked up her courage and gone through the comments on Krissie’s Facebook page.
Though she’d felt nervous, there had been nothing but positivity in the comment box beneath the clip of her slot on the show.
The director had been in touch to book her again, and they had discussed Bente making more appearances during the summer and fall.
Things were looking up for her.
She looked at Didrik, walking beside her across the bridge over the Garonne River toward the eastern bank where the archive lay.
Yes, things were definitely looking up.
The modern building that housed the archive was cool, thanks in part to its stone floors.
Bente and Didrik registered at reception, then continued into the high-ceilinged reading room, where a man with graying hair, glasses, and a blue checked shirt welcomed them.
He was Frederic’s contact; they had corresponded with him by email before leaving Sweden, and he had the material they’d requested waiting for them.
There were several large boxes containing documents on Médoc and the small area of the peninsula where they believed Chateau de Chênes was once located. Bente took the first file out of the top box, and Didrik took the next.
Bente paused and thought for a moment before opening it. What if they didn’t find anything? She had so much faith in these files, these bundles of old documents. She hoped they would provide the key to the rest of the story. But what if there was no trace of Sven, or any Scandinavian?
As she looked through the plastic pockets, her mind continued to whirl. What would happen to the show if they never discovered the truth about the bottle?
She turned page after page, read and read. Finally she saw something and beckoned Didrik over. “Look—in 1991 Chateau de Chênes was bought by the neighboring vineyard.”
“That explains why we haven’t been able to track down any information about it.”
“We need to ask the owner of Chateau du Boda what she knows.”
Didrik nodded. They had already booked a meeting with the vineyard owner, and were due to see her that afternoon.
As they carried on with their task, Bente was taken aback to see an old newspaper article that mentioned Chateau de Chênes. She asked Didrik to film her while she talked.
“So this was written postwar, and it’s about the winemakers who owned the vineyard known as Chateau de Chênes.” She looked down the page and read the piece more closely. “It says the couple helped the resistance movement.” She beamed. Things were beginning to fall into place.
“They were honored after the war for their efforts,” she continued. “Apparently they sent secret documents in hidden compartments in wine boxes. They drew maps on the back of the wine labels to help people escape the Nazis—Jews, communists, homosexuals, and dissenters, among others.”
Didrik put the camera down and examined the article.
“If Sven really did end up there, maybe they worked together in some way?”
Two hours later they were in a rental car, a lemon-yellow Citroen—the color made it appear more sporty than it actually was—on the way to Chateau du Boda, which lay nearly an hour to the north of Bordeaux.
As they drove along the sun-drenched route, it struck them that they were probably making the same exact journey that Sven had once made.
Didrik was behind the wheel, dressed in cool shorts and a thin cotton shirt. Bente glanced at him, then turned and looked out the window. Vineyards, row upon row of vines, but also fields of crops whizzed by on both sides of the road, and she reveled in simply being here, in this moment.
They soon turned onto a narrow dirt track that led them to a large circular graveled area in front of the main building, with hand-painted “P” signs directing them to the parking lot.
They parked and made their way to the main building—a modest entrance hall with a round table and two armchairs. There was no one in sight.
Bente took out her phone and glanced at the comments on her video clip again—she had done this frequently since publishing it a few days ago.
For some reason, this time she suddenly realized what she was looking for—negative comments.
Every time she scrolled down the screen checking for updates, her heart started racing. Was this really healthy?
After a minute or two, the owner appeared and introduced herself as Sylvie.
She led them out to the back where there was a large pergola.
The view of the vineyard was stunning, with closely packed rows of lush vines stretching down toward a small grove of trees, and a black church tower in the distance.
“Would you like something to drink? Wine? Water?”
“Please,” Didrik said, and Bente nodded in agreement.
While they were waiting, they watched the workers, who were toiling away in the warm sunshine.
At this time of the season, side shoots were pruned from vines in order to expose the grapes to as much sunlight as possible.
Bente had come to Bordeaux with Frederic on several occasions and helped out in his family vineyard, which had given her a completely different understanding of the work and the thought that went into every single grape that was harvested.
Sylvie returned with a carafe of red wine, a jug of water, and glasses.
They sat down on sun-bleached cane chairs at a worn but sturdy wooden table.
Sylvie poured wine and water, and Bente sniffed her glass.
Cabernet Sauvignon was the most dominant grape on the Médoc peninsula, and she immediately recognized its characteristic notes—black currant, plum, but also a hint of cedarwood and grassiness.
When she tasted, she detected the typical harshness associated with Bordeaux, followed by an herbal quality.
In Médoc, slightly harsh wines with very good aging potential were made mainly from Cabernet Sauvignon grapes grown on deep free-draining gravel.
She loved the wine. “Delicious.” She smiled at Sylvie.
She would really like to serve this at Rendezvous—imagine the stories she could tell, both about classic Médoc and about this particular vineyard!
Maybe she could source wines made from grapes grown at Chateau de Chênes—what a dream that would be!
“By the way, is it okay if we film our conversation? Obviously we’d get your permission before showing anything on TV. ”
“No problem. How long are you staying in Bordeaux?” Sylvie asked once the camera was switched on.
“Only a few days,” Bente replied, taking another sip of her wine.
“You must try one of the beaches here in Médoc, on the Atlantic coast. The water isn’t warm, but the beaches are so beautiful.”
“We’ll definitely do that. How long have you had the vineyard?”
“Only a few months. I bought it from an elderly man whose children weren’t interested in taking over.”
“I read that on your home page—Jér?me Fossey, wasn’t it? And he acquired the neighboring vineyard, Chateau de Chênes, in the nineties?”
“That sounds right—I think it was sometime in the nineties. That’s the part of the vineyard you can see from here.” Sylvie pointed to the right. “Over there. Those vines used to belong to Chateau de Chênes. We can look at an old map if you like?”
Sylvie went inside and came back with a yellowed map, which she unfolded.
It clearly showed the boundaries of the property.
The main building of Chateau de Chênes was no more than five hundred yards from the main building of Chateau du Boda.
The two vineyards with their rows upon rows of vines were located right next to each other.
“We found out from the city archive that the owners of Chateau de Chênes worked for the resistance movement,” Bente said.
“Really? That could well be true. Now that you mention it, I seem to recall Jér?me’s children saying something about that.”
“Do you happen to know if there was a Swedish man living here toward the end of the war?”
Sylvie shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the vineyard’s history.”
“And you don’t know why Jér?me took over Chateau de Chênes? The Latorres had a son, Mathieu—was he not interested in running the business?”