The Wine that Lived Forever

Beaune, France.

Wednesday, November 10

Footsteps. Death approached. Romain hurried. He pulled a pen and scrap paper from his lab coat, scribbled a note, and jammed it into his pocket. To avoid its discovery, he removed his white coat, mashed it into a ball, and hid it behind the wine bins.

Without a sound, he vanished into the shadows of his research lab. The smothering clamminess of the caveau mixed with the rich aroma of the oak barrels and the acrid scent of his fear. He knew the contents of each one of those casks better than he knew himself. He was their father, their creator.

Hidden, he stood still, listening to the echoing footsteps as they moved away, leaving only the sound of his pounding heart. A bead of sweat crawled down his forehead. He strained to hear as he wiped his damp palms against his pants. When it seemed Death was gone, he exhaled. His eyes peered into the dark. Perhaps he was going to make it.

Then the steps returned.

He needed a fake bottle, quick. He swallowed the dry lump in his throat and crept across the floor to grab a decoy. Create a false clue. The real bottles were hidden. He knew Manon would find his lab coat and understand the message.

She must.

He navigated through the aged casks. The low arched ceiling descended like a coffin lid. The cracked stone floors sweated subterranean dampness and the ancient brick walls absorbed all traces of light while amplifying every sound. He'd selected this vault as the perfect safe-house for the years of research that surrounded him, all his work stored within the rows of barrels and countless bins of bottles. He shivered. His cellar, his tomb.

Romain's skin prickled. The footsteps. Closer. His shoulders clenched, alert to his pursuer. Death would find him, but it would be too late to capture his secret. His worn shoes glided over the familiar stones. After turning down a narrow hall, he stopped to listen. The footsteps were close. Romain retreated into a large, dark room. There he located his cache. The collection housed thousands of bottles, all identical. Any one bottle would make a perfect decoy for his prized possession. His lips pursed with determination. He had destroyed the formula. When they discovered the decoy was a fake, they'd go down a rabbit hole trying to find the real bottle. He would be dead, but his secret would live.

He reached for a bottle. It clinked, alerting his pursuer. The footsteps stopped. A pause. Waiting. Then a rush towards him. Romain raced around a corner, moving deeper into the heart of the cellar, and stood under an expired light bulb dangling like a hanged man.

Chapter Two

Three Years Earlier

The New York Times.

The Nose Smells a Fake: Burgundy Bandit Busted

The international wine counterfeiter, Lee Chow, now known as the Burgundy Bandit, will soon be drinking prison water instead of world-class wine. Mr. Chow appeared in the world of wine connoisseurs with a rare collection of Burgundy wines. He networked his way into the inner circle of international collectors, pretending to be the scion of a wealthy Chinese family and offering access to intimate tasting dinners with wines from his cellar of Burgundy treasures. According to Mr. Hugh Gilson, Deputy Chairperson of Highgate Auctions, Mr. Chow was recognized for having accumulated one of the world's most valuable cellars.

After winning acceptance from the wine cognoscenti, he sold over $15 million of wine from his collection and was scheduled to sell another $23 million at last month's Highgate Auctions.

Mr. Chow, however, had made one costly miscalculation: Manon Bone. Industry sources say Ms. Bone, a wine expert, is known as The Nose for her perfect olfactory memory and an encyclopedic sense of smell that can recall wines with an unheard-of accuracy.

At the auction. Ms. Bone was puzzled that several of the offered bottles, with vintages from 1947 to 1990, were allegedly made by Domaine Rolin from the Clos de la Roche Grand Cru appellation. Ms. Bone, believing that this domaine had never made a Clos de la Roche prior to 1983, alerted the Rolin estate, which stopped the auction, and contacted the authorities.

When agents raided Mr. Chow's home, they found aged bottles of virtually worthless wines with labels proving he would pass them off as premier Burgundy vintages. High-quality photocopiers for producing labels, along with other tools used when counterfeiting wine, provided further evidence of his scheme. Last week, Mr. Chow was convicted on multiple counts, including mail fraud, wire fraud, and tax evasion. We expect his sentencing later this month.

Manhattan

Thursday, November 18

Half-poured bottles littered Manon's small second-floor apartment, wine books teetered in perilous stacks, a computer peeked from beneath her scribbled tasting notes. She stopped writing, pulled her shoulder-length brown hair into a ponytail, cleansed her palate with mineral water, and surveyed the wine glasses sitting on the living room table: work for her next 'Bone on Wine' issue.

Manon stood and stretched, her charm bracelet jingling. She was five foot seven. Her long slender arms and extended fingers reached for the ceiling. She arched the back of her boyish figure, releasing the tension from her early morning work. Her palate was best at this hour. She inhaled, exhaled, clearing her passages from the multitude of wines analyzed, appraised, and classified. She sighed. There was much to complete before Josh arrived with a wish list of chores for her.

As she changed clothes in her bedroom, Manon studied the pictures on the bureau. Her life was captured in frames and told in frozen moments. Her junior boarding school years as an ugly duckling with braces and oval glasses perched on her prominent nose. The latter teen years and summers with Romain's family in their French vineyard. Her braces replaced by a joyous smile, the glasses by contact lenses, and her beakish nose diminished by oversized Jacki-O sunglasses. Captured memories of college and work documented her progression towards a sophisticated wardrobe, complementing her angular frame. Her prominent forehead and rounded chin balanced her extended cheekbones, creating a heart-shaped face. A face lit by Icelandic blue eyes that challenged the viewer with their intelligence.

Her nose was neither Greek nor Nubian, nor was it turned up, snubbed-shaped, aquiline, or even hawklike. Hers was a Gallic, Roman, curved nose that projected from her thick, brown eyebrows and extended into a pronounced bridge that curved downwards, ending in a slight upward slope. If not anchored by her prominent cheekbones, wide mouth, and full lips; it would have dominated her face because it was a strong masculine nose. But in partnership with Manon's other features, it created a harmonious balance, making her not pretty, nor handsome, but striking. Her nose made her interesting. Her mother told her that people with Roman noses were purposeful and organized with forceful personalities but were not aggressive. Manon no longer cared because she knew her nose was a gift. It made her special.

The doorbell chimed, signaling Josh's arrival.

"I want to get you out of this dump and into a grown-up apartment." Josh Merkelman spread his arms, showing the view from the back of the building—a concrete courtyard hemmed in by a stained brick wall.

"I chose this 'dump' because while you may see it as the worst apartment, it has location—just off Park Avenue, and a doorman…"

"A part-time doorman and it's a cave. I can help you do better. But you must get an office so we can stop meeting here."

"I spend my money on wine." Manon swirled the ruby liquid in her glass.

"Obviously, given what the pennies you're paying me." Josh rolled his eyes.

"You're a great PR agent. Worth every penny." Manon applied her critical thinking to everything in her life, but especially to her money. First, buy what you need, not what you want, except for wine. Second, always document, every day, what you spend, and analyze is it worth it?

"I agreed to this partnership and a percentage deal with you because once we've built your business empire, we both start making big money."

"That is why I need you." Manon had established a following among the wine-collecting elite with her subscription-based website. Wine collectors read her reviews, studied her predictions, and relied on her database of notes. The strength of her critical thinking combined with her dedication to work, especially over the past six years, following the breakup with Romain, brought her to this moment. But she needed to expand her audience beyond high-end collectors. With this partnership, she could capture mass-market success.

"We're both the best at what we do," said Josh.

"We're a good team." Manon organized her notebooks.

"The best team. And for us to win, we must stay focused on our goal: growing your 'brand.' I will catapult you to a broader consumer market, making you—Manon Bone, The Nose—a business empire."

Manon inhaled; Josh's scent reminded her of Jacques-Frédéric Mugnier's impressive Grand Cru wine, the 2015 Musigny Vieilles Vignes. Full-bodied, multilayered, an outstanding masterpiece of purity with a complex balance of cherries, raspberries, espresso, cocoa, and a hint of citrus rind. A profound representation of what some consider Burgundy's greatest vineyard. His scent was a powerhouse wine.

The building intercom squawked. "Saved by the bell." Manon entered the narrow galley kitchen, answering the ancient intercom phone.

"Ms. Bone, it's Charlie at the front door." The phone crackled and buzzed, its wiring dating from the building's 1917 construction. Charlie continued through the din of electrical signals: "you have a… package… doesn't fit in your box ... I'll send it up with Danny…" The phone line erupted with a cacophony of intermittent fireworks.

Manon opened the back door; the service elevator's whirling sound announced Danny's arrival. With his new toupee and a slight stoop from advancing age, he pulled back the cage door and emerged. She could smell the lingering scent of cigarettes.

Menthol…

"Here you go, Ms. Bone. This package just arrived. Catch the game on TV last night? The Sox got killed. Reminds me of my grandfather's story about the 1913 series—he was there—you follow baseball, Ms. Bone?" Manon was thinking about the year 1913. It was a good year for vintage port, but not for Burgundy; Bordeaux had early rain that season, which forced a late harvest and hurt the yields of several vineyards. California was still in its infancy, years from having vineyards of any significance, while Spain enjoyed a bountiful harvest. "Ms. Bone?"

"Yes? Sorry, Danny. I can't follow baseball—too arcane for me." She noted his uniform needed to be cleaned; otherwise, he would continue to smell like a corked wine: musty and wet.

The smell when someone lies to me…

"Pretty easy if you just apply yourself. Here's your package."

Manon examined the DHL overseas pouch. It was from Beaune, a small but important town in France's preeminent wine region: Burgundy. There was no sender or return address.

In the living room, Manon ripped open the pouch and extracted the envelope from inside. She dropped the pouch on the Queen Anne-style writing table, purchased on sale from the local thrift shop—cheap, because brown furniture was out of style. She couldn't identify the handwriting on the envelope, but holding the envelope to her nose, she recognized the scent. Only one person could have sent it: Romain de Pulignac. She held her breath, savoring the memories that the scent triggered. She recognized it wasn't logical… they were over a long time… but she cherished the intimate feeling of receiving something from Romain. And not just something.

He sent my scent...

"What'd you get?" said Josh.

"Not sure, but I think it's from Romain."

"I thought you never wanted to hear from him again."

"How did you learn that?"

Josh adjusted his glasses. "I did my research on you. If we're going to work together, I need to know everything about you—especially your skeletons. I see your bracelet and appreciate how each charm is a wine trophy. I also recognize how…" Josh cleared his throat. "... frugal you are… and I understand you had a messy breakup ..."

"At least you didn't call me cheap. It was a tough breakup, but that was six years ago, ancient history."

"I hope this envelope from Romain won't become a distraction." Josh raised his right eyebrow as he peered at her.

"Definitely not. Our breakup was a genuine learning experience. It taught me emotional efficiency. I invested so much in that relationship and got burned. Now I'm careful to evaluate the cost of any emotional involvement relative to the enjoyment." Emotional efficiency was the ultimate compass by which Manon navigated her priorities, her relationships, her life.

Josh nodded. "Emotional efficiency, interesting life strategy… must make for a lot of friends… how about 'tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?"

"Doesn't one lead to the other? Besides, even though I recognize the scent, it doesn't look like Romain's handwriting on the envelope, so--"

"OK then, open it—let's find out."

Manon opened the envelope. She'd heard that Romain's newest research project centered on a new type of wine, but she hadn't heard it from him.

What could he be sending? An apology?

She paused, raised her thick dark eyebrows as she pondered the question, and then settled on the answer: doubtful—he was a man. She removed the single sheet of paper, studied it, turned it over, and examined the other side. "What?" Her heart collapsed in disappointment.

Josh leaned forward in anticipation. "Well?"

Manon looked at him. She held up the page. "It's blank."

"Both sides?"

"Yes, but I recognize the scent."

Josh looked inside the envelope. "There's nothing else in here, but even I can smell that! Is it a perfume?"

"Le Nez," she pronounced.

"Le Nay?"

"Le Nez. Pronounced 'Nay.' It's French for the nose." Manon tapped hers for emphasis. "It's my perfume. Romain gave it to me as a birthday present years ago. He named it after my ability to identify scents."

"You can still recognize it?"

She cocked her head. "I created this scent. He took me to a perfume shop. I selected notes of jasmine and rose with a citrus influence from a blend of coriander, mandarin, and bergamot… funny, he always thought that I would become a 'Nose.'"

"But you are 'The Nose.'"

Manon shook her head. "No, I mean a 'Nose' in the perfume industry. You know, someone who creates perfume compositions. He always thought I should have worked in that industry."

"He was half-right. You are using your nose." Josh nodded his head towards the sheet of paper. "What other secret ingredients are in your perfume?"

"Besides a blend of warm, oriental ingredients, my real secret was adding myrrh."

"At least I've heard of myrrh. I know from my Catholic upbringing that the three wise men brought it to the baby Jesus."

"They would have called it by its Latin name, Myrrhis odorata. But, today, gardeners just call it sweet cicely."

"So? Now that we've discussed it, any idea what this blank sheet of paper means?"

"None."

"Manon, please tell me this won't be a problem."

"It won't be. Let's get back to work. I'll deal with it later." But she was already analyzing the mysterious blank page's meaning.

It must be a message…

She adjusted her bracelet and fiddled with the small dangling charms.

"OK. Now I know something's up." Josh leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. "You're playing with your charms, that little Burgundy bottle. Isn't that your trophy for busting up the Burgundy Bandit?"

"That's what the press called Lee Chow, but he was just a sophisticated con man; he was doing a great job passing off old plonk-wines as rare Burgundy gems."

"And The Nose recognized that fact. I heard the Rolin estate sent you a case of—"

"OK, you did your homework on me. What's your point?"

"You're playing with your charms; you're worried."

"I'm thinking."

"About the letter?"

"No. All the things I have to do." Manon lied. She was analyzing the letter.

"Just remember, tomorrow's business comes first. Your lunch meeting with Alicia Oxman. That's the priority. Not this letter."

"Yes, yes," said Manon. "I hope you told her how my app is so accurate that it can make anyone a wine expert?"

"I did. She reminded me that as the editor of Vineyard Perspectives, with millions of followers on social media and a pending new column in The New York Times—that we need her more than she needs us."

"Her modesty knows no bounds."

"Play nice. Your new wine app, 'Manon Bone's checklist for your wine list,' needs her support."

"I will be there tomorrow to support her ego and stress how my personal database of wine notes lies at the heart of the app. I still need time to update them. There are new Bordeaux wines to review, while Oregon and Long Island have some new releases…"

"Champagne problems. Remember to talk about how your app transforms each client into a wine expert through the power of your knowledge."

"Got it."

"Be nice to her, especially given what happened—"

"—It wasn't all my fault, and besides, I was right."

"Doesn't matter, you made her look bad ..."

“Oh, please. She was grandstanding at the Wine Forum when she predicted that the 2016 Côte de Nuits wines would be below average. I did my homework and called her out on it…”