Tainted Tokay by Jean-Pierre Alaux

right?”
    Benjamin turned to Vilmos and Pavel for an answer. They said nothing and just lo oked at Zoltán.
    â€œYes, yes. Aszú wine must age at leas t three years.”
    Zoltán pointed out that the humidity was nearly ninety percent, and the temperature was no higher than eleven d egrees Celsius.
    â€œTell me, Zoltán, why are these wine casks called göncs ?” Benjamin asked as he surveyed the walnut-stained barrels arranged in neat rows. The vintage and parcel were chalk ed on each one.
    â€œActually, they’re called Gönci.” Zoltán responded. “Gönc is a town in the Zemplén Mountains that’s famous for its coopers. Even casks that don’t come from there get the name now.”
    Benjamin lifted one of the glass bungs and listened to the Tokaji. It was fermenting. He invited Claude to lend an ear.
    â€œListen to the wine sing,” he said. “It’s always the same refrain, but I never ge t tired of it.”
    Vilmos picked up a glass pipette. He dipped the tool into the cask and inhaled until the pipette took on an amber color. Then he filled three glasses, the first of which he hande d to Elisabeth.
    Elisabeth shook her head, and Benjamin saw that she was shivering.
    â€œJust a sip, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s not every day that we can have an experie nce like this.”
    She acquiesced and took the glass. But no sooner had she lifted it to her lips than she fell to the floor, dropping the glass and spil ling the wine.

25
    T he broken slats of the shutters in the Rue Saint Rémi apartment were doing a poor job of filtering the brilliant sunshine. A large swath of Alexandrine’s back was bathed in light. Only the sheet kept it from creeping belo w her tailbone.
    Captivated, Virgile gazed at this lovely body dotted with beauty marks. Her skin had a musky sweet smell. It was silky and s lightly tanned.
    He would have to answer to his boss for taking the afternoon off, but at this moment all he could think about was the feel of pearly buttons under his fingertips, the awkward fumbling of zippers and shoelaces, the urgent dance to the bed, the surreal moment of this fantasy come true, and finally moaning and quivering bodies and feverish lips.
    Virgile ran his fingers over the deliciously scented skin. Alexandrine turned over. Her eyes still closed, she drew her body close and nestled agai nst his chest.
    Alexandrine was working up to a passionate replay. Virgile was careful not to disturb the bandage on her nose or the stitches on her brow. He kissed her tenderly many times over, still astonished that they had actually made love after all the years she had refuse d his advances.
    â€œFor a woman who prefers women, you could have fooled me,” he said between kisses.
    â€œDon’t make me laugh, Virgile. It’ll hurt too much.”
    â€œJust so I get the full scope of what’s just happened, you’ve got to tell me: white, rosé, or red?”
    Alexandrine looked at him blankly. “I told you, I can’t dr ink right now.”
    â€œNo, let’s say white for girls only—usually, at least, rosé for flexible from time to time, or red, for all-in bi?”
    She looked into his eyes. “That’s stretching the wine metaphor a bit far, even for you. And you know that’s no question to ask a lady. What is it you really want to know? Would you be surprised if I said you’re not the first ma n in my life?”
    â€œAny body I’d know?”
    Alexandrine sat up and pulled the sheet over her breasts. She smiled, but Virgile could tell it was forced.
    â€œThere was a second-cousin. His name was Raphaël. I was in love with him when I was fifteen. We had a little fling one summer in Cap Ferret. Just a flirtation. Very innocent. He’s married now to a girl from the Chartrons, a preachy sort who teaches catechism and leads the choir in a town in Gers, where he was just elected