Fleecing the Boatman: Château Gloria, 2009 – 2023
In the dimly lit recess of a secret attic above an anonymous workshop, four figures gathered around a scarred wooden table.
The light hung in the attic like a veil, streaming through a small, grimy window in pale shafts, catching drifting motes and the curls of cigarette smoke. The writhing smoke seemed to slow down, as if time itself did the same, capturing in aspic a scene between dusk and darkness. The specks of dust would spiral languidly in the atmosphere, defying gravity; now and again one would catch the light, flashing violently like a tiny firework, before falling again to settle upon the floorboards, its energy spent.
The dim light did its best to illuminate the scene around the table, revealing four faces rich in lines and shadows, each one a study in concentration, eyes and minds focused on the cards in front of them.
With his back to the window sat Alfred Martin, watchful and intent, the cards passing beneath his fingers with the quiet authority of a man accustomed to making his own opportunities. Opposite him was his old friend, the manager of Ducru-Beaucaillou, a discreet and hardworking man of the Médoc; what he did not about vines and vinifications, not to mention the card game belote, was not worth knowing.
Two other figures kept them company. One, the old boatman from Beychevelle, wearing the weather of every crossing of the Gironde he had ever made on his face, Martin knew well. The other, a mysterious visitor from Pagnol, silent and unreadable, was an unknown. But Ducru-Beaucaillou had vouched for him, so Martin did not mind. His money was as good as anyone else’s.
Outside, the vines slept beneath the darkness, the ponds were black and still, and somewhere beyond the walls the estuary slowly moved. Four men held their cards, with money on the table. For the moment there was complete silence.
And then, in the workshop below, Alfred Martin heard purposeful footsteps.
