The hotel was a twenty-minute walk from Frederic’s office. Bente left the others and went off on her own for a little while. When she reached a market, she bought fresh flowers to put in the vase on the desk in her hotel room. She continued on to one of her favorite perfumeries, where she treated herself to a luxury shower gel to complement the perfume she had brought with her.
Then she walked back toward the hotel, stopping in at a small wine shop on the way where she chose a half bottle of Meursault. She put it in the minibar’s refrigerator as soon as she got back to her room, then put on some soft French jazz, which always put her in a good mood. When she was living in Paris, she had owned a record player, which she took back to Sweden with her, and she used to seek out vinyl albums in old stores. Today she had to make do with Spotify on the hotel’s Bluetooth speaker.
She stepped into the shower and used her new gel, which lathered up beautifully and felt wonderfully soft against her skin. The bathroom floor was warm as she reached for a lovely thick towel. She put on the silk robe she had brought with her and opened the balcony doors, letting the heavy smells of the city swirl into the room.
After she opened the wine and poured herself a generous glass, she pushed the desk chair out onto the balcony’s narrow stone ledge so that it was balanced on the threshold, then sat down and closed her eyes. There was a cold wind even though it was April, and Bente reached back for the soft, fleecy cover from the bed and wrapped it around her body. She wanted to absorb the smells of Paris, hear all its sounds.
The wine was smooth, buttery, and voluptuous in her mouth. It was one of her favorites, the very best wine to drink by itself before dinner while she was getting ready—even better than Champagne.
After a while she put on a thin rust-red dress; it was loose, but clung in all the right places. Was she taking such care for Frederic’s sake, in case he called? No, she decided, she was doing this for herself, and for the city. She was choosing the perfect dress to go out and meet one of the great loves of her life—Paris. She gathered up her hair in a loose bun on top of her head, then quickly put on her makeup, making her lips red to match her dress.
She was about to grab her purse and leather jacket when her phone buzzed. She smiled when she saw that it was a message from Frederic.
Maybe we could meet after your dinner? We didn’t have enough time today—after all, we haven’t seen each other in years.
Ha! She knew it. The fact that she hadn’t fallen at his feet had triggered him, of course. The tone of his message didn’t impress her—he really did take her for granted.
We have lots of meetings tomorrow, so I’ll be heading back to the hotel after dinner.
Frederic answered immediately.
Just an hour with me, and I promise you’ll sleep better than ever.
A ridiculous response, and yet she found herself considering his suggestion. They had enjoyed many passionate nights together, and maybe there was still something there. She didn’t reply yet, leaving her options open.
Maybe a night with Frederic was exactly what she needed.
14
They went to Bente’s favorite bistro, located on a narrow street five minutes from the hotel. A place that wasn’t in the least trendy, but was all the more authentic for that. Classic bistro food likeboeuf bourguignonand the bestmoules fritesshe had ever eaten, plus a perfect steak tartare. Bente would be happy to eat in restaurants for the rest of her life, and she found it difficult to choose, but eventually she opted for the mussels.
While they shared a bottle of wine and enjoyed their meal, they went through the schedule for the following day. The atmosphere was relaxed, but Bente had a feeling that Didrik was having to make an effort to join in. Sometimes he seemed to lose himself in silent, brooding thoughts, as if he were somewhere else. He was nothing like the carefree, popular Didrik she had seen on TV—but as long as he did his job properly, she supposed that was okay.
When they left the restaurant, the cold struck Bente’s hot cheeks. It had been warm inside, and in the clear air her powdery, spicy perfume was much more noticeable—then it vanished completely as the wind carried with it the smells of the city and the river. The taste of the fresh Sancerre she had drunk with the mussels lingered in her mouth, a mixture of gooseberries and a mineral-based flint.
They wandered toward the wine bar where she’d first met Camille, and where she had worked sporadically during her time in Paris. They walked through the lively Quartier Latin, past cafés where students weredrinking cheap coffee, and bookstores whose illuminated windows cast a warm glow over the streets. Down toward Montparnasse, then onto the street where the wine bar lay—it was on the ground floor of one of the old low-rise buildings. The facade was white plaster, with green-painted wooden panels at the bottom.
As soon as they walked in, Bente heard a shriek of delight as Marion, the owner, came hurrying over.
“Bente, how lovely! I saw Camille the other day and she said you might drop by.” Marion kissed her on both cheeks and gave her a hug. “I’m so happy to see you!”
“Marion, these are my colleagues—Elnaz and Didrik.”
They greeted one another, and Marion beamed. “Bente was one of the best sommeliers I’ve ever had.”
Bente smiled, well aware that Marion always heaped praise on all her employees.
“It’s true,” Marion insisted. “You’re fantastic when it comes to wine knowledge, but what makes you special is that you love the wines and guests equally. You always wanted to give them the very best wine experience.” Marion hugged Bente again and showed them to a table.
Being here sent Bente spinning straight back to her time in Paris.
She had been twenty-one years old when she came to Paris to study French and wine. Marion had employed her as a waitress and table clearer. Bente worked in the bar in the evenings, absorbing every scrap of knowledge she could glean from the bar’s qualified sommeliers and from Marion herself, and studied French during the day. Gradually she began to assist the sommeliers more and more, learning how to match the wines with the simple dishes the bar served. Before long Marion offered to lend her the money to train as a sommelier herself—saying Bente could pay her back via a slight reduction in her wages.
The course was run by a well-established institution in the eleventh arrondissement. In the big dark rooms with rustic old wooden tables and hard wooden benches, the walls lined with shelves and cabinets displaying new and old bottles of wine and countless books, Bente could almost smell the corks from all the wines that had been studied and tasted. Her tutor was Frederic Revy, a top-notch young sommelier who was considered to be something of a pop star in wine circles. Bente fell in love at first sight. His charisma and passion when he talked about and described the wines took her breath away. He taught his students to link everything to their personal experiences, which made it easier to memorize the characteristics of each wine.
Bente found that she associated a Bordeaux with a dusty old library, its windows open to the garden where rotting autumn leaves swirled around and the smell of the wood-burning stove tickled her nostrils. A young Pinot Noir from Burgundy made her think of a cool evening in early summer, when the first, slightly tart strawberries were sold at Marché Bastille—the local food market in the eleventh arrondissement—the sweet, fresh smell of the river in the air. A Beaujolais would always remind her of a particular Thursday when the students in her training course went to a wine bar a couple of streets away, and she tasted the young, fruity wine for the first time. When they were all seated around a narrow table at the back of the bar, Frederic said:This wine is like your first, hopeless love when you were young. While he talked, he looked straight at Bente, and even though she wasn’t naive enough to imagine she was his first love, she realized that the attraction was mutual.
They visited many bars together. After she took her sommelier exam, they spent the summer in Paris in each other’s company. He took her to small wine bars in Montmartre and Pigalle; they swirled and sniffed and drank the wines. She built up her entire stock of aromas and tastes during that period. Cocoa beans, croissants, old leather jackets, recently fallen rain on sun-warmed cobbles, freshly picked raspberries, bales of hay, a leather girth, compost heaps.
