Tainted Tokay by Jean-Pierre Alaux Page A

Benjamin asked. “Perhaps we could meet for a drink later.”
    â€œThanks, but I’m afraid I can’t. I’m having dinner with my fiancée’s cousin this evening.”
    â€œIs your fiancée trave ling with you?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid she’s not.” The smile vanished from the artist’s face, and he looked back at his sketchpad. “S he’s in Syria.”
    â€œOh,” Benjamin said. “You must be very wo rried for her.”
    â€œYes, but we’re keeping in touch, and I’m trying to get her here safely. With some luck, she’ll be with me soon.”
    â€œWell, then, I wish you the very best,” Benjamin said. “We’ll let you get back to your drawing.”
    Benjamin and Elisabeth said their good-byes and started heading in the other direction. Elisabeth looked around for Zoltán, who seemed to appea r from nowhere.
    â€œHow awful for that poor man,” Elisabeth said. “And his fiancée! He must be terrib ly distressed.”
    â€œI imagine so,” Benjamin answered. “The conflict in Syria and the refugee situation are heart-wrenching. I’m sure he wants to get her to Europe as quickly and easily as possible.” He turned to Zoltán. “Zoltán, you should have stayed with us. That artist is quite skilled. He’s penned a perfect sketch of you. So, you promised us a tour. Shall we g et on with it?”
    Zoltán shot a glance at the artist. Turning back to his clients, he raised his arms and ushered them in the other directio n. “This way.”
    He led his clients from one memorable spot the next. Elisabeth especially enjoyed the Central Market Hall, where she admired the embroidered textiles and purchased some paprika. After several hours of sightseeing, however, she was worn out, and Benjamin needed to catch his breath. Only their tour guide appeared to be indefatigable. Elisabeth suggested cooling off with a soft drink, and Benjamin pointed to the terrace of a large café. Zoltán dissuaded him.
    â€œ Kavé for tourists! Borozo better.”
    Elisabeth consulted her smartphone. “It’s a bar, dear. I’m all right with that. Are you?”
    Benjamin nodded, and the Cookers let themselves be steered to the end of a narrow street. They entered a tavern that wasn’t much to look at. The walls were painted blue, and the few sticky tables were being used as armrests by the old folk who were riveted to a plasma-screen TV, where an important soccer game w as playing out.
    Elisabeth ordered a soft drink. Benjamin was about to order for himself, but Zoltán placed a hand on his wrist, as if to say the winemaker should trust him. They were friends, after all , weren’t they?
    A beautiful blonde with Slavic eyes took a ladle and filled two glasses with a yellowish liquid that hardly lo oked drinkable.
    The two men clinked their glasses and raised them to their lips. Zoltán grinned. Benjamin sipped, winced, and turn ed to his wife.
    â€œIt’s a dry furmint, a white Hungarian grape variety that’s only made here. Elisabeth, my dear, why don’t you put a bottle in our luggage. It’ll come in handy for unclogging the sinks a t Grangebelle.”

16
    W hen the Cooker couple, saddled with their guide, met up with Claude and Consuela in the salon of the Hotel Astoria, Benjamin realized that his friend’s mistress had gotten her way yet again. Better to wander and “capture the soul of a city,” she had said, than to waste the day in poorly ventilated museums. Benjamin couldn’t help noticing that she had several shopping bags.
    Indeed, Consuela had spent much of her time in high-end boutiques and had picked up some Herend porcelain—charged on Claude’s credit card, most certainly.
    â€œYou know boutique-hopping isn’t my thing,” Claude told Benjamin. “So I went off by myself to experience some of Budapest’s