Tears ran down as Saul swirled the wine in the crystal glass. After observing them carefully, he brought the rim to his nose, closed his eyes, and inhaled, trying to grasp the aromas. A subtle smile appeared before he let the wine glide across his palate, pouring a small amount into his mouth and swishing it around, much like using mouthwash after brushing his teeth.
Meggie lowered her head, trying to hold back her laughter.
— It's good — the journalist said to the sommelier.
— Tell me the joke too, I want to laugh.
Saul resumed the interrupted conversation as soon as the wine was served.
— You swished the wine—that's very funny — his assistant teased before savoring a piece of foie gras.
— The tongue is divided into several regions. To taste a wine properly, you need to let it travel across your entire palate, and a tingling on the sides, for example, indicates its acidity… try it.
— I'd better not.
— Come on… be brave.
She took a sip, swirled the liquid, and burst into laughter before she could swallow, spraying the wine across the table.
This time, it was Saul who laughed.
— Sorry — she said awkwardly, using the cloth napkin to wipe the Sauternes.
— You asked if I had ever found my perfect match…
— I was being indiscreet, you don't have to answer — Meggie interrupted.
— It's fine. Fifteen years ago, I was in a car accident and my girlfriend died. I was in love with her, and I've never felt the same about anyone since. Let's say she could have been my ideal wine.
— A few months ago, I interviewed a woman who lost her family in a disaster, and she told me: "Death feels unnatural. You're with the person you love, and seconds later, they're gone—and they will never be there again…" — Meggie recalled, feeling a tightness in her chest.
— I thought what happened was unfair, so I put religion aside. It didn't ease my anguish—unlike wine and… — he stopped mid-sentence.
Your smile… — he finished silently in his thoughts.
— And what? — Meggie asked, leaning forward, curiosity in her eyes.
— Forget it. But tell me about yourself. There are excellent newspapers in your country—why come intern at a cheap English tabloid? — he deflected, picking up a piece of foie gras.
— My father wanted me to become a jurist, but I never liked law. Still, I decided to give it a try. I took some classes at Harvard, and the only good thing about it was a friend who convinced me to drop out and follow my calling.
— We have something in common. I also defied my father and ended up in journalism.
— What did he want you to do?
— Represent Britain's interests abroad.
— Is he a diplomat?
— A banker and president of Nolland House — Saul replied, avoiding her gaze and focusing on his glass.
— Diana told me you don't speak to each other.
— I see you've been gossiping about me — he commented.
— A little.
— I figured…
— But answering your question, working in London wasn't exactly a choice. I ran away here, just like my sister. If I had stayed in the United States, I wouldn't have gotten a job anywhere. My father is powerful—and vindictive — Meggie revealed, locking eyes with him. — I don't know if it solved anything, but I had to try.
He nodded.
— About two years ago, you must have followed the wave of violent murders in London — Saul said.
— Of course. I even remember the headlines: "Jack is Back," "The London Ripper Strikes Again"…
— I investigated those crimes deeply and landed exclusive stories. It was because of one of them that my father stopped speaking to me — Saul explained, swirling the glass again.
— How so?
— I argued that the murders weren't committed by a lone serial killer but orchestrated by a powerful satanic cult. I obtained a list of its members—ranging from industrialists to members of the House of Lords. The newspaper gave me full clearance to publish the scoop.
— And the maniac who confessed to the crimes? — Meggie asked, sipping her wine.
— He appeared the next day, but the damage had already been done. Several of my father's friends were hit by the scandal. He demanded that I publicly retract my claims to fix the situation.
— Why didn't you?
— Because I believed I was right.
— You did what you thought was right.
— And I still do, Meggie.
THE JOURNALIST REPEATED the tasting ritual, but this time Meggie paid attention to how he immersed himself—senses and soul—into that glass. For a brief moment, time became eternal, and everything around him lost importance: Justine's death, the fight with his father, the professional downfall.
— I've already said more about myself than I intended. Your turn — Saul said, returning from his Bacchic trance.
— Before that, I'd like to hear more about your theory on those brutal crimes. The version I heard sounded quite convincing. I even watched an FBI agent explaining the Ripper's mindset — Meggie said, wanting to return to the earlier topic.
— On our way here, you defended multiple sides of a story. The victors' version always prevails, and over time, truth becomes irrelevant. For example: do you know who Alberto Santos-Dumont was?
— Never heard of him.
— A Brazilian whom the world once hailed as the true inventor of the airplane — Saul explained before tasting the lobster ravioli.
— Come on, Saul, everyone knows the Wright brothers invented the airplane.
— Maybe. Or maybe that idea is the result of American marketing. The powerful write history the way they see fit, and as Hitler once said: a lie repeated a thousand times becomes truth… See how truth becomes irrelevant? — he countered.
— There are photos and witnesses of the Wright brothers' flights…
— The first officially recognized heavier-than-air flight happened in Paris, not the United States. It was witnessed by qualified experts—not random bystanders — he replied, taking a sip of white wine.
— To me, the Wright brothers are still the fathers of aviation.
— To you and almost everyone in America. Not taking away their merit—the modern airplane certainly builds on their work—but to me, Meggie, the airplane was created by a Brazilian… and the London Ripper is nothing more than a fable.
— Why would powerful people risk their reputation for meaningless crimes? — she asked.
— You already answered that when we discussed religion. For those psychopaths, human sacrifice is currency. They believe they'll be rewarded for doing the will of the devil—or God, depending on the side.
— Is that a legitimate faith?
— To me, that's moral depravity.
— It's more comfortable to believe in a madman than enlightened individuals committing such horrors…
— My father used that argument, but it's a fallacy. Look at history—under the Nazi regime, ordinary people became killers.
— Everyone has a dark side.
— We can call it nature. Animals kill to survive. We do it to prove superiority. And a corrupt leader can turn "enlightened people" into "bloodthirsty beasts."
— Did you discover the cult's leader?
— He's called Ipsissimus, but I never learned his real identity.
— And you gave up?
— I had to rebuild my career. But recently, someone who helped me in the investigation reappeared.
— Let me guess: he wears a cassock? — Meggie smiled.
— Why are you so interested in this? — Saul asked suspiciously.
— Because I want to know more about you.
— Then I'll reveal something fundamental about myself… but first, the next dish is one of my favorites.
— That must be what they call refined British humor — she teased.
— Ask your friend Jessyca about Santos-Dumont. She might not even know the Wright brothers existed.
— Speaking of her, I have a surprise.
— What?
— Let's wait for the next wine. I want to toast it properly.
Saul smiled. His assistant was curious, bold, observant—perfect for journalism, perhaps too much for anything else.
She chose the right profession… too bad her father can't see it.
AS THE GLASSES CLINKED with Condrieu "Les Grandes Chailleé" 2008, Saul waited eagerly. But before revealing her surprise, Meggie teased him:
— Is this how you seduce your victims?
— I don't follow.
— Women usually get drunk on the first glass.
— Is it working?
— This is my third.
— I must be losing you to Bacchus.
— If he's handsome, maybe…
— They say the more you drink, the more attractive someone becomes.
— Then sober, he must be one of the ugliest gods.
They laughed.
— So, what's the news worth toasting?
— I got you an exclusive interview with Jessyca.
— You're kidding! — Saul's eyes lit up.
— It's real. Guess where?
— Don't torture me.
— In her suite at L'Oscar London, the day after the press conference.
— That deserves more than this wine — Saul said, reaching for the wine list.
— I like this one. Got something against it?
— I want you to drink the best wine of your life.
— Wow… they have Pétrus 1947.
— I'd rather open heaven's doors another time—with the same company — Meggie replied, her eyes smiling.
— Let me know when. I have one in my cellar.
Saul was enchanted. Time felt eternal. Even a Pétrus 1947 seemed less important than Meggie's smile.
— I liked the foie gras and the ravioli. Let's bring on dessert — she broke the silence.
— Two more courses first.
— I thought this was dinner, not a gastronomic marathon.
— I hope you're not giving up before the finish line — Saul said, shifting the topic. — Your article today impressed me. Your knowledge of religion—and the passion you speak with—suggest it's more than intellectual curiosity.
— Finally giving me space to talk about it? — she smiled.
— Go ahead.
— I'm a witch.
Saul raised an eyebrow.
— Is that why I'm under your spell?
— I'm serious. My ancestors were witches. Good thing they survived… otherwise I wouldn't be here enchanting you.
— Is that why you don't like priests?
— The Catholic Inquisition was one of the greatest crimes…
— Depends on your perspective — Saul interrupted.
— I'm on the side that would have burned me alive.
— I'd be afraid to see your home altar.
— My god has horns, like the devil.
— Are you part of a satanic cult?
— My religion predates Christianity. Horns once symbolized divinity and fertility. The Church turned gods into devils to destroy pagan worship.
— Interesting…
— Satanists are just a byproduct of Christianity. They worship a distorted creation. True ancient gods represented life, sexuality, freedom—not sacrifice.
Saul swirled his wine, looked at her, smiled, and said:
— Funny… I never noticed this before. The god of wine has horns too.