“Look,” said Roth as they checked the first name in his appointment book, a movie actor now enjoying a second career in television. “I know he’s not one of your favorite guys, but it wouldn’t kill you to be nice to him. A smile, that’s all.”
Cecilia rolled her eyes and shuddered.
“I’m not asking for genial. I’m just asking for pleasant. What’s the matter with him, anyway?”
“He calls me ‘babe’ and he’s always trying to grab my ass.”
Roth didn’t blame him. In fact, he’d frequently had thoughts in that direction himself. “Boyish enthusiasm,” he said. “Youthful high spirits.”
“Danny.” Another roll of the eyes. “He admits to sixty-two.”
“OK, OK. I’ll settle for glacial politeness. Now listen-there’s a personal project you could help me with, a kind of celebrity lifestyle thing. I think it’s the right moment for me.”
Cecilia’s eyebrows, two perfectly plucked arcs, were raised. “Who’s the celebrity?”
Roth continued as though he hadn’t heard her. “You know I have this fabulous wine collection?” He looked in vain for some change in Cecilia’s expression, some quiver of appreciation from those impassive eyebrows. “Well, I do, and I’m prepared to give an exclusive interview, in my cellar, to the right journalist. Here’s the angle: I’m not just a business machine. I’m also a connoisseur, a guy with taste who appreciates the finer things in life-châteaus, vintages, Bordeaux, all that great cobwebby French shit. What do you think?”
Cecilia shrugged. “You and a hundred others. L.A. is full of wine freaks.”
Roth shook his head. “You don’t understand. This is a unique collection. These are first-growth Bordeaux reds from the exceptional vintages-more than five hundred bottles.” He paused for emphasis. “Worth more than three million dollars.”
Three million dollars was a concept Cecilia could grasp. “Cool,” she said. “Now I get it.”
“I’m thinking of an L.A. Times exclusive. Do you know anyone at the L.A. Times?”
Cecilia studied her nails in thought for a moment. “The owners. Well, Daddy knows the owners. I guess he could ask them about someone to put on the story.”
Roth smiled, leaned back in his chair, and admired his buttercup-yellow ankles. “Terrific,” he said. “Then we’re all set.”
The interview had been fixed for a Saturday morning, and the Roth household was briefed and ready. Michelle was to have a walk-on part at the beginning of the proceedings, playing the role of gracious hostess and, if you believed her, occasional wine widow. Rafael had been instructed to clip and reclip the purple bougainvillea that tumbled along the terrace wall. The Mercedes, glossy from its latest waxing, had been left, as if by chance, out in the driveway. In the cellar, a Mozart piano concerto drifted from speakers concealed in shadowy nooks. Evidence of wealth, taste, and refinement was everywhere. Roth had even considered opening one of his precious bottles, but in the end couldn’t bring himself to make the sacrifice. The journalist and the photographer would have to make do with the Krug that was cooling in a crystal ice bucket on the cellar table.
The arrival of the L.A. Times was signaled by a call from the security guard at the gate. Michelle and Roth took up their positions at the top of the staircase that led down to the driveway, where they waited for the journalists to get out of their car before making their stately progress down the steps.
“Mr. Roth? Mrs. Roth? Good to meet you.” A burly man in a rumpled linen jacket walked toward them, hand stretched out. “I’m Philip Evans, and this walking camera store”-he nodded toward a young man festooned with equipment-“is Dave Griffin. He does the pictures. I do the words.” Evans turned on his heel until he faced south. “Wow. This is some view you have here.”
Roth dismissed the view with a proprietorial wave of the hand. “Wait till you see the cellar.”
Michelle glanced at her watch. “Danny, I have all those calls to make. I’ll leave you boys here if you promise to save me a glass of champagne.” And with a smile and a farewell flutter of her hand, she made her way back into the house.
Roth let them into the cellar, and while the photographer was wrestling with the problems of light and reflection, the interview began.
Evans was something of an old-fashioned reporter, in that he dealt with fact rather than speculation, and nearly an hour was spent covering Roth’s history: early days in the entertainment business, his first encounter with fine wines, his developing passion for the great vintages, his installation of the technically perfect cellar. In the background, punctuating the sound of Mozart, were the clicks and whirrs of a camera as the photographer made his rounds.
Roth, whose business life was spent speaking on behalf of clients, found that he was relishing the novelty of talking about himself to an attentive listener. So much so that it took a question from Evans about vintage champagne to remind him to open the Krug. This led, as a glass or two of champagne so often does, to a more relaxed and less discreet turn in the interview.
“So tell me, Mr. Roth,” said Evans. “I know you collect these wonderful wines for pleasure, but are you ever tempted to sell? I mean, you must have a considerable amount of money tied up down here.”
“Let’s see,” said Roth, as he looked around the racks of bottles and the neatly stacked wooden cases. “The ’61 Latour, for instance, would fetch between $100,000 and $120,000 a case, the ’83 Margaux around $10,000, and the ’70 Pétrus-well, Pétrus is always big numbers. I guess that’s worth about $30,000, if you can get it. Every time a bottle of that vintage is drunk, the scarcity pushes the price up just as much as the quality of the wine.” He refilled their glasses and studied the fine spiral of bubbles rising upward. “But to answer your question: no, I’m not tempted to sell.” He smiled. “To me, it’s like an art collection. Liquid art.”
“Ballpark figure,” said Evans. “What do you think your collection is worth?”
“Right now? The Bordeaux is worth around three million. That will go up as time goes by. Like I said, scarcity pushes price.”
The photographer, who had exhausted the creative possibilities of wine bottles and cellar racks, now advanced toward Roth, light meter in hand, to take a reading. “Portrait time, Mr. Roth,” he said. “Could we have you over by the door, maybe holding a bottle?”
Roth thought for a moment. And then, with infinite care, took a magnum of the 1970 Pétrus from its resting place. “How about this? Ten thousand bucks, if you can ever find it.”
“Perfect. Now, over to your left, so we get the light on your face, and try holding the bottle up against your shoulder.” Click click. “Great. Bottle a bit higher. A little smile. Fabulous. Terrific.” Click click click. And so it went on for another five minutes, giving Roth a chance to vary his expressions from happy connoisseur to serious wine investor.
Roth and Evans left the photographer to pack up his equipment and waited for him outside the cellar. “Got everything you want?” asked Roth.
“Absolutely,” said the journalist. “It’s going to be a really nice piece.”
• • •
And so it was. A full page in the Weekend section (headlined, predictably, “The Grapes of Roth”), with a large photograph of Roth cradling his magnum and several smaller shots of the cellar, accompanied by a suitably detailed and flattering text. Not only was it flattering, but it was also filled with the kind of detail wine lovers expect, from the number of bottles produced for each vintage to tasting notes from experts like Broadbent and Parker; from grape varieties to more arcane matters like the dates when picking commenced, periods of maceration, soil conditions, and tannin content. And, sprinkled throughout the text like truffles in foie gras, there were the prices. These were usually expressed by the case or by the bottle, but sometimes by smaller, more affordable measures, as in $250 a glass or even (for the Yquem) $75 a sip.