A Good Year

Max watched her, a frown on his face. She didn’t seem the kind of girl who would bring sandwiches. But, as Uncle Henry used to say, you never can tell with the frogs, slaves as they are to their bellies.

Nathalie looked up and saw his quizzical expression as she took her cell phone from her bag. “What is it?”

Max shook his head. “Nothing. Actually, I just remembered something my uncle used to say about the French and food. I thought for a moment you were going to pull out a picnic. You know, lunch.”

Nathalie’s eyebrows went up at the absurdity of such an idea, and she clicked her tongue. “Do I look like a bonne maman?”

He gave her a long, appraising look. It was difficult to imagine her sweating over a hot stove. “No, I suppose not. You haven’t got the build for it. And an apron wouldn’t go with the handbag. Tell me, did you know him? My uncle?”

“I met him once. A very English man.”

“Is that good or bad?”

Nathalie cocked one shoulder and smiled. “That depends on the man.” She left Max to consider that as she scrolled through some numbers, picked one, and put the phone to her ear. “Jacques? C’est Nathalie. Bien, et toi?” She laughed at the reply. “Oui, deux. Dans le jardin. A tout a l’heure.”

They finished their coffee, and Nathalie looked at her watch. “We have plenty of time before lunch. Who do you want to see first? The expensive dealers, or the ridiculously expensive dealers?” She slung her bag over her shoulder and led the way through the crowd, hair and hips swinging in a way that put all thoughts of antique furniture out of Max’s mind.

After nearly two hours spent looking at commodes, armoires, four-poster beds, marble baths, and a variety of overdecorated chairs and tables attributed to the various Napoleons and the even more numerous Louis, one thing had become abundantly clear to Max: the clutter in his attic would be of little interest to these lovers of fine marqueterie and the belle epoque. Feeling a little let down, he went over to Nathalie, who was chatting to a willowy young man standing amidst a collection of chandeliers, and waited for a pause in the conversation.

“It’s been an education,” he said to her when the young man had drifted off, “but I don’t think my stuff is in this league. Not enough ormolu.”

“Ah bon? Maybe what you need is…”

“A drink. And then lunch. And a junk dealer to come and take it all away.”

Nathalie laughed. “No Rembrandts in the maid’s room? No Poussins under the bed? Poor Max.” She took his arm. “Never mind. A glass of wine will cheer you up.”

She had chosen a small restaurant owned by a friend, popular with dealers and decorators who sought relief in its cool, walled garden after the rigors of a morning’s haggling. She led Max to the only free table, in a corner shaded by the leaves of a giant fig tree that appeared to be growing out of the wall.

A burly man in billowing white shirt and trousers appeared with menus, two noisy kisses for Nathalie, and a handshake for Max: Jacques, the owner, scolding Nathalie for not coming more often as he waved to a waiter to bring wine. He recommended the plat du jour with the passionate enthusiasm of a man who was worried that he might have bought too much of it, and wished them a pleasant lunch.

The wine arrived in a thick carafe beaded with moisture, an irresistible sight on a thirsty day. Max poured, and they touched glasses, a small politeness that, with Nathalie, he found oddly intimate. Like most Englishmen, he was accustomed to drinkers keeping their distance from one another, with only an impersonal, mumbled “cheers” before the first sip.

“So?” Nathalie had pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, her fine dark eyes wide and amused. “You won’t be retiring on the proceeds of the treasures in your attic?”

“Afraid not. But thanks for bringing me. You must have had better things to do today.” The unspoken question hung in the air for a moment.

“Max,” she said, “I think you’re fishing.”

Max grinned. “Well, what do you usually do on weekends? Apart from motor racing?”

“Ah.” Nathalie smiled, but refused to be drawn out. She retreated into her menu. “The lamb is always good here, and so is the salmon. They serve it with a sorrel sauce. And you should start with the pissaladiere.”

Max abandoned his menu and leaned back in his chair. “Fine. Anything you say.”

Nathalie gave a dismissive wave of her fingers, as though she were batting away an insect. “Do you always do what women tell you?” She looked up, half-smiling.

“Depends on the woman.”

They ordered, and ate, and one carafe of wine led to another as they talked on into the afternoon, exchanging the kind of edited life histories that strangers reveal to one another on their way to friendship. Max noticed that Nathalie listened-attentively, and laughing in all the right places-much more than she spoke. But lunch had been a success, he felt; so much so that it wasn’t until they were walking back to the car that he remembered to ask if she’d had any luck in her search for a wine doctor.

“I think so,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you? He’s supposed to be one of the top men, but he’s very busy.” She shrugged. “All the good ones are. If they’re not in Bordeaux, they’re in California or Chile. Anyway, his office promised me that he’d call next week.”

They reached the car. Max stopped, putting his hand on his heart and what he hoped was a winning expression on his face. “Nathalie,” he said, “can I suggest the perfect way to end a lovely afternoon?”

She had turned her head away, and looked back at him with a sideways, wary glance. He had so far behaved like a civilized man, but one could never tell. The English were not always what they seemed. Her eyebrows went up.

“Let me drive.”

Nine

This was Mr. Chen’s third visit to Bordeaux, a city he found increasingly agreeable. As on his previous visits, he was particularly taken by the elegance and human scale of the eighteenth-century buildings, which made a refreshing change from the glass and steel towers of his native Hong Kong. He admired the architectural set pieces-the Place de la Bourse, the Esplanade des Quinconces, the Grand Theatre, the fountains and statues-and he delighted in the tranquil surface of the broad, slow-flowing Garonne. And, telling himself that there should always be a place in a man’s life for recreation, Chen had begun to appreciate some of Bordeaux ’s less publicized attractions, the exotically dressed young ladies who patrolled the back streets of the old town. In fact, he was thinking of increasing his visits to two a year.

It was in his nature to make himself well informed, and in the course of doing his homework he had discovered, among many other things, that Bordeaux was the first place in France where tennis had been played; that the novelist Francois Mauriac had invented “the aristocracy of the cork” to describe the multinational mix of French, English, Irish, German, and Swiss wine grandees; and that their original cellars had been built next to the river, on the quai des Chartrons.

And it was here, where the rue Ramonet joined the quai des Chartrons, that Mr. Chen told the driver of his taxi to drop him off. A stroll, and a breath of cool river air, would clear his head before he tackled the business of the day. He had made his arrangements with the bank. He had dropped a few discreet hints to his clients. All that remained was to hope that this year’s price wouldn’t be too exorbitant.

He turned off the quai and into the cours Xavier Arnozan, a broad street of trees and graceful houses, and saw that the others were arriving. He quickened his pace to join them as they made their way through an unmarked front door.