A Good Year

court to the other. The evening sun slanted across the square, painting the stone houses with a coat of honey- colored light, and the cafe jukebox was having an Aznavour evening. Max found it hard to believe he’d been staring out of his window at a gray London sky only twenty-four hours before. This could be a different planet. And, he had to admit, a much more pleasant planet. The only blots on an otherwise sunny landscape were the disappointing quality of the wine and the prickly disposition of Monsieur Roussel.

A few kilometers away, Roussel and his disposition were engaged in a heated discussion over dinner with Madame Roussel, an admirable woman who had somehow managed to retain her optimism despite many years of marriage to a resolute pessimist.

“… it cannot be anything but trouble,” Roussel was saying. “Change is always bad, and he is young. He will want to take out the vines and make un golf… ”

“More couscous? Or are you ready for the cheese?”

Roussel held out his plate for another ladle of the spicy stew without interrupting his gloomy predictions “… or maybe he will turn the house into one of those hotels…”

“What hotels?”

“You know, those little chichi places with old furniture, and all the staff in waistcoats. Or maybe…”

“Eh beh oui! A nuclear power station, no doubt. Clo-Clo, how can you say such things? You haven’t even met him. He might have more money than the old man to spend on the vines. He might even consider selling the vineyard to us.” Madame Roussel leaned forward to wipe a spot of gravy from her husband’s chin. “In any case, the only way to find out is to go and speak to him, non?”

Roussel’s grunt could have been taken as yes or no. Madame persisted.

“You know I’m right, Clo-Clo. But for heaven’s sake don’t go with a face like a boot. Go with a smile. Go with a bottle. And while you’re there, don’t forget to tell him about my sister.”

Roussel rolled his eyes and reached for the cheese. “How could one ever forget your sister?”

Max finished his drink and left the cafe, stopping to watch the boules game. Uncle Henry had once explained the niceties of the point and the tir, the raspaille and the sautee-funny how the words came back to him without any recollection of their meaning-and had demonstrated the correct way to stand and throw one sunny evening on the gravel in front of the house. But the most important asset for any player, he used to say, was a talent for dispute. Argument was vital to the proper conduct and enjoyment of the game.

One of the players was about to throw. Feet together, knees bent, brow furrowed in concentration, he pitched his boule in a long and deadly arc that knocked aside two other boules before coming to rest within a hairbreadth of the small wooden target ball, the cochonnet. It looked to Max like a clear winner, but it was nothing of the sort; it was merely the signal for a heated debate between the two teams. The distance in millimeters and fractions of millimeters between boule and cochonnet had to be measured, then measured again, then challenged, which of course required yet another measurement. Voices were raised, shoulders were shrugged, arms spread wide in disbelief. There seemed to be no immediate prospect of the game continuing. Max left them to it and continued across the square to the restaurant.

Chez Fanny, with its tiled floor, cane chairs, paper tablecloths and napkins, and posters of old Marcel Pagnol films on the wall, was small and unpretentious. But the restaurant possessed two secret weapons: an old chef who had learned his trade at l’Ami Louis in Paris, and who cooked accordingly; and Fanny herself, who provided the ambiance, that intangible ingredient vital to any restaurant’s continuing success.

It has been said that you can’t eat atmosphere, which is true, and that the cooking is all that counts, which isn’t. Eating is, or should be, a comforting experience, and one cannot be comforted eating in chilly, impersonal surroundings, a fact that was very well understood by Fanny. She made her customers-all of them, not just the men-feel loved. She kissed them when they came in and again when they left. She laughed at their jokes. She was incapable of having a conversation without physical contact-a touch on the arm, a squeeze of the shoulder, a pat on the cheek. She noticed everything, forgot nothing, and appeared to like everyone.

She had, of course, heard about the new owner of the big house. Anyone in Saint-Pons with ears had heard about him, either from the official village information service, the butcher’s wife, or from the wise men of the cafe. She watched Max walking across the square and saw that he was heading for the restaurant. She turned to a mirror, making minute adjustments to her hair and decollete before stepping outside.

Max had started to study the framed menu that was nailed to the trunk of a plane tree.

“Bonsoir, monsieur.”

Max looked up. “Hi. Oh, sorry. Bonsoir, madame.”

“Mademoiselle.”

“Of course. Excuse me.” For a few seconds they looked at one another in silence, both smiling. An observer would have guessed that they liked what they saw. “Am I too early?”

No, monsieur wasn’t too early. He had come just before the rush. Fanny placed him at a table on the small terrace, brought him a glass of wine and a saucer of sleek black olives, and left him with the menu. It was short, but filled with the kind of dishes Max liked: a choice of deep-fried sliced zucchini, vegetable terrine or a pate to start; bavette aux echalotes, roasted cod, or brochette de poulet as a main course; cheeses, and those two reliable old standbys, tarte aux pommes and creme brulee, for dessert. Simple food of the kind that attracted customers rather than Michelin stars.

Max made his choice and settled back in his chair, his feelings a mixture of contentment and anticipation as he watched Fanny embracing a group of four that had just arrived. Somewhere in her family, he thought, there must have been some North African blood. It would explain her coffee-colored skin, her mop of black curls, and her dark eyes. She was wearing a sleeveless, close-fitting top that accentuated the slender column of her neck and the curve of a jaunty bosom. From the waist down, she was wearing jeans and espadrilles. Max wondered if her legs were as long and well shaped as the rest of her.

She caught him looking at her, and came over to his table, smiling. “Alors, vous avez choisi?” She sat down opposite him, pad and pencil at the ready, and leaned forward to take his order.

With some difficulty, Max kept his eyes on the menu, to prevent them from their natural inclination to stray, and ordered zucchini, the steak, and a carafe of red wine.

Fanny noted down the order. “Is there anything else you’d like?”

Max looked at her for a long moment, his eyebrows raised and his imagination churning.

“Pommes frites? Gratin? Salade?”

Later, sitting over a Calvados and a second cup of coffee, Max reviewed the first day of his new life. With the optimism induced by a good dinner and the soft warmth of the evening breeze, he could see that his initial disappointment over the wine was nothing. That, according to Charlie, could be fixed; as for Roussel, he would probably require some diplomatic handling, and Max would have to tread gently. But the other discoveries of the day were all encouraging-a potentially wonderful house, a delightful village, and two of the prettiest women he’d met for months. And perhaps more important, there were the first stirrings of a sense that he could happily fit in down here in Provence. Another of Uncle Henry’s nuggets of advice to the young came drifting back into his mind from years ago: There is nowhere else in the world where you can keep busy doing so little and enjoying it so much. One day you’ll understand.

He paid the bill and overtipped. The restaurant was still busy, but Fanny found time to come over to wish him good night with a kiss on each cheek. She smelled like every young man’s dream.

“A bientot?” she said.