A Good Year

the same family. Brothers against brothers, fathers against sons. It’s good, the fish, no?”

“Terrific. But tell me something. I tasted some of the wine-Le Griffon-at the house last night. It was undrinkable. And your friend the waiter here thinks it’s terrible.” If he was expecting any sympathy from Nathalie, he was disappointed.

Nothing but a shrug. “Dommage. But this isn’t the Medoc.”

“But if the wine is that bad, it can’t be very profitable to sell, can it?”

“I’m a notaire. What do I know about selling wine?”

Probably a lot more than I do, Max thought. “What I’d really like to know is this: if the wine is as bad as it seems to be, why is Roussel so anxious to carry on making it?”

Nathalie wiped some sauce from her plate with a piece of bread. “It’s his habit. It’s what he’s been doing for thirty years, and he’s comfortable doing it.” She leaned forward. “What you must understand is that people down here don’t like change. It upsets them.”

Max raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ve got no objection if he wants to go on working the vines. But what I would like is some decent wine at the end of it. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?” He paused, trying to remember the word Charlie had used. “Actually, what I want to do is get someone to come in and take a look at the vines. An oenologiste.”

The word was hardly out of his mouth before Nathalie was wagging a finger at him, a gesture the French cannot resist before correcting a foreigner who commits a hiccup in their language. “Oenologue.”

“Exactly. A wine doctor. There must be quite a few around here.”

There was a moment’s silence while Nathalie considered the wine in her glass, the hint of a frown on her forehead. “I don’t know,” she said. “Roussel might feel… how shall I say… threatened? Not trusted? I’m sure he’s like all the rest of them. They don’t like outside interference. It’s a rather sensitive situation. It always is where vines are concerned.” She shook her head at the delicacy of it all.

Max practiced his shrug. “Look. He stands to benefit as much as I do if we improve the wine. You don’t have to be a genius to see that. What has he got to lose? Anyway, I’ve made up my mind. That’s what I’m going to do.”

Nathalie was saved from having to give an immediate reply by the arrival of the waiter to clear away their plates and sing the praises of the cheese board in general and the Banon in particular, a goat cheese that he informed them, kissing the tips of his fingers, had just been awarded Appellation Controlee status. The interruption seemed to help Nathalie come to a decision. “Bon,” she said. “If you’re sure that’s what you want to do, I can ask some friends. They might be able to help you find someone who can do it without stepping on any toes.”

“You’re a princess.” Max leaned back, feeling that he had won a minor victory. “You wouldn’t like to help me with another problem, would you?”

The frown had disappeared, and Nathalie was smiling. “That depends.”

“I found all this furniture in the attic. Old stuff, but one or two pieces might be worth selling, and I could do with some cash to take care of the bills. You wouldn’t happen to know an honest antique dealer, would you?”

For the first time since she’d sat down, Nathalie laughed. “Of course,” she said, “and I believe in Father Christmas, too.”

“I thought so,” said Max. “You look the type.” He poured the last of the wine. “So they’re all villains, are they?”

Nathalie’s lips formed a dismissive pout, an answer that needed no words. “What you should do,” she said, “is spend one Sunday at Ile-sur-Sorgue. You’ll find more dealers there than anywhere except Paris. See if you like the look of any of them.” At this, Max sucked in a deep breath and shook his head. Nathalie looked puzzled. “What’s the matter?”

“Well,” he said, “look at me. I’m naive, innocent, and trusting. And I’m a foreigner, alone in a strange land. Those guys would have the shirt off my back in five minutes. I couldn’t possibly go without some local protection, someone who knows the ropes.”

Nathalie nodded, as if she couldn’t see what was coming. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

“That’s my other problem. I don’t know anyone except you.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m hoping that my enormous charm and the promise of a good lunch will be enough to persuade you to come with me. Notaires don’t work on Sunday, do they?”

Nathalie shook her head. “Notaires don’t work on Sunday. Notaires do occasionally have lunch. In many ways, notaires are very similar to people. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Max winced. “Let me start again. I’d be the happiest man in Provence if you would care to join me on Sunday. That is, if you’re free.”

Nathalie put on her sunglasses to signal that lunch was over and it was time to go. “As it happens,” she said, “I am.”

Driving back from the restaurant, Max twice caught himself nearly falling asleep at the wheel. The road in front of him had a hypnotic shimmer in the heat, the temperature inside the car was in the nineties, and by the time he’d reached the house the lunchtime wine was whispering to him, telling him to go straight upstairs, lie down, and close his eyes.

His instinctive reaction was to resist, remembering with a smile the oft-repeated words of Mr. Farnell, his history master at school. The siesta, according to Farnell, was one of those pernicious, self-indulgent habits, typical of foreigners, that had sapped the will and contributed to the downfall of entire civilizations. This had enabled the British, who never slept after lunch, to move in and accumulate their empire. QED.

But the interior of the house was delightfully cool, and the endless scratchy serenade of the cigales was delightfully soothing. Max went to the library and picked a book from the shelves. He would read for half an hour before attacking the rest of the afternoon. He settled into one of the old leather club chairs and opened the book, a threadbare copy of E. I. Robson’s A Wayfarer in Provence, first published in 1926. On the very first page, Max was fascinated to discover that Provence had been invaded by “cruel ravishers.” Alas, despite this promising beginning, he never reached page two.

He was jolted awake by what he thought at first was thunder, then realized it was merely someone trying to break down the front door. Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of sleep, he pulled open the door to find, staring at him with undisguised curiosity, a man with a deep red face and a dog with a pale blue head.

Six

The two men stood examining one another for a moment before Roussel put on the smile he’d been practicing on the way over and stuck out a meaty paw.

“Roussel, Claude.”

“Skinner, Max.”

Roussel pointed downward with a jerk of his chin. “My dog, Tonto.”

“Ah. Roussel, Tonto.” Max bent down and patted him, raising a puff of blue dust. “Is he always this color? Most unusual. I’ve never seen a blue terrier before.”

“I was spraying the vines, the wind changed…” Roussel shrugged as Tonto slipped past Max and into the kitchen.

“Please,” said Max. “Come in.” Roussel took off his flat cap and followed Max through the door.