A Good Year

his office.

It was a large, beautifully proportioned room-a high ceiling, tall windows, and delicately molded cornices-desecrated by the kind of modern office furniture one finds in catalogs that offer a discount for buying in bulk. Maitre Bosc stood up behind his faux-rosewood desk and gestured at them to sit down. He was a thickset, rumpled man, shirtsleeves pushed up above his elbows, hair awry, his reading glasses dangling from a cord around his neck, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. He looked at them with a pleasant smile. “Alors? What can I do for you?”

Max described the odd situation in which he and Christie found themselves while Bosc made notes, interrupting from time to time with a murmured question. Christie’s exposure to lawyers had been limited to the California variety, sharply dressed and aggressive. Bosc, although she couldn’t understand him, seemed cozy and sympathetic. But he had a lawyer’s instinct for a lengthy and lucrative assignment, something that was apparent from his first words after Max had finished speaking.

He let his glasses drop from his nose, and began to swivel his chair slowly from side to side. “It’s a gray area,” he said.

Max knew little about law, but he had enough experience to know that whenever that invaluable legal accessory, the gray area, was invoked, substantial bills were sure to follow. The lawyer’s next words confirmed this.

“The problem is not quite as straightforward as it might appear.” Bosc rekindled his cigar, brushing the fallen ashes from his tie. “One must search for precedent. But perhaps there is no precedent.” He watched to see how Max received this cheerful news. “In which case, the highest judicial authorities will have to be consulted.”

Max translated for Christie. “He says it could be complicated.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Why am I not surprised? Max, we don’t need this.”

Max shrugged. “We’re here. We might as well see what else he has to say.”

Bosc swiveled slowly, waiting for them to finish. “Then there is the question of establishing that mademoiselle is indeed Monsieur Skinner’s daughter; a love child, but his daughter nevertheless. Nowadays, there is DNA, of course-one remembers the affaire concerning the child of Yves Montand some years ago-but again this is not straightforward. Monsieur Skinner’s remains are in a cemetery, and disinterment is an extremely sensitive business requiring permission from a number of different authorities.” He rolled his next phrase around his mouth with evident pleasure. “There could be formidable complications. Quite formidable. But it’s a fascinating case, and I shall be delighted to take it on.”

Max turned again to Christie. “The complications have just got more complicated. I think I’d better tell you the details afterwards.”

Christie rolled her eyes and took out her cigarettes.

Bosc looked from one to the other, not knowing which of them would end up as his client. He hoped it was the one who spoke French. On the other hand, the girl was very pretty. Also, as the young man had told him, American, and therefore extremely rich. He decided to offer them a constructive piece of advice. “To safeguard your positions,” he said, “it would be prudent if both parties were to maintain a physical presence in the property while the matter is being resolved. Absence could possibly be interpreted as giving up legal rights. French law can sometimes play these tricks.”

Max was silent for a moment as the words sank in. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “What I think you’re saying is that we’re going to have to live together. Is that right?”

The lawyer nodded. “Under the same roof, yes. But not in the romantic sense. Unless, of course…” He looked from Max to Christie, signaling all kinds of delightful possibilities with his eyebrows.

“What?” asked Christie.

“Later,” said Max.

The meeting ended with Bosc promising to institute inquiries. But, as he told Max, these would take time. They would have to be patient. He saw them to the front door and stood watching as they went out into the sunlit square, mentally rubbing his hands at the prospect of fat fees to come.

Christie blew out a long, loud gust of air. “OK. Is that all settled?”

“Not exactly. I think a beer would help me explain. You’re not too fond of lawyers, are you?”

“I used to live with one.”

They walked in silence down the rue de Nazareth to the Cours Mirabeau, and took the last empty table on the terrace of the Deux Garcons. Christie looked around at the crowd, most of them studying maps and guidebooks, many of them in the American vacationers’ uniform of baseball caps, baggy multipocketed shorts, and sandals made from strips of black industrial webbing. She turned back to Max with a grin. “Where’s the guy with the beret and the accordion?”

The waiter, impassive and bored, put two beers on their table and waited to be paid, his eyes focused on something far away, perhaps his retirement. He glanced down to assess the size of his tip, acknowledged it with an almost imperceptible tilt of the head, and moved off on feet as flat as the crepes being eaten at the next table.

Max began his explanation, but he could sense that it was a struggle for Christie to stay interested in precedents and judicial consultations, and when he came to disinterment and DNA tests, she shuddered and shook her head.

“Look,” said Max, “I’m just telling you what he said.” Before he could continue, Christie put up a hand to stop him.

“Right at the end,” she said, “when he was looking at both of us, all that stuff with the eyebrows, what was that all about?”

“Good question. I was coming to that. Well, what he was suggesting-no, what he was advising, only as a legal thing, you understand-was that you should, as he put it, ‘maintain a presence.’ ”

“Maintain a presence?”

“Yes. In the house.”

“With you?”

“Well, yes. I mean, I’d be there, obviously. Maintaining a presence as well. Just until this is all sorted out.”

“Max, I only met you this morning. I don’t know you. And now you’re suggesting I come and live with you?”

She looked comically earnest, her blue eyes wide with concern, a young American woman face to face for the first time with European turpitude. Max gave up trying to take the situation seriously. It was too bizarre.

“It’s a big house,” he said. “We could have three bedrooms each.”

Eleven

“Ah,” said Madame Passepartout, “it is as I thought. The young Americaine is moving in.” She watched approvingly as Max struggled to maneuver Christie’s bag, an enormous sausage-shaped canvas holdall, through the front door. “Everything is ready, Monsieur Max,” adding, with a smirk, “I’ve put flowers in your bedroom and changed the sheets. I’m sure you’ll both be very comfortable.”

Max dropped the bag on the floor. “No, madame. No. You don’t understand. She’s staying here, but not with me. Well, with me, but not in the same bedroom.”

Madame Passepartout received this news with a look of astonishment, as though the idea of two healthy and unattached young people choosing not to share a bed was odd, even unnatural. She cocked her head and put her hands on her hips. “Ah bon? And why not?”

“I’ll explain later.” Turning to Christie, Max nodded toward the stairs and heaved the bag onto