Esperanto spoken by most of the stall holders.
Christie’s eye was caught by a group of middle-aged cyclists at the edge of the market taking a break from their exertions. Their gleaming bicycles bristled with gears and gadgets, including cell phone holders fixed to the handlebars, and attached to the back of each saddle was a slender pole from which bravely fluttered a triangular white flag. The owners of these splendid machines, gentlemen encased in too-tight Lycra, resembled plump, multicolored sausages topped off with lightweight crash helmets the shape of insects’ heads. They all wore the fingerless gloves and the narrow, wraparound sunglasses favored by riders in the Tour de France, and they were verbally slapping one another on the back for completing their grueling morning spin. Their voices easily carried above the din of the market.
Christie winced. “Why are Americans always the loudest? It’s so embarrassing.”
“They’re in pain,” said Max. “It’s those tight shorts. Actually, I’m not sure I agree with you. Have you ever heard the English in full cry? World-class bellowers, some of them.” He watched as one of the cyclists performed a complicated stretching ritual before getting back on the saddle. “The fact is, we’re always tougher on people from our own country. There are lots of wonderful Americans. One of them married my ex- wife, bless his heart.” He sat back and looked at Christie. “How about you? Is Mr. Napa waiting for you back in the valley?”
Christie shook her head. “I just broke up with a guy after two years. A lawyer. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to get away from California for a while.”
“Heart broken?”
“His more than mine, I guess. I think he wants to get back together.” She grinned at Max. “So with a bit of luck, he won’t sue.”
As Max was looking for the waiter to pay the bill, Fanny came past the cafe on the way to work, carrying a long brown paper sack stuffed with oversized restaurant loaves. She stopped to be kissed and to fuss over Max’s bandaged head. “Have you seen Roussel?” she asked. “He was looking for you. Something about a rendezvous at the house this afternoon. A private matter, he said.” She stood smiling at him, her dark eyes bright with curiosity. “As if anything in this village could be private.”
“Nice outfit,” Max said, taking in the abbreviated cotton vest and low-slung jeans that set off several inches of bare tanned midriff. “Probably the septic tank,” he said. “There’s a bit of a problem.”
“Afraid so.”
Christie watched as Fanny left and made her way through the crowd. “It’s pretty obvious from seeing the two of you together,” she said. “You should do something about it. You know? A date?”
Max clapped his hand to his heart and put on a rueful expression. “All I can do is admire her from afar,” he said. “It’s those impossible restaurant hours. Bloody unsociable. I suppose I could offer to help with the dishes.” He left some change on the table and stood up, looking at his watch. “Come on. I thought we could buy some stuff in the market and have lunch at the house, in case the wine man turns up early.”
They joined the crush moving slowly through the square, and stopped first at a stall festooned with sausages, its counter covered with
They picked out a rough country pate, watching the deft hands of the stall holder cut two thick slices and wrap them in waxed paper. He counted out their change with fingers as rosy pink as a well-boiled ham while he advised them on a suitable wine, and the necessity-the absolute necessity-of buying a few
Christie was fascinated by the novelty of it all-the talkative stall keepers, the small courtesies that accompanied each transaction, the general air of easygoing good humor, the lack of haste.
“It beats pushing a shopping cart through the local supermarket,” she said. “That’s for sure. But something like this couldn’t happen back home. I mean, there are dogs everywhere, people are smoking, and the guys behind the stalls aren’t even wearing plastic gloves. The hygiene police in California would have a field day. They’d shut everything down.”
“And arrest the dogs for loitering with intent, I’m sure,” said Max. “Amazing that we’re not all dropping like flies, really. Yet people seem to live as long here as they do in the States, or longer. You must have read some of those statistics.”
“Sure. We send them out as press releases. You know-the French Paradox: a bottle a day keeps the doctor away. Every time the figures are published, sales of red wine go through the roof. Americans love the quick fix.”
Laden with plastic bags, they were on their way to the car when they came to the village church, and Max stopped to read a notice pinned to the door. He smiled and shook his head. “Provencal logic. It’s wonderful.” He translated the contents of the message.
Arriving back at the house, they found a note from Madame Passepartout informing them that a Monsieur Fitzgerald from Bordeaux had called to say that he would be with them in the early afternoon; that Max was under no circumstances to get his head wet, or too hot; and that she was unable to return to work after lunch due to a
“A cat crisis,” Max said in explanation. “She has this old moggy who sometimes gets fur balls and has to have her paw held. Actually, it’s better that she won’t be here. She’d be telling the
They unpacked the food and Max went to the sink to wash the salad, while Christie perched on the edge of the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a cigarette. “It doesn’t seem like real life down here,” she said. “Is it always like this? What’s it like in the winter?”
Max laid the washed salad out to dry on a strip of paper towel. “I’ve never been here in the winter. Uncle Henry always used to say it was a great time of the year for writers and alcoholics-cold, quiet, empty, nothing much to do. I’m rather looking forward to it.” If I’m still here, he couldn’t help thinking, as he reached up to the shelf for a battered olive wood salad bowl. He pushed the thought away. “Now then. This is one of the few things I can manage in the kitchen without chopping bits off my fingers or breaking something:
He put black pepper and two generous pinches of sea salt into the bowl, grinding them together with the back of a fork until he’d made a coarse black and white dust. A few drops of balsamic vinegar-a deep, deep brown-went in next, and then a long stream of olive oil, greenish yellow in the sunlight. Finally, a cherry-sized blob of full-strength Maille mustard from Dijon. Max picked up the bowl and held it against his stomach while he whisked the mixture with his fork, checking its consistency two or three times before he was satisfied. Putting the bowl down, he tore off a piece of baguette, mopped it in the brown puddle he had prepared with such care, and offered the dripping bread to Christie. “Some people add lemon juice,” he said, “but I prefer it like this. What do you think?”
He watched as Christie took the bread and bit into it, wiping a dribble of dressing from her chin with the back of her hand and chewing for a few moments in silence.
“Well?”
Christie looked at the ceiling, nodded her head. “Shows promise,” she said, in her best wine taster’s voice. “Do I detect a hint of Hellmann’s?” She looked at Max’s stricken face. “No, it’s great. You could bottle it and make a fortune.”
“It’s never the same from a bottle. Here, take this tray and I’ll bring the rest. We’ll eat outside.”
An hour later, they were sitting at the stone table over the remains of lunch and the last of the pink wine when the clatter and wheeze of a weary engine announced the arrival of Roussel’s van, which was followed a moment later by a gleaming bottle-green Jaguar. As the dust thrown up by their wheels settled, a tall, elegant man, dressed in a putty-colored linen suit, got out of the Jaguar. He removed his sunglasses, smoothed his
