A Good Year

jacket, and brushed back a wing of graying hair from his forehead before walking over to Max.

“Jean-Marie Fitzgerald. Tres heureux.” The two men shook hands, and Max introduced Christie. Muttering again how happy he was, Fitzgerald performed the ritual of the near-miss kiss-osculari interruptus-still favored by Frenchmen of a certain age and a certain class, ducking his head low over Christie’s hand but not quite touching it with his lips before straightening up.

“Fitzgerald,” said Max. “That’s a name I’d associate with Dublin; certainly not with Bordeaux.”

The Frenchman smiled. “I’m what the English sometimes call a ’bog frog’-half-Irish, half- French. There are quite a few of us scattered around in southwestern France. Our Irish ancestors must have liked the climate and the local girls.”

“I imagine your English is pretty good, then?”

Fitzgerald gave Max a rueful look, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, my English studies didn’t get much further than a few phrases-’My tailor is rich,’ that kind of thing.”

For once, this gem of Gallic humor didn’t bring a smile to Roussel’s face. He seemed uncomfortable, far from the relaxed, expansive soul of the previous evening. He was virtually ignoring Fitzgerald, and Max wondered if there was a problem between them, or whether it was just the instinctive mistrust that tends to exist between peasants and strangers in suits.

“Do you two know each other?” he asked Roussel.

A vigorous shake of the head. “Only since half an hour. Monsieur Max, are you sure you want to bother yourself with this? It’s hot, and I can easily show him what he needs to see.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Part of my education.”

They set off into the fields, Fitzgerald picking his way daintily up and down the rows of vines, stopping from time to time to cup a bunch of grapes in his hand, to ask the age of the vines, or to take a pinch of earth between his fingers, jotting down the occasional thought with a gold pen in a leather notebook. After an hour or so of this, his sadly wrinkled linen suit was showing the effects of the heat, and a drop of perspiration was decorating the tip of his patrician nose.

“Of course,” he said to Max, “this afternoon is merely a reconnaissance to familiarize myself with the lay of the land.” He stared out across the orderly green rows shimmering in the heat and mopped his face with a silk handkerchief. “Which, I have to say, seems to be well kept. I will need to take samples of the soil for analysis-argilo-calcaire, I would imagine; your man Roussel can help me with that. And naturally I will have to come back to see the cave: the condition and quality of your barrels, the details of your assemblage-how much Syrah, how much Grenache, and so on-also even the nature of your corks and your choice of bottles. Bref, I shall need to take everything into account before making any kind of recommendation.” He closed his notebook with a snap. “I hope you’re not in a hurry, monsieur. But today we can say we’re making a start.” He looked at his watch. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a rendezvous on the other side of the Luberon.”

Roussel, who had been silent and attentive, turned to go back with Fitzgerald to the house.

“Hold on,” said Max. “We haven’t finished here yet. There’s the other vineyard.” He pointed to the land beyond the stone wall. “I think Monsieur Fitzgerald should take a look at it.”

Roussel threw up his hands. “That? That catastrophe? Just the sight of it would plunge monsieur into despair.” He turned to Fitzgerald. “Nothing but rocks and grief. Pitiful, pitiful.”

“Even so,” said Max, “I’d like him to see it while he’s here.”

Roussel and Fitzgerald led the way across the field, and Max continued with the translation he’d been providing for Christie during lulls in the conversation. “… So Roussel’s not too keen on him seeing that patch beyond the wall. Tell me, what do you think of Fitzgerald?”

Christie shrugged. “It would help if I could understand him. But I’d expected someone-oh, I don’t know, someone a little more earthy. He never does any work in the vines, that’s for sure. His hands are too soft.”

They watched as the two men in front of them reached the wall. Roussel heaved himself up until he was sitting on top, and then swung his legs across, swiveling on his bottom. Fitzgerald, giving more thought to the well being of his trousers, negotiated the wall in a tentative, crablike fashion, and stood on the other side, dusting himself down and pushing back the wing of hair that kept flopping onto his forehead.

Roussel waited for Christie and Max before delivering once again his low opinion of the land on which they were standing. “More like a quarry than a vineyard.” He bent down to pick up a handful of white stone chippings, holding them out to Fitzgerald. “Call this earth? One might as well try to grow asparagus in the Sahara.” Fitzgerald shook his head in sympathy, his lower lip thrust out as a sign of regret at what he saw.

Turning to Max, Fitzgerald smiled. “Well,” he said, “at least there is the rest of the land. I’m sure we can make some progress there. All it takes its time and money.” He started back toward the wall.

“Max,” said Christie, “ask him why all those bunches have been clipped. I mean, if it’s such lousy land, why bother?” She kept her eyes on Fitzgerald as she spoke.

He paused at the sound of her voice, then bent his head to listen to Max’s translation. “A good question. It is common practice, of course, to do it in Bordeaux, but here? In this rubble?” The eyebrows went up in silent inquiry as he looked to Roussel for the answer.

Roussel tossed the handful of chippings back onto the ground. “As I have already explained to Monsieur Max, it is my little experiment, my last try.” He dusted his hands against his trousers. “I’m hoping that the size of the grapes can be increased.”

Fitzgerald’s expression changed to amused astonishment. “Incroyable,” he said to Max. “I thought I’d never live to see a peasant who is also an optimist.” He patted Roussel on the shoulder. “I wish you luck, monsieur, with your giant grapes. Or better still, a miracle. And now, I really must go.”

While Max was translating the exchange for Christie, Fitzgerald strode off in the direction of the house, with Roussel a few paces behind. Clearly, as far as they were concerned, the reconnaissance was over.

“Well,” Max said to Christie, “that wasn’t too encouraging.”

“You know something?” she said. “I think that guy understands English. I was watching his face, and when I asked about the grapes, he couldn’t stop himself from looking at them. Just a glance, but I’m sure he knew what I was saying.”

Had there been a flicker of understanding, quickly disguised? Max couldn’t say; he’d been looking at Christie when she asked the question. “I don’t know,” he said. “But he didn’t seem to be all that interested. It might be a good idea to get a second opinion. I’ll talk to Roussel.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” said Christie. “There’s something not right about that guy. I’ve never seen a real wine man with a manicure before.”

Fourteen

Sitting in his office high above the harbor, Mr. Chen lit a cigarette and reached for the phone. He was about to confirm his reputation as Hong Kong’s most exclusive wine merchant, the negociant to know if you were looking for rare vintages or special bottles, and had the deep pockets to afford them. At the mention of his name, the secretary on the other end of the line put him straight through.

Chen wasted no time on pleasantries. “This is a lucky day for you,” he said to his client. “I did well in Bordeaux. I got six cases, and I can promise you they’re the only cases in Hong Kong. Now, in view of our long relationship, not to mention our deep friendship, I’ve put aside two cases for you at $75,000 per case. That’s U.S. dollars, of course.”

He paused to let the news of his generosity sink in. “What? How does it taste? What’s that got