A Good Year

They had been neglecting their first course, and ate in thoughtful silence until the last scrap of jambon cru and the last sweet scoop of Cavaillon melon was finished. “I’m just thinking out loud,” said Max, “but suppose Roussel’s wine-our wine-that Nathalie Auzet pays for in cash and arranges to have shipped out by truck every year-suppose that’s going to Fitzgerald.” He was distracted by Fanny’s breast brushing his ear as she bent forward to take away his plate. Coming back to earth, he went on: “And suppose he bottles it, sticks on a fancy label, and jacks up the price.”

Charlie consulted his envelope. “I got the right name, didn’t I? Le Coin Perdu-that’s what was on the label you saw.”

Max nodded, leaning back in his chair. “What a scam. But if you could pull it off you’d make a fortune. The best Luberon wines fetch twenty or twenty-five dollars a bottle. Give the same wine a Bordeaux label, keep it exclusive, make up a convincing bit of history, and the sky’s the limit.”

Christie shook her head. “People would know. They can’t be that dumb.”

“Don’t bet on it,” said Charlie. “You’d be amazed. This is the wine business, remember? The emperor’s new clothes in a bottle.” He nodded his thanks as Fanny put a plate of moules farcies, fragrant with butter, parsley, and garlic, in front of him. “Look, say you put the word out very discreetly to one or two of the top buyers and let them in on the secret of this fabulously exclusive wine-well, their clients aren’t likely to argue. The emperor’s new clothes in a bottle,” he said again as he speared a mussel, clearly pleased with the description. “And you’ve got human nature working for you, don’t you see? Pick your man, appeal to his ego, flatter him rigid, tell him how much you admire his taste and his extraordinary palate. Then tell him that this is an unknown treasure-there’s an old chestnut that’s worked a couple of times in the property business, I can tell you-and you’d like him to be one of the lucky few to discover it. These people love to be the first to spot a great wine. And, most important”-Charlie jabbed the air with his fork in emphasis-“you tell them to share the secret only with a few trusted clients. Publicity would spoil everything. Come to think of it, that’s probably why they don’t sell it in France. The frogs would ask awkward questions.” He raised his eyebrows at the other two. “Well? It could work, couldn’t it?”

It seemed wildly improbable. Although, as Christie said, it seemed more than wildly improbable-inconceivable, even-that a man would spend half a million dollars on a single bottle of wine. And yet it had happened. This was news to Charlie, and he jumped on it. “There you are,” he said. “Exactly what I’ve been saying. Common sense goes out of the window all the time in the wine business.”

“Suppose you’re right about this,” Christie said. “How do you prove it?”

Suggestions and countersuggestions went back and forth over the mussels and then the cheese. Max ruled out calling in the police, which would ruin Roussel as well as the others. A confrontation with Nathalie Auzet was raised again, and discarded for the same reason: she would simply deny everything, and for lack of proof she would get away with it. The more they talked, the more it became clear that they should concentrate on Jean-Marie Fitzgerald.

They were sitting with their coffee, watching the village come slowly back to life after lunch, when Max turned to Christie. “Who’s the richest man in the world?”

“I don’t know. Bill Gates?”

“George Soros?” said Charlie. “A Rockefeller, a du Pont, a Rothschild-no, wait a minute, what about the Sultan of Tengah? He’s worth a bob or two.”

All Max knew about the Sultan of Tengah was that he was oil-rich-enormously, outrageously rich. He had vast real estate holdings in cities all around the world, he had forests in Canada, herds of bison in Wyoming, gold fields and diamond mines in Africa, gas holdings in Russia. The palace where he spent most of his time was rumored to have four hundred rooms, each furnished with magnificent antiques. But apart from those few fragments of information, well known though they were, he was a mystery-rarely seen in public, never photographed, a reclusive Croesus.

“Perfect,” said Max. “He’d be perfect. Charlie, you couldn’t have come here at a better time. Here’s what we’ll do.”

Nineteen

“I can’t do it with you two making faces at me,” said Charlie. “I need to be alone. This is going to be an artistic performance. You’re sure he speaks English? I’m not altogether confident in French.”

“Trust me,” said Christie. “He speaks English.” She and Max shut the door behind them, leaving Charlie to himself in the cavernous, shabby sitting room. He arranged his notes and a pencil on the low table in front of his chair, and ran his thumb across the business card that Max had given him: simple and classic, the name of Jean-Marie Fitzgerald engraved in copperplate script. Charlie took a deep breath and picked up his phone.

“Oui?” The girl’s voice-brusque and slightly ill-tempered-prompted Charlie to put on the plummy, upper-class drawl he normally reserved for his plummy, upper-class clients.

“Good afternoon.” Charlie let the words hang in the air for a moment to let the girl adjust to a foreign language. “I’d like a word with your Mr. Fitzgerald, if he’s available.” He spoke with exaggerated slowness and clarity.

But the girl’s English was fluent, with the hint of an American accent. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Willis. Charles Willis. In fact, I’m calling on behalf of my client.”

“And your client’s name?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that-except, of course, to Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Charlie was put on hold, and he was treated to a couple of minutes of recorded chamber music while he reread his notes. Then: “Mr. Willis? Jean-Marie Fitzgerald. What can I do for you?” Christie had been right, Charlie thought. The man spoke English with barely the trace of an accent.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Fitzgerald, but before we go any further, I must ask you to keep this conversation and any subsequent dealings strictly to yourself.” Charlie waited for the murmured reassurance, then continued. “I act as the personal wine consultant and buyer for a very eminent client, a great connoisseur, a man for whom wine is one of the major pleasures of life. He is also a man of quite remarkable modesty and discretion, which is why I had to ask for your reassurance. But to get down to business: not long ago, word reached my client of your wine, Le Coin Perdu. He has instructed me to investigate, to taste, perhaps to buy. And so, not entirely by chance, I find myself in France.”

Charlie could almost feel the curiosity coming down the line. “Well, Mr. Willis,” said Fitzgerald, “I should tell you that discretion is as important to me as it is to you. We never speak of our clients; our dealings are completely confidential. You need have no concerns, I assure you. And so I don’t think you would be committing any breach of trust if you were to tell me his name. I must confess I’m intrigued.”

Here we go, thought Charlie. He dropped his voice to a level just above a whisper. “My client is the Sultan of Tengah.”

There was a moment of silence while Fitzgerald tried to remember the estimate he had read somewhere of the Sultan of Tengah’s wealth: a hundred billion? Two hundred? More than enough, anyway. “Ah yes,” he said. “Of course. Like the rest of the world, I have heard of him.” Fitzgerald had been doodling on a notepad, and jotted down the figure of $75,000 per case. “May I ask where he lives?”

“He spends most of his time in Tengah. He owns the country, as you probably know, and finds it more agreeable to stay at home. Travel bores him.”

“Quite so, quite so. It has become very disagreeable. Well, I’m flattered that the reputation of our wine has traveled so far.” Fitzgerald had no precise idea of where Tengah was-somewhere in Indonesia, he thought-but it sounded distant. He scratched out the number on his pad and wrote down $100,000. “Fortunately, we do have a few cases left.” The tone of his voice lightened, as though he had suddenly been struck by a most unusually happy idea. “Perhaps I could suggest a tasting? A private tasting, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Charlie made rustling sounds with the paper on which he’d made his notes-the