A Good Year

They sat silent and expectant, all eyes fixed on Roussel as he poured the wine, held it to the light, swirled, sniffed, and tasted; swallowed, tasted again, considered.

“Bon.” He sucked his teeth and nodded several times. “This is my wine.”

Max leaned forward and put his hand on Roussel’s arm. “You’re sure, Claude? Really, really sure?”

Roussel stiffened, his face indignant. “Beh oui. I have known this wine since he was a grape. It is my wine.” He poured wine from the second bottle, tasted, and nodded again. “My wine.”

There was a collective sigh of relief, audible even to the barman, who had been watching and listening with avid attention. It took only the briefest of signals from Max to bring him over to the table; and seeing their smiling faces, he came with an expectant air. Happy customers, in his experience, drank and tipped much more lavishly than those who came to his bar simply to drown their miseries. “Je vous ecoute, cher monsieur.”

“I think my friends deserve some champagne. A bottle of Krug, if you have one chilled.”

Krug would certainly be possible. Was there a special cause for celebration? The barman hovered, his eye fixed on the two unmarked bottles of Roussel’s wine. This being Bordeaux, unmarked bottles were of particular interest.

“A very promising vintage,” Max told him. “We’re going to drink to its success.”

Christie waited until the barman had gone in search of champagne before speaking. “No disrespect to Claude’s nose,” she said, “but don’t you think it would be smart to have an analysis done, just to be totally sure?” She looked at the faces around the table. “You know, like a wine DNA? There must be dozens of places here in town where they do that.”

According to the barman, indeed there were. What’s more, his brother worked at one of them, and, following a quick phone call, he agreed to send a messenger over to pick up the wine so he could do the analysis that evening.

With that settled, the toasts were proposed: to Roussel for making the wine, to Charlie for his virtuoso impersonation, to a giggling Christie for reasons that Charlie preferred not to disclose, to a prosperous future. By the time they went up to their rooms to change for dinner, the mood of the group was as effervescent as the champagne bubbling through their veins.

That mood was to be dampened, but only slightly, and not for long. Their new best friend the barman had recommended a bistro in the rue Saint-Remi-posters from the 1920s and long silvered mirrors on the walls, dark red moleskin banquettes, traditional good solid food-and they were deliberating over the menus when Max noticed that Roussel had fallen quiet.

“What is it, Claude? Something wrong? You’re not worried about the wine?”

Roussel tugged at his ear and pushed his menu aside. “I spoke to Ludivine before we left the hotel-you know, to tell her-and she said that Nathalie Auzet had called this morning.”

“What did she want?”

“She didn’t say. Ludivine told her I was away, and she said she’d call again tomorrow. Perhaps something about the contract for the metayage. I don’t know.”

Max waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t let it spoil your dinner. We’ll deal with her when we get back. Come on-what’s it to be?”

Dinner was long and increasingly convivial, followed by one last glass in the hotel bar to celebrate the results of the analysis. This confirmed the findings of Roussel’s nose, much to everyone’s relief.

It was well past midnight by the time Max got back to his room, where he found the little red eye of the message light blinking on his phone. Madame Passepartout had called: to remind him, no doubt, that he’d promised to bring her back a box of caneles, the small caramelized cakes-a Bordeaux speciality-that she loved with a guilty passion. He made a note on his pad before undressing, then took a bottle of Evian with him into the bathroom; a long shower and a liter of water last thing at night was a more effective cure for a hangover than any number of aspirin in the morning. The moment his damp head touched the pillow, he was asleep.

The ringing of the phone jolted him into semi-wakefulness after a night of delightful dreams- Fanny, wine, the future, Fanny-and he winced as the familiar screech came down the line.

“Monsieur Max! C’est moi.”

Max cast a bleary eye at his watch: eight o’clock. He wished Madame Passepartout a good morning and fumbled for the Evian bottle.

She was desolee to disturb him, but she thought he should know that Maitre Auzet had come to the house wanting to see him. On being told that he was away, she had demanded to know where he was. Imagine! The impertinence! Such ill-mannered curiosity! En plus, when asked, she had refused to say why she wanted to see him. An obstinate and difficult young woman. Needless to say, her questions had not been answered, and she had been told to come back later in the week.

Madame Passepartout paused at the end of these breathless revelations for Max to comment, and seemed disappointed that he had nothing indiscreet to say. He promised to bring her back a large box of caneles, and put down the phone, a thoughtful man. But whatever the problem was, it would have to wait.

The four of them left the hotel after breakfast, a subdued group that moved slowly and talked quietly. The previous night’s alcohol had something to do with this, of course, but also the thought of the confrontation that lay ahead had taken the edge off their high spirits. It’s one thing to know a man is a crook and a liar, but quite another to tell him so to his face. Would he break down and confess? Deny everything and call the police? Lose his temper and start throwing bottles at them? Nobody was taking any bets.

They arrived at the house in the cours Xavier Arnozan as the tolling of a distant bell marked ten o’clock. Charlie squared his shoulders, adjusted his bow tie, and knocked on the door. The sound of footsteps could be heard coming down the corridor, and the door was opened to reveal a young man in a dark suit, stocky and impassive.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Fitzgerald.” Charlie’s voice sounded firm and confident, despite his surprise.

The young man neither smiled nor spoke, but stood back to let them in before leading them down the corridor and into the tasting room.

The long mahogany table was bare except for an ashtray. A chair behind the table was occupied by an older man with a long, bony jaw and his hair cut en brosse. Like the young man, he too was wearing a dark suit. As they watched him select and light a cigarette with studied deliberation, they heard footsteps behind them, and turned to see two uniformed policemen taking up their positions on either side of the door. The man behind the desk frowned, and spoke for the first time. “You two can wait outside,” he said to the policemen, with a flick of his finger, “and close the door.”

“Where is Mr. Fitzgerald?” Charlie made a brave attempt to bluster. “This is most irregular.”

The man behind the table held up a hand. “Who among you speaks French?” Max and Roussel nodded. “Good. You can translate for your colleagues. My name is Lambert. Inspector Lambert.” He left his chair and came round to perch on the corner of the table, squinting at them through the smoke from his cigarette. “Word reached us yesterday of your… activities, and I must tell you that here in Bordeaux we are not amused by this kind of adventure. To misrepresent the good name of our wines, to attempt this despicable substitution, to profit from fraud and breach of trust-these are crimes of a most serious nature, and the penalties are extremely severe.” He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and went back to sit behind the table. Looking up at the row of frozen faces in front of him, he nodded and said again, “Extremely severe.”

“Putaing,” said Roussel.

“Bloody hell,” said Charlie, who had understood the gist if not the detail of Lambert’s remarks.