A Good Year

by Peter Mayle

  Max stepped out gingerly onto the flooded tile floor and dripped dry while he was shaving. Among the Band-Aids and aspirin in the medicine cabinet above the basin, he found a small flask, still half-full of Uncle Henry’s eau de cologne. It was a relic from the old Turkish baths in Mayfair, with a label like an ornate banknote and a scent that made Max think of silk dressing gowns. He splashed some on, combed his hair, and went to choose something suitable to wear for lunch with Maître Auzet.

  She had suggested, for the sake of discretion, a restaurant in the countryside, a few miles away from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of Saint-Pons. Max found it without difficulty, rural France often being more generously supplied with restaurant signs than road signs, and arrived a few minutes early.

  The Auberge des Grives was a two-story building in the concrete blockhouse style of architecture, rescued from ugliness by a magnificent run of wisteria that stretched the length of a long terrace. Groups of local businessmen and one or two middle-aged couples were murmuring over their menus. There was no sign of Maître Auzet, although, as the waiter told Max, she had reserved her usual table overlooking the sweep of vines to the south.

  Max ordered a kir, which was delivered with a dish of radishes and some sea salt, together with the menus and the wine list-a tome bound in tooled leather, bulging with expensive bottles. Not surprisingly, Max failed to find any mention of the wine from Le Griffon. He called the waiter over.

  “I was told the other day about a local red. I think it’s called Le Griffon,” he said.

  The waiter looked impassive. “Ah bon?”

  “What do you think of it? Any good?”

  The waiter inclined his upper body toward Max and lowered his voice. “Entre nous, monsieur”-he applied his thumb and index finger delicately to the end of his nose-“pipi de chat.” He paused to allow this to sink in. “May I recommend something more appropriate? In the summer, Maître Auzet is partial to the rosé of La Figuière, from the Var, pale and dry.”

  “What a good idea,” said Max. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”

  The arrival of Maître Auzet was marked by a flurry of deference from the waiter, who escorted her to the table and eased her into her chair. She was wearing another of her suits, black and severe, and carried an anorexic briefcase. She had clearly decided that this was to be a strictly business lunch.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Skinner…”

  Max held up his hand. “Please. Call me Max. And I can’t possibly keep calling you maître. It makes me think of some old man with a white wig and false teeth.”

  She smiled, took a radish from the dish, and dipped it in the salt. “Nathalie,” she said, “and they’re my own teeth.” She bit into the radish, a pink tongue darting out to lick a grain of salt from her lower lip. “So tell me. You found everything in order at the house? Oh, before I forget…” She opened her briefcase and took out a folder. “A few more bills-house insurance, some work the electrician did, the quarterly account from the Cave Co-opérative.” She slid the folder across the table. “Voilà. That’s all. No more disagreeable surprises, I promise you.”

  Before Max could reply, the waiter reappeared with an ice bucket and the wine. With the first glasses poured, a light meal of salad and fillets of rouget ordered, and the social niceties out of the way, Nathalie began to describe the situation with Roussel and the vines.

  In Provence, she explained, as in most other wine-producing regions, there was an arrangement known as métayage. Roussel and Max’s uncle had adopted this system many years ago, whereby Roussel did the work on the vines, Uncle Henry paid for the cost of upkeep, and the two of them shared the wine. With Uncle Henry’s death, the change of proprietor had made Roussel anxious. He wanted the arrangement to continue, and was worried that Max might be thinking of ending it.

  Max asked if that were technically possible, and Nathalie admitted that it was. But, she said, it would be difficult and perhaps legally complicated to change things. As legal people love to do, she then cited a precedent-a local precedent, in fact. The owners of a nearby vineyard had worked with the same family of peasants for nearly two hundred years. A few generations ago, after a dispute, the owners tried to cancel the arrangement. The peasants resisted. After a prolonged and bitter argument, the peasants won the right to continue working the land, which they still did. But the two families hadn’t spoken to one another since 1923.

  Max finished a mouthful of rouget and shook his head. “Unbelievable. Is that really true?”

  “Of course. There are hundreds of histories like that, feuds over land and water, even within the same family. Brothers against brothers, fathers against sons. It’s good, the fish, no?”

  “Terrific. But tell me something. I tasted some of the wine-Le Griffon-at the house last night. It was undrinkable. And your friend the waiter here thinks it’s terrible.” If he was expecting any sympathy from Nathalie, he was disappointed.

  Nothing but a shrug. “Dommage. But this isn’t the Médoc.”

  “But if the wine is that bad, it can’t be very profitable to sell, can it?”

  “I’m a notaire. What do I know about selling wine?”

  Probably a lot more than I do, Max thought. “What I’d really like to know is this: if the wine is as bad as it seems to be, why is Roussel so anxious to carry on making it?”

  Nathalie wiped some sauce from her plate with a piece of bread. “It’s his habit. It’s what he’s been doing for thirty years, and he’s comfortable doing it.” She leaned forward. “What you must understand is that people down here don’t like change. It upsets them.”

  Max raised his hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ve got no objection if he wants to go on working the vines. But what I would like is some decent wine at the end of it. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?” He paused, trying to remember the word Charlie had used. “Actually, what I want to do is get someone to come in and take a look at the vines. An oenologiste.”

  The word was hardly out of his mouth before Nathalie was wagging a finger at him, a gesture the French cannot resist before correcting a foreigner who commits a hiccup in their language. “Oenologue.”

  “Exactly. A wine doctor. There must be quite a few around here.”

  There was a moment’s silence while Nathalie considered the wine in her glass, the hint of a frown on her forehead. “I don’t know,” she said. “Roussel might feel… how shall I say… threatened? Not trusted? I’m sure he’s like all the rest of them. They don’t like outside interference. It’s a rather sensitive situation. It always is where vines are concerned.” She shook her head at the delicacy of it all.

  Max practiced his shrug. “Look. He stands to benefit as much as I do if we improve the wine. You don’t have to be a genius to see that. What has he got to lose? Anyway, I’ve made up my mind. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  Nathalie was saved from having to give an immediate reply by the arrival of the waiter to clear away their plates and sing the praises of the cheese board in general and the Banon in particular, a goat cheese that he informed them, kissing the tips of his fingers, had just been awarded Appellation Contrôlée status. The interruption seemed to help Nathalie come to a decision. “Bon,” she said. “If you’re sure that’s what you want to do, I can ask some friends. They might be able to help you find someone who can do it without stepping on any toes.”

  “You’re a princess.” Max leaned back, feeling that he had won a minor victory. “You wouldn’t like to help me with another problem, would you?”

  The frown had disappeared, and Nathalie was smiling. “That depends.”

  “I found all this furniture in the attic. Old stuff, but one or two pieces might be worth selling, and I could do with some cash to take care of the bills. You wouldn’t happen to know an honest antique dealer, would you?”

  For the first time since she’d sat down, Nathalie laughed. “Of course,” she said, “and I believe in Father Christmas, too.”

  “I thought so,” sai
d Max. “You look the type.” He poured the last of the wine. “So they’re all villains, are they?”

  Nathalie’s lips formed a dismissive pout, an answer that needed no words. “What you should do,” she said, “is spend one Sunday at Ile-sur-Sorgue. You’ll find more dealers there than anywhere except Paris. See if you like the look of any of them.” At this, Max sucked in a deep breath and shook his head. Nathalie looked puzzled. “What’s the matter?”

  “Well,” he said, “look at me. I’m naive, innocent, and trusting. And I’m a foreigner, alone in a strange land. Those guys would have the shirt off my back in five minutes. I couldn’t possibly go without some local protection, someone who knows the ropes.”

  Nathalie nodded, as if she couldn’t see what was coming. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  “That’s my other problem. I don’t know anyone except you.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m hoping that my enormous charm and the promise of a good lunch will be enough to persuade you to come with me. Notaires don’t work on Sunday, do they?”

  Nathalie shook her head. “Notaires don’t work on Sunday. Notaires do occasionally have lunch. In many ways, notaires are very similar to people. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Max winced. “Let me start again. I’d be the happiest man in Provence if you would care to join me on Sunday. That is, if you’re free.”

  Nathalie put on her sunglasses to signal that lunch was over and it was time to go. “As it happens,” she said, “I am.”

  Driving back from the restaurant, Max twice caught himself nearly falling asleep at the wheel. The road in front of him had a hypnotic shimmer in the heat, the temperature inside the car was in the nineties, and by the time he’d reached the house the lunchtime wine was whispering to him, telling him to go straight upstairs, lie down, and close his eyes.

  His instinctive reaction was to resist, remembering with a smile the oft-repeated words of Mr. Farnell, his history master at school. The siesta, according to Farnell, was one of those pernicious, self-indulgent habits, typical of foreigners, that had sapped the will and contributed to the downfall of entire civilizations. This had enabled the British, who never slept after lunch, to move in and accumulate their empire. QED.

  But the interior of the house was delightfully cool, and the endless scratchy serenade of the cigales was delightfully soothing. Max went to the library and picked a book from the shelves. He would read for half an hour before attacking the rest of the afternoon. He settled into one of the old leather club chairs and opened the book, a threadbare copy of E. I. Robson’s A Wayfarer in Provence, first published in 1926. On the very first page, Max was fascinated to discover that Provence had been invaded by “cruel ravishers.” Alas, despite this promising beginning, he never reached page two.

  He was jolted awake by what he thought at first was thunder, then realized it was merely someone trying to break down the front door. Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of sleep, he pulled open the door to find, staring at him with undisguised curiosity, a man with a deep red face and a dog with a pale blue head.

  Six

  The two men stood examining one another for a moment before Roussel put on the smile he’d been practicing on the way over and stuck out a meaty paw.

  “Roussel, Claude.”

  “Skinner, Max.”

  Roussel pointed downward with a jerk of his chin. “My dog, Tonto.”

  “Ah. Roussel, Tonto.” Max bent down and patted him, raising a puff of blue dust. “Is he always this color? Most unusual. I’ve never seen a blue terrier before.”

  “I was spraying the vines, the wind changed…” Roussel shrugged as Tonto slipped past Max and into the kitchen.

  “Please,” said Max. “Come in.” Roussel took off his flat cap and followed Max through the door.

  They reached the kitchen in time to see Tonto, in the way of small and self-assured dogs, christening a leg of the kitchen table. Roussel shouted at him and apologized profusely, but then added: “It’s a sure sign he likes you.”

  Max put down an old newspaper to blot up the puddle. “What does he do if he doesn’t like you?”

  Roussel’s smile barely faltered. “Oho,” he said, “le sens de l’humour anglais. My tailor is rich, eh?”

  Max had never understood how that particular phrase had become embedded in the French language, nor why the French seemed to find it so amusing, but he smiled dutifully. There was something about Roussel that he warmed to; besides, the man was so obviously doing his best to be agreeable.

  And even helpful. “Now, as to the plumbing,” Roussel was saying, “there can sometimes be complications when the level in the well is low. The pump is old, and needs encouragement. Also, there is the histoire of the septic tank, which can be capricious when the mistral blows.” He lowered his head, peering up at Max from beneath an overgrown tangle of sun-bleached eyebrows, and tapping his nose. The histoire was clearly not a pleasant one.

  “These things I attended to for your uncle Skinner during his last few years, when his sight was failing.” Roussel assumed a pious expression and crossed himself at the mention of the old man’s name. “Un vrai gentleman. We became very close, you know. Almost like father and son.”

  “I’m happy that you were here to take care of him,” said Max, shaking his left leg free from Tonto’s amorous clasp.

  “Beh oui. Almost like father and son.” Emerging from his memories, Roussel bent down and ran a finger across the surface of the table. He seemed surprised at the result, as though dust were a rarity in empty, uncared-for houses. “Putaing,” he said. “Look at that. This place could do with a good femme de ménage to give it a spring-cleaning.”

  Roussel displayed the dusty fingertip for inspection, and then clapped a hand to his forehead. “But of course! Madame Passepartout, the sister of my wife.” He slapped his palm on the table for emphasis, displacing more dust.

  Max and Tonto looked at him, both heads cocked.

  “A veritable tornado in the house. Not a speck escapes her, she is maniaque about her work. She sees dirt, she destroys it. Tak tak!”

  “Sounds like the answer to a young man’s prayer. But I imagine she’s…”

  “Mais non! She is resting between engagements at the moment. She could start tomorrow.” And not a moment too soon as far as I’m concerned, thought Roussel. Fond as he was of his sister-in-law, she could be something of a trial when at a loose end, always at his house scrubbing anything that didn’t move, rearranging the furniture, polishing and titivating. He always had the feeling that she wanted to dust him.

  Max could see that there was to be no denying Madame Passepartout if he wanted to establish a good relationship with Roussel. He nodded his agreement. “That would be great. Just what I need.”

  Roussel beamed, a man who had successfully completed a ticklish negotiation. Madame his wife would be delighted. “We must celebrate our meeting,” he said, heading out of the kitchen. “Wait here.”

  Tonto resumed his courtship of Max’s leg. What was it about small dogs that made them leg-molesters? Was there a link, however unlikely and distant, between that and the preference that very short men have for very tall women? Or perhaps the enthusiasm was because Tonto had never been exposed to a young English leg before. Max shook him free for a second time and gave him the end of a baguette to distract him.

  When Roussel returned, he was carrying a bottle that he presented to Max. “Marc de Provence,” he said. “I made it myself.”

  The bottle was unlabeled, and contained a pale brown liquid that had a thick, oily look about it. Max hoped it traveled well. He filled two glasses, and the two men toasted one another.

  Wiping his watering eyes after the first explosive swallow, Max was reminded of the equally foul-tasting wine in the cellar. “Tell me,” he asked Roussel, “what do you think of our wine, Le Griffon?”

  Roussel wiped the back of his hand across his mouth to remove any residue of mar
c before it could cause blisters to form on his lips. “Une triste histoire,” he said. “I have to admit that the wine is perhaps a little naive, a little unfinished around the edges.” He paused, shook his head, and smiled. “No, I must be honest. It’s worse than that. Unkind people have called it jus de chaussette. At any rate, it leaves something to be desired.” He took another nip of marc, and sighed. “It is not for lack of care. Take a look at the vines. Not a weed to be seen. Not a sign of oidium-you know, the vine mildew. I cherish those vines as if they were my children. No, it’s not lack of care that’s the problem.” He raised his hand, rubbing the tips of his first two fingers against his thumb. “It’s lack of money. Many of the vines are old and tired. They should have been replaced years ago, but your uncle Skinner was not in a position to invest. Hélas, the wine has suffered.” He stared into his glass, shaking his head. “I can’t work miracles. I can’t make an omelette if I have no eggs.”

  Max overcame his faint surprise at the sudden evocation of an omelette in the vineyard, and turned the conversation back to grapes. “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear I’m getting someone in to look at the vines, the grapes, everything. An oenologue.”

  Roussel’s head snapped up from its contemplation of the glass. “What for?”

  Max made calming motions with his hands, stroking the air in front of him. “Now, this is no criticism of you, none at all. You’ve done all you can. But if we get some professional advice about making improvements, I’m sure I can get hold of the money to pay for them. Then we’ll make better wine, and that will be good for both of us. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  From Roussel’s expression, he was far from convinced as he reached for the bottle of marc.