by Peter Mayle
The kitchen smelled of Madame Passepartout’s attentions, of cleanliness and wax polish and lavender essence. She had restored the surface of the old wooden table to a healthy gleam, and had placed in the middle of it a bowl of dusky pink roses cut from the bush in the courtyard. Next week, Max thought, he must talk to her about wages. Whatever she asked would be worth it, if only for the pleasure of having coffee every morning in such polished and fragrant surroundings.
Max himself was polished and fragrant in preparation for his outing with Nathalie Auzet. He had shaved with extra care, and dressed in dark blue cotton trousers and an old but still presentable silk shirt that a girlfriend of long ago had given him one Christmas. On his way to the front door, he caught sight of himself in the hall mirror, and saw that his London pallor had been replaced by the beginnings of a tan-a café tan, confined to his face and forearms, but a start. He left the key under the pot of geraniums and drove off, whistling.
Nathalie’s house was a commuter’s joy, only two doors up the street from her office. A glossy black Peugeot 305 convertible, top down, was parked outside, and the door to the house was ajar. Whatever journalists wrote with such horrified relish in the newspapers about rising crime statistics obviously didn’t yet apply to Saint-Pons.
Max raised the heavy bronze knocker and gave two tentative taps.
“Oui?” The voice came from the top of the house, cutting through the buzz of a hair dryer.
“Nathalie, it’s me. Max.”
“Are you always early?”
“I promised my mother never to be late for meetings with notaires, specially when they drive convertibles.”
The hair dryer stopped. “Come in. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Max went through a tiny hall and into an L-shaped room, the sitting area divided from the kitchen by an old zinc-topped bar. A leather chesterfield, with a silk shawl thrown over the back, and two club chairs were arranged around a coffee table piled with books, and a handsome oriental carpet, its colors muted with age to a soft glow, covered the tiled floor. A large nineteenth-century Provençal mirror, in a massive frame of gilded gesso, hung above the fireplace, reflecting a vase of lilies on the mantelpiece. A group of Lartigue photographs-all of them signed, Max noticed-decorated one wall. Everything spoke of quiet good taste and no shortage of money.
Perched on the edge of the chesterfield, Max inspected the books on the coffee table. They were mostly on art or photography, from Caillebotte and Botero to Atget and Erwitt, although one pile seemed to be devoted to wine-volumes on Yquem, on Burgundy, on the legendary champagnes. And on top of the pile, there was an old copy of The Great Wine Chateaux of Bordeaux.
Max picked up the book, a little foxed but still handsome, and started to leaf through the pages. If it were still in print, he thought, he’d get a copy for Charlie, a man who would appreciate the mixture of fine wines and what he would call highly desirable real estate. Remembering the glorious bottle they had shared in London, Max turned to the index to look up Chateau Léoville Barton.
As the pages fluttered open, a bookmark fell to the floor. Max picked it up and saw that it was a wine label; a wine among hundreds of others that he’d never heard of, but he liked the simplicity of the label’s design and the thick cream stock on which it was printed. It was discreet and clean without being too modern, exactly the kind of label he would choose for his own wine, if he could ever get anything drinkable out of the vineyard. He put it back as he heard Nathalie coming down the stairs, replaced the book, and stood up to greet her.
She had left her notaire’s uniform in the closet, and was wearing close-fitting white trousers with a black top that left her arms bare, and the sunlight slanting through the window picked out the sheen of her copper hair. Max started to shake hands, but to his surprise she leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks, her scent warm and spicy. The morning was starting well.
“Well,” she said, “are you ready to chiner?”
“Sounds like fun. Is it legal?”
Nathalie laughed. “It means to go looking for antiques, for bargains.” She picked up a big leather shoulder bag. “Although you won’t find any bargains today. We’ll take my car. I like to drive.”
And Max had always liked the idea of having a pretty chauffeur; it had been one of his executive fantasies. Even so, he soon found himself jamming one foot hard on the floor, searching for a nonexistent brake. Nathalie drove in the classic French manner-fast, with impatience, and testing the outer limits of safety-and she had a cavalier disregard for the advantages of keeping both hands on the wheel. That is not to say the nonsteering hand was idle. When it wasn’t shifting gears, it was kept busy brushing back the shining hair, adjusting the sunglasses, or adding touches of visual punctuation to the conversation.
As the kilometers flew by, she told Max a little about the development of Ile-sur-Sorgue from a sleepy little town with a Sunday-morning bric-a-brac market to an internationally known antiques center. “Now they all come here,” she said. “Dealers from New York and California, London, Munich, Paris, decorators and their smart clients with houses in the Alpilles…” She paused while she executed a particularly ill-advised burst of speed, passing the car in front on a blind bend and narrowly missing an oncoming cyclist. She glanced over at Max, and grinned. “You can open your eyes now. We’re nearly there.”
Max offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the patron saint of terrified passengers and began to relax as traffic slowed to a crawl, cars nudging along in a search for parking spots by the side of the river. Nathalie saw a couple loading a large and very gloomy religious painting into a Volvo; sign language established that they were about to leave. She stopped, forcing the rest of the traffic to back up. Almost immediately, a blare of horns began, building up to a crescendo of irate honks from the car immediately behind her. Nathalie ignored the noise, taking her time to ease into the spot left vacant by the Volvo before waving on the car behind with a gesture of her hand, ending with a flip of the fingers that was just this side of an insult. The driver accelerated away, returning the gesture with interest.
Max got out of the car and stretched. “Is it always like this on a Sunday?”
Nathalie nodded. “The winter’s a little quieter, but not much. There’s no off-season for shopping.”
They started walking toward the line of stalls where the brocanteurs had set out this week’s priceless relics-old linen, crockery, ragged posters, café ashtrays, chairs on their last legs, amateur Cézannes, the contents of a hundred bygone households. “This side is mainly for tourists,” Nathalie said, “people looking for a souvenir to take home. Over there, on the other side of the street, are some of the serious dealers. The rest are farther on, in the old station. We’ll start with them.” She took Max’s arm, and steered him onto a narrow footbridge that led across the river. “But first, coffee. If I don’t have coffee, I shall become a foul-tempered salope.”
More stalls sprawled along the other bank of the river, these laden with cheese and flowers, olive oil and herbs, the cheap clothes and sturdy pink brassieres and corsets that only seem to be sold in provincial French markets. Max was silent, taking in the colors, the smells, the good-humored jostling of the crowd, enjoying the light pressure of Nathalie’s guiding hand.
They found a table at a café overlooking the river and ordered two grands crèmes. Nathalie seized her cup with both hands, took a long, greedy swallow, and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “Alors,” she said, “before I forget.” She started to search through her bag. “Lunch.”
Max watched her, a frown on his face. She didn’t seem the kind of girl who would bring sandwiches. But, as Uncle Henry used to say, you never can tell with the frogs, slaves as they are to their bellies.
Nathalie looked up and saw his quizzical expression as she took her cell phone from her bag. “What is it?”
Max shook his head. “Nothing. Actually, I just remembered something my uncle used to say about the French and food
. I thought for a moment you were going to pull out a picnic. You know, lunch.”
Nathalie’s eyebrows went up at the absurdity of such an idea, and she clicked her tongue. “Do I look like a bonne maman?”
He gave her a long, appraising look. It was difficult to imagine her sweating over a hot stove. “No, I suppose not. You haven’t got the build for it. And an apron wouldn’t go with the handbag. Tell me, did you know him? My uncle?”
“I met him once. A very English man.”
“Is that good or bad?”
Nathalie cocked one shoulder and smiled. “That depends on the man.” She left Max to consider that as she scrolled through some numbers, picked one, and put the phone to her ear. “Jacques? C’est Nathalie. Bien, et toi?” She laughed at the reply. “Oui, deux. Dans le jardin. A tout à l’heure.”
They finished their coffee, and Nathalie looked at her watch. “We have plenty of time before lunch. Who do you want to see first? The expensive dealers, or the ridiculously expensive dealers?” She slung her bag over her shoulder and led the way through the crowd, hair and hips swinging in a way that put all thoughts of antique furniture out of Max’s mind.
After nearly two hours spent looking at commodes, armoires, four-poster beds, marble baths, and a variety of overdecorated chairs and tables attributed to the various Napoleons and the even more numerous Louis, one thing had become abundantly clear to Max: the clutter in his attic would be of little interest to these lovers of fine marqueterie and the belle époque. Feeling a little let down, he went over to Nathalie, who was chatting to a willowy young man standing amidst a collection of chandeliers, and waited for a pause in the conversation.
“It’s been an education,” he said to her when the young man had drifted off, “but I don’t think my stuff is in this league. Not enough ormolu.”
“Ah bon? Maybe what you need is…”
“A drink. And then lunch. And a junk dealer to come and take it all away.”
Nathalie laughed. “No Rembrandts in the maid’s room? No Poussins under the bed? Poor Max.” She took his arm. “Never mind. A glass of wine will cheer you up.”
She had chosen a small restaurant owned by a friend, popular with dealers and decorators who sought relief in its cool, walled garden after the rigors of a morning’s haggling. She led Max to the only free table, in a corner shaded by the leaves of a giant fig tree that appeared to be growing out of the wall.
A burly man in billowing white shirt and trousers appeared with menus, two noisy kisses for Nathalie, and a handshake for Max: Jacques, the owner, scolding Nathalie for not coming more often as he waved to a waiter to bring wine. He recommended the plat du jour with the passionate enthusiasm of a man who was worried that he might have bought too much of it, and wished them a pleasant lunch.
The wine arrived in a thick carafe beaded with moisture, an irresistible sight on a thirsty day. Max poured, and they touched glasses, a small politeness that, with Nathalie, he found oddly intimate. Like most Englishmen, he was accustomed to drinkers keeping their distance from one another, with only an impersonal, mumbled “cheers” before the first sip.
“So?” Nathalie had pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, her fine dark eyes wide and amused. “You won’t be retiring on the proceeds of the treasures in your attic?”
“Afraid not. But thanks for bringing me. You must have had better things to do today.” The unspoken question hung in the air for a moment.
“Max,” she said, “I think you’re fishing.”
Max grinned. “Well, what do you usually do on weekends? Apart from motor racing?”
“Ah.” Nathalie smiled, but refused to be drawn out. She retreated into her menu. “The lamb is always good here, and so is the salmon. They serve it with a sorrel sauce. And you should start with the pissaladière.”
Max abandoned his menu and leaned back in his chair. “Fine. Anything you say.”
Nathalie gave a dismissive wave of her fingers, as though she were batting away an insect. “Do you always do what women tell you?” She looked up, half-smiling.
“Depends on the woman.”
They ordered, and ate, and one carafe of wine led to another as they talked on into the afternoon, exchanging the kind of edited life histories that strangers reveal to one another on their way to friendship. Max noticed that Nathalie listened-attentively, and laughing in all the right places-much more than she spoke. But lunch had been a success, he felt; so much so that it wasn’t until they were walking back to the car that he remembered to ask if she’d had any luck in her search for a wine doctor.
“I think so,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you? He’s supposed to be one of the top men, but he’s very busy.” She shrugged. “All the good ones are. If they’re not in Bordeaux, they’re in California or Chile. Anyway, his office promised me that he’d call next week.”
They reached the car. Max stopped, putting his hand on his heart and what he hoped was a winning expression on his face. “Nathalie,” he said, “can I suggest the perfect way to end a lovely afternoon?”
She had turned her head away, and looked back at him with a sideways, wary glance. He had so far behaved like a civilized man, but one could never tell. The English were not always what they seemed. Her eyebrows went up.
“Let me drive.”
Nine
This was Mr. Chen’s third visit to Bordeaux, a city he found increasingly agreeable. As on his previous visits, he was particularly taken by the elegance and human scale of the eighteenth-century buildings, which made a refreshing change from the glass and steel towers of his native Hong Kong. He admired the architectural set pieces-the Place de la Bourse, the Esplanade des Quinconces, the Grand Théâtre, the fountains and statues-and he delighted in the tranquil surface of the broad, slow-flowing Garonne. And, telling himself that there should always be a place in a man’s life for recreation, Chen had begun to appreciate some of Bordeaux ’s less publicized attractions, the exotically dressed young ladies who patrolled the back streets of the old town. In fact, he was thinking of increasing his visits to two a year.
It was in his nature to make himself well informed, and in the course of doing his homework he had discovered, among many other things, that Bordeaux was the first place in France where tennis had been played; that the novelist François Mauriac had invented “the aristocracy of the cork” to describe the multinational mix of French, English, Irish, German, and Swiss wine grandees; and that their original cellars had been built next to the river, on the quai des Chartrons.
And it was here, where the rue Ramonet joined the quai des Chartrons, that Mr. Chen told the driver of his taxi to drop him off. A stroll, and a breath of cool river air, would clear his head before he tackled the business of the day. He had made his arrangements with the bank. He had dropped a few discreet hints to his clients. All that remained was to hope that this year’s price wouldn’t be too exorbitant.
He turned off the quai and into the cours Xavier Arnozan, a broad street of trees and graceful houses, and saw that the others were arriving. He quickened his pace to join them as they made their way through an unmarked front door.
In the sober gloom of the entrance hall, a small party of businessmen, all of them Asian, conservatively dressed in the dark suits and quiet ties of their trade, were exchanging bows and business cards and handshakes with their host, a tall Frenchman in well-cut tweeds that could only have come from a London tailor. Their common language was English, spoken in a variety of accents. Their common interest was wine.
“This is not an ordinary tasting,” the Frenchman was saying. “In fact, you will already have noticed something unusual.” He paused to brush back a wing of graying hair that had fallen over his forehead after one bow too many. “Normally, with the great wines of Bordeaux, tastings are held sur place, where the grapes are grown. In this case-this unique case, if I may say so-the vineyard is too small to offer comfortable facilities, or indeed any facilities at all. Except for the grapes, of course.” H
e looked at the attentive faces around him, and shook his head. “We cannot offer even a miniature chateau, and there are no plans to build one. The land is far too precious to waste on bricks and mortar. That is why the tasting is being held here in Bordeaux.”
The businessmen nodded, their dark heads bobbing as one.
“Now, gentlemen, if you’d like to follow me.” He led the way down a narrow corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced men, their features partly obscured by the luxuriant facial hair popular in the nineteenth century. The Frenchman waved a manicured hand at the paintings. “Honorable ancestors,” he said, with a smile that was echoed by the group.
They reached the tasting room, small and dim, dominated by a long mahogany table. Arranged along its polished length were shining rows of glasses, silver candlesticks with lighted candles, and a trio of open, unlabeled bottles, each identified by a hieroglyphic scrawled in white chalk. Ornate copper crachoirs had been placed at either end of the table in readiness for the ceremonial spitting that would take place later on, in the course of the tasting.
The Frenchman adjusted his already perfectly displayed shirt cuffs and clasped his hands in front of his chest, a slight frown on his face to indicate the importance of what he was about to say. “As you all know, this is a tasting by invitation only, restricted to the highest level of international buyers, the crème de la crème.” Around the room, heads were inclined in recognition of the compliment. “In other words, those who can appreciate the extraordinary qualities of this remarkable wine.”
As if programmed, the eyes of the buyers turned to look at the three bottles on the table while the Frenchman continued. “Our vineyard is tiny, and we can produce only six hundred cases of wine a year. Six hundred cases, my friends.” He took from his pocket a newspaper clipping. “Less wine than the Gallo brothers can produce in California in a morning. And now that they have acquired the Martini winery”-he held up the clipping-“it’s probably less wine than they can produce before breakfast. What we are offering here is a mere drop in the wine ocean. You can understand why we can’t afford to waste it on amateurs and thirsty journalists.”