A Good Year

by Peter Mayle

  At last, Max gave in, folding the check and putting it away with fuddled fingers. Then, with even more difficulty, he wrote out an IOU for ten thousand pounds on his napkin and stuffed it into Charlie’s top pocket.

  Three

  Standing in the shower after his morning run, hot water beating down on a skull tenderized by alcohol, Max reviewed the changes that had occurred during the past twenty-four hours, and found them all good. Lucky, lucky bastard, he thought while he was getting dressed, and caught himself whistling the “Marseillaise” as he walked up to Knightsbridge for a cup of coffee.

  The day was gray but dry, and he sat at one of the tables that had been placed on the pavement as part of London ’s effort, at least for the summer, to imitate the cafés of Paris. Around him, people were muttering into their cell phones, shuffling documents, and consulting their watches before going off to work. He felt an almost guilty thrill of pleasure that he was no longer one of them. All he had to do today was cash Charlie’s check, make an appointment with the notaire, and book his ticket.

  The notaire first. It was eight-thirty in England, nine-thirty in France; the office should be open. He took out the letter from the Cabinet Auzet, now dappled with traces of Calvados, and smoothed it on the table, preparing himself for the ordeal of his first French conversation in years. It was just like riding a bicycle, he told himself as he fed the number into his phone. Once learned, never forgotten. Even so, he had a moment of hesitation when he heard a tinny female voice, blurred by static, utter a grudging “Allo?” In the French manner, she made it sound as if the call had come at a particularly inconvenient moment.

  The voice, which identified itself as belonging to the secretary of Maître Auzet, lost some of its chill when Max explained that he was the nephew of Henry Skinner, and the inheritor of his property. After a number of pauses to allow for consultations with what Max assumed was the maître himself, an appointment was made for the following afternoon. He finished his coffee and went in search of a travel agent.

  “Air France to Marseille?” The girl at the desk didn’t even bother to consult her computer. “Out of luck there, sir. Air France doesn’t fly direct to Marseille from London anymore. I could try British Airways.”

  Max had developed a deep aversion to all airlines ever since one of them had lost his suitcase and wrongly accused him of having it improperly labeled. It had been returned some days later having been run over, still bearing marks of the tire that had flattened it. There had been neither apology nor reimbursement. If he hadn’t been so impatient to get to Provence, he’d have taken the train.

  As it turned out, all direct flights were full anyway, and he had to settle for a short hop to Paris and a connection that would get him into Marseille around lunchtime. The ticket safely in his pocket, he stopped off at his bank, then spent the rest of the day dealing with domestic chores in preparation for what he was beginning to feel might be a prolonged absence from England.

  That evening, packed and ready, he poured himself the last of the vodka and looked through his window at the gloom that had gathered to obscure any glimpse of a sunset. The sense of anticipation and excitement that had been with him all day intensified. Tomorrow he would see the sun and sleep in a foreign bed, perhaps his own foreign bed if there weren’t any problems taking possession of the house. Feeling slightly lightheaded at the possibility of a new life, he changed the message on his answering machine: “I’ve gone to France. Back in six months. Perhaps.”

  Heathrow was as depressing and congested as ever, and the weather in Paris was overcast. It wasn’t until the Air France navette was south of Saint-Etienne that the sky cleared and Max could see mile after cloudless mile of postcard-blue sky. And then, as he walked out of Marignane airport to the car rental area, there was the glorious shock of heat. Taxi drivers in short sleeves and sunglasses loitered in the shade by their cars, eyeing the girls in their summer dresses. A light breeze carried a whiff of diesel, an evocative whiff that Max always associated with France, and every wrinkle of the limestone cliffs behind the airport was crisp and well defined in the brilliant clarity of the light. Artists’ light. His London clothes felt heavy and drab.

  Driving in his baby Renault toward the Luberon, the scenery was at the same time fresh and yet familiar, reminding Max of the times when Uncle Henry had picked him up at the start of his summer visits. He turned off the N7 toward Rognes and followed the narrow road that twisted through groves of pine and oak, warm air coming through the open window, the sound of Patrick Bruel whispering “Parlez-moi d’amour” trickling like honey from the radio.

  Thoughts of amour were pushed aside by an increasingly pressing need to relieve himself. Max pulled off the road, parked next to a dusty white Peugeot, and sought the comfort of a bush. He found the Peugeot’s driver already installed, and they nodded to one another, two men with the same urgent mission.

  After a while, Max broke the silence. “Nice day,” he said. “Wonderful sunshine.”

  “C’est normal.”

  “Not where I come from.”

  The man shrugged, zipped, lit a cigarette, and nodded once again before going back to his car, leaving Max to reflect on the insouciant French attitude to bodily functions. He couldn’t imagine the same episode taking place on the Kingston bypass back in England, where such activities-if carried out at all-would be conducted in an atmosphere of furtive embarrassment, with many a contorted and guilty glance over the shoulder, in dread of a passing police car and subsequent arrest for indecent exposure.

  He took the bridge across the Durance, once a river, now shrunk by the early-summer drought to little more than a muddy stream, and entered the département of the Vaucluse. The Luberon was directly ahead-a series of low, rounded humps, softened by a coating of perennially green scrub oak, a cosy, photogenic range that had been disparagingly described as designer mountains. It was true that they were pretty from a distance. But, as Max remembered from boyhood explorations, the slopes were steeper and higher than they appeared, the rocks beneath the scrub oak were as sharp as coral, and the going was hard.

  Turning off the main road, he followed the signs to Saint-Pons, and wondered if it had changed much in the years since he last saw it. He guessed not. It was on the wrong side of the Luberon to be considered chic, and, unlike the high-fashion villages-Gordes, Ménerbes, Bonnieux, Roussillon, Lacoste-Saint-Pons couldn’t claim the distinction of being a village perché, having been built on the plain and not on the top of a hill. Perhaps the lack of altitude had affected the disposition of the inhabitants, because the Saint-Ponnois were known in the region to be more friendly and hospitable than their neighbors to the north who spent their lives perched on crags, and who, several centuries ago, had spent many years at war with one another.

  A long avenue of plane trees formed a graceful natural entrance to the village. They had been planted, like every other plane tree in Provence -if one believed the stories-by Napoleon, in order to provide shade for his marching armies. History didn’t relate how he had ever found time for war-or, indeed, for Josephine-in the midst of all this frenzied gardening.

  Max parked in the shade and strolled into the main square. It was much as he remembered it: a café, a tabac, the Mairie, and a fountain. The only obvious change was a small restaurant, the tables under their umbrellas still filled with people lingering over a shady lunch. What had been there before? It must have been the village hairdresser. Max had dim memories of having his hair cut by a large, scented woman whose bosom, thrust in his ear or close up at eye level, had inflamed his adolescent imagination.

  Leading off the square were narrow, shadowy streets, little wider than passageways. Max could see signs hanging over the doors of the bakery and the butcher’s shop and, on one corner, another sign with peeling, sun-bleached paint and an arrow marked Notaire pointing up the street. He looked at his watch, and saw that he had half an hour to kill before his appointment. The sun beat down on the top of his head. He took his thirst
into the café, nodding at the group of old men who had paused in their card game to inspect this stranger in a suit, and ordered a pastis.

  The woman behind the bar waved an arm at the shelf behind her. “Lequel? Ricard? Casanis? Bardouin? Janot? Pernod?” Max shrugged, and she smiled at his confusion. “Alors, un Ricard.” She poured a generous shot into a glass and placed it on the pockmarked zinc bar next to a jug beaded with moisture. Max added water and went to sit at a table on the terrace, where he was joined by the café dog, who put his head on Max’s knee and stared at him with large, soulful brown eyes that made him think of Charlie.

  Max took his first sip of the cloudy liquid, sharp and refreshing with the bite of aniseed, and wondered why it tasted so much better here than the few times he’d had it in London. The heat, of course; it was a warm-weather drink. But it was also the surroundings. Pastis was at its best when you could hear the click of boules and the sound of French voices. It would taste even better, he thought, if he weren’t wearing a suit and socks. He took out the notaire’s letter and looked at it again as Charlie’s words came back to him: a new life… you could be sitting on a gold mine… boutique wines are the coming thing. Max raised his glass and drank to the future.

  Looking across the square, he watched the last customers leaving the restaurant, flinching at the heat and adjusting their sunglasses before ambling off in a slow, post-lunch waddle to deal with the business of the afternoon. One of them, a man with a prosperous belly and the remains of a cigar, disappeared up the street leading to the notaire’s office. Probably the notaire himself, Max thought. He finished his drink and stood up. It was time to go and inherit.

  The office was at the top of the street, just before the village ended and the vines began. A small house, its windows shuttered against the heat, a brass plaque on the front door. Max pressed the buzzer.

  “Oui?” said the tinny voice, querulous at yet another unwelcome disturbance. Max announced himself, heard the latch click, and went in to meet the voice’s owner.

  She sat behind a large, old-fashioned desk piled with dossiers, a middle-aged woman with the tightly permed hairstyle that had been popular during her mother’s youth. Attempting a smile, she waved Max toward the two hard-backed chairs in the corner of the room. Maître Auzet wouldn’t be long, she told him, and returned to her files.

  He picked up a dog-eared, six-month-old copy of Coucou from the table between the two chairs. The magazine, consistent as ever in its choice of editorial revelations, featured all the usual suspects: Stephanie of Monaco, the latest temporary Hollywood legend, Jean-Paul Belmondo’s son, Prince William, Johnny Hallyday. In or out of love, it made no difference-they all led the kind of lives that were guaranteed to fascinate people in waiting rooms.

  Max was distracted from an exclusive interview with Brazil’s top cosmetic surgeon by the sound of an angry, raised voice coming from behind the closed door of what he assumed was Maître Auzet’s office. There was a final explosive grunt, the door was flung open, and a burly man with the roasted complexion of a farmworker stamped out of the office, giving Max a sidelong glare as he left. The secretary didn’t bother to look up from her papers. The man’s face seemed vaguely, very vaguely, familiar, but Max couldn’t place it. He went back to the cosmetic surgeon, who had apparently achieved an exciting breakthrough in buttock lifting.

  Some moments later, there was the click of heels on the tiled floor, and Maître Auzet appeared, smiling a welcome. “Monsieur Skinner? I’m delighted to meet you. Would you like to come into the office?”

  Max needed a moment to recover from his surprise before getting up and shaking the proffered hand. Maître Auzet was, despite the official masculine title, a young woman: slim and olive-skinned, with the deep, burnished henna-red hair that one only seems to see in France. She was wearing a jacket and skirt that wouldn’t have been out of place in Paris, and her elegant legs ended in an equally elegant pair of high heels.

  “Monsieur Skinner?” She seemed amused by his evident surprise. “Is something wrong?”

  Max shook his head, and muttered something about never having seen his English solicitor, Mr. Chapman, in high heels before following her into her office. In contrast to the secretary’s sparse and rather dingy surroundings, the office of Maître Auzet was not unlike her, sleek and modern, beige and dark brown. The desk was bare except for a laptop, a notepad, a vase of peonies, and a crystal tumbler filled with a bouquet of Montblanc pens.

  “Could I ask you for some identification?” She smiled again. “Just a formality.” Max gave her his passport. She put on a pair of reading glasses before comparing the photograph with the real thing sitting opposite her, looking from one to the other, shaking her head. “Never very flattering, are they? I wonder why that is.” She slid the passport back across the desk and, reaching into a drawer, took out a thick file and a bunch of large, old-fashioned keys tied together with binding twine.

  She started to go through the contents of the file, reading out various passages from different documents. Max half-listened, his thoughts far from legal technicalities as he took advantage of her lowered head to study her: the merest, most discreet hint of cleavage where her silk blouse had fallen away from her body as she bent forward; the skin with its rich Mediterranean glow; that wonderful hair; delicate hands, shining, unpainted nails, and, he noticed, no wedding band. Maybe his luck really was changing. He tried to think of a convincing excuse for another, less businesslike meeting.

  “… and so you don’t have to worry about the property taxes. They won’t be due until November.” She closed the file, and pushed it across the desk with the keys. “Voilà.”

  She turned to the pad on which she’d made some notes.

  “Unfortunately”-her mouth formed a pout, as if to emphasize the burdens of a notaire’s life-“matters of succession are never completely without a few loose ends.” She looked at Max over the top of her glasses and tilted her head prettily. “You probably saw one of them leaving the office while you were waiting.”

  Max thought back to the scowling peasant. “He didn’t seem too happy. Who is he?”

  “Claude Roussel. He used to work for your uncle.”

  Now he remembered. That was Russell, an older Russell made thicker and balder and more weather-beaten by the passage of the years, but certainly the same man he’d met once or twice at the house. “What’s he upset about?”

  Maître Auzet glanced at the wafer of gold on her wrist. “It’s a little complicated to explain, and I don’t really have time today…”

  Max held up a hand. “I’ve just had a wonderful idea.”

  She looked at him, half-smiling.

  “Tomorrow. Lunch. Even notaires eat lunch, don’t they?”

  She took off her glasses. There was a moment’s hesitation and a twitch of one shoulder. “Yes,” she said, “notaires eat lunch.”

  Max stood up and inclined his head in an abbreviated bow. “Until tomorrow, then.” He turned to leave.

  “Monsieur Skinner?’ Her smile had broadened. “Don’t forget your keys.”

  Max gathered up the keys and the bulky file, stopping at the secretary’s desk on his way out. “I hope you have a truly splendid evening, madame. Champagne and dancing.”

  The woman looked up at him and nodded. “Of course, monsieur.” She watched him go through the front door, whistling as he went. The younger men were often like that after meeting Maître Auzet for the first time.

  Four

  Max drove out of the village toward the house, finding memories around every bend. The ditches on either side of the road were still as deep and overgrown as they had been when Uncle Henry used to send him down to the baker’s every morning on a dilapidated bicycle, with the promise of a five-franc reward if the croissants were still warm by the time he got back. He used to race against himself, legs pumping furiously to break his previous best time and add to the collection of five-franc pieces that he kept in an old mustard pot beside his bed. The pot, e
mpty at the beginning of the holidays, would be full and wonderfully heavy by the end. It had been Max’s first experience of feeling rich.

  He pulled up in front of the stone pillars, crumbling and stained almost black by two centuries of weather, that marked the entrance to the dirt road leading down to the house. The name of the property could just be made out etched into the stone: Le Griffon, the letters soft and fuzzy with lichen after their prolonged battle against the elements.

  Max drove on, through rows of well-kept vines, and parked under the plane tree-a huge tree, pre-Napoleonic-that shaded the long south wall of the bastide. In contrast to the clipped and orderly vines, the garden was in a state of some neglect, as indeed was the outside of the house. It made Max think of a distinguished grande dame whose makeup was starting to crack. The handsome façade needed repointing, the closed shutters hadn’t seen fresh paint for years, the dark green varnish on the front door was buckled and peeling. In the courtyard, vigorous weeds had pushed through the gravel, and the water in the square stone bassin made a viscous, opaque setting for a group of struggling water lilies. Pigeons squabbled in the branches of the tree.

  A little sad. And yet, you could see what the house had been, and what it could very easily be again. Max walked around to the two open-fronted barns attached to one side of the house, where he remembered Uncle Henry had kept his dented black Citroen DS. That had gone, leaving only a selection of rusting agricultural implements and two bicycles-old even when Max first saw them-with the red rubber tires that he had found so exotic.

  Returning to the front door, he matched one of the keys to the keyhole, but failed several times to make it turn. Then he remembered that, in typically perverse French fashion, the lock worked in the opposite direction from Anglo-Saxon locks. He shook his head as he pushed open the door. They never made it easy for foreigners, the French. Even the simple things were complicated.