A Good Year

by Peter Mayle

  “I don’t know about Roussel, though,” said Max. “He may be a bit of a rogue, but I’ve developed a soft spot for him. And he did look after the old boy. Sorry, your father.” Max put down his wineglass and tapped his head. “That reminds me. I had a call just after you’d gone out this afternoon from Bosc-you know, the lawyer we went to see in Aix.”

  Christie rolled her eyes. “Let me guess.”

  Max nodded. “You’re right. The gray area is now so gray it’s almost black. Much more complex than he had originally thought. Extensive investigation in France, probably a trip to California to consult authorities there, no stone to be left unturned, all that stuff. Months of research. He sounded very cheerful about it.”

  Even before Max had finished speaking, Christie’s head had been shaking slowly from side to side. “Why am I not surprised?” she said. “I used to live with a lawyer, remember? God, it’s like-well, as my ex once said when he’d had too many beers, it’s like milking a mouse. You know? Trying to squeeze something out that isn’t there. They all do it.” With a look of high disdain on her face, she reached for her cigarettes.

  “Calvados?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Leaving the restaurant, they saw that an after-dinner boules game-or perhaps the same game-was being played by the light of moth-freckled street lamps. The contestants looked identical to those playing earlier: the same wiry, wizened old men, still wearing their caps, the same endless flow of loquacious dispute. One of them saw Christie and nudged the man standing next to him. As she passed, he shook one hand vigorously from the wrist, as though he’d burned it, and gave her a smile that glinted with gold fillings.

  “What does that mean?” said Christie.

  Max thought for a moment. “One-nil to California, I’d say.”

  Fifteen

  Max was still dripping from the shower when his phone rang. It was Charlie, a joyful Charlie, sounding like a prisoner who had just received word of his reprieve.

  “One more day of this nonsense,” he said, “and then I’m yours. I’ll be over tomorrow. All I have to do today is survive a lecture on offshore mortgage opportunities for those lucky buggers with seven-figure incomes, followed by what will no doubt be a thrilling Q & A session on the tax implications of secondary residence ownership. Want to come?”

  “Slow going, is it?” said Max.

  “I’ve had more fun at funerals.”

  “Charlie, I’ve got some good news for you on the wine front-well, I think it’s good news. It would take too long to explain now; things are a little complicated here. But I’ll fill you in when I see you tomorrow.”

  “Can’t wait. Oh, by the way, I’ve got some smoked salmon and Cumberland sausages for you. I stuffed them in my minibar, so they should be OK. Couldn’t think of anything else you’d like, apart from Kate Moss, and she’s busy.”

  Max was smiling as he put down the phone. The call had reminded him that Charlie-one of those rare and precious people who are consistently cheerful-was just about the only part of his previous life in London that he missed. He went to find Madame Passepartout.

  She received the prospect of another guest-a special guest, as Max had described him-with avid curiosity mixed with mild alarm at such short notice. A gentleman from London, undoubtedly a person of quality and consequence, possibly even an English milor, and she was supposed to have everything comme il faut in twenty-four hours. There were a thousand things to do, possibly more: towels, sheets, flowers, a decanter of cognac for the bedside table (it being well known that the better class of Englishman is partial to his nightcap); and then the mattress must be turned and aired, the windows made to gleam, the old armoire given a thorough polish, and all traces of insect life removed.

  She stood with her hands on her hips, catching her breath after this breakneck recitation, while Max tried to reassure her. Perhaps he had inflated Charlie’s credentials. “Actually, he’s just a very old friend,” he said. “He’s not expecting the Ritz.”

  “Mais quand même!” Madame Passepartout chose to be unconvinced, looking at her watch and almost pawing the ground in her eagerness to prepare for Charlie’s coming. “It would oblige me, Monsieur Max, if you and mademoiselle were to remove yourselves from the house today, so that I can work without distraction. The weather is most agreeable. I suggest a pique-nique.” The suggestion was delivered in a tone of voice that did not invite any discussion.

  To Max’s surprise, the thought appealed to Christie, who had come down to the kitchen and was groping her way toward her first cup of coffee. “Great,” she said, from the depths of her early-morning coma. “Love picnics.” Within ten minutes, they had been ejected from the house and were standing by the car, equipped with a map, a corkscrew, and absolutely no clear idea of where they were going.

  Inspiration came while they were in the village. They had bought the ingredients for a simple lunch and were getting bread when Christie’s eye was caught by something pinned to the baker’s notice board. There, among the photographs of missing cats and details of secondhand domestic and agricultural articles for sale at prix d’ami, was the card of a farm outside the village offering horses to rent for what were described as pique-niques hippiques in the Luberon.

  “Is this what I think it is?” Christie asked Max. “Pique-nique I can just about work out, and there’s a picture of a horse, so I guess it’s horseback picnics, right? How terrific.”

  “Can you ride?”

  “Sure. Can’t you?”

  Max shared Oscar Wilde’s view that horses were dangerous at each end and uncomfortable in the middle, and remembered his first and, so far, last attempt at riding. The horse had shrugged him off even before he was settled in the saddle, and had then stood looking down at him, lips drawn back in a ghastly yellow-toothed smile utterly devoid of sympathy. “I tried it once,” he said. “But the horse won.”

  “Come on,” said Christie. “It’s just like riding a bicycle. Nothing to it.”

  Half an hour later they were standing in the paddock next to two amiable and outwardly docile horses. The farmer had given Max a rough, hand-drawn map of the bridle paths-although, as he said, the horses knew them so well they could find their way blindfolded. Christie swung up into the saddle, smooth and easy, as Max put a tentative foot in the stirrup.

  “No, Max. Other side. You always mount on the left.”

  “Why?” The horse turned his head and gave Max a reproachful look.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” said Christie. “But you just do. I think it’s got something to do with your sword. You know? So it doesn’t get tangled up with your legs?”

  “Of course,” said Max. “My sword. Silly of me.” He scrambled into the saddle, and, without any urging, the horse set off at an unhurried, stately walk.

  It wasn’t very long before Max had forgotten his apprehension and was feeling, if not relaxed, then slightly less tense, and was even beginning to enjoy the unfamiliar but increasingly pleasant sensation of sitting on a large, living creature in motion. He breathed in the smell of warm horse and old leather, shifted his weight in the creaking saddle, tried to appear nonchalant, and started to pay more attention to the scenery. They were in single file, going upward all the time, the horses picking their way slowly along the narrow stony path through a tangle of broom and boxwood, their hooves crushing the rosemary and thyme that seemed to grow out of every rock. The views, carpeted in different shades of green, became more and more spectacular as they climbed toward the top.

  Two hours of gentle riding took them to the highest point on the Luberon, marked on the farmer’s map as the Mourre Nègre, more than thirty-five hundred feet above sea level. The loudest sound was the soft whiffle of the horses’ breath. They hadn’t seen or heard a soul since they started off.

  Christie tethered the horses in the shade of a scrub oak while Max unpacked the bread and sausage, the cheese and fruit, and a bottle of red wine, warmed by its proximity to the horse until it had reached the tem
perature of a well-heated room. He stretched to ease the stiffness in a back that had been held more or less rigid during the ride up, and looked around.

  It was impossible not to be affected by the extraordinary peace and beauty of the surroundings, the total absence of human sounds, the enormously long views. To the north, he could see Mont Ventoux, the blinding white gravel on its crest looking like a permanent snowcap; to the south, the massive bulk of Mont Sainte-Victoire; and far beyond that, the silvery glint of the Mediterranean. Christie joined him, and they stood for a few moments without speaking, listening to the breeze.

  “Roussel comes up here when he’s hunting. He told me he’s often seen eagles,” said Max. “Wonderful, isn’t it? London seems a million miles away.”

  “Don’t you miss it?”

  “ London?” He thought for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not a bit. Odd, isn’t it? I’d forgotten how much I liked it here. Before, when I used to come out, I never really wanted to leave, and it’s the same now. It feels like home.” He grinned at her. “And I used to think I was a city boy.”

  They found a spot where they could sit side by side looking south, their backs against a sun-warmed rock, and Max opened the wine and poured it into paper cups while Christie made primitive sandwiches. “So,” she said, passing him half a baguette bulging with slices of sausage, “are you going to stay?”

  “I hope so. I don’t know that I’ll be able to, but I’d love to. It suits me down here-the lack of pressure, the little details of ordinary life, the chance to spend so much of the year out of doors; I even like the French-well, you know that…” He shrugged, contemplating the huge sandwich that he was holding with both hands. “We’ll see. How about you?”

  Christie took her time to reply, and when she did there was an almost apologetic tone to her voice. “I’m not ready for that yet. There’s too much of the world I haven’t seen. You won’t believe this, but until a couple of years ago, I was one of the ninety percent of the American population that doesn’t have a passport. You know? We travel, but we stay at home. And I guess we miss a lot. London, Paris, Prague, Venice, Florence -you name it, I haven’t been there. I’d really like to see as much as I can while I’m over here.” She took a mouthful of wine and stared into her paper cup. “So I guess I’ll be moving along pretty soon.”

  Half-dreading the answer, Max asked the question that had been on his mind almost from the moment Christie arrived. “So what do you think we should do about the house?”

  “I’ve thought about it a lot. I guess you have too.” She put up a hand to stop Max from replying. “First of all, I didn’t come here for a house; I already have my mother’s old house, and that’s now worth about ten times what she paid for it. No, I came because I wanted to get away for a bit after breaking up with Bob-and, you know, to see if I had a long-lost dad. But I’m not ready to settle down yet, and certainly not in France.” She saw Max begin to smile. “I mean, it’s great, but it’s not for me. Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. In any case, your uncle wanted you to have the house. So you know what?” She raised her paper cup in a toast. “It’s all yours.” It was her turn to smile at the look on Max’s face. “Actually, it’s just a way of getting out of spending good money on that creep of a lawyer with his waggling eyebrows and his dirty mind. I mean, the nerve of the guy.”

  Max cast his mind back to that afternoon in Aix-it seemed so long ago now-when they had been to see the lawyer, and the remark that had outraged Christie. Something about romance. “Don’t be too hard on him. The French always think that sex conquers all. Look at Madame Passepartout-she’s been trying to get us into the same bedroom from the moment you arrived, and it wasn’t to cut down on the laundry.” He fished a startled grasshopper out of his wine with his finger before taking another mouthful. “They don’t mean to be offensive, but it’s like a national sport. It’s in their genes.”

  “Like crazy driving and weird plumbing.”

  “Exactly. But listen-you should think about the house. It’s a big decision.”

  “Max? Don’t push your luck. Remember what happened the last time you argued with me?” Christie yawned and stretched out on her back, resting her head on the canvas bag that had held their lunch, and Max looked out across the haze of afternoon heat toward the sea.

  “I hope you like old Charlie,” he said. “He’s been such a good friend to me. If we can work out something with this wine that Roussel’s been making on the side, he’d love it. Chateau Charlie. I can see him now, gargling away and coming out with all that overblown language-promising, promising, do I detect a soupçon of autumn leaves, of pencil lead, of truffle, of toasted apricots? You haven’t really got anything against Englishmen, I know. It’s just me. Charlie’s different. You’ll like him.”

  But there was no reply. The sun, the wine, and the fresh air had done their work. Christie was fast asleep.

  Max contemplated his future, suddenly much more rosy, and felt his spirits lift. In the space of a few days, he had inherited a house-now, thanks to Christie, free of any uncertainties about ownership-and a vineyard producing good wine. Good enough, at any rate, to attract the interest of Nathalie Auzet and her partners in crime, and possibly good enough to pay the costs of running the property. Liking Roussel as he did, he was glad that the old scoundrel knew nothing about the wine once it had left his cave.

  Or appeared to know nothing.

  He heard a very faint, almost equine snuffle at his side. Christie had changed position and was now curled up, with an ant making its way across the smooth honey-colored skin of her cheek. Very softly, he brushed the ant away and looked down at her sleeping face with a mixture of gratitude and, somewhat to his surprise, faint stirrings of affection. She’d been a good sport in a strange and difficult situation. He might even miss her.

  Sixteen

  “I borrowed this from an acquaintance in the village who is très anglophile,” said Madame Passepartout, who was showing Max the wonders she had achieved in what was to be Charlie’s bedroom. “It will make your friend feel instantly at home. Regard the dogs.” She pointed to the bedside table.

  There, next to the decanter of cognac and a small vase of freesias, was a framed photograph, in full color, of a smiling Queen Elizabeth. She was perched on a couch, possibly in her private sitting room at Windsor, with an entourage of Corgis spread out on the carpet like a living fan at her feet.

  Max considered the photograph, feeling sure that Charlie would think he’d gone mad. “Such attention to detail, madame,” he said. “My friend will undoubtedly be ravished.”

  It was the morning of Charlie’s arrival, and Max had spent the past quarter of an hour dutifully admiring the bedroom’s high state of polish and perfection. He had to admit that Madame Passepartout had done wonders: the down-at-the-heel cushions and the maroon curtains with their rather sinister blotches had been flogged until not a speck of dust remained on them, every hard surface had been buffed and made to shine, the tiled floor rejuvenated with an application of water and linseed oil and elbow grease. A small rug had been placed by the side of the bed to protect Charlie’s delicate feet from direct contact with the floor. And there was the royal portrait. What more could a guest want?

  Madame Passepartout interrupted Max’s flow of praise with an upraised finger. “Does he like to dance, your friend?”

  Max had seen Charlie in action on the dance floor dozens of times. His feet seldom moved beyond a shuffle, but his hands were always busy; a form of slow-motion body search. Curiously, the girls never seemed to mind. “Yes,” said Max, “although he prefers music that is not too fast. It’s his arthritis.”

  “Ah bon? Well, tonight there will be music of every speed. It is the village fête, un repas dansant. There will be an accordion band, and a diji from Avignon who will play the more modern tunes. With records,” she added, in case Max was not fully up to date with contemporary developments in the world of music, “as in a discotheque.”

  Max n
odded. “I hope you’ll be going, madame.”

  “Of course. Everyone in the village will be there.” She raised herself up on tiptoe and executed a surprisingly accomplished pirouette. “Everyone will dance.”

  For a brief moment, Max thought of Fanny, of dancing with Fanny under the stars. He looked at his watch. “I’d better go. He’s supposed to be arriving in the village quite soon, and he won’t know how to find the house.”

  In fact, Charlie had been so anxious to get away from everything and everyone connected with luxury real estate that he had made an early start from Monte Carlo, and had already reached the village. Pulling up in front of the café, he stepped out of his large rented Mercedes and looked around the square with cheerful interest.

  There was no mistaking him for a native of Saint-Pons. He was dressed very much à l’anglais: a double-breasted blazer with a multitude of brass buttons, pale gray flannels, a glaringly new Panama hat-all in all, an apparition from another world, and one the locals were studying with sidelong glances of discreet curiosity. Catching the eye of one of them, an elderly woman, Charlie raised his hat. “Bonjour, my dear, bonjour.”

  Alas, that was very nearly the full extent of his French vocabulary. He had progressed a step beyond the traditional English method of communicating with foreigners-that is, to speak English very slowly and at maximum volume-but it was only a short step, and frequently unintelligible. Indeed, it was a language that had never been heard before in Saint-Pons, or anywhere else, for that matter: basically English, but with an “o” or an “a” or sometimes an “oo” added to the end of a word to give it that authentic continental flavor, with the occasional Spanish or Italian flourish thrown in for added confusion.

  Leaving the car in front of the café, Charlie went inside to attend to what had suddenly become a pressing need. “Por favor, madame,” he said to the woman behind the bar, “toilettoes?” She looked up from her paper and jerked her head toward the back of the café. Charlie hurried off with a thankful sigh.