Peter Mayle - A Good Year

Fitzgerald’s expression changed to amused astonishment. “Incroyable,” he said to Max. “I thought I’d never live to see a peasant who is also an optimist.” He patted Roussel on the shoulder. “I wish you luck, monsieur, with your giant grapes. Or better still, a miracle. And now, I really must go.”

While Max was translating the exchange for Christie, Fitzgerald strode off in the direction of the house, with Roussel a few paces behind. Clearly, as far as they were concerned, the reconnaissance was over.

“Well,” Max said to Christie, “that wasn’t too encouraging.”

“You know something?” she said. “I think that guy understands English. I was watching his face, and when I asked about the grapes, he couldn’t stop himself from looking at them. Just a glance, but I’m sure he knew what I was saying.”

Had there been a flicker of understanding, quickly disguised? Max couldn’t say; he’d been looking at Christie when she asked the question. “I don’t know,” he said. “But he didn’t seem to be all that interested. It might be a good idea to get a second opinion. I’ll talk to Roussel.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” said Christie. “There’s something not right about that guy. I’ve never seen a real wine man with a manicure before.”

Sitting in his office high above the harbor, Mr. Chen lit a cigarette and reached for the phone. He was about to confirm his reputation as Hong Kong’s most exclusive wine merchant, the négociant to know if you were looking for rare vintages or special bottles, and had the deep pockets to afford them. At the mention of his name, the secretary on the other end of the line put him straight through.

Chen wasted no time on pleasantries. “This is a lucky day for you,” he said to his client. “I did well in Bordeaux. I got six cases, and I can promise you they’re the only cases in Hong Kong. Now, in view of our long relationship, not to mention our deep friendship, I’ve put aside two cases for you at $75,000 per case. That’s U.S. dollars, of course.”

He paused to let the news of his generosity sink in. “What? How does it taste? What’s that got to do with it? Come on, my friend. You know as well as I do this isn’t wine for drinking; it’s for buying and selling. An investment. My other clients here would sell their mothers for this wine. Hold it for a year, two years. The way it’s going, you could double your money. No, I’m afraid that’s not possible. Just the two cases. The others are promised to Beijing and Seoul. Yes? Good. You won’t regret it.”

Chen put the phone down, blew a celebratory smoke ring, and crossed a name off the short list on his desk. Perhaps he should raise the price to $80,000. This was going to be an interesting couple of days. He put in a call to Beijing.

On the other side of the world, Roussel had, as usual, returned to his pink palace for lunch. He was a preoccupied man, picking at the salt pork and lentils of his favorite petit salé, saying little, hardly touching his wine. His wife, Ludivine, accustomed to seeing a clean plate and an empty glass at mealtimes, came to the natural conclusion.

“It’s your stomach, isn’t it?” she said, with the conviction of a wife long familiar with the vagaries of her husband’s digestive system. “Too much cheese last night. You need a purge.”

Roussel shook his head and pushed his plate away. “My stomach? No, that’s fine.”

“So what is it?” She reached across the table and patted his hand. “Come, Clo-Clo, tell me.”

He sighed, and let his body slump back in the chair. “It’s the vines. You know, the little patch.” Ludivine nodded. “Well, yesterday we had the oenologue from Bordeaux come to look at the property, un monsieur très snob, someone arranged by Nathalie Auzet.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, nothing much. Nothing good, anyway. I think that was the problem, because this morning Monsieur Max told me he was going to find someone else and get a second opinion. And you realize what that means?” Roussel traced circles on the table with his wineglass, his face the picture of dejection.

Ludivine did indeed realize what it meant, and had been half-expecting it for years. She came around the table and stood behind him, massaging his shoulders. “Chéri,” she said, “it was bound to end sooner or later. We’ve had some good years because of those vines-the house, the cars, more than we could have imagined when we first got married.” She bent to kiss the top of his head. “I hate to see you like this.” With a final squeeze of his shoulders, she cleared away the plates and was about to take them to the sink when she stopped, setting the plates back on the table with a rattle that made her husband start. She tapped a finger with considerable emphasis on the table. Her voice was equally emphatic. “You must tell him, Clo-Clo. You must.”

Roussel sat staring at her, chewing his lip and saying nothing.

She reached out for his hand, and her tone softened. “He seems very sympa, the young man. He’ll understand. Better that he should find out from you than from someone else, no?” She answered her own question by nodding vigorously. “Much better.”

The midafternoon air was still, and thick with heat. Max was on a ladder, wrestling with a tangle of wisteria that was trying to creep uninvited into the house through an upstairs window. Christie had gone off in search of an English-language newspaper, and Madame Passepartout, her cat crisis over, was hanging out the wash on a makeshift line she had strung up in a corner of the tennis court.

The calm of the moment was broken by the clatter of Roussel’s van coming to a stop in the courtyard. As was his invariable habit, Tonto was the first to get out, rushing across to bark at the ladder before sniffing it with great deliberation and cocking his leg against it. Roussel scolded him halfheartedly as he peered up at the figure perched above him, silhouetted against the sun-bleached pale blue of the sky.

“Monsieur Max, do I disturb you?”

Max came down the ladder, and the two men shook hands, Roussel tugging at one ear while he searched for words. “I must speak to you,” he said, “and there is something I must show you. It’s about the vines.” He jerked his head toward the van. “We can go together now, if you have the time.”

They drove without speaking in the direction of the village, and then turned off to follow a narrow track that ended in front of a long, windowless barn built into the side of a gentle fold in the land, its double doors barred and padlocked. “The cave, ” said Roussel. “You haven’t seen it before.”

Max shook his head. “I thought you took the grapes straight down to the co-opérative. ”

“Not all of them,” said Roussel. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

He parked the van in front of the barn, and Max stood watching Tonto roll in the dust, squirming with pleasure as he rubbed his back on the grit while Roussel unlocked the barn doors and slid them open. He went into the gloom and turned on a light before beckoning Max to follow.

The temperature inside the cave was cool, almost chilly after the heat outside, and the air smelt slightly humid; tannic and musty. The floor was rough concrete, divided down the middle by a wine-stained drainage channel. On either side of the channel, raised up on plinths of concrete, were rows of barrels, marked in chalk with a scribbled code meaningless to anyone except the wine grower. Standing in one corner next to the door was a rickety tin table with a scattering of papers, a couple of dingy glasses, and a long glass syringe with a rubber bulb the size of a fist at one end. On the wall, hanging from a rusty nail, was a calendar illustrated with photographs of young women in the throes of some private ecstasy, draped over tractors.