Peter Mayle - A Good Year

Max wedged himself in a corner of the lurching carriage and took the letter from his pocket. He read it once, then a second time, his rusty French gradually coming back to him as he went over the formal phrases. Lost in thought, he almost missed his stop, and he was still preoccupied when he pushed open the thick smoked-glass doors of the restaurant.

The hubbub of a fashionable haunt in full cry washed over him like a wave. The long, low-ceilinged room, with its hard surfaces and echoing acoustics, was a giant amplifier, following the popular theory that a high decibel level is essential for the enjoyment of food. It was a place where, if you were romantically inclined, you would have to bellow sweet nothings in your companion’s ear. But that was clearly part of the restaurant’s appeal, because every table seemed to be taken.

A sinuous young woman, tightly wrapped in what looked like black clingfilm, swayed up to Max, eyebrows raised, eyelashes a-flutter. “Do you have a reservation with us tonight?”

“I’m supposed to be meeting Mr. Willis.”

“Oh, Charlie. Of course. If you’d like to follow me?”

“To the ends of the earth,” said Max. The young woman giggled, and led the way with the undulant strut that none but the runway model or the restaurant hostess can achieve without dislocating a hip.

Charlie was at a corner table, an ice bucket at his elbow. He grinned as he saw Max. “I see you’ve met the lovely Monica. Isn’t she something? Only girl I know who plays tennis in high heels.”

Monica smiled at them before swaying back to the reception desk, and Max looked at the beaming, rosy face of his friend. Dear old Charlie. Nobody could call him handsome-he was a little overweight, carelessly dressed, his hair perpetually awry-but he possessed abundant charm, liquid brown eyes, and an evident enthusiasm for the company of women that they seemed to find irresistible. He had so far avoided marriage, but with some difficulty. Max had been less fortunate.

He had made the mistake, a few years before, of marrying Charlie’s sister Annabel. The marriage had been turbulent from the start, and had ended badly. Much to Charlie’s disapproval, Annabel had run off to Los Angeles with a film director, and now lived in a four-million-dollar wooden shack on the beach at Malibu. The last time Charlie had seen her, she had embraced the promise of eternal youth offered by Botox and power yoga. Beyond redemption, Charlie had said to Max. I could never stand her anyway; you’re better off without her. And so their friendship had survived the marriage, if anything stronger than before.

“Now then,” said Charlie, pouring champagne, “listen to this. They’ve doubled my salary, given me a Mercedes and full partnership shares, and told me the world’s my oyster. So tonight’s on me.” He raised his glass. “To London property prices-let’s hope they continue to go through the roof.”

“Congratulations, Charlie. It couldn’t happen to a nicer crook.” Max sipped his wine and studied the bubbles spiraling up from the base of his glass. Champagne, he thought, was always associated with good times-a drink for optimists.

Charlie looked at him, head cocked to one side. “You said it had been one of those days. What happened? No assets left to strip?”

Max described his lunch with Amis and the small humiliations of handing back his car keys and then finding two bruisers in uniform standing over his desk. “So that was the bad news: no bonus, no job, no car. But then this arrived.” He pushed the letter across the table.

Charlie took one look at it and shook his head. “Wasted on me, old son. My French isn’t up to it. You’ll have to translate.”

“Remember when we were at school and I used to be packed off to spend the summer holidays in France? My dad’s brother, Uncle Henry, had a place about an hour from Avignon -big old house surrounded by vines, not far from a little village. Uncle Henry and I used to play tennis and chess, and in the evenings he’d get me tipsy on watered-down wine and give me lectures about life. Very decent old stick, he was.” Max paused for another nip at the champagne. “Haven’t seen him for ages. Now I wish I’d seen more of him, because he died a couple of weeks ago.”

Charlie made sympathetic noises, and refilled Max’s glass.

“Anyway, he never got married, never had any children.” Max picked up the letter. “And according to the will, I’m his sole surviving relative. It looks as though he’s left me everything-house, twenty hectares of land, furniture, the lot.”

“Good God,” said Charlie. “Twenty hectares is more than forty acres, right? Sounds like an estate to me. A chateau.”

“I don’t remember it quite like that, but it’s certainly a big house.”

“With vines, you said?”

“Sure. Vines all over the place.”

“Right,” said Charlie. “This calls for something a little out of the ordinary.” He raised an arm and made energetic circling motions at a waiter, calling out for a wine list. Turning back to Max, he said, “You know I’ve always liked a drop of wine. Well, I’m taking it seriously now, starting a cellar. I’m even going to an evening wine-tasting course. This is all most exciting. Ah, there you are.” The sommelier had arrived, and Charlie started to brief him.

“We’re celebrating,” he said. “My friend here has just inherited a chateau and a vineyard in France, and so we’re looking for something appropriate in the way of homemade wine.” He wagged a finger at the sommelier. “Homemade in Bordeaux, mind you. A classic claret. None of your New World novelties.”

Charlie and the sommelier bent over the list, exchanging knowledgeable murmurs while Max looked around the room-glossy women and prosperous-looking men, London ’s privileged class, all of them talking at the top of their voices. Max felt a sudden desire to be somewhere quiet, and then thought of his empty apartment. Not that quiet. He looked down at the letter again, and wondered how much the property would fetch if he decided to sell; certainly more than enough to get him out of the hole he was in. He raised his glass in a private toast to Uncle Henry.

“Excellent,” said Charlie. “That’s the one.”

The sommelier pursed his lips and nodded in silent approval before going off in search of the wine.

“There,” said Charlie, pointing to his choice on the list. “The ’82 Léoville Barton. Top bottle. Can’t do better than that.”

Max looked at where the pointing finger had stopped. “Are you serious? Three hundred and eighty pounds?”

“That’s nothing these days. Not long ago, half a dozen punters-young bankers, I think they were-had dinner at some place in St. James’s and went mad. They blew forty-four thousand quid on six bottles of wine. The chef was so tickled he gave them a free dinner. You must have read about it.”

The sommelier returned, and Charlie paused to watch him perform the opening ceremony. The bottle was presented for inspection, in the way a proud parent displays a particularly well-favored baby. The lead capsule was cut, the long, aristocratic cork withdrawn and sniffed, the dark ruby liquid poured with practiced care into a decanter, with a little more than a mouthful going into a glass.

Now it was time for Charlie’s performance. “There are five steps,” he said, reaching for the glass, “that make all the difference between the art of drinking and the act of swallowing.” The sommelier looked on with the indulgent patience that comes from the thought of a substantial commission. “First,” said Charlie, “mental preparation.” He worshipped his glass for a few moments before raising it to the light. “Next, the pleasure of the eyes.” He tilted the glass so that the differences in color could be seen-deep red at the bottom, fading into a lighter maroon at the top, with a rim that was faintly tinged with brown. “Now for the nose.” He swirled the wine gently, opening it up to the air, before dipping his nose into the glass and inhaling. “Ah,” he said with a slow smile, his eyes closed. “Ah.”