Peter Mayle - A Good Year

Fanny laughed, and Max felt her thigh press gently against his under the table. “What does he say?”

“I think he’s worried our dinner’s getting cold.” Max looked at the almost comical concern on his friend’s face. “Come on, Charlie, sit down. What have you done with Christie?”

The happiness returned to Charlie’s face. “She’s getting us some food. Lovely girl. What a great evening.” He beamed at Fanny. “ Bello fiesta-ah, here she comes now.”

Christie put the plates on the table and sat down, shaking her head. “That lawyer woman is here, in case you’re interested. I thought she was going to ask me to dance.” Charlie looked puzzled. “Max, you tell him.”

While they ate, Max explained-in both languages, for Fanny’s benefit-and they looked around to see where Nathalie Auzet was sitting. Fanny saw her first, at a table with the Villeneuve-Loubets and a slim, fashionably dressed middle-aged man whom she described with a sniff as Nathalie’s accessoire. In fact, Max was pleased to see her. It was unlikely that she would have come if Roussel had said anything to her about the wine. But the wine could wait until tomorrow.

The accordion band had finished their first set-and a rousing set it was-and were back at the café laying into the pastis while the disc jockey tweaked the sound system. A moment of static, and then the tempo changed abruptly. All at once, the square was filled with the sound of Diana Krall’s slow, smoky, infinitely seductive voice. The language was English, the message universal, more like a murmured mating call than a song:

There may be trouble ahead,

But while there’s moonlight and music

And love and romance,

Let’s face the music and dance.

Max stood up and took Fanny gently by the wrist, feeling the throb of her pulse against his fingertips.

Christie grinned up at them, and winked. “Dance like there’s nobody watching.”

And this they did, under the mostly approving eyes-Gaston being an exception-of le tout village.

The arrival of Madame Passepartout at the house the following morning was unusually late and unusually muted; even stealthy. One dance too many, one glass too many the night before had led to an overall feeling of fragility, and this led in turn to a more tentative approach to the chores of the day. Shutters were eased open rather than flung wide, and the vacuum cleaner, that splitter of tender heads, was left for the time being in the scullery closet.

The house was still, and apart from an occasional distant groan from the plumbing, silent. Had it been audible, a louder sound by far would have been the furious working of Madame Passepartout’s curiosity. She and her friends, like the rest of the village, had observed with close attention the dancing of Christie and Charlie, of Fanny and Max. Certain conclusions had been reached. Madame Passepartout, in view of the privileged position that gave her access to every corner of the house, had been delegated by her friends to confirm those conclusions-purely out of benevolent interest, naturally.

She stood in the center of the kitchen, thoughtful but irresolute, seeking inspiration. What reason-what plausible reason-could she find for opening bedroom doors and counting heads? She glanced at the kitchen clock and saw that it was nearly ten-thirty. And then the perfect course of action occurred to her, prompted by the memory of an article she had once read in Télérama magazine. It was an interview with a well-known English film actor, described as un vrai Cockney. According to him, every Englishman’s favorite way to start the day was early-morning tea in bed-proper tea, so strong you could stand a spoon up in it.

Madame Passepartout filled the kettle and prepared a tray: teapot, cups and saucers, bowl of sugar, small jug of milk (a bizarre addition, but apparently loved by the English). She found a packet of Earl Grey teabags that probably dated from the days of Uncle Henry, and brewed tea in what she hoped was the English fashion, leaving two bags to steep until the liquid in the pot attained the color of creosote.

Climbing the stairs, she hesitated for a moment on the landing before turning left, toward the bedroom that had been prepared for Charlie. She knocked on the door, her head cocked. There was no sound, no response of any kind. She knocked again, then pushed the door open.

She saw the usual bachelor’s muddle of discarded clothes tossed onto an armchair in the corner. But of Charlie himself, not a sign. The bed had not been slept in, the cognac left untouched. The queen smiled her royal smile from the framed photograph, and Madame Passepartout found herself smiling back. The young couple were doubtless elsewhere. It is as I thought, she said to herself.

It seemed to her a pity to waste a freshly made pot of tea, and so she decided that a visit to Max’s bedroom was called for. But it was the same there. All she saw was another empty room, another bed that hadn’t been slept in. As she returned to the landing, considering her next step-would it be indelicate to try the American girl’s room? No, of course not-she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. She went down the stairs as quickly as the tray would allow, and was barely back in the kitchen when Max came through the door-tousled, unshaven, carrying a baguette and a bag of croissants, his face shining with happiness.

“What a morning!” he said, and, much to Madame Passepartout’s surprise, kissed her soundly on both cheeks. “How are you today, dear madame? I’ve just been down to the village-beautiful, beautiful day. Have you recovered from all your dancing?” He put the bread and croissants on the table, and saw the tray of tea for two. “What’s this? Room service?”

“It was for Monsieur Charles, but he was not in his room.”

“ No! Really? Maybe he got lost on the way home.”

“But his car is outside.” Madame Passepartout assumed her most innocent expression. “Where could he be?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, madame.” In fact, he said to himself, your guess is probably exactly the same as mine. “Did you by any chance try the young lady’s room?”

“Of course not. The very idea!” An eloquent sniff at the very idea, and a swift change of subject. “And you, Monsieur Max. How was the evening for you? If I may say so, you show considerable promise at the paso doble. ”

“Ah, but I was in the arms of an expert.” And, remembering the other arms he had been in until half an hour ago, he had the grace to blush.

Madame Passepartout was by now more or less satisfied with her investigations; she could report back to her friends not one but two empty bedrooms. She started to prepare coffee, and as the glorious smell of freshly ground beans filled the kitchen, she passed on to Max her personal souvenirs and impressions of the evening. There had been an incident-perhaps Monsieur Max had not noticed-when Gaston the meat supplier, whom everyone agreed was prodigiously drunk, had attempted to fondle Maître Auzet’s derrière, only to have his face slapped with such force that one could see the imprint of her hand on his cheek. The Americans had ended the evening on a wave of wine and popularity, having donated their baseball caps to the members of the accordion band by way of applause. The baker’s daughter-well, the less said about the baker’s daughter and that young Gypsy the better. And the mayor had at last plucked up the courage to dance with the widow Gonnet. Altogether, a most satisfying fête.

Max was only half-listening, his thoughts still with Fanny, when Charlie-also tousled, also beaming-shuffled into the kitchen clad only in a pair of boxer shorts striped in the salmon and cucumber colors of the Garrick Club. “Ah, there you are,” he said to Max. “Looked for you everywhere last night.”