A Good Year

Ten

This sunny morning, Madame Passepartout had chosen to attack the sitting room, in particular the cobwebs that festooned the lofty vaulted ceiling. A fear of heights ruled out the use of a stepladder, but to compensate for this she had added to her armory a new, improved feather duster with a telescopic handle. She was using it like a lance, bringing down great swags of dusty gray filament, when she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. Pausing in mid-thrust, she cocked her head.

“Monsieur Max! Monsieur Max!” Her screech echoed through the room and out into the hallway.

In response there was a muffled reply, and then the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs. Max appeared in the doorway, one side of his face covered with shaving cream. “Are you all right, madame? Is something wrong?”

She pointed the feather duster in the general direction of the outdoors. “There is a person.”

“A person?”

The duster pointed again. “Outside. I heard a car.”

Max nodded. From the panic-stricken sound of her voice, he had thought that she had met with a terminal domestic accident, or at least been menaced by a mouse. But, as he was beginning to find out, every aspect of life for Madame Passepartout was steeped in drama. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll go and see who it is.”

The car was small and nondescript and unoccupied. Max walked through the courtyard, reached the end of the house, turned the corner, and bumped into something soft and surprised. A girl.

“Oh!” she said, stepping backwards. And then, “Hi.” She was in her midtwenties, sweet-faced, blue-eyed, golden-haired, and golden-skinned. And when she smiled, she revealed her nationality. The only country where they issued teeth like that-so regular, so blindingly white-was America. Max stared at her, his mouth open.

“Do… you… speak… English?” She asked the question with the slow, exaggerated clarity that is often used with children and foreigners.

Max pulled himself together. “Absolutely,” he said. “Like a native.”

The girl was visibly relieved. “Great. My French is about that much?” She held up one hand, the thumb and index finger curled to make a zero. “Maybe you can help me? I’m looking for the owner of the property? Mr. Skinner?” The American intonation turned every sentence into a question.

“That’s me.”

The girl laughed and shook her head. “You’re kidding. You can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think you’re old enough to qualify.”

Max rubbed his chin and found his fingers coated with foam. “Ah. I was shaving.” He wiped his hand on the back of his shorts. “Old enough to qualify for what?”

“Mr. Skinner’s my dad.”

“Henry Skinner?”

The girl nodded. “You missed a bit.” She tapped her cheek. “Right there.”

They looked at one another in silence while Max wiped his face. “Better?”

The girl was shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “Look, this is kind of embarrassing, but it’s been a long drive and I really need a bathroom. Can I…”

“Right. Of course. A bathroom.” He led the girl into the house, and pointed up the stairs. “Second on the left. The door’s open.”

Madame Passepartout emerged from the sitting room, her face a question mark as she watched the girl take the stairs two at a time. She turned to Max. “Eh alors?”

“Coffee,” said Max. “That’s what we need.”

Madame Passepartout, feeling that this could provide a fascinating break from the cobwebs, led the way into the kitchen and started to fuss with the kettle and the cafetière, laying out three cups and saucers on the table. “An unexpected friend,” she said, and gave Max an arch look. “Perhaps a copine?”

“Never met her in my life.”

Madame Passepartout sniffed. In her experience, young women never turned up at the homes of young men by accident. There was always une histoire. She poured boiling water over the ground coffee, impatient for the return of the stranger. She sensed the prospect of revelations.

Which there were, but unfortunately for Madame Passepartout they were in English, a language that she found almost completely impenetrable. Nevertheless, she sat at the table as the two began to talk, her head swiveling from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match.

“Right,” said Max, “first things first. This is Madame Passepartout. And my name’s Max.”

The girl stretched across the table to shake hands. “Christie Roberts. From St. Helena, California.”

That would explain the teeth and the tan, thought Max. “You’re a long way from home. Is this a holiday for you?”

“A vacation? Not exactly. Well, it’s kind of a long story.” She dropped two sugar lumps into her cup and stirred her coffee while she collected her thoughts. “I was raised by my mother. She never talked much about my dad, but she did tell me he died in a car crash when I was a baby. Then a couple of years ago, she got sick, and last year she died. A stroke.” Christie shook her head. “Does it bother you if I have a cigarette?”

“Go ahead. You’re in France, smoker’s heaven.” Max fetched an old Suze ashtray and pushed it across the table while Christie took a pack of cigarettes from her bag and lit one. “Dumb habit. I’ve got to be the only person in California who does nicotine instead of dope.” She blew a plume of smoke up at the ceiling. “So. After the funeral, I had to go through all my mom’s papers-bank statements, insurance policies, the usual stuff. Anyway, I found this letter, really old, from some guy called Henry, saying he missed her and wanted her to come out to be with him in France. And in the same envelope was a fuzzy photograph of him-well, I guess it was him-sitting outside a bar in the sun.”

“Really? Do you have it with you?”

“It’s in my bag in the car. But it got me curious, and I started asking around in St. Helena, people who’d known my mom when she was young. Well, it turns out that this Henry had spent some time in California, and he and mom were, you know, seeing each other.” She finished her coffee, smiling her thanks when Madame Passepartout refilled her cup. “That made me even more curious, so the next thing I did was get a copy of my birth certificate from Sacramento. And there was my father’s name.”

“Henry Skinner?”

She nodded. “That’s why I’m here. I thought it was about time I met my dad.” Stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette, she shrugged. “But I guess I’m too late.”

Max shook his head. “Afraid so. I’m very sorry. He died last month. Tell me, how did you know where to come?”

“An old friend of my mom’s works in Washington, for the State Department. It took a few weeks, but those guys can find out anything.”

Max stood up, still shaking his head. “Let me show you something.” He went to the sitting room, and came back with a silver photograph frame. Removing the back, he took out the concealed second photograph, brown and cracked with age, and placed it on the table in front of Christie.

She studied it for a long moment. “Wow. This is really weird.” She looked up at him, and back at the photograph. “That’s my mother. And I guess that’s my father.”

“My uncle,” said Max.

Madame Passepartout used the pretext of clearing away the coffee cups to lean over and peer at the photograph, which only added to her frustration. “Monsieur Max,” she said, “qu’est-ce que se passe?”

Max scratched his head. “I’m not sure.” Turning to Christie, he began to tell her his side of the story-his boyhood visits to the house, the death of his uncle, the will. And as he mentioned the will, something that Nathalie Auzet had told him came into his head.

He picked up the old photograph and stared at it. “My God, I’d forgotten all about that. I wonder…” He looked at Christie. “Listen, I have to make a phone call.”

Christie smiled. “Go ahead.”

Max got through to the notaire’s office, only to be told by the secretary that Maître Auzet was in Paris for a few days. He put down the phone and slumped back in his chair. “The thing is,” he said to Christie, “there’s this inheritance law in France. When you die, your property has to go to your next of kin-your husband, your wife, your children. You have no choice. Now, when Uncle Henry made his will, he thought that I was his only surviving relative. He didn’t know about you.” Max frowned. “That’s strange, isn’t it? Why didn’t he know about you?”

“Mom married-a guy called Steve Roberts-but it didn’t work out. After that, I guess she felt she couldn’t… you know, come back to your uncle with a surprise package. Or maybe she didn’t love him. Who knows?”

Max looked at his watch-the Englishman’s inevitable reflex before the first drink of the day-and got up to fetch glasses and a bottle of rosé from the refrigerator. “You see what I’m getting at, don’t you? If you’re Uncle Henry’s daughter, it might make his will invalid.” He poured the wine and gave Christie a glass. “Which would mean that the property would legally have to go to you.”

“That’s crazy.” Christie laughed. “Just crazy.” She took a sip from her glass, holding the wine in her mouth before swallowing. “Hey, this is good. Nice and dry. What’s the mix? Grenache and Syrah?” She reached for the bottle and looked at the label. “Makes our Zinfandel taste like cough syrup.”

“You know a bit about wine?”

“Sure. I grew up in the Napa Valley, and I work in a winery. Public relations. I do the winery tours.”

Max nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. It was dawning on him that what he had just said to the girl-even if she didn’t believe it-was more than likely true. According to the serpentine dictates of French law, an illegitimate daughter would quite possibly take precedence over a legitimate nephew. All at once, just as he was beginning to ease into the life of gentleman vigneron, his future began to look uncertain. Extremely uncertain. And it was a fundamental uncertainty. He couldn’t ignore it, and it wouldn’t go away. Did he have a future here, or didn’t he?

“Look,” he said, “we’re going to have to sort this out.” He got up, went to a drawer of the dresser, pulled out a phone directory, and started leafing through the Yellow Pages. “Better to do it now, before things get any more complicated.”

Christie watched, a puzzled half smile on her face. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

“I think we should get a legal opinion.” Max found what he was looking for, and reached for his phone.

“Oh, come on. Do you really think…”

“I’m serious. Do you have anything against lawyers?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

As Max tapped in the number, Madame Passepartout, saucer-eyed and bursting with frustrated incomprehension, looked at Christie and shrugged. Christie could do nothing but shrug back. They waited for Max to finish his call.

“OK. We’ve got an appointment in Aix at two o’clock.”

Lunch was a swift, informal affair of bread and cheese and salad in the kitchen. Max was preoccupied, his head filled with depressing possibilities: losing the house, having to go back to London and find a job, scraping together the money to pay back Charlie. Christie was thoughtful, a little bewildered, and saddened by the realization that she never would meet her father. Madame Passepartout had given up the linguistic struggle and had gone home, promising to return to do battle with the cobwebs in the afternoon.

They were about to get into the car when Christie paused as she was opening the door. “Max? Do we really need to do this?”

Max looked at her across the roof of the car. “I do. I couldn’t stay not knowing if the house were mine or yours. Suppose you did something silly, like marry a Frenchman? You might want to come and live here.”

She shook her head. “Not on my agenda.”

“You never know. Agendas have a habit of changing.”

The drive down to Aix was marked by the kind of safe, impersonal conversation two people resort to when they don’t want to discuss what is really on their minds. They compared jobs: Max’s time in the City, Christie’s in the winery. They shared an admiration for the spectacular countryside they were driving through-like Napa, but greener and somehow older-looking-and by the time they had found a parking spot in Aix they were starting to feel as comfortable with one another as they could under the curious circumstances.

One of the most attractive corners of Aix is the Place d’Albertas, a miniature eighteenth-century cobbled square built around a fountain. Once an architectural prelude to the palace behind it, the square is now largely taken over by discreet offices filled with more or less discreet members of the legal profession. Maître Bosc, the lawyer Max had chosen at random from the extensive selection in the Yellow Pages, occupied the ground floor of one of the best-kept buildings, his brass plaque twinkling in the sun.

The secretary placed Christie and Max on two hard chairs while she disappeared to announce their arrival. Five minutes passed, then ten. Finally, when enough time had passed to establish that the maître was a busy and important man, the secretary reappeared and ushered them into his office.

It was a large, beautifully proportioned room-a high ceiling, tall windows, and delicately molded cornices-desecrated by the kind of modern office furniture one finds in catalogs that offer a discount for buying in bulk. Maître Bosc stood up behind his faux-rosewood desk and gestured at them to sit down. He was a thickset, rumpled man, shirtsleeves pushed up above his elbows, hair awry, his reading glasses dangling from a cord around his neck, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. He looked at them with a pleasant smile. “Alors? What can I do for you?”

Max described the odd situation in which he and Christie found themselves while Bosc made notes, interrupting from time to time with a murmured question. Christie’s exposure to lawyers had been limited to the California variety, sharply dressed and aggressive. Bosc, although she couldn’t understand him, seemed cozy and sympathetic. But he had a lawyer’s instinct for a lengthy and lucrative assignment, something that was apparent from his first words after Max had finished speaking.

He let his glasses drop from his nose, and began to swivel his chair slowly from side to side. “It’s a gray area,” he said.

Max knew little about law, but he had enough experience to know that whenever that invaluable legal accessory, the gray area, was invoked, substantial bills were sure to follow. The lawyer’s next words confirmed this.

“The problem is not quite as straightforward as it might appear.” Bosc rekindled his cigar, brushing the fallen ashes from his tie. “One must search for precedent. But perhaps there is no precedent.” He watched to see how Max received this cheerful news. “In which case, the highest judicial authorities will have to be consulted.”

Max translated for Christie. “He says it could be complicated.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. “Why am I not surprised? Max, we don’t need this.”

Max shrugged. “We’re here. We might as well see what else he has to say.”

Bosc swiveled slowly, waiting for them to finish. “Then there is the question of establishing that mademoiselle is indeed Monsieur Skinner’s daughter; a love child, but his daughter nevertheless. Nowadays, there is DNA, of course-one remembers the affaire concerning the child of Yves Montand some years ago-but again this is not straightforward. Monsieur Skinner’s remains are in a cemetery, and disinterment is an extremely sensitive business requiring permission from a number of different authorities.” He rolled his next phrase around his mouth with evident pleasure. “There could be formidable complications. Quite formidable. But it’s a fascinating case, and I shall be delighted to take it on.”

Max turned again to Christie. “The complications have just got more complicated. I think I’d better tell you the details afterwards.”

Christie rolled her eyes and took out her cigarettes.

Bosc looked from one to the other, not knowing which of them would end up as his client. He hoped it was the one who spoke French. On the other hand, the girl was very pretty. Also, as the young man had told him, American, and therefore extremely rich. He decided to offer them a constructive piece of advice. “To safeguard your positions,” he said, “it would be prudent if both parties were to maintain a physical presence in the property while the matter is being resolved. Absence could possibly be interpreted as giving up legal rights. French law can sometimes play these tricks.”

Max was silent for a moment as the words sank in. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “What I think you’re saying is that we’re going to have to live together. Is that right?”

The lawyer nodded. “Under the same roof, yes. But not in the romantic sense. Unless, of course…” He looked from Max to Christie, signaling all kinds of delightful possibilities with his eyebrows.

“What?” asked Christie.

“Later,” said Max.

The meeting ended with Bosc promising to institute inquiries. But, as he told Max, these would take time. They would have to be patient. He saw them to the front door and stood watching as they went out into the sunlit square, mentally rubbing his hands at the prospect of fat fees to come.

Christie blew out a long, loud gust of air. “OK. Is that all settled?”

“Not exactly. I think a beer would help me explain. You’re not too fond of lawyers, are you?”

“I used to live with one.”

They walked in silence down the rue de Nazareth to the Cours Mirabeau, and took the last empty table on the terrace of the Deux Garçons. Christie looked around at the crowd, most of them studying maps and guidebooks, many of them in the American vacationers’ uniform of baseball caps, baggy multipocketed shorts, and sandals made from strips of black industrial webbing. She turned back to Max with a grin. “Where’s the guy with the beret and the accordion?”

The waiter, impassive and bored, put two beers on their table and waited to be paid, his eyes focused on something far away, perhaps his retirement. He glanced down to assess the size of his tip, acknowledged it with an almost imperceptible tilt of the head, and moved off on feet as flat as the crêpes being eaten at the next table.

Max began his explanation, but he could sense that it was a struggle for Christie to stay interested in precedents and judicial consultations, and when he came to disinterment and DNA tests, she shuddered and shook her head.

“Look,” said Max, “I’m just telling you what he said.” Before he could continue, Christie put up a hand to stop him.

“Right at the end,” she said, “when he was looking at both of us, all that stuff with the eyebrows, what was that all about?”

“Good question. I was coming to that. Well, what he was suggesting-no, what he was advising, only as a legal thing, you understand-was that you should, as he put it, ‘maintain a presence.’ ”

“Maintain a presence?”

“Yes. In the house.”

“With you?”

“Well, yes. I mean, I’d be there, obviously. Maintaining a presence as well. Just until this is all sorted out.”

“Max, I only met you this morning. I don’t know you. And now you’re suggesting I come and live with you?”

She looked comically earnest, her blue eyes wide with concern, a young American woman face to face for the first time with European turpitude. Max gave up trying to take the situation seriously. It was too bizarre.

“It’s a big house,” he said. “We could have three bedrooms each.”