A Good Year

Eleven

“Ah,” said Madame Passepartout, “it is as I thought. The young Américaine is moving in.” She watched approvingly as Max struggled to maneuver Christie’s bag, an enormous sausage-shaped canvas holdall, through the front door. “Everything is ready, Monsieur Max,” adding, with a smirk, “I’ve put flowers in your bedroom and changed the sheets. I’m sure you’ll both be very comfortable.”

Max dropped the bag on the floor. “No, madame. No. You don’t understand. She’s staying here, but not with me. Well, with me, but not in the same bedroom.”

Madame Passepartout received this news with a look of astonishment, as though the idea of two healthy and unattached young people choosing not to share a bed was odd, even unnatural. She cocked her head and put her hands on her hips. “Ah bon? And why not?”

“I’ll explain later.” Turning to Christie, Max nodded toward the stairs and heaved the bag onto his shoulder. “Let’s get you settled in.”

They made a tour of the upstairs rooms, with Madame Passepartout flinging open shutters and flicking any surface she suspected of harboring dust, pointing out the views through the tall windows and muttering, not quite under her breath, about the waste of Max’s perfectly good bedroom. Christie looked with apprehension at the sagging beds, the ancient, lopsided armoires, the uneven tiled floors. Apprehension turned to disbelief when they came to one bathroom even more medieval than the others, with a shower attachment linked to the tub by twisted coils of cracked and faded pink rubber tubing. She shook her head slowly. “Far out,” she said. “Incredible.”

“Not exactly the Ritz, I know,” said Max. “But bags of charm. You won’t find anything like this in the States.” He perched on the lavatory seat and stretched both arms out toward the window. “I mean, you could spend many happy hours here. The view’s fantastic.”

A half smile couldn’t conceal Christie’s obvious dismay, just this side of horror, and Max tried to imagine the palatial sanitary arrangements she must have been accustomed to in California. Hygiene, as he knew, was one of the minor religions of America. He took pity on her. “Look,” he said, “why don’t you have my room and bathroom, and I’ll go somewhere else?”

And so it was decided. Leaving Christie to unpack, Max and Madame Passepartout went downstairs to the kitchen, Max to seek comfort in a glass of wine, Madame Passepartout to seek enlightenment.

“But why not?” she asked again. “It is the best room. The bed is large enough for two. You could be together. Très cosy.”

“We’ve only just met.”

“So? You’ll get to know each other.”

“She’s my cousin. At least, I think she’s my cousin.”

Madame Passepartout dismissed that trifling accident of birth with a wave of the hand. “Half the aristocrats in France have liaisons with their cousins.” She poked Max in the chest for emphasis. “And many of the peasants. Why, even here in the village, it is well known that…”

Max cut her off in mid-revelation. “Look, the truth of it is…”

“Ah. The truth.”

“… the truth of it is that I’ve never really fancied blondes. I prefer brunettes. Always have.”

“C’est vrai?”

“Absolutely.”

Madame Passepartout couldn’t help a hand going up to touch her acceptably brunette hair, even as she shrugged. She had proposed what she considered to be a sensible and convenient arrangement-a potentially very pleasurable arrangement-and it had been declined for no other reason, as far as she could see, than the girl having been born a blonde. Absurd. How strange men were, English men in particular. She wished Max an agreeable evening and went off to discuss him and his foibles at length with her sister, Madame Roussel.

Max waited until her car had disappeared up the drive before taking a bottle of rosé and two glasses out into the courtyard. He put the bottle under the flow of the fountain to keep a chill on the wine, and fetched two tattered wicker chairs from the barn, putting them beside the bassin so that they faced the sunset. He was, he thought, performing all the duties of a considerate host. But as he sat down to review the events of the day, he couldn’t ignore the thought that his days as a host might be numbered. Was the house really his, or would some arcane wrinkle in a law established centuries ago by Napoleon decide otherwise? Had he been stupid to bring up the problem in the first place? Possibly. But he liked to think of himself as a man with one or two basic principles, and a voice from the grave came back to remind him of something that Uncle Henry had often told him: a principle isn’t a principle until it costs you money. Not only money, in this case, but a new life.

“Hi.”

Max turned from the contemplation of his future to see Christie, dressed in fresh jeans and white T-shirt, her wet hair brushed straight back. She looked about eighteen.

“Congratulations. You worked out how to use the shower.” Max poured a glass of wine and held it out to her.

“Thanks. Is that all you ever get? A trickle?”

“The French aren’t great at showers. But they do wonderful sunsets.”

They sat for a moment without speaking, looking at a sky streaked with gold and pink and decorated with small, rose-colored clouds that could have been painted by Maxfield Parrish in one of his more extravagant moods. Water splashed from the fountain, the sound mingling with the chirrup of cigales and the croak of frogs calling out to one another across the bassin.

Christie turned to look at Max. “What was he like, my dad?”

Max stared into the distance, consulting his memory. “I think what I liked most about him was that he treated me like an adult instead of a schoolboy. And he was funny, especially about the French, although he loved them. ‘Our sweet enemy,’ he used to call them; or, if they were being particularly obstinate and difficult, ‘bloody frogs.’ But he rather admired their superiority complex and their good manners. He was a great one for good manners. I suppose nowadays he’d be considered very old-fashioned.”

“Why’s that?”

“He was a gent. You know, honorable, fair, decent-all those things that have rather gone out of style. You’d have liked him a lot. I did.” Max sipped his wine and glanced at his watch. “I thought we might go down to the village to eat. I’ll tell you more about him over dinner.”

Chez Fanny was noisy and already crowded with people from the village and a handful of tourists, these easily identified by their sun-flushed faces and their logo-spattered clothes. Fanny came over to greet Max, a look of surprise on her face when she saw he was not alone.

“It’s been so long,” she said, patting Max on the arm as she kissed him. “At least two days. Where have you been? And who’s this?”

Max made the introductions and watched the two women sizing one another up as they shook hands, a searching mutual inspection that neither bothered to conceal, almost like two dogs meeting in a park. Why was it that men were never as open in their curiosity? Max was smiling as they sat down at their table.

“What’s so funny?” asked Christie.

“You two,” he said. “I thought for a moment you were going to start sniffing each other.”

Christie’s eyes followed Fanny as she snaked her way through the tables. “They wear their clothes pretty tight over here, don’t they? If she sneezed she’d be out of that top.”

“I live in hope,” said Max. Seeing Christie raise a censorious eyebrow, he hurried on. “Now, what would you like? Have you ever had rabbit stuffed with tapenade? Wonderful.”

Christie seemed unconvinced. “We don’t do rabbit in California. Is it, you know, gamey?”

“Tastes like chicken. You’ll love it.”

The topic of Uncle Henry occupied most of dinner, and Max told Christie as much as he could remember of those summers long ago. His uncle had given him what amounted to a haphazard education, introducing him to tennis and chess and wine, good books and good music. Max recalled in particular one endless rainy day devoted to the Ring cycle, preceded by his uncle’s comment: “Wagner’s music isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

There had also been lessons on elementary tractor maintenance, gutting chickens, and the care and handling of a pet ferret whose job it was to keep the rats down. Tossed into this informative stew were other diverse ingredients, such as the unpredictable nature of red-haired women, the virtues of Aleppo soap, the importance of a good blue suit-“Remember your tailor in your will; it’s the only time you should pay him”-and a proven system of winning at backgammon.

“I loved those summers,” said Max. “It was just like being with an older boy who knew a lot more than I did.”

“Where were your parents?”

“Oh- Shanghai, Lima, Saudi Arabia, all over the place. My father was a kind of minor diplomat. Every four years he’d be sent somewhere they didn’t play cricket and where it was considered generally unsuitable for little English schoolboys.”

Evening had given way to night, and the terrace was lit only by the flicker of candles on each table and the line of colored bulbs that had been strung along the front of the restaurant. Most people had finished eating, and were sitting over coffee, smoking, chatting quietly, and listening to the Edith Piaf album that Fanny had put on-hymns to heartbreak, a sob in every song.

Max could see that Christie was getting drowsy, ducking her head as she tried to stifle a yawn. The wine, the food, and her long day were catching up with her, and he signaled for the check, which Fanny brought over with a glass of Calvados.

She pulled up a chair and sat down. “Your petite amie,” she said, nodding at Christie, who seemed to be two seconds away from sleep. “I think you’ve worn her out.” Fanny’s expression was amused and curious, her eyes almost as black as her hair in the glow of candlelight.

Max tasted the Calvados, like apples on fire, and shook his head. First Madame Passepartout, now Fanny, both leaping to the same conclusion. Perhaps he should feel flattered. “It’s not like that,” he said. “She’s come all the way from California. Long flight.”

Fanny smiled, and leaned across to ruffle Max’s hair. “Better luck tomorrow then, hein?” Her hand dropped to his shoulder and rested there, warm and light. Without thinking, he ran his fingertips along the inside of her bare, caramel-colored arm, tracing the fine line of the vein that led from wrist to elbow. Their heads were close enough for him to feel her breath on his cheek.

“Am I interrupting something?” Christie had roused herself, and was watching them with half-open eyes.

Max cleared his throat and sat back. “Just paying the check.”

Driving back to the house, Max could still feel the touch of Fanny’s skin, as if his fingers had their own memory. Christie yawned again. “Sorry I pooped out. But thanks a lot. It was a nice evening. And you were right about the rabbit.” Max smiled in the darkness. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

Although neither of them knew it at the time, this was the high point of their relationship for several days to come.

The enforced proximity of two strangers is frequently awkward, because having a guest in your life demands a certain consideration that may not come naturally. And sometimes, if old habits are sufficiently entrenched, it may not come at all. That is how it was between Christie and Max.

By its nature, it was a strange and slightly uneasy arrangement for both of them, and one that wasn’t helped by what Christie later described as a clash of lifestyles. Max was an early riser; Christie liked to sleep in. She would come down to the kitchen to find that Max had eaten the last of the croissants and finished off the orange juice. Christie was tidy by nature; Max was not. He liked Mozart; she preferred Springsteen. Neither one of them could cook, a daily problem. Christie found Madame Passepartout nosy and intrusive; Max considered her a jewel beyond price.

There were also the minor inconveniences common to many old houses in rural France: the erratic water supply, by turns scalding, freezing, or almost nonexistent; the unpredictable quirks of electricity that falters and dims and, for no apparent reason, extinguishes itself; the racket of a tractor under the bedroom window at six a.m.; the odd taste of the milk; invasion by insects-all of these quickly began to chafe at the nerves of a girl used to the comfort and efficiency of life in the more modern, cushioned, and opulent surroundings of the Napa Valley. And then there were the French: formal one minute, familiar the next, talking like machine guns, obsessed with their stomachs, perfumed with garlic, and, in Christie’s opinion, suffering from a permanent attack of arrogance.

Max found himself taking a perverse pleasure in disagreeing with her, defending France and the French, occasionally fanning the flames of argument with mild criticisms of America. These were never well received. Although Christie was too intelligent to swallow the doctrine of “either for us or against us,” she was puzzled and sometimes angered by what she thought of as the Europeans’ tendency to bite the hand that had fed them so generously after World War Two. And she was angered still further when Max, talking about the shelf life of gratitude, reminded her of Lafayette, and America ’s debt to the French. And so the atmosphere in the house became increasingly strained. Madame Passepartout sensed the tension, and even she was uncharacteristically subdued. It was inevitable that the constant bickering would have to come to a head.

It started in public. Driven by hunger, Christie and Max had declared a hostile truce and were having dinner in the village. Fanny, it has to be said, behaved in a way that did nothing to improve a delicate situation, fussing over Max while ignoring Christie, who watched with an ever more baleful eye. The final straw came with the arrival of dessert.

Christie speared her poached pear with a murderous jab of her fork. “Does she have to give you a massage every time she comes to the table?”

“Just being friendly.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Listen, that’s the way she is. You don’t have to watch.”

“Fine.” Christie pushed back her chair and stood up. “Then I won’t.” And she marched off into the night, her back stiff with anger.

Max caught up with her a few minutes later on the road outside the village. Slowing the car down to walking speed, he leaned over and opened the passenger door. Christie ignored him, looking straight ahead as she quickened her pace. After a hundred yards of crawling along beside her, Max gave up, slammed the door shut, and accelerated.

Back at the house, he tossed the car keys onto the kitchen table and searched for something to take the edge off his temper. Roussel’s evil-tasting marc matched his mood, and he was on his second glass by the time Christie came through the door.

He looked up at her set face, hesitated, and should have thought better of it. But in his irritation he said it anyway. “Nice walk?”

Those two words opened a floodgate. Christie’s complaints, after a passing swipe at Fanny, moved on to the real focus of her dissatisfaction: Max, or rather, his attitude-unsympathetic, self-centered, smug, a twisted sense of humor. Typically English. She paced back and forth in front of the stove, glaring at him while she waited for him to erupt, or at least react. But he had already wrapped himself inside that cocoon of chilly condescension which the Englishman will often assume in the face of emotional outbursts, particularly those coming from women and foreigners. Nothing could have been more infuriating to a girl spoiling for a fight.

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” Max said, “however offensively you express it.” He pointed to the bottle on the table. “Care for a drink?”

No, she wouldn’t care for a goddamn drink. But she would care for the basic consideration that should be given to someone in her position-someone far away from home, not speaking the language, surrounded by strangers, living with a stranger.

Max swirled the last mouthful of oily liquid around in his glass before tossing it back with a shudder and getting to his feet. “I’m off to bed,” he said. “Why don’t you grow up? I didn’t ask you to come.”

He never made it to the kitchen door. Christie snapped, seized the nearest weapon to hand, and let fly. It was unfortunate that the weapon was a six-inch cast-iron skillet, even more unfortunate that her aim was true. The skillet caught Max full on the temple. There was an explosion in his head, a burst of pain, then blackness. His legs buckled and he collapsed, unconscious, on the floor.

Christie stood in shock, looking down at the prone figure. Blood was beginning to seep from Max’s head, leaving a thin red line as it dribbled down the side of his face. He made no sound, and lay still; ominously still.

Remorse and panic took over. Christie got down on the floor and cradled Max’s head in her lap while she tried to stop the flow of blood with a wad of paper towel torn from a kitchen roll. She felt his neck and thought she detected his pulse, a moment of relief quickly canceled out by thoughts of possible consequences: trauma, brain damage, multimillion-dollar lawsuits, arrest for causing grievous bodily harm, years spent rotting in a French prison cell.

A doctor. She must call a doctor. But she didn’t know how to call a doctor in France. The police? The fire department? Oh my God. What had she done?

The head on her lap moved, no more than a cautious inch. There was a groan, and then one of Max’s eyes opened slowly, looking up past the curve of her bloodstained bosom at her frowning, anxious face.

“Where did you learn to throw like that?”

Christie exhaled, a great gust of relief. “Are you OK? Listen, I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I guess I must have-God, the blood. Tell me you’re OK.”

Max moved his head gingerly. “I think I’ll live,” he said, “but I can’t be moved.” He let his head fall back on her lap, folded his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and groaned again. “Although there is something that might help.”

“What? Anything, anything at all. A doctor? Aspirin? A drink? Tell me.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a nurse’s uniform, would you?”

Christie looked down at her victim’s face. Max opened both eyes, and winked. “I’ve always had a thing about nurses.”

They were both laughing as Christie helped him up and sat him down at the table, where she went to work on his wound with a bowl of water and more paper towels. “It’s not as bad as I thought,” she said when she had cleaned the gash above his eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re going to need stitches. But what a dumb thing to do. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“I probably deserved it,” said Max.

She squeezed his shoulder, took the bowl of bloody water, and emptied it down the sink. “OK. Now what I need is some antiseptic. What do they use here? Do you have any iodine?”

“Never touch it,” said Max. He reached across the table for the bottle of marc. “Try this. It kills all known germs. Unblocks drains, too.”

She dabbed the alcohol on his head, then made a makeshift bandage with strips cut from a clean dish towel. “There,” she said. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call the doctor?”

Max started to shake his head, then winced. “Why spoil a nice evening?”