A Good Year

Six

The two men stood examining one another for a moment before Roussel put on the smile he’d been practicing on the way over and stuck out a meaty paw.

“Roussel, Claude.”

“Skinner, Max.”

Roussel pointed downward with a jerk of his chin. “My dog, Tonto.”

“Ah. Roussel, Tonto.” Max bent down and patted him, raising a puff of blue dust. “Is he always this color? Most unusual. I’ve never seen a blue terrier before.”

“I was spraying the vines, the wind changed…” Roussel shrugged as Tonto slipped past Max and into the kitchen.

“Please,” said Max. “Come in.” Roussel took off his flat cap and followed Max through the door.

They reached the kitchen in time to see Tonto, in the way of small and self-assured dogs, christening a leg of the kitchen table. Roussel shouted at him and apologized profusely, but then added: “It’s a sure sign he likes you.”

Max put down an old newspaper to blot up the puddle. “What does he do if he doesn’t like you?”

Roussel’s smile barely faltered. “Oho,” he said, “le sens de l’humour anglais. My tailor is rich, eh?”

Max had never understood how that particular phrase had become embedded in the French language, nor why the French seemed to find it so amusing, but he smiled dutifully. There was something about Roussel that he warmed to; besides, the man was so obviously doing his best to be agreeable.

And even helpful. “Now, as to the plumbing,” Roussel was saying, “there can sometimes be complications when the level in the well is low. The pump is old, and needs encouragement. Also, there is the histoire of the septic tank, which can be capricious when the mistral blows.” He lowered his head, peering up at Max from beneath an overgrown tangle of sun-bleached eyebrows, and tapping his nose. The histoire was clearly not a pleasant one.

“These things I attended to for your uncle Skinner during his last few years, when his sight was failing.” Roussel assumed a pious expression and crossed himself at the mention of the old man’s name. “Un vrai gentleman. We became very close, you know. Almost like father and son.”

“I’m happy that you were here to take care of him,” said Max, shaking his left leg free from Tonto’s amorous clasp.

“Beh oui. Almost like father and son.” Emerging from his memories, Roussel bent down and ran a finger across the surface of the table. He seemed surprised at the result, as though dust were a rarity in empty, uncared-for houses. “Putaing,” he said. “Look at that. This place could do with a good femme de ménage to give it a spring-cleaning.”

Roussel displayed the dusty fingertip for inspection, and then clapped a hand to his forehead. “But of course! Madame Passepartout, the sister of my wife.” He slapped his palm on the table for emphasis, displacing more dust.

Max and Tonto looked at him, both heads cocked.

“A veritable tornado in the house. Not a speck escapes her, she is maniaque about her work. She sees dirt, she destroys it. Tak tak!”

“Sounds like the answer to a young man’s prayer. But I imagine she’s…”

“Mais non! She is resting between engagements at the moment. She could start tomorrow.” And not a moment too soon as far as I’m concerned, thought Roussel. Fond as he was of his sister-in-law, she could be something of a trial when at a loose end, always at his house scrubbing anything that didn’t move, rearranging the furniture, polishing and titivating. He always had the feeling that she wanted to dust him.

Max could see that there was to be no denying Madame Passepartout if he wanted to establish a good relationship with Roussel. He nodded his agreement. “That would be great. Just what I need.”

Roussel beamed, a man who had successfully completed a ticklish negotiation. Madame his wife would be delighted. “We must celebrate our meeting,” he said, heading out of the kitchen. “Wait here.”

Tonto resumed his courtship of Max’s leg. What was it about small dogs that made them leg-molesters? Was there a link, however unlikely and distant, between that and the preference that very short men have for very tall women? Or perhaps the enthusiasm was because Tonto had never been exposed to a young English leg before. Max shook him free for a second time and gave him the end of a baguette to distract him.

When Roussel returned, he was carrying a bottle that he presented to Max. “Marc de Provence,” he said. “I made it myself.”

The bottle was unlabeled, and contained a pale brown liquid that had a thick, oily look about it. Max hoped it traveled well. He filled two glasses, and the two men toasted one another.

Wiping his watering eyes after the first explosive swallow, Max was reminded of the equally foul-tasting wine in the cellar. “Tell me,” he asked Roussel, “what do you think of our wine, Le Griffon?”

Roussel wiped the back of his hand across his mouth to remove any residue of marc before it could cause blisters to form on his lips. “Une triste histoire,” he said. “I have to admit that the wine is perhaps a little naive, a little unfinished around the edges.” He paused, shook his head, and smiled. “No, I must be honest. It’s worse than that. Unkind people have called it jus de chaussette. At any rate, it leaves something to be desired.” He took another nip of marc, and sighed. “It is not for lack of care. Take a look at the vines. Not a weed to be seen. Not a sign of oidium-you know, the vine mildew. I cherish those vines as if they were my children. No, it’s not lack of care that’s the problem.” He raised his hand, rubbing the tips of his first two fingers against his thumb. “It’s lack of money. Many of the vines are old and tired. They should have been replaced years ago, but your uncle Skinner was not in a position to invest. Hélas, the wine has suffered.” He stared into his glass, shaking his head. “I can’t work miracles. I can’t make an omelette if I have no eggs.”

Max overcame his faint surprise at the sudden evocation of an omelette in the vineyard, and turned the conversation back to grapes. “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear I’m getting someone in to look at the vines, the grapes, everything. An oenologue.”

Roussel’s head snapped up from its contemplation of the glass. “What for?”

Max made calming motions with his hands, stroking the air in front of him. “Now, this is no criticism of you, none at all. You’ve done all you can. But if we get some professional advice about making improvements, I’m sure I can get hold of the money to pay for them. Then we’ll make better wine, and that will be good for both of us. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

From Roussel’s expression, he was far from convinced as he reached for the bottle of marc.

“I talked to Maître Auzet about it. She thinks it’s a great idea,” Max said. “In fact, she’s going to find somebody. She told me she has friends in the wine business.”

That seemed to meet with Roussel’s approval. A swig of marc found its target, and he grunted like a boxer taking a punch to the stomach. “Maybe it’s not a bad idea. You took me by surprise, c’est tout.” He looked over at Max, his face the color of old ocher, with a strip of white across the part of his forehead normally covered by his cap. “So you want to keep the vines. That’s good. Can you cook?”

Max shook his head. “Eggs and bacon, the English breakfast. That’s about it.”

“You must come to the house next week for dinner. My wife makes a civet of wild boar-a civet made in the correct fashion, with blood and red wine. Not like English food.” He grinned as he put his cap on. “You know what they say? The English murder their meat twice: once when they shoot it and once when they cook it. Drôle, n’est-ce pas?”

“Very comical,” said Max. “Almost as funny as my tailor is rich.”

This set Roussel off, and his shoulders were still quaking with laughter when Max showed him out. Both men felt that it had been an unexpectedly pleasant start to their relationship.

Roussel waited until he was some distance from the house before making the call. “He says he’s going to bring in an oenologue, someone that you’re finding. Is that true?”

Nathalie Auzet looked at her watch, her fingers tapping the desk. The one day she was hoping to leave the office early, and now Roussel wanted to have his hand held. “That’s right. Don’t worry about it. You’re quite safe. He’s not going to throw you out.”

“Well, I don’t know. Do you think…”

She cut him off. “Roussel, trust me. I will arrange someone sympathetic.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Quite sure. I must go.”

The phone went dead. Roussel looked at it and shrugged. He hoped she knew what she was doing.

Max rinsed the marc glasses, the harsh, pungent smell reminding him of the harsh, pungent taste. An evening on that stuff would give him brain damage. He thought of emptying the bottle down the sink, then decided to keep it for Roussel. He’d be back. Max liked what he had seen of the man so far, which was fortunate. In cities, neighbors were people with whom you occasionally shared an elevator. In the country, they could affect every day of your life, and it was important to be on good terms with them.

His thoughts turned to Madame Passepartout, who would be arriving in the morning, and he walked through the succession of rooms, trying to decide where to tell her to start cleaning. Or was she as sensitive about housework as Roussel was about vines? Perhaps it would be more diplomatic to let her decide for herself. God knows she had plenty of choice. He came to a stop by the grand piano, with its impressive layer of dust and dead insects. The silver frame with its old photograph of him and Uncle Henry, caught in a slant of evening sunlight, looked particularly tarnished and dingy. As Max picked it up for a closer look, the worn velvet back of the frame came away in his hand. Another photograph, tucked behind the first, was revealed, and with it a previously hidden chapter in Uncle Henry’s life.

The second photograph also featured Uncle Henry, but this time a younger version. He was standing next to some kind of truck with his arm around the shoulders of a good-looking blond woman. They appeared to be joined at the hip, both smiling at the camera, and the woman had one hand resting on Uncle Henry’s chest, a gesture at the same time casual and possessive. There could be little doubt about the intimacy of their relationship.

Max looked more closely at the photograph. Judging by the clothes, it was obviously taken in the summer. But judging by the truck, probably not in France. He took the photograph over to the window where the light was better, and was able to distinguish more detail: the glint of a wedding ring on the woman’s hand, the Chevrolet emblem above the truck’s radiator, and, blurred but just legible, the California license plate. What was Uncle Henry doing running around with blondes in California? The old devil.