A Good Year (12 page)

There was no reply. And when they reached the house, Max had to carry her, a dead weight smelling faintly of
marc
and almond biscuits, from the car. He took her upstairs, laid her on the bed, took off her shoes, and pulled a blanket over her. As he was putting a pillow under her head, she stirred, and whispered from the depths of her stupor, “No more. Please. No more.”

Thirteen

Max sat on the raised rim of the
bassin,
his head between his knees, wondering if the heart attack would come before or after breakfast. The heat of the morning sun and the overindulgence of the night before had turned what was normally a pleasant run into an exercise in masochism. He groaned, went over to the fountain, and put his head under the flow of cool water.

A screech from Madame Passepartout, who had been watching him from the kitchen window, cut through the fog in his brain. “Monsieur Max! Are you mad? That water! There are
microbes
in every drop. Come inside!”

Max sighed, and did as he was told. Madame Passepartout had taken it upon herself to assume medical responsibility for the cut on his head—his wound, as she called it—and had equipped herself with an interesting variety of salves and dressings, which she now laid out on the kitchen table. Muttering about the perils of infection and the virtues of sterility, she removed the old pink bandage and doused the cut with Mercurochrome.

“How does it look?” he asked.

“Silence,” said the great healer. “This part is extremely delicate.” With her tongue protruding from the corner of her mouth, she applied ointment and a covering of gauze before sealing off the area with an excessively large adhesive pad. “There,” she said. “I thought you’d prefer white this time. The pink was most unsuitable.”

Max smiled his thanks. “Have you seen Christie this morning?”

“No.” There was a pause while Madame Passepartout stood back to admire her handiwork. “But I have heard her.”

“That bad, is it?”

Madame Passepartout nodded. “That brother-in-law of mine, he has a head like a stone. He forgets that others are not used to these things.” She counted them off on her fingers. “Pastis, wine, and
marc
—a recipe for catastrophe.
C’est fou.
”

There was the sound of footsteps making their slow and uncertain way down the stairs, and Christie appeared in the doorway, her face half-hidden by very large, very dark sunglasses. “Water,” she said. “Lots of water.” Like a sleepwalker on Valium, she made her way to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Vittel.

At the sight of someone who so obviously felt closer to death than himself, Max immediately began to feel better. “Must have been something you ate,” he said. “Those almond biscuits are killers.” The sunglasses and the clearly unamused face turned toward Max for a moment, then turned away. “Seriously, it would do you good to get out,” he said. “Fresh air, birdsong, sunlight on the slopes of the Luberon . . .”

“Coffee,” said Christie. “Lots of coffee.”

Sitting outside the café after a liter of water and almost as much coffee, Christie was sufficiently recovered to take an interest in what was going on around her. It was market day in Saint-Pons, and stalls had been set up under the plane trees in the square. It seemed as though half of Provence had come to shop, or to look, or to be looked at.

A system of color coding helped to identify the swarm of humanity moving between the stalls: the locals, most of them deeply tanned, with their faded clothes and well-worn straw shopping baskets; the summer visitors, their skin tones running from northern white to brick red, their new outfits bright with this season’s colors; the dark caramel complexions of the North African jewelry sellers; the blue-black of the Senegalese, with their trays of watches and leather goods. A well-tuned nose could pick out the scent of spices, of spit-roasting chickens, of lavender essence, of cheese. And the attentive ear could recognize snatches of at least four languages—French, Arabic, German, English—in addition to the Franco-tourist dialect, a kind of commercial Esperanto spoken by most of the stall holders.

Christie’s eye was caught by a group of middle-aged cyclists at the edge of the market taking a break from their exertions. Their gleaming bicycles bristled with gears and gadgets, including cell phone holders fixed to the handlebars, and attached to the back of each saddle was a slender pole from which bravely fluttered a triangular white flag. The owners of these splendid machines, gentlemen encased in too-tight Lycra, resembled plump, multicolored sausages topped off with lightweight crash helmets the shape of insects’ heads. They all wore the fingerless gloves and the narrow, wraparound sunglasses favored by riders in the Tour de France, and they were verbally slapping one another on the back for completing their grueling morning spin. Their voices easily carried above the din of the market.

Christie winced. “Why are Americans always the loudest? It’s so embarrassing.”

“They’re in pain,” said Max. “It’s those tight shorts. Actually, I’m not sure I agree with you. Have you ever heard the English in full cry? World-class bellowers, some of them.” He watched as one of the cyclists performed a complicated stretching ritual before getting back on the saddle. “The fact is, we’re always tougher on people from our own country. There are lots of wonderful Americans. One of them married my ex-wife, bless his heart.” He sat back and looked at Christie. “How about you? Is Mr. Napa waiting for you back in the valley?”

Christie shook her head. “I just broke up with a guy after two years. A lawyer. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to get away from California for a while.”

“Heart broken?”

“His more than mine, I guess. I think he wants to get back together.” She grinned at Max. “So with a bit of luck, he won’t sue.”

As Max was looking for the waiter to pay the bill, Fanny came past the café on the way to work, carrying a long brown paper sack stuffed with oversized restaurant loaves. She stopped to be kissed and to fuss over Max’s bandaged head. “Have you seen Roussel?” she asked. “He was looking for you. Something about a rendezvous at the house this afternoon. A private matter, he said.” She stood smiling at him, her dark eyes bright with curiosity. “As if anything in this village could be private.”

“Nice outfit,” Max said, taking in the abbreviated cotton vest and low-slung jeans that set off several inches of bare tanned midriff. “Probably the septic tank,” he said. “There’s a bit of a problem.”

“Merde,”
said Fanny.

“Afraid so.”

Christie watched as Fanny left and made her way through the crowd. “It’s pretty obvious from seeing the two of you together,” she said. “You should do something about it. You know? A date?”

Max clapped his hand to his heart and put on a rueful expression. “All I can do is admire her from afar,” he said. “It’s those impossible restaurant hours. Bloody unsociable. I suppose I could offer to help with the dishes.” He left some change on the table and stood up, looking at his watch. “Come on. I thought we could buy some stuff in the market and have lunch at the house, in case the wine man turns up early.”

They joined the crush moving slowly through the square, and stopped first at a stall festooned with sausages, its counter covered with
confits
and pâtés that Christie peered at over her sunglasses. “Could I make a menu request?” she said. “Nothing with a beak, OK?”

They picked out a rough country pâté, watching the deft hands of the stall holder cut two thick slices and wrap them in waxed paper. He counted out their change with fingers as rosy pink as a well-boiled ham while he advised them on a suitable wine, and the necessity—the absolute necessity—of buying a few
cornichons
to go with the pâté. Then to the cheese stall, and a discussion about the ripeness of the goat cheeses from Banon; each plump disk was wrapped in chestnut leaves that, so they were assured, had been soaked in eau-de-vie. They went on to buy salad and fruit, bread and oil, and a flask of balsamic vinegar, finishing off at the flower stall to pick up a bunch of vivid parrot tulips for the table.

Christie was fascinated by the novelty of it all—the talkative stall keepers, the small courtesies that accompanied each transaction, the general air of easygoing good humor, the lack of haste.

“It beats pushing a shopping cart through the local supermarket,” she said. “That’s for sure. But something like this couldn’t happen back home. I mean, there are dogs everywhere, people are smoking, and the guys behind the stalls aren’t even wearing plastic gloves. The hygiene police in California would have a field day. They’d shut everything down.”

“And arrest the dogs for loitering with intent, I’m sure,” said Max. “Amazing that we’re not all dropping like flies, really. Yet people seem to live as long here as they do in the States, or longer. You must have read some of those statistics.”

“Sure. We send them out as press releases. You know—the French Paradox: a bottle a day keeps the doctor away. Every time the figures are published, sales of red wine go through the roof. Americans love the quick fix.”

Laden with plastic bags, they were on their way to the car when they came to the village church, and Max stopped to read a notice pinned to the door. He smiled and shook his head. “Provençal logic. It’s wonderful.” He translated the contents of the message.
Please note: The meeting scheduled for today has been changed. It took place yesterday.

Arriving back at the house, they found a note from Madame Passepartout informing them that a Monsieur Fitzgerald from Bordeaux had called to say that he would be with them in the early afternoon; that Max was under no circumstances to get his head wet, or too hot; and that she was unable to return to work after lunch due to a
crise de chat.

“A cat crisis,” Max said in explanation. “She has this old moggy who sometimes gets fur balls and has to have her paw held. Actually, it’s better that she won’t be here. She’d be telling the
oenologue
what to do.”

They unpacked the food and Max went to the sink to wash the salad, while Christie perched on the edge of the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a cigarette. “It doesn’t seem like real life down here,” she said. “Is it always like this? What’s it like in the winter?”

Max laid the washed salad out to dry on a strip of paper towel. “I’ve never been here in the winter. Uncle Henry always used to say it was a great time of the year for writers and alcoholics—cold, quiet, empty, nothing much to do. I’m rather looking forward to it.” If I’m still here, he couldn’t help thinking, as he reached up to the shelf for a battered olive wood salad bowl. He pushed the thought away. “Now then. This is one of the few things I can manage in the kitchen without chopping bits off my fingers or breaking something:
la sauce vinaigrette à ma façon.
Watch closely.”

He put black pepper and two generous pinches of sea salt into the bowl, grinding them together with the back of a fork until he’d made a coarse black and white dust. A few drops of balsamic vinegar—a deep, deep brown—went in next, and then a long stream of olive oil, greenish yellow in the sunlight. Finally, a cherry-sized blob of full-strength Maille mustard from Dijon. Max picked up the bowl and held it against his stomach while he whisked the mixture with his fork, checking its consistency two or three times before he was satisfied. Putting the bowl down, he tore off a piece of baguette, mopped it in the brown puddle he had prepared with such care, and offered the dripping bread to Christie. “Some people add lemon juice,” he said, “but I prefer it like this. What do you think?”

He watched as Christie took the bread and bit into it, wiping a dribble of dressing from her chin with the back of her hand and chewing for a few moments in silence.

“Well?”

Christie looked at the ceiling, nodded her head. “Shows promise,” she said, in her best wine taster’s voice. “Do I detect a hint of Hellmann’s?” She looked at Max’s stricken face. “No, it’s great. You could bottle it and make a fortune.”

“It’s never the same from a bottle. Here, take this tray and I’ll bring the rest. We’ll eat outside.”

An hour later, they were sitting at the stone table over the remains of lunch and the last of the pink wine when the clatter and wheeze of a weary engine announced the arrival of Roussel’s van, which was followed a moment later by a gleaming bottle-green Jaguar. As the dust thrown up by their wheels settled, a tall, elegant man, dressed in a putty-colored linen suit, got out of the Jaguar. He removed his sunglasses, smoothed his jacket, and brushed back a wing of graying hair from his forehead before walking over to Max.