A Good Year (18 page)

Max, in mid-swallow, almost choked.
“Who?”

“But we
met
that guy.” Christie leaned across to check the name on the envelope. “How many Jean-Marie Fitzgeralds can there be in Bordeaux?”

Charlie looked from one puzzled face to the other. Max described Fitzgerald’s visit to the vineyard, and that made three puzzled faces around the table. “If it
is
the same guy,” said Christie, “what was he doing down here pretending to be . . .”

“. . . an
oenologue
recommended by Nathalie Auzet,” said Max. “Who we know is up to something.”

They had been neglecting their first course, and ate in thoughtful silence until the last scrap of
jambon cru
and the last sweet scoop of Cavaillon melon was finished. “I’m just thinking out loud,” said Max, “but suppose Roussel’s wine—our wine—that Nathalie Auzet pays for in cash and arranges to have shipped out by truck every year—suppose that’s going to Fitzgerald.” He was distracted by Fanny’s breast brushing his ear as she bent forward to take away his plate. Coming back to earth, he went on: “And suppose he bottles it, sticks on a fancy label, and jacks up the price.”

Charlie consulted his envelope. “I got the right name, didn’t I? Le Coin Perdu—that’s what was on the label you saw.”

Max nodded, leaning back in his chair. “What a scam. But if you could pull it off you’d make a fortune. The best Luberon wines fetch twenty or twenty-five dollars a bottle. Give the same wine a Bordeaux label, keep it exclusive, make up a convincing bit of history, and the sky’s the limit.”

Christie shook her head. “People would know. They can’t be that dumb.”

“Don’t bet on it,” said Charlie. “You’d be amazed. This is the wine business, remember? The emperor’s new clothes in a bottle.” He nodded his thanks as Fanny put a plate of
moules farcies,
fragrant with butter, parsley, and garlic, in front of him. “Look, say you put the word out very discreetly to one or two of the top buyers and let them in on the secret of this fabulously exclusive wine—well, their clients aren’t likely to argue. The emperor’s new clothes in a bottle,” he said again as he speared a mussel, clearly pleased with the description. “And you’ve got human nature working for you, don’t you see? Pick your man, appeal to his ego, flatter him rigid, tell him how much you admire his taste and his extraordinary palate. Then tell him that this is an unknown treasure—there’s an old chestnut that’s worked a couple of times in the property business, I can tell you—and you’d like him to be one of the lucky few to discover it. These people love to be the first to spot a great wine. And, most important”—Charlie jabbed the air with his fork in emphasis—“you tell them to share the secret only with a few trusted clients. Publicity would spoil everything. Come to think of it, that’s probably why they don’t sell it in France. The frogs would ask awkward questions.” He raised his eyebrows at the other two. “Well? It could work, couldn’t it?”

It seemed wildly improbable. Although, as Christie said, it seemed more than wildly improbable—inconceivable, even—that a man would spend half a million dollars on a single bottle of wine. And yet it had happened. This was news to Charlie, and he jumped on it. “There you are,” he said. “Exactly what I’ve been saying. Common sense goes out of the window all the time in the wine business.”

“Suppose you’re right about this,” Christie said. “How do you prove it?”

Suggestions and countersuggestions went back and forth over the mussels and then the cheese. Max ruled out calling in the police, which would ruin Roussel as well as the others. A confrontation with Nathalie Auzet was raised again, and discarded for the same reason: she would simply deny everything, and for lack of proof she would get away with it. The more they talked, the more it became clear that they should concentrate on Jean-Marie Fitzgerald.

They were sitting with their coffee, watching the village come slowly back to life after lunch, when Max turned to Christie. “Who’s the richest man in the world?”

“I don’t know. Bill Gates?”

“George Soros?” said Charlie. “A Rockefeller, a du Pont, a Rothschild—no, wait a minute, what about the Sultan of Tengah? He’s worth a bob or two.”

All Max knew about the Sultan of Tengah was that he was oil-rich—enormously, outrageously rich. He had vast real estate holdings in cities all around the world, he had forests in Canada, herds of bison in Wyoming, gold fields and diamond mines in Africa, gas holdings in Russia. The palace where he spent most of his time was rumored to have four hundred rooms, each furnished with magnificent antiques. But apart from those few fragments of information, well known though they were, he was a mystery—rarely seen in public, never photographed, a reclusive Croesus.

“Perfect,” said Max. “He’d be perfect. Charlie, you couldn’t have come here at a better time. Here’s what we’ll do.”

Nineteen

“I can’t do it with you two making faces at me,” said Charlie. “I need to be alone. This is going to be an artistic performance. You’re sure he speaks English? I’m not altogether confident in French.”

“Trust me,” said Christie. “He speaks English.” She and Max shut the door behind them, leaving Charlie to himself in the cavernous, shabby sitting room. He arranged his notes and a pencil on the low table in front of his chair, and ran his thumb across the business card that Max had given him: simple and classic, the name of Jean-Marie Fitzgerald engraved in copperplate script. Charlie took a deep breath and picked up his phone.

“Oui?”
The girl’s voice—brusque and slightly ill-tempered—prompted Charlie to put on the plummy, upper-class drawl he normally reserved for his plummy, upper-class clients.

“Good afternoon.” Charlie let the words hang in the air for a moment to let the girl adjust to a foreign language. “I’d like a word with your Mr. Fitzgerald, if he’s available.” He spoke with exaggerated slowness and clarity.

But the girl’s English was fluent, with the hint of an American accent. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Willis. Charles Willis. In fact, I’m calling on behalf of my client.”

“And your client’s name?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that—except, of course, to Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Charlie was put on hold, and he was treated to a couple of minutes of recorded chamber music while he reread his notes. Then: “Mr. Willis? Jean-Marie Fitzgerald. What can I do for you?” Christie had been right, Charlie thought. The man spoke English with barely the trace of an accent.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Fitzgerald, but before we go any further, I must ask you to keep this conversation and any subsequent dealings strictly to yourself.” Charlie waited for the murmured reassurance, then continued. “I act as the personal wine consultant and buyer for a very eminent client, a great connoisseur, a man for whom wine is one of the major pleasures of life. He is also a man of quite remarkable modesty and discretion, which is why I had to ask for your reassurance. But to get down to business: not long ago, word reached my client of your wine, Le Coin Perdu. He has instructed me to investigate, to taste, perhaps to buy. And so, not entirely by chance, I find myself in France.”

Charlie could almost feel the curiosity coming down the line. “Well, Mr. Willis,” said Fitzgerald, “I should tell you that discretion is as important to me as it is to you. We never speak of our clients; our dealings are completely confidential. You need have no concerns, I assure you. And so I don’t think you would be committing any breach of trust if you were to tell me his name. I must confess I’m intrigued.”

Here we go, thought Charlie. He dropped his voice to a level just above a whisper. “My client is the Sultan of Tengah.”

There was a moment of silence while Fitzgerald tried to remember the estimate he had read somewhere of the Sultan of Tengah’s wealth: a hundred billion? Two hundred? More than enough, anyway. “Ah yes,” he said. “Of course. Like the rest of the world, I have heard of him.” Fitzgerald had been doodling on a notepad, and jotted down the figure of $75,000 per case. “May I ask where he lives?”

“He spends most of his time in Tengah. He owns the country, as you probably know, and finds it more agreeable to stay at home. Travel bores him.”

“Quite so, quite so. It has become very disagreeable. Well, I’m flattered that the reputation of our wine has traveled so far.” Fitzgerald had no precise idea of where Tengah was—somewhere in Indonesia, he thought—but it sounded distant. He scratched out the number on his pad and wrote down $100,000. “Fortunately, we do have a few cases left.” The tone of his voice lightened, as though he had suddenly been struck by a most unusually happy idea. “Perhaps I could suggest a tasting? A private tasting, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Charlie made rustling sounds with the paper on which he’d made his notes—the sounds of a busy man turning the pages of his diary. “I could be with you tomorrow, if that’s convenient. But let me say again that there must be no—how shall I put it?—talkative elements. The Sultan has an absolute horror of publicity.”

And that was that. After arranging the details, Charlie put down the phone and allowed himself a private jig of triumph around the sitting room before going out to find Christie and Max in the courtyard.

Charlie’s expression told all. “He fell for it,” said Max. “I knew he would. I
knew
he would. Charlie, you’re a hero.”

“I rather enjoyed it, actually. Didn’t take him long to suggest a private tasting. But I hope to God you’re right. What’s the penalty for criminal impersonation in France? No, don’t tell me. Anyway, it’s all set for three-thirty tomorrow afternoon in Bordeaux.” And then the smile left his face. “I hate to say this, but I’ve just thought of a snag. How are we going to know if it really is Roussel’s wine? I certainly wouldn’t be able to tell.”

Max grinned. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ve got a secret weapon.”

At Marignane airport early the following morning, a small group of passengers stood out from the usual clutter of briefcases and businessmen at the check-in desk for the Air France shuttle to Bordeaux: Christie and Max, in jeans and light jackets; Charlie in blazer, flannels, striped shirt, bow tie, and sunglasses; and, looking about him with an uneasy air, Roussel. But a formal Roussel this morning, dressed in the twenty-year-old black suit he had only previously worn at weddings and funerals.

In all his life, Roussel’s travels had never taken him farther than Marseille—a city which, being full of foreigners, he regarded with considerable suspicion—and this was to be his inaugural flight. At first, he had been reluctant to come; he was not anxious to take to the air, and there was also a good chance of an unpleasant confrontation in Bordeaux. But Max had explained the crucial part he would play, both now and in the future, and Roussel had done his best to conquer his misgivings. Even so, he stayed as close to Max as he could in these unfamiliar surroundings until the moment when they had to part company as Max passed alone through the security gate. Turning, he beckoned Roussel to follow.

Beep . . . beepbeepbeepbeepbeep.
Roussel jumped, as if he’d been on the receiving end of a jolt of electricity. He was told to go back and try again; more beeps. The alarm on his face increased as he was taken off to one side, where a bored young woman swept his body with an electronic wand that came to rest with an agitated buzzing sound on his stomach. And there, tucked into his waistcoat pocket, was his old Opinel knife, a friend of many years and the peasant’s constant companion in the fields and at table. With a frown of deep disapproval, the young woman confiscated the knife, tossed it into a plastic bin, and attempted to wave him on his way.

Roussel’s alarm turned to outrage. He stood his ground. That was his property; he wanted it back. He turned to Max, waiting a few yards away, and jerked an accusing thumb at the young woman. “She has stolen my knife!” The other passengers waiting to go through security, curious and suddenly nervous, took a few steps backwards and watched as the young woman looked for the nearest armed guard.

Max came over and took Roussel by the arm. “Best not to argue with her,” he said. “I think she’s worried you might use it to slit the pilot’s throat.”

“
Ah bon?
Why would I do that, being myself in the plane?”

With some difficulty, Max steered him away from the security area and up to the bar in the departure lounge, where a fuller explanation, a pastis, and the promise of another knife—a Laguiole, even—did something to restore Roussel’s good humor.

As the plane heaved itself off the runway, with the customary clamor and judder of machinery under extreme stress, Max noticed that Roussel’s hands were gripping the arms of his seat so tightly that his knuckles showed white through the tanned skin. And thus they remained throughout the short flight, despite Max’s efforts to convince him that the unnerving and totally unnatural experience of being thirty thousand feet above the ground in a tin tube was unlikely to end in death. It wasn’t until he had celebrated his survival with another pastis at the Bordeaux airport that the color returned to Roussel’s face. He got into the rental car a more relaxed man. This was a form of transport he understood.

During the drive to their hotel in Bordeaux, Max and Charlie once again went over the plan they had worked out. The afternoon’s tasting was to be for Charlie alone. He would be suitably impressed, and a price would be negotiated, subject to approval by his client, the Sultan. Because of the time difference, the call to Tengah couldn’t be made from Bordeaux until midnight, and so a second visit would have to be arranged for the following day to deliver a bank draft and finalize shipping details. At this point, Charlie would be joined by the others, Fitzgerald would be confronted by Roussel, justice would be done, and the police could be called in. Nothing to it.

“All you have to remember,” said Max, “is to make sure you come away with a sample this afternoon, so that Claude can taste it and compare it with the bottle he’s brought.” He glanced at Charlie. “You OK?”

Charlie nodded, but not with any great conviction. “I think so,” he said. “I just hope I can pull it off. It’s one thing to do it on the phone, but . . .”

“Of course you can,” said Max. “A master of disguise like you? I remember when you did Hamlet in the school play.”

Charlie frowned. “But I was playing Ophelia.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “Well, there you are. Had me fooled. This should be a piece of cake after Ophelia.”

There was a giggle from Christie in the back seat. She leaned forward and squeezed Charlie’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You won’t even have to wear a wig.”

They were staying at the Claret, a businessman’s hotel Max had chosen from the Michelin guide for its appropriate name and for its convenient location just off the quai des Chartrons, a short walk from Fitzgerald’s tasting rooms. Stopping to drop off their bags and pick up a street map of Bordeaux, they walked along the quai and found a café overlooking the broad curve of the Garonne. There, over ham sandwiches and a carafe of wine, Charlie rehearsed his performance for Christie, his audience of one. Max and Roussel talked, their mood quietly optimistic, about the future—a future that largely depended on the events of the next few hours.

The time had come. They agreed to meet back at the hotel, and Charlie, map in hand, set off for the cours Xavier Arnozan.

It was Fitzgerald himself who opened the door in response to Charlie’s knock. “Enchanted to meet you, Mr. Willis,” he said as they shook hands. “I think you’ll be pleased to hear that I have given my secretary the afternoon off. We are entirely alone. I thought that would make you feel more comfortable.”

“Most kind, most kind.” Charlie nodded his thanks with a faint smile, and followed Fitzgerald down the corridor to the tasting room. The sound of a Bach fugue came softly from concealed speakers. Bottles, glasses, and silver candlesticks were arranged along the gleaming length of the mahogany table, a burnished copper
crachoir
at one end next to a tasteful arrangement of white linen napkins laid out in the form of a fan. It was the church of Bacchus, a shrine to wine. Charlie half-expected a priest to pop out of the woodwork and give his blessing to the proceedings.

Fitzgerald took a slim crocodile case from his pocket, and passed Charlie a business card. He waited, clearly expecting a card in return.

Charlie had anticipated just such a moment. He aimed the two black barrels of his sunglasses at the other man, shaking his head slowly. “My client sometimes carries discretion to the point of secrecy, Mr. Fitzgerald. He prefers that I don’t advertise myself, and so I don’t carry business cards. I’m sure you understand.”

“Indeed,” said Fitzgerald. “Forgive me. And now, if you feel ready . . .” He extended an immaculate tweed-clad arm toward the table, inclining his head as he did so.

Charlie had an awful twinge of doubt. If this was a scam, it was a beautifully presented scam, and Fitzgerald—every aristocratic inch of him—appeared to be the genuine Bordeaux article. It was hard to imagine that he was a crook. And then Charlie had a mental image of some of his acquaintances in the top end of the London property business: charming, well educated, well tailored, glib—and more than capable of evicting their grandmothers in order to make a sale; villains to a man. Encouraged by this thought, he removed his sunglasses with a flourish and advanced toward the table as the fugue reached its plaintive conclusion and the room fell silent.

“If I may make a suggestion,” said Fitzgerald, “we might start with the ’99 before going on to the 2000—which I have to say is my personal favorite.” He poured wine into two glasses, and passed one to Charlie.

Hours of practice—at his wine-tasting course, and during a final rehearsal the previous evening, in front of the bathroom mirror—had prepared Charlie for the all-important niceties of this all-important ritual. Holding the glass by its base, between fingers and thumb, he presented it to the light of the candle’s flame, his eyes narrowed in what he hoped looked like knowledgeable concentration.