A Good Year (13 page)

“Jean-Marie Fitzgerald.
Très heureux.
” The two men shook hands, and Max introduced Christie. Muttering again how happy he was, Fitzgerald performed the ritual of the near-miss kiss—
osculari interruptus
—still favored by Frenchmen of a certain age and a certain class, ducking his head low over Christie’s hand but not quite touching it with his lips before straightening up.

“Fitzgerald,” said Max. “That’s a name I’d associate with Dublin; certainly not with Bordeaux.”

The Frenchman smiled. “I’m what the English sometimes call a ’bog frog’—half-Irish, half-French. There are quite a few of us scattered around in southwestern France. Our Irish ancestors must have liked the climate and the local girls.”

“I imagine your English is pretty good, then?”

Fitzgerald gave Max a rueful look, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, my English studies didn’t get much further than a few phrases—’My tailor is rich,’ that kind of thing.”

For once, this gem of Gallic humor didn’t bring a smile to Roussel’s face. He seemed uncomfortable, far from the relaxed, expansive soul of the previous evening. He was virtually ignoring Fitzgerald, and Max wondered if there was a problem between them, or whether it was just the instinctive mistrust that tends to exist between peasants and strangers in suits.

“Do you two know each other?” he asked Roussel.

A vigorous shake of the head. “Only since half an hour. Monsieur Max, are you sure you want to bother yourself with this? It’s hot, and I can easily show him what he needs to see.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Part of my education.”

They set off into the fields, Fitzgerald picking his way daintily up and down the rows of vines, stopping from time to time to cup a bunch of grapes in his hand, to ask the age of the vines, or to take a pinch of earth between his fingers, jotting down the occasional thought with a gold pen in a leather notebook. After an hour or so of this, his sadly wrinkled linen suit was showing the effects of the heat, and a drop of perspiration was decorating the tip of his patrician nose.

“Of course,” he said to Max, “this afternoon is merely a reconnaissance to familiarize myself with the lay of the land.” He stared out across the orderly green rows shimmering in the heat and mopped his face with a silk handkerchief. “Which, I have to say, seems to be well kept. I will need to take samples of the soil for analysis—
argilo-calcaire,
I would imagine; your man Roussel can help me with that. And naturally I will have to come back to see the
cave:
the condition and quality of your barrels, the details of your
assemblage
—how much Syrah, how much Grenache, and so on—also even the nature of your corks and your choice of bottles.
Bref,
I shall need to take everything into account before making any kind of recommendation.” He closed his notebook with a snap. “I hope you’re not in a hurry, monsieur. But today we can say we’re making a start.” He looked at his watch. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a rendezvous on the other side of the Luberon.”

Roussel, who had been silent and attentive, turned to go back with Fitzgerald to the house.

“Hold on,” said Max. “We haven’t finished here yet. There’s the other vineyard.” He pointed to the land beyond the stone wall. “I think Monsieur Fitzgerald should take a look at it.”

Roussel threw up his hands. “
That?
That catastrophe? Just the sight of it would plunge monsieur into despair.” He turned to Fitzgerald. “Nothing but rocks and grief. Pitiful, pitiful.”

“Even so,” said Max, “I’d like him to see it while he’s here.”

Roussel and Fitzgerald led the way across the field, and Max continued with the translation he’d been providing for Christie during lulls in the conversation. “. . . So Roussel’s not too keen on him seeing that patch beyond the wall. Tell me, what do you think of Fitzgerald?”

Christie shrugged. “It would help if I could understand him. But I’d expected someone—oh, I don’t know, someone a little more earthy. He never does any work in the vines, that’s for sure. His hands are too soft.”

They watched as the two men in front of them reached the wall. Roussel heaved himself up until he was sitting on top, and then swung his legs across, swiveling on his bottom. Fitzgerald, giving more thought to the well being of his trousers, negotiated the wall in a tentative, crablike fashion, and stood on the other side, dusting himself down and pushing back the wing of hair that kept flopping onto his forehead.

Roussel waited for Christie and Max before delivering once again his low opinion of the land on which they were standing. “More like a quarry than a vineyard.” He bent down to pick up a handful of white stone chippings, holding them out to Fitzgerald. “Call this earth? One might as well try to grow asparagus in the Sahara.” Fitzgerald shook his head in sympathy, his lower lip thrust out as a sign of regret at what he saw.

Turning to Max, Fitzgerald smiled. “Well,” he said, “at least there is the rest of the land. I’m sure we can make some progress there. All it takes its time and money.” He started back toward the wall.

“Max,” said Christie, “ask him why all those bunches have been clipped. I mean, if it’s such lousy land, why bother?” She kept her eyes on Fitzgerald as she spoke.

He paused at the sound of her voice, then bent his head to listen to Max’s translation. “A good question. It is common practice, of course, to do it in Bordeaux, but here? In this rubble?” The eyebrows went up in silent inquiry as he looked to Roussel for the answer.

Roussel tossed the handful of chippings back onto the ground. “As I have already explained to Monsieur Max, it is my little experiment, my last try.” He dusted his hands against his trousers. “I’m hoping that the size of the grapes can be increased.”

Fitzgerald’s expression changed to amused astonishment.
“Incroyable,”
he said to Max. “I thought I’d never live to see a peasant who is also an optimist.” He patted Roussel on the shoulder. “I wish you luck, monsieur, with your giant grapes. Or better still, a miracle. And now, I really must go.”

While Max was translating the exchange for Christie, Fitzgerald strode off in the direction of the house, with Roussel a few paces behind. Clearly, as far as they were concerned, the reconnaissance was over.

“Well,” Max said to Christie, “that wasn’t too encouraging.”

“You know something?” she said. “I think that guy understands English. I was watching his face, and when I asked about the grapes, he couldn’t stop himself from looking at them. Just a glance, but I’m sure he knew what I was saying.”

Had there been a flicker of understanding, quickly disguised? Max couldn’t say; he’d been looking at Christie when she asked the question. “I don’t know,” he said. “But he didn’t seem to be all that interested. It might be a good idea to get a second opinion. I’ll talk to Roussel.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” said Christie. “There’s something not right about that guy. I’ve never seen a real wine man with a manicure before.”

Fourteen

Sitting in his office high above the harbor, Mr. Chen lit a cigarette and reached for the phone. He was about to confirm his reputation as Hong Kong’s most exclusive wine merchant, the
négociant
to know if you were looking for rare vintages or special bottles, and had the deep pockets to afford them. At the mention of his name, the secretary on the other end of the line put him straight through.

Chen wasted no time on pleasantries. “This is a lucky day for you,” he said to his client. “I did well in Bordeaux. I got six cases, and I can promise you they’re the only cases in Hong Kong. Now, in view of our long relationship, not to mention our deep friendship, I’ve put aside two cases for you at $75,000 per case. That’s U.S. dollars, of course.”

He paused to let the news of his generosity sink in. “What? How does it taste? What’s that got to do with it? Come on, my friend. You know as well as I do this isn’t wine for drinking; it’s for buying and selling. An
investment.
My other clients here would sell their mothers for this wine. Hold it for a year, two years. The way it’s going, you could double your money. No, I’m afraid that’s not possible. Just the two cases. The others are promised to Beijing and Seoul. Yes? Good. You won’t regret it.”

Chen put the phone down, blew a celebratory smoke ring, and crossed a name off the short list on his desk. Perhaps he should raise the price to $80,000. This was going to be an interesting couple of days. He put in a call to Beijing.

On the other side of the world, Roussel had, as usual, returned to his pink palace for lunch. He was a preoccupied man, picking at the salt pork and lentils of his favorite
petit salé,
saying little, hardly touching his wine. His wife, Ludivine, accustomed to seeing a clean plate and an empty glass at mealtimes, came to the natural conclusion.

“It’s your stomach, isn’t it?” she said, with the conviction of a wife long familiar with the vagaries of her husband’s digestive system. “Too much cheese last night. You need a purge.”

Roussel shook his head and pushed his plate away. “My stomach? No, that’s fine.”

“So what is it?” She reached across the table and patted his hand. “Come, Clo-Clo, tell me.”

He sighed, and let his body slump back in the chair. “It’s the vines. You know, the little patch.” Ludivine nodded. “Well, yesterday we had the
oenologue
from Bordeaux come to look at the property,
un monsieur très snob,
someone arranged by Nathalie Auzet.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, nothing much. Nothing good, anyway. I think that was the problem, because this morning Monsieur Max told me he was going to find someone else and get a second opinion. And you realize what that means?” Roussel traced circles on the table with his wineglass, his face the picture of dejection.

Ludivine did indeed realize what it meant, and had been half-expecting it for years. She came around the table and stood behind him, massaging his shoulders.
“Chéri,”
she said, “it was bound to end sooner or later. We’ve had some good years because of those vines—the house, the cars, more than we could have imagined when we first got married.” She bent to kiss the top of his head. “I hate to see you like this.” With a final squeeze of his shoulders, she cleared away the plates and was about to take them to the sink when she stopped, setting the plates back on the table with a rattle that made her husband start. She tapped a finger with considerable emphasis on the table. Her voice was equally emphatic. “You must tell him, Clo-Clo. You must.”

Roussel sat staring at her, chewing his lip and saying nothing.

She reached out for his hand, and her tone softened. “He seems very
sympa,
the young man. He’ll understand. Better that he should find out from you than from someone else, no?” She answered her own question by nodding vigorously. “Much better.”

The midafternoon air was still, and thick with heat. Max was on a ladder, wrestling with a tangle of wisteria that was trying to creep uninvited into the house through an upstairs window. Christie had gone off in search of an English-language newspaper, and Madame Passepartout, her cat crisis over, was hanging out the wash on a makeshift line she had strung up in a corner of the tennis court.

The calm of the moment was broken by the clatter of Roussel’s van coming to a stop in the courtyard. As was his invariable habit, Tonto was the first to get out, rushing across to bark at the ladder before sniffing it with great deliberation and cocking his leg against it. Roussel scolded him halfheartedly as he peered up at the figure perched above him, silhouetted against the sun-bleached pale blue of the sky.

“Monsieur Max, do I disturb you?”

Max came down the ladder, and the two men shook hands, Roussel tugging at one ear while he searched for words. “I must speak to you,” he said, “and there is something I must show you. It’s about the vines.” He jerked his head toward the van. “We can go together now, if you have the time.”

They drove without speaking in the direction of the village, and then turned off to follow a narrow track that ended in front of a long, windowless barn built into the side of a gentle fold in the land, its double doors barred and padlocked. “The
cave,
” said Roussel. “You haven’t seen it before.”

Max shook his head. “I thought you took the grapes straight down to the
co-opérative.
”

“Not all of them,” said Roussel. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

He parked the van in front of the barn, and Max stood watching Tonto roll in the dust, squirming with pleasure as he rubbed his back on the grit while Roussel unlocked the barn doors and slid them open. He went into the gloom and turned on a light before beckoning Max to follow.

The temperature inside the
cave
was cool, almost chilly after the heat outside, and the air smelt slightly humid; tannic and musty. The floor was rough concrete, divided down the middle by a wine-stained drainage channel. On either side of the channel, raised up on plinths of concrete, were rows of barrels, marked in chalk with a scribbled code meaningless to anyone except the wine grower. Standing in one corner next to the door was a rickety tin table with a scattering of papers, a couple of dingy glasses, and a long glass syringe with a rubber bulb the size of a fist at one end. On the wall, hanging from a rusty nail, was a calendar illustrated with photographs of young women in the throes of some private ecstasy, draped over tractors.

Max looked around with interest, wondering if he was expected to say anything as Roussel wiped the glasses free of dust with a handkerchief and pulled two elderly wooden chairs up to the table. He gestured to Max to take a seat and half-closed one of the doors to lessen the glare. Finally, with a sigh, he took off his cap and sat down.

“Monsieur Max,” he began, “as you know, I have worked on the vines at Le Griffon for thirty years, ever since your uncle bought the house. Many times over the years, I asked him to replace the vines, which were old and tired even before he arrived.” He looked down at the table, twisting his cap in his hands. “But, for one reason or another, it was never the right moment: Next year, he used to say, we’ll do it next year.

“There was one parcel, the parcel beyond the wall, which I thought could produce good wine.” He paused to shake his head, correcting himself. “No, I was
sure
it could. It had the right stony soil, the right exposure, the right slope, not too big, perfect. I told your uncle—this was more than fifteen years ago—but he wasn’t interested, or he had no money left after repairing the roof; there was always something. In the end, I decided to take out the old vines and replant the land myself. Ludivine and me, we had a little money saved.” He looked at Max for a few moments in silence, his eyebrows raised, waiting for a reaction.

“I should think the old boy was delighted, wasn’t he?”

Roussel’s hands continued to strangle his cap. “Well, I never told him exactly what I’d done. He thought I had just used ordinary vine stock, but I wanted something better, something special. He had no idea I replanted with the best Cabernet Sauvignon and a little Merlot. Nobody did. These things are complicated in France. The regulations, the authorities from the agricultural ministry
qui se mêlent à tout,
who want you to declare every twig and fallen leaf.” He shrugged. “Impossible. It was easier to say nothing.”

Without warning, he got to his feet, picked up the syringe from the table, and walked over to the barrels. Max watched as he knocked out the bung from one of them, inserted the syringe, and drew off several inches of wine. Coming back to the table, he squeezed the bulb carefully and half-filled both glasses, holding one of them up to the light.

“
Bon.
Go ahead. Taste it. Remember that it’s still young.”

Max picked up the glass, conscious of Roussel’s intent stare and his own shortcomings as a wine connoisseur. But once the wine was in his mouth, sending powerful and delightful signals to his palate, even he could tell that it was a different drink altogether from ordinary Luberon wines. He wished he could remember some of Charlie’s ornate vocabulary, and was so impressed he forgot to spit.

“That’s amazing,” he said, raising his glass to Roussel. “Congratulations.”

Roussel seemed hardly to hear him. “Nobody down here makes wine like this,” he said. “And yet I realized that there was a problem: I couldn’t sell it—not legally, at any rate, because the Cabernet and Merlot vines hadn’t been declared. So I went to Maître Auzet for advice, thinking that she could find a
petite lacune
in the law. She’s clever like that.” He took a mouthful of wine and chewed on it for a few seconds before spitting it into the drainage channel. “That’s when it started. Instead of a loophole, she found a buyer; someone who would take all of it, every year, and pay cash—good money, no paperwork, no tax, no questions asked. I couldn’t resist. My wife, my daughter, my old age . . .” He looked at Max with the mournful, guilty expression of an old hound caught
in flagrante
with an illicit lamb chop.

Max leaned back in his chair while he took in what Roussel had just said: Nathalie Auzet,
notaire
and
négociant.
No wonder she looked so prosperous. “Who does she sell it to?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never met the buyer. Nathalie said it wasn’t necessary.”

“Well, where do you send it? Paris, Germany, Belgium?”

Roussel shook his head. “Who knows where it goes? The truck comes once a year—in September, just before I start the
vendange,
and always at night. The wine from the previous year is transferred from the barrels, and I get my cash the following week. From Nathalie.”

“But the truck. Surely it has a name on the side? A company, an enterprise of some sort?”

Roussel’s hand dropped down to fondle Tonto’s ear. “No. That’s not normal, I know, but in an
affaire
like this, one doesn’t ask too many questions. All I can tell you is the truck that picks up the wine has license plates with a 33 registration.” He cocked his thumb over his shoulder, in a vague northerly direction. “The Gironde.”

Max shook his head. “How long has this been going on?”

“Seven or eight years, maybe a little longer. I don’t remember exactly.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Max, “is why you’re telling me all this. I might never have found out.”

Roussel stared at the shimmering horizon through the half-open doors of the
cave,
his eyes narrowed, his dark brown face immobile, etched with deep lines. His head might have been cast in bronze. He turned back to Max.

“Your uncle was more interested in his books and his music than the vines. Even so, there were many times I almost told him, but—well, I paid for the vines, I planted them, I nursed them. I buy new oak barrels—the best French oak—every four years. No expense is spared. Everything is correct. And your uncle never suffered; it wasn’t like stealing. It seemed fair. Not strictly honest perhaps, but fair. And now it’s all changed, with you wanting to improve the vines, bringing in all these
oenologues . . .
” He finished the wine, swallowing this time, and put the glass down carefully. “To tell you the truth, Monsieur Max, I knew someone would find out. I thought it best to tell you myself.” He resumed the mournful expression as he waited to see how his confession had been received.