A Good Year

Max examined the bottles. There was a scattering of regional reds and whites-some Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a few cases of Rasteau and cassis-but the great majority was the wine of the property, decorated with the florid blue and gold label that Uncle Henry had designed himself. Max chose a bottle of Le Griffon 1999, and took it over to the upended barrel that served as a cellar table, where there was a corkscrew and a none-too-clean glass. Shaking the glass to dislodge the remains of a dead earwig, Max wiped it with his handkerchief before opening the bottle. He poured, then held the glass up to the light, allowing himself to have an optimistic moment contemplating the fortunes to be made from boutique wines.

He sniffed. He gargled. He shuddered, and immediately spat before rubbing his teeth with a finger to remove what felt like a thick coating of ta

Maybe it was just an unfortunate choice of bottle. Max selected another one, going through the same procedure to arrive at the same undrinkable result. Not quite the gold mine that Charlie had in mind. Max decided to call and tell him the worst.

“I’m in the cellar, and I’ve just tasted the wine.”

“And?”

“Young, of course.”

“Of course. But promising?”

“Could be. Lacks finesse. Needs some discipline, a firm hand, a smack on the bottom.” He stopped, unable to keep it up. “Actually, Charlie, it tastes likes a gendarme’s socks. I couldn’t even swallow it. That bad.”

“Really?” Charlie sounded more interested than discouraged. “Well, that could be the fault of the maker rather than the grapes. It often is, you know. What we need is an oenologist.”

“We do?”

“A wine expert. I’ve been reading about them. They’re magicians, some of those boys. They fiddle about with the blending of grapes from different parts of the vineyard until they get the right balance. It’s like a recipe, really, except that it’s for wine instead of food. They can’t turn plonk into Petrus, obviously, but they can make a huge difference. Ask around. There must be a few not far from you. Anyway, how’s the chateau? No, don’t tell me. I’ll pop down for a couple of days when I can get away. Line up the ladies.”

Max was pensive as he left the cellar. Where would he find a wine magician? It was not the kind of listing you’d see in the Yellow Pages. Perhaps Maître Auzet would know. He’d ask her when they met for lunch.

At the thought of food, his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since his rubber airline breakfast that morning. He took his suitcases up to the rather grand bedroom-large fireplace, several bad oil paintings-that had been Uncle Henry’s, and after changing out of his suit, he went down to the village for an early di

It was happy hour in Saint-Pons. Leather-faced men dusty from the fields were lined up at the bar of the café, loud and talkative, their accents as thick as the smoke from their cigarettes. Max ordered a Ricard and found a seat in the corner, feeling pale and foreign. Through the open door of the café he could see a game of boules in progress, the players moving slowly and noisily from one end of the court to the other. The evening sun slanted across the square, painting the stone houses with a coat of honey-colored light, and the café jukebox was having an Aznavour evening. Max found it hard to believe he’d been staring out of his window at a gray London sky only twenty-four hours before. This could be a different planet. And, he had to admit, a much more pleasant planet. The only blots on an otherwise su

A few kilometers away, Roussel and his disposition were engaged in a heated discussion over di

“… it ca

“More couscous? Or are you ready for the cheese?”

Roussel held out his plate for another ladle of the spicy stew without interrupting his gloomy predictions “… or maybe he will turn the house into one of those hotels…”

“What hotels?”

“You know, those little chichi places with old furniture, and all the staff in waistcoats. Or maybe…”

“Eh beh oui! A nuclear power station, no doubt. Clo-Clo, how can you say such things? You haven’t even met him. He might have more money than the old man to spend on the vines. He might even consider selling the vineyard to us.” Madame Roussel leaned forward to wipe a spot of gravy from her husband’s chin. “In any case, the only way to find out is to go and speak to him, non?”

Roussel’s grunt could have been taken as yes or no. Madame persisted.

“You know I’m right, Clo-Clo. But for heaven’s sake don’t go with a face like a boot. Go with a smile. Go with a bottle. And while you’re there, don’t forget to tell him about my sister.”

Roussel rolled his eyes and reached for the cheese. “How could one ever forget your sister?”

Max finished his drink and left the café, stopping to watch the boules game. Uncle Henry had once explained the niceties of the point and the tir, the raspaille and the sautée-fu

One of the players was about to throw. Feet together, knees bent, brow furrowed in concentration, he pitched his boule in a long and deadly arc that knocked aside two other boules before coming to rest within a hairbreadth of the small wooden target ball, the cocho