A Good Year

Max picked up the glasses and went off, encouraged by a parting wink from Fa

“What’s so fu

“Nothing,” said Charlie. “Nothing at all.”

“They’ve been circling each other for days,” said Christie. “You should watch out, Max. I think she’s decided to go for it tonight.”

“You two,” said Max, shaking his head. “Vulgar speculation. I was merely being polite to a charming young lady who, I might say…”

“… is wearing a dress the size of a handkerchief,” Charlie added. “I think Christie’s right.”

They sipped their wine-which Charlie pronounced to be young and playful, but essentially good-hearted-while they watched the parade passing in front of them. The evening had attracted people from surrounding villages as well as some other, more distant foreigners: Germans the color of polished mahogany, their speech sounding harsh and guttural against the background of softer, more mellifluous French; the American cyclists they had seen in the market, now dressed like wealthy teenagers in that particular kind of cotton that never seems to wrinkle, with silver-tipped belts, pristine pneumatic sneakers, and, of course, baseball caps with sporting or military motifs; a group of Gypsies, lean and swarthy and all in black, slithering through the crowd like sharks among a shoal of tropical fish; a sprinkling of Parisians, pastel cashmere sweaters draped over their shoulders to ward off the eighty-degree evening chill. But, as Christie remarked, there didn’t seem to be any English.

“Ah,” said Max, with the knowledgeable air of an old local inhabitant of ten days’ standing, “they’re mostly on the other side of the Luberon-Gordes, Ménerbes, Bo

A few tables away, the accordion band, fortified by a final pastis, had gathered up their instruments and were now filing onto the stage. The rap singer being broadcast over the loudspeakers was cut off in mid-expletive, and the space in front of the stage began to clear. Over behind the bar, Fa

Charlie gave Max a nudge. “Better get in quick before young Lochinvar over there asks her to dance,” he said as he and Christie stood up. “We’ll go and find a table.”

But getting Fa

Christie and Charlie had secured four places and a liter jug of wine at one end of a long table facing the stage. Charlie was at his most gallant when introduced to Fa

Fa

“About four words. I’m the official interpreter for this evening.”

And interpret he did, passing on Fa

“Those two don’t look like locals,” he said, nodding toward an expensively dressed couple who were standing off to one side, heads tilted back, looking down their noses at the crowd.

Fa

“I take it you’re not too fond of Nathalie.”

Fa

Max was wondering if Nathalie would put in an appearance when a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder. He turned to see Roussel in his Yves Montand outfit, and Ludivine, resplendent in deep purple. Fa

Max looked up to see a thickset man in early middle age bearing down on the table, the begi

“Bonsoir ma jolie!” The man stopped in front of the table, ignoring Max, twirling one finger in a circle and swaying his ample hips. “They’re playing a paso doble just for us.”

With a transparently false smile and an apologetic squeeze of Max’s shoulder, Fa

Christie noticed Max’s disconsolate face. “If that’s the competition,” she said, patting his arm, “I don’t think you have much to worry about. Listen, is it OK if we leave you? Charlie says he’s the Nureyev of the paso doble.”

Max was doing his best not to watch Gaston’s wandering hands when he heard a familiar screech, and Madame Passepartout, spectacular in a dress of lemon yellow with peppermint-green feather earrings, appeared at his side. “You ca

Reluctance was soon forgotten. She danced wonderfully well, light and precise in her steps, adapting herself to his mistakes, leading when he lost his way, whirling him around when whirling was called for, and generally making him feel like a much better dancer than he actually was. After the first few minutes, he was sufficiently as one with Madame Passepartout to relax and take some interest in the other dancers on the floor. And here, a wide and not always orthodox selection of styles could be seen.

The youngest dancer of all, a little girl of perhaps seven with coal-black ringlets, was learning the steps the old-fashioned way, by standing on the feet of her grandfather and clutching him round one thigh to avoid falling off in mid-paso. As the old man shuffled, he kept one hand on her shoulder while the other held a glass of wine. Beyond him, Max could see Fa