A Good Year

“First of all, we can’t afford it. It’s not at all widely known, except to hard-core co

“Anyway, the wine from this particular vineyard is selling for serious money: thirty or forty thousand dollars a case-that’s wholesale, if you can get any. And you’d be lucky to get any because the production is never more than a few hundred cases each year. Almost all of it goes to Asia, a dribble to the States, a dribble to Germany, but none to France. Don’t ask me why. And they’re keeping it very close to the chest. Tasting is strictly by invitation only, and you have to deal with the sole representative. Let’s see now”-Charlie turned over the envelope and squinted at the scribbles on the back-“yes, here we are. I suppose it’s a bloke, but you never can tell with French names. Someone called Jean-Marie Fitzgerald.”

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 Fa

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 Fa

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.