Max overcame his faint surprise at the sudden evocation of an omelette in the vineyard, and turned the conversation back to grapes. “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear I’m getting someone in to look at the vines, the grapes, everything. An oenologue.”
Roussel’s head snapped up from its contemplation of the glass. “What for?”
Max made calming motions with his hands, stroking the air in front of him. “Now, this is no criticism of you, none at all. You’ve done all you can. But if we get some professional advice about making improvements, I’m sure I can get hold of the money to pay for them. Then we’ll make better wine, and that will be good for both of us. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
From Roussel’s expression, he was far from convinced as he reached for the bottle of marc.
“I talked to Maître Auzet about it. She thinks it’s a great idea,” Max said. “In fact, she’s going to find somebody. She told me she has friends in the wine business.”
That seemed to meet with Roussel’s approval. A swig of marc found its target, and he grunted like a boxer taking a punch to the stomach. “Maybe it’s not a bad idea. You took me by surprise, c’est tout.” He looked over at Max, his face the color of old ocher, with a strip of white across the part of his forehead normally covered by his cap. “So you want to keep the vines. That’s good. Can you cook?”
Max shook his head. “Eggs and bacon, the English breakfast. That’s about it.”
“You must come to the house next week for dinner. My wife makes a civet of wild boar-a civet made in the correct fashion, with blood and red wine. Not like English food.” He grinned as he put his cap on. “You know what they say? The English murder their meat twice: once when they shoot it and once when they cook it. Drôle, n’est-ce pas?”
“Very comical,” said Max. “Almost as funny as my tailor is rich.”
This set Roussel off, and his shoulders were still quaking with laughter when Max showed him out. Both men felt that it had been an unexpectedly pleasant start to their relationship.
Roussel waited until he was some distance from the house before making the call. “He says he’s going to bring in an oenologue, someone that you’re finding. Is that true?”
Nathalie Auzet looked at her watch, her fingers tapping the desk. The one day she was hoping to leave the office early, and now Roussel wanted to have his hand held. “That’s right. Don’t worry about it. You’re quite safe. He’s not going to throw you out.”
“Well, I don’t know. Do you think…”
She cut him off. “Roussel, trust me. I will arrange someone sympathetic.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Quite sure. I must go.”
The phone went dead. Roussel looked at it and shrugged. He hoped she knew what she was doing.
Max rinsed the marc glasses, the harsh, pungent smell reminding him of the harsh, pungent taste. An evening on that stuff would give him brain damage. He thought of emptying the bottle down the sink, then decided to keep it for Roussel. He’d be back. Max liked what he had seen of the man so far, which was fortunate. In cities, neighbors were people with whom you occasionally shared an elevator. In the country, they could affect every day of your life, and it was important to be on good terms with them.
His thoughts turned to Madame Passepartout, who would be arriving in the morning, and he walked through the succession of rooms, trying to decide where to tell her to start cleaning. Or was she as sensitive about housework as Roussel was about vines? Perhaps it would be more diplomatic to let her decide for herself. God knows she had plenty of choice. He came to a stop by the grand piano, with its impressive layer of dust and dead insects. The silver frame with its old photograph of him and Uncle Henry, caught in a slant of evening sunlight, looked particularly tarnished and dingy. As Max picked it up for a closer look, the worn velvet back of the frame came away in his hand. Another photograph, tucked behind the first, was revealed, and with it a previously hidden chapter in Uncle Henry’s life.
The second photograph also featured Uncle Henry, but this time a younger version. He was standing next to some kind of truck with his arm around the shoulders of a good-looking blond woman. They appeared to be joined at the hip, both smiling at the camera, and the woman had one hand resting on Uncle Henry’s chest, a gesture at the same time casual and possessive. There could be little doubt about the intimacy of their relationship.
Max looked more closely at the photograph. Judging by the clothes, it was obviously taken in the summer. But judging by the truck, probably not in France. He took the photograph over to the window where the light was better, and was able to distinguish more detail: the glint of a wedding ring on the woman’s hand, the Chevrolet emblem above the truck’s radiator, and, blurred but just legible, the California license plate. What was Uncle Henry doing running around with blondes in California? The old devil.
Seven
Another glittering morning, another run, another slippery session of acrobatics in the shower. Max pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and was hoping that yesterday’s bread would still be edible when he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside the house, then three imperious toots on the horn.
He went downstairs and opened the door to see a brightly colored bottom and two sturdy legs protruding from the back of an old but highly polished Renault 5. The bottom’s owner withdrew from the car and straightened up, clutching a vacuum cleaner and a plastic bucket, which she placed on the ground next to an array of mops and brushes and cleaning products. Madame Passepartout had arrived.
“I haven’t deranged you?” she asked, pumping Max’s hand up and down as though she were trying to detach it from the rest of his body. “But I wanted to get here before you had breakfast.” She plunged back into her car and reappeared with a paper bag. “Voilà. They’re still warm.”
Max thanked her, and stood nursing his croissants while Madame Passepartout brought him up-to-date on the current state of French bread (not what it used to be), and the morals of the baker’s daughter (not what they should be). A reply clearly wasn’t expected, and while Max helped Madame Passepartout carry her equipment into the kitchen he had time to study this voluble new addition to his life and household.
At a guess, she was in her early fifties, but despite her age and her substantial build she was not yet ready to abandon the clothing of youth. Tight and bright was the Passepartout style, with an orange tank top and turquoise leggings, stretched to the maximum, relieved by a pair of sparkling white tennis shoes on surprisingly dainty feet. Her black hair was cut almost as short as a man’s, her dark eyes bright with curiosity as she now looked around the kitchen.
There was a sharp intake of breath. “Ho la la! Mais c’est un bordel. An old man living alone. One can always tell.” She stood with her hands on her hips, her lips clenched in disapproval. “This won’t do for a nice boy like yourself. Dust everywhere! Mice, no doubt! Probably scorpions! Quelle horreur.” She filled the kettle to make coffee and took a cup and saucer and a plate from the dresser, looking at them with deep suspicion before rinsing them in the sink. Shaking her head and clicking her tongue, she wiped the table free of dust and told Max to sit down.
Breakfast was served, a novelty for Max that he found very enjoyable. And while he ate his croissants and drank his coffee, Madame Passepartout’s stream of chatter continued without a break. She would arrange everything, she told him, from lavender essence (a sure protection against scorpions) to furniture polish to toilet paper-doubtless Monsieur Max preferred the refinement of white to the more common pink-and while she chattered she prepared her weapons for an assault on the stove, which in her professional opinion hadn’t been cleaned since the Revolution.