Max held up a hand. “Charlie, before you get carried away and put in a helicopter pad, take a look at this. Does it mean anything to you?”
Charlie looked up from the checkbook, tapping it against his free hand. “It rings a bell,” he said, “but I can’t be sure.” He looked at his watch. “ London ’s an hour behind, isn’t it? Billy would know. Let me see if I can catch him.”
Christie watched him go into the house, with the smile that had scarcely left her face since she’d met him.
“I’m glad you two have hit it off,” said Max. “I’ve known Charlie for twenty years. We were at school together. He’s one of the best.”
“He’s awfully cute,” said Christie. “Is he always like this?”
“Cute?” Max grinned at her. “I don’t know about that, but he never changes-it’s one of the reasons I like him so much. You’ll have a lot of fun in London.”
At Christie’s urging, Max began to tell her about the London he thought she should see, from the Tate Modern and the National Portrait Gallery to Harvey Nichols and the Portobello Road market, adding a few things she should avoid like the plague: plastic pubs, Piccadilly on Saturday night, anything masquerading as doner kebab. He was moving on to the sometimes bizarre attractions of Soho when Charlie returned, shaking his head.
“No joy, I’m afraid. His secretary said he’s off playing golf with God-I think that’s the unofficial name for the wine buyer from the Connaught. Anyway, he’ll be back in the office tomorrow.” He tossed the checkbook back to Max. “Now then, about tonight. I don’t want to look like the visitor from outer space. What are we all wearing? I want to blend in.”
Max looked at him: rumpled winter-weight flannels, black city shoes, a blue-and-white-striped Jermyn Street shirt open at the neck, a broad, ruddy face; resolutely, eternally, unmistakably English. Even his hair was English. “You didn’t bring a beret, did you? That might help.”
Seventeen
In the course of an exploration that had taken him into the far reaches of the cellar, Max had come across a bottle of rather old, very fine champagne, and had kept it aside to celebrate Charlie’s arrival. He was now dusting off the bottle before putting it, for want of anything better, into one of Madame Passepartout’s plastic buckets, which he had filled with ice cubes. The contrast between the homely blue of the bucket and the dark, sober elegance of the bottle fell a little short of perfection, but at least the wine would be chilled. He settled the bottle into its nest of ice and twirled the long, slender neck between his hands.
Although he had a great deal to learn and a long way to go, he was discovering how much he enjoyed the many small pleasures associated with wine and its various rituals-pleasures that he had never had time to appreciate during his life in London. There, wine had simply been good or disappointing, cheap or expensive, without any particular history, something that was served up in bars and restaurants with anonymous efficiency. Here it would be different. Here he would be involved in the entire process, from grape to bottle, and he looked forward to it with very keen anticipation. Wine would be his work. And as Charlie was fond of saying every time he buried his nose in a glass, there could be no more noble calling.
“Well?” said Charlie. “What do you think?” He had come out of the front door and was standing in the courtyard, arms spread wide, waiting for comments. His hair was still wet from the shower, brushed straight back, and he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, decorated with bright green marijuana plants, outside a pair of white cotton trousers. “I picked this up last year in Martinique,” he said, smoothing down the collar, “from a guy on the beach. It’s called a spliff shirt. Très cool, he said-at least, I think that’s what he said.”
“Cool’s the word, Charlie,” said Max. “No doubt about it. And you can roll it up and smoke it, too. What a shirt.”
Max returned his attentions to the bottle, twisting off the wire around the neck and easing the cork up a fraction. Keeping his hand over it, he could feel it pressing up against his palm, almost as though it were alive and trying to escape. Little by little, he allowed it to push upward, until it came out of the bottle with no more than a muffled, bubbly sigh.
Charlie had been watching, nodding with approval. “That’s the way to do it,” he said. “I can’t stand people who wave the bottle around and pop the cork like a bloody Scud missile. Terrible waste of champagne. What have you got there, anyway?”
Max pulled the beaded bottle from the bucket. “An ’83 Krug. I found it hidden away in a corner-Uncle Henry must have forgotten about it.”
“Good for him.” Max poured the wine, releasing its delicate, slightly toasty bouquet. Charlie inhaled deeply, with closed eyes, then held the glass up to his ear. “It’s the only wine in the world you can hear,” he said. “The music of the grape. Cheers.”
They sipped for a moment in silence, the rush of bubbles prickling their tongues. “Seriously,” said Charlie, “you think the shirt’s OK? Nonchalant but not too loud-that’s what we’re after. Casual elegance, Cary Grant on his day off, that sort of thing.”
Max nodded toward the front door. “Here’s your date. Ask her.”
Christie was wearing the same black dress-pressed to perfection by Madame Passepartout-that she had worn to the Roussel dinner, and the same exhilarating scarlet high heels, this time with matching scarlet toenails peeping through the cutout at the front of each shoe. Charlie let out a long, appreciative whistle.
Christie bobbed her head in acknowledgment. “Like the shirt, Charlie,” she said. “Very cool.”
Max handed her a glass of champagne. “A toast,” he said. “Here’s to the man who made this possible: Uncle Henry, God bless him.” Their glasses raised, the three of them looked at one other-smiling, each with private and delightful expectations of the evening to come.
The level in the bottle and the setting sun dropped at an approximately equal pace, and it was dusk-a soft and rosy dusk-by the time the three of them reached the village. The square was crowded, a cheerful hum of greeting and conversation mingling with the music coming from the loudspeakers. Extra tables had been set out on the café terrace, and the accordion band, four impressively mustached gentlemen in their best black trousers, embroidered waistcoats, and white shirts, were drinking a pre-performance pastis. Children chased each other around, and sometimes through, the forest of adult legs. Dogs loitered, more in hope than expectation, beside the long open barbecue where a méchoui of spit-roasted lamb and merguez sausages the color of dried blood were sizzling above the coals, watched over by the chef from Chez Fanny.
Max made his way through the crowd to the makeshift bar where Fanny herself, protected from collarbone to knee by a demure apron, was pouring glasses of the vin d’honneur with a liberal hand. “This is a bit of a change for you,” he said, pointing to the apron.
Without speaking, Fanny performed a slow turn and looked at him over one shoulder, her eyebrows raised. Beneath the apron was an almost backless wisp of lavender-colored silk, with little more than a suggestion of a skirt below. “Better?” she said.
Max swallowed hard and ordered three glasses of wine. “I hope you’re not going to be stuck behind the bar all evening,” he said. “A girl’s got to eat. Can I save you a place?”
“Eh, Fanny! The drinks are flowing like glue.” Guichard the postman and his wife, both heavily scented, had pushed up to the bar and were panting for refreshment. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Skinner. Are we going to see an Englishman dance tonight?”