Free A Good Year by Peter Mayle Page A

desired.” He took another nip of
marc,
and sighed. “It is not for lack of care. Take a look at the vines. Not a weed to be seen. Not a sign of
oidium
—you know, the vine mildew. I cherish those vines as if they were my children. No, it’s not lack of care that’s the problem.” He raised his hand, rubbing the tips of his first two fingers against his thumb. “It’s lack of money. Many of the vines are old and tired. They should have been replaced years ago, but your uncle Skinner was not in a position to invest.
Hélas,
the wine has suffered.” He stared into his glass, shaking his head. “I can’t work miracles. I can’t make an omelette if I have no eggs.”
    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