A Good Year by Peter Mayle Read Free Book Online Page A

cast-iron range and a bath-sized sink took up one entire wall, glass-fronted storage cabinets another; the big wooden plank table was where it had always been, in the center of the room. Running his fingers across the table’s surface, he found the spot where he had carved his initials. Nothing had changed.
    The tall, rectangular windows offered a view to the lower slopes of the Luberon. Between the house and the mountain were more vines, which, as Max could see, were being patrolled by the eternal figure on a tractor, towing a machine that was spraying a blue fog of pesticide over the neat green rows. That must be Roussel, probably still in the foul mood he had displayed in the
notaire
’s office. Max decided that their first meeting could wait until he’d calmed down.

    Out in the vines, Roussel, with a peasant’s eye for any change in the landscape, however small, had noticed the opening of the shutters and was on his cell phone, announcing the news to his wife, Ludivine.
    “He has arrived, the Englishman. He is in the house now. No, I haven’t met him, but I saw him in Auzet’s office. He’s young.” Roussel broke off while he negotiated his turn at the end of a row of vines. “Is he
sympa
? How do I know if he’s
sympa
? One is never sure with the English.” He looked over at the house as he put the phone back in his pocket, and sighed. Ah, the English. Will they ever stop invading France? He heard a yelp, and glanced at the vines behind him.
Merde.
His dog, who had been following the tractor, had been caught by an errant puff of
bouillie bordelaise,
and now had a pale blue head, which added to his already eccentric appearance.

    Max continued to explore, throwing open all the shutters, peering into armoires and drawers, getting back a sense of the house’s geography while he compared the present with the past. It was, if anything, bigger than he remembered. Even Charlie would have to stretch his estate agent’s vocabulary to do justice to the six bedrooms, the library, the dining room, the immense living room, the kitchen, the back kitchen, the double pantry, the scullery, the tack room—and surely there was a cellar somewhere at the far end of the house. Max made his way through the living room, footsteps echoing on the stone floor, and paused to look at a group of photographs that had been arranged on the top of an elderly, dust-coated piano. His eye was caught by a faded black-and-white image of a man and a boy, squinting into the sun: Uncle Henry and his young nephew, each holding an old wooden tennis racket.
    He moved on, through a small door beside the fireplace and down the short flight of steps that led to the cellar. Unlocking the door, he pushed it open, feeling a current of cooler air on his face as he fumbled for the light switch.
    The single bare bulb lit a narrow, practical room. The floor was gravel, the ceiling low, the storage bins constructed of brick. The air smelled of must and damp cobwebs. A vintage enamel thermometer hanging on one wall listed temperatures from 50 degrees Centigrade to minus 15, with cryptic comments by the side of each figure: 50, for instance, was a nice day in Senegal; 35 was apparently a temperature that encouraged bees to swarm; minus 10 was cold enough to freeze rivers, and minus 15 was marked by a single chilly date, 1859. The cellar temperature stood at 12 degrees Centigrade, and Max remembered Uncle Henry telling him that it never varied by more than two degrees, no matter what the weather did outside. An equable temperature, he used to say, is the secret of a healthy, contented wine.
    Max examined the bottles. There was a scattering of regional reds and whites—some Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a few cases of Rasteau and cassis—but the great majority was the wine of the property, decorated with the florid blue and gold label that Uncle Henry had designed himself. Max chose a bottle of Le Griffon 1999, and took it over to the upended barrel that served as a