five minutes. I couldn’t possibly go without some local protection, someone who knows the ropes.”
Nathalie nodded, as if she couldn’t see what was coming. “Do you have anyone in mind?”
“That’s my other problem. I don’t know anyone except you.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m hoping that my enormous charm and the promise of a good lunch will be enough to persuade you to come with me.
Notaires
don’t work on Sunday, do they?”
Nathalie shook her head. “
Notaires
don’t work on Sunday.
Notaires
do occasionally have lunch. In many ways,
notaires
are very similar to people. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Max winced. “Let me start again. I’d be the happiest man in Provence if you would care to join me on Sunday. That is, if you’re free.”
Nathalie put on her sunglasses to signal that lunch was over and it was time to go. “As it happens,” she said, “I am.”
Driving back from the restaurant, Max twice caught himself nearly falling asleep at the wheel. The road in front of him had a hypnotic shimmer in the heat, the temperature inside the car was in the nineties, and by the time he’d reached the house the lunchtime wine was whispering to him, telling him to go straight upstairs, lie down, and close his eyes.
His instinctive reaction was to resist, remembering with a smile the oft-repeated words of Mr. Farnell, his history master at school. The siesta, according to Farnell, was one of those pernicious, self-indulgent habits, typical of foreigners, that had sapped the will and contributed to the downfall of entire civilizations. This had enabled the British, who never slept after lunch, to move in and accumulate their empire. QED.
But the interior of the house was delightfully cool, and the endless scratchy serenade of the
cigales
was delightfully soothing. Max went to the library and picked a book from the shelves. He would read for half an hour before attacking the rest of the afternoon. He settled into one of the old leather club chairs and opened the book, a threadbare copy of E. I. Robson’s
A Wayfarer in Provence,
first published in 1926. On the very first page, Max was fascinated to discover that Provence had been invaded by “cruel ravishers.” Alas, despite this promising beginning, he never reached page two.
He was jolted awake by what he thought at first was thunder, then realized it was merely someone trying to break down the front door. Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of sleep, he pulled open the door to find, staring at him with undisguised curiosity, a man with a deep red face and a dog with a pale blue head.
Six
The two men stood examining one another for a moment before Roussel put on the smile he’d been practicing on the way over and stuck out a meaty paw.
“Roussel, Claude.”
“Skinner, Max.”
Roussel pointed downward with a jerk of his chin. “My dog, Tonto.”
“Ah. Roussel, Tonto.” Max bent down and patted him, raising a puff of blue dust. “Is he always this color? Most unusual. I’ve never seen a blue terrier before.”
“I was spraying the vines, the wind changed . . .” Roussel shrugged as Tonto slipped past Max and into the kitchen.
“Please,” said Max. “Come in.” Roussel took off his flat cap and followed Max through the door.
They reached the kitchen in time to see Tonto, in the way of small and self-assured dogs, christening a leg of the kitchen table. Roussel shouted at him and apologized profusely, but then added: “It’s a sure sign he likes you.”
Max put down an old newspaper to blot up the puddle. “What does he do if he doesn’t like you?”
Roussel’s smile barely faltered. “Oho,” he said, “
le sens de l’humour anglais.
My tailor is rich, eh?”
Max had never understood how that particular phrase had become embedded in the French language, nor why the French seemed to find it so amusing, but he smiled dutifully. There was something about Roussel that he warmed to; besides, the man
Nathalie nodded, as if she couldn’t see what was coming. “Do you have anyone in mind?”
“That’s my other problem. I don’t know anyone except you.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m hoping that my enormous charm and the promise of a good lunch will be enough to persuade you to come with me.
Notaires
don’t work on Sunday, do they?”
Nathalie shook her head. “
Notaires
don’t work on Sunday.
Notaires
do occasionally have lunch. In many ways,
notaires
are very similar to people. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Max winced. “Let me start again. I’d be the happiest man in Provence if you would care to join me on Sunday. That is, if you’re free.”
Nathalie put on her sunglasses to signal that lunch was over and it was time to go. “As it happens,” she said, “I am.”
Driving back from the restaurant, Max twice caught himself nearly falling asleep at the wheel. The road in front of him had a hypnotic shimmer in the heat, the temperature inside the car was in the nineties, and by the time he’d reached the house the lunchtime wine was whispering to him, telling him to go straight upstairs, lie down, and close his eyes.
His instinctive reaction was to resist, remembering with a smile the oft-repeated words of Mr. Farnell, his history master at school. The siesta, according to Farnell, was one of those pernicious, self-indulgent habits, typical of foreigners, that had sapped the will and contributed to the downfall of entire civilizations. This had enabled the British, who never slept after lunch, to move in and accumulate their empire. QED.
But the interior of the house was delightfully cool, and the endless scratchy serenade of the
cigales
was delightfully soothing. Max went to the library and picked a book from the shelves. He would read for half an hour before attacking the rest of the afternoon. He settled into one of the old leather club chairs and opened the book, a threadbare copy of E. I. Robson’s
A Wayfarer in Provence,
first published in 1926. On the very first page, Max was fascinated to discover that Provence had been invaded by “cruel ravishers.” Alas, despite this promising beginning, he never reached page two.
He was jolted awake by what he thought at first was thunder, then realized it was merely someone trying to break down the front door. Shaking his head to clear away the cobwebs of sleep, he pulled open the door to find, staring at him with undisguised curiosity, a man with a deep red face and a dog with a pale blue head.
Six
The two men stood examining one another for a moment before Roussel put on the smile he’d been practicing on the way over and stuck out a meaty paw.
“Roussel, Claude.”
“Skinner, Max.”
Roussel pointed downward with a jerk of his chin. “My dog, Tonto.”
“Ah. Roussel, Tonto.” Max bent down and patted him, raising a puff of blue dust. “Is he always this color? Most unusual. I’ve never seen a blue terrier before.”
“I was spraying the vines, the wind changed . . .” Roussel shrugged as Tonto slipped past Max and into the kitchen.
“Please,” said Max. “Come in.” Roussel took off his flat cap and followed Max through the door.
They reached the kitchen in time to see Tonto, in the way of small and self-assured dogs, christening a leg of the kitchen table. Roussel shouted at him and apologized profusely, but then added: “It’s a sure sign he likes you.”
Max put down an old newspaper to blot up the puddle. “What does he do if he doesn’t like you?”
Roussel’s smile barely faltered. “Oho,” he said, “
le sens de l’humour anglais.
My tailor is rich, eh?”
Max had never understood how that particular phrase had become embedded in the French language, nor why the French seemed to find it so amusing, but he smiled dutifully. There was something about Roussel that he warmed to; besides, the man
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