Max got out of the car and stretched. “Is it always like this on a Sunday?”
Nathalie nodded. “The winter’s a little quieter, but not much. There’s no off-season for shopping.”
They started walking toward the line of stalls where the brocanteurs had set out this week’s priceless relics-old linen, crockery, ragged posters, café ashtrays, chairs on their last legs, amateur Cézannes, the contents of a hundred bygone households. “This side is mainly for tourists,” Nathalie said, “people looking for a souvenir to take home. Over there, on the other side of the street, are some of the serious dealers. The rest are farther on, in the old station. We’ll start with them.” She took Max’s arm, and steered him onto a narrow footbridge that led across the river. “But first, coffee. If I don’t have coffee, I shall become a foul-tempered salope.”
More stalls sprawled along the other bank of the river, these laden with cheese and flowers, olive oil and herbs, the cheap clothes and sturdy pink brassieres and corsets that only seem to be sold in provincial French markets. Max was silent, taking in the colors, the smells, the good-humored jostling of the crowd, enjoying the light pressure of Nathalie’s guiding hand.
They found a table at a café overlooking the river and ordered two grands crèmes. Nathalie seized her cup with both hands, took a long, greedy swallow, and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. “Alors,” she said, “before I forget.” She started to search through her bag. “Lunch.”
Max watched her, a frown on his face. She didn’t seem the kind of girl who would bring sandwiches. But, as Uncle Henry used to say, you never can tell with the frogs, slaves as they are to their bellies.
Nathalie looked up and saw his quizzical expression as she took her cell phone from her bag. “What is it?”
Max shook his head. “Nothing. Actually, I just remembered something my uncle used to say about the French and food. I thought for a moment you were going to pull out a picnic. You know, lunch.”
Nathalie’s eyebrows went up at the absurdity of such an idea, and she clicked her tongue. “Do I look like a bonne maman?”
He gave her a long, appraising look. It was difficult to imagine her sweating over a hot stove. “No, I suppose not. You haven’t got the build for it. And an apron wouldn’t go with the handbag. Tell me, did you know him? My uncle?”
“I met him once. A very English man.”
“Is that good or bad?”
Nathalie cocked one shoulder and smiled. “That depends on the man.” She left Max to consider that as she scrolled through some numbers, picked one, and put the phone to her ear. “Jacques? C’est Nathalie. Bien, et toi?” She laughed at the reply. “Oui, deux. Dans le jardin. A tout à l’heure.”
They finished their coffee, and Nathalie looked at her watch. “We have plenty of time before lunch. Who do you want to see first? The expensive dealers, or the ridiculously expensive dealers?” She slung her bag over her shoulder and led the way through the crowd, hair and hips swinging in a way that put all thoughts of antique furniture out of Max’s mind.
After nearly two hours spent looking at commodes, armoires, four-poster beds, marble baths, and a variety of overdecorated chairs and tables attributed to the various Napoleons and the even more numerous Louis, one thing had become abundantly clear to Max: the clutter in his attic would be of little interest to these lovers of fine marqueterie and the belle époque. Feeling a little let down, he went over to Nathalie, who was chatting to a willowy young man standing amidst a collection of chandeliers, and waited for a pause in the conversation.
“It’s been an education,” he said to her when the young man had drifted off, “but I don’t think my stuff is in this league. Not enough ormolu.”
“Ah bon? Maybe what you need is…”
“A drink. And then lunch. And a junk dealer to come and take it all away.”
Nathalie laughed. “No Rembrandts in the maid’s room? No Poussins under the bed? Poor Max.” She took his arm. “Never mind. A glass of wine will cheer you up.”
She had chosen a small restaurant owned by a friend, popular with dealers and decorators who sought relief in its cool, walled garden after the rigors of a morning’s haggling. She led Max to the only free table, in a corner shaded by the leaves of a giant fig tree that appeared to be growing out of the wall.
A burly man in billowing white shirt and trousers appeared with menus, two noisy kisses for Nathalie, and a handshake for Max: Jacques, the owner, scolding Nathalie for not coming more often as he waved to a waiter to bring wine. He recommended the plat du jour with the passionate enthusiasm of a man who was worried that he might have bought too much of it, and wished them a pleasant lunch.
The wine arrived in a thick carafe beaded with moisture, an irresistible sight on a thirsty day. Max poured, and they touched glasses, a small politeness that, with Nathalie, he found oddly intimate. Like most Englishmen, he was accustomed to drinkers keeping their distance from one another, with only an impersonal, mumbled “cheers” before the first sip.
“So?” Nathalie had pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, her fine dark eyes wide and amused. “You won’t be retiring on the proceeds of the treasures in your attic?”
“Afraid not. But thanks for bringing me. You must have had better things to do today.” The unspoken question hung in the air for a moment.
“Max,” she said, “I think you’re fishing.”
Max grinned. “Well, what do you usually do on weekends? Apart from motor racing?”
“Ah.” Nathalie smiled, but refused to be drawn out. She retreated into her menu. “The lamb is always good here, and so is the salmon. They serve it with a sorrel sauce. And you should start with the pissaladière.”
Max abandoned his menu and leaned back in his chair. “Fine. Anything you say.”
Nathalie gave a dismissive wave of her fingers, as though she were batting away an insect. “Do you always do what women tell you?” She looked up, half-smiling.
“Depends on the woman.”
They ordered, and ate, and one carafe of wine led to another as they talked on into the afternoon, exchanging the kind of edited life histories that strangers reveal to one another on their way to friendship. Max noticed that Nathalie listened-attentively, and laughing in all the right places-much more than she spoke. But lunch had been a success, he felt; so much so that it wasn’t until they were walking back to the car that he remembered to ask if she’d had any luck in her search for a wine doctor.
“I think so,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you? He’s supposed to be one of the top men, but he’s very busy.” She shrugged. “All the good ones are. If they’re not in Bordeaux, they’re in California or Chile. Anyway, his office promised me that he’d call next week.”