The cretin, having completed successful negotiations for a cup of coffee to be served to him on the terrace, emerged, jaunty and relieved, from the door of the café as Max arrived. Their pleasure at seeing one another was cut short by a bellow from the truck driver.
“If that were my Mercedes, Charlie, I think I’d move it before they use the truck to shove it out of the way.”
“Oh God.” Charlie went over to the car, waving his hands in what he hoped were apologetic gestures. “Pardonnay, pardonnay. Frightfully sorry.” And with that, he backed the Mercedes out of the square, narrowly missing a trestle table and the café dog as he went.
Madame came out with a cup of coffee, and looked in vain for the man who had ordered it. She turned to Max, shaking her head. “I’m always getting caught like that,” she said. “They come in, they do their business, they disappear. As if I were running a pissotière.”
Max explained the problem, and ordered coffee for himself and, by way of a peace offering, for the men with the truck. He sat back and tilted his face up to the sun, smiling at the thought of having Charlie stay for a few days. It would be fun to introduce him to a different kind of life, especially with a pretty girl to keep him on his toes. The Panama hat would have to go, though. It reminded Max of the uniform worn by a certain kind of Englishman that he detested-loud, pink, and bumptious-which Charlie certainly was not.
“Sorry about that.” Charlie had returned, stripping off his blazer and draping it over the back of his chair before sitting down. “You’re looking well, you old bugger. Suits you down here. But I thought you said this was a quiet little place where nothing happened. What’s going on? You must have told them I was coming.”
The men from the truck were starting to erect the scaffolding framework that would support the wooden stage. Immediately in front of it was an area left clear for dancing, with the tables and benches lining the remaining three sides of the square. “Tonight is the annual village knees-up,” said Max. “Dinner, dancing, fairy lights, the works. Maybe even balloons. I’ll get tickets for us from the café before we leave. You don’t know how lucky you are-you’ll meet everybody from the mayor to the baker’s daughter.”
At the mention of what he took to be a young and no doubt voluptuous woman, Charlie rubbed his hands and looked hopeful. “Better polish up my French. You never know.”
“How’s your American?”
Charlie gave Max a speculative look. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
Max went through the story of Christie’s arrival, including the visit to the lawyer and the episode with the cast-iron skillet. “Ah,” said Charlie, “I was going to ask you about your head. You were forcing your attentions on the poor helpless girl, were you? What a nasty brute you are. A slave to testosterone. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“If you must know, Charlie, she’s not my type-she’s a blonde. You know how I feel about blondes.”
Charlie raised a finger. “You were just unlucky with my sister.” He shook his head, and added, “Weren’t we all? Actually, I’ve known some very pleasant blondes. Did I ever tell you about the one I found kipping in a flat in Eaton Square when I went round to take the measurements?”
Max brushed the sleeping blonde away. “As it happens, I’ve rather got my eye on a young lady from the village.” Realizing how prim he was sounding, he hurried on. “Anyway, Christie’s terrific. I’m sure you’ll like her.”
“Pretty?”
“Very. And she knows a bit about wine. You’ll be able to have a good old gargle-and-spit together.”
They ordered more coffee, and Max went on to describe what he’d learned from Roussel’s confession in the cave. Charlie’s eyebrows, never at rest for long, went up and down with each revelation. “Sounds to me,” he said, “as though you could be on to a little winner with that wine. I’d love to have a taste of it.”
“And I’d love to know who’s buying it. I’ve asked Roussel to draw off a couple of bottles and bring them over to the house. It’s young-only been in the barrels since last October. But you’ll get an idea of what it’s like.”
While they were talking, a small, exuberantly colored van-Monsieur La Fête painted in Day-Glo pink on its frog-green side-had managed to nose its way through the square to park by the stage. Then the driver, perhaps Monsieur La Fête himself, finished hooking up an amplifier and microphone to the loudspeakers he had attached to the scaffolding. He stood back to light a cigarette before throwing a switch on the amplifier. The square was instantly filled with electronic screeches and burps, scattering the pigeons and causing the café dog to raise his head and howl. The driver made some adjustments to the controls and flicked the microphone with his index finger. “Un… deux… trois… Bonjour Saint-Pons!” More screeching followed. The dog pursed his lips, retreated into the café, and found a haven of relative peace in the space beneath the pinball machine.
“Nothing like it,” said Charlie. “The blessed tranquility of village life.”
When they arrived back at the house, Madame Passepartout was hovering in the doorway, eager for her first glimpse of the young English milor. For an awful moment, Max had the feeling that she was going to curtsy, but she made do with a simper and a handshake.
“Enchanto, madame,” said Charlie, raising his hat, “enchanto.” Another simper from Madame Passepartout, and the beginnings of a blush.
They took Charlie upstairs to his bedroom, where Madame Passepartout fussed with the pillows and made a point of carrying out invisible adjustments to the decanter and the royal portrait on the bedside table, in case Charlie might not have noticed them.
He put his suitcase on the bed and opened it, taking out a tangled pile of dirty laundry, a side of smoked salmon, and two packets of sausages. “Here-you’d better put these in the fridge before they go off,” he said, giving them to Max.
“I shall take these.” Madame Passepartout swooped on the laundry and gathered it up in her arms. “Does monsieur like his shirts and handkerchiefs with a little starch, or au naturel?”
Charlie beamed and nodded in amiable incomprehension. “Splendide, most kind,” and Madame Passepartout, with a parting remark to Max that she had prepared a simple lunch of crespeou and salad for them, swept out of the bedroom to consign the laundry to the uncertain care of the ancient washing machine in the scullery.
Max shook his head. “You’ll have to get used to this. I’m afraid she thinks you’re some kind of toff.” He sat on the side of the bed while Charlie unpacked what was left of his clothes and started to put them in the armoire. “We’ll have lunch, and then I’ll give you the guided tour.”