a blow. He may not have known much of her, but still, losing your mother … I thinks she sent a birthday card once or twice, whenever she sobered up and got off the drugs.”
“She just left the boy here, with you?”
Alphonse nodded. “She met some guy in the market. It was right after we started selling our cheeses, and she was good in the markets. A pretty face always helps, and she spoke a bit of English for the tourists. She said she was going off with him for a weekend, and she never came back. That was it. And Max, well, he was part of the family by then, even if he had nowhere else to go.”
“Was there a father? A birth certificate? What’s on Max’s identity card?”
“I’m listed as the father. Mireille never mentioned the father. Bruno, she slept around. She might not have known for sure who the father was.”
“Where’s Max now? Still working at Hubert’s
cave?”
“By now he’ll be over at Cresseil’s place, helping the old boy with the vineyard. It’s what Max most likes to do. He’s really interested in winemaking as a career, so he’ll help Cresseil bring in the crop before he goes back to school. He’s a fine boy, Bruno.”
Bruno nodded. He liked Max, who kept all his violence to the rugby field. Fast and slippery, and a determined tackler, he played center for the second team whenever he was home.
“I’d better go over and tell Max the bad news,” Bruno said. “Unless you’d rather do it?”
“Let me come with you. I have to get something in townanyway. Try a bit of the new cheese while I clean up. You know where it is, and you’ll find some bread on the counter.”
Alphonse ducked into the dome, and Bruno headed into the dark barn, which smelled of goats and urine and warm ripening milk. Most of the cheeses were stored in the cooler room at the rear, but here in the workroom Alphonse had left row after row of fresh
crottins
, the small disc-shaped cheeses that could be sold fresh or in varying states of dryness. On a wooden board stood one of the big round loaves of brown bread that was the commune’s specialty. Bruno took his Laguiole knife from his belt, cut himself a slice of bread and half a
crottin
and leaned back against the counter to enjoy it. To one side he noticed a brown cardboard box with a small tap and he turned it to the window. South African pinotage. There was an empty glass beside the box, so he poured himself a taste. No nose to speak of but not bad in the mouth. He looked at the price tag. Four euros for five liters. No wonder the French couldn’t compete.
“You found the South African wine,” said Alphonse. “Not bad, is it? Max bought it; he also bought some from Australia and the stuff from Chile, trying all the different wines. Research, he called it. But here, try a glass of this.”
“The cheese is really good,” said Bruno, holding out his empty glass to the anonymous bottle of red wine that Alphonse was pouring. He took an appreciative sniff and a good sip to taste, smacking his lips and then nodding a cautious approval.
“It’s our own, and a lot better than the crap we used to make up here, thanks to Max. The techniques aren’t much different—it’s just better when he does it.”
“You’re right,” said Bruno. “It’s a lot better than your old plonk, and now I can tell you that I only used to swallow it to be polite. This is very drinkable.”
“All organic, too. I got him onto that. Now he says it’s the future of the wine business, as if it was all his own idea,”Alphonse said, then smiled. “If you’re finished, let’s go and break the bad news.”
Bruno stopped the van where the road emerged from the trees and reached the top of the ridge. He loved this view above all others, he explained when Alphonse turned to him, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. The familiar view down the valley of the Vézère to the hilltop villages on the far ridge was splendid in its lavish sweep. Immediately below him stood
“She just left the boy here, with you?”
Alphonse nodded. “She met some guy in the market. It was right after we started selling our cheeses, and she was good in the markets. A pretty face always helps, and she spoke a bit of English for the tourists. She said she was going off with him for a weekend, and she never came back. That was it. And Max, well, he was part of the family by then, even if he had nowhere else to go.”
“Was there a father? A birth certificate? What’s on Max’s identity card?”
“I’m listed as the father. Mireille never mentioned the father. Bruno, she slept around. She might not have known for sure who the father was.”
“Where’s Max now? Still working at Hubert’s
cave?”
“By now he’ll be over at Cresseil’s place, helping the old boy with the vineyard. It’s what Max most likes to do. He’s really interested in winemaking as a career, so he’ll help Cresseil bring in the crop before he goes back to school. He’s a fine boy, Bruno.”
Bruno nodded. He liked Max, who kept all his violence to the rugby field. Fast and slippery, and a determined tackler, he played center for the second team whenever he was home.
“I’d better go over and tell Max the bad news,” Bruno said. “Unless you’d rather do it?”
“Let me come with you. I have to get something in townanyway. Try a bit of the new cheese while I clean up. You know where it is, and you’ll find some bread on the counter.”
Alphonse ducked into the dome, and Bruno headed into the dark barn, which smelled of goats and urine and warm ripening milk. Most of the cheeses were stored in the cooler room at the rear, but here in the workroom Alphonse had left row after row of fresh
crottins
, the small disc-shaped cheeses that could be sold fresh or in varying states of dryness. On a wooden board stood one of the big round loaves of brown bread that was the commune’s specialty. Bruno took his Laguiole knife from his belt, cut himself a slice of bread and half a
crottin
and leaned back against the counter to enjoy it. To one side he noticed a brown cardboard box with a small tap and he turned it to the window. South African pinotage. There was an empty glass beside the box, so he poured himself a taste. No nose to speak of but not bad in the mouth. He looked at the price tag. Four euros for five liters. No wonder the French couldn’t compete.
“You found the South African wine,” said Alphonse. “Not bad, is it? Max bought it; he also bought some from Australia and the stuff from Chile, trying all the different wines. Research, he called it. But here, try a glass of this.”
“The cheese is really good,” said Bruno, holding out his empty glass to the anonymous bottle of red wine that Alphonse was pouring. He took an appreciative sniff and a good sip to taste, smacking his lips and then nodding a cautious approval.
“It’s our own, and a lot better than the crap we used to make up here, thanks to Max. The techniques aren’t much different—it’s just better when he does it.”
“You’re right,” said Bruno. “It’s a lot better than your old plonk, and now I can tell you that I only used to swallow it to be polite. This is very drinkable.”
“All organic, too. I got him onto that. Now he says it’s the future of the wine business, as if it was all his own idea,”Alphonse said, then smiled. “If you’re finished, let’s go and break the bad news.”
Bruno stopped the van where the road emerged from the trees and reached the top of the ridge. He loved this view above all others, he explained when Alphonse turned to him, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. The familiar view down the valley of the Vézère to the hilltop villages on the far ridge was splendid in its lavish sweep. Immediately below him stood
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