A Good Year Read Online Free PDF Page A

mouthful and had an imaginary spit, thankful that their ties were out of the way of any imaginary drops. By this time, everyone was ready for a large Scotch, but it was not to be.
    At last, Billy poured out the first of the wines to be tasted as he moved on to part two of wine appreciation for beginners. This was in the nature of an anatomy lesson. Wine had a nose, the class was told. Wine had body, wine had legs. Wine had a robe, a bouquet, a personality, an
essence.
And it was not enough, according to Billy, merely to go through the motions of tasting; one must also know how to describe what one has just tasted. So, as the class dutifully swirled and sipped and spat, Billy provided a running commentary on the wines under review.
    The first, so he said, was vigorous and well constructed, even a little bosomy. The second was an iron fist in a velvet glove. The third was a little jagged around the edges, but potentially drinkable. The fourth was a little young to be up so late. And so it went on. As the would-be connoisseurs worked their way through the bottles, the descriptions became more and more outlandish: truffles, hyacinths, hay, wet leather, damp tweed, weasel, hare’s belly, old carpet, vintage socks. Music made a brief appearance, with one wine being compared in its lingering finish to the final notes of Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2 (the Adagio). Surprisingly, there was never a mention of the main ingredient, presumably because grapes, honest and worthy and indeed essential though they may be, were not considered sufficiently exotic to gain a place in the wine lover’s lexicon.
    “That was just the first session,” Charlie said. “It got better after that, and I learned quite a bit.” His face became serious as he stared into the dark red heart of his wine. “It is quite extraordinary, though,” he said, talking more to himself than to Max. “The most elegant drink in the world. When I’ve made my bundle, I shall have this every day. I might even buy a vineyard.” He came out of his reverie and grinned at Max. “And you’ve already got one. Lucky sod.”
    “Not for long. I think I’ll have to sell it.”
    Charlie winced, then did his best to look stern and businesslike. “Never, ever make a rushed decision about selling land. They’re not making any more of it, or so I’m told. Rent it or sit on it, but don’t get rid of it. In any case, you might be able to make a very tidy living with twenty hectares of vines.”
    Max remembered the ocean of green that surrounded the old house. In his memory, there was always a man on a tractor somewhere on the horizon. Uncle Henry referred to him as Russell, but that couldn’t have been his real name. When he came to the house, he brought with him whiffs of garlic and engine oil. Shaking hands with him was like grasping a warm brick.
    “I don’t know, Charlie. It’s not a game for amateurs.”
    Charlie finished a mouthful of lamb and took a long, considered pull at his glass. “It’s changed, no doubt about that. There’s a guy taking the course who works for one of the really big shippers, and he’s been telling me all kinds of fascinating stuff. Garage wines, for instance. Have you ever heard about garage wines?”
    Max shook his head.
    “If you want to pull rank, you call them boutique wines, or haute couture wines. Small vineyards, small production, seriously big prices. Le Pin is probably the best known at the moment. Five thousand pounds a case, sometimes more. And that’s wine you won’t be drinking for years. Not bad if you’re the one growing the grapes, is it?” He looked at Max, a forkful of lamb halfway to his mouth. “And you can grow a lot of grapes on twenty hectares.” Charlie gave him the kind of long, significant look—head tilted downward, eyes looking up beneath a frowning forehead—that he used to great effect with girls or when describing a particularly enviable property to his clients.
    Max began to have the sense that