What was I hoping for, exactly?
I don’t know.
Something more meaningful.
A scene.
A beautiful scene.
Like something out of a movie, or a book.
A dazzling light, a sky in splendor, and a man standing there.
Yeah, that’s it, a man standing with a . . . uh . . . some kind of shears in his hand.
And even an orchestra, while I’m at it. The trumpets from Star Wars or The Ride of the Valkyries or some crap like that.
Instead of that, I found myself in the doorway of a neon-lit shed, with a dog sniffing my crotch and the wankers from Grosses Têtes talking in the background.
Well played, Yannou. Well played.
That’s not a camel, you idiot, it’s a huge mutt!
I was squinting. I couldn’t see anything.
“Is anyone there?”
On top of the hood of a tractor (I don’t know if tractors have hoods and I’m not actually sure the machine in question was a tractor), a hairy silhouette straightened up, swearing.
“Goddamn,” he grumbled, “you’re the guy from the insurance company, right? Parker! Get down, dammit!”
Christ.
Can we do this over again without the dog?
He eyed me. You could tell that he was doubtful. I was a little unkempt for a Groupama agent.
When I didn’t answer him, he turned away again.
“Can I help you?”
And then . . .
Then I let fly.
“No,” I said to him. “No. You can’t help me, but I can help you. That’s what I’ve come for. To help you. I’m sorry—hello. My name is Yann. I . . . uh . . . (he had turned to me again) . . . last night I met Isaac Moïse. He invited me to dinner and we drank your wine, so he told me about you. He told me your history and the . . . your wife’s illness . . . and . . . and everything. He told me that you didn’t really believe in all this anymore, that you were tired, and you’d decided to sell your business, and . . . (He was staring at me now, and I was looking away so I wouldn’t weaken. Instead I counted the grease spots on the floor.) . . . and, no. You won’t sell. You won’t sell because I quit my job for you. My job, my life, my girlfriend, everything. No—I mean, not for you, for me, and I . . . the . . . the Moïses are letting me stay in their house until the summer, and I have two arms and two legs and my vaccinations are up to date, and I’m Breton and I’m hardheaded, and I don’t know anything about wine, but I’ll learn. I learn fast when I’m interested in something. Also I’ve got my license. I can drive. I can run errands. I can cook the meals. I can drive Tom to practice in a few minutes, if you want. I can do everything your . . . that Ariane did, and that she can’t do anymore for now. And my parents will help you too. My dad’s a CPA; he’s retired now but he can still crunch numbers just as fast, and he’ll help you as best he can, I know it. And he and my mother belong to a kind of old people’s club that travels Europe in motor homes, and when it’s time for the grape harvest they’ll all come, you’ll see. My parents, and their English and Italian and Dutch friends, and the whole gang. And I guarantee you that it’ll be great, and those people won’t charge you anything—they’ll be proud to help, even! You can’t sell, Pierre. What you’ve built so far is too beautiful for that. You can’t throw the towel in now.”
Silence.
A leaden silence.
An awful silence.
A sepulchral silence under the pale neon lights.
The man looked me straight in the eyes. His face didn’t betray any emotion. Did he think I was crazy? Had he thrown in the towel a long time ago? Had he already signed something? Would he have preferred me to be from the insurance company? Or a liquidator? Or a notary clerk? Was he thinking up a reply scathing enough to send me back where I’d come from?
Was he racking his brain for words to remind me of the presumptuousness and arrogance it took for a gawky little Parisian middle-class liberal like me to come here like it was some adventure-quest?
Was he deaf? Or simpleminded, maybe? Uh . . . was he even the boss? Was he Pierre Cavanès? Did he even know my neighbors? Was he a farmhand? Or a tractor repairman, maybe?
Did he understand French?
Yoo-hoo, noble aborigine, you understand what me say to you?
It lasted for hours. Dang, it was gettin’ kinda dangerous there . . . as my bricklayer friend would have said. I didn’t know if I should take a step forward, or run away.
The problem was that I didn’t want to leave. I’d traveled too far, and come such a long way, since last night. I couldn’t.
The neon lights buzzed, the TV crackled, the dog counted grease spots, and I waited. I still had their label in my hand, and I was following my friend Isaac’s instructions. I was giving destiny a nudge.
Was I ridiculous? Was the situation ridiculous? Too bad. Too bad for me. I might be asking to get kicked in the teeth again, but I wouldn’t abandon my nest. Not again. Never again.
I’d had it up to here with being polite. It didn’t pay.
“Just how much of that wine did you drink?” he asked me, finally.
His face was still impassive, but there, clinging to the question mark, was the faintest, tiniest teasing note.
I smiled.
He looked at me for a minute longer and then turned back to his engine.
“So Moïse sent you, then.”
“The man himself.”
Silence.
Long silence.
Grosses Têtes.
Awkwardness.
After . . . I don’t know . . . ten, fifteen, twenty minutes, maybe, he looked up at me, and then, with a glance, indicated the steering wheel.
“Go ahead. Start it up, just to see.”
And I started it up.
Just to see.