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he had ever found time for war—or, indeed, for Josephine—in the midst of all this frenzied gardening.
    Max parked in the shade and strolled into the main square. It was much as he remembered it: a café, a
tabac,
the Mairie, and a fountain. The only obvious change was a small restaurant, the tables under their umbrellas still filled with people lingering over a shady lunch. What had been there before? It must have been the village hairdresser. Max had dim memories of having his hair cut by a large, scented woman whose bosom, thrust in his ear or close up at eye level, had inflamed his adolescent imagination.
    Leading off the square were narrow, shadowy streets, little wider than passageways. Max could see signs hanging over the doors of the bakery and the butcher’s shop and, on one corner, another sign with peeling, sun-bleached paint and an arrow marked
Notaire
pointing up the street. He looked at his watch, and saw that he had half an hour to kill before his appointment. The sun beat down on the top of his head. He took his thirst into the café, nodding at the group of old men who had paused in their card game to inspect this stranger in a suit, and ordered a pastis.
    The woman behind the bar waved an arm at the shelf behind her.
“Lequel? Ricard? Casanis? Bardouin? Janot? Pernod?”
Max shrugged, and she smiled at his confusion.
“Alors, un Ricard.”
She poured a generous shot into a glass and placed it on the pockmarked zinc bar next to a jug beaded with moisture. Max added water and went to sit at a table on the terrace, where he was joined by the café dog, who put his head on Max’s knee and stared at him with large, soulful brown eyes that made him think of Charlie.
    Max took his first sip of the cloudy liquid, sharp and refreshing with the bite of aniseed, and wondered why it tasted so much better here than the few times he’d had it in London. The heat, of course; it was a warm-weather drink. But it was also the surroundings. Pastis was at its best when you could hear the click of
boules
and the sound of French voices. It would taste even better, he thought, if he weren’t wearing a suit and socks. He took out the
notaire
’s letter and looked at it again as Charlie’s words came back to him:
a new life . . . you could be sitting on a gold mine . . . boutique wines are the coming thing.
Max raised his glass and drank to the future.
    Looking across the square, he watched the last customers leaving the restaurant, flinching at the heat and adjusting their sunglasses before ambling off in a slow, post-lunch waddle to deal with the business of the afternoon. One of them, a man with a prosperous belly and the remains of a cigar, disappeared up the street leading to the
notaire
’s office. Probably the
notaire
himself, Max thought. He finished his drink and stood up. It was time to go and inherit.
    The office was at the top of the street, just before the village ended and the vines began. A small house, its windows shuttered against the heat, a brass plaque on the front door. Max pressed the buzzer.
    “Oui?”
said the tinny voice, querulous at yet another unwelcome disturbance. Max announced himself, heard the latch click, and went in to meet the voice’s owner.
    She sat behind a large, old-fashioned desk piled with dossiers, a middle-aged woman with the tightly permed hairstyle that had been popular during her mother’s youth. Attempting a smile, she waved Max toward the two hard-backed chairs in the corner of the room. Maître Auzet wouldn’t be long, she told him, and returned to her files.
    He picked up a dog-eared, six-month-old copy of
Coucou
from the table between the two chairs. The magazine, consistent as ever in its choice of editorial revelations, featured all the usual suspects: Stephanie of Monaco, the latest temporary Hollywood legend, Jean-Paul Belmondo’s son, Prince William, Johnny Hallyday. In or out of love, it made no difference—they all led the kind of lives that were guaranteed