trust that you will consider our proposal,” said Dupuy. “Perhaps I might call again when you’ve had time to reflect.”
“No considering needed,” said Cresseil. “The answer is notoday, and it will be no tomorrow. You won’t be welcome if you come here again.”
Bondino was about to speak when Dupuy quickly steered him back toward their car.
“You,” said Bondino, addressing Bruno. “You talk to them. Make them understand. Tell them how it is.”
Bruno, now wishing he had worn his hat, stood and faced them impassively. When Max started forward to say something, Bruno put a restraining hand on his arm; Max was trembling with emotion. As Bondino and Dupuy approached Dupuy’s Porsche, Bondino pushed Dupuy away from the driver’s door and climbed in to take the wheel. Looking back at Bruno, Dupuy shrugged and walked around to the passenger door. Bondino was already revving the engine aggressively. Dupuy had barely taken his seat and had not even closed his door when Bondino took off, sending gravel flying as the wheels tried to grip the road, the expensive car lurching and bouncing up the rough lane.
“What is this shit?” said Max, speaking directly into Bruno’s face. “They said the mayor is with them and they want our land. And why do they expect you to talk sense into us?”
“Maybe I’d better sit down,” said Bruno mildly. “Is there another chair? Then you can tell me what’s going on.”
“They said they were going to buy us out. Not asking. Telling,” said Max.
“Max, a chair for our friend,” said Cresseil, leaning back and reaching for his pipe. “And I’d like a glass of something. You too, Bruno?”
Max breathed heavily, but he went inside and came out with a chair, which he scraped noisily on the stone of the terrace before going back to fetch two glasses of wine.
“The boy’s right,” said Cresseil, puffing on his pipe. “They also said there was no point in my arguing because the mayorwould make sure I sold the place, that it was all arranged. Is that right?”
“No,” said Bruno. “You know the law. This is your property and you can do with it what you want. What did those two tell you?”
“They made an offer, not to buy the place, but to take an option,” Max said. “The young one showed a fat wad of notes, said it was ten thousand euros, just for an option to buy at the end of the year for the market price. We said no, and then they got nasty and said we’d find we had no choice, that the mayor would take care of it.”
Bruno cocked an eye at Cresseil. The old man nodded confirmation, then looked at Max. “They only got nasty after you laughed at them. That never helps, Max. Always leave a man his dignity.” He turned to Bruno. “So why don’t you tell us what’s going on here?”
Bruno started to explain, only to be interrupted by Max’s scornful demand to know where the fifty jobs were supposed to come from.
“And they’d want control over the grapes, the plantings, the winemaking and the selling, all of it,” said Max. “Why do they want to come here? What’s in it for them?”
“Water,” said Bruno, who had learned a lot from surfing the
écolo
Web sites. “I read about it in Hulot’s newsletter. You know Nicolas Hulot, the ecology guy on TV. He had a long piece on world water shortages. That’s what this is all about.”
“What do you mean, water shortages?” asked Cresseil, pulling some eyeglasses from his waistcoat pocket to scrutinize Bruno.
“Bruno’s right. We have water, but everywhere else it’s getting short,” said Max, suddenly animated. “The Australian wine crop has been halved because of their drought. A big group like Bondino must be thinking about climate change.South Africans are getting worried about water, and the Chilean glaciers are shrinking fast. California has its own water problems, and I read about drought in Spain last year. But we’ve got decent rains, and the river. That must be it.”
“Well,
“No considering needed,” said Cresseil. “The answer is notoday, and it will be no tomorrow. You won’t be welcome if you come here again.”
Bondino was about to speak when Dupuy quickly steered him back toward their car.
“You,” said Bondino, addressing Bruno. “You talk to them. Make them understand. Tell them how it is.”
Bruno, now wishing he had worn his hat, stood and faced them impassively. When Max started forward to say something, Bruno put a restraining hand on his arm; Max was trembling with emotion. As Bondino and Dupuy approached Dupuy’s Porsche, Bondino pushed Dupuy away from the driver’s door and climbed in to take the wheel. Looking back at Bruno, Dupuy shrugged and walked around to the passenger door. Bondino was already revving the engine aggressively. Dupuy had barely taken his seat and had not even closed his door when Bondino took off, sending gravel flying as the wheels tried to grip the road, the expensive car lurching and bouncing up the rough lane.
“What is this shit?” said Max, speaking directly into Bruno’s face. “They said the mayor is with them and they want our land. And why do they expect you to talk sense into us?”
“Maybe I’d better sit down,” said Bruno mildly. “Is there another chair? Then you can tell me what’s going on.”
“They said they were going to buy us out. Not asking. Telling,” said Max.
“Max, a chair for our friend,” said Cresseil, leaning back and reaching for his pipe. “And I’d like a glass of something. You too, Bruno?”
Max breathed heavily, but he went inside and came out with a chair, which he scraped noisily on the stone of the terrace before going back to fetch two glasses of wine.
“The boy’s right,” said Cresseil, puffing on his pipe. “They also said there was no point in my arguing because the mayorwould make sure I sold the place, that it was all arranged. Is that right?”
“No,” said Bruno. “You know the law. This is your property and you can do with it what you want. What did those two tell you?”
“They made an offer, not to buy the place, but to take an option,” Max said. “The young one showed a fat wad of notes, said it was ten thousand euros, just for an option to buy at the end of the year for the market price. We said no, and then they got nasty and said we’d find we had no choice, that the mayor would take care of it.”
Bruno cocked an eye at Cresseil. The old man nodded confirmation, then looked at Max. “They only got nasty after you laughed at them. That never helps, Max. Always leave a man his dignity.” He turned to Bruno. “So why don’t you tell us what’s going on here?”
Bruno started to explain, only to be interrupted by Max’s scornful demand to know where the fifty jobs were supposed to come from.
“And they’d want control over the grapes, the plantings, the winemaking and the selling, all of it,” said Max. “Why do they want to come here? What’s in it for them?”
“Water,” said Bruno, who had learned a lot from surfing the
écolo
Web sites. “I read about it in Hulot’s newsletter. You know Nicolas Hulot, the ecology guy on TV. He had a long piece on world water shortages. That’s what this is all about.”
“What do you mean, water shortages?” asked Cresseil, pulling some eyeglasses from his waistcoat pocket to scrutinize Bruno.
“Bruno’s right. We have water, but everywhere else it’s getting short,” said Max, suddenly animated. “The Australian wine crop has been halved because of their drought. A big group like Bondino must be thinking about climate change.South Africans are getting worried about water, and the Chilean glaciers are shrinking fast. California has its own water problems, and I read about drought in Spain last year. But we’ve got decent rains, and the river. That must be it.”
“Well,
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