interminable minutes during which every possible scenario circled in my brain several times over, I pulled Franck’s sleeve. “Do you think we should call him back? Maybe he’s forgotten,” I gasped. “Maybe he’s even passed out!”
“I’ll wait until eleven o’clock,” Franck said. “If we don’t hear from him by then, I’ll call him.” Eleven o’clock in the morning was fifteen minutes away. An eternity.
Eleven o’clock came and went. Franck called again but could only talk to the secretary. Le Maître had gone out for a rendez-vous , he was informed, and the secretary had no idea when he would return. We believed her, poor woman.
After lunch Franck pushed back his chair. “Let’s go!”
“Where?” I asked. We needed to stay by the phone.
“To his office. We won’t leave until we’ve been able to get him to call the owners.”
“You mean you don’t even think he’s called them?”
Franck threw his linen napkin on the table. “I’m starting to have my doubts.”
Fifteen minutes later we had zoomed down through the vineyards to Ladoix-Serrigny. Franck stalked up to the secretary’s desk and demanded to see Le Maître.
“ Mais …I don’t know when he’ll be in,” she protested.
“We’ll wait.” Franck leaned against the secretary’s desk and signalled at me to get comfortable.
The secretary frowned at us. She waved towards the ripped orange plastic chairs and dog-eared Paris Matches in the adjacent waiting room. “ Monsieur et Madame Germain , please take a seat.”
Franck’s smile didn’t veil the steel in his eye. “We’ll wait here, merci .”
The secretary didn’t look happy, but she didn’t look particularly surprised either. She just shrugged and began typing again as though client protests were something she endured on a regular basis.
There was plenty of time to suck several of the breath mints in a bowl on the secretary’s desk and to study the yellowing map of the Côte D’Or’s various wine appellations on the wall. I plucked up a copy of the free notary newsletter from a large stack and began to peruse an article about the convoluted French concept of usufruit that made my brain go numb. Thank God I wasn’t going back to studying law in the fall. But then…what would I be doing? The thought of having no project at all made my hands tremble. What would I be with no project? I wouldn’t be a law student, or an entrepreneur, or a promising writer.
I would just be me.
Just then Le Maître breezed in, his tie askew. He granted Franck and me a vague smile that made it clear he didn’t recognize us in the slightest, then went on to harangue his secretary about the paperwork concerning the sale of some vines in Morey-Saint-Denis.
“ Bonjour, Maître .” Franck positioned himself between Le Maître and the door to Le Maître’s office , relieving Le Maître of a large pile of the papers that were rapidly slipping from his hold. “Let me help you with that.”
“You really shouldn’t,” Le Maître protested. “Confidential, you know.”
“I’ll keep my eyes closed,” Franck promised. Le Maître found his key and watched with resignation as we marched into his office. Franck set down the papers on Le Maître’s cluttered desk and turned to him.
“Have you called the owners of the house with our offer?”
Le Maître squinted at us. “ Quoi ?”
I could feel Franck vibrate with frustration beside me. “The owners of the house we saw together yesterday morning in Magny. I talked to you on the phone a few hours ago and asked you to tell them we would offer the asking price but that our offer only stands for twenty-four hours. You told me you were going to call them right away.”
It was clear that Le Maître suffered amnesia about the entire exchange. “ Bah alors …no time like the present! Shall we call them now?”
“Yes.” Franck’s teeth were so clenched I was amazed he was able to get the words out. “Let’s.”
Le Maître
“I’ll wait until eleven o’clock,” Franck said. “If we don’t hear from him by then, I’ll call him.” Eleven o’clock in the morning was fifteen minutes away. An eternity.
Eleven o’clock came and went. Franck called again but could only talk to the secretary. Le Maître had gone out for a rendez-vous , he was informed, and the secretary had no idea when he would return. We believed her, poor woman.
After lunch Franck pushed back his chair. “Let’s go!”
“Where?” I asked. We needed to stay by the phone.
“To his office. We won’t leave until we’ve been able to get him to call the owners.”
“You mean you don’t even think he’s called them?”
Franck threw his linen napkin on the table. “I’m starting to have my doubts.”
Fifteen minutes later we had zoomed down through the vineyards to Ladoix-Serrigny. Franck stalked up to the secretary’s desk and demanded to see Le Maître.
“ Mais …I don’t know when he’ll be in,” she protested.
“We’ll wait.” Franck leaned against the secretary’s desk and signalled at me to get comfortable.
The secretary frowned at us. She waved towards the ripped orange plastic chairs and dog-eared Paris Matches in the adjacent waiting room. “ Monsieur et Madame Germain , please take a seat.”
Franck’s smile didn’t veil the steel in his eye. “We’ll wait here, merci .”
The secretary didn’t look happy, but she didn’t look particularly surprised either. She just shrugged and began typing again as though client protests were something she endured on a regular basis.
There was plenty of time to suck several of the breath mints in a bowl on the secretary’s desk and to study the yellowing map of the Côte D’Or’s various wine appellations on the wall. I plucked up a copy of the free notary newsletter from a large stack and began to peruse an article about the convoluted French concept of usufruit that made my brain go numb. Thank God I wasn’t going back to studying law in the fall. But then…what would I be doing? The thought of having no project at all made my hands tremble. What would I be with no project? I wouldn’t be a law student, or an entrepreneur, or a promising writer.
I would just be me.
Just then Le Maître breezed in, his tie askew. He granted Franck and me a vague smile that made it clear he didn’t recognize us in the slightest, then went on to harangue his secretary about the paperwork concerning the sale of some vines in Morey-Saint-Denis.
“ Bonjour, Maître .” Franck positioned himself between Le Maître and the door to Le Maître’s office , relieving Le Maître of a large pile of the papers that were rapidly slipping from his hold. “Let me help you with that.”
“You really shouldn’t,” Le Maître protested. “Confidential, you know.”
“I’ll keep my eyes closed,” Franck promised. Le Maître found his key and watched with resignation as we marched into his office. Franck set down the papers on Le Maître’s cluttered desk and turned to him.
“Have you called the owners of the house with our offer?”
Le Maître squinted at us. “ Quoi ?”
I could feel Franck vibrate with frustration beside me. “The owners of the house we saw together yesterday morning in Magny. I talked to you on the phone a few hours ago and asked you to tell them we would offer the asking price but that our offer only stands for twenty-four hours. You told me you were going to call them right away.”
It was clear that Le Maître suffered amnesia about the entire exchange. “ Bah alors …no time like the present! Shall we call them now?”
“Yes.” Franck’s teeth were so clenched I was amazed he was able to get the words out. “Let’s.”
Le Maître
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