sommelier to bring a bottle. If you don’t drink it all, no big deal.’
‘There’s a sommelier here?’
‘Every island should have one.’ Another of her little smiles. ‘Back in a bit with your oysters.’
Then she left.
A few minutes later, the sommelier rang. His name was Claude. He said that he was happy to help me choose aGewurztraminer – and he had around two dozen in his cellar. I asked him to suggest one. He began an elaborate
goût-par-goût
rundown on his
choix preferés
, informing me that he especially favoured a 1986 Gisselbrecht: ‘un Vin d’Alsace
exceptionnel
,’ with a perfect balance of fruit and acidity.
‘You know I just want a glass,’ I said.
‘We will still send up the bottle.’
As soon as I was off the phone, I went online, found a website for vintage wines and typed:
Gisselbrecht Gewurztraminer
1986
.
A photograph of the wine in question appeared on my laptop screen, along with a detailed description, informing me that among
premier cru
Gewurztraminers, this was top of the pops. And I could order a bottle for a mere $275 ‘at a
special discount price
’.
As I was beginning to discover, life on Fleck’s Caribbean retreat was played according to a
money-no-object
set of rules.
I sat forward again in the desk chair and punched out a fast e-mail to Sally:
Darling:
Greetings from the nouveau riche land of Oz. This place is both wonderful and absurd. It’s the high-rent version of ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’. I have to admit it: the guy’s got taste . . . but after just a half-hour here, I’m already thinking: there’s something deeply skewed about having everything you want. Of course, just to let us know who’s got the ultimate upper hand in life, Fleck is not
in situ
just at the moment. Instead, he’s playing Hemingway and chasing some big white fish somewhere, leaving yours truly to cool his heels here. I don’t know whether to be affronted,or to simply consider this the ultimate freebie. For the moment, I’ve decided to adopt the second mindset, and do useful, hyperactive things like work on my tan and catch up on my sleep. I only wish I was catching up on my sleep in bed next to you. I can be reached directly at 0704.555.8660. Please call when you manage to find a moment’s break in the chariot race. Knowing you, I’m certain you’ve worked out a strategy that will see you through this little crisis. You’re smarter than smart, after all.
I love you. And I wish you were here.
David.
I sent the e-mail. Then I picked up the phone and called my daughter in Sausalito. My ex-wife answered the phone. She was as friendly as usual.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said tonelessly.
‘That’s right, it’s me. And how are you?’
‘What does that matter?’
‘Look Lucy, I don’t blame you for still being pissed with me . . . but isn’t there a statute of limitations for this kind of thing?’
‘No. And I don’t like being palsy with assholes.’
‘Fine, fine, have it your way. The conversation’s closed. May I speak to my daughter, please?’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because it’s Wednesday evening – and if you were a responsible parent, you would remember that, on Wednesday evening, your daughter has ballet class.’
‘I
am
a responsible parent.’
‘I am not even going to go there.’
‘Fine by me. Now I’m going to give you a number where I’m staying in the Caribbean . . . ’
‘My, my, how well you treat that Princeton slut . . . ’
My hand tightened around the phone.
‘I’m not going to dignify that reprehensible comment with an answer. But if you want to know the truth . . . ’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Then just take the number and ask Caitlin to call me back.’
‘Why does she need to call you when you’re seeing her the day after tomorrow.’
My anxiety level – already high, courtesy of this warm, cordial conversation – jumped a notch or two.
‘What are you talking
‘There’s a sommelier here?’
‘Every island should have one.’ Another of her little smiles. ‘Back in a bit with your oysters.’
Then she left.
A few minutes later, the sommelier rang. His name was Claude. He said that he was happy to help me choose aGewurztraminer – and he had around two dozen in his cellar. I asked him to suggest one. He began an elaborate
goût-par-goût
rundown on his
choix preferés
, informing me that he especially favoured a 1986 Gisselbrecht: ‘un Vin d’Alsace
exceptionnel
,’ with a perfect balance of fruit and acidity.
‘You know I just want a glass,’ I said.
‘We will still send up the bottle.’
As soon as I was off the phone, I went online, found a website for vintage wines and typed:
Gisselbrecht Gewurztraminer
1986
.
A photograph of the wine in question appeared on my laptop screen, along with a detailed description, informing me that among
premier cru
Gewurztraminers, this was top of the pops. And I could order a bottle for a mere $275 ‘at a
special discount price
’.
As I was beginning to discover, life on Fleck’s Caribbean retreat was played according to a
money-no-object
set of rules.
I sat forward again in the desk chair and punched out a fast e-mail to Sally:
Darling:
Greetings from the nouveau riche land of Oz. This place is both wonderful and absurd. It’s the high-rent version of ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous’. I have to admit it: the guy’s got taste . . . but after just a half-hour here, I’m already thinking: there’s something deeply skewed about having everything you want. Of course, just to let us know who’s got the ultimate upper hand in life, Fleck is not
in situ
just at the moment. Instead, he’s playing Hemingway and chasing some big white fish somewhere, leaving yours truly to cool his heels here. I don’t know whether to be affronted,or to simply consider this the ultimate freebie. For the moment, I’ve decided to adopt the second mindset, and do useful, hyperactive things like work on my tan and catch up on my sleep. I only wish I was catching up on my sleep in bed next to you. I can be reached directly at 0704.555.8660. Please call when you manage to find a moment’s break in the chariot race. Knowing you, I’m certain you’ve worked out a strategy that will see you through this little crisis. You’re smarter than smart, after all.
I love you. And I wish you were here.
David.
I sent the e-mail. Then I picked up the phone and called my daughter in Sausalito. My ex-wife answered the phone. She was as friendly as usual.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said tonelessly.
‘That’s right, it’s me. And how are you?’
‘What does that matter?’
‘Look Lucy, I don’t blame you for still being pissed with me . . . but isn’t there a statute of limitations for this kind of thing?’
‘No. And I don’t like being palsy with assholes.’
‘Fine, fine, have it your way. The conversation’s closed. May I speak to my daughter, please?’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because it’s Wednesday evening – and if you were a responsible parent, you would remember that, on Wednesday evening, your daughter has ballet class.’
‘I
am
a responsible parent.’
‘I am not even going to go there.’
‘Fine by me. Now I’m going to give you a number where I’m staying in the Caribbean . . . ’
‘My, my, how well you treat that Princeton slut . . . ’
My hand tightened around the phone.
‘I’m not going to dignify that reprehensible comment with an answer. But if you want to know the truth . . . ’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Then just take the number and ask Caitlin to call me back.’
‘Why does she need to call you when you’re seeing her the day after tomorrow.’
My anxiety level – already high, courtesy of this warm, cordial conversation – jumped a notch or two.
‘What are you talking
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