“Auguste Lupa,” he said.
“Jules Giraud.” I motioned to the empty chair.
We sat, and he began to talk.
“I, too, sir, deplore waste, though I could argue that there was no waste involved in pouring that beer to the ground. That beer was waste when it arrived, and what pains me is that I’ve been putting up with it for months now. I am indebted to you, Monsieur Giraud. Sometimes I need a nudge to act, though I generally decide instantly on matters of taste; but I have an inordinate fondness for beer, and since good beer cannot be purchased here, I’ve allowed my integrity an unforgivable laxity.” He closed his eyes and sighed, and there was, indeed, a burden of sadness around him. “It will be hard without beer, but my taste applauds yours, sir.”
The wine arrived, and he raised his glass, after first sniffing it and looking through the dark red liquid. “Santé,” he said, “and damn this war.”
We both drained our glasses. He signaled for another, and I began to smile.
“You’re amused?” he asked.
“It seems strange,” I said, raising the second glass, “to find myself agreeing with a man whose major concern in the midst of European destruction is the lack of quality beer.”
“But you do agree.”
“Of course, damn it.” I smiled again. “The living must continue to live. But you are wrong about something,” I said.
“And that is . . . ?”
“The dearth of good beer. There is a great quantity of excellent beer not four kilometers from where we sit. But it is not for sale.”
He looked at me patiently and warily. “Monsieur Giraud, I don’t know you, but you don’t seem given to idle jesting. I have been cooking here in Valence for the winter and have searched tirelessly for a supply of good beer, and to no avail. I have some talent at discovering things that people try to keep hidden, and there is no beer.”
“There is, and it is hidden, and privately brewed by a man who values his privacy. No more than six men know of it.”
“They are very discreet men,” he said.
“Very,” I continued. “They have to be, but that’s no matter. Even knowing that the beer exists, you would never find it, for you’re not likely to see me again and you don’t know the other five.” I drained my glass and got up to go. “It’s been a pleasant morning, sir,” I said. “Good luck.”
I hadn’t gone ten paces when he spoke.
“Monsieur Giraud.”
I turned. “Yes?”
“Would your chef mind terribly if you missed a meal?”
“He goes nearly mad,” I said, “but occasionally—” I stopped abruptly. “How did you know I had a chef?”
