The Marseille Caper sl-2

by Peter Mayle

  “We have a few of those here in L.A.,” said Elena. “So what’s your idea?”

  “Ah,” said Reboul, “something for the Marseillais. Apartments-but low, nothing higher than three floors-set in a terraced garden leading down to the sea. And then, a small marina, not for yachts but for the kind of little boats that ordinary people who live by the sea might have. I can show you the scale model of the project when we get to Marseille.” He looked from Sam to Elena, his eyebrows raised. “Et voila. What do you think?”

  “Sounds a lot better than concrete boxes.” Sam grinned. “But I have a feeling there might be more to this than architecture.” He leaned back as the waiter arrived with their main course.

  Reboul sighed. “Just so. There is a problem.” He looked down at the plate that had been placed in front of him, and lowered his head for a closer inspection, inhaling deeply. “But before I explain, let us deal with this excellent rabbit.”

  The excellent rabbit was duly dealt with, the Beckstoffer Cabernet tasted, admired, and tasted again, and the conversation drifted pleasantly from winemaking to the charms of Cassis (Marseille’s neighborhood vineyard) and on to the latest bee in Elena’s bonnet. She had recently completed a wine course, and had been subjected by the rather patronizing instructor to the overblown vocabulary so beloved by wine experts.

  “I’m sure the guy knew his stuff,” she said. “And I can just about put up with pencil shavings and truffle oaks and hints of tobacco-although God knows who would want to drink pencil shavings-but I gave up when he started talking about wet dogs.” She looked at Reboul, her dark eyes wide with mock horror. “You don’t have wines that taste like wet dogs, do you?”

  Reboul shook his head and laughed. “I once heard a winemaker describe his wine as ‘Comme le petit Jesus en pantalon de velours’-like Jesus in velvet trousers.” He shrugged. “Winemakers are great enthusiasts. One must forgive their little exaggerations, I think. They are trying to describe something that is often indescribable.”

  The cheese arrived-three different cheeses, in fact-with a generous dollop of fig jam, and Reboul returned to his proposal. “There is, as I said, a problem, and his name is Patrimonio. Jerome Patrimonio. He is the chairman of the committee that will choose the winning project, and as chairman he has, of course, more than just the influence of his personal vote.” Reboul rearranged the cheeses on his plate while he tried to collect his thoughts. “Patrimonio hates me. He would do anything to stop me from winning. Anything.”

  Elena was the first to ask the obvious question. “Forgive me, but what did you do to him? Why does he hate you?”

  “Ah.” Reboul shook his head and sighed. “There was a woman.” He looked at Elena as if, between sophisticated adults, that should be sufficient explanation. “And such a woman, too.” The distant memory brought a half-smile to his face. “A long time ago, it’s true. But Patrimonio is Corsican.” Again, the significant look. “He is proud, like all Corsicans. And he has a very long memory, like all Corsicans.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Sam. “You know that this guy, who hates your guts, is the chairman of the committee. And yet you still think you have a chance?”

  “You must let me finish, Sam. Patrimonio doesn’t know I’m involved. My name does not appear on any of the bid documents, and I was careful not to involve any French companies that could be easily checked. My proposal was officially put forward by Langer amp; Troost, a very old and discreet Swiss private bank, and Van Buren Partners, a firm of American architects owned by Tommy Van Buren, who is an old, close friend of mine; we were at Harvard together. It is the international marketing representative of Van Buren who will make the final presentation to the committee. And there, my dear Sam, is where I hope you will make your appearance.”

  “As an architect who knows nothing about architecture? And an American, a foreigner, as well?” Sam shook his head. “I don’t know, Francis. I think I may be short of a few qualifications.”

  Reboul disposed of such trifling concerns with a flick of his hand. “At this stage, it is not necessary to have any great knowledge of architecture. That will come later. But at the moment, we’re selling an idea: somewhere for people to live, not just somewhere for them to visit. Something unique to Marseille, that respects the environment, that exists in harmony with the sea …”

  Sam held up his hand. “OK. That could work. It’s a nice, straightforward pitch. But why me? Why not have someone from Van Buren do it?”

  Reboul leaned back, spreading his arms wide, a smile on his face. “I need someone special-a top-class salesman; persuasive, charming, tactful. Which is exactly what you were in your previous career as a publisher. Remember?” He inclined his head toward Sam. “You fooled me. You could fool them.”

  Sam finished the wine in his glass and let Reboul pour some more. “Even though I’m a foreigner?”

  “But Sam, there are foreigners and foreigners.” Reboul held up one finger. “In Marseille, we have loathed Parisians for centuries. It’s in our blood.” He held up a second finger. “The English we tolerate. But since France is only separated from them by the Channel, they are a little too close, and they tend sometimes to get underfoot.” He held up a third finger. “The Americans we like, not only for their many virtues, but also because America, most conveniently, is a long way away. So I think my project starts with a slight advantage.”

  Elena had been watching the exchange closely, as though it were a tennis match, her head going back and forth. “Let’s assume your project wins,” she said to Reboul. “Isn’t it going to be a little difficult for you to stay out of it? Where’s the money coming from? I mean, won’t there be all kinds of performance guarantees and disclosures of interest-or are these just quaint old American customs?”

  Reboul had been nodding while Elena spoke. “A very good point, my dear. Let me tell you how I intend to take care of it.” He signaled the waiter and ordered coffee and Calvados for the three of them. “I have deposited sufficient funds with Troost amp; Langer-from an account in Dubai, so that nothing is seen to originate in France-to cover the first stages of construction. Once these have been carried out and the project is well under way, there will be an unforeseen and totally unexpected cash-flow problem.” His eyes opened wide, his mouth made an O of shocked surprise. “But fortunately, all will be not lost. Help will be at hand, in the form of a sympathetic local investor. He will step in and, for the greater good of Marseille, he will take over the financial responsibilities of finishing the project.”

  “That will be you,” said Elena.

  “That will be me.”

  “And at that stage, there will be nothing Patrimonio can do.”

  “Not a thing.”

  “So far, so good. All we need now is the salesman.” Elena turned to Sam. “Over to you, big boy.”

  Sam was outnumbered, and he knew it. He knew also that if he turned down the job he risked incurring the disappointment and wrath of Elena, deprived of her first-ever vacation in the South of France. Based on his past experience of Elena with her blood up, this was a most disagreeable prospect. Besides, a presentation such as Reboul had outlined was something he could do standing on his head. And the trip might be fun.

  “You win,” he said. He raised his glass first to Elena, then to Reboul. “A toast: here’s to the success of our little venture.”

  A beaming Reboul leaped up and darted around the table. “Bravo!” he said. “Bravo!” And promptly kissed the startled Sam on both cheeks.

  Three

  There are no crowds. There is no waiting in line. There are no surly security guards. There are no bags to juggle, no seating disputes, no neighbors with uncontrollable elbows and contagious ailments, no hysterical infants, no fetid, overworked toilets-in fact, flying by private jet deprives the passengers of all the familiar joys of air travel in the twenty-first century. But there are consolations, as Elena and Sam were discovering.

  Reboul’s Gulfstream G550 had been extravagantl
y reconfigured to carry no more than six passengers, two pilots, and a flight attendant in surroundings that Reboul liked to describe as luxe et volupte. The cabin was decorated in soothing tones of caramel and cream, with armchairs-one couldn’t insult them by calling them mere seats-upholstered in chocolate-brown suede. There was a small dining area. Presiding over the tiny kitchen and bar at the front of the cabin was Mathilde, a handsome woman of a certain age, beautifully turned out in Saint Laurent and alert to the slightest signs of thirst and hunger. Passengers could stay in touch with the world below by phone and Internet; or relax with a library of current American and European films, to be watched on a large, high-definition screen. Cigar smokers could smoke their cigars. It seemed to Elena and Sam, as they accepted chilled flutes of Krug from Mathilde, that Reboul had done everything possible to make flying civilized.

  “I could get used to this very, very quickly,” said Elena. She was looking clear-eyed and radiant-her pale-olive complexion glowing, her black hair glossy-and Sam congratulated himself on his decision to take the job.

  “Vacations suit you,” he said. “Why don’t we do this more often? You work too hard. How can the insurance business compare with a trip to the glamorous South of France with an adoring, irresistible companion?”

  Elena looked at him beneath raised eyebrows. “I’ll let you know,” she said. “First I have to find an irresistible companion.”

  “Ah,” said Reboul’s voice behind them, “les amoureux. Has Mathilde been looking after you?” He had come from the rear of the plane, where he had a miniature office, and he was carrying a bulky file. “You must forgive me,” he said to Elena, “but I need to steal Sam away from you so that we can go over the presentation while we have the chance of some peace and quiet. Once we get to Marseille …” He shook his head. “Busy, busy, busy.”

  Elena settled back in her armchair and opened Sam’s old, dog-eared copy of the Cadogan Guide to the South of France, a favorite of his because of its well-informed, comprehensive coverage, its literate prose, and its refreshing sense of humor. She turned to the section on Marseille, wondering if she would find anything to account for Reboul’s claim that Marseille and Paris had been at each other’s throats for hundreds of years. And there it was, in the historical introduction. After explaining that an independently minded Marseille, in search of permanent autonomy, had been infuriating Louis XIV for forty years, the introduction continues: “By 1660, the King had had enough, and opened up a great breach in Marseille’s walls, humiliating the city by turning its own cannons back on itself.” (The cannons had previously pointed out to sea to repel pirates and invaders, but Louis had obviously decided that the city’s residents were a greater threat.) And that wasn’t all. “The central authority installed by Louis was much more lax than the city had previously been about the issues crucial to the running of a good port-like quarantine. The result, in 1720, was a devastating plague that spread throughout Provence.”

  So there was Marseille, menaced by its own guns and riddled with disease, all thanks to Parisian interference. Souvenirs like that stay in the memory for a long time, often becoming increasingly bitter from generation to generation. Reboul’s comment, which Elena had at first dismissed as exaggeration, now made more sense.

  She let the book slip to her lap, and looked out of the window at the pale-blue infinity of the evening sky, cloudless and calm. The pilot, in the delightfully accented English that he must have learned at pilot’s charm school, had announced that with the help of the steady tail wind from west to east they would be arriving in Marseille in time for a breakfast of croissants and cafe au lait. Elena sank back into her suede cocoon, half listening to the buzz of conversation coming from Reboul and Sam.

  He had been quite right; she did work too hard, and quite soon now she would have to make up her mind between her business life and her personal life. Frank Knox, the founder of Knox Insurance, was anxious to retire, and he had told Elena that the job of CEO was hers if she wanted it. But did she really want to spend the next thirty years up to her neck in clients like Danny Roth? How would Sam fit into a life governed by meetings, sales conferences, too much travel, and interminable client lunches? What would she do if she didn’t take the job? With a shift of mental gears, she made herself think about the imminent pleasures of the next two to three weeks-Mediterranean beaches, entire days without schedules, and long, relaxed dinners under the stars. She dozed and dreamed.

  Sam woke her by stroking her forehead with the tips of his fingers. “You were smiling,” he said.

  “I was on vacation,” she said.

  “Sorry to interrupt. But Francis thinks we might like to eat. He’s invited us to what he calls a pique-nique.”

  Elena realized that packing-always, for her, a long and complicated business involving many refinements and changes of mind-had caused her to skip lunch. “I think I could force something down,” she said. “Actually, I’m starving.”

  Mathilde had laid the dining table with white linen and cloth napkins and crystal glasses. A white orchid drooped elegantly from its vase, also crystal. It only needed Reboul in a chef’s hat to complete the picture of a restaurant de luxe. In fact, he was in his working clothes: no jacket, no tie, the top two buttons of his silk shirt undone. Elena’s eye was caught by what she at first took to be a monogram on his shirt pocket; a closer look showed it to be a line of tiny Chinese characters. Reboul noticed her interest and anticipated her question.

  “These shirts are made for me in Hong Kong,” he said. “Monsieur Wang, who makes them, likes to have his little joke, so he puts this on”-he tapped his chest-“instead of my initials. He told me it was a line from Confucius, ensuring a long life and good fortune.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It says: Please take your hand off my left breast.” Reboul shrugged and grinned. “Chinese sense of humor. Now then-what kind of picnic do you have for us, Mathilde?”

  “There is smoked salmon. Foie gras, of course. The last of the asparagus.” Mathilde paused here to kiss her fingertips. “Some good cheeses. And best of all, your favorite, Monsieur Francis: salade tiede aux feves et lardons.” She waited, smiling, for Reboul’s response.

  “Oh!” he said. “Oh! I am dead and in heaven. Elena, Sam-do you know this dish? A warm salad of young broad beans and chopped bacon? No? You must try it, and then we can attack the foie gras or the salmon. Or both. It has been an eternity since lunch.” He turned to peer into the large ice bucket that Mathilde had placed on the bar. “You can stay with champagne, or we have an ’86 Puligny-Montrachet and, for the foie gras, an ’84 Sauternes. You must forgive me,” he said to Elena, “but I never ask red wine to fly with me. The changes in altitude, the turbulence-they tend to upset even the best Bordeaux and Burgundy. I hope you understand.”

  Elena nodded knowledgeably, despite the fact that her wine course hadn’t covered drinking on private jets. “Of course,” she said, smiling sweetly. “But perhaps you could tell me more about this salad. I’ve never heard of it.”

  “My mother used to make it, and I learned from her. To start with, you take a saucepan of cold water, and a frying pan. Chop a large piece of fat bacon into cubes, and put them in the frying pan over medium heat. While they are cooking, put the beans into the saucepan of cold water, over high heat. The second the water comes to the boil, drain it off; the beans are ready. Put them into a bowl, and pour over them the chopped bacon-and, most important, every drop of hot bacon fat. Et voila. Mix well and eat instantly, before the salad cools. It is sublime. You will see.”

  It was indeed sublime, as was everything else, and as Elena watched Reboul tuck into his salad, a plate of asparagus, and two thick slices of foie gras, she wondered how he managed to stay so trim. It was something she had asked herself last time she’d been to Paris and had been struck by the absence of obesity. The restaurants were full, the French ate and drank like champions, and yet most of them never seemed to put on weight. Unfair and mysterious.
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br />   “Why is it, Sam?”

  “What?”

  “Why don’t the French get fat?”

  Sam had asked the same question of Sophie, his accomplice in the wine robbery. Her answer had been delivered with the total conviction that came from having been born French, and thus having superior logic and common sense on her side, not to mention centuries of correct eating habits. Sam had no difficulty remembering her exact words: “We eat less than you do, we eat more slowly than you do, and we don’t eat between meals. Simple.”

  While Elena was digesting these words of wisdom, Reboul joined in, shaking his head. “It’s changing in France,” he said. “Our habits are changing, our diet is changing, our shape is changing-too much fast food, too many sugary drinks.” He patted his stomach. “Maybe I should give up Sauternes. But not just yet.”

  They were now flying into the darkness of night, and Mathilde had transformed their armchairs into flat beds and dimmed the cabin lights. It had been a hectic day for Elena and Sam, and they left Reboul, with a final glass of Sauternes, to catch up on his phone calls.

  Elena yawned and stretched and lay back with a grateful sigh. She turned off her reading light. After two years without a vacation, she allowed the thought of tomorrow to wash over her. She would be in the South of France, with nothing to do but relax.

  “Sam?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks for taking the job. You know, we should do this more often.”

  Sam smiled in the darkness. “Goodnight, Elena.”

  “Goodnight, Sam.”

  Mathilde, crisp and fresh and dressed by Saint Laurent in the colors of the French flag-red silk scarf, white shirt, and blue suit-woke them with the offer of orange juice, croissants, and coffee. They would be landing in half an hour. The sun was already up and, according to the pilot’s cheerful report, the weather forecast promised a fine warm day with temperatures in the high seventies.