by Peter Mayle
“We’ll see,” said Sam. “It’s a difficult one to call. I’m sure he’s going to twist a few arms.”
Miss Perkins patted his hand. “Don’t you worry, dear. He’s not very well liked, you know. One can tell from the odd word dropped here and there. We must relax, and let hope spring eternal.”
The Floating Pound, taking up two berths, was moored stern first against the quay in Saint-Tropez, where passers-by could admire the opulence of the afterdeck and watch-at a distance, of course-the start of the cocktail hour on board.
Annabel had spent much of the short voyage from Marseille on the phone, organizing an impromptu cocktail party, and had managed to round up a mixed bag of expatriates and vacationers. These could be identified by their complexions: brown and leathery for the expats; varying degrees of pink, from blush to medium-rare, for the visitors. They shared a fondness for white clothes and conspicuous gold jewelry, and an observer could be forgiven for thinking that they were members of the chorus in a summer variety show.
“Darling!” “Sweetie!” “It’s been ages!” “You look fabulous! The Botox really worked!” “Divine!” “Mmmm!” And so it went on-the sound track of summer in Saint-Trop.
Lord Wapping, his good humor restored by a long, champagne-induced nap, had gone through his wardrobe in search of something appropriate for the occasion. He had finally chosen a billowing caftan in white (with gold brocade highlights) which, if you believed Annabel, made him look like a Roman emperor in his Sunday-best toga. He moved among his guests, stately and tentlike, and was beginning to forget his cares and enjoy himself when he heard, coming from the inner billows of his caftan, the sound of his cell phone.
It was Patrimonio, an agitated Patrimonio, with disturbing news. Following that afternoon’s presentation, he had made brief calls to the members of his committee. Almost to a man, they had been extremely enthusiastic about what they had heard, and Patrimonio had the distinct feeling that some of them had already made up their minds in favor of Sam’s proposal.
“Shit!” Wapping’s guests stopped in midgossip, and he moved out of earshot. “I thought you said you had them in your pocket.”
“There is still your presentation to come, don’t forget. If there is something special you could offer …”
Wapping’s special offers were usually limited to bribery or coercion, but he could see that brute force could hardly be used on all seven committee members. “What’s it going to cost to make them change their minds?”
There was a moment of silence while Patrimonio considered the possibility of wholesale bribery. “It’s very delicate,” he said at last. “Even supposing they all accepted, if it ever got out, if the mayor got to hear about it … No, I don’t think we dare to try that.”
“Fat lot of help you are. Use your head, man-there must be something that would put him out of the running.”
Patrimonio sighed. “Well, of course if the American could be persuaded to withdraw his bid, we would be in a much stronger position.”
Wapping left his guests to their own noisy devices and found a quiet corner on the upper deck. He needed to think.
Reboul listened to Sam’s account of the presentation with considerable satisfaction. “So that little nonsense about land being scarce was all Patrimonio said? No interruptions? No comments as you were going through the details? Well, it sounds as though it could hardly have gone better. Congratulations, my friend, but also a word of warning: Patrimonio and Wapping-it’s a dangerous combination, and they’re not going to give in without a fight. Don’t let your guard drop. But enough of that. You must celebrate this afternoon’s success, and take the delightful Mademoiselle Elena out to dinner.”
They left Mimi in charge of Philippe and, following his advice, made their way to Chez Marco, a bistro tucked away behind the Vieux Port. Pausing at the entrance, they looked in vain for a menu. Marco served steack with frites, or steack without frites, with the option of a salad. And that was it. Despite this, almost every table was taken, the ambiance was loud and friendly, and their waiter fell in love with them at the first sound of Sam’s accent. He adored Americans, he told them, having spent three months working in a restaurant in downtown New York, where he had been amazed-epoustoufle! — by the generosity of his tips. He took their order and brought them a carafe of red wine.
It was soft and round and surprisingly good. The steaks were juicy and perfectly cooked, and the frites were a connoisseur’s delight. But the real triumph, according to Elena, came with the salad. “You can always tell a good restaurant by its dressing,” she said, “and this is terrific. They’ve used just the right amount of balsamic vinegar.”
Sam realized that, thanks to Philippe, they had stumbled upon a minor treasure-a restaurant that was content to provide a very limited choice, but of the highest quality, and at old-fashioned prices. According to Philippe, there used to be simple little restaurants like this throughout France; now they had become few and far between, killed off by the invasion of fast-food chains. But Chez Marco, it seemed, was doing fine. A knot of customers waited at the battered zinc bar, and tables were taken as soon as they became free. The laughter level was high, the waiters agile, and behind the bar the patron, Marco himself, dispensed pastis, jokes, and insults with a broad gap-toothed smile.
Elena used her bread to wipe the last of the dressing from her plate. “Apart from the food, you know what’s so great about this place? It’s genuine. Nobody designed it. A decorator would have a heart attack, but it works. Do you think they do dessert?”
They did. Again, the choice was limited to one. Panna cotta, made by Marco’s Italian wife and served in a thick glass tumbler, a white, satiny mixture of heavy cream and vanilla with a dense topping of semi-liquid caramel. Elena took her first spoonful and sighed with pleasure. “Heaven.”
Fifteen
The Mediterranean was a sheet of black glass-flat, calm, with a sickle moon high in a clear sky, as The Floating Pound eased slowly out of Saint-Tropez and turned west, destination Marseille.
Lord Wapping felt that he needed to get back to oversee the execution of an idea that was beginning to take shape in his head, and there was not a moment to lose. Hurried farewells had been made to his guests, and they had been hustled down the gangway, much to the displeasure of Annabel, who had no desire to leave Saint-Tropez, which she considered her spiritual summer home.
“I’m absolutely devastated, sweetie,” she said, displaying once again her ability to pout and talk at the same time. “The Forsyths-you know, Fiona and Dickie-had booked a table at the Byblos for dinner, and then we were going dancing. And now this. It’s too, too boring. Do we have to go back?”
Wapping grunted. “Something’s come up.” He added an invaluable phrase, knowing that it would put an end to any argument. “It’s business.” Experience had taught him that in Annabel’s mind business was synonymous with Cartier, Dior, Vuitton, and all the other little essentials of life that came her way after a successful deal. And so, for her, everything else took second place to business. Off she went, to find sympathy and a consoling glass of champagne with Tiny de Salis, while Wapping settled down in the deserted stateroom to ponder.
The presentation of his project was about to take place. A successful result would get the banks off his back and put millions into his pocket. The Parisian presentation, enthusiastically sabotaged by Patrimonio, had not impressed the committee. But that left the problem of the American. Patrimonio’s words came back to him: “If he could be persuaded to withdraw, that would put us in a much stronger position.”
Of course it would. But how? He considered once again those two old favorites, bribery and violence, and once again rejected them. The American stood to make more money out of the project than any bribe Wapping was able to offer, and any force short of murder was unlikely to work. In any case, to be credible and effective the withdrawal had to be voluntary; it had to come from the American himself. Lord Wapping stared out of the porthole, sipping t
he last of his 1936 cognac and letting his mind go back to the idea that had come to him, half-formed, following Patrimonio’s call. The more he thought about it, the better it seemed. And by the time he finally braved the chilly reception that awaited him in the cabin he shared with Annabel, he was feeling a great deal more optimistic.
The following morning, back at her old Marseille mooring in the Baie du Grand Soufre, The Floating Pound had recovered her good humor and was once again a happy ship. Lord Wapping was positively jovial at breakfast. Annabel had been tempted out of her sulk by the promise of an all-expenses-paid swoop on Marseille’s best boutiques, followed by lunch at Peron. Ray Prendergast had celebrated the change in the atmosphere on board with a solid English breakfast of sausages, bacon, eggs, baked beans, and two thick, greasy slices of fried bread. And the crew, having been a little disappointed by their brief glimpse of the prosperous respectability of Saint-Tropez, were pleased to be back in Marseille, with its superior opportunities for bad behavior.
Lord Wapping was humming the opening bars of “My Old Man’s a Dustman” as he selected his first cigar of the day. He was in the positive, benign mood that often follows the solution of a difficult problem, and he called Ray Prendergast into the stateroom to share his thoughts.
“I think I’ve cracked it, Ray-that bloody American and his beach huts. Somehow we’ve got to put him out of the running, and I think I’ve got the answer. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
As he explained his idea, Prendergast’s expression gradually changed from alarm to doubt to qualified approval. “It’s a bit dodgy, Billy, but it could work. I’ll have a chat with Brian and Dave. It’s a question of opportunity, isn’t it? Finding the right moment. But first, we need to know where he’s living. Oh, and another thing: We’re going to need a doctor, a friendly doctor. Know what I mean?”
Wapping nodded. “Leave it to me.” With a wave of his cigar, he dismissed Prendergast before reaching for the phone.
“Jerome? Couple of questions for you. I’ve been thinking about our little problem, and I need to know where our American friend is living while he’s in Marseille. Have you got his address?”
“Certainly.” Patrimonio reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a folder. “All the bidders had to provide contact details when they registered. Let’s see. Ah, yes, here it is: the Chemin du Roucas Blanc. Do you want the full address and the phone number?”
Patrimonio’s curiosity got the better of him while Wapping was jotting down the details. “What do you have in mind?”
“Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that, a bit of the other. Here’s the second question: I need a tame doctor-you know, someone who does what you want with no questions. That kind of doctor.”
As it happened, Patrimonio had several times needed just such a doctor himself, to help him deal with the results of some ill-advised liaisons with young ladies. He cleared his throat. “I might be able to help you there. What will you expect him to do, this doctor?”
“Jerome, you don’t want to know.”
“Of course not. No. Well, someone I can recommend is Doctor Hoffmann. German, but very good, very discreet, very-how can I put it? — very cooperative. And she speaks excellent English.”
“She?”
“Oh yes. But don’t worry-she can do anything a man can do. Would you like me to call her?”
Wapping was smiling as he put the phone down. The day was turning out better than he expected.
With the presentation over and all the committee members’ supplementary questions dealt with, there was nothing for Elena and Sam to do except keep their fingers crossed and wait for the decision. And so they had decided to take a break and look around the arriere-pays-the back country behind and to the west of Marseille.
They explored Provence’s most fashionable mountain ranges, the Luberon and the Alpilles, where, so it was said, movie stars, eminent politicians, and lesser celebrities haunted the hill villages and lurked behind every high stone wall. They saw the pink flamingos of the Camargue, the vast emptiness of Haute-Provence, the seething village markets, and the massed ranks of antique dealers in L’Isle-sur-Sorgue. As they went, they tasted the wines of Provence, sometimes in garages, sometimes in eighteenth-century palaces-the chilled sweetness of Beaumes de Venise, the big, voluptuous reds of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the noble roses of Tavel.
And they ate, always well and sometimes memorably. Philippe had sent them off with a list of his favorite addresses, and they quickly slipped into the French habit of planning the day’s sightseeing around the stomach. Thus, lunchtime and the dinner hour would conveniently find them close to a little auberge or an exceptional chef.
Not surprisingly, all thoughts of presentations and projects were forgotten in the leisurely, magical haze of sunshine and shared discovery. Time seemed to have stopped. Elena was in a state of bliss, and Sam wasn’t far behind.
Meanwhile, a million miles away in Marseille, Lord Wapping was making his formal proposal to the committee. To help him-in fact, to make the presentation on his behalf-he had employed Frederic Millet, a young man with impeccable credentials, being not only bilingual but also a cousin of Jerome Patrimonio, whose taste in clothes and aftershave he had adopted.
As Frederic went through his charts and explanations, it became clear that at least two members of his audience were firmly on his side. Wapping and Patrimonio, nodding in unison at the appearance of each chart, accompanied the proceedings from time to time with murmured sounds of approval. “Bravo, bonne idee” and “tres bien” coming from Patrimonio, and “nice work, Fred” or “you tell ’em, sunshine” from Wapping, who was feeling increasingly confident.
Frederic had barely finished when Patrimonio got to his feet to deliver the chairman’s summing-up of what they had just heard. After the obligatory cuff-shooting and hair-smoothing, he plunged in. “First, let me congratulate Lord Wapping and his colleague Monsieur Millet on a most interesting and comprehensive presentation.” The brief niceties over, the Patrimonio brow furrowed, and his face took on the sincere, serious, deeply caring expression of a salesman about to pounce. “This scheme, it seems to me, fulfills all of our requirements. From the architectural point of view, it is very much of today, and I can see that before long it will have established itself as a contemporary landmark-a building with aesthetic resonance that will add enormously to the prestige of the Marseille coastline. Next, as you have heard, the scheme will generate hundreds of new jobs, not just during the period of construction, but permanently, for the operation and maintenance of all the facilities that have been described to us. It is difficult to predict in detail the benefits this will bring to the local economy, but it is safe to say that they will be very, very substantial. And finally, let me add a comment about a matter which, as you know, I consider to be most important-you might say it is the bee in the chairman’s bonnet.” He paused, as if to allow the committee to picture the chairman in his bonnet. “Air space, gentlemen. Air space. A precious resource, so often neglected. But here we see it maximized as it should be. I have no hesitation in commending this scheme to the members of the committee.”
Later, in the bar of the Sofitel, Wapping and Patrimonio compared impressions.
“Pretty glum lot, your committee,” said Wapping. “Not much in the way of questions. What do you reckon they thought of it?”
Patrimonio took a pensive sip of his whisky. “You must remember that these people make their living by sitting on the fence. We must wait and see. These things always take a little while to sink in. But we have ten days before the final decision will be made, and I shall use the time to do some lobbying-a lunch or two, a glass of champagne after work …” Patrimonio waved a generous hand to suggest the irresistible range of inducements available to a man of his position.
Wapping said nothing. He was too busy thinking about his own lobbying.
Ray Prendergast made his way up the Rue de Rome until he came to a low white building set back from the street. On
e of the brass plaques next to the entrance, more highly polished than the others, had the name of Dr. Romy Hoffmann engraved on it in fine copperplate script. Prendergast pressed the bell and the door clicked open.
Dr. Hoffmann’s assistant, a burly man in a white track suit, his head shaved and gleaming, showed Prendergast into an empty, all-white waiting room, where elderly copies of Stern magazine shared a low table with Paris Match and Gala. A TV set in one corner was showing a promotional film made by a pharmaceutical company in which two young women were having an animated conversation about menopause.
Prendergast looked at his watch. He had made the mistake of arriving on time for the appointment, forgetting that punctuality is the sworn enemy of the medical profession. He had been waiting for twenty minutes when a metallic voice emanating from a speaker in the corner told him that he should come through.
Dr. Hoffmann, a small, wiry woman in her forties, was dressed in a white cotton top and trousers, a surgical facemask hanging round her neck. Her dark hair was cropped short, her eyes concealed by tinted glasses. She gestured toward the chair in front of her desk. “Please. Sit. Monsieur Patrimonio told me to expect you. Tell me what brings you here.”
Ray Prendergast took a deep breath and started to talk.
For Brian and Dave, this was, as Lord Wapping had made clear, a last chance to redeem themselves. Their encounter with the journalist had been partly successful, although not successful enough to stop him making a bloody pest of himself after the accident. As for the business of the tent on the beach, the less said about that the better. They had, in their employer’s words, made a right Horlicks of it.
