by Peter Mayle
“That’s it,” said Sam. “Here’s hoping.”
As the day wore on, and the first two châteaus were crossed off the list, it seemed to Sam that they were going to repeat the frustrations of the last two days. Memories were consulted, brows were furrowed, shoulders were shrugged, but-désolé, mais non-there was no recollection of a hopeful but disappointed purchaser.
Their luck changed on their third stop. The estate manager, a native of Pauillac and a friend of Sophie’s family, thought that he remembered a visitor from the previous fall who was very specific about the vintage he was searching for; a rather stubborn gentleman, in fact, who had been reluctant to take no for an answer. He had left his business card so that he could be contacted if any bottles of that particular vintage turned up. The estate manager scratched his head and went through his desk drawers, finally fishing out an old cigar box where he kept the cards that one day he might need. He fumbled them out onto the desk-cards of customers from England and America, wine journalists from all over the world, the odd master chef, barrel makers, sommeliers-and spread them out across the desk, an impressive display of copperplate script and fine white board.
His fingers fluttered over the cards before coming to rest. “Voilà,” he said as he slid one card away from the others, “un monsieur très insistant.”
Sophie and Sam leaned forward to read the card:
Florian Vial
Caviste
Groupe Reboul Palais du Pharo 13007 Marseille
Driving to the next château-the fourth of the day-Sam asked Sophie if she knew anything about the Groupe Reboul. Had she ever heard of it? Was it a wine wholesaler?
Sophie laughed. “Everyone in France knows the Groupe Reboul. It’s everywhere, involved in everything.” She frowned. “Except wine. I’ve never heard of Reboul dealing in wine. I’ll tell you about him later, but don’t get too excited. It’s probably just a chance visit.”
But perhaps it wasn’t, because at Figeac and then at Margaux they found that Monsieur Vial had been there before them, looking for the ’82 of one and the ’83 of the other, leaving his card at both châteaus.
As Sam said to Sophie, “Twice could be coincidence. But not three times. I’ll buy you dinner if you tell me all about Reboul.”
Ten
Sam had always thought of himself as something of a gastronomic adventurer, ready to eat almost anything that was put in front of him: snails, frogs’ legs, shark fin soup, chocolate-covered ants, clay-baked squirrel-he had sampled them all, and found them interesting, if not always to his taste. But his courage failed him when it came to that great panoply of guts and gizzards known as offal. The very mention of tripe induced a shudder. His was a classic case of not trying something because he was sure he wouldn’t like it, and for more years than he could remember he had managed to avoid dishes that featured entrails of any kind. This was about to change.
Sophie had insisted that they return to Delphine’s restaurant for dinner, and while they were walking there from the hotel she explained why. It was a Thursday. And every Thursday, Olivier the chef prepared his sublime rognons de veau-calves’ kidneys-cooked in port and served with mashed potatoes that were so light and fluffy they almost floated off the plate and into your mouth. It was without doubt her favorite dish in the world. She was starting to go into the merits of the gravy when she noticed a lack of enthusiastic response from Sam, and a hint of dismay in his expression.
She stopped and turned toward him. “Ah,” she said. “I forgot. Americans don’t eat kidneys, do they?”
Sophie watched with amusement as Sam took a deep breath. “We’re not great fans. I guess we have a problem with innards. I’ve never tried them.”
“Innards?”
“You know-internal organs. Stomachs and livers and lungs and sweetbreads and giblets…”
“… and kidneys.” Sophie gave him a pitying look. How could a man have gone through life without tasting kidneys? She tapped his shoulder with an emphatic index finger. “I’ll make you a deal. Try them. If you don’t like them, you can have steak frites and I’ll pay for dinner. Trust me.”
Settled at their table, Sam was reaching for the wine list when Sophie’s index finger struck again, this time wagging back and forth like an agitated metronome. “Mais non, Sam. How can you choose a wine to go with something you’ve never tasted?”
Sam surrendered the list and sat back as Sophie studied the pages, nibbling on her bottom lip in concentration. He wondered if she could cook, and if she did, what she wore. A silk scarf for whipping up omelettes? Pearls for dessert? Did Hermès make kitchen aprons? His thoughts were interrupted by Delphine, bearing glasses of champagne, and the two women held a murmured conference that ended with an exchange of nods and smiles.
“Bon,” said Sophie. “To start, blinis with caviar. Then the rognons, with an exceptional Pomerol, the 2002 Château L’Evangile. Is that good for you?”
“I never argue with a pretty woman who knows her kidneys.”
They touched glasses, and Sophie began to tell Sam what she knew about the Groupe Reboul.
The British have Branson, she said. The Italians have Berlusconi. The French have Francis Reboul-Sissou to his friends and to the faithful journalists who have been documenting his business exploits during the past forty years. He had become a national institution, she said; or, according to some, a national treasure, a flamboyant personality, a Marseille boy made good and loving every second of his success. He was comfortable with publicity. Indeed, his critics said that he was incapable of getting dressed each morning without issuing a press release about the color of his tie and the general state of his wardrobe. This, of course, endeared him to the media; he was a walking event, always good for a story.
And he was always doing a deal of some kind, Sophie said. The business empire he had built up over the years included construction, regional newspapers and radio stations, a soccer team, water treatment plants, transportation, electronics-he seemed to have a finger in everything.
Sophie paused as the blinis arrived.
“How about wine?” asked Sam. “Does he have a château or two?”
“I don’t know. Not here, anyway.” She took a mouthful of blini and her eyes closed for a moment. “Mmm, that’s good. I hope you like caviar, Sam?”
“Love it. Doesn’t everybody?”
“No. There are some strange people who don’t eat innards of fish.” She smiled sweetly and popped more blini into her mouth.
Sam held up his hands in surrender. “OK, OK. So I like fish innards. Go on about Reboul.”
Sophie searched her memory for the odds and ends of information about Reboul that she had picked up from the press and television. He lived in Marseille, in some sort of palace. His passion, frequently and publicly declared, was France and all things French (apart from Paris, which, like every good Marseillais, he distrusted). He even made the supreme sacrifice of paying French taxes, and gave a press conference each April to tell the world what a huge contribution he made every year to the national economy. He liked young ladies, and they made regular appearances at his side in the pages of celebrity magazines, always described by an indulgent press as his nieces. He kept two yachts: one for the summer, in Saint-Tropez, the other for the winter, in the Seychelles. And, of course, he had a private jet.
“And that’s all I know,” said Sophie. “If you want any more, you’ll have to ask my hairdresser. She’s mad about him. She thinks he should be president.” She glanced over Sam’s shoulder. “Close your eyes, Sam. Here come the kidneys.”
Sam closed his eyes, but his nose told him that the kidneys had been placed in front of him. He lowered his head and inhaled the thick, gamy scent, more intense than any ordinary meat, warm and rich and infinitely appetizing. Perhaps he’d been wrong about offal. He opened his eyes. In the middle of the plate, a fragrant wisp of steam was rising from a volcano of mashed potatoes, its hollow top holding a pool of gravy. Surrounding the potatoes were four plump, d
eep-brown kidneys, each one about the size of a golf ball.
Sophie leaned across the table to put a small dollop of mustard on his plate. “Not too much of this, or it will fight with the wine. Bon appétit.” She sat back and watched him take his first mouthful.
He chewed. He swallowed. He pondered. He grinned. “You know, I’ve always said that at the end of a tough day, nothing hits the spot like kidneys cooked in port.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Wonderful.”
The kidneys and the excellent Pomerol worked their magic, and by the time he and Sophie had used the last of their bread to mop up the last of the gravy they were both in a mellow and optimistic mood. The connection with Reboul was interesting, possibly nothing more, but at least it was a lead that gave them something to work on.
“From what you tell me,” said Sam, “he has more money than he knows what to do with, he’s a little eccentric, and he’s a sucker for everything French. Do we know if he’s serious about wine? I guess he must be, if he has a caviste. Does he have contacts in the States? Does he collect things apart from girls and yachts? I’d like to know more about him.”
“In that case,” said Sophie, “the one you should see is my cousin.” She nodded and picked up her glass. “Yes, my cousin Philippe. He lives in Marseille, and he works for La Provence. That ’s the big newspaper of the region. He’s a senior reporter. He will know about Reboul, and what he doesn’t know he can find out. You would like him. He’s a little crazy. They all are down there. They call it fada.”
“He sounds great. Just what we need. When shall we go?”
“We?”
Sam leaned across the table, his voice grave, his expression serious. “You can’t let me go without you. Marseille’s a big town. I’d get lost. I’d have nobody to eat bouillabaisse with. And besides, the people at Knox are depending on you to follow every lead, every clue, even if it means going down to the south of France. As we say in the insurance business, it’s a lousy job, but someone’s got to do it.”
Sophie was laughing even as she shook her head. “Do you always persuade women to do what you want?”
“Not as often as I’d like. But I keep trying. How about some of that Camembert Delphine keeps chained up in the cellar?”
“Yes to the Camembert.”
And, by the time they had finished the wine and the coffee and the Calvados that Delphine pressed on them, it was yes to Marseille as well.
Sam had finished packing and was about to send himself off to sleep with a dose of CNN when his cell phone rang.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Levitt. How are you today?” The girl’s voice sounded warm and perky and Californian. “I have Elena Morales for you.”
Sam swallowed a yawn. “Elena, do you have any idea what time it is here?”
“Don’t get mad at me, Sam. It’s been one of those days. I’ve had Roth on my back. He came into the office and raised hell for an hour-lawyers, the media, his buddy the governor-if he’d stayed any longer I think he’d have dragged in the Supreme Court. In other words, he wants to know what’s going on and he wants his money. He asked for your number, but I told him you couldn’t be contacted.”
“Good girl.”
“He’ll be back. What am I going to tell him? Have you got anything?”
Sam recognized desperation when he heard it. Danny Roth in full cry, foaming at the mouth and spraying threats around, was enough to try the patience of a saint. It was time for what he hoped was a plausible lie.
“Listen,” he said. “Tell Roth that I’m conducting negotiations with the authorities in Bordeaux, and I’m hopeful of a breakthrough within the next few days. But-and this is very important-these negotiations are delicate and extremely sensitive. The reputation of Bordeaux is at stake. Publicity of any sort, anywhere, will compromise everything. So no lawyers, no media, and no governor. OK?”
He could almost hear Elena’s brain ticking over at the end of the line. “What’s really happening, Sam?”
“Something’s come up which might or might not be important, so we’re going to Marseille tomorrow to check it out.”
“We?”
Sam sighed. The second time tonight he’d been asked that question. “Madame Costes is coming with me. She has a contact down there who could be helpful.”
“What’s she like?”
“Madame Costes? Oh, fair, fat, and fifty. You know.”
“Yeah, right. A babe.”
“Good night, Elena.”
“Good night, Sam.”
Eleven
Sam had never been to Marseille, but he’d seen The French Connection and read one or two breathless articles by travel writers, and he thought he knew what to expect. There would be villainous characters-undoubtedly trainee Mafia executives-lurking on every street corner. The fish market on the Quai des Belges would be a conduit for substances not normally found inside fish: sea bass stuffed with heroin, or grouper with a cocaine garnish. Pickpockets and voyous of all kinds would be conveniently placed to relieve the unwary tourist of camera, wallet, or handbag. In every respect, it would echo Somerset Maugham’s summing-up of the Côte d’Azur -“a sunny place for shady people.” It sounded interesting.
Sophie, who had visited the city once, some years before, did little to change Sam’s expectations. Compared with the ordered gentility of Bordeaux, Marseille as she remembered it was a scruffy, crowded labyrinth, teeming with raucous, often rather sinister-looking men and women. “Louche” was the word she used to describe both the city and its inhabitants-that is, as the dictionary puts it, “shifty, suspicious, dubious and equivocal.” She wondered how her cousin Philippe could live, apparently happily, in such a place. But then, as she said to Sam, she had often thought there was a slightly louche side to him.
When they arrived at Marignane airport that afternoon, such dark thoughts were immediately dispelled by the dramatic, almost blinding clarity of the light, the thick Gauloise blue of the sky, and the amiable nature of the taxi driver who was taking them to their hotel. It soon became clear that he had missed his vocation; he should have been working for the tourist office. According to him, Marseille was the center of the universe, whereas Paris was no more than a pimple on the map. Marseille, having been established more than 2,600 years ago, was a treasure trove of history, tradition, and culture. The restaurants of Marseille were the reason God made fish. And the people of Marseille were the most generous and warmhearted souls one could wish to meet.
Sophie had been taking this in without comment, although her half smile and raised eyebrows suggested that she wasn’t entirely convinced. She took advantage of a pause for breath to ask the driver what he thought of Francis Reboul.
“Ah, Sissou, the king of Marseille!” The driver’s voice took on a respectful tone. “Now there’s a man who should be running the country. A man of the people, despite his billions. Imagine, a man who plays boules with his chauffeur! A man who could live anywhere, and where does he choose to live? Not in Paris, not in Monte Carlo, not in Switzerland, but right here in Marseille, in the Palais du Pharo, where he can look out of his window and see the most beautiful view in the world-the Vieux Port, the Mediterranean, the Château d’If, the magnificent church of Notre-Dame de la Garde… Merde!”
The driver stamped on his brakes and reversed, weaving backward through a chorus of horn-blowing from the oncoming flow of traffic until he reached the short driveway leading to the hotel. With apologies for having overshot the destination, he dropped them off, gave Sophie his card, beamed his appreciation of Sam’s tip, and wished them a memorable stay in Marseille.
On her cousin Philippe’s advice, Sophie had made reservations at the Sofitel Vieux Port, a modern hotel with a view of the twelfth-century Fort Saint-Jean, one of a trio of forts that had been built to keep pirates and seagoing Parisians at bay. Up in his room, Sam slid back the window, went out onto the terrace, and took a deep breath of salt air. Not bad, he thought, as he looked down across the sweep of the city. Not bad at all.
Spring had come early to Marseille, and the reflection of sun bouncing off water seemed to have polished the air and made it glitter. The masts of hundreds of small boats made a floating forest of the port. Out to sea, the Château d’If was in silhouette, flat, sharp, and clear. Sam wondered if Reboul’s view could be any better than this.
He went down to meet Sophie in the lobby, and found her pacing up and down, cell phone pressed to her ear. As she finished the call, she came over, glancing at her watch.
“That was Philippe,” she said. “He suggests we meet for a drink in half an hour.”
“They start early in Marseille. Is he coming here?”
Sophie sighed and shook her head. “It’s never simple with Philippe. He wants to show us one of his little bars where tourists never go. It’s in Le Panier. He says it’s a nice walk from here, typiquement marseillais. Are you ready for that?”
They stopped at the front desk to pick up a map and set off down the hill toward the Vieux Port. As they walked, Sophie passed on what little she knew about Le Panier. The oldest part of Marseille, once the home of fishermen, Corsicans, and Italians, it became a hiding place during the war for Jewish refugees and others trying to escape from the Nazis. In a particularly thorough act of retribution, the Nazis ordered the area to be evacuated in 1943, and then blew most of it up.
“Philippe knows many stories about that time,” said Sophie. “After the war, the quartier was rebuilt-I would say not very beautifully-and now the people who live here are mostly Arabs.”
They were crossing the quay at the end of the Vieux Port, making their way through the knots of tourists and students who were waiting for the ferry that would take them to the Château d’If. A row of old men, blinking like lizards in the sun, perched on a low wall looking at girls. A couple of dogs sniffed around the area where the fish market had been that morning. Infants in strollers took the air while their mothers chatted. It was a wholesome, peaceful scene, and Sam felt distinctly let down.
