The Marseille Caper (10 page)

They pushed through the bead curtain at the entrance, to be greeted by a sudden silence and the stares of half a dozen men who looked up for a moment before returning to their newspapers and dominoes. The national ban on smoking in enclosed public spaces was being enthusiastically ignored, and a rising tide of nicotine had long ago obscured the original paintwork. But the room was clean, and not without a certain battered charm. Plain wooden chairs and marble-topped tables bearing the scars of the years were arranged along two of the walls, a third wall was taken up by a long table that had been laid for a meal, and the fourth by a bar and a very elderly bartender. In a far corner, a stout swinging door suggested the presence of a kitchen.

Apart from a flat-screen television above the dining table with the sound turned off, the decorations were limited to large framed photographs, some faded with age, of the Olympique de Marseille soccer teams over the years. “The owner of this place, Serge, used to play for the OM,” said Philippe, “until his leg was broken by some
salaud
in a game against Paris Saint-Germain. That’s his father behind the bar. Now, what are you going to have?”

They settled for a carafe of
rosé “supérieur,”
which Philippe fetched from the bar, and then Elena and Sam sat back to listen to his account of the exchange with Patrimonio.

Philippe was hoping for an interview, but it had started badly when Patrimonio had introduced him to Caroline Dumas as “the local hack.” Philippe grimaced at the memory. “He was showing off in front of her, obviously. And I know I shouldn’t care what that pompous old fart says. But he was so condescending it got under my skin. And it got worse. When I asked him a couple of questions, he looked down his nose at me. ‘Don’t bother me now,’ he said. ‘Call my secretary if you want to arrange an interview.’ This was a public event, for God’s sake. He was presenting the projects, and he wouldn’t talk to the press? That really annoyed me, and that was when I said something I guess I shouldn’t have.” He paused to take a swig of wine. “I asked him if he thought it was ethical behavior to accept the hospitality of one of the competitors. He said he didn’t know what I was talking about, and so I suggested that we go over and get Lord Wapping’s confirmation. Then it started to get ugly, and I left.”

“How much of this did Caroline Dumas hear?”

“Only the beginning. After that, she made herself scarce.” Philippe drained his glass, and refilled it from the carafe. “But there was one bright spot in the evening. I spoke to all the committee members, and most of them seem to like your idea—one of them actually said he’d be interested in an apartment.” The bar had been filling up while Philippe had been talking, with the new arrivals taking up their places at the long table against the wall. A young girl came out of the kitchen at the back and started taking orders for drinks. The old man remained behind the bar. Table service was obviously not included in his professional duties.

“Is this Tuesday?” Philippe consulted his watch. “I thought so. Once a week Serge’s wife does tripe, and tonight must be tripe night. The Provençal version is called
pieds et paquets
—feet and parcels. Serge’s wife makes the best in Marseille. Are you feeling hungry?”

Elena looked at Sam, and shrugged. “I’ve never had tripe. What is it exactly?”

“Basically,” said Philippe, “it’s a mixture of sheep’s intestines. Some butchers call it organ meat. In this recipe, the tripe is cut into small squares and made into
paquets
stuffed with lean bacon, parsley, garlic, onions, carrots, olive oil, white wine, chopped tomatoes, and—very important—sheep’s feet. It needs to be gently simmered for several hours, of course.”

“Of course,” said Sam. “You wouldn’t want a half-cooked sheep’s foot.” He turned to Elena. “What do you think? Sounds interesting. You want to try it?”

Elena had been listening to Philippe with mounting horror. “You know what? I had a big lunch. I think I’ll pass.”

Nine

“BÉTON SUR MER!” screamed the headline in
La Provence
: concrete by the sea. This was followed by several hundred words, none of them complimentary, about what was referred to as the creeping menace of high-rise buildings along the Marseille coastline.

Philippe had perhaps overdone it, partly as a result of his squabble with Patrimonio. He had begun by reminding his readers about two or three well-known local eyesores that had been built since the fifties. Time and sloppy upkeep had turned them into sad, stained concrete hulks, which Philippe had described as scabs on the face of Marseille. Is this, he asked rhetorically, what the inhabitants of a great city would choose to live with? Do they want more of the same?

It was not only concrete that offended Philippe. It was the size, and above all the height, of these massive slabs that he claimed were destroying the Marseille skyline. How long
would it be before the golden statue of the Virgin Mary that crowns the basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde was obscured by an office high-rise? Or the old buildings around the Vieux Port replaced by multistory garages and hotels? At what point would the people of Marseille say enough!

This brought Philippe to the crux of his article: the dangers and opportunities of building on the Anse des Pêcheurs. It was a choice, he argued, between high-rise and low-rise, between a building designed to extract money from tourists and a building designed to provide homes for locals. He was careful not to mention any names; but then, he didn’t have to. It was very clear where his sympathies lay.

As one might expect, Philippe’s article received mixed reviews. A jovial Reboul called Sam to congratulate him on planting a useful piece of propaganda, and refused to believe it when Sam said he had had nothing to do with it.

Patrimonio was furious, and immediately called the newspaper’s editor to demand a front-page retraction. In reply, he received a brisk lecture on that most precious commodity, journalistic integrity. To further spoil his day, there was a call from an icy Caroline Dumas expressing her profound displeasure.

Lord Wapping, once the article had been translated for him, was seething with anger. He summoned Ray Prendergast for a council of war.

“Ray,” he said, chewing on his cigar with irritation, “this is unacceptable. Totally unacceptable.” He shoved the newspaper away with the back of his hand. “What can we do about this little tosser?”

Prendergast didn’t need to think for long. “Same as we always do, Billy. Offer him cash or a couple of broken legs. Never fails. Do you want me to have a word with the lads?”

Wapping considered the respective merits of bribery and violence. There was no doubt that a session with Brian and Dave would curb the journalist’s enthusiasm for the story. On the other hand, if he could be bought, there was a good chance that he could be persuaded to put the case for Wapping’s project in another article—or indeed in a series of articles. Cash, he decided.

“But let’s keep it in the family, Ray. I’d like you to do the necessary.”

“Suppose he doesn’t speak English?”

“He’ll speak English when he sees the money. You can count on it.”

The meeting was about to break up when Wapping’s phone rang, with an agitated Patrimonio on the other end. Wapping cut him short.

“No need to get your knickers in a twist, Jérôme. We’re dealing with it. No, don’t ask. You don’t want to know.”

A relieved but slightly puzzled Patrimonio put his phone down and pressed the buzzer on his desk. His secretary appeared. “Nathalie,” he said, “you have very good English. What is this knickers in a twist?”

Sam took a second and more careful look at the article before calling Philippe.

“Well, my friend,” he said, “I think you might have made
one or two enemies this morning. Have you had any reactions yet?”

“My editor likes it. Patrimonio doesn’t. Mimi thinks it’s great. We’ll start getting reactions from readers later today. What did you think of it?”

“Wouldn’t want to change a word. But I guess you won’t be getting too many fan letters from Wapping and Caroline Dumas.”

Philippe laughed. “If I wanted to be popular I’d have been a politician. What are you doing today?”

“Working on my presentation. And I have a few calls to make. How about you?”

“You won’t believe this. There’s a demonstration this afternoon on one of the beaches by the local branch of Nudistes de France. They want the law changed so they can sunbathe naked. Should be fun.”

Sam wondered how someone like Philippe would go down in California.

He got back to his presentation. It was nearly there, except for one crucial decision. Where should it take place? Sam had an idea, but it was complicated, and he couldn’t organize it by himself. He got back on the phone, this time to Reboul.

“Francis, I think it’s time we got together. I want you to look at the presentation, and I have a couple of ideas I’d like to bounce off you. Do you have any time later on today?”

There was a rustle of paper as Reboul looked through his diary. “I could make myself free between four and six this afternoon. But Sam, we must be careful not to be seen together. Marseille is full of nosy people with big mouths.” Reboul was
silent for a moment, and then Sam heard him chuckle. “Of course. I know just the place. I have a little ranch in the Camargue. It is perfectly private. Olivier can drive you there. Shall we say 4:30?”

The only two things Sam knew about the Camargue were that it was flat and that it was inhabited for part of the year by flamingos along with a particularly large and ferocious member of the mosquito family. While he waited on the terrace for Olivier he glanced through a guidebook he’d picked up from the house library and was immediately intrigued.

The Camargue had supplied some of the first cowboys in America—men who had left the flamingos for a new life in the bayous of Louisiana and East Texas. Those who had stayed behind became known as
gardians
. They looked after the native black longhorn cattle which, unlike normal cattle, could not only survive but flourish on the Camargue’s salt grass. For transport, the
gardians
used another native of the Camargue—the elegant descendants of the white horse introduced by the Arabs many centuries before.

Today, the guide continued, the Camargue is probably best known for its salt, and is sometimes described as the salt cellar of France. And it is no ordinary salt. The
fleur de sel
—the jewel of the salt pans, still gathered in the traditional way by man and his wooden shovel—is regarded as a supreme delicacy. Sam had always thought of salt as little more than white dust, and he shook his head as he read on, the prose waxing more and more ecstatic about the effects of
fleur de sel
applied to a raw radish. Only in France.

The big car came to a stop below the terrace, and Sam
settled into the passenger seat for the journey to Arles and then down into the Camargue. Olivier, delighted to practice his English on a captive audience, explained how Reboul had come to be the owner of a ranch.

It had started off pleasantly enough when Reboul had invited a few acquaintances over for a poker game. Luck was running for Reboul that night, and he was collecting his winnings at the end of the evening when one of the others, a Marseille property dealer named Leconte, announced that he wasn’t ready to stop. He had lost consistently during the evening, and had consoled himself a little too generously with Reboul’s single malt Scotch. He also suffered from the conviction that he was a better poker player than Reboul, and wanted to prove it. Leconte had always been inclined to arrogance and boastfulness, and whisky made him worse. He proposed a two-handed game, just him and Reboul, for what he called serious stakes—not the small change they had been playing for so far.

Reboul tried to persuade Leconte to drop the idea: it was late, and they all had to work the next day. But Leconte made the great mistake of inferring that Reboul was scared to play for big stakes, and persisted in his demand to keep playing, so Reboul humored him and let Leconte propose the stakes. Each player put up one euro. If Leconte won, he could buy Reboul’s yacht for his euro; if Reboul won, he could buy Leconte’s property in the Camargue for the same price.

“I was there, serving the drinks,” said Olivier. “It was very
dramatique
, like a movie. And when Monsieur Reboul won, he tried to make a joke of it, and gave Leconte back his euro to
cancel the debt. But Leconte refused. It was a matter of honor, he said.
Et voilà
.”

“Where is Leconte now?”

“Oh, he said Marseille was becoming too provincial for him. He sold his business and moved to Morocco.”

By now, they had left the autoroute linking Marseille and Arles and had turned south on one of the minor roads leading down to the coast. The landscape had changed; it was flat, vast, and empty. The sky, with no silhouettes of buildings, trees, or hills to interrupt it, seemed suddenly bigger. If the sun hadn’t been shining, Sam thought, it would all seem quite sinister.