The Marseille Caper (2 page)

When they were finally through, Cecilia was summoned to escort them to the elevator. “Wow,” she said, “he normally doesn’t spend that much time with
anyone
. He must really like you guys.”

Elena turned up the air-conditioning in the car and settled
back in her seat. “If I needed another excuse to get out of town, that was it. The man’s a monster. I’ll tell you something—Marseille’s looking better and better.”

“Well, let’s see what Reboul has to say.”

“Don’t even think of turning him down. I’ll twist one arm, and he can twist the other.” She leaned across and kissed Sam’s ear. “Resistance will be useless.”

Two

Elena and Sam were late as they hurried along the corridor toward the elevator that would take them down to the Chateau Marmont restaurant and dinner with Francis Reboul.

They had been delayed by Elena’s competitive urge, a desire to wear something that, in her words, would show Reboul that French women weren’t the only babes in the world. After several false starts and considerable discussion, she had chosen a dress that was very much the style of the moment: black, tight, and short.

As they waited for the elevator to arrive, Sam put his arm around her waist, then allowed his hand to slide gently down to the upper slopes of the finely proportioned Morales
derrière
. His hand stopped, moved farther down, stopped again.

“Elena,” he said, “are you wearing anything under that dress?”

“Not a lot,” she said. “A couple of drops of Chanel.” She
looked up at him and smiled her most innocent smile. “It’s that kind of dress, you know? There’s only room for me.”

“Mmm.” Sam was saved from further comment as the elevator doors opened to reveal a man wearing a blazer and brick-red trousers, with matching brick-red face. He was holding a half-empty martini glass, which he raised to them. “Going to a party out there in the garden,” he said. “I thought I’d get some practice in first.” As the elevator came to a stop, he drained his glass, put it in his blazer pocket, straightened his shoulders, and set off, weaving slightly.

Reboul was already at their table, champagne bucket at his elbow, going through a sheaf of papers. At the sight of Elena he leaped to his feet and took her hand, confining himself this time to a single kiss and a murmured
“Ravissante, ravissante.”
Elena inclined her head prettily. Sam rolled his eyes. Their waiter poured champagne.

Reboul was a man for whom the word dapper might have been invented. Tonight he was resplendent in a black silk suit (the tiny scarlet ribbon of the Légion d’Honneur a nick of color on his lapel) and a shirt of the palest blue. A dazzling white handkerchief, also silk, was tucked into the cuff of his jacket. Like many fortunate Mediterranean men, his skin welcomed the sun, and his smooth, light-mahogany complexion provided a most flattering contrast with his perfectly white, perfectly trimmed hair. Even his eyebrows, Elena noticed, had received the skilled attentions of a master barber. Beneath the eyebrows, his brown eyes twinkled with good humor. He was living testimony to the joys of being rich. “A toast,” he said, lifting his glass. “To the success of our little venture.”

Sam paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. “I don’t want to spoil the fun,” he said, “but I like to know a lot more about my little ventures before I get too excited.”

“And so you shall, my dear Sam, and so you shall.” Reboul passed the wine list across to Sam. “But first, could I ask you to choose some wine for us? I seem to remember that you have an eye for a good vintage.” This was accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a conspiratorial nod of the head, as though Reboul were sharing a secret.

It was the first time he had referred—albeit not too directly—to Sam’s theft of several hundred bottles of the wines he had taken such trouble to acquire. And from his air of general benevolence, and the smile on his face, he appeared to find the incident amusing. Was that really how he felt? Perhaps now was not the moment, thought Sam, to pursue the subject. Without looking at the wine list, he pushed it to one side. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but I’ve already arranged the wine. I have a little cellar here, unfortunately nothing like yours, and I chose one or two bottles you might find interesting. There’s a Châteauneuf-du-Pape—but a
white
Châteauneuf-du-Pape—and one of our local wines you may not have tried yet: the Beckstoffer Cabernet from Napa. How do they sound?”

Reboul looked up from the menu. “
Formidable
. And now, dear Elena, what should I eat? Women always know best. I am in your hands.”

Elena patted his arm. “Leave it to me.” She studied the menu for a few moments. “
Soupe au pistou?
Maybe not—I guess you get plenty of that at home. The seafood is very good
here, so you could start with crab cakes and a purée of avocado …”

Reboul held up his hand. “Say no more. I have a passion for crab cakes. I would kill for crab cakes.”

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.” Elena looked up from the menu. “What are we today? Tuesday? Great—the special today is braised rabbit and pappardelle with wild mushrooms. Delicious. Trust me.”

“You amaze me,” said Reboul. “I didn’t know Americans ate rabbits.”

“This American does.”

The orders were placed, the bottles were uncorked, the champagne was given due attention, and, with a shrug of apology to Elena for bringing business to the table, Reboul started to outline the reason for his visit.

“Marseille is an extraordinary city,” he began. “It was established more than twenty-six hundred years ago, before Paris was even called Paris. And it’s big. The Marseille of today covers twice as much land as Paris. But, as you would imagine, the land along the coast of Marseille—land, as we say, with its feet in the Mediterranean—has almost all been developed.” Reboul paused to take a sip of champagne. “Except for one charming little bay, the Anse des Pêcheurs, to the east of the old port. I won’t bore you with the history of why it was never developed, except to say that for a hundred and twenty years it has been fought over and disputed by generations of city politicians and construction companies. There have been bribes, counter-bribes, court cases, and, so they say, at least
one killing. But two years ago, at last, a decision was made to develop the Anse des Pêcheurs. It is a project very close to my heart, and I have already spent a great deal of time and money on it, but …”

The arrival of the crab cakes caused Reboul to stop, tuck a napkin into his shirt collar, try the white Châteauneuf, and compliment Sam on his choice.

“Tell me,” asked Sam, “what happened to help all these guys finally make up their minds after a hundred and twenty years?”

Reboul took a longer, more considered sip of the Châteauneuf, holding it in his mouth and nodding his approval before replying. “Back in 2008, Marseille was voted European Capital of Culture for 2013, with the aim, to use the official language, of ‘accelerating development.’ I think that was the final push. At any rate, bids and ideas for developing the Anse were invited, and eventually a shortlist was drawn up of three proposals. One of them—the best, in my opinion—is mine. Also, my two competitors suffer from a disadvantage: they are foreigners, a group from Paris and an English syndicate. Neither of them has shown any imagination. Both want to build big hotels with all the modern trimmings—rooftop pools, spas, luxury shopping malls, the same tired old ideas. Fine for tourists, maybe, but not so good for the people who live in Marseille. And the buildings will undoubtedly be ugly concrete-and-glass boxes.” He wiped the last of the avocado puree from his plate with a piece of bread and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.

“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 voilà
. 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 Jésus 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. Jérôme 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 & 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.”