The Marseille Caper (6 page)

“What is that?” she asked. “Some kind of weird French thing like a
tapas
code?”

“It means drink, laugh, sing,” said Philippe. “To encourage us to have fun.” A sudden roar of laughter from the next table interrupted him. “Not that we need much encouragement.”

“I find it very strange,” said Sam, “that the average Frenchman has this reputation for being … well, serious, you know? Not the kind of guy to let his hair down. Too concerned with appearances.”

“What you call a tight-ass?” suggested Philippe.

Sam grinned. “I never said that. But actually, most of the French I’ve met love to have a good time. I remember going to the wine auctions in Beaune once and I couldn’t keep up. Drinking, laughing, singing? That’s all they did for three days straight. And yet there’s this image of the straitlaced French. I don’t get it.”

Philippe held up his finger, a sure sign that enlightenment was to follow. “That’s because people like to pigeonhole us, to
take one aspect of our personality and judge us on that. Now, of course we are serious about important things—money and food and rugby, for instance. But we are more complex than that, and we are full of contrasts. On the one hand, we are amazingly egotistical: the two most popular words in the French language are
moi
and
je
, normally used together. And yet our treatment of others is usually polite, even considerate. We show respect. We kiss, we shake hands, we men rise to our feet for women, we leave the room when we take phone calls so as not to irritate people around us.” He paused to take a long sip of wine. “We drink, my God how we drink. But it is very unusual to see public drunkenness. We dress conservatively, and yet French women led the world in going topless on the beaches. It has been said that our national preoccupations are sex, hypochondria, and the belly. But there is more to us than that.” He nodded his approval of what he had just said, and held out the empty wine bottle to a passing waitress for a refill.

Elena had been paying close attention to this crash course in the French psyche, and, in what she hoped was true Gallic style, held up a finger of her own and wagged it. “Handshaking, OK. Cheek-kissing, OK. Polite, OK. Until they get into their cars. I have to tell you I have never seen so many seriously homicidal drivers as there are in France. What’s their problem?”

Philippe smiled and shrugged. “Some would say
joie de vivre
, but I have another theory. I think that French drivers suffer from a physical disability: they only have two hands,
when, of course, they need three. Smoking and the telephone take up one hand and the other must be kept free in order to make insulting gestures at other drivers who are too fast, too slow, too close, or Belgian.” Seeing Elena’s puzzled expression, he added, “Belgians always drive in the middle of the road. This is well known. Ah, here are the
tapas
.”

The next few minutes passed in a contented semi-silence as they explored the nine small dishes set before them, sniffing, tasting, sometimes exchanging a forkful of violet-colored artichoke for a tender little clam wrapped in Spanish ham, or mopping up the herb-scented olive oil with their bread. In many ways,
tapas
make an ideal first course: not too heavy, with a variety of flavors to wake up the taste buds, and served in modest amounts that don’t blunt the appetite. With the final dish wiped clean, the conversation returned to business.

“I guess you know there’s some kind of press reception and cocktail party later on this week,” Sam said to Philippe. “Are you going? Will Patrimonio be there?”

Philippe raised his eyes to the ceiling. “
Bof!
Try to keep him away. This is his moment of glory. I’m afraid we can expect a speech from the old windbag. I shall be there to record it for posterity. And you will have a chance to meet your competitors, take a look at their ideas.” He shook his head at the thought. “Hotels, hotels, hotels. It’s always hotels or office buildings.”

“So what do you think of our idea?”

“Of course, I haven’t seen the details. Even so, I hope it will win. It’s more human, more civilized.” Philippe stared
into his wine glass, his expression thoughtful. “But from what I hear, Wapping has a history of always getting what he wants, one way or another. Not an easy man to beat. And you can usually trust Patrimonio to make the wrong decision.”

Elena was frowning as she put down her glass. “You keep talking about Patrimonio as if he were the only guy that mattered. I know he’s chairman, but isn’t there a committee? Don’t the members have a say? Or are they just dummies put there to make up the numbers?”

Philippe started to run his fingers through his hair—an old habit—until he realized that there was nothing left to run his fingers through. “There are six, or maybe seven, on the committee. I know that two of them owe their jobs to Patrimonio, so they’ll vote the way he tells them to. As for the others, your guess is as good as mine. They’ll all be at the reception. I’ll see what I can find out.”

The dish of the day arrived in all its dusky glory, with tendrils and thin slices of inkfish resting on a bed of glistening black angel’s-hair pasta. To one side, for a change of texture, and to provide what Philippe called an epiphany for the palate, there was a creamy sauce of goat’s cheese.

Elena took her first mouthful, and let out a small sigh of pleasure. “This is lovely. Is it going to give me black lips?”

Sam leaned forward to inspect her mouth. “Not yet. So far, it’s just the teeth.”

Elena turned to Philippe. “See what I have to put up with?”

Philippe nodded his head in sympathy. “Humor is how the Anglo-Saxon man declares his love,” he said. “A Frenchman
is …,” he performed a demi-shrug, with just the one shoulder cocked, “more subtle, more romantic, altogether more alluring.”

“I like it,” said Elena. “Alluring is nice.”

Sam felt it was time to change the subject. “Tell us about Mimi at the office. Is this the real thing? Has she started redecorating your apartment? She’s certainly redecorated you.”

Philippe turned to Elena. “You see? He mocks me. Now then: what can I tell you about Mimi? Petite, red hair, highly intelligent, witty, wonderful legs, and, obviously”—here, he smirked—“excellent taste in men. You will adore her. She wanted to come tonight, but she has a martial-arts class.”

Thoughts of Mimi gave way to consideration of dessert, with Philippe persuading Elena to try what he described as a
profiterole
on steroids, a veritable prince of
profiteroles
, plumped up with a miraculously light
crème Chantilly
. Sam contented himself with some Manchego cheese—sliced thin, the way it should be—with quince jam and a glass of solid red wine from the Languedoc. As he ate, he listened to Philippe describing to Elena a few of the city’s distractions: the Cathédrale de la Major, supported by 444 marble columns; the Vieux Port; twentieth-century art in the Musée Cantini; Pagnol’s Bar de la Marine; the magnificent Vieille Charité, designed by the court architect of Louis XIV to shelter the homeless; the view from Notre-Dame de la Garde. Or perhaps a tour of the boutiques, guided by Mimi, followed by a restorative session in the spa on the Corniche. And, of course, there was always Marseille’s favorite blood sport.

“If you like soccer,” said Philippe, “this is not to be
missed—Olympique de Marseille’s last game of the season, against Paris Saint-Germain. We detest them. Mark my words, it will be a grudge match.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Elena. “What does a girl wear to a grudge match?”

“Body armor.” Philippe took a deep, noisy breath through pursed lips. “Those PSG fans are brutes.”

Over coffee, it was agreed that Elena and Mimi would meet the next day. Sam was to continue polishing up his presentation, and Philippe planned to call his contacts in the city bureaucracy to see what he could dig up. They said their farewells in the soft, warm darkness outside the restaurant. Philippe slipped on his sunglasses against the glare of the moon, cocked a leg over his scooter, and clattered off. Tomorrow would be a busy day for all of them.

Six

Sam finished reading the last of the documents and sat back with a sigh of relief. He now knew enough—more than enough—about Reboul’s development plans, from the number of berths in the marina to the color of the roof tiles and the size of the bathrooms. The next step would be to transform this mass of detail into a sixty-minute presentation for Patrimonio’s committee. He stood up, stretched to ease his aching back, and pushed open the shutters to let in the sunlight. It was a beautiful blue and gold Mediterranean morning. He wondered how Elena and Mimi were getting on, and resisted the temptation to call Elena and invite himself to lunch. Work, he said to himself. That’s what you’re here for. Work.

He was saved from further self-improvement by his phone. It was Philippe, sounding furtive and conspiratorial.

“Can you talk?”

Sam wondered if he should check under the desk for eavesdroppers. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“I have this contact who works in one of the bars on the Vieux Port. A man who keeps his eyes and ears open. Well, one of his friends does a little business in the summer with boats coming into Frioul—you know, those islands just off the coast. And guess who’s been there for the past few days, in one of the hidden moorings.”

Sam’s mind ran the gamut from President Sarkozy to Brad Pitt. “I don’t know, Philippe. You tell me.”

“Lord Wapping. Interesting,
non
? And that’s not all. Last night, he gave a dinner party on his yacht—which, incidentally, is called
The Floating Pound
. I’m told this is an English joke. And listen to this: Patrimonio was one of his dinner guests.”

“Why am I not surprised?” said Sam. “I’d better tell my partners. Maybe they can arrange to have Wapping shot.”

There was a snort of irritation from Philippe. “Always the jokes. But I tell you—an intimacy like this is not good news. Anyway, I think we should go out and take a look at the boat. It would be an interesting detail for my piece.”

“Your piece?”

“Actually, it’s a series I’m doing for the paper. I’m calling it ‘The Diary of a Development.’ Here—I’ll read you the first paragraph.” He cleared his throat and assumed the weighty, sonorous tone of a television newsreader.

“ ‘The Anse des Pêcheurs, for countless centuries a tranquil refuge for the fishermen of Marseille, will shortly undergo
a total transformation. Just what form this transformation will take is to be decided over the coming weeks by a development committee under the chairmanship of Jérôme Patrimonio, for many years a prominent figure in city affairs. The committee will be considering three competitive projects, and in our exclusive series we shall be examining these projects—and the organizations behind each one—so that you, our readers, will be fully informed about the most significant change to the Marseille coastline in generations.’ ”

Philippe’s voice returned to normal. “It’s a pretty standard opening, but I’ll get to the dirt later on.”

“You’ve found some dirt?”

“Trust me. I will. There’s always dirt in the construction business. Now, can you meet me down at the Vieux Port in half an hour? I have a friend with a boat who can take us out to Frioul. I can get a couple of photographs of Wapping’s yacht. Good for the piece.”

Sam was smiling as he ended the call. Philippe’s enthusiasm was contagious, and he found himself looking forward to the expedition. But first, he wanted to bring Reboul up to date.

When Reboul heard that Patrimonio had been to dinner on the Wapping yacht, his reaction was succinct and unflattering. “The man is
connu pour un parasite
,” he said. “A freeloader. He would go to a stranger’s funeral if drinks were being served.” After hearing about the trip to Frioul, he wished Sam
bon voyage
. “And if you get the chance, drown Wapping.”

The Vieux Port was crowded, as it usually was on a sunny morning, and it took Sam several minutes to find Philippe, eventually spotting him in a speedboat tied up alongside one
of the island ferries. The ferry captain and a deckhand were leaning over the side flirting with the speedboat’s crew, a young blonde dressed for the trip in a yachting cap and what appeared to be a couple of handkerchiefs held together by optimism.

Philippe, looking far from nautical in his black suit, waved to Sam and ushered him on board. “This is my friend Jean-Claude,” he said, turning to a small, wiry man, brown as a nut, who was standing by the wheel. “He’s the captain, so show some respect. And Birgitta here is his first mate.
Bon. Allons-y!
” And with a burble from the powerful engine as accompaniment, Jean-Claude threaded his way through the neatly moored rows of small sailboats and out into the open sea.

Sam loathed boats. For him, they were cursed with two fundamental disadvantages: there was never enough room, and you couldn’t get off. Even so, he found himself enjoying the clean, salty air and the spectacular view of Marseille stretching behind them at the end of their long white wake, as the boat made a gentle southwesterly curve from the Vieux Port.