The Marseille Caper

Four

The big Peugeot made its cautious way through the cramped streets of Marseille’s 7th and 8th arrondissements, where the great and the good-and the chic-have their homes. Olivier was driving at walking pace and often had only inches to spare. He was negotiating the narrow, twisting Chemin du Roucas Blanc, passing between high walls that half concealed villas built in the pompous style greatly admired by the prosperous merchants of the nineteenth century. Occasionally there would be an architectural hiccup: a modern white ranch house looking slightly uncomfortable so far from California, or a tiny, shabby building, little more than a hut, which had once sheltered a fisherman and his family. This was typical of Marseille, Olivier said: wealth and poverty cheek by jowl, palaces next to hovels-the marks of a city that had grown organically, without much interference from urban planners.

As they drew closer to the sea, the walls on either side seemed to become higher, and the houses bigger. These had been built here by the richest merchants of Marseille not only for the beauty of the sea views, but so that they could keep an eye on their floating assets-the ships and their delightfully profitable cargoes going in and out of the port.

“Wow,” said Elena. “See that place? What a spot.” They had come to the brow of a rise in the road, and she was looking at a house just below them. It was built on a point that jutted out toward the sea, surrounded by a small forest of parasol pines, and protected by the inevitable high wall.

Olivier was smiling. “Monsieur Reboul hopes you will find it comfortable. This is where he used to live before he moved to Le Pharo. You won’t be disturbed here. It’s very peaceful.” He slowed down to give the iron gates time to swing open, and pulled up on the gravel forecourt in front of a short flight of steps that led to the massive entrance door.

Waiting at the top of the steps was a welcoming committee of two: a slim, elegant figure with short, gray hair, and a much larger, younger woman whose wide, white smile was perfectly set off by her shining black face. Olivier introduced them as Claudine, who ran the house, and Nanou from Martinique, who was the maid. “Claudine’s English is excellent,” said Olivier, “but with Nanou it is what I think you call a work in progress.” At the sound of her name, Nanou took a deep breath. “How you doing?” she said, followed by “Have a nice day,” and then spoiled the effect by dissolving into giggles.

Claudine led them into the house, across a gleaming expanse of beeswaxed herringbone parquet, up a broad staircase, and through double doors into what was to be their bedroom.

Sam looked around and let out a low whistle. “I guess we’ll be able to squeeze in here,” he said. “It’s about the same size as my apartment.”

Claudine smiled. “It used to be Monsieur Reboul’s bedroom.” She pointed to two doors set into the far wall. “You each have a bathroom. Monsieur Reboul always says that the secret of a harmonious relationship between a man and a woman is to have separate bathrooms.”

“Amen,” said Sam. There was a muffled snort from Elena.

“I’ll leave you to unpack. Then perhaps you’d like coffee on the terrace. I can give you your phones and answer any questions you may have.”

Elena had been making a tour of inspection that took in the closet space (capacious, even by American standards), the bathrooms (vast, marbled, and well lit), the four-poster bed (for its degree of firmness and bounce), and the views through the long windows. “Sam, what is that on the hill over there? There’s something shiny on the top. Looks wonderful.”

Sam went over and stood behind her, massaging the back of her neck while he studied the view to the northeast. In the distance he could see the massive basilica which he had come to know on his previous visit to Marseille. He cleared his throat and assumed his most professorial voice. “That is Notre-Dame de la Garde, constructed in the neo-Byzantine style, and crowned by a golden statue of the Virgin. She is over thirty feet high, and known locally as ‘La Bonne Mere,’ greatly loved for her miraculous qualities. In the tower is a bell that weighs eight tons. The bell is called Marie-Josephine. The clapper is called Bertrand. The …”

“Sam, you’re full of it.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m going to take a quick shower, and you could do with a shave.”

Fifteen minutes later, showered and changed, they were sitting with Claudine on the terrace. Below them, the sea, glittering in the sun, was dotted with sailing boats. On the low wall of the terrace, two seagulls were conducting a raucous squabble over a withered morsel of something mysterious and long dead.

“Look at those guys,” said Elena. “They’re huge. They’re like turkeys.”

Claudine poured coffee. “If you believe what you hear, we also have sardines the size of sharks. Everything in Marseille is bigger, and if it’s not, we pretend it is. I think it is like your Texas, non?” She smiled and shook her head. “Now then. Here are your phones, each with four names in the memory: Monsieur Reboul, Olivier, myself, and, of course, you have each other’s numbers in there. Monsieur Reboul asks that you call him sometime today to check that everything is OK. Here are some business cards for Monsieur Levitt, identifying him as vice president of Van Buren Partners. And here is a member’s pass to the Cercle des Nageurs, the swimming club. It has an Olympic-sized pool and a nice restaurant, which is very agreeable for lunch. And finally, when you have finished your coffee, perhaps we can go inside and see the project model that will be used at the presentation.”

The model had been set up in the dining room, taking up most of the long oak table, and it precisely matched Reboul’s earlier description of a low, crescent-shaped range of apartments overlooking a garden that led to a marina. Sam was immediately struck by the attention to detail, even down to the colors of the shutters and the miniature residents strolling between tiny trees in the garden or having a nautical moment among their tiny boats in the marina. The only thing missing, he thought, was a snug little bar overlooking the sea. But on the whole, he was very pleased with what he saw. It would fit in with the coastline, it wouldn’t add an ugly concrete stump to the skyline, and it would provide homes for hundreds of Marseillais. Reboul’s architect friend had done well.

Sam was wondering what it would be like to live there when Elena called out across the room. “Don’t forget this is a vacation day. Claudine thinks we’d like Cassis, and Olivier’s waiting outside to take us. How about it?”

“This is the life,” said Elena, adjusting her sunglasses and leaning back in her seat as the car crept back down the Chemin du Roucas Blanc. Cassis was only thirty kilometers away, the sun was high in the sky, and she hadn’t thought about the office all morning. “Somebody once said that it takes you years to accept hardship and bad luck, but only twenty-four hours to get used to comfort and good luck. Chauffeurs, housekeepers, maids-I love it.”

It showed. The last time Sam had seen her this relaxed had been during a few days they had stolen in Paris. He was beginning to think that the very fact of being in France was enough to lift her spirits-no doubt helped by the thousands of miles of separation from the insurance business. If Olivier hadn’t been sitting inches away, he would have suggested an idea he’d been keeping to himself for some time: a divided life, with summers in Provence and winters in L.A. Maybe he’d bring it up when the moment was right.

“You know,” he said, “you’re fluent in Spanish. You’d pick up French very fast.”

Elena gave him a sideways look. “Is this leading somewhere?”

Sam smiled, but didn’t answer. Ever since their last explosive breakup and reconciliation, each of them had been careful to avoid talking about the future. Although Elena spent most nights with Sam at the Chateau Marmont, she still kept her apartment, her job, and her independence. At the moment this suited her, but for how much longer?

“Well, you know me, Sam. Always open to an interesting offer.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, then realized that the fluttering was in vain, as she was wearing Hollywood-size sunglasses.

Sam fished in his pocket for his phone. “Do you want to say hello to your favorite journalist? I thought we might have dinner with him tonight.”

Philippe Davin had been one of the most pleasant surprises of Sam’s previous trip to Marseille. A senior journalist for La Provence, the self-styled bible of Provencal news, Philippe had taken Sam under his well-informed wing in exchange for exclusive rights to any story that might develop. Better still, he had acted as driver of the getaway vehicle-an elderly plumber’s van-when Sam had removed the wine from Reboul’s cellar. To complete the assignment, Philippe had gone to Los Angeles to interview the legal owner of those bottles, Danny Roth, and it was then that he had met Elena.

To Sam’s relief, the two of them had taken to one another instantly. Philippe scampered around Elena like a large, undisciplined puppy, calling her La Bomba Latina and keeping her amused with extravagant compliments and some woefully bad attempts at Spanish. In return, she was happy to give him what she called L.A. 101, a basic guide to the city’s habits and diversions, and she found plenty to enjoy in his reactions. He loved the Lakers game they went to, but was completely bewildered by American football. Puzzled by the unnaturally placid behavior of Los Angeles drivers, stunned by the prices of modest wooden houses in Malibu, appreciative of the seemingly endless parade of young blondes, impressed by Californian wines, amazed at the agility of superannuated surfers-he was fascinated by it all. He suffered only two disappointments: there was no sign of former governor Schwarzenegger on Muscle Beach, and a visit to Starbucks passed without seeing anyone draw a gun. But otherwise the trip had been a great success, and he had made Elena promise to come to Marseille so that he could return the favor.

“Philippe? It’s Sam. I’m here in town for a few days.” He winced, and held the phone away from his ear to lessen the volume of Philippe’s enthusiastic response.

“Listen-I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. How about dinner tonight? Great. You choose somewhere and I’ll call you back later. Meanwhile, I have one of your admirers here.”

He passed the phone to Elena. There was a second explosion of joy from Philippe, followed by heated expressions of devotion that brought a blush to Elena’s cheek. “Philippe,” she said at last, cutting him off, “you are so bad. See you tonight. Can’t wait.”

They were dropping down toward Cassis now, passing some of the fastidiously maintained vineyards that produced the white wine considered by the gourmets of Marseille to be the only proper accompaniment for a bouillabaisse. Needless to say, the Marseillais had their own highly exaggerated account of how the wines of Cassis came into being, as Olivier explained.

In effect, so the story went, the vineyards were established by Le Bon Dieu. He came down from heaven one day and by chance saw a family working on the rocky slopes above Cassis. It was hard, backbreaking work, and nothing seemed to be growing. This made God very sad, and as He saw how the family suffered, He shed a tear. Miraculously, the tear fell on a struggling vine, which promptly started to flourish before giving birth to a wonderful-some would say divine-wine with a delicate tint of the palest green. The Provencal poet Frederic Mistral found time between stanzas to enjoy the odd glass, and claimed to detect hints of heather, rosemary, and myrtle.

“We’ll try a bottle with lunch,” Sam said to Elena, “and you can amaze me with the sensitivity of your palate and the delicacy of your powers of description.”

Normally, Elena never allowed sarcasm to pass unpunished, but this time she was far too busy taking in the view. Cassis is thought by many to be the prettiest spot on the coast. Apart from its vineyards, it has everything: a medieval citadel, cliffs, beaches, a charming port lined with cafes and restaurants, even a casino where the Marseillais go to lose their shirts.

Olivier dropped them off and pointed them in the right direction for the port. He, too, had a lunch date, with a girl from the village, and when he wished them bon appetit, he hoped they wouldn’t hurry back. He had his mind on other things.

The port of Cassis, subject of a million postcards and the victim of innumerable bad amateur artists, is almost too picturesque to be true. It is small-a five-minute stroll takes you from one end to the other-and you are likely to see the occasional character, dressed in peaked cap and sleeveless vest, who might have escaped from one of Marcel Pagnol’s books. Fishermen squat in their boats, scissors flashing in the sun, as they open sea urchins and suck out the nectar, middle-aged men with flamboyant moustaches sit in cafes plying young blond women with coupes of champagne, the small, brightly painted ferries come and go between the port and the narrow rocky inlets the locals call calanques, the air is clean and salty, and the sun casts a benevolent glow over it all. Work and the other harsh realities of life seem a million miles away.

Elena and Sam found a cafe table with an uninterrupted view of the passing parade. This, as Elena noticed with interest, was divided into two distinct groups that could be identified by what they were wearing. Tourists were dressed for high summer, even though it was only spring: women in flowing caftans, sandals, white sundresses, the odd cartwheel straw hat; men in T-shirts and rumpled shorts festooned with multiple bulging pockets (or, even worse, abbreviated camouflage-print trousers that ended six inches above the ankle). The local inhabitants, who clearly didn’t trust the weather, were protected from possible snowstorms by sweaters or scarves, boots for the ladies, and leather jackets for the men. It was as though the passers-by were living in two different climates.

“My father likes to hunt,” said Elena, “and he gets really mad if he sees deer or wild boar when he’s left his rifle at home. ‘Look at that,’ he always says. ‘The things you see when you haven’t got your gun.’ Well, now I know how he feels.” She nodded in the direction of the quay, where a woman with unnaturally bright red hair was posing by a bollard while her companion fussed with his camera. The woman was well into her forties. She was wearing the shortest of shorts and the highest of high heels, and her bare legs had the pallor of flesh that had spent the winter under a stone. Nevertheless, she quite obviously had a high opinion of her appearance, flouncing around the bollard, tossing her radioactive curls, and renewing her lip gloss between each shot.

“When French women get it wrong they really get it wrong,” Elena muttered, with considerable satisfaction.

They left the cafe and made their way through the slow drift of people until they came to the blue awning and flowered terrace that Sam remembered from his first visit to Cassis. “This is Chez Nino,” he said. “Terrific fish and a view of the port. Wines from up there in the hills. You’ll love it.”

And so she did. For someone like Elena, whose usual lunch was cottage cheese and salad, eaten in a hurry at her desk, Nino was a sunny, self-indulgent revelation. They had soupe de poissons, the formidable Provencal fish soup, laced with rouille, a thick, garlic-loaded sauce. They had perfectly grilled scorpion fish. They had a bottle of rose from the Domaine du Paternel.

They ordered coffee, and it was the moment to sit back and look around. The restaurant was full, and Elena was struck by the volume of laughter and boisterous conversation coming from the surrounding tables. “These guys make a lot more noise than Parisians,” she said. “It must be something they put in the soup.”

Sam considered the pleasing possibility that soupe de poissons could be a mood-enhancing substance, and had a brief vision of restaurant customers floating back to work after lunch high on fish soup. “Afraid not,” he said. “Actually, I think it’s in the genes. A lot of Provence used to be Italian. The popes were once based in Avignon. Nice was called Nizza. You look in the phone book, and you’ll find Italian names on every page: Cipollina, Fachinetti, Onorato, Mastrangelo-there are thousands of them, and they add a lot to the atmosphere down here. It’s one of the things I like about Provence; one of the things that makes it so different from northern France.”

“Sam, you’re turning into a walking guide book. I’m impressed. And you know something? I’m picking up local habits fast.”

“Siesta?” said Sam. “You’re in luck. I happen to know this is a restaurant with rooms.”

Elena shook her head. “You can wipe that leer off your face. The thought of a siesta had never crossed my mind. Like any good Frenchwoman who’s just finished a long lunch, what I really want to know is where we’re going for dinner.”

“Philippe’s taking care of that. Don’t worry. He’ll make sure we don’t starve tonight. Sure you don’t want to check out those rooms?”