The Marseille Caper

Eight

It was cocktail hour at La Charite, and a line of guests stretched from the door of the chapel to halfway across the courtyard. The line had formed because Patrimonio, relishing his role as the gracious host, had decided to follow the example of royalty and heads of state and greet each of his guests personally. And so they waited in the evening sunlight with varying degrees of impatience, entertained by a string quartet that was playing Mozart in the long gallery.

Elena and Sam joined the end of the line, taking a look at their fellow guests as they went. They were mostly Marseille businessmen and their wives, suntanned and jolly, a tribute to the invigorating qualities of pastis. There were also some visiting bureaucrats, with their pallid northern complexions, a three-man team from the local television station, one or two smartly dressed couples-presumably friends of Patrimonio-and a press photographer. There was no sign of Philippe, who had arrived early to take a good look at the models.

Sam noticed Caroline Dumas, chic in dark-gray silk, talking on her cell phone. They made eye contact. Sam nodded. Madame Dumas raised her eyebrows. “Somehow I don’t think she’s a fan of yours,” said Elena. “Who is she?”

“Madame Dumas, one of the competition. From Paris. See if you can pick out the one from England, Lord Wapping.”

“What does he look like?”

“English, I guess. Bulletproof pinstripe suit, big tie, good shoes, bad teeth-wait a minute. I think that must be him. Over there, with the blonde.”

Sam’s guess was confirmed by the sound of a guffaw and a loud English voice. “Well, he asked for it, didn’t he? What a prat.” The speaker shook his head and looked at his watch. “If Jerome doesn’t get his finger out we’ll be here all night.”

He was with Annabel, in what she called her LBD, or little black dress, and another couple. The man could have been Wapping’s younger brother-like him, short, florid, and burly. Both men were wearing well-cut suits that almost disguised their bulk. The fourth member of the group, taller than the rest of them by a good five or six inches, was an Amazonian girl of exceptional beauty, most of which was on display thanks to a silver dress of exceptional brevity.

“She doesn’t look English,” said Sam.

Elena sniffed. “She doesn’t look real.”

The line gave a sudden lurch forward, and it was only a few minutes before they were being greeted by their host. Patrimonio had changed for the occasion, and had chosen a putty-colored linen suit, set off by the jaunty red and gold striped tie usually reserved for members of London’s Marylebone Cricket Club. Sam had the impression that there had been another generous application of aftershave since that morning.

“Monsieur Levitt, I believe. How delightful. And who is this?” He took Elena’s hand as though he had no intention of giving it back, and without waiting for Sam’s reply, bent over to kiss it.

“Elena Morales,” said Sam. “This is her first visit to Provence.”

“Ah, mademoiselle. Make me a happy man. Stay forever.” Patrimonio, exuding gallantry, at last released her hand. Elena smiled at him. He straightened his tie and smoothed his hair.

“Well, you were certainly a hit,” said Sam, as they moved into the chapel and toward the bar. “I thought he was going to ask you to dance.”

Elena shook her head. “I can’t get too excited about guys who wear more perfume than I do. But the hand-kissing I could get used to.”

“I’ll practice.” He signaled to the bartender. “What are you having?”

“Daddy told me I should never say no to champagne.” Elena looked around at the chapel-the alcoves around the side, each with its graceful arch and marble statue, the lovely proportions of the room, the domed ceiling, the soft evening light filtering through the high windows-and let out a sigh. “This is magic. Why don’t we do buildings like this anymore?”

Armed with their champagne, they began to do their duty and mingle. Sam found Patrimonio’s secretary and asked her to introduce them to members of the committee, who were standing in a pensive group in front of the three project models. The introductions were made, Elena was discreetly admired by the committee, and Sam answered the not-too-searching questions put to him by Monsieur Faure, who seemed to be the senior member. Sam was distracted for a moment by the sight of Philippe coming through the crowd glued to his cell phone. As agreed, they didn’t acknowledge one another.

Monsieur Faure nodded toward the bar. “Have you met your competitor Lord Wapping? A most sociable man. Let me introduce you.”

Sam’s first impression of Wapping had surprised him. He had expected a conventional product of Wall Street and the City: serious, quietly arrogant as rich men tend to be, and dull. Instead, he found himself looking at a plump, jovial face that would have been benign except for the shrewd and calculating eyes that were now focused on Sam with unblinking intensity.

“So you’re the Yank who wants to put up a block of flats,” Wapping said with a grin.

“That’s me,” said Sam. “This is Elena Morales.” He pointed toward the row of models. “And there’s my block of flats.”

“Well, good luck, mate. May the best man win, as long as it’s me.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Just kidding. Here, meet Annabel.”

As Annabel looked at Sam, her eyes widened-an old femme fatale trick-as though she had never seen such an attractive man in her life. “You must have been told this a thousand times,” she said, “but I can’t resist. You look just like a blond George Clooney.”

Elena suppressed a snort as she nodded to Annabel.

Wapping continued with the introductions. “This layabout is Mikey Simmons. Nothing to do with the project. He’s in top-end motors. Exclusive concession in Saudi and Dubai. Astons, Ferraris, Rollers, whatever you want. And here”-Wapping turned toward the statuesque young lady-“here we have Raisa from Moscow.” Feeling that he had discharged his social responsibilities, Wapping looked at his glass, found it empty, and waved it at the bartender. “Oy, Jean-Claude! I could murder another glass of champagne.”

Sam made their excuses and steered Elena away from the bar. “Now you’ve seen the competition, what do you think?”

“I can see why Lord Wapping gets his own way. He’s like a human bulldozer. As for the blonde, she’s a real piece of work.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“No.”

They had stopped at the edge of the crowd when Sam’s eye was caught by a couple sharing an alcove with one of the statues: Patrimonio was chatting to Caroline Dumas, and Sam was not surprised to see that she was a great deal more lively and friendly with Patrimonio than she had been with him. She gazed up at him when he spoke, she rested her hand on his arm when she replied, she showed all the signs of a woman fascinated by what her companion had to say. Patrimonio, naturally, was enjoying this display of attention from a pretty Parisienne, and it was with obvious irritation that he had to break off their conversation when it was interrupted by the arrival of a third person.

It was Philippe. Even from a distance, Elena and Sam could see that the encounter was not amicable. Philippe was waving an accusing finger in Patrimonio’s face. Patrimonio was swatting it away. And Caroline Dumas, lips pursed in disapproval, had tactfully stepped aside to commune with the statue. The scene had the makings of a brawl. And then Philippe abruptly turned on his heel and stalked out of the chapel, leaving Patrimonio to smooth his hair and calm himself in preparation for his big moment: the speech.

Sam noticed that the string quartet had filed in from the gallery. He was wondering if the speech was to be delivered with a musical accompaniment when Patrimonio’s secretary asked him to go and stand next to Lord Wapping and Caroline Dumas in front of their respective models. There they waited while Patrimonio fiddled with his notes and cleared his throat. He nodded to his secretary. She tapped loudly on the rim of her glass with her silver pen. The chapel fell silent.

Patrimonio started quietly enough by thanking his audience for coming to what he referred to as a very important evening; indeed, a landmark in the history of the great city of Marseille. Sam glanced to one side and saw that Wapping, still clinging to his champagne glass, was wearing an expression of glazed incomprehension. He clearly didn’t understand a word of what was being said in such carefully enunciated French.

It wasn’t long before Patrimonio became more animated as he described the talent, the hard work, the vision of his committee. And perhaps, he added with due modesty, as chairman of this galaxy of stars he too had played his part. Moving on to the projects that had been proposed, Patrimonio introduced Caroline Dumas, Wapping, and Sam to the audience, leading a round of applause for each one. The models were there to be inspected, he said, and he was sure that the ideas they represented were of such excellence that choosing one of them would be most difficult. However, he was confident that the members of the committee were up to the task. They had done their homework, and they hoped to have reached a decision within the next two weeks. Finally, with a flourish worthy of a great conductor, he stretched out both arms to the string quartet, which broke into a spirited rendering of “La Marseillaise.”

As the last notes died away Sam rejoined Elena, who had been standing not far from Wapping’s friends. She had heard him confess to them that the only parts of the speech that were familiar to him were his name, and that tune of theirs at the end-“the whatsit, you know, the Mayonnaise.”

None of the French showed any signs of going as long as the champagne kept flowing, and so Sam and Elena were able to slip away unnoticed. They were crossing the quadrangle when Sam’s phone rang. It was Philippe.

“I had a little contretemps with Patrimonio.”

“We saw. What was it all about? Where are you?”

“Just around the corner. There’s a bar called Le Ballon, in the Rue du Petit-Puits. You can almost see it from La Charite. I’ll be waiting outside, OK?”

On his previous visit to Marseille, Sam had experienced Philippe’s fondness for disreputable bars, and this was another scruffy example. Above the door, a tin sign that had seen better days had been decorated with a painting of a soccer ball, le ballon, next to a small wine glass, also known as un ballon, brimming with a lurid mixture that the artist hoped could be mistaken for red wine. Philippe, neat and well pressed in his black suit and white shirt, looked very much out of place.

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 rose “superieur,” 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 Provencal 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.”