The Vintage Caper

Seven

Waiting his turn to go through security at LAX on his way to Paris, Sam watched, with mounting sympathy, the plight of the man in front of him. He was short, plump, and jolly-looking. From the sound of his accent, he was German. He had made the mistake of smiling at the security agent and attempting a joke: “Today off with the shoes, tomorrow the underpants, eh?” The stone-faced security agent stared at him in silence. And then, clearly suspecting the poor German of trying to smuggle a potentially dangerous sense of humor onto the aircraft, ordered him to step aside and wait for the supervisor.

Shoeless and beltless, his arms raised in the crucifix position while the electronic wand was passed over his body, Sam reflected on the joys of modern travel. Overcrowded, often grubby airports, surly personnel, a better than average chance of delays, and, before every flight, the tedium and humiliation of the security check. No wonder the first thing most passengers wanted when they finally reached the plane was a drink.

The first-class cabin, a cocoon of peace after the bedlam of the terminal, came as a blessed relief. Sam accepted a glass of champagne, slipped off his shoes, and glanced at the menu. As usual, there were optimistic attempts to replicate dishes one might find in an earthbound restaurant, and today sauces were very much in favor. There were noisettes of lamb in a sweet spice sauce, pan-seared monkfish with a sage sauce, a vegetable pancake served over a basil cream sauce, smoked salmon cannelloni with a balsamic sauce. The menu writer, a prince of deception, made it all sound delicious. The reality, as Sam knew from past experience, would be dry and disappointing, the sauces wrinkled in shock from a blast of sudden heat, the vegetables tasting anonymous.

Why was it that airlines tried to conjure up haute cuisine with no more than the impossibly limited facilities of a cramped galley and a microwave? It never worked. He decided to stick to bread and cheese and good red wine, but even this was less than he had hoped for. The label on the bottle was impressive, the pedigree irreproachable, the vintage excellent. But somehow wine never tastes as it should when drunk at thirty thousand feet. With altitude, it seems to lose weight. The turbulence of flying affects the balance and flavor. In the words of an eminent critic, “After the hurly-burly of takeoff and landing, takeoff and landing, wine never has enough time to regain its composure.” Sam tried one glass, switched to water, swallowed a sleeping pill instead of dessert, and didn’t wake up until early morning, when the plane was beginning its descent over the English Channel.

It always felt good to be back in Paris. As his cab made its way down the Boulevard Raspail toward Saint-Germain, Sam was struck once again by the beautiful proportions established by Haussmann in the mid-nineteenth century-the generous width of the principal streets, the human-sized buildings, the magnificent gardens, and the unexpected pocket parks. Then there was the Seine and the graceful swoops of its bridges, the abundance of trees and heroic monuments, the long and majestic vistas. All these combined to make Paris one of the great walking cities of the world. And it was, by big-city standards, clean. No piles of garbage bags, no gutters choked with food wrappers and Styrofoam and crushed cigarette packets; a welcome absence of urban squalor.

Nearly two years had gone by since his last visit-a long and lovely weekend with Elena Morales-but Sam found the Montalembert to be its usual charming self. Tucked away off the Rue du Bac, the hotel is small, chic, and friendly. The younger, less grand ladies of the fashion world descend on it each year during the collections. Authors, their agents, and publishers haunt the bar, looking intense over their whisky as they brood about their royalties and the current state of French literature. Pretty girls flutter in and out. The antique dealers and gallery owners of the quartier drop by to celebrate a sale with a glass of champagne. People feel at home here.

Much of this, of course, is due to the staff, but it is helped also by the informal way the ground-floor area of the hotel has been laid out. In a relatively small space, a bar, a small restaurant, and a tiny library with its own wood-burning fireplace are separated not by walls but by different levels of light: brighter in the restaurant, dimmer in the library. Business lunches in the front, romantic assignations in the back.

Sam checked in, tantalized by the smell of coffee coming from the restaurant. After a quick shower and shave, he went down for café crème and a croissant, and went over his plans for the morning and afternoon. He was treating himself to a day off-a day of being a tourist-and it pleased him to think that his chosen destinations could be easily reached on foot: a visit to the Musée d’Orsay; a walk across the Pont Royal to the Louvre for a quick bite at the Café Marly; and a stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries on the way to the Place Vendôme and his appointment at Charvet.

The weather in Paris was hesitating somewhere between the end of winter and the beginning of spring, and as Sam walked up the Boulevard Saint-Germain he saw that the girls were of two minds about what to wear. Some were still swathed in scarves and coats and gloves; others, in defiance of the chilly breeze coming off the Seine, wore cropped jackets and short skirts. But no matter how they were dressed, they all seemed to have adopted a particular style of walking. Sam had come to think of this as a mark of the true Parisian girl: a brisk strut, head held high, bag slung from one shoulder, and-the crucial touch-arms folded in such a way that the bosom was not merely supported but emphasized, a kind of soutien-gorge vivant, or living bra. Pleasantly distracted, Sam almost forgot to turn in to the street that led down to the river and the Musée d’Orsay.

There was, as always, too much to take in. Sam had decided to confine himself to the upper level, where Impressionists rubbed shoulders with their Neo-Impressionist colleagues. Even so, even without paying his respects to the sculpture or the extraordinary Art Nouveau collection, more than two hours slipped by before he thought of looking at his watch. With a mental tip of his hat to Monet and Manet, to Degas and Renoir, he left the museum and headed across the river, toward the Louvre and lunch.

The French have a talent for restaurants of all sizes, and a special genius for huge spaces. La Coupole, for instance, which opened in 1927 as “the largest dining room in Paris,” manages despite its vastness to retain a human scale. The Café Marly, although smaller, is still, by most restaurant standards, enormous. But it has been designed so that there are quiet corners and pockets of intimacy, and there is never a feeling that you are eating in a canteen as big as a ballroom. Best of all, there is the long, covered terrace with its view of the glass pyramid, and it was here that Sam settled himself at a small table.

Returning to Paris after a long absence, there is always a temptation to plunge in and taste everything. Call it greed, or the result of deprivation, but food in Paris is so varied, so seductive, and so artfully presented that it seems a shame not to have a dozen of Brittany ’s best oysters, some herb-flavored lamb from Sisteron, and two or three cheeses before attacking the desserts. But in a fit of moderation, remembering that dinner was still to come, Sam made do with a modest portion of Sevruga caviar and some chilled vodka while he watched the world go by.

Over coffee, he did his tourist’s duty and wrote his ration of postcards for the day: one to Elena, telling her he was busy looking for clues; one to Bookman (The weather is here. Wish you were beautiful); and one to Alice, a housekeeper at the Chateau Marmont who had never ventured outside Los Angeles, but who traveled vicariously through Sam whenever he went away. He reminded himself to buy a miniature Eiffel Tower for her collection of souvenirs.

As a tentative Parisian sun broke through to brighten up the sky, he left the crowds of the Louvre for the orderly precision of the Tuileries, pausing to admire the long and extraordinary view through the gardens, along the Champs-Elysées, and all the way to the Arc de Triomphe. So far, the pleasures of the day had more than lived up to his expectations. By the time he reached the Place Vendôme he was in an expansive mood, induced by lunch and good humor-dangerously expansive, when shopping at Charvet.

Haberdashers to the gentry for more than 150 years, Charvet appealed to Sam’s fondness for the understated extravagance of custom-made shirts. It was more than just a simple matter of comfort, style, and fit that he loved. It was also the whole ritual, itself an essential part of the process: the browsing over fabrics, the unhurried discussion of cuffs, collars, and cut, the certain knowledge that he would get exactly what he wanted. And, as a bonus, there were the stately surroundings in which these deliberations took place.

Charvet’s premises-one could hardly describe them as a shop-occupy several floors of one of the most distinguished addresses in Paris: 28 Place Vendôme. No sooner was Sam inside than a figure hovering in a silky vantage point among the ties and scarves and handkerchiefs came forward to greet him. It was Joseph, who had initiated Sam some years ago into the arcane delights of single-needle stitching and genuine mother-of-pearl buttons. Together, they took the small elevator up to the fabric room on the second floor, and there, among thousands of bolts of poplin, Sea Island cotton, linen, flannel, batiste, and silk, Sam spent the rest of the afternoon. Each of the dozen shirts he eventually ordered would, like wine, be marked with its vintage, a tiny label sewn into the inner seam that identified the year in which it was made.

During his walk back to the hotel, Sam’s thoughts turned to the man he was about to see. Axel Schroeder had for many years been one of the world’s most successful thieves. Jewels, paintings, bearer bonds, antiques: he had stolen-or, as he preferred to put it, arranged a change of ownership for-them all. Not for himself, he was quick to point out, being a man of simple tastes, but for his acquisitive clients. Schroeder and Sam had met when they found themselves working on different aspects of the same job. A certain mutual respect had developed, and professional courtesy had since ensured that each kept well away from the other’s projects. Schroeder held valid passports from three different countries, and Sam suspected that his fingerprints had been changed more than once by cosmetic surgery. He was a careful man.

Sam found him waiting in the bar of the Montalembert, a glass of champagne on the table in front of him. Slim, with a skier’s tan, dressed in a pale-gray pin-striped suit of a slightly old-fashioned cut, his thinning silver hair perfectly barbered, and his nails gleaming from a recent manicure, he looked more like a retired captain of industry than the grand old man of larceny.

“Good to see you again, you old crook,” said Sam as they shook hands.

Schroeder smiled. “My dear boy,” he said, “flattery will get you nowhere. Have they come to their senses in Los Angeles and kicked you out?” He signaled to the waiter. “A glass of champagne for my friend, please. And make sure you put it on his bill.”

Being the well-informed man that he was, Schroeder was aware that Sam had retired from a life of crime and was now fully on the legal side of the law. Not surprisingly, this tended to inhibit their conversation. For several minutes it was as if the two men were playing invisible poker, dealing pleasantries back and forth while Schroeder waited for Sam to show his hand.

“This isn’t like you, Axel,” Sam said. “We’ve been chatting for ten minutes and you haven’t even asked me what I’m doing over here.”

Schroeder sipped his champagne before replying. “You know me, Sam. I never like to pry. Curiosity can be very unhealthy.” He took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed his lips. “But since you mention it-what does bring you to Paris? Shopping? A girl? A decent meal after all those cheeseburgers?”

Sam gave Schroeder an account of the robbery, watching him closely for any change of expression, but there was nothing. The old man stayed silent, nodding from time to time, his face inscrutable. When Sam tried to establish exactly what, if anything, Schroeder knew, even his most oblique questions were met with smiling nonanswers. A frustrating half hour passed before Sam was ready to call it a day. As they got up to leave, he tried one last long shot.

“Axel, we go back a long way. You can trust me to keep you out of it. Who hired you?”

Schroeder’s face was a study in baffled innocence. He frowned and shook his head. “My dear boy, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You always say that.”

“Yes, I always say that.” He grinned, and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “But for old times’ sake, I’ll make a few inquiries. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

Sam watched through the window as Schroeder ducked into the back of a waiting Mercedes. As the car pulled away, Sam could see that he had his cell phone to his ear. Was the old rogue pretending to know nothing? Or was he pretending to know a lot more than he was prepared to reveal? There would be plenty of time to think about that over dinner.

As the final indulgence of his day off, Sam was going to the Cigale Récamier for an early dinner, and he was going to dine alone. This was for him another small pleasure, summed up by a phrase he had first encountered while he was taking the wine course at Suze-la-Rousse. It had originated with the financier Nubar Gulbenkian, whose firm belief was that the ideal number for dinner is two: “Myself and the sommelier.” (The sommelier was Sam’s personal variation. Gulbenkian had specified a headwaiter.)

In today’s gregarious world, the solitary diner is a misunderstood figure. He might even be the object of some pity, since popular opinion finds it hard to accept that anyone would choose to sit alone in a crowded restaurant. And yet, for those who are comfortable in their own company, there is a lot to be said for a table for one. Without the distraction of a companion, food and wine can be given the attention they deserve. Eavesdropping is often rewarded by the fascinating indiscretions that drift across from neighboring tables. And, of course, a keen observer can enjoy the sideshow provided by the other diners, essential viewing for anyone amused and intrigued by the ever-changing mosaic of human behavior.

The Cigale Récamier, a five-minute stroll from the hotel, was one of Sam’s favorite stops in Paris. Hidden away at the end of a cul-de-sac off the Rue de Sèvres, it had all the qualities he liked in a restaurant. It was simple, unpretentious, and highly professional. The waiters had been there forever; they knew their métier to a fault and the wine list by heart. The clientele was an interesting mixture-Sam had seen government ministers, top international tennis players, and movie actors among the Parisian regulars. And then there were the soufflés, airy and delicate, savory and sweet. If these were your particular weakness, you could make an entire meal out of them.

Sam was shown to a small table in front of the wide pillar that took up part of the center of the room. Seated with his back to the pillar, he was facing a row of tables set against a wall that was mostly mirror. Thus he could see the comings and goings behind him as well as his fellow diners across the way. A perfect spot for the restaurant voyeur.

His waiter brought a glass of Chablis and the menu, and pointed out the blackboard listing the specials of the day. Sam chose lamb chops-simple, honest, rosy, perfectly cooked lamb chops, to be followed by a little cheese and then a caramel soufflé. The choice of wine he left to the waiter, knowing that he was in good hands. With a small sigh of satisfaction, he leaned back in his chair as his thoughts turned to the last dinner he had eaten before leaving Los Angeles.

It had been one of his regular outings with Bookman. They had decided to try a wildly fashionable restaurant in Santa Monica, a temple dedicated to the extremes of fusion cuisine and daring culinary experimentation. It was, according to one breathless restaurant review, a gastronomic laboratory. They should have known better. There were multiple tiny courses-some of which arrived perched on a teaspoon, others contained in a glass eyedropper. Sauces were served in a syringe, and precise instructions were given, by a rather precious waiter, as to exactly how to eat each course. As the meal tiptoed from one edible bijou to the next, Bookman became increasingly morose. He asked for bread, only to be told that the chef didn’t approve of bread with his cooking. Bookman’s patience was finally exhausted when the waiter went into raptures about the dessert du jour, which was bacon-and-egg ice cream. That did it for both of them. They left and went off to find something to eat.

The tables around Sam were beginning to fill up, and his eye was caught by the couple sitting side by side at a table opposite him. The man was middle-aged, nicely dressed, and seemed to be well known by the waiters. His companion was an exquisite girl of perhaps eighteen, with a face like a young Jeanne Moreau. She was listening intently to what the man was saying. They sat very close to one another, sharing the same menu. Sam realized that he was staring.

“Elle est mignonne, eh?” said Sam’s waiter, cocking an eyebrow toward the girl as he arrived with the lamb chops. Sam nodded, and the waiter lowered his voice. “Monsieur is an old client of ours, and the girl is his daughter. He is teaching her how to have dinner with a man.” Only in France, Sam thought. Only in France.

Later, as he took a turn around the side streets on the way back to the hotel, Sam reflected on his off-duty day. From Manet and Monet to the lamb chops and the memorable caramel soufflé, it had been a voyage of rediscovery mixed with frequent twinges of nostalgia. Despite the absence of leaves on the trees, Paris looked ravishing. The Parisians, who seemed to be in danger of losing their reputation for arrogance and froideur, had been affable. The music of the French language spoken around him, the warm whiff of freshly baked bread from the boulangeries, the steel-gray glint of the Seine-it was all as he remembered it. And yet, somehow, it felt new. Paris does that to you.

It had been a day well spent. Pleasantly weary, he soaked the jet lag out of his bones in a hot tub and slept like a stone.