The Marseille Caper

Elena closed her eyes and gave in to the deep and soothing pressure, just this side of pain, applied by the fingers of the masseuse as she worked her way down the spine. This had been Mimi’s suggestion, as the fitting end to a hectic few hours of sightseeing, shopping, and lunch. She had booked an afternoon of indulgence for them both at the Chateau Berger spa, high on the Corniche Kennedy. Restorative poultices of warm mud, showers under tiny jets of heated sea water, and forty minutes of reflexology, finishing off with one of the specialties of the house, the massage energetique. Bliss.

The day had begun at a cafe on the Vieux Port. As is customary with women meeting for the first time, she and Mimi had subjected one another to a thorough, if surreptitious, investigation that included shoes, handbags, sunglasses, hair, and makeup. Each of them had been pleased to see that the other had made an effort-Elena in a sleeveless linen dress of pale lilac, Mimi in narrow black pants and a crisp white jacket.

Over coffee, they had planned their morning, and started it off with one of Marseille’s favorite views, the great sweep of city and sea that rewarded those who made the steep climb to Notre-Dame de la Garde. Another good reason for the climb was to see the basilica’s remarkable collection of ex-votos, painted by grateful sailors, fishermen, and others who had survived the perils and disasters of the sea. As Mimi said, the images of sinking ships, drowning seamen, storms, and hurricanes did little to encourage a longing for life on the ocean waves, and it was with a renewed fondness for dry land that they made their way down to the relative security of the boutiques in the Rue Paradis and the Rue de Rome.

By now, the two of them were getting on extremely well. In fact, they never stopped talking. Mimi wanted to know all about L.A.-her curiosity having been piqued by Philippe’s visit and his subsequent enthusiastic report. Elena was equally interested to hear an insider’s rundown of Marseille, Aix, Avignon, and even that distant paradise, Saint-Tropez. The morning passed so pleasantly and so quickly that they were late getting to the restaurant. By the time they arrived, their table-saved because Philippe had been a regular for years-was the only one free.

He had made reservations for them at Le Boucher, in the Rue de Village, a restaurant convincingly disguised as a butcher’s shop. At the back of the shop, past the displays of beef, lamb, and veal, a door led to a small, crowded room, shaded from the sun despite its glass roof by the sprawl of a huge bougainvillea. “Philippe thought you’d like this place,” said Mimi, “because the meat is so good, and he thinks that red-blooded Americans love their meat.” She grinned. “I hope he’s right.”

“Absolutely.” Elena looked around the room, and failed to see anyone resembling a tourist. “I guess they’re all French.”

Mimi shook her head. “No, no. They’re all Marsellais.”

Before Elena could pursue this interesting distinction, the waiter came with menus and two flutes of champagne. “Compliments of Monsieur Philippe,” he said, “and we have his favorites on the menu today. En plus, he has told us to send the bill to him.”

Mimi put down her menu and looked at Elena. “Are you feeling hungry?”

Elena thought about her usual working lunch of rabbit food. “Sure. I’m one of those red-blooded Americans.”

Mimi nodded at the waiter, who smiled and bustled off to the kitchen.

Elena raised her glass. “Cheers. Do I get to know what we’re going to eat?”

“To start, bresaola with hearts of artichoke, sun-dried tomatoes, and Parmesan. Then, beef cheeks, with a slice of home-made foie gras on top. And a fondant au chocolat. Does that sound OK?”

“Sounds like heaven.”

The two women made a striking couple, the object of many an appreciative glance from the mostly male clientele. Elena could perhaps have passed for a local girl, with her black, shoulder-length hair and olive complexion. Mimi, on the other hand, looked as though she were taking the day off from one of the more fashionable streets of Paris. Pale skin, with a light dusting of freckles, and hair-cut almost as short as Philippe’s-that was the dark, rich, henna-red that one only sees coming out of a top-class hairdresser. Her face, with its oversized brown eyes and full mouth, was in a constant state of animation, by turns amused, surprised, or fascinated by what Elena had to say. The conversation flowed easily from the usual topics of work, vacations, and clothes before arriving inevitably at a spirited discussion of men (in general) and Sam and Philippe (in particular). These were both judged to be works in progress, capable of further improvement. But promising, promising.

Seven

Sam was whistling as he strolled back along the garden path that led from the pool to the terrace. He was in a fine, optimistic mood. Today looked set to be another of the three hundred days of sunshine promised each year by the local tourist office. Tonight was Patrimonio’s reception, when the job would start to get really interesting. And Elena seemed to have taken to a life of ease with the enthusiasm of a long-term prisoner suddenly given her freedom.

There she was now, sitting at a table on the terrace dressed in a white bathrobe, contemplating a large bowl of cafe au lait and a copy of the International Herald Tribune. Sam leaned down to kiss the top of her head, still wet from the shower.

“Good morning, my jewel. How are you today? You should have come for a swim. The water was perfect. I was like a young dolphin.”

Elena looked up, squeezing one eye shut against the sun. “I did two lengths of the shower.” She reached for her dark glasses. “Tell me something, Sam. What is it that makes you so damn perky in the morning?”

Sam poured himself some coffee while he considered his reply. “A clear conscience,” he said as he sat down. “And the love of a good woman.”

There was a dismissive grunt from Elena. She was never at her best first thing in the morning, whereas Sam was instantly-and irritatingly-lively as soon as he got up. In the past, this had led to some dangerous moments over breakfast. But today, the sun and the surroundings exercised their soothing influence, and the two of them sat in peace over their coffee.

It was Elena who eventually broke the silence. “I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Mimi’s taken a few days’ vacation so she can show me around. Isn’t that great? Saint-Tropez, the Luberon, Aix, all over. And today we’re doing the boat trip from Cassis to those little creeks along the coast.”

“The calanques,” said Sam. “You can’t get to them by road. It’s either by boat or on foot. Spectacular spot for a picnic-maybe we’ll do that when I’m through with work.”

“What’s the schedule for today?”

Sam sighed. “Nothing exciting. I have to go to the project office, register, pick up my credentials, smile at everybody, that kind of thing. Then I want to check that the project model has been set up the way it should be. Tonight should be more interesting. That’s the reception, when we’re all on our best behavior.”

“Me too?”

“Especially you. Charming and modest-and no dancing on the tables.” Sam finished his coffee, looked at his watch, and got up. “Have fun with Mimi. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

The project office, overlooking the port in one of the fine old buildings that had been sandblasted, polished, and generally restored to their nineteenth-century glory, seemed to have been staffed by some of the prettiest girls in Marseille. One of them took Sam over to an area that had been screened off, where the project secretary guarded the inner sanctum of the corner office.

Before Sam had finished his first carefully prepared sentence in French, the secretary smiled, held up her hand, and said, “Perhaps it would be better for you in English?”

“I wasn’t expecting English.”

“We all speak English here. It’s part of the Capital of Culture preparations. Even the Marseille taxi drivers are learning English.” She smiled again and shrugged. “Or so they say.”