The Marseille Caper

Philippe was fascinated. It was a story within a story, and it was only with the greatest reluctance that he agreed to keep Reboul’s name out of the articles he was planning to write.

For the time being, anyway. “Once this is over,” said Sam, “I can guarantee you an interview with Reboul. Exclusive. Do we have a deal?”

Philippe reached over to shake hands. “We have a deal.”

“Actually, I’m sure you’ll like him.”

Philippe shook his head and grinned. “I never met an exclusive I didn’t like.”

The following morning, reactions to Philippe’s article were predictably mixed.

Philippe himself enjoyed a few moments of modest satisfaction. For once, he didn’t want to rewrite the piece as soon as he saw it in type. It was flagged on the front page, and took up most of page three. The tone was informative and concise, with the occasional graceful turn of phrase, and the artist’s impression of the tent on the beach needed only a few topless sunbathers to look just like Saint-Tropez. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Sam was looking over Philippe’s shoulder as he read. “Nobody’s going to miss that,” he said. “But I don’t think Patrimonio will be sending you a Christmas card this year.”

The piece had already ruined Patrimonio’s breakfast, and was doing the same to his entire morning. Members of the committee had been calling to express their opinions, and they were almost all favorable. “Good to see a little imagination” was mentioned more than once, as was that old standby, “a breath of fresh air.” The only minor criticism came from the committee’s oldest member, a veteran in his eighties, who complained that there was no mention of toilet facilities, a subject of particular interest to him. But on the whole, it was seen as an enthusiastic endorsement of Sam’s idea.

Patrimonio’s call to Wapping was short, loud, and hostile.

“I thought you said you were taking care of that salaud of a journalist?”

Wapping bristled. He wasn’t used to being shouted at. “What are you talking about? The boys sorted him out the night before last.”

“Have you seen this morning’s paper?”

“Why? What about it?”

“C’est une catastrophe. Call me when you’ve read it.”

Elena swept out of the bedroom and performed a twirl so that Sam could appreciate her dress-summery, flimsy, almost diaphanous. “Worth the wait,” he said. “Well worth the wait. Are you ready?”

Sam had promised to celebrate Elena’s return from Paris with lunch overlooking the sea. But first, there was a little business: a rendezvous with Gaston on the beach, where the tent was being put up in preparation for the presentation.

Gaston saw them as they arrived and waddled across the beach to greet them. By now, Sam was used to the effusions of gallantry that Elena inspired in French men, and Gaston was no exception. Cradling Elena’s hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips like a thirsty man reaching out for water. While one hand continued to hold hers, the other began a slow, smooth movement up her arm, which would doubtless have continued if Elena hadn’t giggled.

“What a delightful surprise,” said Gaston. “I was expecting only Sam.” And then, with a wink directed at Elena, “Come with me to my tent.”

As they walked inside, Sam was struck by the warm, golden glow made by the sun filtering through white canvas. If the presentation was held as planned in the early evening there would be no need for artificial light. “Once the floor’s down, this is going to look great,” he said. “But suppose people start dropping in off the street and having a party?”

“Pas de soucis. I’ve arranged security-two big boys, Jules and Jim, and two Rottweilers. They’ll be here every night.” Gaston led them over to the far side of the tent. “Here is where I think the bar should be. You see? If you turn around and look through the entrance over there, you’ll be able to watch the sun set as you drink your champagne. What could be more agreeable?”

As Gaston’s guided tour continued, Sam relaxed. The details had been taken care of. Everything from the size and positioning of the bar to the provision for electricity if needed, from the conference table and chairs to notepads and pencils-it had all been thought through and dealt with. There was even a small but elegant cabinet de toilette tucked away behind the tent.

Gaston waved aside Sam’s congratulations. “C’est normal, my friend. And now, although it breaks my heart to say au revoir to mademoiselle, I must leave you. I have a lunch appointment with my friend the mayor.”

Back on the Corniche, they stopped so that Elena could slip off her shoes and shake out the sand. “What did you think of our new partner in crime?” asked Sam.

“Gaston? He’s cute,” she said. “And I’m starving. How far is lunch?”

“Just up the road.”

Peron is one of those restaurants you dream about in the depths of a cold, dark winter. It is suspended high above the Mediterranean, facing south, and so the urban clutter of cranes, buildings, and power lines is nowhere to be seen. The view is pure, shining sea, its surface ruffled from time to time by the wake of the occasional small boat. In the distance is the miniature archipelago of the Frioul islands, gray-green at midday, turning purple at sunset. And when you tear yourself away from the view, there is the food-fish of every local variety caught that morning and cooked by one of the best chefs on the coast.

Feeling as though they had left dry land and stepped onto the deck of a spacious, immobile boat, Elena and Sam followed the hostess as she led them toward the corner of the terrace. A bellow of English coming from a large group nearby announced the presence of Lord Wapping, seated at his regular table, surrounded by his regular entourage of hangers-on. The group fell silent as Elena and Sam passed. Sam exchanged nods with Wapping, who turned to watch them as they reached their table, his expression malevolent.

“What a pretty girl, sweetie, don’t you think?” said Annabel. “Although perhaps not-she’s a little ethnic for you, with that rather suspect dark skin and all that black hair. You prefer us English roses, don’t you.” There was a grunt from Wapping, the sound of a laugh from the end of the table, and conversation resumed.

After their first chilled sip of Cassis, Elena and Sam turned their attention to the menu, which Elena discovered was filled with exotic names that she had never seen in Los Angeles: pagre and rascasse, rouget and daurade. And then her eye was caught by the veritable bouillabaisse de Marseille, the legendary “golden soup.”

“Have you ever had that, Sam?”

“Last time I was in Marseille, with Philippe. He’s a bouillabaisse addict-he spent the entire dinner telling me about it. It’s good. Kind of messy, but good.”

“What’s in it, exactly?”

“Pretty much anything that swims in the Mediterranean: John Dory, conger eel, scorpion fish, sea hen, lots more. Then you have tomatoes, potatoes, onions, garlic, saffron, olive oil, parsley. And then there’s the rouille-that’s a kind of thick, spicy mayonnaise, with more garlic, more saffron, more olive oil, and hot peppers. And last, you need thin slices of toasted baguette. Oh, and an oversized napkin to cover you from the neck down. Try it. You’ll like it.”

Elena was not too sure. “Well …”

“There’s a bonus. As this is the first time you’ve had it, you’re entitled to a wish.”

“Will you still find me irresistible when I reek of garlic?”

“I’m having it too. We’ll reek together.”

Helped by their waiter, Elena adjusted her napkin until she felt she was safe from attacks by flying rouille, and watched as the ingredients were laid out in front of her.

“Allow me,” said Sam. He took a small slice of baguette, spread it with thick, dark- red rouille, and soaked it in the soup until the bread was soft and thoroughly moist. “You ready?”

Elena leaned forward, opened her mouth, and closed her eyes.