The Marseille Caper

Three

There are no crowds. There is no waiting in line. There are no surly security guards. There are no bags to juggle, no seating disputes, no neighbors with uncontrollable elbows and contagious ailments, no hysterical infants, no fetid, overworked toilets-in fact, flying by private jet deprives the passengers of all the familiar joys of air travel in the twenty-first century. But there are consolations, as Elena and Sam were discovering.

Reboul’s Gulfstream G550 had been extravagantly reconfigured to carry no more than six passengers, two pilots, and a flight attendant in surroundings that Reboul liked to describe as luxe et volupte. The cabin was decorated in soothing tones of caramel and cream, with armchairs-one couldn’t insult them by calling them mere seats-upholstered in chocolate-brown suede. There was a small dining area. Presiding over the tiny kitchen and bar at the front of the cabin was Mathilde, a handsome woman of a certain age, beautifully turned out in Saint Laurent and alert to the slightest signs of thirst and hunger. Passengers could stay in touch with the world below by phone and Internet; or relax with a library of current American and European films, to be watched on a large, high-definition screen. Cigar smokers could smoke their cigars. It seemed to Elena and Sam, as they accepted chilled flutes of Krug from Mathilde, that Reboul had done everything possible to make flying civilized.

“I could get used to this very, very quickly,” said Elena. She was looking clear-eyed and radiant-her pale-olive complexion glowing, her black hair glossy-and Sam congratulated himself on his decision to take the job.

“Vacations suit you,” he said. “Why don’t we do this more often? You work too hard. How can the insurance business compare with a trip to the glamorous South of France with an adoring, irresistible companion?”

Elena looked at him beneath raised eyebrows. “I’ll let you know,” she said. “First I have to find an irresistible companion.”

“Ah,” said Reboul’s voice behind them, “les amoureux. Has Mathilde been looking after you?” He had come from the rear of the plane, where he had a miniature office, and he was carrying a bulky file. “You must forgive me,” he said to Elena, “but I need to steal Sam away from you so that we can go over the presentation while we have the chance of some peace and quiet. Once we get to Marseille …” He shook his head. “Busy, busy, busy.”

Elena settled back in her armchair and opened Sam’s old, dog-eared copy of the Cadogan Guide to the South of France, a favorite of his because of its well-informed, comprehensive coverage, its literate prose, and its refreshing sense of humor. She turned to the section on Marseille, wondering if she would find anything to account for Reboul’s claim that Marseille and Paris had been at each other’s throats for hundreds of years. And there it was, in the historical introduction. After explaining that an independently minded Marseille, in search of permanent autonomy, had been infuriating Louis XIV for forty years, the introduction continues: “By 1660, the King had had enough, and opened up a great breach in Marseille’s walls, humiliating the city by turning its own cannons back on itself.” (The cannons had previously pointed out to sea to repel pirates and invaders, but Louis had obviously decided that the city’s residents were a greater threat.) And that wasn’t all. “The central authority installed by Louis was much more lax than the city had previously been about the issues crucial to the running of a good port- like quarantine. The result, in 1720, was a devastating plague that spread throughout Provence.”

So there was Marseille, menaced by its own guns and riddled with disease, all thanks to Parisian interference. Souvenirs like that stay in the memory for a long time, often becoming increasingly bitter from generation to generation. Reboul’s comment, which Elena had at first dismissed as exaggeration, now made more sense.

She let the book slip to her lap, and looked out of the window at the pale-blue infinity of the evening sky, cloudless and calm. The pilot, in the delightfully accented English that he must have learned at pilot’s charm school, had announced that with the help of the steady tail wind from west to east they would be arriving in Marseille in time for a breakfast of croissants and cafe au lait. Elena sank back into her suede cocoon, half listening to the buzz of conversation coming from Reboul and Sam.

He had been quite right; she did work too hard, and quite soon now she would have to make up her mind between her business life and her personal life. Frank Knox, the founder of Knox Insurance, was anxious to retire, and he had told Elena that the job of CEO was hers if she wanted it. But did she really want to spend the next thirty years up to her neck in clients like Danny Roth? How would Sam fit into a life governed by meetings, sales conferences, too much travel, and interminable client lunches? What would she do if she didn’t take the job? With a shift of mental gears, she made herself think about the imminent pleasures of the next two to three weeks- Mediterranean beaches, entire days without schedules, and long, relaxed dinners under the stars. She dozed and dreamed.

Sam woke her by stroking her forehead with the tips of his fingers. “You were smiling,” he said.

“I was on vacation,” she said.

“Sorry to interrupt. But Francis thinks we might like to eat. He’s invited us to what he calls a pique-nique.”

Elena realized that packing-always, for her, a long and complicated business involving many refinements and changes of mind-had caused her to skip lunch. “I think I could force something down,” she said. “Actually, I’m starving.”

Mathilde had laid the dining table with white linen and cloth napkins and crystal glasses. A white orchid drooped elegantly from its vase, also crystal. It only needed Reboul in a chef’s hat to complete the picture of a restaurant de luxe. In fact, he was in his working clothes: no jacket, no tie, the top two buttons of his silk shirt undone. Elena’s eye was caught by what she at first took to be a monogram on his shirt pocket; a closer look showed it to be a line of tiny Chinese characters. Reboul noticed her interest and anticipated her question.

“These shirts are made for me in Hong Kong,” he said. “Monsieur Wang, who makes them, likes to have his little joke, so he puts this on”-he tapped his chest-“instead of my initials. He told me it was a line from Confucius, ensuring a long life and good fortune.”

“What does it say?”

“It says: Please take your hand off my left breast.” Reboul shrugged and grinned. “Chinese sense of humor. Now then-what kind of picnic do you have for us, Mathilde?”

“There is smoked salmon. Foie gras, of course. The last of the asparagus.” Mathilde paused here to kiss her fingertips. “Some good cheeses. And best of all, your favorite, Monsieur Francis: salade tiede aux feves et lardons.” She waited, smiling, for Reboul’s response.

“Oh!” he said. “Oh! I am dead and in heaven. Elena, Sam-do you know this dish? A warm salad of young broad beans and chopped bacon? No? You must try it, and then we can attack the foie gras or the salmon. Or both. It has been an eternity since lunch.” He turned to peer into the large ice bucket that Mathilde had placed on the bar. “You can stay with champagne, or we have an ’86 Puligny-Montrachet and, for the foie gras, an ’84 Sauternes. You must forgive me,” he said to Elena, “but I never ask red wine to fly with me. The changes in altitude, the turbulence-they tend to upset even the best Bordeaux and Burgundy. I hope you understand.”

Elena nodded knowledgeably, despite the fact that her wine course hadn’t covered drinking on private jets. “Of course,” she said, smiling sweetly. “But perhaps you could tell me more about this salad. I’ve never heard of it.”

“My mother used to make it, and I learned from her. To start with, you take a saucepan of cold water, and a frying pan. Chop a large piece of fat bacon into cubes, and put them in the frying pan over medium heat. While they are cooking, put the beans into the saucepan of cold water, over high heat. The second the water comes to the boil, drain it off; the beans are ready. Put them into a bowl, and pour over them the chopped bacon-and, most important, every drop of hot bacon fat. Et voila. Mix well and eat instantly, before the salad cools. It is sublime. You will see.”

It was indeed sublime, as was everything else, and as Elena watched Reboul tuck into his salad, a plate of asparagus, and two thick slices of foie gras, she wondered how he managed to stay so trim. It was something she had asked herself last time she’d been to Paris and had been struck by the absence of