obesity. The restaurants were full, the French ate and drank like champions, and yet most of them never seemed to put on weight. Unfair and mysterious.
“Why is it, Sam?”
“What?”
“Why don’t the French get fat?”
Sam had asked the same question of Sophie, his accomplice in the wine robbery. Her answer had been delivered with the total conviction that came from having been born French, and thus having superior logic and common sense on her side, not to mention centuries of correct eating habits. Sam had no difficulty remembering her exact words: “We eat less than you do, we eat more slowly than you do, and we don’t eat between meals. Simple.”
While Elena was digesting these words of wisdom, Reboul joined in, shaking his head. “It’s changing in France,” he said. “Our habits are changing, our diet is changing, our shape is changing-too much fast food, too many sugary drinks.” He patted his stomach. “Maybe I should give up Sauternes. But not just yet.”
They were now flying into the darkness of night, and Mathilde had transformed their armchairs into flat beds and dimmed the cabin lights. It had been a hectic day for Elena and Sam, and they left Reboul, with a final glass of Sauternes, to catch up on his phone calls.
Elena yawned and stretched and lay back with a grateful sigh. She turned off her reading light. After two years without a vacation, she allowed the thought of tomorrow to wash over her. She would be in the South of France, with nothing to do but relax.
“Sam?”
“What?”
“Thanks for taking the job. You know, we should do this more often.”
Sam smiled in the darkness. “Goodnight, Elena.”
“Goodnight, Sam.”
Mathilde, crisp and fresh and dressed by Saint Laurent in the colors of the French flag-red silk scarf, white shirt, and blue suit-woke them with the offer of orange juice, croissants, and coffee. They would be landing in half an hour. The sun was already up and, according to the pilot’s cheerful report, the weather forecast promised a fine warm day with temperatures in the high seventies.
They were finishing breakfast when Reboul appeared, perky and newly shaved, to have a cup of coffee with them. After being assured that they had slept well, he moved a little closer to Sam and lowered his voice. “Once we’re in Marseille,” he said, “it is important that we’re not seen together. That would risk spoiling everything. So when we land, I shall stay on the plane for half an hour to let you get away. Your car and your driver, Olivier, are waiting for you. He will take you to the house where you will be staying. Claudine will meet you there and take care of everything you need. She will give you each a cell phone with a French number. Call me-you’ll find my cell number in your phone memory-to make sure we can be in touch at any time. And then, well …” Reboul made an expansive gesture in the general direction of the city. “Marseille is yours for the day. I can recommend Peron for lunch, or Olivier can take you to Cassis, Aix, the Luberon, wherever you like. Work starts tomorrow. Let’s talk this evening to go over the details.”
They were now starting their descent, and Elena had her first glimpse of the Mediterranean, glinting in the sun, with the outer limits of the sprawl of Marseille visible in the distance. She reached over and took Sam’s hand. “Isn’t the light fantastic? Everything looks like it’s been scrubbed. Where’s the smog?”
Sam squeezed her hand. “Homesick already? I don’t think they do smog here. The mistral keeps it away-or maybe it’s the garlic in the
Before Elena could reply, Mathilde came by to check their seat belts and go over the landing procedure. “All you need are your passports,” she said. “Your bags will be cleared through customs and put in the car. Olivier will be waiting in the parking area. I hope you have a wonderful stay in Marseille.”
The plane touched down and taxied toward the small private terminal before easing to a halt. Not quite like landing at LAX, Elena thought, as she watched the baggage handlers scurrying around the plane. She half expected to be picked up bodily and carried by careful hands for the final short leg of the journey.
They made their farewells to Reboul, Mathilde, and the pilot, and stepped out into a glorious Provencal morning-sharp, polished light and a high, thick blue sky. There was a brief stop at immigration, where the officer welcomed them to France, and then through the terminal doors. Fifty yards away, a long, black Peugeot and a young man in a suit were waiting. He held the door open for Elena, showed Sam the luggage in the trunk, and then they were off. The time between leaving the plane and getting into the car had been just over five minutes.
“I’m running out of nice things to say,” said Elena, shaking her head. “But I know what I’d like for Christmas.”
Four
The big Peugeot made its cautious way through the cramped streets of Marseille’s 7th and 8th arrondissements, where the great and the good-and the chic-have their homes. Olivier was driving at walking pace and often had only inches to spare. He was negotiating the narrow, twisting Chemin du Roucas Blanc, passing between high walls that half concealed villas built in the pompous style greatly admired by the prosperous merchants of the nineteenth century. Occasionally there would be an architectural hiccup: a modern white ranch house looking slightly uncomfortable so far from California, or a tiny, shabby building, little more than a hut, which had once sheltered a fisherman and his family. This was typical of Marseille, Olivier said: wealth and poverty cheek by jowl, palaces next to hovels-the marks of a city that had grown organically, without much interference from urban planners.
As they drew closer to the sea, the walls on either side seemed to become higher, and the houses bigger. These had been built here by the richest merchants of Marseille not only for the beauty of the sea views, but so that they could keep an eye on their floating assets-the ships and their delightfully profitable cargoes going in and out of the port.
“Wow,” said Elena. “See that place? What a spot.” They had come to the brow of a rise in the road, and she was looking at a house just below them. It was built on a point that jutted out toward the sea, surrounded by a small forest of parasol pines, and protected by the inevitable high wall.
Olivier was smiling. “Monsieur Reboul hopes you will find it comfortable. This is where he used to live before he moved to Le Pharo. You won’t be disturbed here. It’s very peaceful.” He slowed down to give the iron gates time to swing open, and pulled up on the gravel forecourt in front of a short flight of steps that led to the massive entrance door.
Waiting at the top of the steps was a welcoming committee of two: a slim, elegant figure with short, gray hair, and a much larger, younger woman whose wide, white smile was perfectly set off by her shining black face. Olivier introduced them as Claudine, who ran the house, and Nanou from Martinique, who was the maid. “Claudine’s English is excellent,” said Olivier, “but with Nanou it is what I think you call a work in progress.” At the sound of her name, Nanou took a deep breath. “How you doing?” she said, followed by “Have a nice day,” and then spoiled the effect by dissolving into giggles.
Claudine led them into the house, across a gleaming expanse of beeswaxed herringbone parquet, up a broad staircase, and through double doors into what was to be their bedroom.
Sam looked around and let out a low whistle. “I guess we’ll be able to squeeze in here,” he said. “It’s about the same size as my apartment.”
Claudine smiled. “It used to be Monsieur Reboul’s bedroom.” She pointed to two doors set into the far wall. “You each have a bathroom. Monsieur Reboul always says that the secret of a harmonious relationship between a man and a woman is to have separate bathrooms.”
“Amen,” said Sam. There was a muffled snort from Elena.
“I’ll leave you to unpack. Then perhaps you’d like coffee on the terrace. I can give you your phones and
