The Marseille Caper

razor-sharp: a skinny black suit and a whiter-than-white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, with highly polished black shoes. He might have been a fashion-conscious soccer player or a refugee from the Cannes film festival, which was currently taking place farther along the coast.

“Notice anything different?” Philippe didn’t give them time to reply. “I’ve changed mon look. Mimi at the office is now in charge of my personal presentation. What do you think?”

“Where are the sunglasses?” said Elena. “And how about an earring?”

“Where’s the Rolex?” said Sam.

Philippe grinned, shot his cuffs, and there it was: a great stainless-steel carbuncle, guaranteed waterproof to a depth of a thousand feet.

Sam shook his head in wonder. “Congratulations to Mimi. She’s turned you into a style icon. I hope you’ve kept the scooter.”

“Mais bien sur. It’s the only way to get around Marseille. But enough of me-what are you two doing here?” He waggled his eyebrows energetically. “Honeymoon?”

“Not exactly,” said Sam. And while they drank the Quatre Vents that Philippe had chosen because, as he said, of its rondeur and its shimmer of green, Sam gave him an edited version of his assignment: hired by an American architect, backed by Swiss money, in town to persuade the selection committee that a three-story apartment complex would suit Marseille better than a forty-floor hotel.

Philippe listened carefully, nodding from time to time. “I’ve been hearing all kinds of things about this,” he said, “and I’ve been trying to set up interviews with your competitors, but they’re acting very shy at the moment.”

“Do you know who they are, anything about them?”

“OK.” Philippe glanced around the room before adopting the investigative journalist’s standard operating position-body tilted forward in a confidential crouch, head sunk into his shoulders, the voice low and discreet. “There are two other syndicates: one British, one French. Or perhaps I should say Parisian. The head Brit is Lord Wapping, an ex-bookmaker who bribed his way into the House of Lords with some heavy financial contributions to both of the major political parties.”

“Both of them?”

“Mais oui. Apparently it happens all the time in England. It’s what they call a win- win situation.” Philippe paused for a sip of wine. “The leader of the Parisian project is a woman, Caroline Dumas. Very bright, very well connected politically, used to be a junior minister until she got too friendly with a senior minister and his wife found out. Now she works for Eiffel International; it’s one of those huge conglomerates- construction, agribusiness, electronics, with a chain of hotels on the side. Personally, I don’t think she has much of a chance on this one.”

“Why not?”

“She’s Parisian.” Philippe shrugged. He clearly felt that, in Marseille, no further explanation was necessary.

Their waitress, who had been hovering patiently, took advantage of the gap in the conversation and directed their attention to the list of tapas on the blackboard.

That particular night in May there were fifteen to choose from: pata negra ham from acorn-fed pigs in Spain; tuna roe drizzled with olive oil; fried aubergines dusted with mint; tartare of salmon, with honey and dill; deep-fried zucchini flowers; clams; artichokes; monkfish; anchovies-a selection of delights that had them in agonies of indecision. They finally agreed on three tapas each, followed, at Philippe’s insistence, by the specialty of the house: inkfish with blackened pasta.

Sitting back to take another look at her surroundings, Elena’s eye was caught by a frieze of oversized handwriting that ran along the top of the wall just below the ceiling. The same three words-buvez riez chantez-were repeated around all the walls of the upstairs room.

“What is that?” she asked. “Some kind of weird French thing like a tapas code?”

“It means drink, laugh, sing,” said Philippe. “To encourage us to have fun.” A sudden roar of laughter from the next table interrupted him. “Not that we need much encouragement.”

“I find it very strange,” said Sam, “that the average Frenchman has this reputation for being … well, serious, you know? Not the kind of guy to let his hair down. Too concerned with appearances.”

“What you call a tight-ass?” suggested Philippe.

Sam grinned. “I never said that. But actually, most of the French I’ve met love to have a good time. I remember going to the wine auctions in Beaune once and I couldn’t keep up. Drinking, laughing, singing? That’s all they did for three days straight. And yet there’s this image of the straitlaced French. I don’t get it.”

Philippe held up his finger, a sure sign that enlightenment was to follow. “That’s because people like to pigeonhole us, to take one aspect of our personality and judge us on that. Now, of course we are serious about important things-money and food and rugby, for instance. But we are more complex than that, and we are full of contrasts. On the one hand, we are amazingly egotistical: the two most popular words in the French language are moi and je, normally used together. And yet our treatment of others is usually polite, even considerate. We show respect. We kiss, we shake hands, we men rise to our feet for women, we leave the room when we take phone calls so as not to irritate people around us.” He paused to take a long sip of wine. “We drink, my God how we drink. But it is very unusual to see public drunkenness. We dress conservatively, and yet French women led the world in going topless on the beaches. It has been said that our national preoccupations are sex, hypochondria, and the belly. But there is more to us than that.” He nodded his approval of what he had just said, and held out the empty wine bottle to a passing waitress for a refill.

Elena had been paying close attention to this crash course in the French psyche, and, in what she hoped was true Gallic style, held up a finger of her own and wagged it. “Handshaking, OK. Cheek-kissing, OK. Polite, OK. Until they get into their cars. I have to tell you I have never seen so many seriously homicidal drivers as there are in France. What’s their problem?”

Philippe smiled and shrugged. “Some would say joie de vivre, but I have another theory. I think that French drivers suffer from a physical disability: they only have two hands, when, of course, they need three. Smoking and the telephone take up one hand and the other must be kept free in order to make insulting gestures at other drivers who are too fast, too slow, too close, or Belgian.” Seeing Elena’s puzzled expression, he added, “Belgians always drive in the middle of the road. This is well known. Ah, here are the tapas.”

The next few minutes passed in a contented semi-silence as they explored the nine small dishes set before them, sniffing, tasting, sometimes exchanging a forkful of violet-colored artichoke for a tender little clam wrapped in Spanish ham, or mopping up the herb-scented olive oil with their bread. In many ways, tapas make an ideal first course: not too heavy, with a variety of flavors to wake up the taste buds, and served in modest amounts that don’t blunt the appetite. With the final dish wiped clean, the conversation returned to business.

“I guess you know there’s some kind of press reception and cocktail party later on this week,” Sam said to Philippe. “Are you going? Will Patrimonio be there?”

Philippe raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Bof! Try to keep him away. This is his moment of glory. I’m afraid we can expect a speech from the old windbag. I shall be there to record it for posterity. And you will have a chance to meet your competitors, take a look at their ideas.” He shook his head at the thought. “Hotels, hotels, hotels. It’s always hotels or office buildings.”

“So what do you think of our idea?”

“Of course, I haven’t seen the details. Even so, I hope it will win. It’s more human, more civilized.” Philippe stared into his wine glass, his expression thoughtful. “But from what I hear, Wapping has a history of always getting what he wants, one way or another. Not an easy man to beat. And you can usually trust Patrimonio to make the wrong decision.”

Elena was frowning as she put down her glass. “You keep talking about Patrimonio as if he were the only guy that mattered. I know he’s chairman, but isn’t there a committee? Don’t the members have a say? Or are they just dummies put there to make up the numbers?”

Philippe started to run his fingers through his hair-an old habit-until he realized that there was nothing left to run his fingers through. “There are six, or maybe seven, on the committee. I know that two of them owe their jobs