by Peter Mayle
For Lord Wapping, too, the day started badly. He was under house arrest on the boat, his phone confiscated, his helicopter immobilized, police uniforms wherever he looked. He was enough of a realist to accept that he had been caught en flagrant delit, as one of the police officers had informed him (or, as Ray Prendergast put it, with his trousers round his ankles). This was bad enough, but it was not the only cloud on his horizon. Ever since the arrival of the police, Annabel had been behaving as if she hardly knew him.
Poor Annabel. She didn’t need to see Philippe’s article to know that she, and everyone else on the boat, would probably be treated as an accomplice to a criminal act unless she could prove that she had no knowledge of the kidnapping. In fact, this was almost the case. During her time with Wapping, she had developed a very efficient blind eye to what she called his business interests, and she had instinctively avoided asking any questions about the sleeping figure that Brian and Dave had brought on board. Now her mind was racing. If only she could find a way to get off the boat and over to her dear friends in Saint-Tropez. They would know what to do. It was all too, too ghastly.
For Patrimonio, the morning was rapidly spinning out of control. One after another, the members of the committee had called him to express their grave concerns about a known criminal being involved in a municipal project of this importance. There had also been a highly uncomfortable conversation with the mayor, who had told him in the most forceful language to take urgent steps to distance himself and his colleagues from Lord Wapping. With those angry words still fresh in his mind, Patrimonio had, as the mayor instructed, called an emergency meeting of the committee.
Not surprisingly, Francis Reboul’s reaction to the story had been one of considerable satisfaction, mixed with a tinge of frustration. It seemed possible, even likely, that Wapping’s bid would be disqualified, but Reboul’s hands were tied. Officially, there was nothing he could do to encourage that decision. He needed to talk to Sam.
“How is Elena?”
“Francis, they make girls tough in California. It’s as if nothing happened. She says she’s feeling a little spacey, but otherwise fine. She’s had breakfast, she’s had a swim, and she’s already talking about lunch and a glass of wine.”
“I’m so pleased. And Sam-congratulations. You did a marvelous job. We must celebrate. But first, we need to tie up the loose ends and get the project approved, and as you know I can’t do anything publicly to help.”
Sam was already ahead of Reboul. “You know what I’d do if I were you? I’d get your friend Gaston to talk to his friend the mayor. He’s Patrimonio’s boss, so he must know what’s going on.”
And so it was agreed. When Reboul called Sam back, it was to tell him that, after talking to Gaston, the mayor had decided to attend the emergency meeting of the committee that was scheduled for the afternoon. Gaston had thought it useful to invite the mayor to dinner that same evening at Le Petit Nice. And, since no Frenchman in his right mind declines the offer of a three-star meal, the mayor canceled a previous engagement with the Marseille chapter of the Old Rotarians. Gaston was confident that, over what would undoubtedly be a magnificent dinner, the conversation would take a turn in the right direction.
The day was passing slowly for Lord Wapping and Ray Prendergast. Requests to have their cell phones returned had been refused, despite Wapping’s plea that he needed to call his imaginary sick mother who was languishing in a London nursing home. They sat in the stateroom, their gloom only partly lifted by doses of brandy.
“Bastards,” said Wapping. “They’ve got to let us call a lawyer, haven’t they?”
“I don’t know, Billy. The trouble is, they’re French.”
“Yes, Ray. I had noticed.”
“What I mean is the rules and regs are different over here. Give you an example. They were still topping people-cutting their heads off-until 1981.”
Wapping shuddered. “Bastards.”
“That’s not all. They don’t like kidnappers, either. We’re looking at twenty to twenty-five years in the slammer.”
The two men sat in morose silence for several minutes. Wapping drained his glass and was reaching for the bottle when he stopped, his hand still in midair. “We need to get off the boat, right?”
Prendergast nodded.
“You’ve got to get me to a hospital.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Heart problems, Ray. Severe heart problems.”
“I didn’t know you had a dicky heart.”
“I will have. Leave it to me.”
The police officer on duty outside the stateroom glanced through the window just in time to see Lord Wapping topple from his chair and lie on the floor clutching his chest, his mouth gaping.
Jerome Patrimonio called the meeting to order, somewhat inhibited by the presence of the mayor, an impassive figure at the far end of the conference table. In what he would later think of as one of his most effective performances as chairman, Patrimonio began by deploring the shocking behavior of Lord Wapping. Here was a man, he said, who had deceived them all, and had proved himself to be totally unsuitable as a partner in this vitally important project. Fortunately, his true character had been revealed before any commitments had been made. Also, Patrimonio went on, two other excellent schemes had been submitted, and the committee had already had ample time and information to consider each of them. And so, in the interests of fairness, democracy, and complete transparency, always close to his heart, he now proposed to put the matter to a vote. A simple show of hands around the table, he suggested, should be sufficient.
He looked at the mayor, slightly less impassive now, who nodded his approval. The members of the committee adjusted their expressions-grave and responsible, as befitted important men about to make an important decision. They were reminded by Patrimonio that they had the right to abstain.
The first proposal to be put to the vote was the hotel complex put forward by Madame Dumas on behalf of Eiffel International. Patrimonio looked around the table. Two hands were raised.
It was the turn of the second proposal, presented by Monsieur Levitt on behalf of the Swiss/American consortium. One by one, five hands went up, much to Patrimonio’s relief; his decisive chairman’s vote was not going to be necessary. He could not be blamed if anything went wrong.
“Well, gentlemen, I think we can agree that the committee has sent a very clear message, and I congratulate them on their decision.” And with that, he shot his cuffs and declared the meeting closed.
Back in his office, Patrimonio made two calls: the first to a surprised Sam, the second to a senior editor at La Provence. Patrimonio’s day, after a dreadful start, was beginning to look more promising.
Twenty
“ Mais c’est pas possible. I don’t believe it.” Philippe was laughing and shaking his head as he passed the morning’s edition of La Provence across the breakfast table to Mimi. “Take a look. That rascal Sam-he never said a word to me about this.”
Mimi put down her croissant, licked the flakes of pastry from her fingers, and spread the newspaper in front of her. There, above the fold on the front page, was a photograph of Patrimonio and Sam shaking hands and beaming into the camera. “A New Look for the Anse des Pecheurs” read the headline, followed by several paragraphs of breathless prose that congratulated the committee on its difficult decision and emphasized the amicable and constructive relationship between Monsieur Jerome Patrimonio and Monsieur Sam Levitt. The piece went on to announce that there would be a press conference shortly, when full details of the winning project would be revealed. The final seal of approval was provided by Patrimonio. “I am particularly pleased with the committee’s decision,” he said, “because this project was a personal favorite of mine from the very beginning.”
On reading this, Mimi snorted, almost choking on her coffee. “Qu’il est bestiasse! What an idiot.”
Philippe was still grinning. “Now there’s a press conference I’d hate to miss. Want to come?”<
br />
Following the arrest of Lord Wapping and his crew, Philippe and Mimi had decided that it was safe to move back into his apartment. As a result, they had been seeing less of Sam. “Leave him alone for a minute,” said Philippe, “and he starts mixing with all kinds of weird people.” He reached for his phone and tapped in Sam’s number.
“Is that Monsieur Sam Levitt, who has an amicable and constructive relationship with that horse’s ass Patrimonio?”
Sam groaned. “I know, Philippe, I know. Don’t be too hard on me. He called and said it was important that we meet at his office. When I got there, he’d just finished an interview with one of your guys on the paper. Then the photographer comes in …”
“And the rest is history. I bet he was wearing makeup for the shot. Now tell me-when’s the press conference?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. His secretary’s calling around to the media this morning. You can come, but only if you behave yourself.”
“Moi? Misbehave? I shall be a perfect example of the professional journalist.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. See you tomorrow.”
“Now, my dear Monsieur Levitt, it would probably be best if I handled all the questions,” Patrimonio said, glancing around the conference room, searching the walls in vain for a mirror. He was at his sartorial best for the occasion, in a cream silk suit, pale-blue shirt, and his treasured Old Etonian tie. “Of course, if I need to consult you on a technical matter, I will. But I think it best if there is one official spokesman for the project, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely,” said Sam, who was more than happy to let Patrimonio take the questions. He was already enjoying the delightful irony of the situation: Here was Patrimonio promoting the project of his old enemy Reboul. “Apart from anything else,” Sam said, “your French is so much better than mine.”
Patrimonio’s secretary put her head around the conference room door. “I think they’re all here,” she said.
“Show them in, my dear. Show them in.” Patrimonio went through his ritual of hair-smoothing, cuff-shooting, and tie-tweaking before assuming a welcoming smile as the media filed in. A three-man television crew from a local station was followed by half a dozen writers from the specialist press-design and architecture, Cote Sud magazine-and a small troop of real-estate agents anxious to get a foot in the door. Bringing up the rear was Philippe. At the sight of him, Patrimonio’s smile faltered for a second before he recovered.
In his presentation, Patrimonio was careful to allocate credit where it was due; that is, to himself. There he was, the steady hand of guidance at every stage of the process, from choosing the short list to overseeing the final decision. It was, if you believed what you heard, the story of one man’s dedication and sound judgment. Halfway through, Sam made the mistake of catching Philippe’s eye, and was rewarded by an exaggerated wink.
When Patrimonio finally stopped, the questions, as he had hoped, were soft. How much would the project cost? What was the schedule of work, and when would it start? What were the purchase arrangements for the finished apartments? Patrimonio gave adequately optimistic answers, and was congratulating himself on the smooth progress of the meeting when Philippe cleared his throat loudly and raised his hand.
“Monsieur Patrimonio,” he asked, “what has happened to the millionaire kidnapper? I understand he was on the short list. You two were quite friendly, weren’t you? Any news about him?”
But Patrimonio, a man well versed in the art of evasion, had no intention of going anywhere near that particular subject. “For legal reasons, I can’t possibly comment on that. It’s a matter for the police.” He consulted his watch. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, unless there are any further questions, Monsieur Levitt and I have work to do.”
Reboul had decided that the decision called for a celebration. It was still too soon, he felt, to be seen publicly in Marseille with Sam and Elena, and so he had made arrangements for what he called “a little country lunch.” Two cars would come to the house to take Elena, Sam, Mimi, Philippe, and Daphne to a discreet restaurant hidden away in the Luberon. Reboul would meet them there.
At eleven o’clock sharp, two black Mercedes pulled into the driveway of the house. The two young chauffeurs, in black suits and sunglasses, guided the passengers to their seats, and they set off. Daphne had asked to travel with Elena and Mimi-“all girls together, dear, so we can gossip about you two,” as she said to Sam-leaving the men to follow in the second car.
In little over an hour they found themselves in a completely different world. After the crowds and concrete and sea views of Marseille, the Luberon looked lush and deserted. The rains of spring had helped to give the mountains a covering of every shade of green, fresh and shining, and the sky was postcard blue. It was perfect weather for lunch, as Philippe said to Sam.
The final part of the drive took them up the narrow, twisting road that climbs to the top of the Luberon until they came to a painted wooden sign, half-obscured by ivy, that announced Le Mas des Oliviers. An arrow pointed down a stony track that wound through fields of olive trees, silver-green leaves shivering in the breeze, and ended at the high walls and open gates of the restaurant. Framed in the opening, a broad smile on his face, stood Reboul.
He was introduced to Daphne, Mimi, and Philippe, kissed Elena and Sam, and led them into a vast courtyard, easily large enough for the two mature chestnut trees whose leaves provided shade for a long table. Sam noticed that it was laid for eight. “Don’t tell me you invited Patrimonio?”
Reboul grinned. “Certainly not. But Sam, I have a new friend-ah, there she is.” Sam followed Reboul as he went over to the doorway of the main restaurant. “My dear, this is Sam, who has been such a help to me. Sam, I’d like you to meet Monica Chung.” She was tiny, barely up to Sam’s shoulder, with glossy black hair and almond eyes, no longer young but still beautiful, and extremely elegant. Even Sam, no expert, could tell that her silk dress had come from Paris. He bowed over her hand, and Reboul nodded his approval. “You know, you’re beginning to act like a civilized Frenchman.”
As they crossed the courtyard to join the others, Reboul slipped his arm round Monica’s waist. “Monica and I have mutual interests in Hong Kong. She’s a ferocious businesswoman, and an excellent cook, but I must warn you, Sam, never play mah-jongg with her-she’ll murder you.” Monica laughed. “We’ve had two thousand years of training, Francis. Now, who are these nice people?”
While the introductions were being made, a couple came out to join them carrying trays with bottles and glasses and ice. “This is Mireille,” said Reboul, “who does wonderful things in the kitchen. And this is her husband, Bernard, who insists that we have an aperitif before we eat.” They were a cheerful couple, living testimonials to Mireille’s cooking, plump and jovial. They distributed pastis and glasses of rose before Mireille made her excuses and disappeared to supervise the preparations for lunch while Bernard fussed over the table settings.
The courtyard was an art director’s dream. The drystone walls, two feet thick and ten feet high, had turned a soft gray over several hundred years of weather, their color matched by the pockmarked flagstones of the floor. Massive Anduze pots of faded terra-cotta, planted with scarlet geraniums and white lobelia, lined the walls, and a selection of straw hats-in case any sun should penetrate the leaves-had been hung on the trunks of the chestnut trees.
The lunch lived up to the surroundings. It was a parade of Mireille’s favorite dishes, starting with an appetizer of beignets de fleurs, flash-fried zucchini flowers. These were followed by tarts of anchovies and olives on a bed of softened onions-the classic pissaladiere of Nice. The main dish, Mireille’s favorite of favorites, was a charlotte of lamb and aubergines, served with potatoes roasted in goose fat. Then a little cheese, provided by an obliging local goat. And finally, a soup of peaches topped with sprigs of fresh verbena. A lunch, so Bernard told them, that would set a man up for a hard afternoon’s work in the fields.
Wine and conve
rsation flowed, and nearly three hours passed before Reboul rose to his feet and tapped his glass with a spoon for attention.
“My friends,” he said, “this is a very happy day, and I don’t want to spoil it with a long speech. But I can’t let the occasion pass without offering my admiration and thanks to Sam, and I hope he will accept this token of my appreciation.” He walked round the table to where Sam was sitting, and presented him with an envelope.
Sam opened it. Inside was a check for one million dollars. He blinked, then looked up at Reboul. Both men were smiling, but it was a few moments before Sam could speak.
“Lunch is on me,” he said.
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Document ID: fbd-668fa2-1d79-4642-03a3-9df2-4d8f-e8a8cd
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Peter Mayle
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