by Peter Mayle
Benjamin grinned, his teeth white against his black beard, and pointed to the display on his stall. “They are all good, but there is one cheese here that every man should taste before he dies: my Brousse du Rove.”
“Ah,” said Alphonse. “I had hoped it would be here. We are very fortunate. This is goat cheese at its best. See how white it is? See how creamy it is? This is a cheese that is just as happily eaten with a touch of black olive tapenade as with a fresh fig. In other words, you can have it as an appetizer or at the end of the meal as a dessert. Or both.” He took a teaspoon from a dish on the stand and offered a spoonful to Elena.
At first, there was no reaction. Then she began to nod. “Oh boy,” she said. “Oh boy.” Alphonse beamed. Benjamin beamed. Sam started to make extra room in one of his bags.
They had one last stop to make. Alphonse wanted them to see a local curiosity, which he described to them as a bar roulant, or mobile bar, perhaps the only one in Provence. “Another example,” he said, “of French ingenuity.”
They found it at the entrance to the market—a large white van marked on one side with a sign that read Réserves Médicales, or Medical Supplies, because, as Alphonse said, a traveling bar was “not exactly legal.” On the van’s other side, a panel had been dropped down to make a counter, now decorated with several customers in various stages of thirst. Prominently displayed was an easel with a small blackboard, on which was written:
LISTE DES VINS
Rouge 3 Euros
Rosé 2 Euros
Rosé Supérieur 4 Euros
The two proprietors, so Alphonse told them, were a husband-and-wife team, Jacky and Flo. Flo was responsible for driving; Jacky was in charge of everything liquid, a responsibility which, if his almost luminous nose was anything to go by, he took very seriously.
“I’m buying,” said Sam. “Money’s no object. Rosé Supérieur all around.”
It arrived in small tumblers of thick glass, and tasted surprisingly good.
“A toast,” said Elena, “To dear Alphonse, who will make me a kitchen diva one of these days. Thanks so much for this morning.”
“A pleasure, my dear. Do you have any questions?”
Sam raised a hand. “What’s for lunch?”
Chapter 9
“Hear that? It’s the sound of summer.” Sam and Elena had just arrived at their house. It was barely 8:00 a.m. but the builders were already there. “The drowsy hum of the cement mixer, the chirping of the jackhammer—makes you glad we got here so early, doesn’t it?”
Elena winced at the thud of falling masonry. “Is this a normal time for them to start work?”
“Francis told me they like to do the heavy stuff before it gets too hot. Later on, during high summer, the temperatures will be up in the nineties by midday, and that’s a little warm for swinging a pickaxe.”
Although it had been only a few days since the start of work, it looked as though a surprising amount of progress had been made. All the windows and exterior doors were gone, the openings were being enlarged, and flagstones were stacked and ready to be put in place on the terraces around the house. The dingy bathtub had been uprooted and left, brimming with rubble, next to the truck that would take it away. For Elena, all this noise and activity was an exciting change after years of living in ready-made apartments in L.A. She was busy taking photographs when Coco appeared in the doorway. “Hold it right there,” Elena said, aiming her camera. “Look as if you’re having fun.” Coco smiled obligingly, and came out to join them. Sam noticed that she and Elena were now on kissing terms; he had to make do with a handshake.
Even dressed for dust and destruction, Coco managed to look crisp and stylish in white overalls, with a gauzy turquoise scarf at her throat. “Some good news,” she said. “The roof is in much better shape than the rest of the house, so we’re looking at a few repairs, and not a total replacement. That’s going to save a lot of time. And the good news for you, Monsieur Budget,” she added, looking at Sam, “is that we’ll also save some money.”
Sam nodded his approval. “Great. Now we can have the gold bathroom taps and his-and-hers Jacuzzis.” He looked at Coco’s raised eyebrows. “Just kidding.”
The good news continued. All the partition walls would be demolished by the end of the week, and the scruffy floor tiles removed. Within two weeks, Coco promised, the new construction could begin. And so, by the time Elena and Sam left the site at the end of the morning, they were in the highest of spirits.
To add to the pleasures of the day, they were meeting Philippe, their journalist friend, for lunch. He had called to say he had something to celebrate, and had asked them to meet him in his favorite haunt, Le Bistrot d’Edouard, a restaurant dedicated to tapas in all their delightful variety.
On their way into Marseille, Elena was trying to predict the cause of the celebration. “He’s finally going to marry Mimi,” she said, “or he’s been made editor of the paper. Or he’s got a book contract.”
“What makes you say that?”
“That’s what journalists do. They see all these stories coming into the newsroom. A lot of them, the juicy ones, are impossible to use in the paper for legal reasons—and they see a best seller. Keep the story, change the names, and call it fiction. Simple.”
Sam remained silent, digesting this literary revelation while he concentrated on his maneuvers with the tangled traffic. By the time he’d found a parking spot and beaten off an indignant challenge from a Renault with its blaring horn in overdrive, he was ready for a drink.
They found Philippe at a table on the terrace of the restaurant, an ice bucket already loaded. He stood up, spreading his arms in welcome before hugging them both. With his fashionably distressed jeans, black shirt, sunglasses, three-day stubble, and white jacket, he could have been taken for a hip refugee from the Cannes Film Festival.
Sam fingered the lapel of the white jacket. “This is all pretty dapper, Philippe. What happened to the suit?”
“I’ve changed my look,” said Philippe. “It’s a career move.” He filled their glasses, and raised his own. “Let’s drink to my new job.” In between pata negra ham, artichokes of the palest violet with parmesan, and an extended procession of tapas, Philippe brought them up to date.
He had left the local newspaper to work for Salut!, a magazine covering the antics and social life of celebrity France, and his assigned beat was Provence and the Riviera. “From Marseille to Monaco,” Philippe said, “I shall hunt down les people, the rich and famous, and bring their news to all our readers. The magazine has given me a car, so I can get rid of the scooter, and the expenses are”—he paused to kiss his fingertips—“prodigious. Last week I was in Saint-Paul de Vence for the spring exhibition at the Fondation Maeght, tomorrow there’s a twenty-first-birthday party here in Marseille for one of the Cartier girls, and next week I’m off to Menton for a wedding. Oh, I almost forgot—if I come up with ideas for special events, there’s a budget for them as well. How about that?” He sat back in his chair, the picture of a man who has just achieved a dream.
Elena was smiling at his enthusiasm as she offered her congratulations. “Just one thing,” she said. “What does Mimi think about all this gallivanting around?”
Philippe leaned forward, tapping his nose with an index finger. “She’s my photographer, so she comes with me. Not bad, eh?”
Lunch almost drifted into dinner as the three of them discussed possible projects for Philippe: a visit with the minister of tourism at the Fort de Brégançon, the president’s old summer vacation retreat; a piece on members of the floating summer population and their three-hundred-foot yachts; topless waterskiing in Saint-Tropez; an evening at the Casino of Monte Carlo; a Salut! celebrity fashion show in the Palais des Festivals in Cannes; Philippe was furiously making notes.
“What you have to remember,” he said, “are two things. First, people get bored with lying on the beach, and so by the evening they’re ready for anything that moves. And second, they all love se
eing their photographs in a glossy magazine. It makes them feel like stars.” He shrugged. “So I have human nature working for me.”
“Philippe’s right,” said Sam, as they were driving back to Le Pharo. “People’s obsession with celebrity is amazing. They want to read about it and they want to rub shoulders with it, which makes them feel that they’re part of it. Weird.”
“Thanks, professor. So being famous has never appealed to you?”
“I haven’t met many celebrities, but the ones I have met were so pleased with themselves it kind of put me off the whole idea. I’m happy to be anonymous, and to have the love of an adorable woman.”
“Sam, you are so full of it.” He could almost hear her rolling her eyes.
—
Back at Le Pharo, they took to the pool and swam off the aftereffects of lunch; and after ten lengths, all those tapas were no more than a pleasant memory. Drying off by the side of the pool, Sam looked up at the clean blue sky and gave a sigh of contentment.
“I can tell,” said Elena. “You’re lying there missing L.A.”
“Sure. Five million cars, smog, what’s not to miss?”
“Do you think we could live here full-time?”
“Do you?”
Before Elena could answer, they heard a whistle coming from the terrace behind them. It was Reboul, and he was holding up what looked very much like a bottle of rosé. They pulled on terrycloth robes and went over to join him.
He was still in his business suit, looking a little tired. He’d spent the morning with his bankers, and the afternoon at a meeting with the suppliers of equipment for a development project just outside Marseille that he was funding. The meeting had dragged on, and had not gone well. “God knows I’ve lived here long enough to know by now,” he said, “that everything you want done down here should be done between October and April. This year, there are three national holidays in May, all of them on a Thursday. Naturally, everyone takes those Fridays off to make a nice long weekend. So that’s six working days lost in that one month. Now here we are in June, and already they’re slowing down, rehearsing for July and August, when nothing gets done. Factories close, and we’ll be lucky if orders we’re placing now are delivered by the middle of September.” He shook his head. “And they never stop moaning about how bad the French economy is.” He poured the wine and raised his glass. “So I hope you had a better day than I had.”
“Poor Francis,” said Elena. “I hate to tell you, but we had a great day. It’s all happening so fast.”
“Try not to get too excited. Destruction is always faster than construction. Tell me—how do you like working with Coco?”
As both Sam and Elena said, first impressions were very good. Elena had been particularly impressed by Coco’s attention to detail, and her grasp of boring but important matters like the correct placement of a new septic tank and the most efficient distribution of the alarm sensors. Less boring but equally important was the advice that she had given them.
“Sharing a bathroom always leads to trouble,” had been her first words of wisdom. “You must have a bathroom each. And Elena must have a kitchen that works. No cupboards, just big drawers, so you can find what you want without having to move anything. Two dishwashers; one just for glasses so they don’t smear, and both of them built in at chest height so you don’t have to bend over to load and unload. These may seem like little details, but they’re important.”
Elena seemed to be ready to go through Coco’s ideas and suggestions for the rest of the house, but Reboul held up his hand to stop her somewhere between the bedroom and the living room. “I can see she hasn’t changed,” he said with a smile. “She always did like telling people what to do.”
“But she knows what she’s talking about,” said Elena. “What can I say? It’s so far so good.”
Long may that last, thought Reboul, as he recalled the interminable and often frustrating meetings with his architect when renovating Le Pharo.
Chapter 10
The Fitzgeralds were now comfortably installed in their suite at the Plaza Athénée. This was Kathy’s favorite hotel in Paris, not only for its elegance and excellent service, but also because of its convenient proximity to the temptations of the Avenue Montaigne. Each morning, after a light breakfast and a brisk session with Roberta (“Call me Bobbie”), her personal trainer, she would head out to the boutiques, her American Express card poised in expectation, and spend the hours until lunchtime choosing, trying on, and buying what she liked to think of as essential equipment for her casual French summer: dresses, caftans, Panama hats, swimsuits, the occasional handbag, and a selection of the latest beach jewelry. This had been her habit for the past two or three years, and she was now known to many of the sales assistants along the avenue; not just known, but deeply loved, as her budget was apparently limitless.
It hadn’t taken her husband, Fitz, very long to discover that he had neither the stamina nor the interest for high-intensity shopping, and his mornings were spent in their suite with a cigar and his iPad, nursing his business interests around the world. At the end of the morning he and Kathy would meet for lunch. And today they had a lunch invitation. It had come from Coco’s father, Alex, who would be arriving on the Riviera in a few days. Coco had suggested that the Fitzgeralds might enjoy getting to know him quietly before they all got caught up in the social whirl.
When they arrived at the Bistrot de Paris, they were taken to a table in the corner where their host was waiting. A stocky, well-tailored man in his late sixties, Alex had his daughter’s dark coloring and, it quickly became obvious, his daughter’s charm. He fussed over the Fitzgeralds and made sure they were comfortable. Champagne appeared, and Alex offered a toast.
“To Coco’s favorite clients, the Fitzgeralds. If only they were all like you.”
After that, conversation flowed easily. The two men started by exchanging a few credentials. Fitz mentioned his racehorses and his apartment on Central Park South; Alex countered with his collection of Impressionist paintings and his villa in Thailand. In this way, it was established that this was a meeting of equals, and that each was a man of taste and substance. Kathy told Coco later that it was like watching two tennis pros warming up.
By the time coffee arrived, an observer might have thought that the three of them were old friends. Arrangements were made to meet again on the Riviera. Alex just had to see the house on Cap Ferrat, so he and Coco must come over for dinner. As they parted company outside the restaurant, all of them felt that it had been a most pleasant and worthwhile meeting.
Kathy reported back to Coco on the phone that afternoon. “He’s so charming, your dad. And Fitz really liked him—isn’t that great? So we’re all going to get together when we come down.”
After Coco had made the appropriate noises, the conversation turned to the Fitzgeralds’ party, and the all-important guest list. Coco had put together the names and brief descriptions of a dozen couples to add to the group of old American faithfuls on the existing list, and not surprisingly, several of these suggestions were Coco’s clients. She had decided to include Elena and Sam, whose qualifications—the right age, amusing, and fluent in English—were impeccable. Kathy was delighted, and it was agreed that she and Coco would have what she called a working lunch as soon as she and Fitz had arrived on Cap Ferrat.
—
Elena and Sam had fallen into an instructive and enjoyable routine. Two or three mornings a week they would walk over to their house to check on its progress and to admire whatever had been done since their previous visit. They had quickly come to like and rely on Claude, the chef de chantier, who had worked with Coco for many years. He was a wiry, sun-wrinkled little man who had come up through the ranks of artisans, learning at every stage; masonry, plumbing, electricity—he had mastered them all, and more. If you weren’t in a hurry, Coco had said, he could build you a house single-handed.
It was Claude who had initiated them into the pros and cons of polished concrete for th
e floors and the virtues of tadelakt, a waterproof, lime-based plaster, for the showers. He was an authority on everything from carpentry to ironwork; he revealed the secrets of aging new stonework until it achieved an eighteenth-century complexion; he advised on the most effective protection of roof tiles from the brutal force of the Mistral. All this he passed on to Elena and Sam through a pungent haze of the cigarette smoke that came from his ever-present Gauloise while they pored, for the hundredth time, over the house plans that Coco had drawn up.
Having had their architectural fix, Elena and Sam would have lunch at Chez Marcel, on the Vieux Port, and then go back to Le Pharo for a swim and a siesta before bringing Reboul up to date. In this way the days passed very pleasantly. Elena had almost forgotten what an insurance office looked like, Sam was working on his French, and they were both enjoying exploring the towns and villages along the coast.
Having no pressing business to attend to—apart, of course, from the house—Sam found himself becoming more and more intrigued by what he had come to think of as a series of perfect crimes. These were the unsolved jewel robberies, such as the Castellaci heist that had cost Knox Insurance so dear. The work of professionals, Sam had no doubt, but how had they done it without leaving any clues? He wanted to find out more, and to do that he needed help: to start with, it would be useful to see and compare the police reports that had been filed after each of the unsolved robberies. Perhaps he could ask Reboul to persuade his friend Hervé to get hold of them.
But idle curiosity wasn’t going to be enough to gain access to official police files. There would have to be another, more serious reason, and it came to him one afternoon while he and Elena were lying by the pool. It was time, he thought, for him to get himself a job, and he knew exactly where to get it. He leaned over and planted a kiss on Elena’s bare stomach to distract her from the copy of Salut! magazine that Philippe had given her.