by Peter Mayle
He spent a mystifying half hour trying to follow a rugby game on French television, and fell asleep with the roar of the crowd in his ears.
Thirteen
Sam went out into the fresh morning air and inspected his breakfast. Neatly arranged on the crisp white cloth that covered the table on his terrace was everything a reasonable man could want at the start of the day: an aromatic pot of café filtre, a large jug of hot milk, two chubby golden croissants, and a copy of the Herald Tribune. He put on his sunglasses, checked that the view was still as fine as it had been yesterday, and sat down with a pleasant sense of well-being. His cell phone rang.
Before answering, he looked at his watch. Sophie was acquiring American habits. “Good morning,” he said. “You’re up early.”
“Old men can’t sleep, Sam. You’ll find out.” The voice was soft, and slightly accented. Axel Schroeder.
Sam took a moment to get over his surprise before answering. “This is a treat, Axel. Good to hear from you. What’s happening?”
“Oh, this and that, Sam. This and that. I thought maybe we should have a drink tonight.” There was a pause. “If you’re still in Paris.”
Fishing, Sam thought. You’ve probably already called the Montalembert and found that I left. “Nothing I’d like better, Axel. But tonight’s not possible.”
“That’s a shame,” said Axel. “I hate to give bad news over the phone.” Sam could hear him sigh. “I’ll make it quick. Without going into details, the word I hear is that Roth set up the wine job.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time in France. You should be back in California. That’s my advice.”
“Thanks, Axel. I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.”
Shaking his head, Sam poured his first cup of coffee. He liked Axel, and there were times when he could surprise you-and probably himself-by telling the truth. But not this time, Sam felt sure. It was an encouraging sign. He tore off the end of a croissant and dipped it in his coffee, another French habit he’d picked up; messy, but delicious. He felt the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, and turned to the sports section of the paper.
Eleven o’clock found Sophie, Sam, and Philippe sitting around a table in a quiet corner of the hotel lobby. Sophie had spent the first part of the morning negotiating her way through the protective layers of Reboul’s entourage. She had finally managed to reach his private secretary, only to be told that Monsieur Reboul was with his power-yoga teacher and couldn’t be disturbed. The secretary had promised to call back.
“What did you tell her?” asked Philippe.
Sophie went through the cover story, with Philippe nodding his approval as she described her new incarnation as a book packager.
“That might work,” he said when she had finished. He then took a thick folder from his weather-stained nylon backpack. “Voilà: Reboul’s file. I printed out the interesting stuff so you don’t need a computer to read it. You’ll see from this how he loves attention, and if there’s a photograph involved he loves it even more. Just like a politician.” He stopped and grimaced. “Well, maybe not that bad. Here, take a look.” He opened the folder and started to spread the contents on the table.
There was Reboul the master builder in a hard hat on one of his construction sites; Reboul the newspaper magnate, sleeves rolled up in what looked like a newsroom; Reboul in a soccer shirt, chatting to members of the Olympique de Marseille team; Reboul in a frayed straw hat, secateurs at the ready, communing with a bunch of grapes; Reboul the aviator about to board his private jet; Reboul the sea dog at the helm of his yacht; and, in a variety of outfits that ranged from a business suit to T-shirt and shorts, Reboul the proud homeowner, chez lui in the Palais du Pharo. One study of particular interest was Reboul the connoisseur, holding a glass of wine to the light in front of racks of bottles that stretched away into the far distance; this was presumably his cellar.
Sam half expected to come across pictures of Reboul in his pajamas, but perhaps the great man didn’t have time for sleep. “Busy guy,” said Sam. “Does he have his own personal photographer?”
Philippe grinned. “At least one. Editors who know him well sometimes don’t even bother to send a photographer when they’re doing a piece.”
“How about a wife? Is there a Madame Reboul?”
“There was. She died years ago, and he never remarried. That’s not to say he doesn’t have one or two petites amies.” Philippe shuffled through the articles until he found a photograph of Reboul and a striking young woman who was several inches taller than he was. “Little men with big wallets,” said Philippe. “They’re always the most frisky, and they always go for tall women. Isn’t that right, Sophie?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
She made a face, but before she could reply her phone rang. The two men watched as she got up and moved away to take the call. It was brief, and it was positive. There was a wide smile on Sophie’s face as she came back to the table. “Six-thirty this evening,” she said. “It has to be tonight, because he’s taking his boat to Corsica tomorrow, and he’ll be away for a few days.”
“Terrific,” said Sam. “Well done. You have a great future as a book packager. Now, what do we need for this evening? I’d better get a camera.”
“I need to find an outfit,” said Sophie. “Something businesslike.”
Philippe looked at his watch. “I need lunch. In fact, I will perish without lunch,” he said. “I know this place, typiquement marseillais. We can talk while we eat.”
The taxi dropped them on the corner of the Rue de Village, a side street off the Rue de Rome. Philippe led the way to what appeared to be an ordinary butcher’s shop, its window decorated with a panorama of beef, lamb, and veal. He stopped short at the entrance and turned to Sam. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian?” He answered his own question with a shake of his head. “I forget. You’re American. Of course you love meat. And here we have the best meat in Marseille.”
As they went through the door, Sam could hear the buzz of conversation drifting through from the back of the shop. A young man came out to greet them, survived a vigorous embrace from Philippe, and took them into a small, crowded room dappled with light filtering through the leaves of the giant bougainvillea that sprawled across the glass roof. Philippe was looking around, nodding and smiling at several of the other customers. “Everybody here is from Marseille,” he said to Sam, with some satisfaction. “You’re probably their first American.” Sam had been studying the surroundings, which owed a substantial debt to the bovine school of interior decoration. Depictions of a large, stately, black-and-white cow named La Belle were everywhere, on paintings and place mats, salt cellars and pepper shakers and menus. “I guess we know what we’re going to eat,” said Sam. “Any special recommendations?”
Philippe closed his menu with a snap. “Bresaola to start, with hearts of artichoke, sun-dried tomatoes, and Parmesan. Then the beef cheeks, which they do here with a slice of foie gras on top. And a fondant au chocolat. That will see us through until dinner. Trust me.”
As they were making their way through lunch, one perfect mouthful after another, Philippe turned his attentions to Sophie. It had been too long since they had seen one another, he felt, and he wanted to catch up. After one or two harmless questions about work and Bordeaux, he sipped his wine, wiped his lips on his napkin, and moved on to more delicate matters.
“How’s your love life?”
“Philippe!” Sophie flushed prettily and appeared to find something fascinating on her plate.
“Well, I’m sure you’re not still married to that-what was he? A yacht designer? I always thought there was something a bit louche about him.” He paused, head tilted, and studied Sophie. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
Sophie nodded. “The divorce has just come through.”
“And?” said Philippe. “And?”
“And I’ve been seeing someone else for nearly eighteen months.” She looked at Sam, shaking her hea
d. “This is what you get when you have a journalist in the family.” Turning back to Philippe, she said, “His name is Arnaud Rolland, he has a small château near Cissac, a sweet old mother, no children, and two Labradors. Now let me finish my lunch.”
Philippe looked sideways at Sam and winked. “Just asking,” he said.
Over coffee, the conversation returned to the events of the evening. “Before I forget,” said Philippe as he rummaged in his backpack. “Your devoirs-something for you to read before tonight.” He slid a small book across the table to Sam. “It’s the story of the Palais du Pharo, actually very interesting. Reboul is proud of his home. You will impress him if you can show you know a little about it.”
“Philippe?” Sophie was studying a street plan of Marseille. “Where would you go if you wanted to buy clothes?”
Philippe glanced down and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the wrinkled, olive drab fatigue pants that were tucked into scuffed combat boots. “There’s an army surplus place off the Canebière. I know the owner. He understands mon ‘look.’”
“No, not for you. Me.”
Philippe gazed at the ceiling in thought. “I’d say Rue Paradis, Rue Breteuil, the little streets around there. I’ll mark them for you.”
They stood outside the restaurant while Philippe pointed them in the direction of their destinations-Sophie for her boutiques, Sam for his camera. Philippe himself, shouldering the unforgiving burden of journalism, was off to cover the first-ever Salon d’Erotisme to be held in Marseille, a unique and perhaps largely unclothed event. As he speculated aloud on what he might see, Sophie put her hands to her ears and left.
Back once again on his terrace, Sam settled down and opened the book Philippe had given him, a slim volume in two languages that set out the history of what was now Reboul’s splendid home.
The idea for the Palais du Pharo was conceived in 1852, when Louis-Napoléon, le prince-président on his way to becoming emperor, dropped a hint to the local dignitaries that a residence overlooking the sea might be very much to his liking.
A hint from Napoléon was not too far from an imperial command, and the good people of Marseille were quick to respond. Let us build you a house, they said. Napoléon, thinking that their generosity was a little excessive (a sense of moderation not normally found in emperors), turned down the offer. But, he said, he would be delighted to accept a suitable plot of land, and on it he would construct a suitable house.
As sometimes happens in Provence, the building process was slow, and not without its problems. Although work officially commenced in 1856, the first stone wasn’t laid until 1858, on August 15-which, by happy coincidence, was Saint Napoléon’s Day. It was one of very few happy moments. The numerous architects squabbled, the head mason was incompetent, there were not enough workmen assigned to the job, there were difficulties with the supply of stone, and frequent fierce winds demolished the windows. Work dragged on for another ten years, but as 1868 came and went Napoléon’s palais was still uninhabitable.
Worse was to come. Two years later, after some injudicious military adventures, Napoléon was deposed. He went into exile in England, where he died in 1873. His widow, Eugénie, gave back to Marseille what had been given to her and her husband, leaving the city as the owner of the most spectacular white elephant on the coast.
Over the 120 years that followed, the city fathers discovered that enormous houses, particularly those exposed to the ravages of salt sea air, cost enormous amounts of money to keep up. Dozens of schemes to defray costs were tried and discarded. Eventually, it was with a considerable sense of relief that the city accepted Reboul’s offer to rent the Palais du Pharo for his personal use. Papers were signed on Saint Napoléon’s Day 1993, and Reboul moved in.
It was a sad little story, Sam thought as he closed the book. If an emperor couldn’t get a house built in ten years, what hope was there for the rest of us?
The early-evening breeze coming off the sea had turned chilly, and he went inside to change into a suit and tie for the meeting. He checked his new camera and put half a dozen business cards in his top pocket. These were printed only with his name and address. There were no details about his occupation, since this had a way of changing from job to job. With a final adjustment of his tie-a Harvard Club knockoff-he went down to meet Sophie in the lobby.
She was already there when Sam stepped out of the elevator, and she was talking to an extremely attentive concierge, who clearly appreciated what she was wearing. It was the Frenchwoman’s version of a business suit-that is, a skirt just the modest side of short, with a hint of lacy décolleté visible beneath the fitted jacket.
When she saw Sam, Sophie turned toward him, one hand on her hip, her eyebrows raised. “So? Will this do?”
Sam nodded his head and grinned. “You’re a credit to the publishing business. In fact, you’d be a sensation in the publishing business.”
“I’ve just asked the concierge to call for a taxi,” she said. “Twenty meters is about all I can manage in these shoes.”
Sam looked at the shoes. It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. “I understand perfectly,” he said. He offered Sophie his arm. “Let’s go. This is Reboul’s lucky night.”
Fourteen
The iron gates swung open to let the taxi through. Standing some fifty meters inside the gates, at the very edge of the driveway, was a larger-than-life-size statue of a woman clad in the flowing robes of ancient Greece. Her blind marble gaze was fixed on the huge building in the distance, her arms outstretched as if trying to touch it.
The driver nodded toward her as they passed. “Empress Eugénie,” he said. “La pauvre. This is about as close as she ever got to her palace.”
Waiting on the front steps as the taxi pulled up was a young man in a dark suit, his head respectfully tilted in welcome. He guided them through the entrance and along a gleaming avenue of honey-colored herringbone parquet that led to a pair of tall double doors. These he threw open with a flourish before melting away, leaving Sophie and Sam almost blinded by the torrent of evening sunlight that streamed through a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Framed by one of these windows was the silhouette of Reboul, his back to the room and a cell phone to his ear.
Sophie nudged Sam. “He doesn’t know we’re here.”
“Sure he does,” said Sam. “He’s just letting us know how busy he is. They do it all the time in L.A. ” He turned, and closed the double doors behind him with a firm thump. The sound seemed to be enough to attract the silhouette’s attention, and Reboul, still heavily backlit, put away his phone and came across to greet them.
He was short, slim, and immaculate. He had thick white hair, beautifully cut en brosse, and wore a shirt of the palest blue, a tie that Sam, a student of these arcane signals, recognized as the official neckwear of the Guards Club in London, and a dark-blue silk suit. His face was the color of oiled teak, and his bright brown eyes became even brighter at the sight of Sophie.
“Bienvenue, madame,” he said, bending over to kiss her hand and take in her décolleté before turning to Sam. “Et vous êtes Monsieur…”
“Levitt. Sam Levitt. Good to meet you. Thanks a lot for seeing us.” He shook Reboul’s hand and gave him one of his business cards.
“Ah,” said Reboul. “You would prefer that we speak English.”
“That’s kind of you,” said Sam. “My French is not as good as it should be.”
Reboul shrugged. “No problem. Today, everyone in business must know English. All my employees speak it. Soon, I suppose, we’ll have to learn Chinese.” He looked down at Sam’s card, and cocked a bushy white eyebrow. “A château in Los Angeles? How chic.”
“A modest place,” said Sam with a smile. “But it’s home.”
Reboul extended a hand toward the row of windows. “Come. Let me show you my sunset. I’m told it’s the best in Marseille.”
His sunset, thought Sam. It was wonderful how billionaires had a habit of appropriating the marvels of nature
as their personal property. But he had to admit that it was an exceptional sight. The sky was on fire-a great crimson gash, fading at the edges to tones of pink and lavender, the light making a path of rippled gold on the surface of the sea. Reboul nodded at the view, as if in confirmation that it was up to the normal high standard that he expected.
A few kilometers from the shore, there was a shadowy huddle of small islands. Sophie pointed to the nearest of them. “That’s the Château d’If, isn’t it?”
“Quite right, my dear. You obviously haven’t forgotten your Alexandre Dumas. This is where the Count of Monte-Cristo was imprisoned. Many visitors think he really existed, you know.” He chuckled. “Such is the power of a good book.” Turning away from the window, he took Sophie’s arm. “Which reminds me of the reason for your visit. Let’s sit down, and you can tell me about it.”
Reboul showed them to a group of nineteenth-century chairs and sofas arranged around a low table that dripped with ormolu. Before sitting down himself, he took out his cell phone and pressed a button. The young man in a dark suit, who must have been lurking outside, appeared with a tray that he set down on the table. He took a bottle of champagne from its ice bucket and presented it for Reboul’s approval before opening it. The cork came out with a gentle sigh. The young man poured, served, and disappeared.
“I hope you like Krug,” said Reboul. He settled back in his chair and crossed his legs, exposing black crocodile loafers and a pair of trim, deeply tanned bare ankles. “You must forgive the lack of socks,” he said, “but I detest them. I never wear them at home.” He raised his glass to Sophie and smiled. “To literature.”
When Sam and Sophie were planning their pitch, they had agreed that Sophie’s Bordeaux background made her the natural choice for the part of editorial director, in charge of selecting the cellars to be included in the book. With a sip of champagne to moisten a suddenly dry throat, she started by giving Reboul a general overview of the project, sprinkling her explanation with names of the eminent professional cellars under consideration-the grand restaurants and hotels of the world, and, of course, the Elysée Palace. Reboul listened with polite attention, his eye occasionally wandering from Sophie’s face to a discreet appreciation of her legs.