“Suppose he doesn’t speak English?”
“He’ll speak English when he sees the money. You can count on it.”
The meeting was about to break up when Wapping’s phone rang, with an agitated Patrimonio on the other end. Wapping cut him short.
“No need to get your knickers in a twist, Jerome. We’re dealing with it. No, don’t ask. You don’t want to know.”
A relieved but slightly puzzled Patrimonio put his phone down and pressed the buzzer on his desk. His secretary appeared. “Nathalie,” he said, “you have very good English. What is this knickers in a twist?”
Sam took a second and more careful look at the article before calling Philippe.
“Well, my friend,” he said, “I think you might have made one or two enemies this morning. Have you had any reactions yet?”
“My editor likes it. Patrimonio doesn’t. Mimi thinks it’s great. We’ll start getting reactions from readers later today. What did you think of it?”
“Wouldn’t want to change a word. But I guess you won’t be getting too many fan letters from Wapping and Caroline Dumas.”
Philippe laughed. “If I wanted to be popular I’d have been a politician. What are you doing today?”
“Working on my presentation. And I have a few calls to make. How about you?”
“You won’t believe this. There’s a demonstration this afternoon on one of the beaches by the local branch of Nudistes de France. They want the law changed so they can sunbathe naked. Should be fun.”
Sam wondered how someone like Philippe would go down in California.
He got back to his presentation. It was nearly there, except for one crucial decision. Where should it take place? Sam had an idea, but it was complicated, and he couldn’t organize it by himself. He got back on the phone, this time to Reboul.
“Francis, I think it’s time we got together. I want you to look at the presentation, and I have a couple of ideas I’d like to bounce off you. Do you have any time later on today?”
There was a rustle of paper as Reboul looked through his diary. “I could make myself free between four and six this afternoon. But Sam, we must be careful not to be seen together. Marseille is full of nosy people with big mouths.” Reboul was silent for a moment, and then Sam heard him chuckle. “Of course. I know just the place. I have a little ranch in the Camargue. It is perfectly private. Olivier can drive you there. Shall we say 4:30?”
The only two things Sam knew about the Camargue were that it was flat and that it was inhabited for part of the year by flamingos along with a particularly large and ferocious member of the mosquito family. While he waited on the terrace for Olivier he glanced through a guidebook he’d picked up from the house library and was immediately intrigued.
The Camargue had supplied some of the first cowboys in America-men who had left the flamingos for a new life in the bayous of Louisiana and East Texas. Those who had stayed behind became known as gardians. They looked after the native black longhorn cattle which, unlike normal cattle, could not only survive but flourish on the Camargue’s salt grass. For transport, the gardians used another native of the Camargue-the elegant descendants of the white horse introduced by the Arabs many centuries before.
Today, the guide continued, the Camargue is probably best known for its salt, and is sometimes described as the salt cellar of France. And it is no ordinary salt. The fleur de sel-the jewel of the salt pans, still gathered in the traditional way by man and his wooden shovel-is regarded as a supreme delicacy. Sam had always thought of salt as little more than white dust, and he shook his head as he read on, the prose waxing more and more ecstatic about the effects of fleur de sel applied to a raw radish. Only in France.
The big car came to a stop below the terrace, and Sam settled into the passenger seat for the journey to Arles and then down into the Camargue. Olivier, delighted to practice his English on a captive audience, explained how Reboul had come to be the owner of a ranch.
It had started off pleasantly enough when Reboul had invited a few acquaintances over for a poker game. Luck was running for Reboul that night, and he was collecting his winnings at the end of the evening when one of the others, a Marseille property dealer named Leconte, announced that he wasn’t ready to stop. He had lost consistently during the evening, and had consoled himself a little too generously with Reboul’s single malt Scotch. He also suffered from the conviction that he was a better poker player than Reboul, and wanted to prove it. Leconte had always been inclined to arrogance and boastfulness, and whisky made him worse. He proposed a two-handed game, just him and Reboul, for what he called serious stakes-not the small change they had been playing for so far.
Reboul tried to persuade Leconte to drop the idea: it was late, and they all had to work the next day. But Leconte made the great mistake of inferring that Reboul was scared to play for big stakes, and persisted in his demand to keep playing, so Reboul humored him and let Leconte propose the stakes. Each player put up one euro. If Leconte won, he could buy Reboul’s yacht for his euro; if Reboul won, he could buy Leconte’s property in the Camargue for the same price.
“I was there, serving the drinks,” said Olivier. “It was very dramatique, like a movie. And when Monsieur Reboul won, he tried to make a joke of it, and gave Leconte back his euro to cancel the debt. But Leconte refused. It was a matter of honor, he said. Et voila.”
“Where is Leconte now?”
“Oh, he said Marseille was becoming too provincial for him. He sold his business and moved to Morocco.”
By now, they had left the autoroute linking Marseille and Arles and had turned south on one of the minor roads leading down to the coast. The landscape had changed; it was flat, vast, and empty. The sky, with no silhouettes of buildings, trees, or hills to interrupt it, seemed suddenly bigger. If the sun hadn’t been shining, Sam thought, it would all seem quite sinister.
“Does Monsieur Reboul come here often?”
“Once or twice in the spring. Sometimes at Christmas-and usually when one of the mares has little ones. He loves to see his horses when they’re babies.”
The road was getting narrower, the surface cracked and crumbling. It seemed to be leading directly into the depths of the Camargue swamp when the car swung sharply to the right, past a wooden sign marked PRIVE, and down a graveled track. On they drove for perhaps half a mile before they came to a post-and-rail paddock with a range of stabling at one end. A dozen handsome horses, all of them white, gave the car a cursory glance and a flick of the tail as it passed. Another hundred yards and they had reached the ranch.
It was an example of the haphazard school of architecture-a low, sprawling, L-shaped building made principally of wood, with windows of assorted sizes and a covered veranda running along the southern side. Three dogs interrupted their siestas to come over and sniff the car before returning to loll on the veranda. When Olivier turned off the engine, the silence was almost overwhelming. Sam got out and stretched as he looked around. He could imagine that nothing much had changed in the past hundred years. The only concession to the twenty-first century was the helicopter parked behind the house.
“Monsieur Reboul must be here already,” said Olivier. “That’s what he calls his Camargue taxi.”
They were halfway toward the massive front door when it opened and a small figure came out to greet them. He was dressed in black trousers, a black waistcoat, and a white shirt, with a face the color of old mahogany, and slightly bandy legs. Olivier introduced him as Luc.
“He lives on the property as a guardian, and he’s a genius with horses.” Olivier turned to Luc and clapped him on the shoulder. “Les chevaux sont vos enfants, eh?”