As Gaston’s guided tour continued, Sam relaxed. The details had been taken care of. Everything from the size and positioning of the bar to the provision for electricity if needed, from the conference table and chairs to notepads and pencils-it had all been thought through and dealt with. There was even a small but elegant cabinet de toilette tucked away behind the tent.
Gaston waved aside Sam’s congratulations. “C’est normal, my friend. And now, although it breaks my heart to say au revoir to mademoiselle, I must leave you. I have a lunch appointment with my friend the mayor.”
Back on the Corniche, they stopped so that Elena could slip off her shoes and shake out the sand. “What did you think of our new partner in crime?” asked Sam.
“Gaston? He’s cute,” she said. “And I’m starving. How far is lunch?”
“Just up the road.”
Peron is one of those restaurants you dream about in the depths of a cold, dark winter. It is suspended high above the Mediterranean, facing south, and so the urban clutter of cranes, buildings, and power lines is nowhere to be seen. The view is pure, shining sea, its surface ruffled from time to time by the wake of the occasional small boat. In the distance is the miniature archipelago of the Frioul islands, gray-green at midday, turning purple at sunset. And when you tear yourself away from the view, there is the food-fish of every local variety caught that morning and cooked by one of the best chefs on the coast.
Feeling as though they had left dry land and stepped onto the deck of a spacious, immobile boat, Elena and Sam followed the hostess as she led them toward the corner of the terrace. A bellow of English coming from a large group nearby announced the presence of Lord Wapping, seated at his regular table, surrounded by his regular entourage of hangers-on. The group fell silent as Elena and Sam passed. Sam exchanged nods with Wapping, who turned to watch them as they reached their table, his expression malevolent.
“What a pretty girl, sweetie, don’t you think?” said Annabel. “Although perhaps not-she’s a little ethnic for you, with that rather suspect dark skin and all that black hair. You prefer us English roses, don’t you.” There was a grunt from Wapping, the sound of a laugh from the end of the table, and conversation resumed.
After their first chilled sip of Cassis, Elena and Sam turned their attention to the menu, which Elena discovered was filled with exotic names that she had never seen in Los Angeles: pagre and rascasse, rouget and daurade. And then her eye was caught by the veritable bouillabaisse de Marseille, the legendary “golden soup.”
“Have you ever had that, Sam?”
“Last time I was in Marseille, with Philippe. He’s a bouillabaisse addict-he spent the entire dinner telling me about it. It’s good. Kind of messy, but good.”
“What’s in it, exactly?”
“Pretty much anything that swims in the Mediterranean: John Dory, conger eel, scorpion fish, sea hen, lots more. Then you have tomatoes, potatoes, onions, garlic, saffron, olive oil, parsley. And then there’s the rouille-that’s a kind of thick, spicy mayonnaise, with more garlic, more saffron, more olive oil, and hot peppers. And last, you need thin slices of toasted baguette. Oh, and an oversized napkin to cover you from the neck down. Try it. You’ll like it.”
Elena was not too sure. “Well …”
“There’s a bonus. As this is the first time you’ve had it, you’re entitled to a wish.”
“Will you still find me irresistible when I reek of garlic?”
“I’m having it too. We’ll reek together.”
Helped by their waiter, Elena adjusted her napkin until she felt she was safe from attacks by flying rouille, and watched as the ingredients were laid out in front of her.
“Allow me,” said Sam. He took a small slice of baguette, spread it with thick, dark-red rouille, and soaked it in the soup until the bread was soft and thoroughly moist. “You ready?”
Elena leaned forward, opened her mouth, and closed her eyes.
She chewed, she swallowed, her eyes opened wide. “Mmm,” she said. “More.”
One minor drawback of bouillabaisse is that it takes up so much of the eaters’ concentrated attention that simple speech is often difficult, let alone the cut and thrust of spirited conversation. And so this first part of their meal passed with little more than small sounds of pleasure. It wasn’t until the debris had been cleared away and fresh napkins provided that they could lean back and talk to one another again.
Sam was the first to break the contented silence. “Have you made that wish?”
“Right now? I think my wish would be to stay like this, a long way away from the insurance business, crooked clients, pompous executives, endless meetings, L.A. smog, desk lunches-in other words, away from real life.” She put down the menu she’d been studying, and grinned. “But for the time being, I’ll settle for the black-and-white ice cream.”
They lingered over their coffee, watching the seagulls swooping low over the terrace in search of scraps. A long, sunny afternoon lay ahead, and they were comparing the merits of a boat trip to the calanques with the lure of the pool when Sam’s phone rang.
Real life was on the line, in the form of Jerome Patrimonio’s secretary. It was necessary, so she said, for Sam to come at once to the office for an urgent and important meeting with Monsieur Patrimonio. Sam sighed and shook his head as he put down the phone. He had probably forgotten to dot an i or cross a t on one of the seemingly endless documents that had to be presented with the bid.
But when he arrived at Patrimonio’s office, the great man clearly had more pressing matters on his mind, and Sam had barely taken his seat before Patrimonio shot his cuffs and got down to business.
“This affair of the tent,” he said. “It is, I’m afraid, unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. We cannot have Marseille’s public spaces used to promote commercial interests.”
“Why not?” said Sam. “This is a development that will benefit the city and the people who live here.”
“That may be so. But you must agree that you are trying to create an unfair advantage for yourself over the other two bidders.”
“I thought that’s what business was all about. In any case, there is nothing to stop them using other public spaces for their presentations-the O.M. stadium, for instance. Or La Vieille Charite, which I seem to remember you yourself used.”
Patrimonio shot his cuffs with a violence that threatened to rip his shirtsleeves off. “Altogether different,” he said. “And you have chosen to ignore the crucial matter of permissions.” He sat back in his chair and nodded with considerable emphasis, as though he had just scored a definitive victory. “Without my permission, this scheme of yours cannot go ahead. Point final. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting.”
Sam resisted the impulse to shoot his own cuffs in reply. “You didn’t give me the chance to tell you,” he said. “But I do have permission. From the mayor. Your boss.”
Thirteen
“I don’t believe this. He’s got permission from the mayor? Have you checked?” Lord Wapping took his half-smoked cigar-a Cohiba, he liked to tell people, fifteen quid apiece-and crushed it to death in the ashtray.
“It’s true,” said Patrimonio. “I regret infinitely, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“As per bloody usual. And I thought you had the whole thing sewn up. But no. First the journalist and now this. What about the mayor? Is he for sale?”
Patrimonio thought about the mayor’s irreproachable record, his constant efforts to reduce crime, his loathing of corruption. “I think it would be most unwise to try anything with the mayor. That would immediately destroy our chances.”