“I had a little contretemps with Patrimonio.”
“We saw. What was it all about? Where are you?”
“Just around the corner. There’s a bar called Le Ballon, in the Rue du Petit-Puits. You can almost see it from La Charite. I’ll be waiting outside, OK?”
On his previous visit to Marseille, Sam had experienced Philippe’s fondness for disreputable bars, and this was another scruffy example. Above the door, a tin sign that had seen better days had been decorated with a painting of a soccer ball, le ballon, next to a small wine glass, also known as un ballon, brimming with a lurid mixture that the artist hoped could be mistaken for red wine. Philippe, neat and well pressed in his black suit and white shirt, looked very much out of place.
They pushed through the bead curtain at the entrance, to be greeted by a sudden silence and the stares of half a dozen men who looked up for a moment before returning to their newspapers and dominoes. The national ban on smoking in enclosed public spaces was being enthusiastically ignored, and a rising tide of nicotine had long ago obscured the original paintwork. But the room was clean, and not without a certain battered charm. Plain wooden chairs and marble-topped tables bearing the scars of the years were arranged along two of the walls, a third wall was taken up by a long table that had been laid for a meal, and the fourth by a bar and a very elderly bartender. In a far corner, a stout swinging door suggested the presence of a kitchen.
Apart from a flat-screen television above the dining table with the sound turned off, the decorations were limited to large framed photographs, some faded with age, of the Olympique de Marseille soccer teams over the years. “The owner of this place, Serge, used to play for the OM,” said Philippe, “until his leg was broken by some salaud in a game against Paris Saint-Germain. That’s his father behind the bar. Now, what are you going to have?”
They settled for a carafe of rose “superieur,” which Philippe fetched from the bar, and then Elena and Sam sat back to listen to his account of the exchange with Patrimonio.
Philippe was hoping for an interview, but it had started badly when Patrimonio had introduced him to Caroline Dumas as “the local hack.” Philippe grimaced at the memory. “He was showing off in front of her, obviously. And I know I shouldn’t care what that pompous old fart says. But he was so condescending it got under my skin. And it got worse. When I asked him a couple of questions, he looked down his nose at me. ‘Don’t bother me now,’ he said. ‘Call my secretary if you want to arrange an interview.’ This was a public event, for God’s sake. He was presenting the projects, and he wouldn’t talk to the press? That really annoyed me, and that was when I said something I guess I shouldn’t have.” He paused to take a swig of wine. “I asked him if he thought it was ethical behavior to accept the hospitality of one of the competitors. He said he didn’t know what I was talking about, and so I suggested that we go over and get Lord Wapping’s confirmation. Then it started to get ugly, and I left.”
“How much of this did Caroline Dumas hear?”
“Only the beginning. After that, she made herself scarce.” Philippe drained his glass, and refilled it from the carafe. “But there was one bright spot in the evening. I spoke to all the committee members, and most of them seem to like your idea-one of them actually said he’d be interested in an apartment.” The bar had been filling up while Philippe had been talking, with the new arrivals taking up their places at the long table against the wall. A young girl came out of the kitchen at the back and started taking orders for drinks. The old man remained behind the bar. Table service was obviously not included in his professional duties.
“Is this Tuesday?” Philippe consulted his watch. “I thought so. Once a week Serge’s wife does tripe, and tonight must be tripe night. The Provencal version is called pieds et paquets-feet and parcels. Serge’s wife makes the best in Marseille. Are you feeling hungry?”
Elena looked at Sam, and shrugged. “I’ve never had tripe. What is it exactly?”
“Basically,” said Philippe, “it’s a mixture of sheep’s intestines. Some butchers call it organ meat. In this recipe, the tripe is cut into small squares and made into paquets stuffed with lean bacon, parsley, garlic, onions, carrots, olive oil, white wine, chopped tomatoes, and-very important-sheep’s feet. It needs to be gently simmered for several hours, of course.”
“Of course,” said Sam. “You wouldn’t want a half-cooked sheep’s foot.” He turned to Elena. “What do you think? Sounds interesting. You want to try it?”
Elena had been listening to Philippe with mounting horror. “You know what? I had a big lunch. I think I’ll pass.”
Nine
“BETON SUR MER!” screamed the headline in La Provence: concrete by the sea. This was followed by several hundred words, none of them complimentary, about what was referred to as the creeping menace of high-rise buildings along the Marseille coastline.
Philippe had perhaps overdone it, partly as a result of his squabble with Patrimonio. He had begun by reminding his readers about two or three well-known local eyesores that had been built since the fifties. Time and sloppy upkeep had turned them into sad, stained concrete hulks, which Philippe had described as scabs on the face of Marseille. Is this, he asked rhetorically, what the inhabitants of a great city would choose to live with? Do they want more of the same?
It was not only concrete that offended Philippe. It was the size, and above all the height, of these massive slabs that he claimed were destroying the Marseille skyline. How long would it be before the golden statue of the Virgin Mary that crowns the basilica of Notre-Dame de la Garde was obscured by an office high-rise? Or the old buildings around the Vieux Port replaced by multistory garages and hotels? At what point would the people of Marseille say enough!
This brought Philippe to the crux of his article: the dangers and opportunities of building on the Anse des Pecheurs. It was a choice, he argued, between high-rise and low-rise, between a building designed to extract money from tourists and a building designed to provide homes for locals. He was careful not to mention any names; but then, he didn’t have to. It was very clear where his sympathies lay.
As one might expect, Philippe’s article received mixed reviews. A jovial Reboul called Sam to congratulate him on planting a useful piece of propaganda, and refused to believe it when Sam said he had had nothing to do with it.
Patrimonio was furious, and immediately called the newspaper’s editor to demand a front-page retraction. In reply, he received a brisk lecture on that most precious commodity, journalistic integrity. To further spoil his day, there was a call from an icy Caroline Dumas expressing her profound displeasure.
Lord Wapping, once the article had been translated for him, was seething with anger. He summoned Ray Prendergast for a council of war.
“Ray,” he said, chewing on his cigar with irritation, “this is unacceptable. Totally unacceptable.” He shoved the newspaper away with the back of his hand. “What can we do about this little tosser?”
Prendergast didn’t need to think for long. “Same as we always do, Billy. Offer him cash or a couple of broken legs. Never fails. Do you want me to have a word with the lads?”
Wapping considered the respective merits of bribery and violence. There was no doubt that a session with Brian and Dave would curb the journalist’s enthusiasm for the story. On the other hand, if he could be bought, there was a good chance that he could be persuaded to put the case for Wapping’s project in another article-or indeed in a series of articles. Cash, he decided.
“But let’s keep it in the family, Ray. I’d like you to do the necessary.”