“These shirts are made for me in Hong Kong,” he said. “Monsieur Wang, who makes them, likes to have his little joke, so he puts this on”-he tapped his chest-“instead of my initials. He told me it was a line from Confucius, ensuring a long life and good fortune.”
“What does it say?”
“It says: Please take your hand off my left breast.” Reboul shrugged and grinned. “Chinese sense of humor. Now then-what kind of picnic do you have for us, Mathilde?”
“There is smoked salmon. Foie gras, of course. The last of the asparagus.” Mathilde paused here to kiss her fingertips. “Some good cheeses. And best of all, your favorite, Monsieur Francis: salade tiede aux feves et lardons.” She waited, smiling, for Reboul’s response.
“Oh!” he said. “Oh! I am dead and in heaven. Elena, Sam-do you know this dish? A warm salad of young broad beans and chopped bacon? No? You must try it, and then we can attack the foie gras or the salmon. Or both. It has been an eternity since lunch.” He turned to peer into the large ice bucket that Mathilde had placed on the bar. “You can stay with champagne, or we have an ’86 Puligny-Montrachet and, for the foie gras, an ’84 Sauternes. You must forgive me,” he said to Elena, “but I never ask red wine to fly with me. The changes in altitude, the turbulence-they tend to upset even the best Bordeaux and Burgundy. I hope you understand.”
Elena nodded knowledgeably, despite the fact that her wine course hadn’t covered drinking on private jets. “Of course,” she said, smiling sweetly. “But perhaps you could tell me more about this salad. I’ve never heard of it.”
“My mother used to make it, and I learned from her. To start with, you take a saucepan of cold water, and a frying pan. Chop a large piece of fat bacon into cubes, and put them in the frying pan over medium heat. While they are cooking, put the beans into the saucepan of cold water, over high heat. The second the water comes to the boil, drain it off; the beans are ready. Put them into a bowl, and pour over them the chopped bacon-and, most important, every drop of hot bacon fat. Et voila. Mix well and eat instantly, before the salad cools. It is sublime. You will see.”
It was indeed sublime, as was everything else, and as Elena watched Reboul tuck into his salad, a plate of asparagus, and two thick slices of foie gras, she wondered how he managed to stay so trim. It was something she had asked herself last time she’d been to Paris and had been struck by the absence of obesity. The restaurants were full, the French ate and drank like champions, and yet most of them never seemed to put on weight. Unfair and mysterious.
“Why is it, Sam?”
“What?”
“Why don’t the French get fat?”
Sam had asked the same question of Sophie, his accomplice in the wine robbery. Her answer had been delivered with the total conviction that came from having been born French, and thus having superior logic and common sense on her side, not to mention centuries of correct eating habits. Sam had no difficulty remembering her exact words: “We eat less than you do, we eat more slowly than you do, and we don’t eat between meals. Simple.”
While Elena was digesting these words of wisdom, Reboul joined in, shaking his head. “It’s changing in France,” he said. “Our habits are changing, our diet is changing, our shape is changing-too much fast food, too many sugary drinks.” He patted his stomach. “Maybe I should give up Sauternes. But not just yet.”
They were now flying into the darkness of night, and Mathilde had transformed their armchairs into flat beds and dimmed the cabin lights. It had been a hectic day for Elena and Sam, and they left Reboul, with a final glass of Sauternes, to catch up on his phone calls.
Elena yawned and stretched and lay back with a grateful sigh. She turned off her reading light. After two years without a vacation, she allowed the thought of tomorrow to wash over her. She would be in the South of France, with nothing to do but relax.
“Sam?”
“What?”
“Thanks for taking the job. You know, we should do this more often.”
Sam smiled in the darkness. “Goodnight, Elena.”
“Goodnight, Sam.”
Mathilde, crisp and fresh and dressed by Saint Laurent in the colors of the French flag-red silk scarf, white shirt, and blue suit-woke them with the offer of orange juice, croissants, and coffee. They would be landing in half an hour. The sun was already up and, according to the pilot’s cheerful report, the weather forecast promised a fine warm day with temperatures in the high seventies.
They were finishing breakfast when Reboul appeared, perky and newly shaved, to have a cup of coffee with them. After being assured that they had slept well, he moved a little closer to Sam and lowered his voice. “Once we’re in Marseille,” he said, “it is important that we’re not seen together. That would risk spoiling everything. So when we land, I shall stay on the plane for half an hour to let you get away. Your car and your driver, Olivier, are waiting for you. He will take you to the house where you will be staying. Claudine will meet you there and take care of everything you need. She will give you each a cell phone with a French number. Call me-you’ll find my cell number in your phone memory-to make sure we can be in touch at any time. And then, well …” Reboul made an expansive gesture in the general direction of the city. “Marseille is yours for the day. I can recommend Peron for lunch, or Olivier can take you to Cassis, Aix, the Luberon, wherever you like. Work starts tomorrow. Let’s talk this evening to go over the details.”
They were now starting their descent, and Elena had her first glimpse of the Mediterranean, glinting in the sun, with the outer limits of the sprawl of Marseille visible in the distance. She reached over and took Sam’s hand. “Isn’t the light fantastic? Everything looks like it’s been scrubbed. Where’s the smog?”
Sam squeezed her hand. “Homesick already? I don’t think they do smog here. The mistral keeps it away-or maybe it’s the garlic in the bouillabaisse. You’re going to like Marseille; it’s a fine old town. Shall we stay here today, or do you want to see a bit of the coast?”
Before Elena could reply, Mathilde came by to check their seat belts and go over the landing procedure. “All you need are your passports,” she said. “Your bags will be cleared through customs and put in the car. Olivier will be waiting in the parking area. I hope you have a wonderful stay in Marseille.”
The plane touched down and taxied toward the small private terminal before easing to a halt. Not quite like landing at LAX, Elena thought, as she watched the baggage handlers scurrying around the plane. She half expected to be picked up bodily and carried by careful hands for the final short leg of the journey.
They made their farewells to Reboul, Mathilde, and the pilot, and stepped out into a glorious Provencal morning-sharp, polished light and a high, thick blue sky. There was a brief stop at immigration, where the officer welcomed them to France, and then through the terminal doors. Fifty yards away, a long, black Peugeot and a young man in a suit were waiting. He held the door open for Elena, showed Sam the luggage in the trunk, and then they were off. The time between leaving the plane and getting into the car had been just over five minutes.
“I’m running out of nice things to say,” said Elena, shaking her head. “But I know what I’d like for Christmas.”
Four
The big Peugeot made its cautious way through the cramped streets of Marseille’s 7th and 8th arrondissements, where the great and the good-and the chic-have their homes. Olivier was driving at walking pace and often had only inches to spare. He was negotiating the narrow, twisting Chemin du Roucas Blanc, passing between high walls that half concealed villas built in the pompous style greatly admired by the prosperous merchants of the nineteenth century. Occasionally there would be an architectural hiccup: a modern white ranch house looking slightly uncomfortable so far from California, or a tiny, shabby building, little more than a hut, which had once sheltered a fisherman and his family. This was typical of Marseille, Olivier said: wealth and poverty cheek by jowl, palaces next to hovels-the marks of a city that had grown organically, without much interference from urban planners.