The letter had been hand-delivered earlier that morning, so Claudine said, by a very well dressed gentleman who had arrived in a Mercedes. He hadn’t left his name.
Reboul opened the envelope, its inside lined with chocolate-brown tissue, and took out the single sheet of heavy, buff-colored paper. Instead of an address at the top, a discreetly embossed heading announced that the sender was the Vicomte de Pertuis. His message was brief and to the point:
I would be most grateful for a few minutes with you to discuss a matter of mutual interest and profit. I am entirely at your disposition as to a time and place to meet. Please telephone me at the number below to arrange a rendezvous.
This was followed by a one-word signature: Pertuis.
Over the years, Reboul, like most wealthy men, had received countless solicitations from people offering to increase his fortune by one shady means or another. Some had been amusing, others quite astonishing in their imaginative use of his money. This time, he found himself more than usually intrigued. Perhaps the title helped, although the aristocracy these days, God knows, had become thoroughly venal and commercialized. But one never knew. This might be worth a few minutes. He picked up his phone and called the number.
“Pertuis.”
“Reboul.”
The voice changed instantly, becoming unctuous. “Monsieur Reboul, how very kind of you to call. I’m delighted to hear from you.”
“Obviously, I received your note. I’m free this afternoon around three, if that would suit you. I think you know where I live.”
“Of course, of course. Three o’clock it is. I look forward to it immensely.”
Elena and Sam had spent the morning being tourists. Many changes had taken place in Marseille leading up to 2013, when it had taken its turn as the European Capital of Culture. And Elena, an avid collector of travel tips, had read about them all, from the transformation of the once shabby docks (Le Grand Lifting) to Pagnol’s “Château de ma mère” becoming a Mediterranean film center. There were also new museums and exhibition sites, newly created gardens both wet and dry, even a glamorous glass ombrière to give visitors to the fish market some shelter from the elements, if not from the ripe language. All in all, there were enough novelties to occupy even the most fast-moving of sightseers for at least a month.
Sam did his best to keep up with Elena, but it was exhausting work. He looked with increasing longing at the cafés they rushed past until he could stay silent no longer. “Lunch,” he said, his voice steely with determination. “We must have lunch.”
He hailed a taxi, bundled Elena in, and told the driver to take them to the Vallon des Auffes, just off the Corniche. Elena put her travel notes in her bag and let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Culture is defeated, and gluttony wins again,” she said, “and just when I was enjoying myself. Where are we going?”
“It’s a little port with two terrific restaurants, Chez Fonfon and Chez Jeannot. Philippe told me about them: Jeannot for moules farcies, Fonfon for bouillabaisse.”
Elena looked down at her pale-blue T-shirt and cream linen skirt. “I’m not dressed for bouillabaisse. How about the moules?”
The Vallon des Auffes is a pocket port, too small to accommodate any but the most modest boats. Without doubt, the best place to appreciate the miniature but highly picturesque view is the terrace at Chez Jeannot, and Elena settled into her seat with a little sigh of satisfaction. “This is cute,” she said. “Maybe you were right after all.”
“Sorry about that. I won’t let it happen again.” Before Elena had a chance to roll her eyes—her standard response to Sam’s attempts at sarcasm—he had buried himself in the wine list. “Let’s see: a vivacious little rosé? Or perhaps a crisp and beautifully balanced white, with just a hint of impertinence, from the vineyards of Cassis?”
Over the years, Elena had become used to Sam having bon viveur moments as soon as he set foot in France. It was part of the travel experience. “Do you think they have French fries to go with the mussels?”
“Pommes frites, sweetheart, pommes frites.”
“Sam, you’re behaving like a dictionary. Don’t be a pain.”
“A pain? I’m thirsty, I’m hungry, and my feet hurt, but otherwise I’m the soul of charm and good humor. Now, what’s it to be? Pink or white?”
When the rosé arrived, Sam raised his glass to Elena. “To our vacation. How does it feel to be back here again?”
Elena took a sip of wine and held it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Good. No—better than good. It’s lovely. I’ve missed Provence. I know how much you like it, too.” She took off her sunglasses and leaned forward, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “How about getting a little place here? You know, just for the summer. Somewhere to keep your espadrilles.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t miss summer in L.A., when the smog is at its most beautiful?”
“I guess I’d survive. Sam, I’m serious.”
“OK, that’s settled.” He smiled at Elena’s startled reaction, and raised his glass again. “That was easy. As a matter of fact, I was going to suggest the same thing. I could learn to play boules. And you could learn to cook.”
Before Elena could think of a suitably crushing reply, the moules farcies arrived, the mussels cooked with herbs, garlic, and, according to the waiter, beaucoup d’amour; the frites fried twice to make them crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. To accompany the food there was an excited but inconclusive discussion about property in Provence: the merits and drawbacks of the coast versus the country, a village house in the Luberon or an apartment in Marseille. Over coffee, it was agreed that they would contact a couple of real estate agents to help them look around. When the bill came, Elena insisted on paying. She planned to frame the check as a souvenir of the day they had made their decision.
When they returned to Le Pharo at the beginning of the evening, it was to find Reboul still fuming. He had received a visit, he told them, from someone he described as a used-car salesman masquerading as a Vicomte, who had said that he had found an extremely rich buyer for Le Pharo: a man, he had said, with the deepest of deep pockets. It’s not for sale, said Reboul. Not for fifty million euros? Don’t you understand, said Reboul, it’s not for sale. Aha, said the Vicomte, but it is well known that there is a price for everything. It is possible that I could persuade my client to dig even deeper into his pockets.
“And that’s when I showed him out,” said Reboul. “There’s a price for everything, is there? Quel culot! What a nerve!”
“Well,” said Sam, “I guess that’s one real estate agent we can knock off the list.”
Reboul paused, corkscrew in hand. “What do you mean?”
“We decided at lunch. We’d like to try and buy a little place over here.”
Reboul’s face lit up. “Really? How wonderful. Now that really does deserve a drink.” He put the corkscrew to work on a bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet. “This is the best news I’ve had in weeks. Where do you want to be? What can I do to help?”
The Vicomte, to his credit, was a very resilient man. Besides, he had come up against similar protestations many times before, most of which had vanished when their speaker was faced with a big enough check. And so, when he was reporting back to Vronsky on The Caspian Queen, he managed to present an appearance of guarded optimism.
“Of course he said he wasn’t interested in selling. That’s what they all say at first—it’s an old trick to get the price up. I must have heard it dozens of times.” The Vicomte smiled, nodding his thanks for the glass of Champagne that had been put in front of him by Vronsky’s chief steward. “I’ve found that it’s usually best to leave them to think about it for a week or two before getting back to them. You’re not planning to sail off somewhere, I hope?”
Vronsky shook his head. “I don’t like unfinished business. That property is perfect for me, and I won’t be leaving Marseille until it’s mine.”