It was gala night at Le Palais du Pharo. Six months previously, Reboul had allowed his good nature to get the better of him and had agreed to act as host for a dinner in aid of a local charity, Les Amis de Marseille. The charity had been sponsored by a committee of local businessmen, whose aim was not entirely without self-interest; charity, after all, begins at home. But the cause was worthy and locally very appealing: to promote Marseille as a coastal destination with events to rival Cannes with its film festival, Nice with its flower festival, and Monaco with its tennis and its Grand Prix.
What could Marseille offer that those other destinations didn’t? Yacht racing, music and theater festivals, a floating casino, world championship boules, and a competitive water-skiing tournament were all under consideration as possible attractions. But ambitious schemes of this kind take money to set up, and the evening at Le Palais du Pharo, with dinner at a thousand euros a head, was to get the ball rolling and to pass the collection plate.
Reboul had done Les Amis proud. The vast back terrace of Le Pharo had been turned into something between a small forest and a giant bower. There were olive trees, lemon trees, and clumps of black-stemmed bamboo, all in huge terra-cotta pots, and all decorated with garlands of tiny lights. Placed among the trees were twenty six-seater tables, each with its thick linen cloth and napkins of true Marseille blue, its candlelit lanterns, and its centerpiece of white roses. A small band, installed on a dais in one corner, was playing old French favorites—“La Mer,” “La Vie en rose,” the theme from Un Homme et une femme. Even nature had made a contribution: the air was soft and still, the sky an expanse of black velvet pricked by stars. It was, as one of the early guests said, un décor magique.
The host and his team were having a glass of Champagne to help them prepare for the evening’s events. Elena was in what she called ceremonial black, although she declined to say exactly what kind of ceremony she had in mind. Sam had plenty of ideas, but was told to keep them to himself. The newly engaged Mimi and Philippe held hands while they drank their Champagne, and Reboul and Sam were resplendent in their white dinner jackets.
“Well,” asked Sam, “have you worked out your speech?”
Reboul winced. “I agree with the man who said that the rules for making a good speech were simple: stand up, speak up, and shut up. So I shall keep it short and sweet.” His eye was caught by a figure coming through the crowd. “Ah, there she is—my social mentor.”
Marie-Ange Picard was a specialist organizer of events of this kind. A slim, blonde woman in her thirties, she too was squeezed into a little black dress, this one cut to display a generous décolleté with her official plastic name card strategically placed where it would receive maximum attention. Introductions were made by Reboul, and for a moment or two Elena and Marie-Ange looked each other over like two boxers preparing to go into the ring. “What a darling little dress,” said Marie-Ange. Elena inclined her head and smiled. Not as little as yours, she thought. Maybe next time you should go for something that fits.
Marie-Ange turned her attention to Reboul, inching closer to him with every question. “Alors, Monsieur Francis. Have you got everything you need? The notes for your speech? Are you happy with the seating arrangements at your table? Would you like to go over the guest list again—there have been one or two late additions.” By this time, Marie-Ange’s bosom was almost pressed against Reboul’s chest.
He took a step backward, escaping the fog of perfume, and looked around the crowded terrace. “Have all the tables been taken?”
“The last two or three went yesterday,” said Marie-Ange. “One of them went to a Russian gentleman. He bought all six seats.”
Reboul frowned. How many Russian gentlemen prepared to spend six thousand euros on dinner were there in Marseille? “Who is this man?”
Marie-Ange consulted her guest list. “A Monsieur Vronsky,” she said. “Perhaps you know him?”
Reboul shook his head. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Marie-Ange led Reboul over to the dais. The band ended Piaf’s old classic, “Non, je ne regrette rien,” with a flourish, and Marie-Ange took over the microphone.
“Ladies, gentlemen, friends of Marseille—a warm welcome to you all. I can promise you an evening you will never forget.” She glanced down at her notes. “After dinner—and what a dinner”—she paused to kiss her fingertips—“there will be an auction, an auction de luxe, to tempt you into extravagance. But extravagance in a most worthy cause. First, we have a weekend for two at Le Petit Nice, with its three Michelin stars, its magnificent sea views, and its legendary bouillabaisse.” Another pause for fingertip kissing. “Six bottles, selected from our host’s personal cellar, of Lafite Rothschild 1982, one of the great vintages of this magical wine. Next, for all you football fans—four tickets to the Club des Loges for all of next season’s Olympique de Marseille home matches. Finally, a rare opportunity to acquire a truly extraordinary car: the vintage Bentley R-Type, bought by King Farouk to celebrate his becoming an official resident of Monaco in 1959.”
Marie-Ange turned to Reboul. “And now,” she said, with the air of a conjurer about to produce a particularly handsome white rabbit from her hat, “I would like to ask our most generous host for the evening, Francis Reboul, to say a few words—a very few, he has asked me to tell you—to welcome you.” After leading the applause, she passed the microphone to the next, somewhat reluctant, speaker.
In his brief but charming remarks, Reboul thanked his audience for their support and emphasized that this evening was just a start—the first step on a journey that he hoped would end with a spectacular addition to the delights of his beloved Marseille. “But I’m sure you’re all hungry,” he said, looking toward the summer kitchen, “and I can see my friend Alphonse the chef tapping his watch. In my experience, he is not a man to be kept waiting. Allons, mes amis! À la bouffe!”
There were well over a hundred people settling themselves at their tables, and Reboul knew most of them personally: a wide selection of local businessmen and their wives; Hervé, the chief of police; luminaries from the chamber of commerce; Gaston, the fixer; Madame Spinelli of the Women’s League of Marseille and Bruno, her considerably younger partner; the executive committee of the Olympique de Marseille football club; and a sprinkling of socialites, comparing tans and jewelry. In other words, there was everyone who counted in the social hierarchy of Marseille.
And some who didn’t—not yet, anyway. At a prominent table, already making short work of a magnum of Dom Pérignon, was a group that Marie-Ange described, in a whispered aside to Reboul, as “the Russian contingent.” There was Vronsky, in a plum-colored velvet smoking jacket, with Natasha on one side and Katya on the other; the Vicomte de Pertuis and Madame la Vicomtesse, a fashionably anorexic woman brandishing her cigarette holder with dangerous abandon; and, lolling back in his chair with the light glinting on his sunglasses, a rather glamorous young man with implausibly ash-blond hair, dressed from head to toe in black leather.
Reboul was making his way back to his table after greeting some friends when he heard his name called. He turned, and found himself looking into the chilly blue eyes of Oleg Vronsky.
“Ah, Monsieur Reboul. I am Vronsky.”
For once, Reboul’s habitual good manners deserted him. “I know,” he said, and turned away.
Vronsky caught up with him and took hold of his arm. “We should talk,” he said. “It could be very interesting for you.”
“I doubt it,” Reboul said, brushing away Vronsky’s hand and returning to his table, leaving the Russian standing alone, the object of some curiosity to those at nearby tables. He recovered, pushing a waiter aside to get back to his seat.
He was scowling as he sat down. “Arrogant French shit,” he said to the Vicomte. “Who does he think he is?”
At Reboul’s table, a very similar comment was made, although the nationality of the arrogant shit had changed.
“I can’t believe it,” said Sam. “I hope he apologized for invading your house?”
Reboul shook his head. “It wasn’t a long conversation.” He turned to Elena, who was sitting next to him. “I’m sorry, my dear. Forgive me. Let’s not spoil the evening.”