Peter Mayle - The Marseille Caper

“I’m running out of nice things to say,” said Elena, shaking her head. “But I know what I’d like for Christmas.”

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.

As they drew closer to the sea, the walls on either side seemed to become higher, and the houses bigger. These had been built here by the richest merchants of Marseille not only for the beauty of the sea views, but so that they could keep an eye on their floating assets-the ships and their delightfully profitable cargoes going in and out of the port.

“Wow,” said Elena. “See that place? What a spot.” They had come to the brow of a rise in the road, and she was looking at a house just below them. It was built on a point that jutted out toward the sea, surrounded by a small forest of parasol pines, and protected by the inevitable high wall.

Olivier was smiling. “Monsieur Reboul hopes you will find it comfortable. This is where he used to live before he moved to Le Pharo. You won’t be disturbed here. It’s very peaceful.” He slowed down to give the iron gates time to swing open, and pulled up on the gravel forecourt in front of a short flight of steps that led to the massive entrance door.

Waiting at the top of the steps was a welcoming committee of two: a slim, elegant figure with short, gray hair, and a much larger, younger woman whose wide, white smile was perfectly set off by her shining black face. Olivier introduced them as Claudine, who ran the house, and Nanou from Martinique, who was the maid. “Claudine’s English is excellent,” said Olivier, “but with Nanou it is what I think you call a work in progress.” At the sound of her name, Nanou took a deep breath. “How you doing?” she said, followed by “Have a nice day,” and then spoiled the effect by dissolving into giggles.

Claudine led them into the house, across a gleaming expanse of beeswaxed herringbone parquet, up a broad staircase, and through double doors into what was to be their bedroom.

Sam looked around and let out a low whistle. “I guess we’ll be able to squeeze in here,” he said. “It’s about the same size as my apartment.”

Claudine smiled. “It used to be Monsieur Reboul’s bedroom.” She pointed to two doors set into the far wall. “You each have a bathroom. Monsieur Reboul always says that the secret of a harmonious relationship between a man and a woman is to have separate bathrooms.”

“Amen,” said Sam. There was a muffled snort from Elena.

“I’ll leave you to unpack. Then perhaps you’d like coffee on the terrace. I can give you your phones and answer any questions you may have.”

Elena had been making a tour of inspection that took in the closet space (capacious, even by American standards), the bathrooms (vast, marbled, and well lit), the four-poster bed (for its degree of firmness and bounce), and the views through the long windows. “Sam, what is that on the hill over there? There’s something shiny on the top. Looks wonderful.”

Sam went over and stood behind her, massaging the back of her neck while he studied the view to the northeast. In the distance he could see the massive basilica which he had come to know on his previous visit to Marseille. He cleared his throat and assumed his most professorial voice. “That is Notre-Dame de la Garde, constructed in the neo-Byzantine style, and crowned by a golden statue of the Virgin. She is over thirty feet high, and known locally as ‘La Bonne Mere,’ greatly loved for her miraculous qualities. In the tower is a bell that weighs eight tons. The bell is called Marie-Josephine. The clapper is called Bertrand. The …”

“Sam, you’re full of it.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m going to take a quick shower, and you could do with a shave.”

Fifteen minutes later, showered and changed, they were sitting with Claudine on the terrace. Below them, the sea, glittering in the sun, was dotted with sailing boats. On the low wall of the terrace, two seagulls were conducting a raucous squabble over a withered morsel of something mysterious and long dead.

“Look at those guys,” said Elena. “They’re huge. They’re like turkeys.”

Claudine poured coffee. “If you believe what you hear, we also have sardines the size of sharks. Everything in Marseille is bigger, and if it’s not, we pretend it is. I think it is like your Texas, non ?” She smiled and shook her head. “Now then. Here are your phones, each with four names in the memory: Monsieur Reboul, Olivier, myself, and, of course, you have each other’s numbers in there. Monsieur Reboul asks that you call him sometime today to check that everything is OK. Here are some business cards for Monsieur Levitt, identifying him as vice president of Van Buren Partners. And here is a member’s pass to the Cercle des Nageurs, the swimming club. It has an Olympic-sized pool and a nice restaurant, which is very agreeable for lunch. And finally, when you have finished your coffee, perhaps we can go inside and see the project model that will be used at the presentation.”

The model had been set up in the dining room, taking up most of the long oak table, and it precisely matched Reboul’s earlier description of a low, crescent-shaped range of apartments overlooking a garden that led to a marina. Sam was immediately struck by the attention to detail, even down to the colors of the shutters and the miniature residents strolling between tiny trees in the garden or having a nautical moment among their tiny boats in the marina. The only thing missing, he thought, was a snug little bar overlooking the sea. But on the whole, he was very pleased with what he saw. It would fit in with the coastline, it wouldn’t add an ugly concrete stump to the skyline, and it would provide homes for hundreds of Marseillais. Reboul’s architect friend had done well.

Sam was wondering what it would be like to live there when Elena called out across the room. “Don’t forget this is a vacation day. Claudine thinks we’d like Cassis, and Olivier’s waiting outside to take us. How about it?”

“This is the life,” said Elena, adjusting her sunglasses and leaning back in her seat as the car crept back down the Chemin du Roucas Blanc. Cassis was only thirty kilometers away, the sun was high in the sky, and she hadn’t thought about the office all morning. “Somebody once said that it takes you years to accept hardship and bad luck, but only twenty-four hours to get used to comfort and good luck. Chauffeurs, housekeepers, maids-I love it.”

It showed. The last time Sam had seen her this relaxed had been during a few days they had stolen in Paris. He was beginning to think that the very fact of being in France was enough to lift her spirits-no doubt helped by the thousands of miles of separation from the insurance business. If Olivier hadn’t been sitting inches away, he would have suggested an idea he’d been keeping to himself for some time: a divided life, with summers in Provence and winters in L.A. Maybe he’d bring it up when the moment was right.