Peter Mayle - The Vintage Caper

Worse was to come. Two years later, after some injudicious military adventures, Napoléon was deposed. He went into exile in England, where he died in 1873. His widow, Eugénie, gave back to Marseille what had been given to her and her husband, leaving the city as the owner of the most spectacular white elephant on the coast.

Over the 120 years that followed, the city fathers discovered that enormous houses, particularly those exposed to the ravages of salt sea air, cost enormous amounts of money to keep up. Dozens of schemes to defray costs were tried and discarded. Eventually, it was with a considerable sense of relief that the city accepted Reboul’s offer to rent the Palais du Pharo for his personal use. Papers were signed on Saint Napoléon’s Day 1993, and Reboul moved in.

It was a sad little story, Sam thought as he closed the book. If an emperor couldn’t get a house built in ten years, what hope was there for the rest of us?

The early-evening breeze coming off the sea had turned chilly, and he went inside to change into a suit and tie for the meeting. He checked his new camera and put half a dozen business cards in his top pocket. These were printed only with his name and address. There were no details about his occupation, since this had a way of changing from job to job. With a final adjustment of his tie-a Harvard Club knockoff-he went down to meet Sophie in the lobby.

She was already there when Sam stepped out of the elevator, and she was talking to an extremely attentive concierge, who clearly appreciated what she was wearing. It was the Frenchwoman’s version of a business suit-that is, a skirt just the modest side of short, with a hint of lacy décolleté visible beneath the fitted jacket.

When she saw Sam, Sophie turned toward him, one hand on her hip, her eyebrows raised. “So? Will this do?”

Sam nodded his head and grinned. “You’re a credit to the publishing business. In fact, you’d be a sensation in the publishing business.”

“I’ve just asked the concierge to call for a taxi,” she said. “Twenty meters is about all I can manage in these shoes.”

Sam looked at the shoes. It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. “I understand perfectly,” he said. He offered Sophie his arm. “Let’s go. This is Reboul’s lucky night.”

The iron gates swung open to let the taxi through. Standing some fifty meters inside the gates, at the very edge of the driveway, was a larger-than-life-size statue of a woman clad in the flowing robes of ancient Greece. Her blind marble gaze was fixed on the huge building in the distance, her arms outstretched as if trying to touch it.

The driver nodded toward her as they passed. “Empress Eugénie,” he said. “La pauvre . This is about as close as she ever got to her palace.”

Waiting on the front steps as the taxi pulled up was a young man in a dark suit, his head respectfully tilted in welcome. He guided them through the entrance and along a gleaming avenue of honey-colored herringbone parquet that led to a pair of tall double doors. These he threw open with a flourish before melting away, leaving Sophie and Sam almost blinded by the torrent of evening sunlight that streamed through a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Framed by one of these windows was the silhouette of Reboul, his back to the room and a cell phone to his ear.

Sophie nudged Sam. “He doesn’t know we’re here.”

“Sure he does,” said Sam. “He’s just letting us know how busy he is. They do it all the time in L.A. ” He turned, and closed the double doors behind him with a firm thump. The sound seemed to be enough to attract the silhouette’s attention, and Reboul, still heavily backlit, put away his phone and came across to greet them.

He was short, slim, and immaculate. He had thick white hair, beautifully cut en brosse , and wore a shirt of the palest blue, a tie that Sam, a student of these arcane signals, recognized as the official neckwear of the Guards Club in London, and a dark-blue silk suit. His face was the color of oiled teak, and his bright brown eyes became even brighter at the sight of Sophie.

“Bienvenue, madame,” he said, bending over to kiss her hand and take in her décolleté before turning to Sam. “Et vous êtes Monsieur…”

“Levitt. Sam Levitt. Good to meet you. Thanks a lot for seeing us.” He shook Reboul’s hand and gave him one of his business cards.

“Ah,” said Reboul. “You would prefer that we speak English.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Sam. “My French is not as good as it should be.”

Reboul shrugged. “No problem. Today, everyone in business must know English. All my employees speak it. Soon, I suppose, we’ll have to learn Chinese.” He looked down at Sam’s card, and cocked a bushy white eyebrow. “A château in Los Angeles? How chic.”

“A modest place,” said Sam with a smile. “But it’s home.”

Reboul extended a hand toward the row of windows. “Come. Let me show you my sunset. I’m told it’s the best in Marseille.”

His sunset, thought Sam. It was wonderful how billionaires had a habit of appropriating the marvels of nature as their personal property. But he had to admit that it was an exceptional sight. The sky was on fire-a great crimson gash, fading at the edges to tones of pink and lavender, the light making a path of rippled gold on the surface of the sea. Reboul nodded at the view, as if in confirmation that it was up to the normal high standard that he expected.

A few kilometers from the shore, there was a shadowy huddle of small islands. Sophie pointed to the nearest of them. “That’s the Château d’If, isn’t it?”

“Quite right, my dear. You obviously haven’t forgotten your Alexandre Dumas. This is where the Count of Monte-Cristo was imprisoned. Many visitors think he really existed, you know.” He chuckled. “Such is the power of a good book.” Turning away from the window, he took Sophie’s arm. “Which reminds me of the reason for your visit. Let’s sit down, and you can tell me about it.”

Reboul showed them to a group of nineteenth-century chairs and sofas arranged around a low table that dripped with ormolu. Before sitting down himself, he took out his cell phone and pressed a button. The young man in a dark suit, who must have been lurking outside, appeared with a tray that he set down on the table. He took a bottle of champagne from its ice bucket and presented it for Reboul’s approval before opening it. The cork came out with a gentle sigh. The young man poured, served, and disappeared.

“I hope you like Krug,” said Reboul. He settled back in his chair and crossed his legs, exposing black crocodile loafers and a pair of trim, deeply tanned bare ankles. “You must forgive the lack of socks,” he said, “but I detest them. I never wear them at home.” He raised his glass to Sophie and smiled. “To literature.”

When Sam and Sophie were planning their pitch, they had agreed that Sophie’s Bordeaux background made her the natural choice for the part of editorial director, in charge of selecting the cellars to be included in the book. With a sip of champagne to moisten a suddenly dry throat, she started by giving Reboul a general overview of the project, sprinkling her explanation with names of the eminent professional cellars under consideration-the grand restaurants and hotels of the world, and, of course, the Elysée Palace. Reboul listened with polite attention, his eye occasionally wandering from Sophie’s face to a discreet appreciation of her legs.

As she moved on to what she called the major part of the book-the world’s finest private cellars-Reboul’s interest increased. He asked who else besides himself would be approached. It was a question that Sophie had anticipated, and without hesitation she reeled off the names of a handful of English aristocrats, some well-known American industrialists, Hong Kong’s richest man, a reclusive Scottish widow who lived in a castle on thirty thousand acres of the Highlands, and two or three of the better-known families in Bordeaux and Burgundy.