The Corsican Caper (5 page)

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.”

As Reboul explained to Elena, the dinner menu he had worked out with his chef, Alphonse, was a completely Provençal affair. “We start,” he said, “with melons from Cavaillon, a town that supplies the finest melons in France. They are so good that Alexandre Dumas had a ‘books for melons’ deal with Cavaillon back in the nineteenth century. In fact, the town archives still have a selection of books that Dumas sent in exchange for his dozen melons a year.” He stopped to take a sip of Champagne, and realized that the others at the table had stopped talking to listen. “And the juiciest, tastiest melons, the ones we’re having tonight, are the
melons de dix
, with ten ribs that cut into ten perfect slices.”

Elena looked across the table. “Sam, I hope you’re taking notes. You’re in charge of the kitchen when we get a place here. OK, Francis, what’s next?”

“
Daube Avignonnaise
, a summer stew, lamb marinated in white wine, and so a little lighter than the red-wine beef
daubes
of winter. It’s served with pasta and a white Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Then cheeses, from our good friends the local goats, and to finish, a favorite of mine—strawberries from Carpentras, with a sauce invented by Alphonse, or so he says. It’s a mixture of cream and yogurt, with a touch of balsamic vinegar.
Voilà
—that should put everyone in a good mood for the auction.”

Over the melons, which were indeed perfumed and juicy, Philippe, who had just spent two days reporting from Cannes, answered the usual questions about the film festival. Which stars did he meet? Did he actually see any films? Is this year’s favorite leading man the tall heartthrob he appears to be on-screen, or is he, as one unkind columnist put it, “a dwarf with acne”?

Finally, when Reboul asked Philippe if he had taken away an overall impression of his two days, the latter nodded. “Judging by what I saw, face-to-face conversation is finished,” he said. “All I saw, everywhere, were groups of people who were together but not talking to each other, not even looking at each other. They were all staring at their cell phones. The only real conversations I had were with the barman at the Martinez.”

This gloomy assessment was interrupted by the summer
daube
, which was generally agreed to be a triumph: light, tender, and tasty. “Elena, are you taking notes?” Sam was
wiping the last traces of sauce from his plate with a piece of bread as he asked the question.

“I just told you—you’re going to be in charge of the kitchen.”

“I only do melons,” said Sam. “After that, I delegate.”

Elena rolled her eyes, as Sam knew she would, and the conversation turned to house-hunting, and the absolute necessity of a large wine cellar and a soundproof guest room. With the arrival of the strawberries, the irritating behavior of Oleg Vronsky came up. Sam was of the opinion that he was a real estate stalker, and should be officially warned by the police to stop making a pest of himself. Reboul was more philosophical. “Although,” he said, “if he bothers me again I shall have to do something about it.”

But what? Before they had a chance to explore the possibilities, Marie-Ange had once more taken to the dais, her appearance marked by a drumroll and a discreet adjustment of her bosom. It was time for the auction.

First, there was the weekend for two on offer at Le Petit Nice, known throughout France, as Marie-Ange reminded her audience, for its superb position overlooking the sea, for its stylish and comfortable rooms, and most of all for its three-star cuisine. Quite carried away by enthusiasm, she went into raptures about the joys of eating on the terrace, the legendary
bouillabaisse
, the sublime olive oil (a special supply for the hotel)—and then, with yet another kiss of her wilting fingertips, she opened the bidding.

It started at a very modest 500 euros before quickly going up to 2,000, then 2,500. “You must try harder,” said Marie-Ange. “This is not merely a fabulous,
fabulous
weekend—it’s an investment in the future of your city.” After a late flurry of bids, the weekend was finally sold for 5,000 euros. The buyer was a prominent local businessman well-known for his roving eye, and Reboul had to suppress the desire to ask him if he planned to take his wife or his mistress with him on the weekend.

Onward went the auction and upward went the bids—the six bottles of Château Lafite going for 20,000 euros, while the VVIP tickets for the O.M. matches, after more persuasion from the dais, went for 50,000. Marie-Ange was pleased, but she was not finished. Taking a restorative sip of Champagne, she moved on to the main item of the auction, the vintage Bentley. This had been parked for the occasion in front of the house, where it had attracted considerable attention from the guests as they arrived. It was a magnificent machine—pearl gray, with leopard-skin upholstery, and a speaking trumpet with a solid gold mouthpiece for passing instructions from the rear seat to the chauffeur. As Marie-Ange said, in a not-too-subtle reminder of the identity of the previous owner, a car fit for a king.

“For this unique car,” she said, “we are hoping that you will make a special, special effort. Let me say again, it is for the good of Marseille. So, ladies and gentlemen, please exercise your checkbooks. Who will start the bidding?”

Conversation had stopped, and the terrace was quiet enough to hear the scrape of a chair being pushed back over the flagstones. Vronsky stood up, one arm raised, the fist clenched. “For the good of Marseille,” he said, pumping his fist, “I bid one million euros.”

After a stunned few seconds, the terrace exploded with applause, led by Marie-Ange, who skipped across to the beaming Vronsky and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks.

Philippe, his journalistic instincts aroused and quivering, had taken out his notepad and had started to scribble. “This would make a nice little story for
La Provence
,” he said. He turned to Reboul. “You don’t mind, do you?” Reboul shrugged and smiled. “Of course not. Why don’t you do an interview with him? And if you get the chance, point him in the direction of Moscow.”

The headline on page three of
La Provence
read “Le Meilleur ami de Marseille”—Marseille’s best friend—and featured a slightly fuzzy photograph, taken with Philippe’s cell phone, of Vronsky, his arms folded across his chest, leaning up against his newly acquired Bentley.

After a few kind words about the charity and a description of the evening’s auction, the article moved on to a short question-and-answer session. What did Monsieur Vronsky plan to do with the Bentley? How did he happen to be in Marseille? Did he plan to spend more time here? When the
answer to this was an emphatic yes, the next question almost asked itself: Where was he going to live? “I have my eye on a property,” Vronsky said, “and that’s all I’m going to say at the moment.”

Reboul snorted as he put down the newspaper. “Cheeky bastard,” he said to Sam. “He has his eye on a property, has he? Did you see him snooping around after the dinner? He was almost measuring the curtains.
Quel culot!
” He stumped off, his body rigid with indignation.

Sam saw Elena coming across the terrace after her morning dip in the pool, and poured her a cup of coffee. “What’s the matter with Francis?” she asked. “He barely managed to say good morning. Have you said something to upset him?”

Sam held up his hands in surrender. “Not me—it’s that Russian.” He passed over the paper and pointed to Philippe’s piece. “Read the last couple of sentences—it’s no wonder Francis is in a lousy mood.”

Elena read them and pushed the paper away. “The nerve of the guy. Does he think he can bully Francis into selling him the house?”

Sam shrugged. “Take a look at his career. He’s done business in some tough places competing with some tough people, and he’s either beaten them or gotten rid of them. One way or another, he comes out on top. He apparently has unlimited money and a great deal of power, and he’s used
to getting what he wants. Now he wants Le Pharo, and he seems to be the kind of guy who’ll do anything to get it. Look at his record. For now, I think he’s sure that all he has to do is throw enough money at Francis and he’ll get the house. I guess that’s how it works in Russia.”

“That’s how it works in the States too, Sam. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Sam shook his head and grinned. “Too busy looking at you, my sweet. Now, what would you like to do today? Sightseeing? House-hunting? Shopping? Nude sunbathing?”

“I’d like to do something that would cheer Francis up.”

“Great idea,” said Sam. “Nude sunbathing it is.”

Elena sighed, and observed a moment of silence. When conversation was resumed, they decided to take Reboul out for a long, relaxed lunch, an idea that lifted his spirits immediately. Sam called Philippe and asked him to join them at a restaurant called Peron, a reservation was made, and, just after noon, they got into the car and set off.

They were rounding the first bend when they had to come to an abrupt standstill, the way blocked by Vronsky’s Bentley parked in the middle of the driveway. Vronsky was standing outside the car with the glamorous young man who had been at his table for the dinner, the one wearing head-to-toe black leather. Today he wore a sleeveless white T-shirt that set off his deeply tanned and muscular arms, suede hot pants, and biker boots, with a long-lens camera slung around his neck.

Reboul got out of the car and Vronsky, all smiles, came over to meet him. “My dear Monsieur Reboul,” he said, “I do hope you can forgive us.” He waved a hand toward his companion. “Nikki, my bodyguard, wanted to take a few photographs of Le Pharo to send to his mother. She lives in Minsk, and has never seen architecture like this in her life.”

Before Reboul had a chance to speak, Vronsky moved closer and his voice became confidential. “I must confess that I’ve fallen in love with your glorious house, and I will pay you anything you ask for it.” He looked at Reboul and nodded, his frosty blue eyes narrowed to slits. “Anything.”

Reboul summoned up as much self-control as he could. “I’ve told your agent, and now I’m telling you, my house is not for sale. I think you’d better leave. Now.”

Vronsky took a deep breath. Nobody had spoken to him like that since his time in the army. “Very well,” he said as he turned to leave. “But I hope you won’t regret that decision.”

Reboul was fuming as they followed the Bentley down the drive, and Sam did his best to lighten the atmosphere with his observations about Nikki the bodyguard. “How about that guy,” he said. “He dyes his hair and shaves his legs.” He grinned and turned to Elena. “Maybe I could pick up a few style tips. How would I look in hot pants?”

“Sam, believe me. You don’t want to know. But the leg shaving could work.”

By the time they reached the restaurant, Reboul seemed
more like his old self. “I’m glad we’re seeing Philippe,” he said. “I’d be interested in what he thinks about Vronsky after doing that interview.” He shook his head. “I need a drink.”

The four of them were sipping their
rosé
and admiring the menu when two passing waiters stopped in their tracks.
“Putain!”
said one of them to the other. “Look at that.” And there, creeping out from behind the headland, was the massive bulk of
The Caspian Queen
.

Reboul almost choked on his wine. “It’s that goddam Russian again—I’m sure he’s following us.”

Sam patted his friend on the shoulder. “Relax, Francis. We’re safe here. He could never find a parking spot.”

Philippe, who had been unusually silent, cleared his throat as he looked around the table. “I have a confession to make.” He paused, clearly a little uncomfortable. “He’s invited me onto his boat.”

Three pairs of eyebrows went up as Philippe continued. “He called me and said how much he liked the piece about the auction. He wants me to do a profile of him—‘to introduce myself to my new neighbors, the people of Marseille,’ he said.” Philippe stopped to take a drink. “That was when he suggested I should stay on the boat for a day or two, to get to know him. He didn’t want to make a date, though—said he was too busy. But he’d call when he was ready.”