The Marseille Caper Read Free

Elena for bringing business to the table, Reboul started to outline the reason for his visit.
    “Marseille is an extraordinary city,” he began. “It was established more than twenty-six hundred years ago, before Paris was even called Paris. And it’s big. The Marseille of today covers twice as much land as Paris. But, as you would imagine, the land along the coast of Marseille—land, as we say, with its feet in the Mediterranean—has almost all been developed.” Reboul paused to take a sip of champagne. “Except for one charming little bay, the Anse des Pêcheurs, to the east of the old port. I won’t bore you with the history of why it was never developed, except to say that for a hundred and twenty years it has been fought over and disputed by generations of city politicians and construction companies. There have been bribes, counter-bribes, court cases, and, so they say, at leastone killing. But two years ago, at last, a decision was made to develop the Anse des Pêcheurs. It is a project very close to my heart, and I have already spent a great deal of time and money on it, but …”
    The arrival of the crab cakes caused Reboul to stop, tuck a napkin into his shirt collar, try the white Châteauneuf, and compliment Sam on his choice.
    “Tell me,” asked Sam, “what happened to help all these guys finally make up their minds after a hundred and twenty years?”
    Reboul took a longer, more considered sip of the Châteauneuf, holding it in his mouth and nodding his approval before replying. “Back in 2008, Marseille was voted European Capital of Culture for 2013, with the aim, to use the official language, of ‘accelerating development.’ I think that was the final push. At any rate, bids and ideas for developing the Anse were invited, and eventually a shortlist was drawn up of three proposals. One of them—the best, in my opinion—is mine. Also, my two competitors suffer from a disadvantage: they are foreigners, a group from Paris and an English syndicate. Neither of them has shown any imagination. Both want to build big hotels with all the modern trimmings—rooftop pools, spas, luxury shopping malls, the same tired old ideas. Fine for tourists, maybe, but not so good for the people who live in Marseille. And the buildings will undoubtedly be ugly concrete-and-glass boxes.” He wiped the last of the avocado puree from his plate with a piece of bread and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.
    “We have a few of those here in L.A.,” said Elena. “So what’s your idea?”
    “Ah,” said Reboul, “something for the Marseillais. Apartments—but low, nothing higher than three floors—set in a terraced garden leading down to the sea. And then, a small marina, not for yachts but for the kind of little boats that ordinary people who live by the sea might have. I can show you the scale model of the project when we get to Marseille.” He looked from Sam to Elena, his eyebrows raised. “ Et voilà . What do you think?”
    “Sounds a lot better than concrete boxes.” Sam grinned. “But I have a feeling there might be more to this than architecture.” He leaned back as the waiter arrived with their main course.
    Reboul sighed. “Just so. There is a problem.” He looked down at the plate that had been placed in front of him, and lowered his head for a closer inspection, inhaling deeply. “But before I explain, let us deal with this excellent rabbit.”
    The excellent rabbit was duly dealt with, the Beckstoffer Cabernet tasted, admired, and tasted again, and the conversation drifted pleasantly from winemaking to the charms of Cassis (Marseille’s neighborhood vineyard) and on to the latest bee in Elena’s bonnet. She had recently completed a wine course, and had been subjected by the rather patronizing instructor to the overblown vocabulary so beloved by wine experts.
    “I’m sure the guy knew his stuff,” she said. “And I can just about put up with pencil shavings and truffle oaks and hints of