The Corsican Caper (3 page)

“A pain? I’m thirsty, I’m hungry, and my feet hurt, but otherwise I’m the soul of charm and good humor. Now, what’s it to be? Pink or white?”

When the
rosé
arrived, Sam raised his glass to Elena. “To our vacation. How does it feel to be back here again?”

Elena took a sip of wine and held it in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Good. No—better than good. It’s lovely. I’ve missed Provence. I know how much you like it, too.” She took off her sunglasses and leaned forward, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “How about getting a little
place here? You know, just for the summer. Somewhere to keep your espadrilles.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “You wouldn’t miss summer in L.A., when the smog is at its most beautiful?”

“I guess I’d survive. Sam, I’m serious.”

“OK, that’s settled.” He smiled at Elena’s startled reaction, and raised his glass again. “That was easy. As a matter of fact, I was going to suggest the same thing. I could learn to play
boules
. And you could learn to cook.”

Before Elena could think of a suitably crushing reply, the
moules farcies
arrived, the mussels cooked with herbs, garlic, and, according to the waiter,
beaucoup d’amour;
the
frites
fried twice to make them crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. To accompany the food there was an excited but inconclusive discussion about property in Provence: the merits and drawbacks of the coast versus the country, a village house in the Luberon or an apartment in Marseille. Over coffee, it was agreed that they would contact a couple of real estate agents to help them look around. When the bill came, Elena insisted on paying. She planned to frame the check as a souvenir of the day they had made their decision.

When they returned to Le Pharo at the beginning of the evening, it was to find Reboul still fuming. He had received a visit, he told them, from someone he described as a used-car salesman masquerading as a Vicomte, who had said that he had found an extremely rich buyer for Le Pharo: a man, he had said, with the deepest of deep pockets. It’s not for sale,
said Reboul. Not for fifty million euros? Don’t you understand, said Reboul, it’s not for sale. Aha, said the Vicomte, but it is well known that there is a price for everything. It is possible that I could persuade my client to dig even deeper into his pockets.

“And that’s when I showed him out,” said Reboul. “There’s a price for everything, is there?
Quel culot!
What a nerve!”

“Well,” said Sam, “I guess that’s one real estate agent we can knock off the list.”

Reboul paused, corkscrew in hand. “What do you mean?”

“We decided at lunch. We’d like to try and buy a little place over here.”

Reboul’s face lit up. “Really? How wonderful. Now that really does deserve a drink.” He put the corkscrew to work on a bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet. “This is the best news I’ve had in weeks. Where do you want to be? What can I do to help?”

The Vicomte, to his credit, was a very resilient man. Besides, he had come up against similar protestations many times before, most of which had vanished when their speaker was faced with a big enough check. And so, when he was reporting back to Vronsky on
The Caspian Queen
, he managed to present an appearance of guarded optimism.

“Of course he said he wasn’t interested in selling. That’s
what they all say at first—it’s an old trick to get the price up. I must have heard it dozens of times.” The Vicomte smiled, nodding his thanks for the glass of Champagne that had been put in front of him by Vronsky’s chief steward. “I’ve found that it’s usually best to leave them to think about it for a week or two before getting back to them. You’re not planning to sail off somewhere, I hope?”

Vronsky shook his head. “I don’t like unfinished business. That property is perfect for me, and I won’t be leaving Marseille until it’s mine.”

Reboul had persuaded Elena to persuade Sam to put aside his horror of all things that float and come on a cruise around Corsica. His boat, as he had been at pains to explain to Sam, was built for comfort rather than speed; as another inducement he promised that they would never be out of sight of land. In fact, it was generally accepted, according to Reboul, that the very best way to see Corsica was to sail around it. Many of the prettiest little beaches were inaccessible by car and, at this time of the year, deserted. And, as Elena said, it does a girl good to have a beach all to herself. She was in her element—barefoot, clear-eyed, her skin the color of dark honey, her disposition angelic, her pleasure contagious. How could Sam resist? Confirmed landlubber though he was, he had to admit that sailing had its moments.

They had moored overnight in the port of Calvi, with a view of the massive Citadelle that had kept watch over the town for six hundred years. Dinner had been taken in a restaurant two steps from the quay: a fine
daurade royale
, the fish celebrated by its admirers as “the playboy of the Mediterranean.” It had been cooked in a salt crust and served with a pungent aioli. To follow there was
brocciu
, the creamy local cheese best enjoyed with a generous helping of fig jam. Now they were back on the boat, drowsy and replete, their skin still tingling from the day’s sun.

Reboul had left Elena and Sam on deck, leaning back in their chairs counting the stars. When he reappeared, it was with a bottle and three glasses. “We must finish as the Corsicans do,” he said, “with a little nightcap that will make us sleep like babies.” He placed the bottle on the table. In its appearance, it was as far as a bottle can get from the gilded extravagances that are so often used in the presentation of after-dinner drinks. It was devoid of printed label or ornate stopper. There was a label of sorts, stuck on sideways, with a single handwritten word:
Myrte
. And there was a stopper—a cork, darkened with age, that looked as though it had seen service in several other bottles. The overall effect would never have won any prizes for elegance.

Reboul set the glasses in a row and started to pour. “This is made by the farmer who lives near my aunt in Speloncato. Myrtle berries, macerated in a mixture of
eau-de-vie
and
sugar, with a touch of lemon and a couple of cloves.” He slid two glasses across the table.

Elena sipped once, then again. “Ah, yes,” she said in her best winetaster’s voice. “I think I detect a hint of cloves.” She smiled at Reboul. “I could get to like this a lot. It’s lovely—sweet, but kind of peppery. Do you think your aunt’s farmer would make some for me?”

The next morning, they sailed south. Reboul wanted them to see the village of Girolata, accessible only by sea or mule track, where Sébastien, an old friend, had decided to spend the summers of his retirement. To keep himself amused, he had opened a bar on the beach, hired a pretty local girl as bartender, and assumed the modest responsibilities of chef. Since there was only one dish on the menu—the local
langouste
—his kitchen duties gave him plenty of time for his favorite hobby, which was sitting in the sun.

He was standing at the water’s edge to welcome them as they came ashore—wiry, tanned to a crisp, his face a network of wrinkles relieved by a wide white smile. He embraced Reboul, kissed Elena’s hand, shook Sam’s, and led them up the beach toward a low, open-fronted shack with tables and chairs arranged under faded canvas umbrellas. A sign hanging above the bar read Le Cac Quarante and, in smaller letters,
Les chèques sont pas acceptés
.

“Cac Quarante—that’s a pretty weird name for a bar,” said Elena. “Is it some kind of Corsican specialty?”

Reboul grinned. “Not quite. It’s the French equivalent of the Dow Jones index—the movement of the most important forty stocks on the Bourse. That’s where Sébastien used to work.”

They were settling themselves around the table and studying the handwritten, postcard-sized wine list when Reboul’s phone rang. He left the table and strolled down the beach while he took the call. When he came back, it was with a scowl on his face. He was shaking his head as he sat down. “You won’t believe this,” he said. “That was Claudine. That real estate agent has just turned up with Vronsky, that Russian maniac with the helicopter. They told Claudine that I’d said they could look around the house. While she was talking to me, they’d slipped away and gone into the living room. So I told her to call the police and have them kicked out.” He shook his head again. “Unbelievable.”

Sam took a bottle from the ice bucket and poured a glass. “This might help. It’s Canarelli, Sébastien’s favorite
rosé
.” Sure enough, the first long, considered swig seemed to have a calming effect on Reboul. “Tell me, Sam,” he said, “what would happen if someone did that in America?”

“Well now,” said Sam, “you have to remember that in the States, a house is not a home without a gun. So I guess we’d shoot him. That usually works.”

Reboul smiled, his good humor restored. “I must remember that.”

The
langoustes
were fresh, firm, and sweet, served with
a mayonnaise almost thick enough to need a knife, made with egg yolks and extra-virgin Corsican olive oil. A second bottle of wine was ordered, and the conversation turned to Elena and Sam’s plan to buy a small place in Provence—nothing grand, but as Elena said, with
beaucoup de charme
.

“I think I should warn you,” said Reboul, “that those three words are memorized at birth by all Provençal real estate agents. Charm is the great excuse for dark rooms, tiny windows, low ceilings, suspect plumbing, rats in the cellar, bats in the bedroom, and anything else that might be seen as a disadvantage. If the property is really on its last legs and falling to pieces, it has
un charme fou
—a crazy charm. And, as if that’s not enough, it will also have ‘enormous potential.’ So don’t be surprised if the agent offers to lend you rose-colored spectacles.” He paused for another sip of wine. “Anyway, when we get back I’ll find a couple of names of people for you to contact.”

Three sunny, lazy days later, they were back. It had been, for all of them, a brief but magical vacation from real life, and it left them with a feeling of benevolence toward the rest of the world. This, of course, couldn’t last.

Real life was lying in wait.

Elena, who had left her electronic links to the office at Le Pharo, opened her BlackBerry to find a dozen messages from clients she had blissfully forgotten. Sam, a man who
was far too busy enjoying life to contemplate death, found an extremely stern e-mail from his lawyer, who professed himself to be deeply concerned about Sam’s repeated failures to make out a will. And Reboul, despite himself, had become increasingly taken up by thoughts of Vronsky; not only thoughts, but questions. When a man takes such an aggressive interest in your home, it’s only natural to want to know more about him.

Fortunately for Reboul, there was Hervé, Marseille’s chief of police, whom he had contacted recently about Vronsky’s helicopter. As Reboul had found several times in the past, Hervé’s tentacles seemed to reach everywhere—the underworld, the government, Interpol, even deep within the local chamber of commerce. The two men met for lunch three or four times a year to exchange gossip and favors, an arrangement that suited them both.

“Well,
mon vieux
,” said Hervé, “what have you done now? Too many parking tickets? Assaulted a politician? Been caught pinching girls’ bottoms again?” As his laughter came down the phone, Reboul could picture Hervé’s face—round, smiling, and cheerful, a misleading face that concealed the tough and determined officer Reboul knew him to be.

“I need a little information,” said Reboul. “Remember the business with the helicopter? Well, I think the guy who organized that has been snooping around again. While I was away, he got into the house for a guided tour. I’d like
to know a little more about him. His name is Vronsky. He’s Russian, and he’s rich. Very rich.”

“Let me see what I can find out. Rich Russians in Europe aren’t too difficult to track. I’ll try to have something for you in a couple of days. Meanwhile, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,
d’accord?
”