The Marseille Caper by Peter Mayle Read Free Book Online Page A

are sex, hypochondria, and the belly. But there is more to us than that.” He nodded his approval of what he had just said, and held out the empty wine bottle to a passing waitress for a refill.
    Elena had been paying close attention to this crash course in the French psyche, and, in what she hoped was true Gallic style, held up a finger of her own and wagged it. “Handshaking, OK. Cheek-kissing, OK. Polite, OK. Until they get into their cars. I have to tell you I have never seen so many seriously homicidal drivers as there are in France. What’s their problem?”
    Philippe smiled and shrugged. “Some would say joie de vivre , but I have another theory. I think that French drivers suffer from a physical disability: they only have two hands,when, of course, they need three. Smoking and the telephone take up one hand and the other must be kept free in order to make insulting gestures at other drivers who are too fast, too slow, too close, or Belgian.” Seeing Elena’s puzzled expression, he added, “Belgians always drive in the middle of the road. This is well known. Ah, here are the tapas .”
    The next few minutes passed in a contented semi-silence as they explored the nine small dishes set before them, sniffing, tasting, sometimes exchanging a forkful of violet-colored artichoke for a tender little clam wrapped in Spanish ham, or mopping up the herb-scented olive oil with their bread. In many ways, tapas make an ideal first course: not too heavy, with a variety of flavors to wake up the taste buds, and served in modest amounts that don’t blunt the appetite. With the final dish wiped clean, the conversation returned to business.
    “I guess you know there’s some kind of press reception and cocktail party later on this week,” Sam said to Philippe. “Are you going? Will Patrimonio be there?”
    Philippe raised his eyes to the ceiling. “ Bof! Try to keep him away. This is his moment of glory. I’m afraid we can expect a speech from the old windbag. I shall be there to record it for posterity. And you will have a chance to meet your competitors, take a look at their ideas.” He shook his head at the thought. “Hotels, hotels, hotels. It’s always hotels or office buildings.”
    “So what do you think of our idea?”
    “Of course, I haven’t seen the details. Even so, I hope it will win. It’s more human, more civilized.” Philippe staredinto his wine glass, his expression thoughtful. “But from what I hear, Wapping has a history of always getting what he wants, one way or another. Not an easy man to beat. And you can usually trust Patrimonio to make the wrong decision.”
    Elena was frowning as she put down her glass. “You keep talking about Patrimonio as if he were the only guy that mattered. I know he’s chairman, but isn’t there a committee? Don’t the members have a say? Or are they just dummies put there to make up the numbers?”
    Philippe started to run his fingers through his hair—an old habit—until he realized that there was nothing left to run his fingers through. “There are six, or maybe seven, on the committee. I know that two of them owe their jobs to Patrimonio, so they’ll vote the way he tells them to. As for the others, your guess is as good as mine. They’ll all be at the reception. I’ll see what I can find out.”
    The dish of the day arrived in all its dusky glory, with tendrils and thin slices of inkfish resting on a bed of glistening black angel’s-hair pasta. To one side, for a change of texture, and to provide what Philippe called an epiphany for the palate, there was a creamy sauce of goat’s cheese.
    Elena took her first mouthful, and let out a small sigh of pleasure. “This is lovely. Is it going to give me black lips?”
    Sam leaned forward to inspect her mouth. “Not yet. So far, it’s just the teeth.”
    Elena turned to Philippe. “See what I have to put up with?”
    Philippe nodded his head in sympathy. “Humor is how the Anglo-Saxon man declares his