Eight

The next day, during the short flight down to Bordeaux, Sam passed the time by considering the differences between a plane full of Frenchmen and a plane full of Americans. Settling into his seat, his first impression was that the sound level in the cabin was lower. Conversations were muted, reflecting the French horror of being overheard. The passengers were smaller and darker; there were fewer blonds of either sex. There were also fewer iPods, but more books. The American addiction to drinking bottled water throughout the day hadn’t yet reached the French passengers (although since many of them were from Bordeaux it was possible that, for medical reasons, they restricted themselves to wine). There was no snacking. Sartorially, the style was somewhere between a day at the office and a day of bird hunting. Moss-colored, hip-length shooting jackets were worn over business suits, and Sam half expected to see the head of a dead pheasant poking out of a side pocket. Men’s hair was longer, and there were significant gusts of aftershave, but there were no masculine earrings or baseball caps to be seen. In general, the look was more formal.

There was, however, one overwhelming similarity between the Frenchman and his American cousin. Once the plane had reached the arrivals gate, two hundred cell phones appeared, as if on a preordained maneuver, so that passengers could tell wives, mistresses, lovers, secretaries, and business colleagues that, yet again, the pilot had foiled death and had managed a safe landing. Sam, who tended to agree with the theory that ninety percent of cell phone calls were unnecessary, was happy to wait for his bag in silence, a mute among babblers.

Looking for his contact, Madame Costes, he scanned the crowd in the arrivals area until his eye fell on a woman standing alone. She was holding a piece of cardboard with his name on it, at waist level. She looked almost as though she were embarrassed to be seen soliciting a stranger off a plane. He walked over to introduce himself.

Madame Costes was a pleasant surprise-not at all the sturdy old matron with flat feet and a faint moustache that Sam had anticipated. She was slim, in her midthirties, simply dressed in sweater and slacks, a silk scarf knotted loosely around her neck. Her sunglasses were pushed up into tawny, not-quite-blond hair. Her face was the kind one sees in society magazines: long and narrow and well-bred. In short, she was a prime example of bon chic bon genre. On his previous visits to France, Sam had often heard the phrase-usually abbreviated to BCBG-used to describe people of a certain class and style: they were chic, they were conservative, and they were devoted to anything made by Hermès.

Sam smiled as he took her hand. “Thanks for coming out to meet me. I hope it hasn’t messed up your afternoon.”

“Of course not. It’s good to get out of the office. Welcome to Bordeaux, Mr. Levitt.”

“Please. Sam.”

She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, as if taken by surprise at such instant familiarity. But then, he was American. “I am Sophie. Come-we find the car just outside.”

She led the way out of the terminal, fishing for the car keys in the depths of a large leather bag the color and texture of a well-worn saddle. Sam was expecting her car to be the standard-issue French model: small, lively, and impossibly cramped for anyone with American-length legs. Instead, they stopped at a dark-green, mud-spattered Range Rover.

Sophie clicked her tongue in disapproval. “You must forgive the car,” she said. “I have been in the country yesterday. Mud everywhere.”

Sam grinned. “In L.A., the highway patrol would probably pull you over for driving an unhygienic vehicle.”

“Ah bon? Pull me over?”

“Just kidding.” Sam settled back into his seat as Sophie, driving quickly and decisively, negotiated the airport traffic. Her hands on the wheel were as BCBG as the rest of her-polished but unvarnished nails cut short, a small gold signet ring on the little finger, so old that the family crest had worn smooth, and a vintage Cartier tank watch with a black crocodile strap.

“I made a reservation for you at the Splendide,” Sophie said. “It’s in the old part of town, near the Maison du Vin. I hope that’s good for you. Difficult for me to know, because I live here. I never stay in Bordeaux hotels.”

“Have you been here long?”

“I was born in Pauillac, about fifty kilometers from Bordeaux. So-une fille du coin, a local girl.”

“And your English? Don’t tell me that comes from Pauillac.”

“Years ago, I spent some time in London. In those days, one had to speak English; nobody spoke French. Today London is almost like une ville française. More than three hundred thousand French people live there. They say it’s easier for business.” Sophie leaned forward over the wheel. “Now, no more questions. I have to concentrate.”

Sophie threaded her way through a web of one-way streets and pulled up outside the hotel, an eighteenth-century building with a pompous façade and an air of self-satisfied respectability.

“Voilà,” she said. “I need to go back to the office, but we can meet for dinner if you like.”

Sam nodded and smiled. “I would like.”

Waiting for her in the hotel lounge-or, as the official description in the hotel brochure put it, the salon bourgeois “cosy”-Sam felt both relieved and encouraged by his first exposure to Sophie Costes. It was entirely unworthy and chauvinistic of him, he knew, but he was much happier working with good-looking women. And he was encouraged by the fact that Sophie was a born and bred Bordelaise. From everything he had read about Bordeaux society, it was a maze of family connections and disconnections, feuds and alliances that had been developed over a couple of centuries. An insider as a guide was going to be invaluable.

The click of high heels across the floor announced Sophie’s arrival. She had changed for dinner. A little black dress, naturellement. Two strands of pearls. A heavy black cashmere shawl. An interesting hint of scent. Sam straightened his tie.

“I’m glad I wore a suit,” he said.

Sophie laughed. “What do men normally wear to go out to dinner in Los Angeles?”

“Oh, five-hundred-dollar jeans, snakeskin cowboy boots, Armani T-shirts, silk jackets, Louis Vuitton baseball caps-you know, rough country clothes. But no pearls. Real men don’t do pearls.”

Sophie looked as though this last piece of information confirmed a previous impression. “I think you are not a serious man.”

“I try not to be,” Sam admitted, “but I can get very serious about dinner. Where are we going? Should I get a cab?”

“We can walk. It’s just around the corner-a little place, but the food is good and so is the wine list.” Sophie turned to look up at Sam as they went down the street. “You do drink wine, don’t you?”

“And how. What were you expecting me to drink? Diet Coke? Iced tea?”

Sophie waved the question away. “One never knows with Americans.”

Sam liked the restaurant at first sight. It was snug, not much bigger than his living room at the Chateau Marmont, with a tiny bar at one end, mirrors and framed black-and-white portrait photographs along the walls, unfussy furniture, and thick, white tablecloths. A dark-haired, smiling woman came forward to greet them, and was introduced to Sam as Delphine, the chef’s wife. Judging by the exchange of kisses between the two women it seemed that Sophie was a regular client. Delphine showed them to a corner table, suggested a glass of champagne while they studied the menu, and bustled back to the kitchen.

“This is exactly my kind of place,” said Sam as he looked around. “Great choice.” He nodded toward the wall opposite them. “Tell me, who are those guys in the photographs?”