The driver stamped on his brakes and reversed, weaving backward through a chorus of horn-blowing from the oncoming flow of traffic until he reached the short driveway leading to the hotel. With apologies for having overshot the destination, he dropped them off, gave Sophie his card, beamed his appreciation of Sam’s tip, and wished them a memorable stay in Marseille.
On her cousin Philippe’s advice, Sophie had made reservations at the Sofitel Vieux Port, a modern hotel with a view of the twelfth-century Fort Saint-Jean, one of a trio of forts that had been built to keep pirates and seagoing Parisians at bay. Up in his room, Sam slid back the window, went out onto the terrace, and took a deep breath of salt air. Not bad, he thought, as he looked down across the sweep of the city. Not bad at all. Spring had come early to Marseille, and the reflection of sun bouncing off water seemed to have polished the air and made it glitter. The masts of hundreds of small boats made a floating forest of the port. Out to sea, the Château d’If was in silhouette, flat, sharp, and clear. Sam wondered if Reboul’s view could be any better than this.
He went down to meet Sophie in the lobby, and found her pacing up and down, cell phone pressed to her ear. As she finished the call, she came over, glancing at her watch.
“That was Philippe,” she said. “He suggests we meet for a drink in half an hour.”
“They start early in Marseille. Is he coming here?”
Sophie sighed and shook her head. “It’s never simple with Philippe. He wants to show us one of his little bars where tourists never go. It’s in Le Panier. He says it’s a nice walk from here, typiquement marseillais. Are you ready for that?”
They stopped at the front desk to pick up a map and set off down the hill toward the Vieux Port. As they walked, Sophie passed on what little she knew about Le Panier. The oldest part of Marseille, once the home of fishermen, Corsicans, and Italians, it became a hiding place during the war for Jewish refugees and others trying to escape from the Nazis. In a particularly thorough act of retribution, the Nazis ordered the area to be evacuated in 1943, and then blew most of it up.
“Philippe knows many stories about that time,” said Sophie. “After the war, the quartier was rebuilt-I would say not very beautifully-and now the people who live here are mostly Arabs.”
They were crossing the quay at the end of the Vieux Port, making their way through the knots of tourists and students who were waiting for the ferry that would take them to the Château d’If. A row of old men, blinking like lizards in the sun, perched on a low wall looking at girls. A couple of dogs sniffed around the area where the fish market had been that morning. Infants in strollers took the air while their mothers chatted. It was a wholesome, peaceful scene, and Sam felt distinctly let down.
“It doesn’t seem very dangerous to me,” he said. “Where are all the muggers? Don’t they work on Fridays? I still haven’t had my pocket picked and you still have your handbag, and we’ve been in Marseille for nearly an hour. These guys are losing their touch.”
Sophie patted his arm. “Don’t worry. We’ll ask Philippe. He can tell you where to go for a good-how do you say-mug?” She stopped to consult the map. “We need to find the Montée des Acoules, just before the cathedral. And look, this is interesting. Our closest neighbor is Reboul.” She pointed to the map, and there was the Palais du Pharo, only a few hundred meters from the hotel.
The atmosphere changed as soon as they left the breezy, open spaces bordering the port. The sun disappeared. The Montée was steep and gloomy and narrow, barely the width of a car. Buildings that might have had a certain shabby charm in the sunshine looked merely drab. The only signs of life were the spicy wafts of cooking and the wail of North African pop music that came from the windows of the houses they passed. They turned left into an alley.
“I think the bar is at the end of this street,” said Sophie, “in a placette with no name. I don’t know how Philippe finds these places.”
“These louche guys always know the best addresses. But to be fair, you said he wanted us to see something typiquement marseillais.”
This caused Sophie to produce a pout with sound effects, blowing out a disdainful gust of air between pursed lips. It was a quintessentially French performance, and one that Sam had tried to emulate many times without much success. Somehow, his pouts always sounded more like flatulence than disdain. He had come to the conclusion that one needed Gallic lips.
They walked on to the end of the alley and out into a tiny square. In the middle stood a small but determined plane tree that had managed to survive despite its close-fitting collar of concrete. And in one corner, its windows covered with inspirational soccer slogans daubed in white paint-ALLEZ LES BLEUS! and DROIT AU BUT! being the favorites-was the bar. Faded letters above the entrance announced it as Le Sporting. Parked outside was a dusty black Peugeot motor scooter.
Sam pushed the door open, causing the dense haze of tobacco smoke to quiver in the current of fresh air. Conversation stopped. A group of men with ravaged, rutted faces looked up from their card game. Two others turned from the bar to stare. The only smile in the room came from a burly, dark-haired figure-a great bear of a man-sitting at a table in the corner. He stood up, spreading his arms wide, and bore down on Sophie. “Ah, ma petite cousine,” he said, kissing her with great enthusiasm twice on each cheek, “enfin à Marseille. Bienvenue, bienvenue.” He turned his attention to Sam and changed languages. “And you must be American Sam.” He seized Sam’s hand and pumped it energetically. “Welcome to Marseille. What do you drink?” He leaned close and dropped his voice. “Entre nous, I would avoid the wine of the house if you want to live through the day. Pastis, perhaps? Beer? Or there is an excellent Corsican whisky. Sit down, sit down.”
Sam took a look around. The décor had long ago seen better days. Most of the checkered tiles on the floor had worn through to the concrete. The ceiling, once white, was a deep, nicotine-stained brown. The tables and chairs were shiny with age. But maybe it had hidden virtues.
“Nice place,” said Sam. “Do they do weddings?”
“Only funerals,” said Philippe with a grin. “Apart from that, it’s quiet. Very discreet. I use it for meeting local politicians who don’t want to be seen talking to the press.”
“Don’t they have phones?”
Philippe clicked his tongue. “Phones can be tapped. You should know that, living in America.” He turned around and called toward the bar. “Mimine, s’il te plaît? On est presque mort de soif.”
“J’arrive, j’arrive.” Mimine’s voice, a pleasant light baritone, came from behind a wooden bead curtain at the back of the bar, immediately followed by its owner. She was an impressive sight: over six feet in her high heels, a curly mop of the kind of red hair that glows in the dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, enormous gold hoop earrings, and a truly monumental bosom, much of it visible, with the rest struggling to escape from an orange tank top two sizes too small. She stood by the table, hands on hips, her eyes fixed on Sam. Nodding toward him, she spoke to Philippe-a torrent of words delivered at breakneck speed in an accent that sounded vaguely like French, ending with a throaty cackle. Philippe laughed. Sophie blushed. Sam hadn’t understood a word.
“Mimine likes the look of you,” said Philippe, still laughing. “I won’t tell you what she suggested, but don’t worry. You’re safe as long as you stay with me.”
They ordered, and Mimine took much more time than necessary bending over to place Sam’s pastis in front of him. For the first time in his life, he was being leered at. It was odd, but not altogether unpleasant.