The Vintage Caper

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