The Vintage Caper

about work and Bordeaux, he sipped his wine, wiped his lips on his napkin, and moved on to more delicate matters.
    “How’s your love life?”
    “Philippe!” Sophie flushed prettily and appeared to find something fascinating on her plate.
    “Well, I’m sure you’re not still married to that—what was he? A yacht designer? I always thought there was something a bit louche about him.” He paused, head tilted, and studied Sophie. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
    Sophie nodded. “The divorce has just come through.”
    “And?” said Philippe. “And?”
    “And I’ve been seeing someone else for nearly eighteen months.” She looked at Sam, shaking her head. “This is what you get when you have a journalist in the family.” Turning back to Philippe, she said, “His name is Arnaud Rolland, he has a small château near Cissac, a sweet old mother, no children, and two Labradors. Now let me finish my lunch.”
    Philippe looked sideways at Sam and winked. “Just asking,” he said.
    Over coffee, the conversation returned to the events of the evening. “Before I forget,” said Philippe as he rummaged in his backpack. “Your devoirs —something for you to read before tonight.” He slid a small book across the table to Sam. “It’s the story of the Palais du Pharo, actually very interesting. Reboul is proud of his home. You will impress him if you can show you know a little about it.”
    “Philippe?” Sophie was studying a street plan of Marseille. “Where would you go if you wanted to buy clothes?”
    Philippe glanced down and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from the wrinkled, olive drab fatigue pants that were tucked into scuffed combat boots. “There’s an army surplus place off the Canebière. I know the owner. He understands mon ‘look.’”
    “No, not for you. Me.”
    Philippe gazed at the ceiling in thought. “I’d say Rue Paradis, Rue Breteuil, the little streets around there. I’ll mark them for you.”
    They stood outside the restaurant while Philippe pointed them in the direction of their destinations—Sophie for her boutiques, Sam for his camera. Philippe himself, shouldering the unforgiving burden of journalism, was off to cover the first-ever Salon d’Erotisme to be held in Marseille, a unique and perhaps largely unclothed event. As he speculated aloud on what he might see, Sophie put her hands to her ears and left.
    Back once again on his terrace, Sam settled down and opened the book Philippe had given him, a slim volume in two languages that set out the history of what was now Reboul’s splendid home.
    The idea for the Palais du Pharo was conceived in 1852, when Louis-Napoléon, le prince-président on his way to becoming emperor, dropped a hint to the local dignitaries that a residence overlooking the sea might be very much to his liking.
    A hint from Napoléon was not too far from an imperial command, and the good people of Marseille were quick to respond. Let us build you a house, they said. Napoléon, thinking that their generosity was a little excessive (a sense of moderation not normally found in emperors), turned down the offer. But, he said, he would be delighted to accept a suitable plot of land, and on it he would construct a suitable house.
    As sometimes happens in Provence, the building process was slow, and not without its problems. Although work officially commenced in 1856, the first stone wasn’t laid until 1858, on August 15—which, by happy coincidence, was Saint Napoléon’s Day. It was one of very few happy moments. The numerous architects squabbled, the head mason was incompetent, there were not enough workmen assigned to the job, there were difficulties with the supply of stone, and frequent fierce winds demolished the windows. Work dragged on for another ten years, but as 1868 came and went Napoléon’s palais was still uninhabitable.
    Worse was to come. Two years later, after some injudicious military adventures, Napoléon was deposed. He went into exile in England, where he died in 1873. His widow, Eugénie, gave back to Marseille what had been given to her and her husband, leaving the city as the owner of the most spectacular white elephant on the coast.
    Over the 120 years that followed, the city fathers discovered that enormous houses, particularly those exposed to the ravages of salt sea air, cost enormous amounts of money to keep up. Dozens of schemes to defray costs were tried and discarded. Eventually, it was with a considerable sense of