Jacquot and the Waterman (20 page)
Right now, of course, all this land, every
calanque
between Marseilles and Cassis, was protected, development forbidden. You couldn't spit without a permit. But all
that was going to change if Basquet had his way. He took a
deep breath, puffed out his chest and smelt the fresh salt
tang of the sea in his nostrils.
And what the hell was the objection anyway? Why
shouldn't he start development here? Over the years
they'd done it all the way from Catalans Plage to Prado
without anyone saying squat. Even built an autoroute right
bang along the coast. Four lanes of concrete and tarmac.
And if that wasn't bad enough, they'd gone and called it
after a fucking American president! So what was the
problem going a little further east, Basquet reasoned, as
he did a hundred times a day? The way the city was
growing, the way people swarmed down here from the
north to spend their money on somewhere swanky to live,
someone was going to do it someday. So why not him?
Paul Basquet. And why not now? In a couple of days he'd
have the money. And permission. And who was going to
stop him then?
Of course the old man, his ever-cautious father-in-law,
would be spitting nails. While he'd been in charge, it was
soap, essential oils and absolutely nothing else. It had
taken Basquet six months to persuade the old
pingre
to
develop a line of scented candles, for fuck's sake. And
when the stock sold out in less than a month, the old man
refused to consider another run. It wasn't their core
business, he'd argued; it diminished their position. What
the company was founded on, the old man declared, was
what it lived on, gently smacking the back of one hand
against the open palm of the other in that irritating,
patronising way of his.
Which, Basquet had been at pains to point out, hadn't
been enough to keep the family business all that healthy.
Profits were acceptable but unremarkable, the company
share price never more than a few
sous
one way or the
other, and yearly dividends increasingly disappointing. The
business was ticking over, more or less, but nothing more.
Which was why, when the old man passed on and Basquet
finally took control, the company headed off in some
unlikely directions. And it was those various directions -
property development, leasing, insurance, remortgaging
and, most recently, maritime trade - that had kept the
family business on line, recording the kinds of profits the
old man had never even dreamed of. So much for playing
safe.
Rounding a stony bluff, the Ferretti reached its limits,
the furthest point inland, cobalt depths rising to aquamarine shallows and the gentle slap of surf on a curve of
white sand some sixty metres across.
Basquet leant forward, took off his sunglasses and
shaded his eyes. He could see it all. There, where the rock
and scrub began to slope upwards behind the beach, built
out on a stilted deck, would be the clubhouse and restaurant; there the chandlery, workshops and supply mall; and
there the double jetty large enough to accommodate a
dozen cruisers.
Slipping his sunglasses back on, Basquet followed the
scrubby path that wound up through the trees, the only
land access to the
calanque,
leading to a stony goat track
that cut through pine and olive to the D559. That was the
route the driveway would follow, from the security post
and pillared gates through nearly two kilometres of landscaped grounds, two hundred hectares of tended lawns,
tennis courts, a driving range .
.
.
Right now, it seemed, the biggest problem Basquet
faced was what to call the place, trying to get the right
name. The Calanque Club? Or just Calanque?
Or, as his mistress Anais had suggested, Calanque One.
That was smart. Basquet liked that - doing the same again,
the next inlet along. Another Basquet development. More
units, lower overheads, higher prices and profits.
Closing now on the beach and beginning to roll with the
surf, Basquet had Pamuk power up and put the cruiser
into a tight sweep, going back the way they had come past
the three-million-dollar homes whose draft architectural
plans Basquet kept in his office safe. By the end of the
month he'd have what he needed.
As the Ferretti reached the final bend, Basquet glanced
at his Rolex. Right on time.
Beside him, anticipating open water, Pamuk eased the
helm to starboard and slid the throttles forward. But as
they turned out of the
calanque,
Pamuk suddenly stiffened, brought the revs back a notch. A hundred metres
ahead lay a black-hulled cigarette boat, the weight of its
twin outboard engines lifting the bows above the chop, its
name,
Pluto,
painted in flames along its lacquered flanks.
There were two men in the cockpit - one, in a black
T-shirt, wiry but well built, standing at the wheel, the
breeze whipping his fair hair; the second, just head and
shoulders, sitting back, arms spread across the top of the
cockpit lounger, the side of his face smeared with a
startling raspberry stain.
'It's okay,' said Basquet, putting out a hand to calm
Pamuk. 'Just draw alongside, there's a good boy.'
Five minutes later, the two boats were fendered and
secured, bows pointing up into the wind, the
Vallée des
Eaux
five metres longer and much higher in the water
than the speedboat, but a good twenty knots slower.
Pamuk, holding her steady, watched Monsieur Basquet
appear at the bow and lean over the rail. In the cockpit
beneath, the man in the lounger got shakily to his feet and
the two of them began talking. The low revving of the
engines and the whip of the breeze made it impossible to
hear what was being said, but the meeting seemed amicable enough.
The rendezvous, Pamuk realised, had been planned.
And about as discreet as you could get.
A few moments later the exchange was concluded with
a wave, since hands couldn't be shaken, and Basquet
returned to the bridge. Down in
Pluto,
Black T-shirt
slipped the tethers and the two boats rocked apart.
Pamuk glanced at his boss and Basquet nodded towards
Marseilles. Turning the bows and gently applying pressure
to the throttles, Pamuk eased the Ferretti away from the
speedboat and set a course for port.
Beside him Monsieur Basquet patted the pockets of his
shorts, his shirt.
Pamuk recognised the movement. He took a hand off
the helm and reached for the pastilles he'd stashed in a
drawer on the console.
Th
irty years earlier Jacquot would have made for La
Joliette and the alleyways off Quai du Lazaret. That
was where the tattoo boys hung out back then. Pumping
red and blue inks into meaty, seafaring biceps, the recipients either comatose with drink and carried in by giggling
shipmates, or holding back their own sleeves to more
closely inspect the needle s whining progress across their
skin.
