Free Mediterranean Summer by David Shalleck Page B

himself. “I am Richard Corsaire, the steward,” he announced, “but you can call me Rick.” Having lived in the States, he later told me, he found it easier for Americans to handle this short nickname than to attempt a proper pronunciation of his French name. He took a final drag from his cigarette and, while flicking the butt into the water, acknowledged my exercise routine: “Push-ups at this hour, that’s good.”
    Had he intended the comment sarcastically? I couldn’t tell. So I presumed the best of intentions on his part. “It’s the only time that seems to make sense,” I said as I got on my feet. “Good to meet you. Patrick told me you’d be around today. It looks like we have our hands full to get set up.”
    “I will help you, but don’t worry,” he assured me. “It won’t be all work.” He had obviously misread my concern. “I can show you the Côte d’Azur you’ve never seen!”
    The idea was intriguing. It would be a few weeks before the real cruising began that would take us out of France for the rest of the summer. I had heard a great deal about the sheer opulence of this coast and its famous cities—Nice, Cannes, Monte Carlo, Saint-Tropez. I had been to parts of the Riviera over the course of my years in Europe, and the glint in Rick’s eye suggested he knew of special sensory delights lurking off the beaten path. But I had a galley to equip, I told him, and that would have to come first.
    “As you wish,” he said and went below.
    A couple of hours later he invited himself to go to town with me to get my kitchenwares and check out the open-air market. As we walked toward the old town along the wide quay of the yacht club, Rick could take only so much work talk before changing the topic. “Listen, let’s get this done so we can go to the beach clubs on the Cap d’Antibes.” The exclusive beach areas on the coast are like the VIP rooms at trendy nightclubs, and Rick was eager to demonstrate his easy intimacy with such places. I’m usually not one to turn down an opportunity to go to the beach, but I held my focus on why I was there. “Maybe we can go after I’m set up,” I said.
    Rick wasn’t buying. “David, look where we are!” His arm swept in a wide arc. “On the French Riviera, Europe’s summer playground! The eggs can wait.”
    “Don’t you have stuff to do below to get ready?” I asked him. As steward, he had the owner and guest cabins to set up and common areas to help organize and maintain. When the owners were on board, he would be server, butler, valet, and house cleaner. Beverages, floral arrangements, and laundry were also in his domain.
    “Why so fast? You are too nervous,” he said as he cleaned the lenses of his sunglasses with his shirt. “The owners are not fools. They wouldn’t have hired you if you couldn’t handle the job.”
    “Maybe, but I’m not taking any chances.”
    Finally convinced that I intended to work at outfitting the galley
today,
with or without his help, he shrugged and said, “Okay, I will not desert you. The French shopkeepers will see the American coming and pick clean his pockets.” He wanted it understood that it was only for me that he was giving up on the idea of spending the day at Plage Keller, his favorite beach club. His body language suggested that as a Frenchman he had made a generous sacrifice for his new friend.
    As we walked, Rick started to sing a jingle celebrating life in the south of France: “The women are so hot, hot, hot ’cause they make you feel good, good, good!” And he lived what he sang. Each woman we passed got a sultry “
Bonjour, madame
” or “
Bonjour, mademoiselle
” from him. I was surprised at how often he got a smile and a pleasant “
Bonjour
” in return. Or at least a saucy flip of their hair.
    Even though I was tense and eager to get to work, this guy was hard to dislike. Rick was an authentic French bon vivant. A passion for la dolce vita was clearly his motivation. Curious to