Death on a Starry Night

by Betsy Draine

  “Ah.” Klara nodded, twisting a lock of hair around a thumb. “Well, I don’t know anything at all.” She turned to the window. The van took a labyrinthine route, winding up the hill called Haut-de-Cagnes. We drove through the twisting, narrow streets of a middle-class neighborhood clinging to the summit. The stucco houses must have had Malibu-quality views of the Mediterranean.

  Soon we turned into a narrow lane, which led to a modern visitors’ center. Guides met us at the vans and invited the less sure-footed to seat themselves in a motorized cart, which carried them up the steep path to Renoir’s home. The rest of us followed Ray Montoni on a hike up the hill, past a huge olive grove, a circle of fruiting orange trees, and a tropical garden, which in midwinter took its beauty from the different textures of palms and cacti. From the beginning of the walk, we had glimpses of the famous house. The afternoon sun shone directly onto its limestone face. Cream-colored shutters set off French windows on both floors, and a wide balcony looked out over the sea. Renoir, who led a working-class life in his youth, had enough wealth by his late sixties to build the home of his dreams.

  The center of that dream was Renoir’s desire to work as passionately as ever, painting curvaceous young women even as he aged. For eleven years, until his death at seventy-eight, he was as productive as at any other time in his career. Toby and I lingered over the most important room, his studio. In the back of the house, facing away from the distraction of the sea, stood Renoir’s easel, built to accommodate his rheumatoid arthritis. The lip for the canvas was low, just above the level of the chair’s arms, so that Renoir could paint sitting down. The chair’s front legs had a double base, so he could lean toward the canvas without tipping over.

  In another room, we saw the wheelchair he used in his last years. It had arms that extended into poles to make a chairlift. A silent film flickering against the wall showed the aged Renoir sitting in the wheel-chair with his hands bandaged tightly, so that he could wield the paint-brush without dropping it. The gaunt artist, hampered by a thick coat buttoned to the neck and struggling to raise his brush, made a touching contrast with his model, a robust young woman whose nakedness was covered casually by a blanket.

  We returned to the family rooms, where we admired paintings and sculptures that Renoir produced at Haut-de-Cagnes. My favorite was a painting of the house as seen from the olive orchard. It might have hung in the Musée d’Orsay, but its impact was greater here, where it was painted.

  A path in front of the house led to Renoir’s most famous sculpture, the Venus Victorious. We found her at the center of an orange grove. Apart from being nude and as plump as I expected her to be, she was black, not white; short, not tall; and languid, not military. She had no weapon in hand but trailed a bedsheet instead. Her victory was in love, not war. While I was gazing at her, Toby pulled me to him and gave me one of those juicy kisses that had sealed our courtship. Renoir can have that effect on you.

  We walked hand in hand as we entered the olive orchard, where wide spaces between trees gave a sense of openness. The trees, however, pulled against that joyous feeling. Their distinctive misshapen branches reminded me of Renoir’s arthritic hands.

  Under one crippled tree at the far edge of the field stood a couple with a dog. That is, they struck me as a couple—I’m not sure why. As soon as they saw us, the pair pulled apart, and Emmet came running toward us. Maggie waved and called to him. The man turned around, and I saw that he was Ray Montoni. What’s Maggie doing with him? I thought. I could see Maggie putting the moves on Thierry, who was a “winning lad,” as she said, but portly, hairy Ray Montoni? I decided I must be wrong.

  Emmet circled around us and, like a sheepdog, herded us toward Maggie and Ray. We were stumbling by the time we reached them. “My boy is fairly dancing for his afternoon walk,” said Maggie. As if on cue, Emmet positioned himself strategically over Ray’s left foot and prepared to pee. “Emmet!” Maggie cried. “Come!” She reached out, clipped a leash to Emmet’s collar, and rushed him under the next tree, where he went to town.

  “You just had a close call,” said Toby.

  Montoni seemed flustered until he saw that Toby was pointing toward his shoe. “Yeah. Gotta be careful around that dog.” He started trudging back in the direction of the house. We went along with him. In a transparent attempt to change the subject, he said to Toby, “I hear you got into a fistfight last night.”

  “It was no big deal. We drove to Villefranche for dinner and we saw Didier get into a brawl with Yves La Font and some other guy. It was two against one. I helped break it up, that’s all.”

  “What started it?”

  “Nobody said.”

  Since Montoni already knew about the fight, I assumed he also knew I was in contact with the police. I had nothing to lose by asking him a few questions, so I did. “Did you know Didier once was involved with Isabelle La Font, romantically?”

  “Really? I was aware they knew each other but not that it was anything romantic. Who told you that?”

  “Jacques Godard mentioned it. I was wondering whether Didier had something to do with getting her invited to the conference.”

  Ray scratched his cheek. “When Isabelle first got in touch with me, she told me she learned about the conference from him. Didier was already on the program. I don’t know whether he suggested she could present here or she suggested it to him. Does it make a difference?”

  “It might. Do you remember what she said when she contacted you? Was it by letter? Phone?”

  “She phoned.” He was somewhat out of breath now that we were walking uphill. “She said she had come across important information that had a bearing on the question of Van Gogh’s death. She wondered whether our conference might be the best place to make public what she had learned. An academic setting, you know? Not the press.”

  “And you added her to the program just like that?”

  “No.” He halted. “I e-mailed Didier. He said she was a reliable person, not a crank. He supported the idea of inviting her to the conference.”

  “Without seeing her paper?” I asked.

  “I asked her to send me a proposal, and she did, but it was very general. She wanted to keep the contents under wraps until she presented here. I’ve already gone over all this with the police.” He looked at me in a knowing way, which confirmed my guess that he had been told about Angie’s disclosures. He certainly showed no surprise that I was peppering him with questions. He resumed climbing, slowly.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said as we neared the house, “I’ve got to round up our folks for the return.” He waved to people up on the terrace and walked off.

  Toby,” I said, when we were back in our room getting ready for dinner, “when we first saw Maggie and Ray standing under that tree, did you get the impression something was going on between them?”

  “What? No. Maggie and Montoni? Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe I was just imagining things.”

  Toby grinned. “All those sexy Renoir pictures. And that statue. That’s what did it.”

  I smiled, remembering our kiss.

  Years later, after Vincent became famous and his pictures appeared in books, I would try to remember which of them I had watched him paint. But I remembered only a few. I was just a boy and knew nothing about art. I was interested in Vincent as my friend.

  One I do remember is the field with crows. It was a large painting, showing a field of wheat swaying in the wind. In the painting, the sky is dark, as if a storm is coming, and black crows are flying everywhere. But in reality it was a hot, sunny day, and there wasn’t a bird in the sky. I asked Vincent why he was painting crows and a stormy sky when the weather was fine and the sky was empty. He said nothing, but there were tears in his eyes. Later, when we were walking back to town, he told me he had quarreled with his brother, when he went to visit him in Paris. His brother and his wife had just had a baby and didn’t know if they could
continue sending him money to live on. I’m just in the way, Vincent said. He seemed sadder than I’d ever seen him before. Then he said, it’s all over for me. From that day on, he got worse.

  8

  DINNER AT THE COLOMBE D’OR was a prospect to whet any appetite—for food, for ambiance, or for art. In the years when Saint-Paul-de-Vence was just being discovered by artists, La Colombe d’Or was the hotel where they met to eat and drink, and the bill was often settled with a painting fresh from the easel. As a result, priceless canvases grace its halls, the dining room, and the sitting rooms. Who better to appreciate them than a dozen art historians? I’d been looking forward to the evening, which was billed as the social highlight of the conference.

  I dressed as well as I could, given the limitations of a roll-on suitcase. I gave my Mary Janes a spit polish and put on the black traveler pants and a velvety top that I’d worn to all our dinners. To that I added my finest fake diamond earrings (bought at an airport shop) and brushed my hair back so they’d show. Toby said I looked good and suggested that we walk to town. The sky was overcast and the road was dark, lit only when we passed windows of houses where supper was being cooked. The way ahead was clear, though, since the clock tower glowed from afar, its spotlights lit since nightfall. We arrived at the boules court and had time to huddle there, gazing at the ramparts. They seemed dauntingly high, because the walls were lit from below, with the light growing faint at the top, reflecting a few wisps of fog grazing the parapets.

  Just left of the ramparts, a simple stone building was lit in the same way, with a spotlight emphasizing a statue of the golden dove after which the restaurant is named. I was feeling the cold by the time we approached the hotel’s stone arch, guarded by an upscale version of a bouncer. With a glance, he decided we were the right sort. We stepped onto the terrace, where a tall Calder mobile mounted guard over a swimming pool. I pictured the pool on a hot summer day, with Picasso splashing his latest love and Orson Welles struggling to slip his whale of a body into the water.

  A gust of wind propelled us into the restaurant—or rather, into the lobby, which doubles as a bar. Cocktail tables and low stools invited early arrivals to take an aperitif. At the farthest table, Daniel Didier sat alone, writing. He didn’t look like he wanted company, but he couldn’t easily avoid inviting us to join him. He slipped a notebook inside his jacket. His face remained sober.

  “You don’t look too bad, considering,” said Toby. He took in the bruise above Didier’s right eye and the scrapes under his left.

  “Thanks to you,” said Didier.

  Toby gave a self-deprecating nod and mumbled the French equivalent of “no problem.”

  “You called the police afterward, didn’t you?” asked Didier.

  “Actually,” I admitted, “I was the one who called.”

  “I wish you hadn’t, Madame Barnes.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but it seemed necessary. The fight involved Madame La Font’s brother.”

  “In any case, I spent half the morning at the gendarmerie.” He flipped his hand in the air with such vehemence that his glass tipped over. To avoid getting wine on his clothes, he jumped his stool back. Almost at the same time, a young man arrived to take our order. He pulled a pristine white towel from over his arm and proceeded to mop up the spill.

  Awkward as it was, we stayed at the table. Toby said, “We didn’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

  “Unfortunately, you did. Yves and I have a history.”

  “Because of your relationship with his sister?” I asked.

  “Godard talks too much. But yes.”

  “He sure was bent on giving you a beating,” Toby said. “Did you run into each other by accident?”

  Didier eyed me, as if to say he’d be willing to discuss the fight with Toby but he wasn’t so sure about me. Nonetheless, he went on. “By accident? No. He called me at the hotel and asked me to meet him in Villefranche. He lives near the port. He wanted to put pressure on me for information about Isabelle’s paper. I told him I had no more information than he had.”

  The young man returned with our drinks and a replacement for Didier’s spilled glass of wine. “You mean Isabelle didn’t tell you anything about her presentation?” I asked. My skepticism showed, I’m sure.

  Didier looked at me coolly. He took a sip. “She didn’t share the details. We hadn’t been in touch for years.”

  “I take it Yves didn’t believe you,” Toby said.

  “No.”

  I didn’t believe him myself.

  Didier put down his glass. “Then the idiot accused me of killing his sister. That’s how the fight started. He never liked me. He never liked Isabelle that much either. He was only her half brother, you know. They had different mothers.”

  Didier reached into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes, withdrew one, tapped it on his wrist, and lit it. He blew a billow of smoke the size of a thought cloud in a cartoon. Then he continued. “Yves was always jealous of his father’s second family—the new wife, Isabelle, and her younger sister. He felt the girls got all the attention and were spoiled. He used to hit Isabelle up for money. That was still going on when Isabelle and I were a couple. I didn’t like that, and I let him know it.”

  “Did you ever fight?” Toby asked.

  “Once. In Isabelle’s third year at nursing school, her internship, Yves came to Bordeaux to take her out of school. By then his stepmother was dead and his father had cancer. Yves wanted Isabelle to come home to care for their father. She was torn. She wanted to stay with me and finish her degree, but she wanted to comfort her father too. There was an argument. Just like last night, Yves got belligerent. He punched me. Threw things. We wrestled. In the confusion, Isabelle got pushed and hit her head on the corner of a table.” His voice rose. “Yves reported me to the police.”

  “Even though it was an accident?” Toby asked.

  “You think the law is fair? I have the arrest on my record. The police knew that when they questioned me today. Now they think I’m habitually violent—just the sort who might attack an old girlfriend.”

  “Didn’t Isabelle stand up for you?”

  “Yves convinced her to leave, to nurse her father. Once she made up her mind, she resented my interference. She took his side.” He took another swallow of wine and put his glass down slowly. “That was the end of us, and she never got her nursing degree.”

  I could understand Isabelle’s plight. I’d been in a similar position when Angie wanted me to come home from college.

  “She wasted the rest of her life in Sisteron. She took care of her father until he died, and then she stayed on managing a clinic for some ungrateful doctors. Now she’s dead. Yves is to blame. For everything.”

  “For her death too?” Toby asked.

  “Who else? I’m convinced of it. He stalked her to the conference. He tried to control her every action. It infuriated him that she decided on her own to tell their grandfather’s story. That’s why I agreed to meet him when he called. I thought I might pick up something that could be used as evidence against him.”

  “And instead he tried to pin the murder on you,” Toby said.

  “The bastard. That’s why I didn’t want you to report our fight to the police.” Didier angrily stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.

  I wanted to find out more about Isabelle’s sister. Where did she live? Had she been notified of Isabelle’s death? But at that moment the rest of our gang entered, making a hubbub as they gave up their coats and crowded into the bar. That gave Didier an excuse to leave us. He joined his French colleagues. By prearrangement, everyone was offered champagne, and everyone accepted, since the welcoming toast, like the dinner, was paid for by the conference. Ray Montoni lifted his glass high, and we followed. He took a showy swallow. He seemed a bit sloshed already.

  Whether it was the thought of Isabelle’s death or the testy interchange with Didier, I couldn’t get the champagne down. You shouldn’t ever force yourself to drink, I t
hought. I put down the glass and took a self-led tour of the photographs hanging on the walls and then thumbed through the guestbook pages signed by James Baldwin, Jean-Paul Belmondo, Simone Signoret, Jacques Brel, and other icons of the last century.

  The hostess who led us to the dining room wore a voluminous striped skirt, topped by a lacy Provençal blouse. The liveliness of her costume countered the severity of the waiters’ black vests and pants. She flashed individual style, while her men worked anonymously. She gave each guest a warm welcome and used discreet gestures to tell her staff which guests to put at which tables. I was glad that our “family” was kept together. It gave me a chance to make up with Angie.

  The handsome room helped settle me. Dark walnut paneling on the walls rose five feet high, and in the space above that, paintings hung in profusion, each lit softly from below. That was the extent of the light in the room, apart from candles and a fire in the hearth. I played a silent game of trying to identify the paintings. I thought I saw Miros, Picassos, a Chagall, and a Matisse. To tell the truth, when it comes to their simpler, playful works, it isn’t easy to tell the difference. A small painting of a garishly red lobster was definitely a Soutine. It made me queasy.

  I asked Toby to order for us both. The meal was good but not memorable. Toby tells me we had something called socca, a chickpea flour pancake rolled with goat cheese and ratatouille, and then duck breast with figs in honey and thyme. I do remember the dessert, a selection of little winter tarts: walnut, lemon, and almond.

  As my eyes scanned the room, I saw that Maggie was surrounded by the three French bachelors: Didier, Godard, and Thierry. I wondered whether chance or a bribe had produced that grouping. For this, the most formal occasion of the conference, she had left Emmet behind with Madame Richarde. Perhaps Maggie didn’t want him to see her flirting with other men. Maybe she was thinking of their shoes.

  Montoni was seated with the Bennetts and the De Groots. They were engaged in animated conversation. By contrast, the Currys dined apart at a small table for two. He appeared to be sulking. I noticed that when Jane touched him on the forearm, he shook her hand off. The rest of the company chatted agreeably through the appetizers, made sounds of satisfaction through the main course, and sighed over dessert. Once all plates were empty, the hostess invited our group to take coffee in one of the sitting rooms.