Chasing Cezanne

by Peter Mayle

  “I’d have worn a tie if I’d known you were going to dress up.” He let his hands fall to his sides. “What are you going to have?”

  Lucy raised the barman’s eyebrows by ordering a rum and water, no ice, sipping it slowly as Andre described what he’d seen on Cap Ferrat. He showed her the transparencies, watching the play of light on the angles of her face as she held them up and wondering whom she was having dinner with. The restaurant was becoming busy, and the bar was now under attack from modish young men, their sidelong glances surreptitiously comparing each other’s stubble and haircuts while they waited for their drinks. Andre felt underdressed and overshaved.

  “Well?” he said. “What do you think? That painting must be worth a fortune.”

  Lucy stacked the transparencies in a small pile on the bar with long, scarlet-tipped fingers. It was the first time Andre had seen her wearing nail varnish. “I don’t know,” she said. “If they were stealing it, why wouldn’t they do it at night? Why hang around on the doorstep with it?” She took another sip of rum and smiled at the frown on his face. “Listen, if it bothers you, call Denoyer. Do you know where he is?”

  “I can find out. It’s odd, though, isn’t it? You’re right—I’ll call him.” He slipped the transparencies into an envelope and gazed at Lucy with what he hoped was a soulful expression. “All alone on Saturday night,” he said, “the girl of my dreams promised to another.” He sighed, a heavy, long-drawn-out sigh. “Pizza and TV, dirty dishes. Maybe I’ll go mad and wash my hair. Maybe I should get a cat.”

  Lucy grinned. “You’re breaking my heart.”

  “Who’s the lucky man?”

  She looked into her drink. “Just a guy.”

  “Meet him at the gym? That’s what it was, love among the Nautilus machines. Your eyes met over the bench press. One look at his pectorals and you were lost.” He sighed again. “Why don’t these things ever happen to me?”

  “You’re never here.” She looked at him in silence for a moment. “Right?”

  Andre nodded. “Right. Anyway, he’s late. He’s blown it. Why don’t we go around the corner and get some real food, some …” A gust of aftershave made him look up, and the space between them was suddenly filled by a young man in a dark suit and an aggressively loud striped shirt. Andre was sure that red felt suspenders lurked under his jacket. What a ponce.

  Lucy made the introductions; the two men shook hands with a marked lack of enthusiasm, and Andre surrendered his barstool. “Lulu, I’ll call you tomorrow, after I’ve talked to Denoyer.” He did his best with a smile. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  Walking home, the sidewalk treacherous with a skim of ice, Andre reflected on the often-quoted statistic that there were three unattached females in Manhattan for every one unattached male. It wasn’t doing him much good at the moment; nor would it, he had to admit, as long as he spent most of his life somewhere else. Lucy was right. He stopped off at a deli for a sandwich, trying to avoid mental images of her and the striped shirt having dinner.

  Later, to the celestial sound of Isaac Stern swooping through Mendelssohn, he searched the drawer where he tossed all the business cards given to him. Denoyer’s, in the large and opulent French style, would be bigger than the rest. There. He picked it out and studied the classical black copperplate.

  Two addresses, identified by seasons: Eté, Villa La Pinède, 06230 Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. Hiver, Cooper Cay, New Providence, Bahamas. No mention of Paris or Courcheval, so unless he was skiing, Denoyer should still be in the Bahamas.

  Andre yawned, still on French time, four in the morning. He would call tomorrow.

  Denoyer’s voice, on a fuzzy line from Cooper Cay, was relaxed and amiable. Of course he remembered Andre, and those magnificent photographs. Many of his friends had complimented him on the article. He hoped that Andre was thinking of taking some pictures in the Bahamas. The islands were delightful at this time of year, particularly when the weather in Manhattan was so disagreeable. Denoyer paused, leaving direct questions unasked, and waited.

  “In fact,” said Andre, “I’m calling about France. I was on Cap Ferrat last week and passed by your house.”

  “What a pity we weren’t there,” Denoyer said. “It’s closed up for the winter—but of course, you saw that. We don’t go back until April.”

  “Well, the odd thing was, I did see your caretaker.”

  “Claude? I should hope so.” Denoyer laughed. “I wouldn’t want him anywhere else while we’re away.”

  “Perhaps I should say that what he was doing was odd.”

  “Oh?”

  “And I thought you should know. He and another man were loading one of your paintings—the Cézanne—into a van. A plumber’s van. I watched them from the gate.”

  There was nothing but static on the line for a few moments, and then Denoyer’s voice, sounding more amused than surprised. “Come, now, my friend. A plumber’s van? You were at the gate, no? That’s quite a distance from the house. Your eyes were playing tricks.” He chuckled. “It wasn’t after a good lunch, was it?”

  “It was in the morning.” Andre took a deep breath. “And I took photographs. Everything’s very clear. Everything.”

  Another pause. “Ah bon? Well, I expect Claude was doing a little spring cleaning. I’ll call him.” And then, in a light, casual tone of voice, a mere afterthought, he added: “But it would be amusing to see the photographs. Would you mind sending them down?”

  Light and casual it may have been, but not altogether convincing. There had been a suspicion of interest, something more than passing curiosity, and Andre found himself wanting to see Denoyer’s face when he looked at the photographs. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’ll bring them.” He found the lie came easily. “I’ve got to look at a house in Miami next week. It’s only a hop over from there to Nassau.”

  After a few token protestations from Denoyer, it was agreed. Andre spent the rest of the morning arranging flights and trying to reach Lucy. She was out. Maybe the striped shirt had persuaded her to spend a rustic Sunday in the arctic wastes of Central Park. Maybe she had never come home after dinner. What a hideous thought, and what a waste. He had to stop traveling so much. He tipped the wrinkled contents of his bag into the laundry basket and played some Wagner very loud as he started packing for the Bahamas.

  5

  MANHATTAN was melting. Overnight, a warm front had crept into the city, turning the piled snow into gray ooze, exposing the heaps of uncollected garbage sacks to the pale sun, bringing joy to the hearts of those responsible for the strike. Soon the garbage would begin to announce its presence to the noses of several million passersby, and with the powerful endorsement of the stench, the union men could resume negotiations.

  Andre waded through the streams and tributaries of West Broadway, stamping the worst of the slush from his feet before going up to the office. He found Lucy on the phone, a frown on her face, her voice terse. She looked up at Andre and rolled her eyes. He dug in his bag for the folder containing the shots he had taken of the icons and took a seat on the company couch.

  “No.” Lucy’s frown deepened. “No, I can’t. I’m tied up this week. I don’t know when. Listen, I’ve got to go. Someone’s waiting. Yes, I have your number. Right. And you.” She put down the phone and blew out a long breath, shaking her head as she stood up.

  Andre grinned. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” he said, feeling sure that he had. “Not our friend in the striped shirt, was it?”

  Lucy tried to scowl at him, then relented. “I should have gone around the corner with you while I had the chance. What an evening. And I thought he was a possible.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “Have you ever been to a cigar bar?”

  Andre shook his head.

  “Don’t.”

  “Too much smoke?”

  “Too many striped shirts.”

  “And red suspenders?”

  Lucy nodded. “Red, striped, floral, monogrammed, bulls and bears, cocktai
l recipes. One guy even had the Dow-Jones index printed on his. They take off their jackets when they get drunk.” She shook her head again, and her shoulders twitched at the memory. “How did you know about the suspenders?”

  “There’d be a slump on Wall Street without them. Most of the trousers would fall down. He was from Wall Street, wasn’t he?”

  “Let’s just say he wasn’t a smartass photographer.” She came across and picked up the folder lying on the table. “Are these the shots from France?”

  “I was going to ask if you could get them up to Camilla. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  “There’s a surprise.” As Lucy looked through the transparencies, Andre saw her face soften. “These are nice. What a lovely old lady. She looks like Grandma Walcott without the tan. Is this her house?”

  “It’s an old mill. You’d like France, Lulu.”

  “It’s beautiful.” Lucy put the transparencies back in the folder and resumed her office manner, brisk and businesslike. “Well, where are we off to today?”

  Andre started to describe his phone call to the Bahamas. As he spoke, he was aware that he might be reading a great deal into Denoyer’s replies, his pauses and hesitations, his tone of voice. On the face of it, the man had said nothing suspicious; hadn’t seemed astonished or even surprised by what Andre had told him; hadn’t, in fact, seemed to show any more than polite interest until the photographs were mentioned. And yet, despite these reservations, Andre was positive that something was not quite right. Almost positive. Perhaps trying to convince himself as much as Lucy, he slipped unconsciously into a conspiratorial crouch, his head thrust forward, his expression grave.

  Lucy was leaning back against the arm of the couch, her chin on one hand, smiling occasionally at his more animated gestures. As he became more intense, so he became more French, using his hands as visual punctuation marks, stabbing the air or kneading it with his fingers to underscore each phrase, each significant nuance. When he finished, it was with the full Gallic display—shoulders and eyebrows rising in unison, elbows tucked in to his sides, palms spread out, lower lip jutting—everything but the feet used to emphasize the undeniable logic of his conclusions. His old professor at the Sorbonne would have been proud of him.

  “I only asked where you were going,” Lucy said.

  Those who travel to the Bahamas in winter tend to anticipate the weather, and many of the passengers at the gate were already in their tropical plumage—straw hats and sunglasses, beach-bright clothes, even one or two pairs of bold and premature shorts—and tropical mood too, with comments flying back and forth about skin diving, hot nightclubs in Nassau, and the delights of beach-bar cocktails with suggestive names. It was a festive crowd, ripe for self-indulgence and excess. Within twenty-four hours, Andre thought, most of them would be suffering from the island malady of Bacardi and sunburn.

  His own relationship with the Caribbean was not a happy one. Some years earlier, during his first winter in New York, the idea of being only a short flight away from a white sand beach had been a constant temptation. Giving in, he had borrowed the money for what was touted as a bargain week on one of the lesser Virgins and was ready to come back after four days. He found the prices exorbitant, the food overfried, heavy, and dull, and the few local residents he met addicted to gin and gossip. Subsequent working visits to other jewels of the Caribbean hadn’t changed his opinion: He and small islands were not suited to each other. They gave him claustrophobia and indigestion.

  And so it was with a sense of mission rather than pleasurable expectation that he strapped himself into his seat to the tinny strains of an airline calypso, followed by the pilot’s welcoming address. How was it that all pilots seemed to have such rich, confident, infinitely reassuring voices? Was it an occupational requirement, along with navigational skills and perfect blood pressure? Did their refresher courses include tips on phrasing and elocution? The plane reached the limitless blue sky of its cruising altitude; Andre unbuckled his seat belt and tried to stretch his legs, conscious of rising damp from paddling through New York puddles. That, at least, would be a pleasure to leave behind for a day or two.

  The light at Nassau airport made his eyes ache; the afternoon heat, like a moist towel wrapped around him, made his winter clothes cling to his chest and back, clammy and thick. He looked among the aging Chevrolets without success for a cab with air-conditioning, and spent the drive to Cooper Cay like a dog, his face hanging from the open window to catch the breeze.

  Denoyer had arranged for him to have a room at the clubhouse, but before any visitor was permitted to penetrate that lush and heavily defended ghetto, there were some minor formalities to be completed. Forced to stop by a green and white striped barrier that blocked the entrance, the cabdriver sounded his horn. A burly, languid man in peaked hat, military uniform, and mirror-finish boots emerged from the gatehouse and sauntered over to the cab. He and the driver chatted like old friends—old friends with plenty of time on their hands and nowhere particular to go on such a pleasant day. Eventually, the two of them having brought their personal histories up to date, the uniformed man noticed Andre wilting in the back and asked whom he was coming to see. Returning at a slow march to the gatehouse, he picked up the phone to check with headquarters. It appeared that all was well. He nodded to the driver. The barrier was raised. The cab, with another blip on the horn, drove through, and Andre entered a Shangrila reserved for those with a net worth in excess of ten million dollars and a good Bay Street lawyer.

  The road began as a broad, straight avenue bordered by fifty-foot coconut palms before curving past a number of driveways that led to enormous white or pink houses. Discreet, crisply painted signs nestling among the bougainvillea identified each vast edifice, with equally vast false modesty, as a cottage: Rose, Coral, Seagrape, Palm (of course), Casuarina—their gardens trimmed to a whisker, their shutters closed against the sun. Andre found himself comparing the surroundings to Denoyer’s other hideout, on Cap Ferrat. Despite the differences in the vegetation, in the quality of the heat and air, in the architecture, there was one striking similarity: the atmosphere of tranquil, somnolent wealth, the feeling that the rest of the world was a very long way away. Normal mortals, keep out.

  The road curved again to skirt the emerald greens of the inevitable golf course, on which nobody walked. Progress from hole to hole, from shot to shot, was made by means of electric carts painted in the green and white livery of Cooper Cay. Passengers dismounted, hacked away, and remounted. Physical exertion was kept to a minimum.

  Pulling up to the wide sweep of stone steps in front of the clubhouse entrance, the cabdriver showed a sudden burst of alacrity prompted by thoughts of a tip. He jumped out and wrestled Andre’s bag from his hands, only to have it wrestled from him in turn by one of the club’s bellboys, a giant with gleaming teeth and a green and white striped waistcoat. Andre distributed cash to waiting hands, the bills damp with perspiration, and made his way into the cool, high-ceilinged lobby.

  He was shown to his room, overlooking the pool, and relieved of some more damp money. Without stopping to unpack, he stripped off his clothes and stood under a cold shower for five minutes before walking across the stone floor, dripping and naked, to look at his view. The long turquoise rectangle of the pool was empty, but along one side, positioned to catch the late afternoon sun, he could see a row of his fellow guests, oiled and motionless on their chaises longues. Middle-aged, leathery men, plump with good living; younger, leaner women, wearing pool jewelry and very little else; no children, no noise, no signs of life. He turned away from the window.

  A cream-colored envelope was propped against a bowl of hibiscus on the table next to his bed. He dried his hands and opened it: an invitation to dinner with the Denoyers, complete with directions and a small map to facilitate the journey from the clubhouse to their cottage, through four hundred exquisitely clipped yards of jungle. He toweled himself off and emptied the contents of his bag onto the bed. Was Denoyer the kind of man w
ho wore a white tuxedo when dining in the tropics? Did he expect his guests to do the same? Andre picked a white linen shirt and a pair of khakis from the tangle of clothes, hung them up in the bathroom, and turned on the shower to steam away the ravages that travel had wrought.

  The front boy at the clubhouse entrance who tried to persuade Andre into a golf cart so that he could be driven to the Denoyers’ cottage blinked in surprise when his offer was declined. Nobody walked. Not at Cooper Cay; not at night. And what a night it was: warm black velvet, a sickle of moon, the wink and glitter of stars, a faint, salty breeze coming off the sea, the coarse tropical grass dense and springy underfoot, an invisible orchestra of insects whirring and chirping away in the shrubbery—Andre felt a moment of particular well-being and had to admit that perhaps, after all, there was something to be said for the Caribbean in winter.

  The house—which Denoyer had promoted from a common cottage by naming it La Maison Blanche—was, like its neighbors, imposing and immaculate, as was the dignified butler who opened the front door. Andre was escorted down a wide central hallway and out onto a terrace that ran the length of the house. From the terrace, a lighted pathway led past a swimming pool and through a grove of palms to a dock. Beyond that, darkness, and the lap and whisper of water.

  “Monsieur Kelly! Bonsoir, bonsoir. Welcome to Cooper Cay.” Denoyer’s feet made no sound as he came across the coral flagstones of the terrace. He was dressed informally, Andre was pleased to see, in slacks, short-sleeved shirt, and espadrilles, the only sign of affluence a bulky gold watch—of the useful kind that is waterproof to a depth of five hundred feet—on one tanned wrist. His skin shone with health and sun, a warm smile softening his lined but still good-looking face.

  He led Andre over to a group of rattan chairs arranged around a low glass table. “You remember my wife, Catherine?”

  “Of course.” Andre shook a slender, jeweled hand. Madame Denoyer was an older version of her daughter, elegant in a simple shift of pale-blue silk, blonde hair pulled back in a chignon, several generations of good breeding evident in her fine-boned, slightly haughty face. A graceful inclination of her head. “Do sit down, Monsieur Kelly. What will you drink?”