Chasing Cezanne

by Peter Mayle

  Lord Lamprey waved his spoon at a small rubber thimble that was bobbing on the surface of his soup. “Spink, what the devil’s this?”

  Spink hurried over and rescued the thimble with his ladle. “Ah. Cook’s been looking for that. It must have slipped off the finger she burned.” He transferred it smoothly to his handkerchief. “She will be pleased. It was her last one.”

  Andre bent his head over his soup, on the lookout for any other lost objects hidden in the depths of the thick Brown Windsor. Somewhat to his surprise, he found it to be good—heavily laced with sherry, warm and comforting. He felt he was being watched, and looked up to see Daphne staring at him.

  “D’you ride?” she asked.

  “Afraid not. Well, I did once,” he said. “A long time ago, my parents took me to the seaside at Arcachon, not far from Bordeaux. They had donkeys on the beach. I think I managed about ten minutes without falling off.” He smiled at her. “But it was a very quiet old donkey.”

  The mention of France roused Lord Lamprey from his soup to deliver a lecture on the pernicious nature of the French—their dedicated self-interest, their arrogance and complacency, their snobbery, their preoccupation with food. Frogs, for God’s sake, and snails. And now the bloody franc was so overvalued you couldn’t afford to go there. It was a well-worn point of view that Andre had heard expressed many times before by English acquaintances. They seemed to harbor some deep resentment toward their neighbors, as though fate had given the French preferential treatment. And yet still they went, the English, across the Channel in their millions every year, to return with horror stories about a cup of coffee costing five pounds and the legendary rudeness of Parisian waiters.

  Andre waited for Lord Lamprey to run out of bile. “The funny thing is,” he said, “the French say much the same about the English—apart from the food, of course. I wouldn’t want to repeat their comments about the food. But arrogance, snobbery—particularly snobbery—you’ll hear all the same things on the other side of the Channel. I think we enjoy being irritated by each other.” He smiled at Daphne. “I’m actually half French myself,” he said, “and I have to say that we’re not all bad.”

  Daphne snorted. “Very sound on horses, the French,” she said. “You mustn’t take Daddy too seriously. He loathes everybody. You should hear him about the Germans. Or the English, for that matter. Get him going on politicians—all you have to say is Blair—and we’d be here all night.”

  “Say one thing for the French.” Lamprey filled his glass and, with obvious reluctance, passed the bottle grudgingly over the other two glasses. “They make a very decent wine.” He grinned at Andre and proposed a toast: “To your glorious country.” An added undertone: “Wish it were ours.”

  Spink had cleared away during the exchange and now reappeared with the main course, a charred carcass in a sea of roast potatoes and brussels sprouts. After testing the blade on his thumb, he handed Lamprey a bone-handled carving knife and fork.

  “Nothing like a free-range fowl,” said Lamprey as he stood up to make the first incision. He attacked with a violent lunge of his carving fork, but the armor of blackened skin resisted the prongs, and the chicken skidded off the plate and halfway down the table, scattering sprouts and potatoes as it went. Lamprey followed its progress with alarm. “Good God, the damn thing’s not dead. Spink!”

  “Maybe we were a little hasty with the first pass, my lord.” Spink used a napkin to retrieve the bird, and put it back on the plate. “Might I suggest a less sudden hand with the fork? And then in over the horns with the knife.” He started to gather up the escaped vegetables, watching Lamprey out of the corner of his eye.

  “Horns? What horns? It’s a bloody chicken.”

  “Old bullfighting term, my lord.”

  Lamprey grunted, successfully impaled the chicken, and began sawing away with the knife.

  Spink smirked. “Olé, my lord.”

  Andre found it difficult to decide which was the tougher, the sprouts or the bird, but the others ate with uncritical country appetites and evident enjoyment, coming back for second helpings. When all that remained on the plate was a stripped rib cage, Lamprey declared a truce. The skeleton was removed, to be replaced by a decanter of port and the remains of a large Stilton.

  The conversation drifted on, with Daphne and her father discussing horses, a recent point-to-point meeting, and the prospects for next year’s pheasant shooting. They were entirely taken up with their own world, showing no curiosity about Andre or his work, which suited him very well at the end of a long day. After a cup of tepid coffee in the sitting room, Lord Lamprey announced his intention to watch the latest disasters, as he called the ten o’clock news, and Andre took the opportunity to make his excuses and go upstairs.

  He sat on the edge on the bed, a tot of whisky in his hand, delaying the moment of getting out of his clothes to slip between sheets that felt more like frozen glass than cotton. The alcohol was fighting a losing battle with the temperature, and undressing assumed the significance of a health hazard. He was trying to decide whether to be a man about it or get undressed in bed, when there was a sharp rap at the door. Hoping to see Spink with a heated brick or a hot-water bottle, he went to open it.

  And there was the Honorable Daphne.

  “Fancy a gallop?”

  “What?” said Andre. “In the dark?”

  “We can keep the light on if you like.” And with that, she applied a firm hand to his chest, pushed him backward, and closed the door behind her with a kick from her booted foot.

  11

  YESTERDAY’S rain had gone, spring’s warm breath was on the breeze, and even the hideous facade of Throttle Hall looked a little less offensive in the glow of the afternoon sun. Andre, mission accomplished and farewells made, stowed the last of his bags and closed the trunk of the car. Spink lurked on the front steps, keeping out of work’s way until the moment came to swoop in and claim his tip. Andre walked to the front of the car, but Spink, showing a surprising turn of speed, beat him by a head and opened the driver’s door with a deferential leer. He palmed the twenty-pound note Andre gave him, after a downward glance to verify the denomination and assess the degree of gratitude.

  “Very kind, sir, very kind.” With the money safely in his pocket, he felt he could afford to satisfy his curiosity. “Comfortable night, sir? Warm enough? Took advantage of the amenities, I trust?” His face contorted into what he thought was a subtle wink.

  Andre couldn’t help smiling at the old gargoyle. He fastened his seat belt and started the engine. “Never slept better, Spink, thank you.”

  I knew it, Spink seemed to be saying to himself. I could tell by the way she was looking at him over dinner, measuring him up. Saucy little piece. Takes after her mother. He glanced at his watch, apparently wondering if he had time to go into the village and get a bottle of gin from Rita before Lord Lamprey surfaced from the afternoon siesta that was his habit on days when there was no racing on television.

  Driving back to Heathrow, Andre shook his head at the memory of his night of high-impact aerobics with the Honorable Daphne. After her initial greeting, she had confined her remarks to instructions of a technical nature and demands for greater effort over the jumps. While recuperating between bouts, she had worked her way through the whisky on the bedside table and dozed, virtually ignoring his attempts at conversation. It was clear that he was there to provide a service rather than small talk, and service he gave, to the best of his ability. At dawn she had left him, facedown and exhausted, with a parting swipe across the buttocks and the comment that she’d had worse.

  Met at Heathrow by a messenger from the English magazine, Andre handed over the rolls he had shot of the tapestries, then collapsed in the departure lounge. Muscles he’d forgotten he had were aching; another night like that and he would need crutches and a physiotherapist. He noticed tremors in his hands as he reached for the phone to call Lucy.

  “Andre! Where are you?”

  “Heathrow.
I’m waiting for the flight to Nice. The magazine sent someone to pick up the film, so you can invoice them whenever you like.” He yawned. “Sorry. The last couple of days have been a bit of a rush.”

  “How was it?”

  “Cold. Wet. Weird. Cook, butler, ancestral portraits, wall-to-wall dogs, hundreds of rolling acres, and no heat. Lord Lamprey complaining that you can’t get boys to go up and sweep the chimneys anymore. I didn’t know people still lived like that.”

  Lucy’s giggle came across three thousand miles. “Sounds like your kind of place. Did you have time to do any riding?”

  “Lulu, I didn’t have a minute to myself. Promise.” Which was perfectly true, Andre thought. “How’s everything over there?”

  “It’s OK. Things are still slow, but Stephen’s back from Florida, so now I get to leave the office and go out to lunch.”

  “Save one for me, will you? I’m meeting Cyrus Pine tonight, but we should be back in a couple of days. I’ll take you to the Royalton and we can wave at Camilla.”

  “Fine,” said Lucy. “I’ll bring a gun.”

  Andre heard the garbled squawk announcing that his flight was boarding. “Lulu, I’ll call you from Nice.”

  “Now, that sounds like a place to have lunch. Have a good trip.”

  Andre took his seat in the back of the plane. He was asleep before takeoff, his last conscious thought being of Lucy sitting opposite him in an open-air restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean. When the flight attendant came to wake him just before landing, she saw he had a smile on his face.

  At Cyrus Pine’s suggestion, they had booked into the Beau Rivage, a small, pleasant hotel behind the Promenade des Anglais, not far from the opera. Visiting divas stayed there, Cyrus had told Andre, and he had a soft spot for divas, being very partial, as he’d said, to a statuesque bosom. He had flown overnight to Paris before coming down to Nice, checking in a few hours ahead of Andre and leaving a note at the front desk: Gone out for fish and chips. See you in the bar at ten.

  Andre put his watch forward to French time and saw that he had half an hour. He unpacked and showered, inspecting his body for scars and contusions, feeling the abundant hot water ease away the aches. He swore to himself that he would never be unkind about French plumbing again, and went down to the bar feeling human for the first time that day.

  Pine arrived shortly after ten, looking dapper and faintly theatrical in a houndstooth check suit and plum-colored bow tie; he was full, in every sense of the word, of the meal he had just eaten. “I’d forgotten how marvelously they do things in France,” he said. “I’m sure I reek of garlic. Have you ever had lobster ravioli?”

  Andre was reminded of his most recent meal, a pickup lunch in the kitchen at Throttle Hall. “I thought you were having fish and chips.”

  “I was full of good intentions, but that pretty girl at the desk recommended a place called l’Esquinade, down by the port, and I gave in to temptation. An old habit of mine, I’m afraid.” Pine paused to order a cognac from the bartender. “Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know that the coast is clear. I made the call, as we agreed, and Denoyer’s still in the Bahamas. I spoke to him. Seemed rather nice.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him I was vice-president of international customer services at AT&T and that I wanted to send him a platinum card entitling him to seventy-five percent off all long-distance calls.” Pine smiled into his cognac. “He was delighted. Nothing the rich like more than saving money. He told me to send the card to Cap Ferrat—he’s arriving there next week. So tomorrow it’s just us and the caretaker.”

  Andre grinned and raised an imaginary hat. “Did you bring the swatches?”

  “Dozens, dear boy. We’re all set.”

  By nine the following morning they were in the car, driving into the sun on the coast road to Cap Ferrat. Pine had modified his wardrobe for the occasion, and instead of a suit he was wearing a blazer and salmon-colored slacks, forsaking his customary bow tie for a silk paisley cravat.

  “What do you think?” he asked Andre. “Could I pass as a decorator? I might have overdone it with the trousers. They’re a relic from a weekend on Fire Island.”

  “To tell you the truth, Cyrus, the only decorator I’ve ever met was a woman—great beefy creature, very pleased with herself. She did cushions, I remember. In fact, I think she was wearing some of them when I met her.” Andre turned off the N98 and took the small road to the Cap. “Don’t worry. Your outfit’s fine. The big mistake down here is to wear an Armani suit. If you do, everyone thinks you’re a chauffeur.”

  “I did a bit of homework on the plane,” said Cyrus. “A book about the Riviera. King Leopold of Belgium had a place on Cap Ferrat, and he used to go swimming with his beard stuffed inside a rubber envelope. Fascinating. Are we nearly there?”

  “Two minutes,” said Andre. He had thought he would be feeling nervous; he was, after all, about to talk his way into someone’s home under false pretenses. But his cheerful companion seemed to be having such a good time—his confidence so contagious—that Andre’s feelings were more of anticipation and optimism. He was sure they could get into the house. And then the worst that could happen would be to find the Cézanne there after all, hanging in its rightful place. Anticlimax, followed by a good lunch. He shrugged and turned to Cyrus as he slowed down.

  “It’s just past this bend. Do we need to stop and do any more rehearsing?”

  “Never,” said Pine. “I think we know the basic plot. Spontaneity is the breath of life, dear boy. Just get us in, and leave the rest to me.”

  “Remember that Claude probably knows some English.”

  “I shall be the soul of discretion.”

  Andre grinned. “Not in those trousers.” He stopped the car in front of the iron gates and pressed the buzzer.

  The voice came over the intercom, tinny and abrupt. “Oui?”

  “Bonjour, Claude. It’s Andre Kelly—you remember? The photographer. Monsieur Denoyer asked me to bring a friend of his to the house. He’s going to do some work in the salon.”

  “Attends.” There was a click, and the gates slowly swung open. Andre turned to Cyrus with a sudden thought. “We’d better not use your real name.”

  “You’re quite right, dear boy.” He adjusted his cravat. “How about Paisley? Frederick Paisley,” he added, “the third. Old Palm Beach family. Scottish ancestors.”

  “Don’t get carried away.” Andre took his foot off the brake and let the car roll slowly down the drive. The gardeners had obviously been busy preparing for Denoyer’s return. Lawns had been razor-cut, cypresses and palm trees shaped and trimmed, flower beds freshly planted. The spray from an invisible sprinkler system turned to rainbows in the sun, with the distant shimmer of the Mediterranean visible beyond the house.

  “Denoyer does himself rather well,” said Cyrus. “I wouldn’t mind a summer here myself. Is that the faithful retainer I see on the doorstep?”

  “That’s him.” Andre pulled up, and they got out of the car as Claude came forward to meet them, a stocky figure in cotton trousers and an old polo shirt, his face already tanned, a glint of gold in his smile. He shook Andre’s outstretched hand and nodded.

  “You’re well, Monsieur Kelly?”

  “Too busy, Claude. Too much traveling. I wish I could spend more time here. And you?”

  “Ouf. Older.” Claude’s eyes went to Cyrus, who was standing to one side, his arms filled with books of fabric swatches, a sheaf of paint color samples, and a clipboard.

  “Claude, this is Monsieur Paisley from New York.” The two men exchanged inclinations of the head. “He’ll be doing the redecoration of the salon, and he needs to choose colors and take measurements before he can make his proposal to the Denoyers.”

  “Ah bon?” Claude’s amiable face became puzzled. “They said nothing of this to me.”

  “No? How bizarre.” Andre pretended to think for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, that’s easy. Why don’t we call them?�
� He turned to Cyrus and repeated what he’d said, this time in English.

  Cyrus took his cue. “Do you think we should?” He juggled what he was carrying so he could look at his watch. “It’s three in the morning over there, and you know how Bernard likes his sleep.”

  Andre explained the problem to Claude. “And unfortunately,” he added, “Monsieur Paisley has a rendezvous this afternoon in Paris. This is the only time he has.”

  There was a silence. Andre tried not to hold his breath. Claude pondered, looked at his own watch for inspiration, then finally shrugged. “C’est pas grave,” he said. He picked up an invisible telephone and held it to his ear. “I will speak to Monsieur Denoyer later.” He nodded. They were in.

  Claude took them across the tiled entrance hall and opened the double doors to the salon. The long, high-ceilinged room was dark, and they had to wait while Claude opened the heavy curtains and, with a slow deliberation that Andre found excruciating, the shutters. As the sunlight flooded through the windows, he saw the ornate sconces, the faded peach-colored walls, the fussy, precisely arranged furniture, the Aubusson carpet, the books and bibelots on the low tables. It was exactly as he had photographed it. Exactly.

  “But this is fabulous.” Cyrus walked into the room, laying his swatches and color sheets on a couch before throwing his arms wide. “The proportions are heavenly, the light’s exquisite, and some of the furniture is really quite exceptional.” He put his hands on his hips and stood tapping one foot on the marble floor. “Mind you, I’m not mad about the sconces, and the less said about those curtains the better. But I see possibilities. I see great possibilities.”

  Andre barely heard him. He felt flat, all optimism gone. He stared at the painting above the fireplace, and Cézanne’s Woman with Melons stared back, precisely where she was supposed to be. Even the frame, he noticed gloomily, was the same. It had all been a waste of time.