by Peter Mayle
Lucy flushed and then became aware that one of the young bellboys was standing behind Cyrus, trying to catch her eye. She smiled at him and was assailed by a torrent of French: A taxi had just dropped off a guest at the hotel. It was empty and available. He would be delighted to hold it for mademoiselle if she wished. Judging by his moonstruck expression, he would have much preferred to hold mademoiselle. The puzzled Lucy turned to Andre, who was standing to one side, a half-smile on his face. “What did he say?”
“He says he has known many women, but none to compare with you. He wants to take you home to meet his mother.”
The cab took them down the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and as they drove across the Pont de la Concorde, Lucy caught her breath at the sight of the Seine, a great dark ribbon beneath the glitter of the bridges. Andre was watching her face. “I had them turn the lights on for you, Lulu. Over on the right are the Tuileries gardens, and straight ahead is the Place de la Concorde. It beats West Broadway on a wet Monday morning, doesn’t it?”
Lucy nodded slowly without taking her eyes off the extraordinary beauty of her surroundings: buildings painted by floodlight, the formal precision of the lines of trees, the sculptural fall of dense shadows on massive stone walls. She said nothing, stunned into silence by her first glimpse of Paris by night.
The driver was clearly in no mood for the leisurely delights of sightseeing. He accelerated hard out of the Rue Royale, hurtled into the Place de la Madeleine, cut sharply in front of a startled motorcyclist, ignored the vituperation that followed, and pulled up at the curb with a grunt of triumph. Another perilous voyage accomplished without loss of life. After inspecting his tip and finding it adequate, he muttered “Bon appétit” before thrusting his way back into the traffic, leaving the three of them on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant’s entrance. This had a faintly theatrical quality, with the name of the star—chef Alain Senderens—given above-the-door billing just below the main title.
The origins of Lucas-Carton date back to the eighteenth century, when a bold Englishman, Robert Lucas, opened his Taverne Anglaise to provide gastronomically deprived Parisians with cold meat and steamed pudding. This unlikely combination found favor with the local gourmets, so much so that the name and reputation of Lucas endured long after his death. When the restaurant changed hands a hundred and thirty years later, the new owner renamed it Taverne Lucas. The good times continued, the premises were given an Art Nouveau face-lift at the start of the century, and in 1925, another owner took over, Francis Carton.
There is probably little difference today from the way the interior looked more than ninety years ago: maple, sycamore, and bronze in wonderfully flowing shapes, mirrors and decorative carved panels, bright splashes of fresh flowers, the murmur of voices coming from behind large, cream-colored menus, a general air of luxe et volupté.
Cyrus rubbed his hands and took a deep, pleasurable breath, as though he were inhaling a whiff of particularly potent oxygen. “I feel I should be wearing a frock coat and top hat,” he said, looking around the room. “Do you see our man here?”
Most of the tables were occupied by neat, soberly dressed groups of businessmen, the unglamorous but essential mainstay of any expensive restaurant. A few women stood out among the clumps of dark suits; some wore conspicuous jewelry with makeup to match, others the tailored uniforms that identified them as conscripts in the international army of corporate management. And in a corner seat at the far end of the room was a solitary figure immersed in his menu, the back of his unkempt head reflected in the mirrored panel behind him.
The maître d’hôtel led them to the table, and Franzen looked up over the top of reading glasses, his round blue eyes taking in Andre and Cyrus, widening at the sight of Lucy. He got to his feet with some difficulty, crouching over the table as he extended a meaty paw to each of them in turn. He was big, a bear of a man, made even bulkier by a suit of brown corduroy that looked thick enough to withstand bullets. A checkered shirt, the top button open, was given a wrinkled semblance of formality by a tie of yellow wool.
His head was large, capped by a shaggy halo of salt-and-pepper hair that sprouted in all directions above a high forehead, a long, straight nose, and a carefully clipped mustache. When he spoke, it was in the almost too perfect English that Dutchmen seem to acquire at nursery school.
“Do I look surprised?” he said. “You must forgive me. I was expecting only Mr. Pine.” He clasped his hands over his menu, nodding amiably at the others. “So tonight is social, no?”
“Maybe we can manage a little work as well,” said Cyrus. “Miss Walcott and Mr. Kelly are my colleagues. I can promise you they’re very discreet.”
The waiter who had been adjusting the placement of an ice bucket by the side of the table pulled up a dripping bottle until the label was visible. Franzen turned his head to peer at it, nodded, and smiled at Cyrus. “The house champagne,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll approve. It’s very good.” In the pause that followed, the sound of the cork being drawn, no louder than a sudden exhalation of breath, was followed by the whisper of bubbles rising in the glasses.
Cyrus leaned across the table, his voice low. “I hope it’s understood that I will take care of the bill tonight. I insist.”
The Dutchman appeared to give this his consideration as he fingered the stem of his glass. This was a promising start, he thought; not at all like that stingy little bastard Holtz, who made every centime a subject for negotiation. With a slight inclination of his head, he said, “Most generous. I can see it will be a pleasure to collaborate with you, my friend.”
Cyrus looked around the table and raised his glass. “To art,” he said.
“To business,” said Franzen. “But not on an empty stomach, eh?”
Lucy and Andre, their knees touching under the table, let the two older men continue to bat courtesies back and forth while they shared a menu, Andre murmuring translations of the dishes, Lucy the picture of rapt attention. An observer might have thought they were discussing marriage. In fact, Andre was doing his best to explain bigorneaux.
“They’re winkles, Lulu. You know—winkles. From the sea.”
“Like a fish? Like a crab?”
“Not exactly, no. More like a snail.”
An involuntary shudder. “How about ris de veau?”
“Delicious, but I don’t think you want to hear about it.”
“That bad?”
“That bad.”
“OK. I’m feeling lucky. Let’s go for cuisses de grenouille.”
“Lovely. Like the most tender chicken.”
“But not chicken?”
“No. Frogs’ thighs.”
“Oh.”
Franzen lowered his menu to look at Lucy. “If I could make a suggestion,” he said. “There is one dish here that you cannot find anywhere else in France, or perhaps the world: the Canard Apicius. The recipe dates back to the Romans, two thousand years ago.” He paused to drink some champagne. “It is a duck, but a duck like no other, a duck roasted in honey and spices, a duck in ecstasy. You will remember this duck for the rest of your life.” He raised a hand to his lips, made a bouquet of his fingertips, and kissed them loudly. “You will tell your grandchildren about this duck.”
Lucy grinned at the three faces turned toward her. “You know what?” she said. “I think I’ll have the duck.”
By the time the waiter came to take their order, Franzen had assumed the responsibility of orchestrating everyone’s meal, a task that he performed with huge enthusiasm and a great deal of knowledge. As he, the waiter, and the sommelier matched recipes with vintages, theirs became by far the liveliest table in the restaurant, a fact that Andre pointed out to Franzen when the ordering was finally done.
“It’s very simple,” the Dutchman said. “Most people come to restaurants like this for the wrong reason. They come to impress, to show that they can afford to spend a few thousand francs on dinner. And because money is holy to them, they behave as though they’re in
church.” He joined his hands together and looked up to the ceiling, an ancient cherub. “No laughter, not too much wine, no gusto. Now, for the waiters, for the sommelier, this is not amusing. You know? Where is the satisfaction of serving food and wine to people who are more interested in price than taste? Pah!” He drained his glass and winked at the waiter for more.
“But us, we are different. We are here to eat, to drink, to enjoy. We are enthusiasts. We believe in joie de manger, we are an audience for the chef. This is appreciated by everyone who works here. Already, they find us sympathetic. By the end of dinner, they’ll be buying us drinks.”
Franzen’s attitude was irresistibly contagious, and helped along by an uninterrupted flow of Burgundy and Bordeaux to accompany some of the most exquisite cooking in Paris, the four of them quickly fell into a comfortable camaraderie. Cyrus bided his time, watching the wine and the company doing their work on Franzen, waiting for an appropriate moment to get down to the purpose of their meeting.
It came as they were resting after the main course, and it was Franzen himself who brought it up.
“The duck has made me wish I could eat here every night,” he said, dabbing his mustache carefully with his napkin. When he continued, it was as though he were talking to himself, musing out loud. “A standing reservation, the same table each night, the wine already in the bucket, my little preferences known, from time to time a visit from the chef. How agreeable that would be.” He tucked his napkin carefully back into the collar of his shirt, patted it smooth, and, with the air of a man who had reached a decision, leaned toward Cyrus. “With an ambition like that, I shall need to work. What is it you want? Our mutual friend in New York didn’t give me any details when I spoke to him. Tell me.”
Cyrus, conditioned by many years’ experience of the tender sensibilities and rampant egos of the art world, started to feel his way cautiously, anxious to reassure the Dutchman that his status as an artist was respected. Franzen shook his head, smiling, and held up one hand.
“My friend,” he said. “You’re not talking to Picasso. I’m a businessman with a brush.”
“Delighted to hear it,” said Cyrus. “In that case, I’ll get right to it. I need a Cézanne.”
Franzen’s eyebrows shot up. “How extraordinary. I hadn’t done him since ’92. Now, this year, I’ve just finished my second, and here you are wanting another one. The old boy must be in vogue. It sometimes happens like that.”
Before Cyrus had a chance to respond, the waiter arrived to attend to the matter of dessert, and Franzen was immediately distracted. “Go to the back of the menu,” he said. “There’s something you must try.” As the others followed his instructions, Franzen went on: “Traditionally, you have cheese with red wine, but take a look at this—Camembert with Calvados, Epoisses with Marc de Bourgogne, Vieux Brebis with Manzanilla. The combinations are magnificent. Such imagination! Such research!” Shaking his head, Franzen continued to gaze at the list of nearly thirty different cheeses, each with a specially chosen liquid accompaniment. It was some time before he surrendered the menu and returned to the subject of Cézanne.
“I have a great admiration for him,” he said, “and not just for his work. Can I trouble you to pass the bottle, and I’ll tell you my favorite Cézanne story.” He poured out the last of the Bordeaux, held his glass to the light, sighed, and drank. “Like many artists, he was often unappreciated during his lifetime and frequently criticized by people who weren’t fit to clean his brushes. This was down in Aix, as I’m sure you know, not exactly the capital of the world as far as painting was concerned. Anyway, there was an exhibition of his work—well attended, as usual, by the local critics—and Cézanne found himself standing behind one of them. The man was droning on about one of the paintings, getting more offensive by the minute, and then, after one particularly ignorant comment, Cézanne could restrain himself no longer. He tapped the critic on the shoulder. The man turned around. ‘Monsieur,’ said Cézanne, ‘I shit on you.’ No answer to that, is there? How I wish I’d seen the critic’s face. Ah, here comes the cheese.”
Once they had finished eating, Cyrus, exercising tact combined with a large cognac, managed to steer the increasingly convivial Dutchman back to business. It was agreed that they would all meet with clear heads in the morning at Franzen’s studio to settle the details. After that, said Franzen, it was possible that they might wish to celebrate their new relationship with a little light lunch; he knew just the place. In the meantime, he scribbled down his address in the Rue des Saints-Pères, adding the entry code that would open the main door of the building. In return, Cyrus gave him the number at the Montalembert.
They were the last to leave the restaurant, with an honor guard of three waiters, the sommelier, and the maître d’hôtel to wish them good night. It had been a formidable dinner, and as they helped the Dutchman into a taxi, Cyrus felt that it had achieved as much as he’d hoped. Tonight had made them friends. Tomorrow, with any luck, would make them accomplices.
They drove back to the hotel, warm with wine and drowsy with jet lag. Lucy saw the lights of Saint-Germain as a blur through half-closed eyes and felt her head nodding forward. “Andre? You know that walk we were going to take tonight, over the bridge? Could we do that tomorrow?” There was no reply. “Andre?” Nothing. “Cyrus?”
She caught the cabdriver’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Dodo,” he said. “All sleeping. Very nice.”
Franzen let himself into his apartment, the familiar smell of oil paint and turpentine cutting through the fumes of alcohol in his head. He walked through the main room, which he used as a studio, to the little galley kitchen and started to brew coffee. A very charming man, Cyrus Pine, he thought, so unlike Rudolph Holtz. He stared at the percolator, feeling all the old resentments return: Holtz was greedy; he was a bully; he was mean; he was untrustworthy; but, sadly, he was the source of most of Franzen’s income, and they both knew it. How pleasant it would be if this new job, for a new and civilized client, led to others. Perhaps tomorrow he would show Pine the two canvases before they were packed up and sent off. Side by side, so the dealer could appreciate the workmanship.
With a cup of coffee and positively the last cognac of the day, Franzen settled into a battered leather armchair and was fishing in his pocket for a cigar, when the phone rang. And didn’t stop ringing. Telling himself that one day, maybe even tomorrow, he would buy an answering machine, he lurched across the room and picked up.
“Franzen? This is Holtz. I trust you had an enjoyable dinner with Mr. Pine.”
Franzen yawned. It was always like this with Holtz. He was on your back from the first contact until the time the paint dried—checking, nagging, making sure he was going to get his cut. “Yes, I did. He’s a very sympathetic man.”
“What does he want?”
“A Cézanne.”
“I know he wants a Cézanne, for God’s sake. Villiers told me that before I called you. Which one is it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Holtz grunted. The painting dictated the price of the fake. How could they have spent the whole evening together without discussing the job? He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “When are you going to find out?”
“Tomorrow. They’re coming to the studio at ten, and then we’ll—”
“They? Who are they? I thought it was just Pine.”
“Oh, no. He brought a couple of others—a young fellow and a girl.”
Holtz felt a tremor of alarm, a goose walking over his grave. “Names—what were their names?”
“Kelly was the man. Andre Kelly. The girl was called Lucy. Don’t remember her last name.”
Holtz was silent, only his labored breathing audible.
“Holtz? Are you there?”
“You’ve got to get out, take the paintings and get out. Tonight. Now.”
“Why? I don’t understand.”
Holtz took a breath. When he spoke, it was with the barely restrained impatience of some
one trying to reason with a stubborn child. “Take the paintings. Go and check into a hotel. When you’ve checked in, call and tell me where you are. I’ll stay by the phone. Is that clear?”
Franzen looked at his watch. “Do you know what time it is here?”
“For Christ’s sake, this is serious. Just do as I say. Now.”
Franzen looked at the dead phone in his hand and shrugged. He had half a mind to ignore the call and go to bed, but professional caution got the better of him. Whatever else Holtz might be, he wasn’t a man who panicked. And he had said it was serious. Franzen put down the phone and went to fetch the two canvases from their hiding place.
Holtz sat in his study, his tiny feet in their black suede evening pumps tapping an agitated tattoo on the Aubusson. That goddamned photographer. What the hell was he doing in Paris? He should have been in Hong Kong.
“Sweetie?” Camilla stood in the doorway, dripping with silver bugle beads, dramatic in her most serious makeup de soir, ready to give her all in support of the charity of the evening. “Sweetie? We’re going to be late.”
“Come in and shut the door. We’re not going anywhere.”
16
AN exasperated and suddenly sober Franzen walked quickly down the quiet midnight street toward the alley where he rented a lock-up garage. He carried an overnight bag in one hand, a large aluminum art case in the other. Sharing the case, swaddled in layers of foam rubber and bubble wrap, were two canvases—Woman with Melons, by Paul Cézanne, and Woman with Melons, by Nico Franzen. Combined value: sixty million dollars and change.
Normally, the idea of wandering alone through the backstreets of Paris by night with such valuable baggage would have caused the Dutchman considerable apprehension. But as he turned into the gloom of the alley, any nervousness he might otherwise have felt was pushed aside by a growing irritation, some of it directed at himself. He had never liked Holtz, never trusted him. The saying in the business was that if you shook hands with Rudolph Holtz you should count your fingers afterward. And yet here he was doing exactly as Holtz told him—walking away from a warm bed and the prospect of a profitable job, a puppet being jerked around by a little man with galloping paranoia. What could be so serious? Pine had been checked out; he was a genuine dealer, well known in the art world. Suspected of being honest, too. Villiers had made a point of saying so. Would a man like that shop someone to the police? Of course not.