Chasing Cezanne

by Peter Mayle

  Paradou had bought a second-class ticket and was making his way up from the rear of the train to the first-class compartments, his eyes behind dark glasses flicking from side to side as he looked for Lucy’s distinctive mop of curly hair. The anxiety he had felt at the station had gone. He had watched them get on, and he knew where they were getting off. All he had to do before reporting back to Holtz was to check that they hadn’t met anyone on the train. Then he could take it easy for a few hours.

  He saw them halfway up the front compartment, sitting in one of the four-seat sections with a table. The fourth seat was empty. Reaching in his pocket for his cell phone, he ducked through the door marked W.C. at the end of the compartment, made himself as comfortable as the seat would allow, and tapped in the number for the Ritz.

  It was an extended call, partly because Holtz took advantage of it to bring up something that had been nagging away at his mind all morning. Suppose Franzen was playing games? He should have called the Ritz by now; he hadn’t. Why not? Either because he wanted to hold out for more money or because he had decided to ignore warnings, common sense, and his enormous moral obligation to Holtz in order to work with Cyrus Pine. Holtz began to describe the Dutchman.

  Paradou stopped him. “It may well be that he is a greedy, ungrateful Dutch putz—whatever that is—Monsieur Holtz, but it doesn’t help me to identify him. What does he look like, and what do you want me to do if I find him?”

  Holtz collected himself and confined his remarks to Franzen’s physical appearance, making Paradou repeat the description. He was less precise about further instructions, if only because he didn’t know what to suggest. Eliminating Franzen—Paradou’s first choice; he could see the fee escalating—was out of the question … at least until the paintings had been recovered. “Just let me know as soon as you see him,” said Holtz, “and then I’ll decide. And let me have the number of your cell phone.”

  Lucy came back from the bar car with three cups of coffee and a puzzled expression. “Now I’ve heard everything. Do guys go to the bathroom in twos over here? Is it a French thing?”

  Andre looked up, smiling. “Never used to be, Lulu. Why?”

  “When I came past just now, I could hear someone talking in there.” She nodded in the direction of the toilet as she sat down. “You know, a real conversation.” She shook her head. France really was different.

  The train continued south, the rhythm of its wheels regular, gentle, and soporific. Lyon came and went, and the countryside changed from the spring-green curves of Burgundy to the more jagged scenery of the Midi, with vineyards clinging to steep hillsides and a perceptibly deeper blueness in the sky. While Cyrus snored softly, Andre told Lucy what he knew about Provence: a different country, with its own language and its own impenetrable way of speaking French; the personality of the people, hot and quick-tempered and Mediterranean; the perception of time, marked by seasons instead of clocks, with punctuality dismissed as a curious northern obsession; the empty beauty of the backcountry, the crowded good humor of markets; the flamingos and cowboys of the Camargue; and the food—the tapenade and estouffade, truffles and figs, goat’s cheeses, olive oil, herb-flavored lamb from Sisteron, the diamond-shaped almond calissons of Aix.

  Lucy put a finger over Andre’s mouth. “You sound like a one-man tourist office. And you’re making me very hungry.”

  The announcement came over the loudspeaker in French and English, advising passengers that Avignon was the next stop and that they would have two minutes precisely to disembark. Cyrus opened his eyes and shook his head. “Very nearly dropped off,” he said. “Are we there?”

  Avignon station is not the place one would choose as an introduction to Provence. It is in a permanent state of waiting to be cleaned up and waiting to be organized, with temperamental escalators and long flights of steps to make the carrying of heavy bags as awkward as possible, and an area in front of the station that seems to have been designed by a particularly malevolent urban planner with a hatred for cars. Chaos reigns. Voices are frequently raised, and from time to time the hands and arms of blocked, frustrated drivers are brandished in emphatic and vulgar salutes.

  Paradou watched the three of them go through the door of the car rental office before he got into the back of a taxi. The driver turned to look at him, crooking an eyebrow.

  “Wait for a moment,” said Paradou. “I want you to follow a car.”

  The driver waved his hand at the parking area. “Plenty of choice, monsieur. Any particular color?”

  A comedian. Paradou kept his eyes on the rental office door. “I’ll tell you when I see it.”

  The driver shrugged. “It’s your money.” He turned on his meter and went back to his newspaper.

  Ten minutes later, a blue Renault with Andre at the wheel came cautiously out of the rental parking lot. “That’s the one,” said Paradou. “Allez. Don’t lose him.”

  The two cars turned under the railroad bridge and into the stream of traffic, following the signs to the A7 autoroute. In the Renault, Andre drove carefully as he accustomed himself to local driving techniques. As always when he first drove in France after an absence, he was uncomfortably aware of speed, of abrupt lane changes, and of the inevitable car that seemed to be attached to his exhaust pipe, waiting for a suitably dangerous moment to overtake him. It wasn’t until they were past Avignon airport and had come onto the wider expanses of the autoroute that he felt the tension leave his shoulders.

  Lucy and Cyrus had been silent, wincing at the near misses and the indignant blare of horns. “I don’t understand these guys,” said Lucy. “What’s their rush? You told me it was nice and quiet and sleepy down here.”

  Andre braked as a baby Citroen cut sharply in front of him. “It’s in the genes, Lulu. All Frenchmen are born with a heavy right foot. Enjoy the scenery. Try not to look at the cars.”

  They were still heading south, Paradou’s taxi a comfortable distance behind them, the afternoon sun inching toward its gradual, spectacular dip into the Mediterranean. Even from the insulated cocoon of the car, they could sense the heat outside, the baked quality of the limestone hills, sharp against the dense blue of the sky. And then, approaching Aix, they saw the jagged mass of Sainte-Victoire, the mountain that held such fascination for Cézanne.

  Andre opened his window as they eased into the Aix traffic, and they felt a touch of freshness in the air, a light breeze blowing spray from the grand and elaborate fountain at the bottom of the Cours Mirabeau. “There you are, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “the most beautiful street in France.” They entered a long tunnel, green and cool and shady, formed by branches of the plane trees on either side of the Cours. “Now, it was a long time ago, but I seem to remember a hotel … yes, there. The Nègre-Coste. How about that?”

  Paradou watched as they gave the car keys to the hotel doorman and took their bags inside. Giving them five minutes, to make sure they had rooms, he paid the cabdriver and found a bench almost opposite the hotel. He was wondering where he could rent a car, when there was the sound of ringing from his pocket.

  “Paradou? Where are you?” Holtz’s voice sounded thin and faint.

  “Aix. They checked into a hotel five minutes ago.”

  “Have they met anybody?”

  Paradou shook his head in exasperation. “I can’t see through stone walls. Wait, they’ve come out again. Just the three of them.” Silence while he watched them walk up the street. “OK. They’re going into a café. I’ll call you later.” Paradou saw that the café was crowded. Service would be slow. He licked his lips at the sight of a waiter with a tray of cold golden beers and walked down the street in search of a car to rent.

  While Cyrus went inside to call Franzen, Lucy and Andre examined the other customers on the Deux Garçons’ terrace—tourists, local businessmen taking their ease after a hard day’s work, and university students taking their ease after practically no work at all. Lucy was fascinated by the students, some of whom, as Andre had said, were re
markably good-looking: flirting, laughing, making great play with their dark glasses and their cigarettes, getting up frequently for their ritualistic embraces.

  “Those aren’t college kids,” said Lucy. “They’re serial kissers. Look at them.”

  “It’s on the curriculum, Lulu. They major in osculation. What are you going to have?”

  They ordered, and watched the slow-moving, ever-changing swell of humanity come and go on the sidewalk, stares from the passersby being met by stares from the café tables, an endless, leisurely exchange of idle curiosity. Andre smiled at Lucy; not wanting to miss anything, she moved her intent face from side to side like a radar scanner, sucking everything in. He took her chin between both hands and brought his face close to hers. “Remember me?” he said. “The one you came with?”

  “Good grief,” said Cyrus, standing over them as the waiter arrived. “It must be catching. There was a couple in the next phone booth absolutely pasted together. They’re still there. Ah, youth.” He sat down and picked up his glass. “Well, we’re all set. We’re meeting Nico at a restaurant called Le Fiacre in the country, about half an hour from here. He’s bringing someone he calls his petite amie.” He took a deep swallow of beer and smacked his lips with enjoyment. “Should be an interesting evening.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “Another babe. The place, is crawling with them.”

  “I think we should just play it by ear,” said Cyrus. “Don’t you? But I’m inclined to tell him everything. I think we have to now.”

  They talked over the possibilities: whether Franzen had in fact painted the fake (more than likely); whether he and Holtz were firm partners (something Cyrus chose to doubt); whether Franzen knew Denoyer; whether he knew where the original painting had gone; a dozen questions and no answers. In the end, they were agreed that it was time, as Cyrus had said, to come clean.

  The first faint violet tinge of dusk was turning the Cours Mirabeau into a luminous cavern. Students started leaving the café to pursue the educational opportunities of the evening. Strolling couples, arm in arm, stopped to look at the menus displayed outside restaurants. Paradou stood up, rubbed his aching buttocks, and left his bench to trail the three figures walking back to their hotel.

  “You can see why the old boy painted it so often, can’t you?” said Cyrus. “Look at that. Magic.” They were heading east on the D17, Sainte-Victoire on their left, its peak catching the final afterglow of the sunset, its lower slopes already in deep shadow. And then, suddenly, darkness. Although they were only a few miles outside Aix, there were few signs of habitation apart from pinpricks of light from distant farmhouses. Traffic was sparse—the occasional unlit tractor wheezing home, the occasional hurtling car going in the other direction. And one set of headlights well behind them, keeping an unusually considerate distance for a French driver, hardly noticeable in the rearview mirror.

  Paradou leaned back in his seat, bracing his arms against the steering wheel. This was more like it. Out here in the sticks, he would surely get his chance. He was tempted to move up on them, run them off the road, and finish the job with the gun that had been burning a hole in his armpit since Paris; but professional caution prevailed. Patience, Bruno, patience. They weren’t going far, or they would have brought their luggage. When they stopped, that would be the time.

  “Are you sure this is right, Cyrus? It doesn’t look like a gastronomic wonderland out here, and I know Nico likes his food.” Andre slowed down to take a sharp bend.

  “He said it was marked by the side of the D17. Look, what’s that up there?”

  It was a wooden post, supporting a sign with red, white, and blue lettering: FIACRE. Le patron mange ici. An arrow pointed up a side road little wider than a cart track. Cyrus let out a relieved sigh.

  Andre followed the twists in the road for half a mile, and they came upon one of those delightful surprises that the French take for granted: a small, charming, and—from the look of the car park—popular restaurant in the middle of nowhere. Architecturally, it was modest, a plain, two-story building covered in the skin of pink crépis that often hides or holds together the stone of the original construction; modest perhaps, but well kept, with a vine trellis running the length of the facade, and a broad terrace with tables and chairs overlooking a floodlit garden planted with cypress trees, oleander bushes, and one wrinkled old olive tree.

  “I’m sorry, Cyrus.” Andre pulled into one of the few vacant parking places. “I take it all back. This looks serious.”

  A few heads turned as they walked across to the terrace, and there was Franzen, lost in conversation with a statuesque woman wearing a gray dress that set off her salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Here we go,” said Cyrus. “Fingers crossed.”

  Paradou came up the dark road on foot, carrying his bag, his car left by the side of the D17. Standing in the blackness at the edge of the garden, hidden behind a cypress tree, he was disappointed by what he saw. There were too many people, too many lights. But there was always the car. He walked softly around the gravel of the parking area until he came to the blue Renault.

  20

  A SHORT, round, smiling woman in blue jeans and white shirt met them at the edge of the terrace, using a rolled-up menu to protect them from the boisterous welcome of the restaurant dog, a terrier on spring-loaded legs.

  “Messieurs-dame, bonsoir, bonsoir. You are the friends of Anouk?” She managed to swat the dog in midair. “Hercule! Ça suffit! Please—follow me.” She led them through the tables with a rolling, nautical walk, the terrier capering beside her. As Franzen saw them, he got to his feet, smiling and nodding while he made the introductions to his companion.

  Anouk was not conventionally beautiful but certainly handsome. Her profile, under the thick sweep of hair, would have looked quite at home on a coin, and she had the olive Mediterranean skin that seems to retain the glow of the sun. Her eyes were dark, her hands strong and capable; not a woman to be trifled with. Cyrus twinkled at her, instinctively adjusting his bow tie.

  Franzen busied himself with a bottle of rose, filling everyone’s glass while he spoke: “Everything is good here, but the pissaladière is exceptional, and you won’t find better lamb in Provence. Am I right, chérie?” He spoke to her in the solicitous tone of a man who was still on slightly shaky ground and treading carefully.

  “Often not,” said Anouk. “But in this case, yes.” Her English was heavily accented but confident, her smile taking any sting out of her words. She watched Franzen with wary fondness, like a mother keeping her eye on a cumbersome, willful child.

  The prelude to dinner—that most appetizing period of happy indecision and dither as menus are studied and dishes discussed—was allowed to run its unhurried course. It was some time after the first bottle had been emptied and reinforcements ordered that Cyrus felt that the subject of business could decently be raised. “Nico,” he said, “we owe you an explanation.”

  Andre started, conscious of the close attention being paid to him by Anouk, her eyes never leaving his face, her expression impassive. Franzen, in contrast, reacted visibly to each development—Andre’s visit to Denoyer and the theft of his equipment being greeted with very high eyebrows indeed. And then, before Cyrus had a chance to take over, the first courses arrived: open-face tarts of olives, onions, and anchovies; bowls of vegetable, bean, and pasta soup singing with basil and garlic; pots of tapenade, salt cod brandade, an unctuous, jammy ratatouille—the opening salvo of a Provençal meal, one of the most delicious conversation-stoppers known to man.

  Between mouthfuls, Cyrus glanced at Franzen, trying to gauge the effect on him of what he had heard so far. But the Dutchman was intent on his food and Anouk, exchanging a sip of his soup for a taste of her brandade, as though this were just a normal, convivial gathering of friends. Cyrus hoped the mood would survive the next series of revelations.

  On the other side of the table, Lucy was receiving some murmured and largely ignored hints from Andre on the importance of pacing an
d early restraint, bearing in mind the four courses still to come. But it was hard for her; she had a healthy young appetite, she had missed lunch, and these earthy, tangy flavors were unlike anything she had experienced before. She was eating as voraciously as a truckdriver on Sunday, and it was a joy to see.

  With dishes and bowls wiped clean and cleared away, Cyrus took a deep breath and resumed the story where Andre had left off. When he came to the arrival of Holtz in Paris, there was a noticeable reaction—not from Franzen, who of course already knew and simply nodded, but from Anouk. Her face hardened, there was a contemptuous snort, and she picked up her glass and drank deeply, as though the wine could overcome an unpleasant taste in her mouth. Cyrus was encouraged by this to lay his final card on the table: He wanted to handle the sale of Woman with Melons. The original version.

  The arrival of the lamb, rosy pink and aromatic, with flat, crisp cakes of sliced, roasted potato, allowed Franzen a moment to take in what he had heard. But only a moment. Anouk turned to prod him with a stern index finger. “Alors, Nico,” she said. “You have heard from them. It’s time they heard from you.”

  Franzen’s account promised to take some time, with regular pauses while he dealt with his lamb. Yes, he said, he had done the fake, although he had never met Denoyer—Holtz had not thought it necessary. Again, at the mention of the name, a flicker of distaste went across Anouk’s face; Cyrus marked her down as a potential ally. And then, Franzen said, something very curious happened: Holtz commissioned a second fake of the very same painting, something that the Dutchman, in many years of working with rogues, had never encountered before.

  Cyrus, all innocence, might have been thinking out loud: “Extraordinary. I wonder who that could have been for?”

  Franzen shrugged. “In my corner of the business, one doesn’t ask. It was urgent, that’s all I was told.”