“Wow,” Verlaque said. “What a way to change the subject.” He slowed the car down to pass over another sleeping policeman on the rue d’Italie. “We’re almost at your place, and you’re not getting out until you tell me what’s wrong.” He turned right on the rue Fernand Dol and stopped in front of Marine’s green door.
“Please don’t tell me what to do, Antoine.”
“What?” he asked, turning on his hazard lights. A Volkswagen Polo blaring loud, thumping music pulled up behind him. Verlaque winced and said, “Marine, I’m trying to understand how this conversation about a happy little girl turned into you admitting that you’re not happy.”
The Polo beeped its horn. Marine opened her door and quickly got out. Verlaque got out of his side and ran to her.
“It’s late, Antoine,” Marine said, fishing for her keys at the bottom of her purse. “We can talk about things tomorrow.”
“What things?” he asked. “What’s wrong?” The Polo beeped again and Verlaque swore and walked over to the car, motioning for the driver to roll down his window. “Hold your horses for two seconds,” Verlaque said to the driver, a young man with diamond earrings and neck tattoos. The driver looked up at Verlaque and laughed.
“I spent a few hours this morning putting someone who looks just like you behind bars,” Verlaque told him. “Twenty years.”
The Polo driver shrugged, still smiling, and Verlaque heard a door thump closed. He swung around and saw that Marine had gone. “Putain de merde!” he shouted, resisting the temptation to bang his fist on the VW’s roof. He walked back to his car and got in, putting it into first gear, and slowly drove away. The cigar club was to be at Jean-Marc and Pierre’s apartment, not far away, on the rue Papassaudi. There was no point in going back to Marine’s. He’d sleep across town at his place tonight, and tomorrow, when he had gone over every detail of the evening, he’d try to figure out what was wrong. Had he said something at the Pauliks’ to anger Marine? Did he pay too much attention to Léa? It was true, he loved Fauré’s hymns, and Léa sang them beautifully. Marine liked jazz, especially Brazilian, and so didn’t take part in their classical-music conversations. Had she felt left out? Verlaque realized that he had also spoken a lot to Hélène, who, as a winemaker, did something that he had always secretly wished was his profession. Perhaps working with grapes would have been an easier métier, and possibly more rewarding, than prosecuting all the Kévin Malongos of Aix. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw that the Polo was no longer behind him.
Verlaque slowed down, spotting a parking spot up ahead; he didn’t have time to drive to the other side of the old town, where, unlike the La Torse folks, he rented a parking spot. He drove slowly toward the rare empty spot, but just as he was about to signal to pull in, a Mini turned left from a cross street just in front of him. He slammed on the brakes and cursed. The Mini—a car he particularly hated, and this one had red and white racing stripes up its sides—pulled quickly into the spot.
“Son of a—” Verlaque exclaimed in English. He turned around to try to make eye contact with the driver but couldn’t see him or her. He drove on, past the Collège Mignet, which had been Cézanne’s and Zola’s high school when they had still been friends and dreamed of changing the world. “Salut, les gars,” he whispered to their ghosts. He was about to give up and head for his parking garage when he saw a spot, the last one before the road curved and the parking spots ended. He signaled and quickly pulled in, turning off the car and grabbing his travel cigar case out of the glove compartment. He locked the car and walked quickly up the rue Laroque, past the cinema, and alongside Michaud’s, where he half expected to still see a lineup. The bakery was closed for the evening, but the smell of butter still permeated the street.
The Cours Mirabeau was quiet on a winter’s evening, and despite his rush, Verlaque dipped his hand into the steaming La Moussue fountain, feeling the warm, thermal-fed water run through his fingers. He turned up the rue Clemenceau, which would eventually lead him to the cigar club. His fellow Aixois smiled as he passed. He found himself smiling back.
He buzzed at Jean-Marc and Pierre’s building at number 19, and the heavy wooden door made a thudding noise, opening about an inch. He pushed against it and walked into the foyer, making sure the door closed well behind him; thefts in the old town were rampant. He skipped up the building’s worn stone steps two at a time, past the architects’ offices on the first floor, on up to the second floor that Jean-Marc and Pierre shared with their neighbor, a retired tax inspector who listened to his television too loudly—despite several pleas from the other tenants—and never seemed to leave.
The apartment door—still sporting a small Christmas wreath—was ajar and Verlaque walked in to a cloud of cigar smoke. He breathed in and said, “Good evening, my friends. What a lovely smell.”
Jean-Marc Sauvat stared at Antoine Verlaque with an open mouth, and his partner, Pierre, began to laugh. Gaspard Baille, a law student and the club’s youngest member, put his hand on his heart and knelt before the judge. The club’s president, Fabrice, who owned a string of plumbing stores across southern France, was the first to speak. “Mon roi,” Fabrice said, bowing slightly and shaking some ash off his generously proportioned stomach. “We are your humble servants.”
Antoine Verlaque immediately realized what had happened. “So that’s why people kept smiling at me,” he said, reaching up to his head.
A flash from a cell phone temporarily blinded Verlaque, and he quickly removed his prize, folding the paper crown and putting it in his coat pocket.
“What’s it worth to you for me not to send this photo to the newspapers?” asked Julien, slipping his iPhone back into his pocket.
Verlaque looked at Julien—a gregarious, très gourmand luxury-used-car salesman whom he would trust with his life—and laughed. “My firstborn?” Verlaque asked.
“Deal,” replied Julien. “But I think your beautiful Dr. Bonnet might have issues with that promise.”
The group laughed and Jean-Marc glanced nervously at his good friend the judge. Never had Antoine Verlaque mentioned marriage, or children, with Marine Bonnet, nor with anyone else for that matter.
“Did you eat dinner, Antoine?” Jean-Marc asked.
“Yes,” Verlaque said, rubbing his stomach, which in turn reminded him of his New Year’s resolution. “Thanks.”
“Would you like a whiskey?” Jean-Marc then asked, taking his friend by the arm. “We have some very good Johnnie Walker.”
Verlaque looked at Jean-Marc and was about to decline when the lawyer, who was also an old friend of Marine’s, began to smile. “Just kidding,” Jean-Marc said. “We have a bit of Ardbeg, if Julien and Fabrice haven’t finished it yet.”
“I hid the rest of it,” Pierre said, appearing beside them.
“Good call,” Verlaque said. He watched Pierre quickly put his arm through Jean-Marc’s, but then draw it away. The couple had just moved in together and only very recently made their relationship public to the cigar club. “If you can sneak me some Ardbeg, that would be great,” Verlaque whispered. “I was in court most of the morning, then spent the rest of my day having to eat galettes des rois.”
Pierre looked at Jean-Marc.
“We’re having more galettes tonight, aren’t we?” Verlaque asked, following Jean-Marc and Pierre into the kitchen.
“Julien and Fabrice bought three at Michaud’s,” Jean-Marc said.
“For an insane amount of money,” Pierre added.
“One’s even decorated,” Jean-Marc continued, his voice flat with sarcasm. “With a big cigar in brown icing. Julien and Fabrice charmed one of the salesgirls into asking the baker to add it.”
Verlaque smiled at the thought of two overweight middle-aged men being able to charm a pretty young girl in her twenties. Jean-Marc opened a cupboard and reached his hand inside, pouring the hidden single malt into a crystal tumbler, th
en quickly closing the cupboard and handing Verlaque the glass.
“You can decline the galette,” Pierre said.
Verlaque took a drink and smiled. “Ah, la tourbe d’Islay. I do like this heavy peaty taste,” he said. “Thank you for managing to save me some.” He sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter.
“Rough day?” Jean-Marc asked.
“It began terribly but was salvaged by hearing a ten-year-old sing Fauré, but then—” He closed his eyes and took another sip. “I’m not sure what happened after that. Something went wrong with Marine, but I have no idea what, or why. Do you two ever have those lapses of communication?”
“Never,” Jean-Marc replied, while Pierre said, “All the time.”
They laughed, and Verlaque added, “And I think I will decline on the dessert.”
“What’s this about dessert?” Julien asked, entering the kitchen. “When do we get our galettes?” He helped himself to a chocolate and Pierre slapped his hand.
“How can you still be hungry?” Pierre asked. “You had two helpings of Jean-Marc’s daube.”
“Don’t worry, Julien,” Jean-Marc said, flattered that his Provençal beef stew had gone over so well. “Antoine was just saying he might pass on dessert.”
“What—?”
“Who’s passing on galettes des rois?” Fabrice asked, forcing his way into the small kitchen.
“Antoine,” Julien said, looking suspiciously at Verlaque’s glass.
“Hey, guys!” Gaspard called out over the heads. Gaspard Baille was six foot four, almost a foot taller than Julien and Fabrice. “We want to start smoking the Hoyo de Monterrey. What are you all doing, gabbing in the kitchen like a bunch of old ladies?”
“Merci, Gaspard!” Jean-Marc hollered, ushering the men out with his hands. “I could use a little more room in the kitchen to load the dishwasher and start it running.” Jean-Marc was never comfortable when he hosted a dinner party unless he had the kitchen cleaned and the dishwasher en route.
Pierre, knowing his boyfriend’s quirks, followed the men out of the kitchen, taking Verlaque aside in the hallway. “When things have calmed down a bit, I have a favor to ask.”
“No problem,” Verlaque replied, trying to block out the noise of Julien and Fabrice squabbling over possession of an armchair. “Has your apartment sale gone through?”
“Yes, no hitches,” Pierre said. “Cash buyer. My favor actually concerns the apartment. Well, not my apartment, but my neighbor’s.”
“The cranky old guy?”
Pierre laughed. “Yes, I quit the rue Boulegon for a more upscale street in Aix, only to end up with another cranky old guy as a neighbor.”
“The well-off can be even more surly—”
“Antoine! Pierre! We’re opening the cigar box!”
“On arrive!” Verlaque hollered back.
Verlaque walked into Jean-Marc and Pierre’s small but elegant living room and saw Julien hovering over Fabrice—who had won the armchair fight—with his watch in his hands. “I’m timing Fabrice,” Julien said, trying to pick at the small dial on his expensive Tag Heuer watch. His hands were too large, and Virginie, the club’s sole female member, offered to help. Verlaque looked on, perplexed.
“Fabrice gets thirty minutes in the chair,” Virginie explained, setting the watch’s alarm with her slender fingers.
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Verlaque replied, but he couldn’t help laughing.
Gaspard passed around a small bundle of the evening’s second cigar. Verlaque selected a bouncy, still-humid cigar, and took out his cutter. “There’s no band,” he remarked as he turned the dark brown torpedo-shaped cigar in his hand. He felt his cell phone vibrate in his jacket pocket and hoped that it was Marine.
“They’re from our Cuba trip,” Gaspard replied.
“Bijou!” Fabrice yelled.
“Jewel?” Verlaque asked, looking at Gaspard.
“That’s my Cuban nickname,” Gaspard earnestly explained. “We all get one, once we go to Cuba. You have to come on the next trip.”
Julien added, “The welcome lady—a big, roly-poly Cuban—took one look at our handsome Gaspard and gave him that name on the spot.”
“Bijou suits Gaspard perfectly. So what name did she give you two?” Verlaque asked, pointing to Julien and Fabrice.
Julien coughed and Fabrice changed the subject. “We bought these cigars at a private cigar roller’s operation, in Centro Habana,” Fabrice said.
Verlaque smiled at Fabrice’s intentional use of the “b” in Havana.
Fabrice cut his cigar and began to light it. “It’s a two-man show, in the back of this old hotel,” he continued. “One guy rolls, the other guy, Emilio, is the patron. Brings you rum and coffee and sits down with you for a smoke. We bought tons. No cigar bands, either. Chic, eh?”
“There was a fashion designer who did that a few years ago,” Virginie said. “Reverse marketing; hide the brand name. They just left four little white stitches of thread on the back of the dresses and shirts—”
“Gracias, Virginie,” Fabrice said.
Virginie rolled her eyes. “Go ahead and tell everyone about this kid Alberto you met,” she said.
Fabrice, the club’s president, leaned forward. “We took two days and drove out to see the tobacco fields at Viñales,” he said. “We had to show them to Bijou. And we stayed in this tiny village, in a bed-and-breakfast run by this nice old lady and her daughter.”
“Neat as a pin,” Julien said.
“You could have eaten off the floor,” Fabrice added.
“And while we were having our mojitos on the terrace—” Julien continued.
“Naturally,” Verlaque said.
“This Cuban kid, about twenty years old, comes over to us from the neighbor’s patio and asks if he can speak French with us,” Julien said. “And you should have heard his French.”
“Parisian accent and everything,” Fabrice cut in.
“Perfect slang, too,” Gaspard added. “Like any law student here in Aix.”
“Where did he learn it?” Jean-Marc asked. “I’ve heard the Cuban education is great—”
“Zero illiteracy in Cuba,” Gaspard said.
“Bijou turned Commie on us over there,” Julien explained.
Gaspard sighed. “There’s just a lot that makes sense,” he said, leaning back and puffing his cigar. “Free education up to the PhD level; zero illiteracy; free medical care.”
“We have all that, too,” Jean-Marc said.
“I’m not sure that France has one hundred percent literacy,” Gaspard replied. “And I love the fact that they’re not connected to cyberspace like we are—”
“Ha!” Julien snorted. “As if that’s their choice!”
Gaspard tilted his head. “Well, I for one wouldn’t miss not having Internet, or Facebook, or Twitter.”
“I could handle no social media,” Virginie said. “I wouldn’t have to look at ten photos of my sister’s kids everyday.”
“This Alberto,” Pierre said, refilling peoples’ flutes with champagne, and trying to get back to the story. He hated political discussions at parties. And so far no one had remarked on his new flutes, bought at a consignment shop beside the Rotonde fountain. Each crystal glass was etched with a dragonfly—his favorite animal—and he was besotted with them. “So where did Alberto learn his French?”
“He fell in love with a French girl,” Fabrice said.
“Classic!” Verlaque bellowed.
“She was studying music at the conservatory in Habana,” Fabrice said. “Alberto explained that the best French music students often get sent to Cuba, whose conservatory is even more rigorous than ours.”
“See,” said Gaspard.
Verlaque thought of little Léa and tried to imagine her in Cuba in ten years’ time.
> “They’re no longer together,” Gaspard said. “But Alberto even visited her once. In Manosque!”
“Manosque!” Verlaque hollered again. Manosque was one of Provence’s more authentic small towns, about an hour north of Aix.
Julien waved his hands in excitement. “Now this is the best part,” he said. “So Alberto goes waxing on about Provence—how great the food and wine are, what a slow-paced life we have—”
“I don’t,” Jean-Marc said, who was a lawyer in a busy Aix firm.
“Yes you do,” Pierre said. “Compared to lawyers in big cities.”
“May I continue?” Julien asked.
“Sorry,” Pierre whispered.
“So when Alberto excused himself to go to the bathroom, we three got our brilliant minds together—right, Bijou?”
“Yep,” Gaspard said. “And we started scheming how we could get Alberto into France, to live.”
“Get his working papers sussed, put up a collection for his plane tickets, etc.,” Fabrice said.
“Great idea!” Virginie said. “I’m in!”
Fabrice held up his thick hand. “But it’s not finished,” he said. “When Alberto came back from the john, we told him of our plan. And he was totally shocked.”
“Of course,” Pierre said. “Random acts of kindness—”
“No!” Fabrice said. “He didn’t want to come!”
“He said that he could never leave Cuba,” Julien added.
Gaspard sat back, smiling.
“Alberto said that he was a musician, and that his music was that of the island,” Fabrice said. “Or something poetic to that effect. He said he loved France but would never want to live here. Can you imagine?”
“You never can tell what people are thinking,” Julien said, puffing on his cigar. “It may be the opposite of what you’ve assumed, or what you would want.”
“Nice philosophizing,” Fabrice said, rolling his eyes.
Verlaque puffed on his cigar and thought of Marine. But the problem was, he couldn’t even guess at what was wrong. He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at his message; it was from Sébastien, his real-estate-mogul younger brother. “So, Gaspard,” he said, putting his phone away. “Now that you’ve seen some of the positive effects of Communism, are you going to do pro bono work when you finish law school? Community service, that sort of thing—”
The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne Page 3