“Le Mistral.”
“Exactly. The wind.”
“But to make these creams,” he said, “what would you use? Actual cream?”
Manon laughed. “No, but I think it should feel like cream. I’ve been reading about it in the library. I can use my oils for the scent, but I need shea butter, and cocoa butter. They’re from Africa. And I’ll need what they call an emulsifier.”
“Something to blend it all together?”
“Yes, like what mustard does in our salad dressing. You need it so that the other ingredients don’t separate over time. I’d like to find something here, in nature, that I can use. But not mustard.”
Cézanne laughed. “Would you mind if I wrote to some of my Parisian friends?” he asked. “A few of them have been to Africa, to paint, and they frequent trading companies in Paris where products from our African colonies are sold. We may be able to find those butters.”
“That’s so kind of you,” Manon said.
“You can owe me,” Cézanne said, seeing a frown of worry develop on his new friend’s face. “Make your creams, Mlle Solari, and we’ll figure out how to sell them here in Aix, and you can pay me after the orders start pouring in.”
“I don’t know what to say, M. Cézanne.”
“Well,” Cézanne said, looking ahead at the giant pine and then turning to her, “we began the conversation talking about beauty. Now perhaps you can tell me what beauty is for you.”
“We cannot look away from something we think is beautiful, no matter how much we try,” she said. “We can’t take our eyes off of it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Anatole Bonnet Drives—
Very Slowly—to the Luberon
Bruno Paulik stood in front of his closet, whose door had a full-length mirror, and put a white shirt in front of his torso with his right hand, and then a pale-blue one with his left. He repeated this for five minutes, switching back and forth between the two.
Hélène Paulik walked in, putting on her coat. “Bruno, what are you doing? We’ll be late.”
“I think I should vamp up my wardrobe,” he answered, quickly hanging the white shirt back up and putting on the blue one.
“Vamp up? Is that my husband speaking?”
“Well, I work in Aix, which is a pretty fashion-conscious place,” he said. “Even Verlaque wears pink shirts sometimes, with bow ties.”
Hélène snorted. “My weird uncle Geoffroy wore bow ties. Besides, Antoine can get away with it.”
“What do you mean?” Paulik said, buttoning up his shirt while he followed his wife out of their bedroom.
“He has pizzazz,” she said, twirling her hand in the air. “I don’t know if it’s because he’s Parisian, or part English, or wealthy . . .” Her voice trailed off as she hollered for Léa.
Léa, who had been waiting at the bottom of the stairs, already dressed for the cold but clear January day, looked up at her parents and sighed. “I’m roasting in my coat, you two.”
“Sorry. Your father thinks he’s George Clooney,” Hélène said.
“I don’t have his hair,” Paulik said. “Or any hair, for that matter. What about Jean Reno?”
Léa laughed and he went on, encouraged. “As a matter of fact, I saw him in a commerical the other day, for cashmere sweaters.”
“Reno, the beloved thug and gangster of our nation’s cinema, selling cashmere?” Hélène threw up her hands in disgust and grabbed her purse. “You can drop us off at the cinema and then we’ll meet you at the Mazarin when our film is over,” she said to Bruno as she gently pushed him and Léa out the door. “Although I don’t know why you have to work today.”
“Verlaque has a last-minute lunch meeting, in the Luberon. He’s meeting a retired art dealer who lost his license and can’t drive. It has to do with the Céz—” He looked over at his daughter, pursing his lips.
“I know about the Cézanne painting,” Léa said, getting into the car.
Paulik turned around and looked at Léa. “It’s a secret, okay, chérie?” he said. “We’re not even sure if it a real Cézanne.”
“Is it pretty?” Léa asked. “Or ugly?”
“It’s pretty,” Paulik said, putting the car in gear. He drove past their vineyard, brought back to life by Hélène, one of Provence’s star winemakers. “It’s of a girl; she’s about twice your age—”
“Twenty.”
“Right,” Paulik said, smiling. “Or maybe three times your age.”
“Thirty.”
“Right again,” he said, turning onto the Route Nationale 7 that would take them into Aix. “She has red hair, and a blue blouse, and she looks very happy.”
“Smiling?” Hélène asked. “Doesn’t sound like a Cézanne portrait.”
“Why is it so important that you have to work and can’t come to the movie?” Léa asked. “It’s just a painting.”
“That’s a good question, sweetie,” Paulik said. “Well, we think that someone got hurt because he found this painting in his apartment, the very apartment that Cézanne lived in.”
“Did someone steal the painting?” Léa asked.
“No, but they tried to.”
“Why?”
Paulik said, “Cézanne has been dead for more than one hundred years, and so his paintings are now worth a lot of money.”
“More than our car?”
“More than our house,” Paulik said.
“With the vineyard,” Hélène added.
“That’s stupid,” Léa said. She let out a little moan and added, “My tummy hurts.”
“Look straight ahead at the road,” Hélène said, rubbing her own stomach. “We’ll be on the highway soon.” They drove on in silence, Paulik wondering if Dr. Schultz would notice the effort he took that morning with his wardrobe, Hélène wondering why her husband had been in the bedroom for so long, and Léa trying to work out how many zeros the price of the Cézanne painting would have. She thought it would be well over a hundred euros, as her friend Julie’s mother had spent more than that on a purse and after that Julie’s maman and papa had had a big fight. She had no idea what their own car cost. She knew that their house and the vineyard had been bought by Judge Verlaque, but that her parents were somehow partners with him, because of the wine her maman made.
Paulik dropped off his girls at the Cinema Mazarin to see a documentary about migrating birds, then parked the car in the underground parking below the Palais de Justice. He would have liked to watch the film with them, but he was anxious to get to the Hôtel Fleurie and hear Dr. Schultz’s side of the story. Why had she been at the Bar Zola? By chance? He hardly thought so, given the bar’s location on a tiny street in the middle of Aix. The rough clientele, with the cigarette smoke and loud music, were sure to eliminate any chance of the bar making it into a guidebook used by Americans. But Rebecca Schultz wasn’t an ordinary tourist. No ordinary woman. He felt the same pang in his stomach as he had while trying to choose a shirt.
Passing the Quatre Dauphins fountain in the Quartier Mazarin, Paulik popped a mint into his mouth. He turned up the rue Cardinale, where, despite Saint Jean de Malte’s doors being closed, he swore he could hear Mass finishing with a flourish of organ and choir. Walking into the lobby of the hotel, he was surprised to see the same receptionist, still reading her book. He thought for a moment that she had stayed up all night, but she had must have gone home—somewhere—to sleep. “Hallo!” Paulik said, waving.
The receptionist looked up, surprised. “Back again, commissioner?”
“I forgot to ask Dr. Schultz a few questions last night,” he said. “Would you mind ringing her room?”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “But it won’t do any good.”
“Sorry?”
“The professor checked out this morning.”
• • •
“How�
�s the mileage in this Kangoo?” Verlaque asked, leaning his elbows on the front seat ahead of him. Marine turned around and smiled.
“Top notch,” Anatole Bonnet replied as he drove. “It only takes five point five liters of diesel fuel to go one hundred kilometers. It’s the most practical car I’ve ever had.”
“It’s neat being so high up,” Verlaque said, smiling and trying to catch Marine’s eye in the rearview mirror.
Marine covered her mouth with her hand and tried not to laugh. Not a specialist in makes of cars, even she knew that her parent’s Renault Kangoo was one of the ugliest minivans on the market.
“What can you tell us about Edmund Lydgate before we get to Gordes?” Verlaque asked. “Have you ever met him?”
“No. But I know that he’s very knowledgeable,” Dr. Bonnet replied. “He worked at Sotheby’s in London and New York for years. Quite funny, which I’m told makes him a popular speaker at conferences. I’ve never heard him lecture, but friends have.”
“Does he speak French?” Marine asked.
“Yes, I’m told with a charming accent. I heard that something happened, and he quit the auction house very suddenly.”
“Did it have to do with his drinking?” Marine asked.
“I’m not sure,” her father answered, taking a corner at about half the speed as Verlaque did in his Porsche.
“Papa,” Marine said, trying to be patient, “just to remind you, our appointment is at noon.”
“I’ll get us there on time, don’t worry.”
“Just enjoy the view, Marine,” Verlaque said, smiling, sitting back with his hands behind his head.
“I have been, Antoine, thank you very much,” she answered, looking out of the window at the dormant vineyards. “Even in the winter, Provence is beautiful.”
“Especially the Luberon,” her father said. “When you were young, we thought about buying a weekend house up here. One of my patients, who was elderly and a childless widower, was selling the family home.”
Marine looked at her father. “Really?”
“A nice old stone house,” Dr. Bonnet went on.
“Papa,” Marine said, “it would be worth a fortune now.”
“I know,” he answered. “But it was a lot of money for us at the time, and your mother couldn’t imagine going every weekend. It seemed like a long way from Aix.”
Verlaque tried not to laugh, as they had only been on the road for less than forty minutes and were almost at Edmund Lydgate’s house. He had driven farther for a good cup of coffee. At that moment his cell phone rang and, excusing himself, he answered it, listening to Bruno Paulik’s news of Rebecca Schultz’s disappearance. “Merde,” he said, hanging up. “Dr. Schultz has gone missing.”
“I told you so,” Marine said, turning around to face Verlaque. “I didn’t trust her.”
“You never met her.”
“Just the sound of her was enough,” Marine said. “Being an Ivy League professor and top model don’t mix.”
“Oh, I don’t know, chérie,” her father said. “You could be a model.”
“Merci, Papa.”
“If you straightened your hair,” he went on, slowing down the Kangoo to almost a full stop. “I’ve heard the nurses talk about hair straighteners you can buy—”
“Marine’s hair is lovely,” Verlaque cut in.
“More to the point,” Marine said, “I teach at the University of Aix-Marseille. Far in prestige from Yale University.”
“And a whole lot cheaper,” Dr. Bonnet said. “Education for all, rich or poor.”
“I stayed up late looking at the photos we took of the painting,” Marine said, to change the subject. She despaired over her colleagues’ petty internal wars, their constant comparing of French schools against international ones on the Shanghai rating scales, and the general lack of supplies and disrepair of the Aix faculté. “And I read about Cézanne until about three a.m. Look at our picture,” she said, pulling a Polaroid of the painting out of her purse. “Who is the sitter? Antoine, you said that Cézanne had an affair in 1885. Whether or not they actually consummated their relationship, if we can date this painting to that year, we’d be surer of its authenticity.”
“What do you think, Dr. Bonnet?” Verlaque asked.
“I think it could be the mysterious Aixoise of 1885. Look at what she’s wearing,” Anatole Bonnet said, nervously glancing at the Polaroid while trying to drive. “Is she wealthy? Upper class?”
“Certainly not,” Verlaque said. “It’s not a shiny silk dress, for one.”
“Exactly,” Anatole said. “So she’s poor, but happy. And Cézanne liked to spend time with workers and peasants. The wealthy made him angry, and intellectuals made him nervous.”
Marine nodded. “Last night I read about a party at Monet’s in Giverny; Monet complimented Cézanne, who then flew into a rage. He was so awkward he couldn’t even accept a compliment from a friend.”
“There’s something else that bothers me, other than her smile, which you said, Dr. Bonnet, was rare for a Cézanne portrait,” Verlaque said, taking the photograph in his hands. “Ah, I know now. It’s the bright colors of her dress. They seem too bright for a poor girl at the end of the nineteenth century.”
“That bothered me, too,” Marine said.
“But the clothes in Provence were much more colorful than in other parts of France,” Anatole said. “Even one hundred years ago, Provençal fabrics were full of color, especially in Arles.”
“True,” Verlaque said. “But this girl’s wearing an orange skirt and a bright-blue blouse. Provençal clothes were colorful, but not that bright. Her clothes, if she was poor, would have been faded after repeated wearing, and the sun. No?”
“Think about what Cézanne was interested in,” Anatole said, slowing the car down.
“Um, he didn’t care about reproducing reality,” Verlaque suggested.
“I get it, Papa!” Marine said. “He dressed his sitter here—with whom he was in love, or very infatuated—in the most classic Provençal colors he could find. He made it up. It’s the blue of our sky, and orange, its complement. She may not have even been a redhead.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Verlaque said. “As the red he’s used in her hair is the same red as the earth out at Bibémus and Mont Sainte Victoire.”
“That may be stretching it a bit, Antoine,” Anatole said.
“Really?” Verlaque asked, looking disappointed. “I thought that I was on to something.”
“Well, hopefully Edmund Lydgate will be able to give us an expert opinion on the paint and brushwork,” Marine said. “Papa. You’ve stopped the car.”
“There it is,” Dr. Bonnet said, looking out the windshield. “Gordes. I always pull over here to look at the view.”
“It’s so much lovelier from afar than when you’re in the middle of it,” Marine said, sitting back and gazing upon the medieval village clinging to the cliffs. “It’s too busy now.”
“So, good thing we didn’t buy that house,” her father said, smiling.
Verlaque looked ahead, trying to count how many of the coveted village houses had swimming pools.
Chapter Seventeen
Le Mas des Lilas
Marine looked at the directions from Edmund Lydgate that she had printed out. “I think we’re here,” she said, folding the paper in half. Her father slowed the car down and pulled into a drive. “The borie must be on Lydgate’s property,” she continued. “I’ve never seen such a perfectly rounded one. To think that someone spent weeks, many decades ago, building that with fieldstones and no mortar. Just to store grain or hay in. It’s so beautifully built and so well proportioned that it becomes a work of art.”
“Mas des Lilas,” Anatole Bonnet muttered as he strained to read the wooden sign above the mailbox. “I don’t believe it. This was the house, Marine.”
“What do you mean?” Verlaque asked. “Is this the place you almost bought?” He refrained from saying “should have,” for he could see the stone house at the end of the drive. It was a rambling two-story eighteenth-century house, built in the white stone that made Gordes famous—and unbearably busy in summer—and its multipaned windows were framed by pale-green shutters. Ivy crept up half of the building, and the wooden front door was crowned by a thick, twisting trunk that wrapped its way around the door and spread out in both directions above it. No plant expert, especially during the winter months, Verlaque thought it was wisteria.
“Yes, this is it,” Dr. Bonnet said. “Even the name is the same. Your mother loved the borie, Marine.”
“I can see why,” Marine said.
Dr. Bonnet drove cautiously up the stony drive and Verlaque was tempted to swing open his sliding door and jump out.
“See those lilac trees? That’s where the house gets its name from,” Dr. Bonnet said, pointing to his right. “Although they’re dormant now. They were in full bloom when we visited the house. There were white ones, too.”
“And there’s M. Lydgate,” Marine said. “With a full head of white hair to match the lilacs.”
Edmund Lydgate had heard the Kangoo on the drive and was thankful his guests were on time. He had a chicken from Bresse in the oven and didn’t want to serve a dry, overcooked poulet. He gestured for them to park beside his battered Clio, which he could no longer drive. “Welcome!” he cried, hoping he wasn’t putting it on too thick. He didn’t like visitors.
He held out his hand and firmly shook Anatole Bonnet’s hand, then Marine’s, and finally Verlaque’s. Marine smiled at Verlaque and winked; she liked the look of Edmund Lydgate. He wasn’t tall, thin, and distinguished as she had imagined a retired English art auctioneer to be; he was instead short and portly, with thick white hair and a white handlebar moustache. He wore a loudly colored jacket of thick yellow, red, and blue stripes, and navy wool pants. His bow tie was crooked—pink with light blue polka dots.
The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne Page 13