“How thoroughly modern,” Marine mused.
Rebecca said, “Trahit sua quemque voluptas.”
“‘Each has his dear delight which draws him on.’ Right? Who said that?” Marine asked.
“Virgil,” her father answered.
“Cézanne also wrote that in a letter to Zola,” Rebecca explained. “In 1885.”
“Manon Solari,” Marine said. “There are still Solaris in Aix. Rebecca, Antoine told me that you had suspicions Cézanne’s mistress was a Solari.”
“Yes, but it was only a hunch,” Rebecca said, “until you and your father linked the gold ribbon to Michaud’s. Once we had the name ‘Manon,’ thanks to those notebooks of Mme Michaud’s, and her death date, it was easy to confirm her identity.”
“It will add a great chapter to the Cézanne biography you’re working on,” Anatole said, looking at Rebecca.
“No doubt,” she answered. “It may even change the whole direction of the book.”
“A story of love and loss,” Marine said.
“There’s your book title, Rebecca,” Anatole said, smiling. “Love and Loss.”
• • •
“There’s something that’s been bothering me,” Paulik said to Jules Schoelcher. “Do you have time to go to the rue Boulegon before it gets dark?”
Jules put his pen down. “Let’s go.”
They walked through Aix in silence, but Jules had guessed why they were going back to René Rouquet’s apartment. When they turned onto Boulegon, Jules said, “We never found where the canvas was hidden.”
“Hidden for all those years,” Paulik answered. “And you guys thoroughly checked the place.”
“Yes we did, sir.”
“I want to ask Momo if he knows anything.”
“Is he the fruit and veggie guy?” Jules asked. “Judge Verlaque showed me all the Manchester United paraphernalia he bought.”
“Yes. And there he is.”
Mohammed Dati was fussing with a bunch of bananas that he had hanging on an ancient crooked vine trunk. “Very nice,” Paulik said as they approached Momo. “That looks great.”
Momo turned around and Wayne Rooney stared at them.
“Nice apron,” Paulik said.
“Merci,” Momo replied. “Everyone likes it.”
Paulik smiled and introduced Jules. “Momo,” he began, “we still don’t know where René found the Cézanne painting.” He reached up and scratched his head for effect, and Jules added a perplexed face, his brow furrowed. “Could you help us?”
Momo excitedly waved his hands in the air and called for his uncle. “I’ll get a flashlight,” Momo said.
“Can we finally get in the apartment?” Momo’s uncle asked as he introduced himself to Paulik and Schoelcher, shaking their hands. “Momo’s been wanting to, but he couldn’t as you guys have it marked off. René gave him a key, but Momo isn’t one to break the law. René told Momo that there’s something important for him there. In the same spot where he found the painting.”
“You can come with us,” Paulik said.
“Thank you, but I have to stay and guard the shop,” the uncle said. “It’s almost closing time.”
Momo returned, waved a flashlight in the air, and crossed the street, not waiting for Paulik and Schoelcher. “Let’s go!” Paulik said. “Momo, wait!”
They ran up the stairs, following Momo, who was already at the door of René Rouquet’s former apartment, opening it with his key. “Trapdoor,” Momo said, pointing toward the ceiling in the hallway that led to the bedroom.
“We looked up there,” Schoelcher said. “With a flashlight, too. You pull on the latch and one of those folding staircases—”
Momo pulled on the latch and the three men ducked.
“Comes down,” Schoelcher said, finishing his sentence.
Momo ran up the rickety wooden stairs and stuck his head in the crawlspace, turning on his flashlight.
“You can’t stand up in there,” Schoelcher said. “So we did what he’s doing. Just shone the flashlight around.”
“The wood beam,” Momo said, turning around and looking down at the two men. “René told me to reach up and feel along the top of the beam.” He set his flashlight down and, balancing himself with his left hand so that he could stretch, he felt along a beam with his right hand. “Got it!” He turned off his flashlight and lowered himself down the stairs, carrying a manila envelope.
“When did he tell you about the beam?” Paulik asked, giving Schoelcher, who was now red in the face, a stare.
“When he asked me to keep the painting,” Momo answered. “And he told me that he was afraid, and that if anything happened to him, there was something for me on the beam. The same spot where he found the painting. This!” He held the envelope up and shook it, looking disappointed. “Papers? Is that what’s in here?”
“Let’s take this down to your uncle,” Paulik said.
Momo flew out the door while Jules struggled to put the folding staircase back up. “Hurry up, Schoelcher,” Paulik said, hiding his smile. By the time he and Jules were downstairs, Momo had ripped open the envelope and his uncle was reading aloud the document. The uncle reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping his eyes.
“What is it?” Paulik asked.
“It looks like M. Rouquet’s will,” the uncle answered. “He’s left everything to Momo. Including the apartment.”
“We’ll buy the store,” Momo said. “Then we don’t worry about the high rent.”
His uncle turned to him. “How did you know that the rent was going up?”
Momo smiled and pointed to the side of his head.
“Not much gets by Momo,” said Paulik.
Chapter Thirty-six
Verlaque Visits Cézanne’s Grave
It didn’t take very long to find the painter’s grave. Most members of the Cézanne family were buried there, including the painter’s son, also named Paul. Someone had taken the liberty of adding a small ceramic painting, poorly done, of a Provençal landscape. Verlaque certainly hoped that it hadn’t been someone in the surviving Cézanne family, and he whispered his apologies to the painter.
Fittingly, there was a view of Mont Sainte Victoire. He reached into his coat pocket and took out an apple, placing it on the grave, beside a small blue paintbrush that another visitor had left.
Someone coughed and he saw, a few graves over, the old woman with whom he had chatted on the Cours the day of the Fête des Rois. Today she was wearing a gray wool coat, old-fashioned in its cut, but impeccable, with a matching gray hat trimmed in fur. She smiled and waved at Verlaque, bowed toward the grave in the front of her and whispered something, then walked toward the judge. “Mon mari,” she said, gesturing toward the grave. “He died of cancer in 1982. I still miss him.” Before Verlaque had a chance to reply, she said, pointing to Cézanne’s grave, “You brought him an apple.”
“Yes,” Verlaque replied. “It seemed more appropriate than flowers.”
“Nice spot here,” she said.
“Quieter than downtown. A good place to . . . think.”
She smiled and looked at the view of the mountain, then looked at the judge. She took her gnarled right hand out of a glove—these too were gray, and new—and tapped Verlaque’s breast with the back of her hand. “You’re trying to decide something,” she said.
“I think I’ve just decided,” he answered, smiling and looking down at her. “Thank you, Mme—”
“Solari,” she replied. “My husband was a Solari.” She straightened her shoulders and smiled.
Verlaque felt his thick body almost falling backward from the shock. Aix was indeed a small town, he thought.
“It’s going to rain,” she said, looking at the slate-colored clouds. “Have a nice evening.”
“À vous aussi, Mme Solari,�
� Verlaque said.
He watched her slowly walk down the cemetery’s pebbled path, her gray coat and hat blending in with all of the gray stone around her. He felt inside his suit jacket pocket, making sure the small velvet Cartier bag was still there; he had been carrying it around with him since January 6. Emmeline had willed it to him. He stayed for almost an hour, looking at Cézanne’s grave, and those nearby, bending down to look at faded black-and-white portraits of middle-aged men and women, or read inscriptions and dates. It gradually became dark, and the cemetary’s custodian walked by. “We’re closing, sir,” he said.
Verlaque said, “I’m sorry. I hadn’t noticed the time. Good evening.” He headed toward the cemetery’s gates, walking quickly and purposely down the narrow Traverse Saint-Pierre, then onto the busy Cours Gambetta that would turn into the rue d’Italie. By the time he got to the rue d’Italie, the streetlights had come on, and he looked down the length of the narrow street, its small shops lit up as if they were in Dickensian London. He walked on, sometimes stopping to say hello to a colleague or a friend, or simply nodding and smiling to someone he recognized but couldn’t quite place. It was still a small town, Aix, no matter what anyone said.
Halfway up the rue d’Italie he saw Rebecca Schultz coming out of a shop, and he ran to meet her. After a few seconds of awkwardness, they gave each other the bise, their friendship now confirmed.
“I’m glad I caught you,” Verlaque said. “I wanted to say good-bye.”
“Even though you thought I was guilty,” she said, smiling.
“Only for the briefest of moments,” he said. “But you did flee, twice.”
“Temporary insanity,” she said. “I missed my parents.” She thought of Marine Bonnet’s words: love and loss.
“Well, good luck,” he said. “Safe travels back to the US.”
“I’m not going back right away,” she said.
Verlaque looked confused. “You’re not staying in Aix, are you? I thought you didn’t like it.”
“A town petrified in the sleep of ages,” she said in a low, dramatic voice, as if reciting a poem. “Indifferent to everything.”
Verlaque laughed. “Surely Cézanne didn’t say that?”
“No,” she replied. “Edmond Jaloux, a nineteenth-century writer.”
“Where are you going then?”
“Paris,” she answered flatly. “I’m taking a sabbatical year. Maybe more. Who knows. I’m buying an apartment, the one my parents should have bought years ago.”
“In Boulogne?” he asked.
“Heavens no,” she replied. “Too far from—”
“The center?”
“Yes. Too far from the center.”
Verlaque looked at his watch. “Good grief!” he said. “I’ve got to buy something at Hédiard before they close. Good-bye. Perhaps we’ll see each other in Paris.”
“Most certainly,” she replied, waving good-bye and winking.
Verlaque walked across the street, wondering what Rebecca meant by “most certainly” and the wink. He turned around. “Rebecca,” he called out, and she walked toward him. He suddenly realized what was happening. The wink he had seen in the living room that night on the rue des Petits Pères. The opening and closing of the bedroom door in the middle of the night. Hortense’s obvious discomfort the next morning at breakfast.
“Are you in a relationship with my father?” he asked, staring at her, his eyes stinging from the dry, cold night air.
“Yes,” she said. “He’s in my hotel room right now. He took a TGV down last night to meet me, and we’re heading back up to Paris together. Don’t look so shocked—”
“Don’t tell me what to think,” he said, turning his back.
“May I explain?” she asked.
Verlaque turned around.
“That night in Paris with you and your father,” she began. “I haven’t felt that . . . free . . . in years, even though I was frightened. Your father is wonderful.”
“He’s twice your age,” Verlaque said. “And married.”
Rebecca held her hand up, her palm facing Verlaque. “I know,” she said. “Your father has wanted a divorce for years, and now with your mother sick—”
“If my mother were to die, my father would be free, without a messy divorce.”
Rebecca went on, ignoring his comment. “I’ve suffered such loss. Our art collection, my mother, my father. And before you start, your father is not a replacement for my own. He and Isaac are polar opposites. If you must know, I’ve always dated older men. I was surrounded by them as a kid, I guess. Painters, art dealers, art historians—”
“Listen, Rebecca,” Verlaque said as he waved to a woman he recognized rushing down the street, shopping bags in hand. The January sales had started, he realized. “Who am I to judge?” he asked. “It’s just that my father has a bad track record. He’s stayed married to my mother all these years, yes, but he’s—”
“A philanderer,” she answered. “I know. He told me. Who knows what will happen? But I need a change, and Paris was looking good.”
Verlaque managed a smile. “It always does at night.” He reached out his hand and she quickly took it in both of hers.
“Thank you for understanding,” she said. “You’d better get into the shop.”
Verlaque refrained from saying “but I don’t understand.” “Perhaps I’ll see you next week. I’m coming back up to Paris.”
“Your father said. Good-bye, Antoine.”
“Au revoir.” He quickly opened the door to Hédiard then closed it, leaning against the glass. He couldn’t wait to get to Marine’s. Nice normal Marine, with her nice normal parents. Parents who had visited their daughter frequently when she was studying in Paris. Parents who kept track of how she was doing, kept an interest in her friends, in her work. In her lover. Never mind that in the winter they kept the house at a freezing 17°C and drove the ugliest car in the world.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur le juge,” the manager of the shop said. “Nice to see you.”
“Thank you,” Verlaque said, walking toward him and shaking his hand. “Nice to see you, too. I need a bottle of the usual champagne,” he said. “I have an important declaration to make this evening, to a beautiful woman who lives around the corner.”
“Ooh la la,” the manager said, smiling as he opened the wine refrigerator. “Félicitations!”
Hédiard was a chain, so Marine had been enraged when the red-awninged shop had opened on the rue d’Italie, a street she considered her own little village. But Verlaque rather liked it. The shop had Pol Roger, and it was always chilled.
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The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne Page 26