“I am not sure it will tell you anything.”
“I’ll decide that.”
“No, I will.”
“When the Proc returns—”
“When the Proc returns, what?”
“I’ll tell him not only about how many qualms you, supposedly a judge, had about jailing a murder suspect. I’ll also tell him about a certain deserter that we found in the woods.”
So there it was, out in the open. Franc knew, or at least suspected, that Martin had helped Merckx to escape, and was quite willing to use this information against him. In the days since Merckx’s death, when Martin had allowed himself to face up to the worst that could happen to him, he had known this. Still, hearing Franc say it sent a cold wave of fear through his chest into his stomach.
“That is an entirely different matter.” Martin was hanging on to his desk to keep his hands from trembling. He had to make a show of not backing down.
“I think whether or not one is worthy of being a judge is all one matter. And,” Franc lowered his voice, “one of the ways to be a successful judge is to cooperate with the police, not fight them, not try to solve the case on your own. You still have a lot to learn. Wasn’t that our deal, that we would work together?”
Martin could almost breathe again. They were both stepping back. In the last few days, ever since they had killed poor Merckx, he had found that he much preferred the cajoling Franc to the threatening one. He let go of his desk.
“You’re right, of course. You’re right. I was just trying to keep my word. There are things in the letter that Westerbury found humiliating. Very personal things. We had made a deal. He would tell me where the letter was, if I kept the promise to him not to tell anyone about it unless I had to. I trust that you will not reveal the contents unless it’s absolutely necessary.” He did not even wait for any response from Franc, before continuing. “Trying to keep it to myself just shows my lack of experience. Again. My first murder case, all that.” He had to stop babbling. It made him seem too desperate. Martin moistened his lips with his tongue. “It should be right here with the other evidence.” For the second time in less than five minutes, he retrieved the key from his drawer and opened the cabinet. Martin reached for the envelope, and willing his hand not to shake, gave it to Franc.
“As you’ll see,” Martin said, “it explains why Solange Vernet never had any real interest in Cézanne. It is fairly clear that they were never lovers, although he was infatuated with her. You can tell me if you see something in it that I may have missed.” Martin winced when Franc yanked the letter out of the envelope. Both were composed of thin lavender-scented paper. Neither would last long under such rough scrutiny.
Franc took one look and stuffed the pages back into the envelope. “May I take it with me down to my office?”
Martin was stunned. He had never expected Franc to ask such a thing. He felt caught between what Merckx had gotten him into and his duty to Solange Vernet. Letting the letter go, even for an afternoon, felt like a violation.
“I’m a slow reader. You know, I don’t have your learning.” Franc opened his arms as if he were pleading. “Other judges, those I consider my friends, take this into account.” The humble pose. Which Franc was he to believe? The bully, the tutor in the methods of crimes and misdemeanors, or the man of the people working his way up to a position of respect? Martin had witnessed the appearance of all three during their short, heated confrontation.
“I’ve handled other evidence, you know.” Franc was relentless. “From judges that know and trust me. Judges who are not always on their high horse.”
“You know I’m not like that.” This came out before Martin could stop himself. Sometimes it felt like Franc had him on a string, as if he were some limp marionette jumping to orders.
Franc waited for an answer. Martin cleared his throat. He stared at the letter, filled with Solange Vernet’s delicate script, encased in Franc’s thick, hardened hands. He could not let the letter out of his chambers. He could barely let it out of his sight. Yet he had just handed it over. He had to figure out a way to get it back.
“Well?”
“I’ve an idea.” For a moment Martin feared that, in his panic, his mind had stopped. “The paper is rather flimsy and wearing down. It would be safer to keep it here. Joseph is due back any minute. You know how fastidious he is. He’s just the right person to handle it. I’ll have him copy the entire thing for you. That way, we’ll both have more time to go over it. Then we can put our heads together and see what we come up with.”
This was such a reasonable solution that he could not imagine how Franc could reject it. And yet the inspector hesitated.
“I’ll send Joseph down as soon as he is done. You should have your copy well before supper time.”
Martin swallowed hard and held out his hand. He was sweating from every pore in his body.
“Yes, and then I can see if there is something you missed,” Franc said.
“Right, exactly.” Martin almost sighed with relief when Franc gave the letter back to him. His damp fingers stuck to the envelope as he gingerly placed it on his desk.
“All right, then.” Martin looked up at his inspector. It was time for Franc to go away.
“All right? Nothing else? What did Zola have to say?”
Why hadn’t Martin thought of that? Any account of the Zola interview might serve to placate his inspector. “Actually he said nothing, except that he knew Cézanne was innocent. He spent the whole time defending his friend. The reason we are supposed to believe both of them is that the artist swore to his innocence on the banks of the Arc, which is a kind of sacred place for them.” Martin had added that last little bit for effect, and it evoked the reaction he hoped for.
“Phffff.” Franc blew out a gust of contempt. “And who would believe either of them?”
“Yes, exactly,” Martin said, practically collapsing into his seat. He had not mentioned the telegram, and he hoped to God that his clerk wouldn’t either. “And the boy, the little messenger.” Martin at least had to try to play the role of a superior.
“Nothing.” Franc sounded so damned unconcerned. Martin did not have the will to ask him about the gloves or the knife.
“All right, then,” Martin said for the second time, desperate to be left alone. He did not want to wipe away the sweat on his face in front of Franc.
“Sir, I think I was out of line.”
“Yes?” Martin looked up.
“About the deserter. Just because he was your friend—” The threatening scowl had disappeared.
Martin put up his hand as an acceptance of the truce. “We both got a little heated. We’re both under a great deal of pressure. A double murder case.”
“That could make us or break us,” Franc said, echoing the words he had first uttered on the wagon carrying Solange Vernet’s swollen corpse back to Aix. The words that had sealed their partnership.
“Right, that could make us or break us.” Martin repeated Franc’s pledge with neither hope nor conviction.
“Well then, sir,” Franc said with a tip of his cap, “I’ll be off. Down with the boys waiting for the letter.”
“And keeping a man on Cézanne.”
“Oh yes, of course, a man on Cézanne.”
At least they agreed on something.
31
“LOOK, MAMAN, THERE ARE FLOWERS BY the door.” Paul Jr. put the basket of fruit and vegetables on the step and picked up one of the blossoms.
“Let me see,” Hortense said as she searched in her bag for the key.
“Here’s a blue one.” He held it up to her. “There are white ones too. They’re really little.”
Hortense examined the four perfectly symmetrical, delicately colored petals. “This has fallen off a hortensia,” she told her son. “It’s actually a very large flower.” Had Paul brought her hortensias? She smiled to herself as she opened the door. He knew they were her favorites.
Once inside, Hortense and Paul Jr. dis
covered a trail of tiny blossoms leading to the kitchen, where they found Cézanne, sitting at the table pressing a bloody towel against one side of his face.
“Paul!” Hortense gasped. “What happened?”
“I got you some flowers,” he said, gesturing toward a vase that held a bedraggled bouquet.
“Papa!” their son ran over to peer into his father’s face. “Did you get into a fight?”
“You might say that.”
Paul’s sanguine air infuriated Hortense so much that she could hardly speak. Her son, on the other hand, was happily excited at the thought that his father had done something that he had been told not to do a thousand times.
“With whom, Papa? Who was it?”
“The Englishman. You know, the one who puts up all those posters about his lectures. The so-called science professor.”
Hortense shook her head as she tried to catch Paul’s eye. He shouldn’t be saying these things in front of their son.
“Why?” Paul Jr. persisted.
“A disagreement. Over whether he or my old friend Marion was a better geologist. And we both know the answer to that question, don’t we?” Cézanne winked at Hortense, proud that he had come up with such a clever story. What a fool he was.
“Let me look at you,” she stepped forward and removed the cloth from his face. “Oh, my God!” The flesh around his right eye was swollen and purple, and there was blood on his cheek. “Did he cut you?”
“No.” Cézanne wiped the cloth across his face. “It’s just from my nose.”
Just the nose? “And your hands?” Those precious hands. He couldn’t stop painting now.
Paul held them up one by one and spread his fingers. Not a mark.
“You hit him back, though, didn’t you, Papa?” Obviously, Hortense was not alone in wondering what kind of fight it could have been.
“Sure, and sent him packing too. Which I am about to do with you in a minute. I can tell your mother wants to talk to me alone.”
“No, I want to hear more!”
Cézanne got up and kissed his son on the forehead. “Go now. We’ll call you for lunch and talk then. So stay outside and close by.”
“All right. But promise—”
“Off with you.” Paul said, as he gave his son a friendly shove toward the door.
They did adore each other. Sometimes Hortense feared that that was the only reason Cézanne put up with her. But why did she have to put up with him?
“Hortense—”
“You don’t have to seem so self-satisfied about this. What happened? Did he come here? Was he in our house?” She started toward the hallway to see if there was damage in the other rooms.
“No, no.” Cézanne stepped in front of her. “We met outside.”
“You fought each other in the street? What were you doing? You’re a grown man. You belong to an important family.”
“Hortense, sit a minute.”
“No, not until you tell me.” She wanted to pick up a plate and smash it over his shiny bald head.
“Sit, please.”
He lowered himself into a chair, wincing just a bit as he settled in. If she was going to get any explanation, she saw no recourse but to sit and listen.
“Its all become clearer now,” he began.
“Oh, he’s knocked some sense into you?”
“You could say that.”
“And you didn’t even bother to hit him back.”
“Maybe I deserved it.”
“Why do you say that?” Although she could certainly think of some reasons of her own.
“It may be a kind of contrition, you know, like when you go to confession in the Church. For all the wrongs I have done.”
“Stop speaking in riddles. I want to know what the fight was about,” she demanded.
“He accused me of hurting her.”
“Hurting her?” That was laughable. Solange Vernet had floated through the world impervious to everything except her own selfish desire to surround herself with fawning admirers, fools like Cézanne.
“I did,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want to hear it!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. The past doesn’t matter. We—”
“Where is he?”
“They took him away. I think he must be in jail.”
“And if he’s not, what if he comes back?”
He had the nerve to shrug. Somehow she had to bring him back to reality. “You know, Paul, the Englishman could be a murderer.”
“I don’t think so,” he said quietly.
“Don’t think so? If not him, who?”
“I don’t know. Maybe him. Maybe not.” He grabbed her arm. “If he did kill her, it was not because he was jealous of me. He told me that. Don’t you see, that means that I had nothing to do with her death. Nothing at all!”
Hortense yanked her arm away. If only he cared as much about her! She got up and began unpacking the basket, shaking so hard that the plums tumbled onto the floor.
“Here let me help you,” he continued in the same maddening, conciliatory tone. “We’ll all feel better once we’ve had something to eat.”
After their lunch of cold chicken, cheeses, and pears, it all caught up with her. She lay down on the salon sofa with a book and fell asleep. It was a dreamless sleep, which brought her to a slow awakening. Still groggy from her nap, she struggled to focus on what Paul was doing.
“Stay still, my dear. Just like that. Yes.” She was too tired to care, so she did not move.
“There.” He got up.”I’m going to add a little green and it will be done,” he said, and left the room.
Hortense stretched and sat up on the couch. At least he was drawing again.
When Paul returned, he sat down with her and showed her the sketch. On the right side of the page was the most beautiful drawing he had ever made of her. She looked sleepy, far away, and utterly human. On the left was a giant white hortensia in full bloom.
“You see, “ he said. “You are my flower.”
She did not know what to say. All she wanted was to preserve the moment, to feel forever the warmth that flowed from her heart. Paul reached over and kissed her lightly on the lips. Perhaps it would be all right after all.
Friday, August 28
[The Arlésiennes’] reputation for beauty is completely justified, and it is something more than just beauty. They are both gracious in demeanour and of a great distinction. Their features are of the greatest delicacy and of a Grecian type; for the most part they have dark hair and velvety eyes such as I have only seen hitherto in Indians or in Arabs.
—Alexandre Dumas, Impressions of Travel: The Midi of France, 184111
32
IT HAD TO BE PAST TWO. Although Martin had only been standing in front of Chez l’Arlésienne for minutes, it felt like hours. He had been anticipating this moment since the night before, when a raucous crowd of workingmen had thwarted his plan to have a quiet early dinner. They had been celebrating something or other, filling the air of the tiny restaurant with cigarette smoke and high spirits, making Martin feel like an outsider. If Clarie had not spotted him at the door, he would have slipped away. But she did not let him leave until he promised to come back today and share what was left over from the midday seating. This was to be their first meal together. Worrying about it had even taken his mind away from Merckx and the case for a while. Still, he had no idea what he was going to say. What he did know is that this little restaurant was the only place in all of Aix where he felt he could be himself. Perhaps because it was the one place where someone knew what he had done and did not condemn him for it.
Martin took one last deep breath before putting his hand on the handle and pushing the door open. Only one customer remained, a white-haired old man with a cane hanging over a chair. Too deaf to have been startled by the bell, he was counting out coins to pay for his meal. Clarie hovered nearby, ready to help him out of his chair. She looked up and smiled at Martin as she h
anded the bent-over little man his cane. Martin held the door open as he limped out of the restaurant. Then Martin and Clarie were alone. The Choffruts must have been in the kitchen.
“I’ve got things ready over there,” Clarie said before striding over to a little table in the corner. The one farthest from the kitchen, where, three nights ago, he had made his confession.
“This looks good,” he said, as he put his bowler on the chair beside him. “Good, yes, thank you.” She had laid a platter of cold boiled fish and vegetables in the center of the table and spooned aioli on each of their plates. Too late, he realized that he should have been helping her into her seat. Clarie did not seem to notice.
“Come, eat, I’m starving,” she said as she pulled herself closer to the table.
“Me too.” He sat down. There was no reason to be so nervous today. No confession to make. No new elements of the case to hide.
Still, for a moment, neither of them moved.
“All right. Let’s both agree to what is going on.” Clarie picked up a spoon and began arranging carrots, potatoes, and fish on Martin’s plate. “My aunt and uncle think one thing, and we think another.” She paused, eyebrows arched, waiting for him to chime in.
Each time he saw her, she seemed more and more beautiful. Perhaps this is because he had grown accustomed to the way her nose tipped slightly upward after its long descent. Or, was it her dark, almond-shaped eyes, alternatively glimmering with mischief or shining with sympathy?
Martin coughed. “Yes, they are matchmaking and we are—”
“Friends,” she completed his sentence while he was still searching for the right word. “And since there is so little time left before I go to Sèvres, why shouldn’t we—”
“Have an intelligent conversation every once in a while.” Martin surreptitiously wiped his clammy hands on the red-and-white checkered napkin lying in his lap. It was good to get it all out. To recognize that they were of the same mind about so many things, and that romance was out of the question. Because Clarie was leaving in a few months. Because she wasn’t attracted to him. Although she had been very kind.
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