Chasing Cezanne (16 page)

At Cyrus Pine's suggestion, they had booked into the Beau Rivage, a small, pleasant hotel behind the Promenade des Anglais, not far from the opera. Visiting divas stayed there, Cyrus had told Andre, and he had a soft spot for divas, being very partial, as he'd said, to a statuesque bosom. He had flown overnight to Paris before coming down to Nice, checking in a few hours ahead of Andre and leaving a note at the front desk:
Gone out for fish and chips. See you in the bar at ten
.

Andre put his watch forward to French time and saw that he had half an hour. He unpacked and showered, inspecting his body for scars and contusions, feeling the abundant hot water ease away the aches. He swore to himself that he would never be unkind about French plumbing again, and went down to the bar feeling human for the first time that day.

Pine arrived shortly after ten, looking dapper and faintly theatrical in a houndstooth check suit and plum-colored bow tie; he was full, in every sense of the word, of the meal he had just eaten. “I'd forgotten how marvelously they do things in France,” he said. “I'm sure I reek of garlic. Have you ever had lobster ravioli?”

Andre was reminded of his most recent meal, a pickup
lunch in the kitchen at Throttle Hall. “I thought you were having fish and chips.”

“I was full of good intentions, but that pretty girl at the desk recommended a place called l'Esquinade, down by the port, and I gave in to temptation. An old habit of mine, I'm afraid.” Pine paused to order a cognac from the bartender. “Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that the coast is clear. I made the call, as we agreed, and Denoyer's still in the Bahamas. I spoke to him. Seemed rather nice.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I was vice-president of international customer services at AT&T and that I wanted to send him a platinum card entitling him to seventy-five percent off all long-distance calls.” Pine smiled into his cognac. “He was delighted. Nothing the rich like more than saving money. He told me to send the card to Cap Ferrat—he's arriving there next week. So tomorrow it's just us and the caretaker.”

Andre grinned and raised an imaginary hat. “Did you bring the swatches?”

“Dozens, dear boy. We're all set.”

By nine the following morning they were in the car, driving into the sun on the coast road to Cap Ferrat. Pine had modified his wardrobe for the occasion, and instead of a suit he was wearing a blazer and salmon-colored slacks, forsaking his customary bow tie for a silk paisley cravat.

“What do you think?” he asked Andre. “Could I pass as a decorator? I might have overdone it with the trousers. They're a relic from a weekend on Fire Island.”

“To tell you the truth, Cyrus, the only decorator I've ever met was a woman—great beefy creature, very pleased with herself. She did cushions, I remember. In fact, I think she was wearing some of them when I met her.” Andre turned off the N98 and took the small road to the Cap. “Don't worry. Your outfit's fine. The big mistake down here is to wear an Armani suit. If you do, everyone thinks you're a chauffeur.”

“I did a bit of homework on the plane,” said Cyrus. “A book about the Riviera. King Leopold of Belgium had a place on Cap Ferrat, and he used to go swimming with his beard stuffed inside a rubber envelope. Fascinating. Are we nearly there?”

“Two minutes,” said Andre. He had thought he would be feeling nervous; he was, after all, about to talk his way into someone's home under false pretenses. But his cheerful companion seemed to be having such a good time—his confidence so contagious—that Andre's feelings were more of anticipation and optimism. He was sure they could get into the house. And then the worst that could happen would be to find the Cézanne there after all, hanging in its rightful place. Anticlimax, followed by a good lunch. He shrugged and turned to Cyrus as he slowed down.

“It's just past this bend. Do we need to stop and do any more rehearsing?”

“Never,” said Pine. “I think we know the basic plot. Spontaneity is the breath of life, dear boy. Just get us in, and leave the rest to me.”

“Remember that Claude probably knows some English.”

“I shall be the soul of discretion.”

Andre grinned. “Not in those trousers.” He stopped the car in front of the iron gates and pressed the buzzer.

The voice came over the intercom, tinny and abrupt. “
Oui?
”

“
Bonjour
, Claude. It's Andre Kelly—you remember? The photographer. Monsieur Denoyer asked me to bring a friend of his to the house. He's going to do some work in the salon.”

“
Attends
.” There was a click, and the gates slowly swung open. Andre turned to Cyrus with a sudden thought. “We'd better not use your real name.”

“You're quite right, dear boy.” He adjusted his cravat. “How about Paisley? Frederick Paisley,” he added, “the third. Old Palm Beach family. Scottish ancestors.”

“Don't get carried away.” Andre took his foot off the brake and let the car roll slowly down the drive. The gardeners had obviously been busy preparing for Denoyer's return. Lawns had been razor-cut, cypresses and palm trees shaped and trimmed, flower beds freshly planted. The spray from an invisible sprinkler system turned to rainbows in the sun, with the distant shimmer of the Mediterranean visible beyond the house.

“Denoyer does himself rather well,” said Cyrus. “I
wouldn't mind a summer here myself. Is that the faithful retainer I see on the doorstep?”

“That's him.” Andre pulled up, and they got out of the car as Claude came forward to meet them, a stocky figure in cotton trousers and an old polo shirt, his face already tanned, a glint of gold in his smile. He shook Andre's outstretched hand and nodded.

“You're well, Monsieur Kelly?”

“Too busy, Claude. Too much traveling. I wish I could spend more time here. And you?”

“
Ouf
. Older.” Claude's eyes went to Cyrus, who was standing to one side, his arms filled with books of fabric swatches, a sheaf of paint color samples, and a clipboard.

“Claude, this is Monsieur Paisley from New York.” The two men exchanged inclinations of the head. “He'll be doing the redecoration of the salon, and he needs to choose colors and take measurements before he can make his proposal to the Denoyers.”

“
Ah bon?
” Claude's amiable face became puzzled. “They said nothing of this to me.”

“No? How bizarre.” Andre pretended to think for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, that's easy. Why don't we call them?” He turned to Cyrus and repeated what he'd said, this time in English.

Cyrus took his cue. “Do you think we should?” He juggled what he was carrying so he could look at his watch. “It's three in the morning over there, and you know how Bernard likes his sleep.”

Andre explained the problem to Claude. “And unfortunately,”
he added, “Monsieur Paisley has a rendezvous this afternoon in Paris. This is the only time he has.”

There was a silence. Andre tried not to hold his breath. Claude pondered, looked at his own watch for inspiration, then finally shrugged. “
C'est pas grave,
” he said. He picked up an invisible telephone and held it to his ear. “I will speak to Monsieur Denoyer later.” He nodded. They were in.

Claude took them across the tiled entrance hall and opened the double doors to the salon. The long, high-ceilinged room was dark, and they had to wait while Claude opened the heavy curtains and, with a slow deliberation that Andre found excruciating, the shutters. As the sunlight flooded through the windows, he saw the ornate sconces, the faded peach-colored walls, the fussy, precisely arranged furniture, the Aubusson carpet, the books and bibelots on the low tables. It was exactly as he had photographed it. Exactly.

“But this is
fabulous
.” Cyrus walked into the room, laying his swatches and color sheets on a couch before throwing his arms wide. “The proportions are heavenly, the light's exquisite, and
some
of the furniture is really quite exceptional.” He put his hands on his hips and stood tapping one foot on the marble floor. “Mind you, I'm not mad about the sconces, and the less said about those curtains the better. But I see possibilities. I see great possibilities.”

Andre barely heard him. He felt flat, all optimism gone. He stared at the painting above the fireplace, and Cézanne's
Woman with Melons
stared back, precisely
where she was supposed to be. Even the frame, he noticed gloomily, was the same. It had all been a waste of time.

Claude took up a position by the door, his arms folded. It was obvious that he had decided to stay with them. Andre tried not to sound disappointed. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Cyrus passed him the clipboard and a pen. “Would you mind taking notes as I dash around? Thanks so much.” His voice gave nothing away. If he was feeling let down, he was concealing it very convincingly. “Now, it seems to me,” he said, “that the focus of the room is the Cézanne, which is quite superb. So we mustn't have anything fighting with that, must we? Colors, finishes, fabrics—they must all work with the painting. Cézanne knows best. So that's where we start. Come along.”

He took a bundle of swatches over to the fireplace and stared intently at the painting, occasionally holding up a scrap of fabric next to it before calling out a reference number, which Andre dutifully recorded on the clipboard. The process was repeated with the paint colors, and repeated again and again as second and third thoughts occurred to Cyrus, who seemed mesmerized by the painting. For two hours this continued, with Claude a silent, bored presence in the background and Andre's spirits lower with every pointless note he made on the clipboard.

It was close to noon before Cyrus had taken some measurements and one final, long look at the painting. “I think I've seen enough,” he said. “Are you sure you've got it all down?” Without waiting for Andre to answer, he went across to Claude and pumped his hand vigorously.
“
Désolé
to make you wait like this, my dear fellow. You've been most kind. Many thanks.
Merci, merci. Vive la France
.”

Claude turned a bemused eye to Andre, who added his thanks as they went out to the car. They drove through the gates without speaking. Once out of sight of the house, Andre pulled onto the side of the road. “Cyrus, I don't know what to say. I don't know how you managed to go through all that nonsense.” He shook his head, staring through the windscreen. “I'm sorry. You were terrific, and that makes it worse.”

“You weren't to know, dear boy. But the painting's a fake.”

“What?”

“A wonderful, wonderful fake. I'm sure of it.” Cyrus watched with amusement as, Andre's face was split by a smile that almost reached his ears. “Well, don't just sit there. Drive on.”

“Where to?”

“Lunch, dear boy. Lunch.”

There are few better settings for a sunny lunch than the terrace of the Voile d'Or, overflowing with geraniums, high above the port of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. Cyrus hummed with contentment as they were seated at a table beneath the shade of an old olive tree. Andre left him in peace as they studied the menu after ordering a bottle of rosé. Finally, curiosity overcame him.

“How do you know it's a fake?”

“Mmm? The roast
crevettes
sound rather good, don't you think?”

“Come on, Cyrus. How do you know?”

“Well,” said the older man, “I think it's mainly the result of years and years of looking very closely at the real thing, and I've handled quite a few Cézannes since I started. In time, your eye learns. Did you go to the Cézanne exhibition in Philadelphia last year? I spent two days there, looking and looking. Quite wonderful. Ah, good man.”

The waiter uncorked the bottle, murmuring something about the complexion of a young girl as he poured the delicate, smoky-pink wine into their glasses. He took their order, nodded with approval, and padded back to the kitchen.