Chasing Cezanne (31 page)

Paradou watched the three of them go through the door of the car rental office before he got into the back of a taxi. The driver turned to look at him, crooking an eyebrow.

“Wait for a moment,” said Paradou. “I want you to follow a car.”

The driver waved his hand at the parking area. “Plenty of choice, monsieur. Any particular color?”

A comedian. Paradou kept his eyes on the rental office door. “I'll tell you when I see it.”

The driver shrugged. “It's your money.” He turned on his meter and went back to his newspaper.

Ten minutes later, a blue Renault with Andre at the wheel came cautiously out of the rental parking lot. “That's the one,” said Paradou. “
Allez
. Don't lose him.”

The two cars turned under the railroad bridge and into the stream of traffic, following the signs to the A7 autoroute. In the Renault, Andre drove carefully as he accustomed himself to local driving techniques. As always when he first drove in France after an absence, he was uncomfortably aware of speed, of abrupt lane changes, and of the inevitable car that seemed to be attached to his exhaust pipe, waiting for a suitably dangerous moment to overtake him. It wasn't until they were past Avignon airport and had come onto the wider expanses of the autoroute that he felt the tension leave his shoulders.

Lucy and Cyrus had been silent, wincing at the near misses and the indignant blare of horns. “I don't understand these guys,” said Lucy. “What's their rush? You told me it was nice and quiet and sleepy down here.”

Andre braked as a baby Citroen cut sharply in front of him. “It's in the genes, Lulu. All Frenchmen are born with a heavy right foot. Enjoy the scenery. Try not to look at the cars.”

They were still heading south, Paradou's taxi a comfortable distance behind them, the afternoon sun inching toward its gradual, spectacular dip into the Mediterranean. Even from the insulated cocoon of the car, they could sense the heat outside, the baked quality of the limestone hills, sharp against the dense blue of the sky. And then,
approaching Aix, they saw the jagged mass of Sainte-Victoire, the mountain that held such fascination for Cézanne.

Andre opened his window as they eased into the Aix traffic, and they felt a touch of freshness in the air, a light breeze blowing spray from the grand and elaborate fountain at the bottom of the Cours Mirabeau. “There you are, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “the most beautiful street in France.” They entered a long tunnel, green and cool and shady, formed by branches of the plane trees on either side of the Cours. “Now, it was a long time ago, but I seem to remember a hotel … yes, there. The Nègre-Coste. How about that?”

Paradou watched as they gave the car keys to the hotel doorman and took their bags inside. Giving them five minutes, to make sure they had rooms, he paid the cabdriver and found a bench almost opposite the hotel. He was wondering where he could rent a car, when there was the sound of ringing from his pocket.

“Paradou? Where are you?” Holtz's voice sounded thin and faint.

“Aix. They checked into a hotel five minutes ago.”

“Have they met anybody?”

Paradou shook his head in exasperation. “I can't see through stone walls. Wait, they've come out again. Just the three of them.” Silence while he watched them walk up the street. “OK. They're going into a café. I'll call you
later.” Paradou saw that the café was crowded. Service would be slow. He licked his lips at the sight of a waiter with a tray of cold golden beers and walked down the street in search of a car to rent.

While Cyrus went inside to call Franzen, Lucy and Andre examined the other customers on the Deux Garçons' terrace—tourists, local businessmen taking their ease after a hard day's work, and university students taking their ease after practically no work at all. Lucy was fascinated by the students, some of whom, as Andre had said, were remarkably good-looking: flirting, laughing, making great play with their dark glasses and their cigarettes, getting up frequently for their ritualistic embraces.

“Those aren't college kids,” said Lucy. “They're serial kissers. Look at them.”

“It's on the curriculum, Lulu. They major in osculation. What are you going to have?”

They ordered, and watched the slow-moving, ever-changing swell of humanity come and go on the sidewalk, stares from the passersby being met by stares from the café tables, an endless, leisurely exchange of idle curiosity. Andre smiled at Lucy; not wanting to miss anything, she moved her intent face from side to side like a radar scanner, sucking everything in. He took her chin between both hands and brought his face close to hers. “Remember me?” he said. “The one you came with?”

“Good grief,” said Cyrus, standing over them as the waiter arrived. “It must be catching. There was a couple in the next phone booth absolutely
pasted
together. They're still there. Ah, youth.” He sat down and picked up his glass. “Well, we're all set. We're meeting Nico at a restaurant called Le Fiacre in the country, about half an hour from here. He's bringing someone he calls his
petite amie
.” He took a deep swallow of beer and smacked his lips with enjoyment. “Should be an interesting evening.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Another babe. The place, is crawling with them.”

“I think we should just play it by ear,” said Cyrus. “Don't you? But I'm inclined to tell him everything. I think we have to now.”

They talked over the possibilities: whether Franzen had in fact painted the fake (more than likely); whether he and Holtz were firm partners (something Cyrus chose to doubt); whether Franzen knew Denoyer; whether he knew where the original painting had gone; a dozen questions and no answers. In the end, they were agreed that it was time, as Cyrus had said, to come clean.

The first faint violet tinge of dusk was turning the Cours Mirabeau into a luminous cavern. Students started leaving the café to pursue the educational opportunities of the evening. Strolling couples, arm in arm, stopped to look at the menus displayed outside restaurants. Paradou stood up, rubbed his aching buttocks, and left his bench to trail the three figures walking back to their hotel.

“You can see why the old boy painted it so often, can't you?” said Cyrus. “Look at that. Magic.” They were heading east on the D17, Sainte-Victoire on their left, its peak catching the final afterglow of the sunset, its lower slopes already in deep shadow. And then, suddenly, darkness. Although they were only a few miles outside Aix, there were few signs of habitation apart from pinpricks of light from distant farmhouses. Traffic was sparse—the occasional unlit tractor wheezing home, the occasional hurtling car going in the other direction. And one set of headlights well behind them, keeping an unusually considerate distance for a French driver, hardly noticeable in the rearview mirror.

Paradou leaned back in his seat, bracing his arms against the steering wheel. This was more like it. Out here in the sticks, he would surely get his chance. He was tempted to move up on them, run them off the road, and finish the job with the gun that had been burning a hole in his armpit since Paris; but professional caution prevailed. Patience, Bruno, patience. They weren't going far, or they would have brought their luggage. When they stopped, that would be the time.

“Are you sure this is right, Cyrus? It doesn't look like a gastronomic wonderland out here, and I know
Nico likes his food.” Andre slowed down to take a sharp bend.

“He said it was marked by the side of the D17. Look, what's that up there?”

It was a wooden post, supporting a sign with red, white, and blue lettering:
FIACRE. Le patron mange ici
. An arrow pointed up a side road little wider than a cart track. Cyrus let out a relieved sigh.

Andre followed the twists in the road for half a mile, and they came upon one of those delightful surprises that the French take for granted: a small, charming, and—from the look of the car park—popular restaurant in the middle of nowhere. Architecturally, it was modest, a plain, two-story building covered in the skin of pink
crépis
that often hides or holds together the stone of the original construction; modest perhaps, but well kept, with a vine trellis running the length of the facade, and a broad terrace with tables and chairs overlooking a floodlit garden planted with cypress trees, oleander bushes, and one wrinkled old olive tree.

“I'm sorry, Cyrus.” Andre pulled into one of the few vacant parking places. “I take it all back. This looks serious.”

A few heads turned as they walked across to the terrace, and there was Franzen, lost in conversation with a statuesque woman wearing a gray dress that set off her salt-and-pepper hair.

“Here we go,” said Cyrus. “Fingers crossed.”