Chasing Cezanne (32 page)

Paradou came up the dark road on foot, carrying his bag, his car left by the side of the D17. Standing in the blackness at the edge of the garden, hidden behind a cypress tree, he was disappointed by what he saw. There were too many people, too many lights. But there was always the car. He walked softly around the gravel of the parking area until he came to the blue Renault.

A SHORT, round, smiling woman in blue jeans and white shirt met them at the edge of the terrace, using a rolled-up menu to protect them from the boisterous welcome of the restaurant dog, a terrier on spring-loaded legs.

“
Messieurs-dame, bonsoir, bonsoir
. You are the friends of Anouk?” She managed to swat the dog in midair. “
Hercule! Ça suffit!
Please—follow me.” She led them through the tables with a rolling, nautical walk, the terrier capering beside her. As Franzen saw them, he got to his feet, smiling and nodding while he made the introductions to his companion.

Anouk was not conventionally beautiful but certainly handsome. Her profile, under the thick sweep of hair, would have looked quite at home on a coin, and she had the olive Mediterranean skin that seems to retain the glow of the sun. Her eyes were dark, her hands strong and capable; not a woman to be trifled with. Cyrus twinkled at her, instinctively adjusting his bow tie.

Franzen busied himself with a bottle of rose, filling
everyone's glass while he spoke: “Everything is good here, but the
pissaladière
is exceptional, and you won't find better lamb in Provence. Am I right,
chérie?
” He spoke to her in the solicitous tone of a man who was still on slightly shaky ground and treading carefully.

“Often not,” said Anouk. “But in this case, yes.” Her English was heavily accented but confident, her smile taking any sting out of her words. She watched Franzen with wary fondness, like a mother keeping her eye on a cumbersome, willful child.

The prelude to dinner—that most appetizing period of happy indecision and dither as menus are studied and dishes discussed—was allowed to run its unhurried course. It was some time after the first bottle had been emptied and reinforcements ordered that Cyrus felt that the subject of business could decently be raised. “Nico,” he said, “we owe you an explanation.”

Andre started, conscious of the close attention being paid to him by Anouk, her eyes never leaving his face, her expression impassive. Franzen, in contrast, reacted visibly to each development—Andre's visit to Denoyer and the theft of his equipment being greeted with very high eyebrows indeed. And then, before Cyrus had a chance to take over, the first courses arrived: open-face tarts of olives, onions, and anchovies; bowls of vegetable, bean, and pasta soup singing with basil and garlic; pots of
tapenade
, salt cod
brandade
, an unctuous, jammy
ratatouille
—the opening salvo of a Provençal meal, one of the most delicious conversation-stoppers known to man.

Between mouthfuls, Cyrus glanced at Franzen, trying to gauge the effect on him of what he had heard so far. But the Dutchman was intent on his food and Anouk, exchanging a sip of his soup for a taste of her
brandade
, as though this were just a normal, convivial gathering of friends. Cyrus hoped the mood would survive the next series of revelations.

On the other side of the table, Lucy was receiving some murmured and largely ignored hints from Andre on the importance of pacing and early restraint, bearing in mind the four courses still to come. But it was hard for her; she had a healthy young appetite, she had missed lunch, and these earthy, tangy flavors were unlike anything she had experienced before. She was eating as voraciously as a truckdriver on Sunday, and it was a joy to see.

With dishes and bowls wiped clean and cleared away, Cyrus took a deep breath and resumed the story where Andre had left off. When he came to the arrival of Holtz in Paris, there was a noticeable reaction—not from Franzen, who of course already knew and simply nodded, but from Anouk. Her face hardened, there was a contemptuous snort, and she picked up her glass and drank deeply, as though the wine could overcome an unpleasant taste in her mouth. Cyrus was encouraged by this to lay his final card on the table: He wanted to handle the sale of
Woman with Melons
. The original version.

The arrival of the lamb, rosy pink and aromatic, with flat, crisp cakes of sliced, roasted potato, allowed Franzen a moment to take in what he had heard. But only a moment. Anouk turned to prod him with a stern index finger.
“
Alors
, Nico,” she said. “You have heard from them. It's time they heard from you.”

Franzen's account promised to take some time, with regular pauses while he dealt with his lamb. Yes, he said, he had done the fake, although he had never met Denoyer—Holtz had not thought it necessary. Again, at the mention of the name, a flicker of distaste went across Anouk's face; Cyrus marked her down as a potential ally. And then, Franzen said, something very curious happened: Holtz commissioned a second fake of the very same painting, something that the Dutchman, in many years of working with rogues, had never encountered before.

Cyrus, all innocence, might have been thinking out loud: “Extraordinary. I wonder who that could have been for?”

Franzen shrugged. “In my corner of the business, one doesn't ask. It was urgent, that's all I was told.”

“Denoyer wouldn't be too pleased if he knew there was another one floating around while Holtz was trying to sell the original.” Cyrus clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Most confusing—although it's quite possible that Holtz is planning to sell them both as originals.” He noticed the puzzled looks around the table. “He'd need a couple of gloaters—two very discreet clients who didn't want any publicity—but there are plenty of those to be found. I know a few myself.”

“And you're saying that each one would think he'd bought the original?” Andre shook his head. “Come on, Cyrus. It couldn't happen.”

“Don't bet on it, dear boy. Some people—most people, probably—like to show off what they've got; but for others, it's enough just to possess great paintings, even if they're always hidden in a vault. In fact, I'm told that can actually add to the thrill.” Cyrus sipped his wine, looking thoughtfully at Franzen. “You wouldn't happen to know where the original is, Nico?”

Franzen looked at Anouk. If he was hoping for guidance, none was forthcoming. Her face was expressionless, and Cyrus had his answer before the Dutchman spoke: “I have it,” he said. “I have them both.” He nodded, reaching for his glass. Anouk allowed herself the slightest hint of a smile.

Cyrus sat back, saying nothing as salad, a great
plateau de fromage
, and more wine were brought to the table. He watched the Dutchman, who was now taking Lucy through the mysteries of French cheeses: the goat, the cow, the sheep, and the pungent crock of
cachat
, laced with brandy and garlic. Was it wishful thinking, or did Franzen seem to be relieved, like a man who had come to a decision? Cyrus gathered his thoughts and leaned forward.

“As I see it,” he said, “there are two possibilities. We can join forces, go to Cap Ferrat, and sit down with Denoyer—tell him about the second fake, return the original, and hope that we can arrange something with him that would be profitable to all of us. From what Andre has told me, he appears to be a decent man. He's committed to a sale, which is something that I can handle. The commission
will be substantial, and we can share it.” Cyrus grinned. “That's if everything goes according to plan, of course. But I don't see why it shouldn't.”

Franzen wiped his mouth and took some wine. “And the second possibility?”

“Ah, that,” said Cyrus. “Not as much fun, I'm afraid. We can thank you for a splendid dinner, go back to New York, and leave you and Mr. Holtz to live happily ever after.”

There was a thoughtful silence, during which a very sharp ear might have picked up the sound of a telephone coming from the darkness of the garden beyond the terrace.

Paradou retreated hastily from his vantage point behind the cypress tree until He was far enough away to speak. “They're in a restaurant outside Aix. They're with the Dutchman.”

Holtz muttered something that sounded vicious in a language Paradou didn't understand. Then, collecting himself, Holtz said, “I'm coming down. Where's the nearest airport?”

“Marseille. I may have some good news by the time you get there. I've done some work on their car.”

“I don't want anything to happen to the Dutchman. I'll call you from Marseille.” The phone went dead. With a final wistful look at the lights of the restaurant—he felt as though he hadn't eaten a good meal for days—Paradou walked down the track to wait in his car.

The mood at the table had moved from discussion to celebration. Franzen, with some encouraging nods and nudges from Anouk, had taken the decision to throw in his lot with Cyrus. Tomorrow morning, they would meet at Anouk's house and go together to Cap Ferrat, where Denoyer, impressed by their honesty, grateful for their help, won over by their charm, and appalled by Holtz's underhanded behavior, would appoint Cyrus to handle the sale. Their good humor and optimism were not entirely due to clear thought and reasoned analysis. With coffee, Franzen had insisted on ordering glasses—or small tumblers, this being a generous restaurant—of the chef's private stock of
marc
. As an aid to digestion, the fierce distillation of pressed grape skins possessed certain benefits that even learned members of the French medical profession had been known to acknowledge. But coming on top of a long evening's wine, it was enough to soften the hardest of heads.

They parted company in the parking lot—Anouk and Franzen headed to their village, a mile up the road, the others in what they hoped was the general direction of Aix.

Andre kept his speed down, driving with the exaggerated care of a man still just sober enough to know that his reflexes have been thoroughly pickled. Lucy and Cyrus, after sporadic attempts at conversation, dozed. Opening the window and leaning over to take as much air in his face as possible, Andre drove on, paying no attention to
the dimmed headlights well behind him as he peered into the night.

On unfamiliar, unmarked roads in the dark, filled with sudden forks and turnings, Andre felt the growing conviction through the muzziness in his head that he had lost his way. And then he was saved by a blessed blue and white sign for the A7. Once he was on the autoroute, it was only a few minutes to Aix.

He came down the access road, closing the window as he accelerated to keep up with the sparse traffic—mostly trucks on the night run to Paris with their cargoes of produce from the warm earth of the south. Anxious to be back in the hotel, and fighting off the heaviness in his eyelids, he blinked hard half a dozen times to help him focus, then pulled out to pass a double-length Spanish
frigorífico
.

It was late, and the driver of the truck was careless; he should have checked his mirror before beginning to change lanes. With the awful clarity that comes immediately before an accident, Andre saw the name on the back of the truck, the cluster of lights, the dusty mud flaps, the
Viva Real Madrid
sticker, the pattern on the tires—saw it all, saw it in the split second it took him to hit the brakes. And saw it all in extreme close-up when there was suddenly no resistance from the pedal as the brake cable gave way.

He wrenched the wheel to the left, taking the car over the grass strip and through the hedge of oleanders dividing the highway, across three lanes, through the barrier on the far side, and down the slope beyond, plowing through bushes and branches and rocks until, with a final screech of
tortured metal and a crackle of breaking glass, the car came to rest against a pine tree. By some fluke, the engine was still running. Andre reached forward and turned it off with a hand that shook against the steering column.