The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne (4 page)

Pierre looked at Jean-Marc.

“We're having more galettes tonight, aren't we?” Verlaque asked, following Jean-Marc and Pierre into the kitchen.

“Julien and Fabrice bought three at Michaud's,” Jean-Marc said.

“For an insane amount of money,” Pierre added.

“One's even decorated,” Jean-Marc continued, his voice flat with sarcasm. “With a big cigar in brown icing. Julien and Fabrice charmed one of the salesgirls into asking the baker to add it.”

Verlaque smiled at the thought of two overweight middle-aged men being able to charm a pretty young girl in her twenties. Jean-Marc opened a cupboard and reached his hand inside, pouring the hidden single malt into a crystal tumbler, then quickly closing the cupboard and handing Verlaque the glass.

“You can decline the galette,” Pierre said.

Verlaque took a drink and smiled. “
Ah, la tourbe d'Islay.
I do like this heavy peaty taste,” he said. “Thank you for managing to save me some.” He sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter.

“Rough day?” Jean-Marc asked.

“It began terribly but was salvaged by hearing a ten-year-old sing Fauré, but then—” He closed his eyes and took another sip. “I'm not sure what happened after that. Something went wrong with Marine, but I have no idea what, or why. Do you two ever have those lapses of communication?”

“Never,” Jean-Marc replied, while Pierre said, “All the time.”

They laughed, and Verlaque added, “And I think I will decline on the dessert.”

“What's this about dessert?” Julien asked, entering the kitchen. “When do we get our galettes?” He helped himself to a chocolate and Pierre slapped his hand.

“How can you still be hungry?” Pierre asked. “You had two helpings of Jean-Marc's daube.”

“Don't worry, Julien,” Jean-Marc said, flattered that his Provençal beef stew had gone over so well. “Antoine was just saying he might pass on dessert.”

“What—?”

“Who's passing on galettes des rois?” Fabrice asked, forcing his way into the small kitchen.

“Antoine,” Julien said, looking suspiciously at Verlaque's glass.

“Hey, guys!” Gaspard called out over the heads. Gaspard Baille was six foot four, almost a foot taller than Julien and Fabrice. “We want to start smoking the Hoyo de Monterrey. What are you all doing, gabbing in the kitchen like a bunch of old ladies?”

“
Merci, Gaspard!
” Jean-Marc hollered, ushering the men out with his hands. “I could use a little more room in the kitchen to load the dishwasher and start it running.” Jean-Marc was never comfortable when he hosted a dinner party unless he had the kitchen cleaned and the dishwasher
en route
.

Pierre, knowing his boyfriend's quirks, followed the men out of the kitchen, taking Verlaque aside in the hallway. “When things have calmed down a bit, I have a favor to ask.”

“No problem,” Verlaque replied, trying to block out the noise of Julien and Fabrice squabbling over possession of an armchair. “Has your apartment sale gone through?”

“Yes, no hitches,” Pierre said. “Cash buyer. My favor
actually concerns the apartment. Well, not my apartment, but my neighbor's.”

“The cranky old guy?”

Pierre laughed. “Yes, I quit the rue Boulegon for a more upscale street in Aix, only to end up with another cranky old guy as a neighbor.”

“The well-off can be even more surly—”

“Antoine! Pierre! We're opening the cigar box!”

“
On arrive!
” Verlaque hollered back.

Verlaque walked into Jean-Marc and Pierre's small but elegant living room and saw Julien hovering over Fabrice—who had won the armchair fight—with his watch in his hands. “I'm timing Fabrice,” Julien said, trying to pick at the small dial on his expensive Tag Heuer watch. His hands were too large, and Virginie, the club's sole female member, offered to help. Verlaque looked on, perplexed.

“Fabrice gets thirty minutes in the chair,” Virginie explained, setting the watch's alarm with her slender fingers.

“Oh for heaven's sake,” Verlaque replied, but he couldn't help laughing.

Gaspard passed around a small bundle of the evening's second cigar. Verlaque selected a bouncy, still-humid cigar, and took out his cutter. “There's no band,” he remarked as he turned the dark brown torpedo-shaped cigar in his hand. He felt his cell phone vibrate in his jacket pocket and hoped that it was Marine.

“They're from our Cuba trip,” Gaspard replied.

“
Bijou!
” Fabrice yelled.

“Jewel?” Verlaque asked, looking at Gaspard.

“That's my Cuban nickname,” Gaspard earnestly explained. “We all get one, once we go to Cuba. You have to come on the next trip.”

Julien added, “The welcome lady—a big, roly-poly Cuban—took one look at our handsome Gaspard and gave him that name on the spot.”

“Bijou suits Gaspard perfectly. So what name did she give you two?” Verlaque asked, pointing to Julien and Fabrice.

Julien coughed and Fabrice changed the subject. “We bought these cigars at a private cigar roller's operation, in Centro Habana,” Fabrice said.

Verlaque smiled at Fabrice's intentional use of the “b” in Havana.

Fabrice cut his cigar and began to light it. “It's a two-man show, in the back of this old hotel,” he continued. “One guy rolls, the other guy, Emilio, is the patron. Brings you rum and coffee and sits down with you for a smoke. We bought tons. No cigar bands, either. Chic, eh?”

“There was a fashion designer who did that a few years ago,” Virginie said. “Reverse marketing; hide the brand name. They just left four little white stitches of thread on the back of the dresses and shirts—”

“
Gracias
, Virginie,” Fabrice said.

Virginie rolled her eyes. “Go ahead and tell everyone about this kid Alberto you met,” she said.

Fabrice, the club's president, leaned forward. “We took two days and drove out to see the tobacco fields at Viñales,” he said. “We had to show them to Bijou. And we stayed in this tiny village, in a bed-and-breakfast run by this nice old lady and her daughter.”

“Neat as a pin,” Julien said.

“You could have eaten off the floor,” Fabrice added.

“And while we were having our mojitos on the terrace—” Julien continued.

“Naturally,” Verlaque said.

“This Cuban kid, about twenty years old, comes over to us from the neighbor's patio and asks if he can speak French with us,” Julien said. “And you should have heard his French.”

“Parisian accent and everything,” Fabrice cut in.

“Perfect slang, too,” Gaspard added. “Like any law student here in Aix.”

“Where did he learn it?” Jean-Marc asked. “I've heard the Cuban education is great—”

“Zero illiteracy in Cuba,” Gaspard said.

“Bijou turned Commie on us over there,” Julien explained.

Gaspard sighed. “There's just a lot that makes sense,” he said, leaning back and puffing his cigar. “Free education up to the PhD level; zero illiteracy; free medical care.”

“We have all that, too,” Jean-Marc said.

“I'm not sure that France has one hundred percent literacy,” Gaspard replied. “And I love the fact that they're not connected to cyberspace like we are—”

“Ha!” Julien snorted. “As if that's their choice!”

Gaspard tilted his head. “Well, I for one wouldn't miss not having Internet, or Facebook, or Twitter.”

“I could handle no social media,” Virginie said. “I wouldn't have to look at ten photos of my sister's kids everyday.”

“This Alberto,” Pierre said, refilling peoples' flutes with champagne, and trying to get back to the story. He hated political discussions at parties. And so far no one had remarked on his new flutes, bought at a consignment shop beside the Rotonde fountain. Each crystal glass was etched with a dragonfly—his favorite animal—and he was besotted with them. “So where did Alberto learn his French?”

“He fell in love with a French girl,” Fabrice said.

“Classic!” Verlaque bellowed.

“She was studying music at the conservatory in Habana,” Fabrice said. “Alberto explained that the best French music students often get sent to Cuba, whose conservatory is even more rigorous than ours.”

“See,” said Gaspard.

Verlaque thought of little Léa and tried to imagine her in Cuba in ten years' time.

“They're no longer together,” Gaspard said. “But Alberto even visited her once. In Manosque!”

“Manosque!” Verlaque hollered again. Manosque was one of Provence's more authentic small towns, about an hour north of Aix.

Julien waved his hands in excitement. “Now this is the best part,” he said. “So Alberto goes waxing on about Provence—how great the food and wine are, what a slow-paced life we have—”

“I don't,” Jean-Marc said, who was a lawyer in a busy Aix firm.

“Yes you do,” Pierre said. “Compared to lawyers in big cities.”

“May I continue?” Julien asked.

“Sorry,” Pierre whispered.

“So when Alberto excused himself to go to the bathroom, we three got our brilliant minds together—right, Bijou?”

“Yep,” Gaspard said. “And we started scheming how we could get Alberto into France, to live.”

“Get his working papers sussed, put up a collection for his plane tickets, etc.,” Fabrice said.

“Great idea!” Virginie said. “I'm in!”

Fabrice held up his thick hand. “But it's not finished,” he
said. “When Alberto came back from the john, we told him of our plan. And he was totally shocked.”

“Of course,” Pierre said. “Random acts of kindness—”

“No!” Fabrice said. “He didn't want to come!”

“He said that he could never leave Cuba,” Julien added.

Gaspard sat back, smiling.

“Alberto said that he was a musician, and that his music was that of the island,” Fabrice said. “Or something poetic to that effect. He said he loved France but would never want to live here. Can you imagine?”

“You never can tell what people are thinking,” Julien said, puffing on his cigar. “It may be the opposite of what you've assumed, or what
you
would want.”

“Nice philosophizing,” Fabrice said, rolling his eyes.

Verlaque puffed on his cigar and thought of Marine. But the problem was, he couldn't even
guess
at what was wrong. He slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at his message; it was from Sébastien, his real-estate-mogul younger brother. “So, Gaspard,” he said, putting his phone away. “Now that you've seen some of the positive effects of Communism, are you going to do pro bono work when you finish law school? Community service, that sort of thing—”

“Are you kidding?” Gaspard asked.

Just then the alarm sounded on Julien's watch and he pulled at a reluctant Fabrice.

Verlaque took a sip of champagne and turned the flute around in his hand. “Nice glasses,” he said.

Pierre leaned back, smoking, with his eyes closed. One thing that the Aix cigar club had taught Verlaque was that cigar lovers can come from all walks of life. He watched Pierre, who worked in a bookshop on the Cours Mirabeau, and probably
made only slightly more than minimum wage, savor the last bit of his Hoyo de Monterrey.

 • • • 

“Ready to continue with your story?” Verlaque asked. “Now that everyone has left.” Jean-Marc came in with three espressos on an antique tray, carefully setting it down on the coffee table.

“Yes, of course,” Pierre said, sitting up.

“I didn't mean to disturb your last puffs,” Verlaque said. “But I have to get to bed soon.” He thought of walking home through the streets of Aix and trudging up the four flights of stairs to his apartment. However much he loved his apartment, with its view of Saint-Sauveur's spire and his small collection of paintings, he hated the thought of not sleeping next to Marine.

“
Oui, oui,
” Pierre said, setting his cigar in an oversize pale-blue Havana Club ashtray. “Sorry, I had a long day that ended with a
r
é
union de copropriétaires
,” he said.

“I loathe those meetings,” Verlaque said.

“I'll say,” Jean-Marc said. “Pierre came home in one awful mood.”

Pierre gave Jean-Marc an angry look, which surprised Verlaque. Was everyone fighting today?

Pierre began, “So, my cranky neighbor, or now my ex-neighbor, is named René Rouquet. He came to the bookstore, asking for my help. I feel like I owe it to him to help, despite the fact that he was—”

“Cranky.”

“Right.”

“René helped Pierre buy his studio,” Jean-Marc explained. “Almost fifteen years ago.”

“Really?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes,” Pierre answered. “He told me about a government scheme helping first-time buyers. I'm hopeless with money and
never would have known about it if René hadn't told me. I inherited a couple thousand from my grandparents, and that was enough, with the government almost matching it, for the down payment.”

“And of course prices in Aix were much less then,” Verlaque added.

“Exactly,” Pierre said. “Who would have thought I could sell a three-hundred-square-foot studio for so much money?”

“It
is
in the same building that Cézanne once lived in,” Verlaque commented. “Just mention the famous painter's name and people's knees go weak, especially here, in his hometown. We all want a piece of Paul Cézanne.”

Pierre shot Jean-Marc a look.

“How wise you are, Antoine,” Jean-Marc said, sipping his coffee.

“What did I say?” Verlaque asked.

“Continue, Pierre,” Jean-Marc said.