The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne (9 page)

Marine felt Verlaque staring at her. She looked down at the portrait and said, “This woman, whoever she is, is radiant.”

“Yes, she's having a good time,” Verlaque said. “Which means that the painter was having a good time, too,
non
?”

“One would think that the two are related, yes,” Dr. Bonnet answered.

“What makes you think that it's a real Cézanne?” Paulik asked.

“The colors, for one,” Dr. Bonnet said. “It's full of color, even her face.”

Marine bent down, getting as close to the canvas as possible without touching it. She said, “There are all kinds of color in her face: pink, of course, but look at those bits of green and blue. Even yellow.” She pointed, her finger hovering about an inch above the canvas. “Yellow in her eyebrows, and at the tip of her mouth.”

“Cézanne called them ‘sensations of color,'” Anatole Bonnet said, “like planes of color falling on top of each other. It happens in the backgrounds, too; they were just as important to him as the face. Cézanne—I mean, the painter of this canvas—has given just as much attention to the green wall behind the sitter as he does her face. That's a Cézanne quality.”

“You can see those Cézanne geometric forms here, too,” Verlaque said, pointing to the canvas. “The ruffled collar of her dress is just a series of cylinders.”

“
Exactement
,” Marine's father replied. “But this has something else—”

“What?” Marine and Verlaque asked in unison.

“Personality,” Dr. Bonnet replied. “Because Antoine's right—Cézanne was more interested in shape and color than in the sitter. But this young woman's personality shines through.”

The foursome stood in silence, staring at the red-haired woman, who sat upright, laughing at the painter. She had full lips and large blue eyes, wore a simple blue blouse and skirt, and in her hands she played with a thin yellow ribbon. The chair was a wood-backed one of the sort still popular in Provence, and the wall was green with no paintings or other adornments.

“And Cézanne usually didn't reveal the sitter's personality?” Paulik asked.

“No,” Dr. Bonnet replied. “He didn't. He never hired female models, either. Even his
Bathers
series he took from nude studies from the Académie Suisse in Paris, where he had studied as a young man. He was notoriously shy, especially around women.”

“Hence all the portraits of Hortense,” Marine suggested.

“Yes, he was married to Hortense, so there must have been an easiness between them, or a familiarity at least.”

“Was it usual for him to sign his paintings?” Verlaque asked, pointing to the
P. Cézanne
written on the painting's right-hand bottom corner.

“No,” Dr. Bonnet said. “He rarely signed, as he was frequently unhappy with his results. And he rarely dated his works, but this one is clearly dated, '85.”

“As if he wanted to remember the date,” Marine said. “Like dating the back of a photograph.”

Anatole Bonnet mumbled to himself, took a clean handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew his nose. “His last portraits, painted in 1905 and '06, just before his death, were of his gardener, old Vallier,” he said, folding up his hankie. “Those had more intimacy than the earlier portraits, at least for me, because you see in the old man's face the painter's own fear of dying, of growing old.”

Marine looked at her father and tried to see if he felt the same fear. She had never spoken to her parents about growing old, probably because they never sat still.

“It's the gardener's aged, wrinkled hands that reveal Cézanne's old age,” he went on. “And in those paintings the paint is layered on, very thickly, like in this portrait.”

“It's very Rembrandtesque,” Marine said.

“A very apt comparison,” Dr. Bonnet said, smiling. “The paintings of Vallier are very moving, like Rembrandt's late self-portraits. But this one is joyous. And if we are to believe the date, it was painted a good twenty years before the Vallier portraits.”

“So it's not in his later style?” Verlaque asked.

“Not at all,” Dr. Bonnet answered. “But there's another mystery here, which is now giving me doubts as to the painting's authenticity.”

This time Verlaque, Paulik, and Marine all blurted out, “What?”

“It's just that Cézanne rarely painted women,” Anatole Bonnet said. “Especially young, pretty women. I can think of a portrait of a very old woman—she was probably a maid at the rue Boulegon—and the Mme Cézanne portraits, of course. And then maybe one or two others. But that's it. It would have been very out of character for Cézanne to do a painting such as this one. He's smitten.”

Astonish Paris with an Apple

B
runo Paulik tore his brioche in two and took a bite. “You know what I don't understand?” he asked, still chewing. “Why are art experts always so intent on attaching dates and styles to a painting? ‘This is his late style,' or, ‘This is the blue period'—that kind of thing. How do they know? What if Cézanne just felt like slathering on the paint that day in 1885? It was a Tuesday, a sunny April day, and he
felt like
trying something new? What if, for once, he was in a jolly mood and just
felt like
having the sitter smile and laugh?”

“Or the sitter was so comfortable with him that she laughed naturally?” Verlaque said, looking over at the red-haired woman.

Paulik dipped a corner of his brioche into his coffee and Verlaque tried not to wince. Verlaque said, “But I think—although I get what you're saying—that an artist as serious as Cézanne didn't change his style on an April morning just
for the fun of it. It was too risky; it took him so long to get there. Remember all those salon refusals, the bad reviews, the mocking—even in Aix?”

“Especially here in Aix.”

“Right,” Verlaque said, sipping his coffee.

Paulik chewed. “Yeah, I get it. I guess he wouldn't have had the interest, or the time, to start fooling around with another technique.”

“By 1885 he had finally found his gift. He wouldn't take that lightly. But—”

“Who knows?”

“Right—”

“He was human,” Paulik said, holding his arms out. “We change from day to day. We get giddy, or we're in a bad mood.”

“Yes.” Verlaque put his cup down and stared over at the painting.

Their musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in,” Verlaque said.

Jules Schoelcher, a young policeman originally from Alsace, walked in and greeted his superiors with a stiff but sincere “Good afternoon.” Seeing Paulik's half-eaten brioche, he added, “Bon appétit, sir.”

“
C'est mon goûter
,” Paulik replied. “It's five p.m., afternoon snack time all over the world.”

“Any news on the Boulegon case?” Verlaque asked.

“The fingerprints we've found in the apartment are René Rouquet's, and a few of Dr. Schultz's. No others,” Jules said.

“So the man she saw was wearing gloves,” Verlaque said.

“Or she was lying,” Paulik suggested.

“And I got ahold of Edmund Lydgate,” Schoelcher said.

“The retired auctioneer?” Verlaque asked.

“Yes,” Schoelcher replied. “René Rouquet did call him, but Lydgate claims he could hardly make sense of what Rouquet was saying. They hung up not having managed to make a rendezvous. Officer Flamant checked Lydgate's alibi; an old farmer named Elzéard Bois lives on the main road says he spoke with Lydgate Friday night. Besides, Lydgate told me he can't drive; he had his license suspended for impaired driving.”

“Someone else could have driven him,” Verlaque suggested. “But it seems unlikely that a retired auctioneer from a prestigious auction house would get caught up in this. What else have you got?”

“Officer Flamant and I are going over photos of art thieves who fit the description of the man Dr. Schultz saw,” Schoelcher said.

“And?” Verlaque asked.

“Short, stocky, and bald fits more than half of them.”

“As I figured,” Verlaque replied, looking at his commissioner.

“Hey!” Paulik said as he wiped the crumbs off of the desk and put them gently into the palm of his hand.

“You're bald and stocky, but not short,” Verlaque said, smiling. “Are any of those guys from Aix?”

“No,” Schoelcher replied. “One lives outside of Paris; he's rehabilitated and has been working in trucking for years. The rest are still in jail. But—”

“Go on.”

“It might not be an art thief, right? Just a thief who got lucky, who perhaps overheard Rouquet talking about the painting? Or found out about it somehow?”

“Good idea,” Verlaque said. “I'll call Pierre and ask a few more questions about Rouquet's daily life.”

Schoelcher turned to go and saw the canvas on Verlaque's spare desk. “Wow,” he said, frozen. “She's—I mean it's—beautiful.”

“We're having a hard time not looking at it,” Verlaque said. “But it's going into the vault this evening.”

“ ‘I will astonish Paris with an apple,' ” Schoelcher said.

Paulik stared at the young officer and then looked at Verlaque.

“Pardon?” Verlaque asked.

“That's what Cézanne said,” Schoelcher replied. “ ‘I will astonish Paris with an apple.' ”

 • • • 

Verlaque walked down the north side of the Cours, happy he wasn't standing in the queue in front of Michaud's. He stopped once he was in front of the real estate agency's windows. Lacking much of a sweet tooth, he was more enticed by glossy real estate pictures than the beautiful chocolate desserts across the street. He played an imaginary game in his head as he looked at the photographs, eliminating each house until he found his favorite. He began with locations: the Drôme, too far; Saint-Tropez, too busy and phony. He wanted rough stone, so eliminated those covered in smooth stucco. He preferred asymmetrical to symmetrical, so eliminated houses that looked too boxy. His eyes finally rested on one with an enchanting, long lane leading up to the house that was lined with alternating plane and umbrella-pine trees. The more he looked at it the more familiar it became: it was the house of Jacob, a friend in the cigar club who had announced he was moving to London, where he worked most of the week anyway. A little bell sounded as the glass doors to the agency opened and a tall, slim woman in her early seventies stuck her head out the door, smiling at him. “It's a lovely house, isn't it?”

“I want it,” Verlaque said, smiling. “Antoine Verlaque.” He reached out and shook her hand.

“I know,” she said. “Natalie Chazeau. I've seen you around Aix. Come in before you freeze to death; it's a good evening for German food.”

“That's exactly what I'm getting for dinner.”

“We'll go upstairs to the conference room,” she said, ushering him inside. “I don't want an examining magistrate to see the mess in my office. Julie, take messages for me.”

“
Oui
, madame.”

“I've always admired your agency,” Verlaque said as he walked up the stairs. “Very tasteful.”

“Thank you,” Mme Chazeau said, opening the conference room door. She liked the look of Verlaque and did not hide the fact that she was taking her time looking at him. It was, sometimes, a privilege to be old.

“How are sales since the crisis?” he asked.

“Slow,” she answered, sitting down and motioning for Verlaque to do the same. “It's one thing to list exclusive properties, and another to sell them.”

“Which is why you run the syndicat at number twenty-three rue Boulegon?”

“Exactly,” she answered. “We had a meeting just before M. Rouquet's death.”

“I know,” Verlaque said, taking out a notebook and pen. “My commissioner told me. Was there anything peculiar or unusual about that meeting?”

“A few things,” she said. “We had two new owners present, Eric and Françoise Legendre. They own an apartment on the fourth floor. They told me after the meeting that they both worked in restaurants in New York before moving back here.
They used their life savings to buy M. Millot's apartment, but to them it was a steal, compared to New York.”

“I can imagine. I've briefly met them. What are they like, in your opinion?”

“He's a bully,” she answered. “Françoise is sweet, but is under his thumb.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, Pierre Millot came, even though he's already sold his apartment.”

“That's odd,” Verlaque said. “He didn't tell me he was at the last meeting.”

“There was a quarrel about a storage space on the ground floor. Everyone wants to use it, but M. Rouquet didn't even seem to know it was his. He stormed out, and Pierre ran after him. I then saw them in the street, arguing.”

“Thank you,” Verlaque said as he finished writing. Another detail his friend Pierre left out.

“M. Rouquet definitely had something else on his mind that evening. Normally he argues about any raise in the monthly fees, but he just sat there, playing with his hat.”

Verlaque put his notebook back in his jacket pocket. “You've been helpful, thank you. How is Christophe?”

“He's like anyone when they first move to Paris.”

“He loves it?”

“Yes, and soon he'll hate it.”

Verlaque laughed as he got up. He looked out at the plane trees just outside the office's windows and looked down into the street. Mme Chazeau said nothing, letting him watch the comings and goings of her fellow Aixois. “It's amazing, this view,” he finally said. “You can see everything: people walking and chatting, a little kid having a meltdown in front of Michaud's,
scooters racing up and down the Cours . . . but you can't hear anything. It's eerie.”

“Triple-glazed windows,” Mme Chazeau said. She liked the judge more and more.

 • • • 

“
Choucroute pour deux
,” Verlaque said. “
S'il vous plaît
.”

“With the usual sausages?” the deli's owner asked.

“
Oui, deux saucisses de Morteau
,” Verlaque said, pointing to the thin pink sausages. “And two Montbéliard, and a couple of frankfurters. And heaps of sauerkraut, please. Yours is proper sauerkraut, with juniper berries and peppercorns.”

The owner scooped the cabbage into a large plastic container. “Thank you. It's my grandfather's recipe; he'd make it in the back shed with his brother every winter.”

“One of my coworkers is from Alsace. He must come here. He's a good-looking guy, young, tall, and blond. Quite fit.”

“Oh yes, I know him. Jules. Yes, he comes with his fiancée.” The owner smiled. He knew that Verlaque was trying to be discreet about his profession, but he knew that Verlaque was a magistrate, and that Jules was a policeman.

“Oh, so they're getting married?” Verlaque asked. He knew that Jules was dating a cute brunette who worked at Aix's only coffee-roasting house, but he had no idea that they were engaged.

“He caught the bug,” the owner replied, smiling.

“Disease, more like it,” Verlaque said, thinking of his parents. He walked over to the small wine selection. “Jules is far too young.”

The owner shrugged. “He must be about twenty-five,” he said. “Maybe even close to thirty. I had two kids by then. Best thing I ever did.”

“Some people do stay happily married, I suppose,” Verlaque mumbled.

“Oh no, we divorced long ago,” the owner said, laughing.

Verlaque laughed out loud.

“But I love my daughters,” the owner went on. “That's what I meant.”

“Enough talk about marriage, then. Do you have any new Rieslings?” Verlaque asked. “I have a few in my cellar, but I'm always open to new suggestions. I love Riesling; so does my girlfriend.”

“Ah, the world's great undervalued wine,” the owner replied. “Here, I just got six bottles of this one. Small family production, organic. Domaine Bott-Geyl.”

“I like the modern label.”

“Ah, never judge—”

“I know, I know,” Verlaque said, excited to be on one of his favorite topics. “But I have a theory about winemakers who pay a graphic artist real money to design their labels.”

“Go on.”

“I figure that if they care that much about the label, and are willing to pay for it, then they must have put a lot of care and thought into their wine.”

“I agree.”

“I'll take two,” Verlaque said. “Luckily I live around the corner.”

“Luckily for me,” the owner said. “Have a good evening.”

Verlaque thanked him, paid the bill, and walked down the rue Gaston de Saporta, past the cathedral, turning left into the Place de l'Archevêché, which would take him to the tiny rue Adanson where he lived. Holding the food and wine in his right arm, he opened that building's elaborately carved wooden
doors with his left. He saw his mail sitting on the marble console in the hallway but his hands were too occupied to pick it up; he'd do it later. Walking up to his fourth-floor flat he came across Arnaud—a young student who lived with his widowed mother on the first floor—coming down the stairs.

“Hey, Arnaud,” Verlaque said.

Arnaud held up a drill. “
Bonsoir, Juge
,” he said. “Just finished hanging the plate.”

“Thank you. How does it look?”

“Funky.”

“That means you don't like it.”

Arnaud laughed. “It's not to my taste,” he said. “That Soulages painting, on the other hand, I love.”