The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne (13 page)

“I'd invite your mother but I know she hates me.”

“She's at Saint Jean de Malte,” Marine said, smiling. “And she doesn't hate you. She has a hard time with the cigars.”

“And my family money.”

“And the antique Porsche,” Marine said, laughing.

“The list goes on and on!”

“She'll eventually come around. But we do need to talk. I want to explain what happened the other night, after the Pauliks'.”

“Okay,” Verlaque said. “But first, we eat.”

•
JANUARY 23, 1885
•

I
t's so beautiful here, even in winter,” Manon said, looking at the vista before them. “Don't you think so, M. Cézanne?” She passed him a dried fig. They had already passed the time speaking of the weather (warm and sunny, with no wind) and the painter had suggested they sit and share their lunches. He was every bit as awkward as her brother, Philippe, had described him, and yet she liked his company, and she was intrigued by his art.

“Beauty is a complex subject,” he answered, carefully tearing the fig in two and slowly eating half. “It's the hills and mountains of Provence, fields in sun, pine forests, villages clinging to craggy slopes, the sea . . . But I'm not interested in the specific features of the landscape.”

Manon looked over at his half-finished painting and said, “You're making it complicated, monsieur,” she said, smiling. Philippe had told her that a peasant once saw Cézanne throw a rock into the middle of a landscape he had been working on. “So, what
is
beauty for you?”

Cézanne looked at her, surprised and slightly annoyed by her audacity. He shrugged. “A better painter can show you the detail of the pine tree, or the petals of a flower.”

She pressed on, having been taught by her brother to question art. “
Mais pour vous, monsieur
—”

Cézanne looked at her. “Mlle Solari, you can be very . . . persistent.” He looked straight ahead, but he could feel her eyes on him. Why not answer her questions? Isn't that what was missing with Hortense? “
Bon, mademoiselle
,” he began. “Beauty for me is in the form, and color, of a natural object. That other painter, the traditional one, he's painting reality for you. I'm questioning it. At least I'm trying to. There, you've made me answer your question. Thank you for the fig.” He reached over and patted Manon's shoulder, then quickly drew his hand away.

“Figs are a treat,” Manon said, as if she hadn't even noticed his touch. “We eat a lot of soup at home.”

“Soup is one of the best things we can put in our bodies.”

“Well, M. Cézanne,” Manon said, laughing, “ours is mostly broth, with a little bread. You're still hungry after you've had a bowl.”

Cézanne drew his legs up to his chest, embarrassed by his family's wealth. “How do you find working at Michaud's?” he asked, coughing. “Is Mme Michaud kind to you girls?”

“Oh yes,” Manon answered, feeling the painter's awkwardness, so answering with a half lie. “She lets us take home leftover desserts. Not at all good for Maman's sweet tooth.”

Cézanne laughed. “Your brother, Philippe, and I once met a woman in Paris—a rich woman who is a patron of the arts. She ate only sweets. You should have seen her!” He held out his hand in front of him, imitating a giant stomach, and blew out his cheeks. Manon laughed and he spoke on, encouraged. “She never walked. Anywhere! Walking, and eating soup every day, like a Provençal, that's a good life.”

“But
Paris
,” Manon said. “To be able to buy art, and live in Paris.”

“I'm surprised you're interested in Paris, Manon. May I call you that?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. He hadn't given her the permission to call him Paul, but she didn't think she could ever call him that. He was much older than she, came from a wealthy family, and as a painter had traveled in circles she could only dream about. She said, “But who isn't interested in the capital, especially if you've never been there?”

Cézanne laughed. “Yes, you've never heard the trains blasting through the night, or the drunk men and women in Montmartre—”

“Women, too?”

“Yes, sadly,” he said. “And so many of the old neighborhoods are gone now, just like your old wall in Aix. Baron Haussmann tore them down to build grand boulevards; they're vast and straight, all right, but for the rich, lined with luxury shops and cafés.”

Manon smiled. “Your rich patron must waddle to them.”

Cézanne laughed and slapped his knee. He had been intrigued by Manon's sensitivity, but she was funny, too. Her southern accent was charming, and it reminded him of his own life in Paris, of things he wouldn't tell her. He just said, “And
Parisians can be unkind.” He thought of the laughter that rang through the Salon des Refusés in 1870 when he had been barely thirty years old and terrified of Paris. Fifteen years had already passed since that night, and yet he still cringed when remembering the art critic Monsieur Stock's words: “
Such a shocking Southern accent!
” Monet had tried to cheer him up. “Chin up, Paul. Stock said that I painted with a spatula, or a scrubbing brush—”

“And I with a broom,” Edouard Manet had chimed in, patting Cézanne on the back.

“A spatula works quite well, actually,” Cézanne had said quite seriously, and his friends broke into laughter.

Manon saw that Cézanne was smiling and she said, “There must be some good things about Paris, M. Cézanne.”

“Yes,” he answered. “There are your fellow painters in Paris, your comrades, and that's a good thing.”

“And M. Zola.”

“
Oui, lui aussi
. But I prefer Provence and its countryside and villages. What do you do out here, anyway? Besides walking.”

“I collect plants,” Manon said, lifting up her cloth bag.

“To use in cooking?”

“Of course,” she answered. “I gather everything we need for a
bouquet garni
 . . . thyme, rosemary—”

“I know, I know,” Cézanne said, getting impatient. Even if his family now had a cook, he did know what went into a bouquet garni. “Bay leaf, marjoram—”

“Finding marjoram is the hardest part.”

“Ah, what I wouldn't give for a good ratatouille right now,” Cézanne said. “But of course it's not the season.”

“We call it caponata
chez nous
,” Manon said. “It's better than Provençal ratatouille.”

“Oh, indeed?”

Manon laughed at the painter's sarcasm. “Yes, indeed. We add capers and vinegar. It's a special dish for us, of course. We made it when my sisters were married.”

Cézanne tried to think back on his childhood and remember a day when eggplants and red peppers were considered a luxury. He looked down at his pants and played with a loose wool thread. Manon remembered Philippe telling her that Cézanne had a child and a mistress but his family didn't approve of her, and so they were never married. “I not only collect plants for cooking,” she said, trying to cheer him up.

“Really?” he asked, turning toward her. “Are you a medicine woman, too?”

“Maman and my sister Clara are the
guérisseurs
in the family. I use plants to make scents.”

“Really? Do you mean lavender oil?”

“That's just one of the scents that I love. Verbena is one of my favorites.”

Cézanne said, “We have some large ones at the Jas de Bouffan.” He stopped there, doubtful that he could ever invite her to the family home to pick verbena blossoms. Besides, his sisters guarded it for their tea. “Do you make the oils for yourself?”

“It started that way,” Manon said. “And then I made them for my sisters and friends, as gifts, and now, at Michaud's, I sell a few to the girls, and Madame and her daughter.”

Cézanne smiled. “
Quelle entrepreneuse!
”

“But that's not all,” Manon said, her voice excited. “I'd like to make other products.”

“Like what?”

“Creams.”

“I don't understand.”

Manon rubbed her face and arms with her hands.

“Beauty creams?” Cézanne asked.

“I'm not sure they make you more beautiful,” Manon replied, laughing. “But they certainly would make your skin feel softer. More fresh.”

Cézanne had seen fancy creams in glass and porcelain pots at the druggist's. Did his sisters Rose and Marie use these creams? They certainly had the money to buy them. “Why on earth would you want to rub some concoction over your face?” he asked.

Manon smiled, unperturbed, as if she had already thought out her answer. “Look up at our sun,” she said. “Even in January it shines. You've seen what it does to grass, or to the paint on a house's shutters. Imagine what it does to your skin.”

Cézanne looked up to the sun, shielding his eyes.

She went on, “And in Provence, to top things off, we have—”

“
Le Mistral.
”

“Exactly. The wind.”

“But to make these creams,” he said, “what would you use? Actual cream?”

Manon laughed. “No, but I think it should feel like cream. I've been reading about it in the library. I can use my oils for the scent, but I need shea butter, and cocoa butter. They're from Africa. And I'll need what they call an emulsifier.”

“Something to blend it all together?”

“Yes, like what mustard does in our salad dressing. You need it so that the other ingredients don't separate over time. I'd like to find something here, in nature, that I can use. But not mustard.”

Cézanne laughed. “Would you mind if I wrote to some of my Parisian friends?” he asked. “A few of them have been to
Africa, to paint, and they frequent trading companies in Paris where products from our African colonies are sold. We may be able to find those butters.”

“That's so kind of you,” Manon said.

“You can owe me,” Cézanne said, seeing a frown of worry develop on his new friend's face. “Make your creams, Mlle Solari, and we'll figure out how to sell them here in Aix, and you can pay me after the orders start pouring in.”

“I don't know what to say, M. Cézanne.”

“Well,” Cézanne said, looking ahead at the giant pine and then turning to her, “we began the conversation talking about beauty. Now perhaps you can tell me what beauty is for you.”

“We cannot look away from something we think is beautiful, no matter how much we try,” she said. “We can't take our eyes off of it.”

Very Slowly—to the Luberon

B
runo Paulik stood in front of his closet, whose door had a full-length mirror, and put a white shirt in front of his torso with his right hand, and then a pale-blue one with his left. He repeated this for five minutes, switching back and forth between the two.

Hélène Paulik walked in, putting on her coat. “Bruno, what are you doing? We'll be late.”

“I think I should vamp up my wardrobe,” he answered, quickly hanging the white shirt back up and putting on the blue one.

“Vamp up? Is that my husband speaking?”

“Well, I work in Aix, which is a pretty fashion-conscious place,” he said. “Even Verlaque wears pink shirts sometimes, with bow ties.”

Hélène snorted. “My weird uncle Geoffroy wore bow ties. Besides, Antoine can get away with it.”

“What do you mean?” Paulik said, buttoning up his shirt while he followed his wife out of their bedroom.

“He has pizzazz,” she said, twirling her hand in the air. “I don't know if it's because he's Parisian, or part English, or wealthy . . .” Her voice trailed off as she hollered for Léa.

Léa, who had been waiting at the bottom of the stairs, already dressed for the cold but clear January day, looked up at her parents and sighed. “I'm roasting in my coat, you two.”

“Sorry. Your father thinks he's George Clooney,” Hélène said.

“I don't have his hair,” Paulik said. “Or any hair, for that matter. What about Jean Reno?”

Léa laughed and he went on, encouraged. “As a matter of fact, I saw him in a commerical the other day, for cashmere sweaters.”

“Reno, the beloved thug and gangster of our nation's cinema, selling cashmere?” Hélène threw up her hands in disgust and grabbed her purse. “You can drop us off at the cinema and then we'll meet you at the Mazarin when our film is over,” she said to Bruno as she gently pushed him and Léa out the door. “Although I don't know why you have to work today.”

“Verlaque has a last-minute lunch meeting, in the Luberon. He's meeting a retired art dealer who lost his license and can't drive. It has to do with the Céz—” He looked over at his daughter, pursing his lips.

“I know about the Cézanne painting,” Léa said, getting into the car.

Paulik turned around and looked at Léa. “It's a secret, okay, chérie?” he said. “We're not even sure if it a real Cézanne.”

“Is it pretty?” Léa asked. “Or ugly?”

“It's pretty,” Paulik said, putting the car in gear. He drove past their vineyard, brought back to life by Hélène, one of
Provence's star winemakers. “It's of a girl; she's about twice your age—”

“Twenty.”

“Right,” Paulik said, smiling. “Or maybe three times your age.”

“Thirty.”

“Right again,” he said, turning onto the Route Nationale 7 that would take them into Aix. “She has red hair, and a blue blouse, and she looks very happy.”

“Smiling?” Hélène asked. “Doesn't sound like a Cézanne portrait.”

“Why is it so important that you have to work and can't come to the movie?” Léa asked. “It's just a painting.”

“That's a good question, sweetie,” Paulik said. “Well, we think that someone got hurt because he found this painting in his apartment, the very apartment that Cézanne lived in.”

“Did someone steal the painting?” Léa asked.

“No, but they tried to.”

“Why?”

Paulik said, “Cézanne has been dead for more than one hundred years, and so his paintings are now worth a lot of money.”

“More than our car?”

“More than our house,” Paulik said.

“With the vineyard,” Hélène added.

“That's stupid,” Léa said. She let out a little moan and added, “My tummy hurts.”

“Look straight ahead at the road,” Hélène said, rubbing her own stomach. “We'll be on the highway soon.” They drove on in silence, Paulik wondering if Dr. Schultz would notice the effort he took that morning with his wardrobe, Hélène wondering why her husband had been in the bedroom for so long, and Léa trying to work out how many zeros the price of the
Cézanne painting would have. She thought it would be well over a hundred euros, as her friend Julie's mother had spent more than that on a purse and after that Julie's maman and papa had had a big fight. She had no idea what their own car cost. She knew that their house and the vineyard had been bought by Judge Verlaque, but that her parents were somehow partners with him, because of the wine her maman made.

Paulik dropped off his girls at the Cinema Mazarin to see a documentary about migrating birds, then parked the car in the underground parking below the Palais de Justice. He would have liked to watch the film with them, but he was anxious to get to the Hôtel Fleurie and hear Dr. Schultz's side of the story. Why had she been at the Bar Zola? By chance? He hardly thought so, given the bar's location on a tiny street in the middle of Aix. The rough clientele, with the cigarette smoke and loud music, were sure to eliminate any chance of the bar making it into a guidebook used by Americans. But Rebecca Schultz wasn't an ordinary tourist. No ordinary woman. He felt the same pang in his stomach as he had while trying to choose a shirt.

Passing the Quatre Dauphins fountain in the Quartier Mazarin, Paulik popped a mint into his mouth. He turned up the rue Cardinale, where, despite Saint Jean de Malte's doors being closed, he swore he could hear Mass finishing with a flourish of organ and choir. Walking into the lobby of the hotel, he was surprised to see the same receptionist, still reading her book. He thought for a moment that she had stayed up all night, but she had must have gone home—somewhere—to sleep. “Hallo!” Paulik said, waving.

The receptionist looked up, surprised. “Back again, commissioner?”

“I forgot to ask Dr. Schultz a few questions last night,” he said. “Would you mind ringing her room?”

“I don't mind,” she said. “But it won't do any good.”

“Sorry?”

“The professor checked out this morning.”

 • • • 

“How's the mileage in this Kangoo?” Verlaque asked, leaning his elbows on the front seat ahead of him. Marine turned around and smiled.

“Top notch,” Anatole Bonnet replied as he drove. “It only takes five point five liters of diesel fuel to go one hundred kilometers. It's the most practical car I've ever had.”

“It's neat being so high up,” Verlaque said, smiling and trying to catch Marine's eye in the rearview mirror.

Marine covered her mouth with her hand and tried not to laugh. Not a specialist in makes of cars, even she knew that her parent's Renault Kangoo was one of the ugliest minivans on the market.

“What can you tell us about Edmund Lydgate before we get to Gordes?” Verlaque asked. “Have you ever met him?”

“No. But I know that he's very knowledgeable,” Dr. Bonnet replied. “He worked at Sotheby's in London and New York for years. Quite funny, which I'm told makes him a popular speaker at conferences. I've never heard him lecture, but friends have.”

“Does he speak French?” Marine asked.

“Yes, I'm told with a charming accent. I heard that something happened, and he quit the auction house very suddenly.”

“Did it have to do with his drinking?” Marine asked.

“I'm not sure,” her father answered, taking a corner at about half the speed as Verlaque did in his Porsche.

“Papa,” Marine said, trying to be patient, “just to remind you, our appointment is at noon.”

“I'll get us there on time, don't worry.”

“Just enjoy the view, Marine,” Verlaque said, smiling, sitting back with his hands behind his head.

“I have been, Antoine, thank you very much,” she answered, looking out of the window at the dormant vineyards. “Even in the winter, Provence is beautiful.”

“Especially the Luberon,” her father said. “When you were young, we thought about buying a weekend house up here. One of my patients, who was elderly and a childless widower, was selling the family home.”

Marine looked at her father. “Really?”

“A nice old stone house,” Dr. Bonnet went on.

“Papa,” Marine said, “it would be worth a fortune now.”

“I know,” he answered. “But it was a lot of money for us at the time, and your mother couldn't imagine going every weekend. It seemed like a long way from Aix.”

Verlaque tried not to laugh, as they had only been on the road for less than forty minutes and were almost at Edmund Lydgate's house. He had driven farther for a good cup of coffee. At that moment his cell phone rang and, excusing himself, he answered it, listening to Bruno Paulik's news of Rebecca Schultz's disappearance. “
Merde
,” he said, hanging up. “Dr. Schultz has gone missing.”

“I told you so,” Marine said, turning around to face Verlaque. “I didn't trust her.”

“You never met her.”

“Just the sound of her was enough,” Marine said. “Being an Ivy League professor and top model don't mix.”

“Oh, I don't know, chérie,” her father said. “You could be a model.”

“
Merci
,
Papa
.”

“If you straightened your hair,” he went on, slowing down the Kangoo to almost a full stop. “I've heard the nurses talk about hair straighteners you can buy—”

“Marine's hair is lovely,” Verlaque cut in.

“More to the point,” Marine said, “I teach at the University of Aix-Marseille. Far in prestige from Yale University.”

“And a whole lot cheaper,” Dr. Bonnet said. “Education for all, rich or poor.”

“I stayed up late looking at the photos we took of the painting,” Marine said, to change the subject. She despaired over her colleagues' petty internal wars, their constant comparing of French schools against international ones on the Shanghai rating scales, and the general lack of supplies and disrepair of the Aix
faculté
. “And I read about Cézanne until about three a.m. Look at our picture,” she said, pulling a Polaroid of the painting out of her purse. “Who is the sitter? Antoine, you said that Cézanne had an affair in 1885. Whether or not they actually consummated their relationship, if we can date this painting to that year, we'd be surer of its authenticity.”

“What do you think, Dr. Bonnet?” Verlaque asked.

“I think it
could
be the mysterious Aixoise of 1885. Look at what she's wearing,” Anatole Bonnet said, nervously glancing at the Polaroid while trying to drive. “Is she wealthy? Upper class?”

“Certainly not,” Verlaque said. “It's not a shiny silk dress, for one.”

“Exactly,” Anatole said. “So she's poor, but happy. And Cézanne liked to spend time with workers and peasants. The wealthy made him angry, and intellectuals made him nervous.”

Marine nodded. “Last night I read about a party at Monet's in Giverny; Monet complimented Cézanne, who then flew into
a rage. He was so awkward he couldn't even accept a compliment from a friend.”

“There's something else that bothers me, other than her smile, which you said, Dr. Bonnet, was rare for a Cézanne portrait,” Verlaque said, taking the photograph in his hands. “Ah, I know now. It's the bright colors of her dress. They seem too bright for a poor girl at the end of the nineteenth century.”

“That bothered me, too,” Marine said.

“But the clothes in Provence were much more colorful than in other parts of France,” Anatole said. “Even one hundred years ago, Provençal fabrics were full of color, especially in Arles.”

“True,” Verlaque said. “But this girl's wearing an orange skirt and a bright-blue blouse. Provençal clothes were colorful, but not that bright. Her clothes, if she was poor, would have been faded after repeated wearing, and the sun. No?”

“Think about what Cézanne was interested in,” Anatole said, slowing the car down.

“Um, he didn't care about reproducing reality,” Verlaque suggested.

“I get it, Papa!” Marine said. “He dressed his sitter here—with whom he was in love, or very infatuated—in the most classic Provençal colors he could find.
He made it up
. It's the blue of our sky, and orange, its complement. She may not have even been a redhead.”

“Yes, you're right,” Verlaque said. “As the red he's used in her hair is the same red as the earth out at Bibémus and Mont Sainte Victoire.”

“That may be stretching it a bit, Antoine,” Anatole said.

“Really?” Verlaque asked, looking disappointed. “I thought that I was on to something.”

“Well, hopefully Edmund Lydgate will be able to give us
an expert opinion on the paint and brushwork,” Marine said. “Papa. You've stopped the car.”

“There it is,” Dr. Bonnet said, looking out the windshield. “Gordes. I always pull over here to look at the view.”