The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne (20 page)

M
arine met her father outside the parking garage Pasteur.

“How was your class?” Anatole Bonnet asked his daughter after they had exchanged the
bise
.

“Fine,” she answered. “I'm teaching History of the Civil State. I haven't done it in a while.”

“Ah. I'm sure you'll make it more interesting than a bunch of dates and decrees.”

“
Merci, Papa
,” Marine said, putting her arm through his as they walked up the avenue Paul Cézanne. “Unfortunately, my methods are
too
interesting for some of my colleagues. Next week I'm showing the students the film
The Return of Martin Guerre
. Some of my fellow law professors think that a film is out of place in the classroom.”

“Nonsense. It's very relevant, and if nothing else, you'll be showing the students something other than a vampire film.”

Marine laughed. She was impressed that her father even
knew about the current vampire rage in young adult books and film.

“I'd forgotten how important the Martin Guerre case is to our history of law,” he continued. “The beginnings of written documents used as identification, right? Seems so obvious now. When was it, exactly?”

“In Toulouse, 1560,” Marine answered. “Before that, people's identities were acknowledged by their faces. Written IDs didn't exist. Until Martin Guerre decided to leave his wife and return twelve years later.”

“Ah yes. In the meantime Martin Guerre had been replaced, by someone who looked like him,” her father said. “An imposter.”

“I remember going to see that film with you when it came out. It was the first Gérard Depardieu film I ever saw.”

Dr. Bonnet laughed, remembering Florence doing her crossword a few nights previously. “Your mother was with us, too. But she's never been good at remembering actors' names. Well, it sounds like your semester is off to a good start.”

Marine sighed. “It is, but I'm always a bit sad to have a smaller group after the Christmas break. So many kids drop out at midsemester.”

“They'll find another path to take,” he said.

“But they must feel so discouraged,” Marine said. “You know, I'm not sure it's the best system we have, letting everyone who received a ten on the Bac—regardless of grades—into first-year law and medicine.”

“It's
fair
.” Anatole stared straight ahead. His daughter was picking up too many of Antoine Verlaque's nonsocialist ideas.

“And before you say that these are Antoine's ideas,” she said, “it's something I've been thinking over for some time.” She
stopped to let her breathing catch up with her. “This road is steeper than I remembered. Well, let's not get upset about the dire straits of our university system and begin this Cézanne walk you've organized. I take it our first stop is his atelier.”

“I thought it best to start there,” Anatole said. “In my youth this was still the Chemin des Lauves, as it was when Cézanne had the studio built in 1902. Let's turn around and look at the view.”

They turned and faced Aix, the father's arm gently resting on his daughter's shoulder. “He would have seen the same churches,” Marine said, sheltering her eyes from the late-morning sun. “And the red-tile roofs.”

“Fewer apartments in his day,” her father said. “Look: you can see the green hills south of Aix, and Gardanne. I would have liked a house up here, but we thought it better to be south of the downtown, so your mother could walk to the university.”

“The view is fantastic,” Marine said. “But you'd have to walk uphill, back home, with your groceries.”

“True enough.”

They turned around and continued walking uphill, ten minutes later stopping at the gate of Cézanne's studio. “So sad that the studio is now surrounded by 1950s apartment buildings,” Marine said, looking around her.

Her father shrugged. “Too many babies born after the war,” he said, smiling. “We never had enough housing in Aix.”

Marine said, “I know that Cézanne would have had a good view of the Mont Sainte Victoire from here, but I think it was perhaps more important that he be far away from the snotty Aixois.”

Her father smiled and quoted Jean-Paul Sartre: “
L'enfer, c'est les autres
.”

Marine usually got along with people, but her colleague Franck's snarky comment of her showing a film to law students made her think that the French philosopher may have been right. “Yes, other people can be hell,” she said. “And here Cézanne would have been alone.”

They passed through the entry and showed their IDs. As residents of Aix, they were admitted free of charge. They walked up the narrow flight of stairs to the painter's atelier, where an enormous north-facing window let in a subdued morning light. It gave the room a dreamy, filtered look. Hardly a noise could be heard except for the odd cough and shuffle of feet as the other visitors slowly moved around the room, looking at the objects Cézanne used for his still lifes: white ceramic bowls and pitchers, wooden chairs with cane seats, pewter carafes, and, of course, fruit, which Marine supposed the staff replaced every few days. “It's sad in here,” Marine whispered.

“I've always thought so, too,” Anatole said. “But Cézanne
was
sad here. His mother—to whom he was so attached—was dead, and Zola was, too.”

“I thought they had a falling out.”

“They did,” he answered. “But all the same, when Cézanne heard of Zola's death in 1902, he locked himself in his rooms on the rue Boulegon and refused to come out for a day.”

“Cézanne was sick, too, wasn't he?”

Anatole nodded. “Diabetes. He began using the atelier in 1902 but died four years later. One of my elderly medical professors was on the committee of citizens who tried to save the studio in 1952, when it was almost sold to developers.”

“The same ones who built the apartments.”

“No doubt. And the studio was full of paintings when they found it.”

“Really?” Marine said. “What happened to them?”

“They were bundled up in lots of ten and sold to Americans.”

Marine opened her mouth to protest.

Anatole put his index finger up to his mouth and then whispered, “The Americans
did
save the studio from developers. They bought it and offered it as a donation to the country of France, which refused. So they offered it to the region, which also refused.”

“The city of Aix?”

“Also turned them down,” Anatole said. They walked along, bending down to look at three skulls set out on a small wooden table. “The university finally accepted the studio.”

A young man stood beside them, looking at the skulls, shaking his head. “This is it?” he asked them in broken French with what sounded like an Eastern European accent. He threw his arms into the air. “This is all Aix has of its most famous son? This small studio with hardly any paintings? Just some dusty bowls? A tragedy!”

“But Cézanne's here,” Marine said. “Don't you feel it?”

The young man rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and walked on, shaking his head back and forth.

“I think that these objects speak for themselves, don't you?” Marine asked her father.

“Indeed,” Anatole answered. “And my stomach is speaking to me right now.”

Marine laughed. “Should we stroll downtown? We could pick up some cheese at André's, and a dessert at Michaud's, then eat at my place.”

 • • • 

The walk downhill took half the time and Marine had to walk quickly to keep up with her father. He was not only six inches
taller but, when hungry, walked at a determined pace. She pulled at his arm when they got to the cathedral. “Saint Saveur,” she said. “Cézanne's funeral was here, right?”

“Oh yes,” her father replied distractedly, “1906.” Anatole pointed across the street at an elegant former mansion that now housed a political science university. “And that was the old law faculty where old Louis-Auguste Cézanne made his son study.”

Marine thought of her students and wondered how many of them would prefer to study art, or nursing, or cooking, but had signed up for law to please their parents. “Let's buy some cheese around the corner,” she said.

“I'm glad your cheese monger friends are back in Aix,” her father said.

“Me, too,” Marine answered. “The Marseillais just didn't buy their cheese.”

“Marseille is a fish town, plain and simple.”

“And the name of this street must remind André of that daily,” Marine said as they turned right on the rue des Marseillais.

A bell rang as they entered the shop, and the handsome black-haired owner waved from behind a glass-and-chrome counter. “
Salut, Marine!
”

André walked around the counter and gave Marine the
bise
. She introduced her father; the elder Bonnets usually bought their cheese at the supermarket, which she didn't tell her cheese
affineur
friend. “André is Aix's only affineur, Papa,” she said instead, turning to her father. “He has three different cellars for his cheese, each one with a different humidly and temperature, depending on the ripeness of the cheese. Is that right, André?”

“You've got it,” André said, moving back behind the counter
and picking up a large piece of black-veined cheese. He cut two slivers and passed them to Marine and her father on a piece of butcher paper.

“I can smell it from here,” Marine said.

“Truffle!” her father exclaimed, putting the cheese in his mouth and smiling.

“Pecorino laced with black truffles,” André said. “I seldom get it.”

“Too many people buying it?” Marine asked. “It's heaven!”

“Not
enough
people buying it,” André answered. “I'm worried that the cheese maker isn't going to survive. People are unwilling to spend the money.”

Anatole Bonnet looked at the price per kilo and whistled.

“But you only need a little bit when a cheese is this good,” Marine quickly said, annoyed at her father. At least her mother wasn't with them; she'd have out her pocket calculator. “I'll take some for Antoine. He's in Paris but will be back tomorrow.”

“Tell me how much,” André said, posing his knife along the top of the cheese.

“About an inch, thanks,” Marine said.

André cut along the pecorino and a sharp, musky, nutty smell permeated the shop. The bell rang as a new customer walked in. “Oh, André!” she exclaimed. “You need to put a warning sign outside the shop when you're about to cut the truffle pecorino.”

“I'll take a slice, too,” Anatole Bonnet said. He turned to Marine and went on, “It will be a surprise for your mother.”

They quickly bought a selection of soft, runny goat cheeses for their lunch and left, in a hurry to eat but also to get to Michaud's. They walked down Aix's narrow medieval pedestrian streets without speaking, their feet taking them on a path that
they had both known as youngsters. At times Marine wasn't even sure if she knew these streets' names, so familiar she was with their shops, their carved wooden doors, and the burbling fountains that appeared at almost every intersection.

They crossed the Cours Mirabeau and walked toward Michaud's, Anatole stopping in front of number 30. “Madame Cézanne lived here,” he said, pointing to the upstairs windows, “after Cézanne's father died in 1886. She and Paul dined together almost every evening.”

They walked farther down the Cours and into Michaud's, which was, mercifully, quiet. “What would you like?” Marine asked. She looked on lovingly at her father, who nearly pressed his long, fine nose against the glass, peering at each section of desserts. “A small lemon tart,” he finally said.

“And I'll have a miniéclair,” Marine told the black-uniformed salesgirl, who smiled shyly and had a head of thick red hair. “Café, not chocolate.”

The girl carefully set their desserts into a small red cardboard box, then took a long piece of gold ribbon and wrapped that around the box, tying a bow.

Marine thanked the girl, who smiled again, her blue eyes sparkling. “Papa,” Marine whispered, turning to her father, “that girl—”

“A relation of our mysterious sitter?” he asked, grinning.

Marine said, “She
does
have the same smile. But look: the gold ribbon. The girl in the painting is playing with one—”

“She worked at Michaud's!” Anatole Bonnet examined.

“What if?” Marine said, grabbing her father's coat sleeve. “Where could we find a list of employees from 1885? The archives? The library?”

Anatole Bonnet pointed into the air and whispered into his daughter's ear, “From Mme Michaud herself.”

“She's still alive?” Marine asked, remembering the petite, blond Mme Michaud. Everyone in Aix referred to her using her maiden name—Michaud—when in reality she had been happily married for decades. Her husband, a busy notary, was never seen in the bakery and Marine wasn't even sure what his name was. Mme Michaud had always handled the cash, wore Chanel suits of varying pastel shades complemented by silk Hermès scarves, and had—simply by the glare she gave clients over the rim of her tortoiseshell glasses—frightened a young Marine Bonnet.