Chasing Cezanne (28 page)

Cyrus beamed at her. “Absolutely,” he said, his eyebrows going up. “But then Chauvin was a Frenchman, although better known for patriotism than for sex.”

Lucy shook her head. “You're a piece of work, Cyrus. This is the French happy hour, right? Do I have to do anything special?”

“Indeed you do, my dear. Look beautiful, cross your legs, and drink champagne.”

Lucy considered for a moment. She inclined her head. “I like it.”

Andre had other plans. “There's a little errand I have to do,” he said, “and I'm not dressed for the Ritz. Lulu, if you hitch that skirt up a couple of inches, they'll give you extra peanuts.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and tucked her hand under Cyrus's arm. “I won't even ask where you're going.”

“A surprise,” said Andre. “I'll see you back at the hotel.”

Paradou scowled as he watched the group split up to go in different directions, the older man and the girl to look for a taxi, the young man to the Métro station on the Avenue Kléber. That decided it. He couldn't leave the car here, and he couldn't take it down there. He would keep an eye on the other two.

Lucy and Cyrus were still in the thick of the Champs Elysées rush hour when Andre came up from the subway at Saint-Germain and made for the antique shop in the Rue Jacob. It was, like many similar establishments in the neighborhood, presented in a way calculated to lure the tourist off the street—an artful, seemingly random clutter of objects, most of them dusty, none of them priced. Porcelain bowls, bundles of cutlery tied with string, brass
hatracks, mirrors showing the bloom of age, mustache cups, ebony and silver button hooks, vintage corkscrews with brushes in their handles, goblets and cordial glasses, tiny footstools, snuffboxes, pillboxes, crystal inkwells—all of them were thrown together in a haphazard, apparently careless fashion. Innocent window-shoppers could be forgiven for thinking that they had stumbled upon the last surviving outpost of that modern rarity, the bargain. Andre, having been a friend of the owner since his student days, knew the truth: the prices were extortionate, and the best stuff was always in the back.

He pushed open the door and stepped over the supine body of the stuffed cat that never failed to deceive the unsuspecting visitor. “Hubert! Wake up! It's your first customer of the day.”

A grunt from behind a lacquered screen was followed by the appearance of the proprietor, a tall man—exceptionally tall for a Frenchman—with curly brown hair, eyes half closed against the smoke of the cigar between his lips. He was wearing a collarless white shirt and ancient pinstripe trousers held up by an equally ancient silk tie in colors that identified him as a member of the Marylebone Cricket Club.

He removed his cigar, craning his head forward as he walked from the gloom to the front of the shop. “Is this who I think it is? The modern Lartigue? Tomorrow's Cartier-Bresson? Or is it you, Andre, you
salaud
? What are you doing here?”

Andre was given a Havana-scented hug before the big man held him at arm's length and inspected him. “You're
too thin. But I forget—you live in New York, where there is nothing for a civilized man to eat. How are you?”

“I'm well, Hubert. And you?”

“Oh, scratching a living from the parched earth. Hand to mouth, as always.”

“Still got the racehorse?”

Hubert winked. “Three, but don't tell Karine.”

The two men compared recent histories, falling into the easy way of old friends: well-worn jokes, affectionate insults, gossip about shared acquaintances, speculation about their wives. It was half an hour before they got down to the purpose of Andre's visit.

Hubert listened attentively as Andre explained what he was looking for; then he nodded. “You've come to the right place, my friend.” He led Andre over to an old partners desk. “Here—have a look at these.” He pulled open the wide middle drawer and took out a large tray covered in moth-eaten velvet. With the smooth flourish of a conjuror producing a particularly noble white rabbit, he whisked away the covering. “
Voilà
. The best selection in Paris, although I say it myself.”

Andre looked down through the haze of cigar smoke and whistled. “Where did you steal all those?”

Hubert shrugged. “See anything there you like?”

Andre looked more closely at the rows of small silver photograph frames, all in the Art Nouveau style, the fluid, beautifully worked curves smooth and gleaming and soft. Hubert had put sepia photographs in each of them—Dietrich, Garbo, Piaf, Jeanne Moreau, Bardot—and there, given pride of place in the center of the tray, was exactly
what he wanted. A little bigger than the rest, it was a perfect reproduction of the iron signs above every Métro station. Set into the design was one word in simple capital letters: PARIS. And smiling out of the frame, her spit curl making a black crescent on her forehead, was Josephine Baker. Andre picked it up, feeling the heaviness of the silver and the silky nap of the backing. “I like this,” he said.

Instantly, Hubert the friend was replaced by Hubert the professional antique dealer, preparing his customer for the shock of the price. “Ah, yes. What an eye you have, Andre. Very few of those were made—I've only seen two in the past five years, and you hardly ever find them in such perfect condition. It's all original, even the glass.” The big man nodded, putting his arm around Andre's shoulder and squeezing. “And for you, I throw in the photograph for nothing.”

The price—Hubert mentioned it sorrowfully, as though it had been imposed against his will by a higher authority—was all that Andre had expected and took all the money that he had with him. The frame was gift-wrapped in a page torn from that day's edition of
Le Monde
, and, business concluded, Andre borrowed a hundred francs from his friend and went to celebrate his purchase with a glass of wine in the café Flore.

The frame heavy in the pocket of his jacket, he sat watching the evening parade on the boulevard, looking forward to the sight of Lulu's face when he gave it to her. He smiled at the thought, feeling a surge of happiness. It was wonderful to watch her fall in love with Paris.

“Is the traffic always like this?” Lucy and Cyrus were inching their way down the Rue Saint-Honoré in a taxi, the driver's irritated monotone providing a commentary on the stupidity of other drivers, on the gendarmes who only added to the congestion, on the impossibility of earning a living under such conditions. They didn't need to understand the words; it was the cabdriver's lament, an international hymn of woe, the same in every big city in the world.

Cyrus paid him off at the corner of the Rue Royale, leaving him like a cork in a bottle as they finished the rest of the journey on foot. A hundred yards behind them, Paradou got out of his car and saw them turn left into the Place Vendôme. Unable to move, unable to leave, he got back in the car and banged the horn in frustration.

“Now, my dear,” said Cyrus, as they walked toward the great column commemorating Napoleon's military triumphs, “I'm not going to take you anywhere near Armani, and it's for your own good. See his shop over there? The ruin of many a credit rating. I'm always astonished by—”

“Cyrus, wait.” Lucy took his arm, pulling him into a doorway. She nodded in the direction of the main entrance to the Ritz, where a black Mercedes had stopped at the bottom of the steps. A man and a woman wearing dark glasses stood by the open trunk, watching the luggage being unloaded, the woman a head taller than her companion. “I
know her,” said Lucy. “That's the woman who runs the magazine, Camilla.”

Cyrus looked intently at the couple. “Well, I'll be damned,” he said. “I know the man with her. That's Rudolph Holtz.” Rubbing his jaw and frowning, he watched them go up the steps and into the hotel. “Would you be very disappointed if we gave the Ritz a miss? I think we'd better go back to the hotel and find Andre. Come on—I'll tell you about Holtz on the way.”

Paradou drove twice around the Place Vendôme, parked, and walked around again before accepting the fact that he'd lost them. He stopped in front of the Ritz and looked at his watch. Unless Holtz had been delayed, he would be there by now. He and his seventy-five thousand.
Merde
, what a day! Squaring his shoulders and cursing his bladder, he ran up the steps and into the hotel.

Camilla was making the two calls she made by habit as soon as she arrived in any hotel: champagne from room service, and a dear little person from housekeeping to take away all her important clothes for a quick sponge and press. She was feeling more like her old self now, after a journey during which Holtz's mood had improved greatly, as it always did when things were going his way. And although he hadn't gone into any of the details, it was clear that he anticipated good news. One could tell from the fact that he tipped the hotel staff instead of pretending they weren't there. He was on the phone now, chattering away
in that marvelous French of his, as the champagne arrived. Putting a glass in front of him on the table, Camilla glanced out of the window at one of her favorite views; the Armani boutique here was such a joy. She'd pop across tomorrow morning while Rudi was having his massage.

He finished his conversation and was reaching for his glass when the phone rang. “Yes,” he said. “Send him up.”

“Now, sweetie,” said Camilla, “where would you like to eat tonight?”

Holtz picked up his glass and brought it to his nose. “Oh, somewhere simple. Taillevent or the Grand Véfour. You choose. The concierge will get us in.” The first sip of champagne was still prickling against his tongue when there was a knock on the door of the suite.

Camilla opened it, and Paradou came in like a sheepish crab, barely nodding in greeting before he asked to use the bathroom.

Camilla waited until the bathroom door was closed. “Who on earth is he? Does he always walk like that?”

“He's been doing a little job for me.” Holtz saw no reason to tell Camilla about it; the fewer who knew, the better. He smiled apologetically. “I'm afraid he doesn't speak English, my dear, so you'll find our meeting very dull.”