Chasing Cezanne Read Online Free Page B

smelled French.
    The girl in the power suit was standing in the baggage claim area, checking her watch and chewing her lip while the black rubber caterpillar of the carousel made its unhurried, unburdened loop through the passengers before returning to its hole in the wall. Her expression was straight out of New York—frowning, impatient, fraught. Andre wondered if she ever allowed herself to relax. He took pity on her.
    She flinched as he tapped her on the shoulder. “You look as though you’re late,” he said. “Anything I can do?”
    â€œHow long do these guys need to get the bags out of the plane?”
    Andre shrugged. “This is the south of France. Nothing happens fast.”
    The girl consulted her watch again. “I have a meeting in Sophia Antipolis. Do you know where that is? How long will the cab take?”
    The business center of Sophia Antipolis, or the
Parc International d’Activités
, as the French had christened it, was back in the hills between Antibes and Cannes. “Depends on the traffic,” said Andre. “Forty-five minutes should do it.”
    The girl looked relieved. “That’s great. Thanks.” She almost smiled. “You know, on the plane? I thought you were a wiseass.”
    Andre sighed. “Not me. My good nature gets in the way.” He saw his bag creeping toward him on the carousel. “Have your meeting and get out of that place as quick as you can.”
    Her eyes widened. “Dangerous?”
    Andre shook his head as he picked up his bag. “The food’s terrible.”
    He left the coast road at Cagnes-sur-Mer and aimed the rented Renault along the D6 that twists above the river Loup toward Saint-Paul-de-Vence. There was a snap to the air, an early morning chill that would soon disappear. The sun was already warm through the windscreen, the peaks of distant hills glittered white against the blue sky, the countryside looked newly washed. Manhattan and winter had been left behind on a different planet. Andre opened the window and felt his head begin to clear after a night of rationed oxygen.
    He arrived in Saint-Paul in time to see, emerging from the café, the village police force, a corpulent gendarme with the reputation of giving the fastest parking tickets in France. The gendarme paused in the café doorway, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he surveyed the little
place
, an eye out for the first offender of the day. He looked on as Andre backed into one of the very few permitted parking places. He studied his watch. He walked over to the car, his boots creaking, his pace measured and slow, befitting his position of authority.
    Andre nodded at him as he locked the car. “
Bonjour
.”
    The gendarme nodded back. “You have one hour. After that”—he tapped his watch—“
contravention
.” He adjusted his sunglasses and moved off, alert for any hint of wrongdoing, pleased with this first small triumph of the morning. How he looked forward to July and August! They were his favorite months, when he could stand grim-faced at the entrance to the village, turning away a continuous procession of cars. On a good day, he could infuriate several hundred motorists. It was one of the perks of the job.
    In the café, Andre ordered a croissant and a coffee and looked out at the center of the
place
, where, weather permitting, vicious games of
boules
took place throughout the year. He remembered his first visit to Saint-Paul as a child, in the days when Yves Montand, dressed in waiter’s black and white, used to play against the old men of the village while Simone Signoret smoked and watched, and when James Baldwin drank in the hotel bar. Andre’s mother had told him that these were famous people, and he had stared at them for hours, drinking Orangina through a straw.
    On his second visit, ten years later, he had fallen in love with a Swedish girl. Greedy kisses behind the post