Chasing Cezanne (19 page)

Suits and countersuits forced Villiers to sell his assets. The blondes disappeared, as blondes tend to do in these circumstances. The establishment turned its back on him, and he was reduced to eking out a living consulting for people who were more interested in his eye than in his tattered reputation. Cyrus Pine's call, coming as it did during a particularly barren period, was welcome.
Less than thirty minutes after putting down the phone, Villiers was sitting in Pine's study, making short work of a large vodka.

“Good of you to come, Mr. Villiers. As I mentioned to you, it's a matter I'd like to get under way without wasting any time.” Pine shrugged apologetically. “You know what clients are like, I'm sure—they want everything done yesterday.”

Villiers was a slight, rather seedy figure, showing signs of neglect. His chalk-striped suit, although well cut, needed pressing. His shirt collar was starting to fray, and his hair, lank and curling over his collar, was overdue for a visit to the barber. He smiled at Cyrus, exposing dingy teeth. “I'm not too busy at the moment, actually,” he said, swirling the ice around his glass. “I might be able to fit something in.”

“Splendid, splendid.” Cyrus put down his drink and leaned forward, his eyebrows cocked. “This is between us, of course.” A nod from Villiers. “My client has a very decent collection—Impressionists, mostly, with one or two of the more modern fellows like Hockney. He keeps some of them at his apartment in Geneva and the rest in the family home in Tuscany. Very nice too, I might add. Anyway, he's getting a little nervous. There was a rash of burglaries down there not long ago, which you may not have heard about. It was hushed up by the powers that be—bad for tourism, bad for investment, all the usual excuses. In any event, my client is not too happy about leaving valuable paintings protected by an alarm system and a caretaker who's a bit of an antique. Are you with me?”

In fact, Villiers was well ahead of him. He'd heard it all before. The cover story came first, before they got to the point. And the point was invariably shady. He saw the prospect of money. “It must be a great worry,” he said. “Do you think I could have another vodka?”

“My dear fellow.” Cyrus continued talking as he made Villiers another drink. “There are two paintings in particular that he's concerned about, and so I've offered him a piece of advice.” He handed Villiers the glass and sat down. “Tuck the originals in the bank,” I told him, “and get copies made. What do you think?”

Here we go, Villiers said to himself. He wants a forger. “Very wise.”

“He thought so too. But he insists on first-class copies.”

“Of course. Can you tell me who your client is?”

“He'd prefer to remain anonymous. They all do, don't they? But I can tell you he has substantial resources.” Cyrus looked at Villiers for a moment before adding, “And he's not an ungenerous man. I'm sure there won't be a problem over the fees.”

This was going according to the script, Villiers thought. Money for old rope. “Who are the artists?”

“There's a Pissarro and a Cézanne.”

“Hmm.” Villiers multiplied by two the figure he had first thought of. Franzen was the man, the only man. But he would have to clear it first. “I may be able to help you, Mr. Pine. Can you give me twenty-four hours?”

In the cab taking him back to his apartment, Villiers wondered how much of the introduction fee he would have to share, or whether he should risk contacting
Franzen directly and keep it all. Better not, he decided regretfully. It was bound to come out, and then there would be one more person who would never give him work again. Vindictive, greedy little swine. What difference would a few thousand dollars make to him? As the cab pulled up, Villiers looked with distaste at the drab building where he now lived. He undertipped the driver and scuttled across the sidewalk, his shoulders hunched against the stream of abuse that followed him.

With another vodka for luck, he placed the call.

“Holtz residence.”

“Is he there, please? It's Mr. Villiers.”

“Mr. Holtz is dining, sir.”

“It's important.” Jesus, what a pain butlers were when they weren't yours.

A minute passed. There was a faint click as the call was transferred. “Yes?”

Villiers forced himself to be genial. “Sorry to bother you, Rudi, but something's just come up that might interest you. A job for Franzen, and I know you like to deal with him yourself.”

“Who is it for?”

“Cyrus Pine, fronting for some European. Wouldn't tell me the name. He needs a Pissarro and a Cézanne.”

Holtz looked through the open door of his study. The sound of Camilla's laughter came from the dining room across the hall as he thought it over. He knew of Pine and had seen him often at gallery events. The man had a good reputation and might be useful in the future. As long as Holtz kept himself out of the way, Villiers would catch
any possible unpleasantness. “Very well,” said Holtz. “I'll call Franzen tomorrow. Wait until you hear from me before you give his number to Pine. Although”—Holtz made a sound that might have been mistaken for a laugh—“I don't know that ‘give' is quite the right word.”

Villiers winced. The little toad never missed a trick. “Well,” he said, “I might charge him a small fee.”

“Naturally. But I wouldn't expect to share in that. Let's just say a case of Krug for my services, shall we? I'll talk to you tomorrow.” Walking back to the dining room, Holtz had every reason to feel generous. The fifty percent he would take of Franzen's fee would run into six figures. Every little bit helps, he said to himself. He smiled at his guests as he sat down. “Forgive me,” he said. “My mother eats dinner early in Florida, and she thinks we all do the same up here.” He took a mouthful of spring lamb and wondered if sixty percent might not be more appropriate, considering the ruinous price of international phone calls.

Meanwhile, Villiers surveyed the contents of his refrigerator—a half-empty bottle of vodka and an elderly, curling packet of liverwurst—and decided to go out and treat himself to dinner on the strength of his fee. There'd be plenty left over after he'd bought that cheap bastard his champagne. He would get the nonvintage.

THE ringing went off eighteen inches from Andre's ear, jerking him from sleep, the shrill, determined nag of the bell penetrating the pillow he pulled over his head. He felt movement next to him, and then the warmth of bare skin and the weight of a body on his chest as Lucy slid across him to pick up the phone.

He was dimly aware of her voice, a sleepy hello, before the pillow was lifted from his face. Lucy nibbled the lobe of his ear. “It's Camilla.” She passed him the phone and rested her head on his shoulder. Andre tried to muffle a yawn.

“
There
you are. I'm so glad I caught you.” Camilla's voice, bright and loud, made him flinch and hold the receiver away from his ear.

“How are you, Camilla?”

“Couldn't be better, sweetie, and simply longing to see you. Lots to talk about. Listen, I've just had a cancellation, and I thought I could take my favorite photographer to lunch. Just the two of us.”

Andre heard Lucy's whisper against his neck. “My favorite photographer. Jesus.”

“Andre?”

“Right. Sure. That would be fine.”

“Wonderful. One o'clock at the Royalton?”

“The Royalton. One o'clock.”

Camilla, unable to resist: “Andre, who answered the phone just now?”

“Oh, that was the cleaning lady.” Lucy raised her head and grinned before biting Andre's neck, causing him to let out an involuntary grunt. “She comes in early on Thursdays.”

“It's Wednesday, sweetie. See you at one.”

Andre dropped the phone and spent half an hour saying good morning to Lucy before she pushed away his hands and jumped out of bed. “I'd better be going. Save the rest for later, OK?” She put the pillow back over his face. “And don't lose the place.”

He heard the distant drumming of the shower as he drifted back toward sleep, lazy and filled with an unfamiliar contentment, smelling her scent on the sheets, wondering why it had taken them so long. Her touch on his shoulder and the smell of coffee brought him back to wakefulness.

“Andre, it's time you stopped living like a bum.”

He sat up and held the mug in both hands, inhaling the steam. “Yes, Lulu.”

“That fridge is like a science laboratory. There's life in there. Things are breeding.”

“Yes, Lulu.”

She bent down to kiss him. “Stay out of trouble, you hear?” He was starting to miss her before he heard the front door close.

Four hours later, still feeling pleasantly light-headed, Andre waited to be shown to Camilla's table at the Royalton. As he was led across the room, faces turned to focus on him like pale camera lenses—brief, searching glances to see if he was sufficiently well known to merit a prolonged stare. There was no attempt to disguise their interest; nor any attempt to disguise the lack of it as the faces turned away.

Andre recognized it as a screening process common to a number of restaurants dedicated to the high-voltage New York lunch. The success of these establishments is based not on the quality of the cooking, which can often be excellent, if largely unnoticed, but on the status rating of the clientele. And for these fabulous creatures—the models, actors, and writers of the moment, the cream of the media cream, players alert to every nuance of the game—it is crucial to be well placed. Exile to an obscure table can turn the carpaccio of tuna to ashes in the mouth, and it seems that the law laid down by Brillat-Savarin has been rendered obsolete. “Tell me what you eat,” the great man used to say, “and I will tell you what you are.” Those simple days are gone. “Tell me where you sit, and I will tell you what you are” is a more appropriate motto, and it can only be a matter of time before the special of the day is not a dish, but a celebrity—the
personnage du jour
, whose presence in the restaurant is announced discreetly as the menu is delivered.

With these thoughts running through his mind, Andre was seated at a prominent banquette and fussed over with the ceremony due the honored guest of one of the restaurant's most devoted fixtures. She was, of course, late. When she finally did arrive, finding her way through the tables mostly by memory (her vision being impaired by large dark glasses), her progress attracted a ripple of interest and a salvo of long-distance air kisses.

“Andre!” It was as though his presence at her table was a total surprise, bringing joy to an otherwise cheerless day. “How are you? Let me look at you.” Which she did, tilting her head first to one side, then to the other, the dark glasses at half-mast on her nose. “I detect a definite twinkle in the eye, sweetie. And what's that on your neck?”

Andre ducked his head and grinned. “You're looking well, Camilla. I haven't seen you for ages. Been busy?”

“Frantic, sweetie. Night and day, working out my little surprise for you. But tell me all your news. Did I hear somewhere you've been to Europe?”

“A few days in England.” Andre gave her an edited account of his trip, filling it out with descriptions of Lord Lamprey and the tapestries at Throttle Hall. He was finishing the story of the runaway chicken when he was interrupted by the ringing of Camilla's handbag. He ordered while she was taking the call; the waiter hovered until the phone was back in the bag. Camilla specified her preferred combination of green leaves and turned to Andre with the rueful sigh of an overworked and indispensable executive. “Where were we, sweetie?”

“You were just going to tell me about this project that's kept you so busy.”

Sitting back, not knowing what to expect, Andre was then exposed to half an hour of Camilla at her most persuasive. The dark glasses came off, her eyes fixed on his with unblinking intensity, her hand fluttered back and forth, squeezing his arm gently for emphasis. Her plateful of leaves remained undisturbed. An observer would have thought her completely oblivious to everything except the young man sitting next to her. It was an act that she had perfected over the years, and despite the fact that Andre had seen it before, aimed at others, he found himself drawn in by her performance. And, he had to admit, he found himself attracted to the idea she was trying so hard to sell him. She knew him well, and she had chosen the bait with great care.

It was a book; no, it was more than a book. It was a definitive record of the most extraordinary residences on earth, all photographed by him, all expenses paid by the magazine. One of Garabedian's associate companies would be responsible for publication and promotion. Great houses of the world, sweetie, Camilla said, her voice emphasizing the words with the vibrant sincerity of a politician making a campaign promise. And your name—here she paused to sketch it large in the air with her hands—your name
above the title
. There would be a promotional tour, there would be foreign editions—Germany, Italy, Japan, the universe—an exhibition of the pictures, a CD-ROM. It would establish him as the
world's most important photographer in his field. And of course, there would be money in profusion—from the foreign rights, from serial rights, from royalties. It would just pour in. Camilla shook her hair at the excitement of it all and waited for Andre's response.

For a moment, he was genuinely at a loss for words. It was, as Camilla had said, the opportunity of a lifetime, the dream assignment that exactly matched his ambitions. Under normal circumstances he would have been calling for champagne and threatening to spoil Camilla's composure, and possibly her makeup, with an enthusiastic embrace. But even as he searched for a suitable reply, the worm of suspicion was at work in his mind. It was too pat, too perfect.

“Well,” he said at last, “you'll have to forgive me, but I'm stunned. It's going to take a while to sink in. Tell me how you see the timing. I mean, it's not exactly a ten-day shoot.”