Chasing Cezanne (22 page)

“Absolutely,” said Andre. “No more than three courses at lunch, no more than five courses at dinner, and they never drink before breakfast. Isn't that right, Cyrus?”

“Something like that, dear boy. Don't forget the daily bottle of wine and a small cognac at bedtime—oh, and plenty of butter in the cooking. Very little exercise, too. That's important. And a pack of cigarettes a day.”

Lucy shook her head. “OK, maybe it was a silly question. But so far, I haven't seen a single fat person. Not one.”

“It's part of what they call the French Paradox,” Andre said. “Do you remember? There was a big fuss about it a few years ago. I think it all started when they did a survey of twenty countries and their eating habits. They were looking at the relationship between national diets and the incidence of heart disease.”

Cyrus looked thoughtfully at his wine. “I'm not sure I want to hear about this.”

Andre grinned. “You'll be fine as long as you stay here. When the results came out, they showed that the country with the healthiest diet was Japan—not surprising, really, when you think that they mainly eat fish and rice. But the big surprise was the runner-up. Number two out of twenty countries was France; despite the bread, the cheese, the foie gras, the sauces, the three-hour lunches, the alcohol. So of course, people wanted to know why. They thought there must be a secret, some kind of diet
trick that allowed you to eat what you wanted and get away with it. And what they came up with as the explanation was red wine.”

Cyrus nodded. “I remember now,” he said. “It was on television, wasn't it? Most of the liquor stores in America sold out of Cabernet Sauvignon in forty-eight hours.”

“That's right. Then someone started talking about the incidence of cirrhosis of the liver in France being higher than in the States, and everyone went back to hamburgers and Coke.”

“Where did America come on the list?” Lucy asked.

“Oh, way down. Something like fourteen or fifteen, I think. Red wine isn't going to change that. Actually, my theory is that red wine has less to do with it than people think. Obviously, what you eat and drink is important, but so is
how
you eat and drink. And there's an enormous difference in national habits. Food for most Americans is fuel—eat in the car, eat on the street, finish dinner in fifteen minutes. Food for the French is treated as a pleasure. They take their time over it. They concentrate on it. They like being at the table, and they don't eat between meals. You'll never catch the President of France sucking up potato chips at his desk. Cooking is respected here. It's accepted as an art. The top chefs are almost like movie stars.” Andre paused and finished his wine. “Sorry. That sounded like a lecture. But it's true.” He turned to Lucy. “Wait till you see the food tonight.”

“I didn't tell you,” said Cyrus. “I called Franzen from the hotel.”

“Is everything OK?”

Cyrus rolled his eyes. “He's an enthusiast. Couldn't stop talking about the menu—apparently Senderens is one of the great chefs, and Franzen sounded as though he already had his knife and fork out. We're meeting him there at eight. He seemed very friendly, I must say, told me to call him Nico. I have a feeling we're going to get on.”

Lucy was watching a tall blonde in black leather stride through the boulevard traffic with a borzoi, ignoring the cars, both girl and dog walking with haughty, head-high grace. The effect was marred by the dog's decision to cock his leg against the rear wheel of a parked motorcycle while the owner was attempting to get on. The owner expostulated, his leg also cocked across the saddle. The girl ignored him and strode on.

Lucy shook her head. “In New York, they'd be in a fight by now. Then the dog would be sued.” She shook her head again and turned to Cyrus. “Can we talk business?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think I should wear black tonight? No, I'm kidding. What do you hope to get out of Franzen?”

“Well, let's see.” Cyrus straightened his bow tie, his eyes looking across the boulevard at the Brasserie Lipp. “I'd like him to feel comfortable with us, to feel that he can trust us. I'd like him to tell us how he came to work for Denoyer and to see what he knows about the original painting—where it is, where it's going.” He looked at Lucy and smiled. “I'd like him to tell us all the things he shouldn't be telling us.”

Lucy frowned. “Do you have a plan?”

“Certainly,” said Cyrus. “Get him drunk and hope for the best.”

Camilla was livid. She paced back and forth in front of Noel's desk with short, agitated steps, her elbow crooked, her cigarette held up at shoulder level. It really was too bad. She had offered Andre the chance of a lifetime, a chance any photographer would kill for, and now he'd disappeared. Disappeared. She must have called his apartment a dozen times over the past two days. His flight to Hong Kong was booked, arrangements had been made—complicated arrangements that had required the most servile pleadings on Camilla's part—and where was he? Vanished. The irresponsibility of creative people! The arrogance! The ingratitude! She felt like banishing him forever from her Filofax.

“Try his office again, Noel. Talk to that little Walcott girl. Maybe she knows where he is.”

Camilla stopped pacing to stand over Noel as he made the call. He was shaking his head as he put the receiver down. “She's not there. On vacation until next week.”

“On vacation.” Camilla sniffed. “Package tour to Jones Beach, I suppose. Well, keep trying Andre's home number.”

Noel watched her march back into her office, rigid with irritation, and sighed. It was going to be one of those difficult days.

THEY met in the lobby shortly before eight, Lucy in her best black, Andre with the sense of imminent strangulation that wearing his tie always gave him, Cyrus in a boulevardier's suit of Prince of Wales check. With a courtly swoop, he took Lucy's hand and bent over it. “You look ravishing, my dear. Quite the prettiest girl in Paris.”

Lucy flushed and then became aware that one of the young bellboys was standing behind Cyrus, trying to catch her eye. She smiled at him and was assailed by a torrent of French: A taxi had just dropped off a guest at the hotel. It was empty and available. He would be delighted to hold it for mademoiselle if she wished. Judging by his moonstruck expression, he would have much preferred to hold mademoiselle. The puzzled Lucy turned to Andre, who was standing to one side, a half-smile on his face. “What did he say?”

“He says he has known many women, but none to compare with you. He wants to take you home to meet his mother.”

The cab took them down the Boulevard Saint-Germain,
and as they drove across the Pont de la Concorde, Lucy caught her breath at the sight of the Seine, a great dark ribbon beneath the glitter of the bridges. Andre was watching her face. “I had them turn the lights on for you, Lulu. Over on the right are the Tuileries gardens, and straight ahead is the Place de la Concorde. It beats West Broadway on a wet Monday morning, doesn't it?”

Lucy nodded slowly without taking her eyes off the extraordinary beauty of her surroundings: buildings painted by floodlight, the formal precision of the lines of trees, the sculptural fall of dense shadows on massive stone walls. She said nothing, stunned into silence by her first glimpse of Paris by night.

The driver was clearly in no mood for the leisurely delights of sightseeing. He accelerated hard out of the Rue Royale, hurtled into the Place de la Madeleine, cut sharply in front of a startled motorcyclist, ignored the vituperation that followed, and pulled up at the curb with a grunt of triumph. Another perilous voyage accomplished without loss of life. After inspecting his tip and finding it adequate, he muttered “
Bon appétit
” before thrusting his way back into the traffic, leaving the three of them on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant's entrance. This had a faintly theatrical quality, with the name of the star—chef Alain Senderens—given above-the-door billing just below the main title.

The origins of Lucas-Carton date back to the eighteenth century, when a bold Englishman, Robert Lucas, opened his Taverne Anglaise to provide gastronomically
deprived Parisians with cold meat and steamed pudding. This unlikely combination found favor with the local gourmets, so much so that the name and reputation of Lucas endured long after his death. When the restaurant changed hands a hundred and thirty years later, the new owner renamed it Taverne Lucas. The good times continued, the premises were given an Art Nouveau face-lift at the start of the century, and in 1925, another owner took over, Francis Carton.

There is probably little difference today from the way the interior looked more than ninety years ago: maple, sycamore, and bronze in wonderfully flowing shapes, mirrors and decorative carved panels, bright splashes of fresh flowers, the murmur of voices coming from behind large, cream-colored menus, a general air of
luxe et volupté
.

Cyrus rubbed his hands and took a deep, pleasurable breath, as though he were inhaling a whiff of particularly potent oxygen. “I feel I should be wearing a frock coat and top hat,” he said, looking around the room. “Do you see our man here?”

Most of the tables were occupied by neat, soberly dressed groups of businessmen, the unglamorous but essential mainstay of any expensive restaurant. A few women stood out among the clumps of dark suits; some wore conspicuous jewelry with makeup to match, others the tailored uniforms that identified them as conscripts in the international army of corporate management. And in a corner seat at the far end of the room was a solitary figure immersed in his menu, the back of his unkempt head reflected in the mirrored panel behind him.

The maître d'hôtel led them to the table, and Franzen looked up over the top of reading glasses, his round blue eyes taking in Andre and Cyrus, widening at the sight of Lucy. He got to his feet with some difficulty, crouching over the table as he extended a meaty paw to each of them in turn. He was big, a bear of a man, made even bulkier by a suit of brown corduroy that looked thick enough to withstand bullets. A checkered shirt, the top button open, was given a wrinkled semblance of formality by a tie of yellow wool.

His head was large, capped by a shaggy halo of salt-and-pepper hair that sprouted in all directions above a high forehead, a long, straight nose, and a carefully clipped mustache. When he spoke, it was in the almost too perfect English that Dutchmen seem to acquire at nursery school.

“Do I look surprised?” he said. “You must forgive me. I was expecting only Mr. Pine.” He clasped his hands over his menu, nodding amiably at the others. “So tonight is social, no?”

“Maybe we can manage a little work as well,” said Cyrus. “Miss Walcott and Mr. Kelly are my colleagues. I can promise you they're very discreet.”

The waiter who had been adjusting the placement of an ice bucket by the side of the table pulled up a dripping bottle until the label was visible. Franzen turned his head to peer at it, nodded, and smiled at Cyrus. “The house champagne,” he said. “I'm sure you'll approve. It's very good.” In the pause that followed, the sound of the cork being drawn, no louder than a sudden exhalation of
breath, was followed by the whisper of bubbles rising in the glasses.

Cyrus leaned across the table, his voice low. “I hope it's understood that I will take care of the bill tonight. I insist.”

The Dutchman appeared to give this his consideration as he fingered the stem of his glass. This was a promising start, he thought; not at all like that stingy little bastard Holtz, who made every centime a subject for negotiation. With a slight inclination of his head, he said, “Most generous. I can see it will be a pleasure to collaborate with you, my friend.”

Cyrus looked around the table and raised his glass. “To art,” he said.

“To business,” said Franzen. “But not on an empty stomach, eh?”

Lucy and Andre, their knees touching under the table, let the two older men continue to bat courtesies back and forth while they shared a menu, Andre murmuring translations of the dishes, Lucy the picture of rapt attention. An observer might have thought they were discussing marriage. In fact, Andre was doing his best to explain
bigorneaux
.

“They're winkles, Lulu. You know—winkles. From the sea.”

“Like a fish? Like a crab?”

“Not exactly, no. More like a snail.”

An involuntary shudder. “How about
ris de veau?
”

“Delicious, but I don't think you want to hear about it.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.”

“OK. I'm feeling lucky. Let's go for
cuisses de grenouille
.”

“Lovely. Like the most tender chicken.”

“But not chicken?”

“No. Frogs' thighs.”

“Oh.”

Franzen lowered his menu to look at Lucy. “If I could make a suggestion,” he said. “There is one dish here that you cannot find anywhere else in France, or perhaps the world: the
Canard Apicius
. The recipe dates back to the Romans, two thousand years ago.” He paused to drink some champagne. “It is a duck, but a duck like no other, a duck roasted in honey and spices, a duck in ecstasy. You will remember this duck for the rest of your life.” He raised a hand to his lips, made a bouquet of his fingertips, and kissed them loudly. “You will tell your grandchildren about this duck.”