Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle

stubble and haircuts while they waited for their drinks. Andre felt underdressed and overshaved.
    â€œWell?” he said. “What do you think? That painting must be worth a fortune.”
    Lucy stacked the transparencies in a small pile on the bar with long, scarlet-tipped fingers. It was the first time Andre had seen her wearing nail varnish. “I don’t know,” she said. “If they were stealing it, why wouldn’t they do it at night? Why hang around on the doorstep with it?” She took another sip of rum and smiled at the frown on his face. “Listen, if it bothers you, call Denoyer. Do you know where he is?”
    â€œI can find out. It’s odd, though, isn’t it? You’re right—I’ll call him.” He slipped the transparencies into an envelope and gazed at Lucy with what he hoped was a soulful expression. “All alone on Saturday night,” he said, “the girl of my dreams promised to another.” He sighed,a heavy, long-drawn-out sigh. “Pizza and TV, dirty dishes. Maybe I’ll go mad and wash my hair. Maybe I should get a cat.”
    Lucy grinned. “You’re breaking my heart.”
    â€œWho’s the lucky man?”
    She looked into her drink. “Just a guy.”
    â€œMeet him at the gym? That’s what it was, love among the Nautilus machines. Your eyes met over the bench press. One look at his pectorals and you were lost.” He sighed again. “Why don’t these things ever happen to me?”
    â€œYou’re never here.” She looked at him in silence for a moment. “Right?”
    Andre nodded. “Right. Anyway, he’s late. He’s blown it. Why don’t we go around the corner and get some real food, some …” A gust of aftershave made him look up, and the space between them was suddenly filled by a young man in a dark suit and an aggressively loud striped shirt. Andre was sure that red felt suspenders lurked under his jacket. What a ponce.
    Lucy made the introductions; the two men shook hands with a marked lack of enthusiasm, and Andre surrendered his barstool. “Lulu, I’ll call you tomorrow, after I’ve talked to Denoyer.” He did his best with a smile. “Enjoy your dinner.”
    Walking home, the sidewalk treacherous with a skim of ice, Andre reflected on the often-quoted statistic that there were three unattached females in Manhattan for every one unattached male. It wasn’t doing him much good at the moment; nor would it, he had to admit, as long as he spent most of his life somewhere else. Lucywas right. He stopped off at a deli for a sandwich, trying to avoid mental images of her and the striped shirt having dinner.
    Later, to the celestial sound of Isaac Stern swooping through Mendelssohn, he searched the drawer where he tossed all the business cards given to him. Denoyer’s, in the large and opulent French style, would be bigger than the rest. There. He picked it out and studied the classical black copperplate.
    Two addresses, identified by seasons:
Eté
, Villa La Pinède, 06230 Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat.
Hiver
, Cooper Cay, New Providence, Bahamas. No mention of Paris or Courcheval, so unless he was skiing, Denoyer should still be in the Bahamas.
    Andre yawned, still on French time, four in the morning. He would call tomorrow.

    Denoyer’s voice, on a fuzzy line from Cooper Cay, was relaxed and amiable. Of course he remembered Andre, and those magnificent photographs. Many of his friends had complimented him on the article. He hoped that Andre was thinking of taking some pictures in the Bahamas. The islands were delightful at this time of year, particularly when the weather in Manhattan was so disagreeable. Denoyer paused, leaving direct questions unasked, and waited.
    â€œIn fact,” said Andre, “I’m calling about France. I was on Cap Ferrat last week and passed by your house.”
    â€œWhat a pity we weren’t