Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle Page A

room. “You don’t have any mirrors here, do you?” She tucked her hair in the beret, tilting it steeply over one eye, and caught him smiling at her. “This isn’t how they wear them in France?”
    â€œNo. But they should.”
    Lucy took him to what she called her local, a small, warm, noisy restaurant on Duane Street. Mount Gay rum, Red Stripe beer, a Jamaican chef with an Italian wife.Both sides of the marriage were represented on the short menu.
    Lucy sipped her rum. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
    â€œThere’s something about it I don’t understand.” Andre leaned forward, looking into his glass while he spoke. “They weren’t interested in stuff they could sell on the street in five minutes. Just cameras—cameras and my shot files. My work. That’s all they wanted. And they were pros. Didn’t have to break the door down, knew how to cut off the alarm.” He looked up. “Pros, Lulu. But why me? I mean, photographs of houses, furniture, pictures—it’s not as if there’s anything they could sell to the
Enquirer
. The only nudes are in the paintings.”
    The chef’s wife squeezed her ample body through the tables to take their orders, kissing the tips of her fingers when Lucy ordered the jerk chicken and nodding with approval at Andre’s choice of seafood risotto. “I choose the wine for you, eh? A nice Jamaican Orvieto.” She cackled, and waddled off to the kitchen.
    Lucy grinned. “Don’t look so disapproving and French. Angelica knows best. Now go back a bit, tell me about your trip.”
    Andre went through it, trying his best to keep the account factual, watching Lucy’s face for reactions. She had that most attractive quality in a listener, complete and serious attention, and he barely noticed the arrival of Angelica with the food and wine. They sat back to give her space to put down the plates.
    â€œ
Basta,
” said Angelica. “Enough romance. Eat.”
    For the first few minutes they ate in silence. Lucy paused to take some wine. “You’re right,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense, unless someone just wanted to make a mess of your work.” She shook her head. “Do you know anyone who has a grudge against you? You know, in business?”
    â€œNot that I can think of. But why would they want my old transparencies? There’s nothing they could sell. And why would they take the whole place apart?”
    â€œLooking for something, maybe. I don’t know … something you’d hidden.”
    Angelica loomed over them. “How is everything?” She picked up the wine bottle and filled their glasses. “Your first time here?” she said to Andre.
    He smiled at her and nodded. “Very good.”
    â€œ
Bene
. Make sure she eats. She’s too thin.” Angelica moved away from the table, massaging her stomach with a chubby hand.
    They ate and talked, avoiding any more theories about the burglary, slipping gradually from business gossip into an exchange of likes and dislikes, hopes and ambitions, the small revelations of two people feeling their way toward knowing each other. The restaurant was almost empty by the time they finished coffee, and when they went out on the street there was a damp chill in the air. Lucy shivered, tucking a hand under Andre’s arm as they walked to the corner of Duane and West Broadway. He waved down a cab, and for the first time that evening there was a tentative, slightly awkward moment.
    Lucy opened the cab door. “Promise me you won’t do any housework when you get home.”
    â€œThanks for everything, Lulu. Dinner was lovely. Almost worth getting robbed.”
    She stood on tiptoe and kissed the end of his nose. “Change your locks, OK?” And then she was gone.
    He stood watching the cab’s back lights blend into a hundred others, feeling surprisingly happy for