Chasing Cezanne by Peter Mayle Page A

long-established gentlemen’s club—paneled walls, armchairs of veined and cracked leather, a fine but faded Oriental rug, two good eighteenth-century occasional tables, the faint aroma of beeswax. Andre was surprised by the absence of paintings; or indeed of anything that suggested Pine’s occupation. The only pictures in the room were two large black-and-white photographs hanging side by side over the small fireplace. He went to take a closer look.
    The photographs showed the yellowing tinge of age, in contrast to the obvious youth of their subjects. On the left, a group of boys turning into men, formal in black coats and high starched collars, hands in pockets, displayed a variety of decorative waistcoats to the camera. The faces, under slicked-back hair, were round and serious, almost haughty, gazing into the distance as though the photographer weren’t there. A caption beneath the figures read:
Eton 1954
.
    The second photograph showed another, less formal group. More young men, this time dressed for tennis, withsweaters slung over their shoulders and rackets that looked decidedly old-fashioned held casually in front of them. They were tanned and cheerful, smiling into the sun.
Harvard 1958
. Andre was looking from one photograph to the other to see if he could find a face that appeared in both, when the door opened.
    â€œI’m the pompous one on the far left who looks like he has a smell under his nose. How are you, Mr. Kelly? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.” Andre turned to see the beaming face and outstretched hand of Cyrus Pine.
    He was tall and slightly stooped, with a full head of silver hair brushed straight back above a wide forehead, sharp brown eyes, and an impressive set of eyebrows, worn long. He was dressed in a gray tweed suit of European cut, a pale-blue shirt, and a butter-colored silk bow tie. Like his house, he appeared to be immaculately maintained. Andre put his age at around sixty. His handshake was firm and dry.
    â€œThanks for seeing me,” said Andre. “I hope I’m not wasting your time.”
    â€œNot at all. It’s always a pleasure to meet a friend of David’s. Very bright young man, David. His father’s a great friend. We were at college together.”
    Andre nodded at the photographs. “You had an interesting education.”
    Pine laughed. “I had wandering parents—never knew on which side of the Atlantic they wanted to be.” He moved over to the photographs and pointed to one of the tennis players. “That’s me at Harvard. You can see I no longer had a smell under my nose. Must have left it behind at Eton.”
    Andre was trying to place his accent, a charming and cultivated hybrid of an accent that seemed to fall somewhere between Boston and Saint James’s. “You are English, though, aren’t you?”
    â€œWell, I still have the passport. But I haven’t lived there for forty years.” He glanced at his watch. “Now then. I hate to rush you, but a lot of my business is done with a knife and fork, and I’m afraid I have an early lunch date in half an hour. Let’s sit down.”
    Andre leaned forward in his chair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Cézanne’s
Woman with Melons
.”
    Pine nodded. “I don’t know the lady intimately, much as I’d like to. That painting hasn’t been on the market for at least seventy years.” He grinned, and Andre could suddenly see the young man in the photographs. “Are you buying or selling?”
    Andre grinned back, already liking him. “Neither,” he said. “Much as I’d like to. Let me tell you what happened.”
    Pine sat motionless, his chin resting on clasped hands, letting Andre speak without interruption. He had heard similar stories before—paintings that had slipped out of circulation, followed by unconfirmed rumors of their reappearance in Switzerland, in Saudi