Chasing Cezanne Read Online Free PDF Page A

office, heartbreak on the train back to Paris, an exchange of letters that faltered and finally stopped. Then the Sorbonne,and other girls. Then the years of apprenticeship as a photographer’s assistant in London. And then, drawn by the thought of exotic assignments and American-sized fees, New York.
    He finished his croissant and spread his map on the table. The Russian dowager and her icons lived below Saint-Jeannet, no more than ten minutes away. He decided to go and introduce himself before checking into the hotel.
    Saint-Paul was coming to life as he pulled out of his parking spot, the gendarme on the prowl, a waiter from the Colombe d’Or hosing down the entrance to the hotel courtyard, drops of water bouncing off the stone like diamonds in the sunlight. Andre drove slowly up toward Saint-Jeannet, comparing the views on either side of the road. To his right,
jolies villas
huddled together as far as the eye could see, a jumble of concrete and tile that covered the terraced land and extended all the way down to the Mediterranean. To his left, the slopes of the Col de Vence rose up above the treetops, bleached and barren and building-free. It was the kind of contrast found often along the south coast, with intensive development abruptly giving way to emptiness, as though a line had been drawn beyond which no villas were allowed. Andre hoped the line would endure. Modern architecture was not one of France’s great accomplishments.
    He turned off the narrow road, following instructions that led him down a gravel track into a fold of the valley, and found himself in a pocket of land that had escaped the developers. A range of old stone buildings sprawled along the banks of a small stream, swags ofgeraniums drooping from the walls, a breath of smoke coming from one of the chimneys.
    Andre parked the car and went up a flight of shallow, uneven steps to the front door of the largest of the buildings. Two stout cats sitting on a wall watched him through half-closed, supercilious eyes, and he was reminded of one of his father’s favorite quotes: “Cats look down on you. Dogs look up to you. But pigs look you straight in the eye.” He was smiling as he knocked on the door.
    There was a rasp as iron bolts were drawn. A round, ruddy face with brown button eyes under a frizz of gray hair peered around the side of the door. Andre felt the cats push past his legs to go inside.
    â€œMadame,
bonjour
. I’m the photographer from America. From the magazine. I hope you were expecting me.”
    The face frowned. “I was told a woman.”
    â€œShe’ll be here later today. If it would be more convenient, I could come back then.”
    The old woman rubbed her nose with a bent, arthritic finger. “Where is your camera?”
    â€œIn the car.”
    â€œ
Ah bon
.” This seemed to help the old woman come to a decision. “Tomorrow will be better. The girl comes today to clean.” She nodded at Andre, closing the door firmly in his face.
    He took his camera from the car to shoot some exteriors of the house while the light was still coming from the east. Through the lens, he saw the pale blur of the old woman’s head as she watched him through a window. How would she cope with Camilla? He finished a roll offilm and, squinting at the sun, decided to leave the other exteriors until the evening.
    He drove back to the hotel and checked in, swinging the heavy key in his hand as he went down the corridor to his room. He liked it here. It was rambling and informal, more like a simple country house than a hotel—until you started to look at the paintings on the walls and the sculptures in the gardens.
    The Colombe d’Or had been founded after World War I by Paul Roux, an ex-farmer with a sympathy for hungry artists. They came to eat at his restaurant and, in the way of artists, sometimes found themselves a little short of funds. Monsieur Roux obligingly allowed them to pay for their