The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne Read Online Free PDF Page B

Gaspard.
    â€œThat’s my Cuban nickname,” Gaspard earnestly explained. “We all get one, once we go to Cuba. You have to come on the next trip.”
    Julien added, “The welcome lady—a big, roly-poly Cuban—took one look at our handsome Gaspard and gave him that name on the spot.”
    â€œBijou suits Gaspard perfectly. So what name did she give you two?” Verlaque asked, pointing to Julien and Fabrice.
    Julien coughed and Fabrice changed the subject. “We bought these cigars at a private cigar roller’s operation, in Centro Habana,” Fabrice said.
    Verlaque smiled at Fabrice’s intentional use of the “b” in Havana.
    Fabrice cut his cigar and began to light it. “It’s a two-man show, in the back of this old hotel,” he continued. “One guy rolls, the other guy, Emilio, is the patron. Brings you rum and coffee and sits down with you for a smoke. We bought tons. No cigar bands, either. Chic, eh?”
    â€œThere was a fashion designer who did that a few years ago,” Virginie said. “Reverse marketing; hide the brand name. They just left four little white stitches of thread on the back of the dresses and shirts—”
    â€œ
Gracias
, Virginie,” Fabrice said.
    Virginie rolled her eyes. “Go ahead and tell everyone about this kid Alberto you met,” she said.
    Fabrice, the club’s president, leaned forward. “We took two days and drove out to see the tobacco fields at Viñales,” he said. “We had to show them to Bijou. And we stayed in this tiny village, in a bed-and-breakfast run by this nice old lady and her daughter.”
    â€œNeat as a pin,” Julien said.
    â€œYou could have eaten off the floor,” Fabrice added.
    â€œAnd while we were having our mojitos on the terrace—” Julien continued.
    â€œNaturally,” Verlaque said.
    â€œThis Cuban kid, about twenty years old, comes over to us from the neighbor’s patio and asks if he can speak French with us,” Julien said. “And you should have heard his French.”
    â€œParisian accent and everything,” Fabrice cut in.
    â€œPerfect slang, too,” Gaspard added. “Like any law student here in Aix.”
    â€œWhere did he learn it?” Jean-Marc asked. “I’ve heard the Cuban education is great—”
    â€œZero illiteracy in Cuba,” Gaspard said.
    â€œBijou turned Commie on us over there,” Julien explained.
    Gaspard sighed. “There’s just a lot that makes sense,” he said, leaning back and puffing his cigar. “Free education up to the PhD level; zero illiteracy; free medical care.”
    â€œWe have all that, too,” Jean-Marc said.
    â€œI’m not sure that France has one hundred percent literacy,” Gaspard replied. “And I love the fact that they’re not connected to cyberspace like we are—”
    â€œHa!” Julien snorted. “As if that’s their choice!”
    Gaspard tilted his head. “Well, I for one wouldn’t miss not having Internet, or Facebook, or Twitter.”
    â€œI could handle no social media,” Virginie said. “I wouldn’t have to look at ten photos of my sister’s kids everyday.”
    â€œThis Alberto,” Pierre said, refilling peoples’ flutes with champagne, and trying to get back to the story. He hated political discussions at parties. And so far no one had remarked on his new flutes, bought at a consignment shop beside the Rotonde fountain. Each crystal glass was etched with a dragonfly—his favorite animal—and he was besotted with them. “So where did Alberto learn his French?”
    â€œHe fell in love with a French girl,” Fabrice said.
    â€œClassic!” Verlaque bellowed.
    â€œShe was studying music at the conservatory in Habana,” Fabrice said. “Alberto explained that the best French music students often get sent to Cuba, whose