Chasing Cezanne Read Free Page A

sportsman, a cut-and-thruster who saw the streets of Manhattan as a testing ground for man and machine. He braced his knees against the partition and prepared to assume the fetal position recommended by airlines in the event of a crash, as the driverswooped down Fifth Avenue in a series of high-octane lunges and sudden-death swerves, cursing the traffic in a guttural, mysterious tongue.
    At last the cab lurched into West Broadway, and the driver tried his hand at a form of English.
    â€œOK. Where number?”
    Andre, feeling his luck couldn’t last forever, decided to travel the last two blocks on foot. “This will be fine.”
    â€œFine?”
    â€œHere. Right here.”
    â€œYou got it.” The brakes were applied with gusto, causing the car behind to lock its wheels and slide, very gently, into the back of the cab. The cabdriver jumped out, clutching his neck, and reverted to his mother tongue to deliver an agonized tirade in which the only two familiar words were “whiplash” and “sonofabitch.” Andre paid him and made a hasty escape.
    The building he reached after a brisk two-minute walk had started life as a garment factory. Now, as with so much SoHo real estate, its humble origins had been thoroughly concealed by several coats of gentrification. The high-ceilinged, light rooms had been subdivided, partitioned, repainted, rewired, replumbed, rezoned, and, needless to say, repriced. The tenants were mostly small businesses in the fields of arts and communications, and it was here that Image Plus, the agency representing Andre’s work, had its headquarters.
    Image Plus had been founded by Stephen Moss, a young man with intelligence, taste, and a liking for warm weather. His clients were photographers and illustratorswho specialized in nonfashion subjects—Moss, quite rightly, being wary of the temperaments and complications involved in anything to do with clothing and androgynous models. After the early years of struggle, he now had a tight, profitable little business, taking fifteen or twenty percent of his clients’ income in return for representation, which covered everything from career counseling to tax advice and fee negotiation. He had extensive contacts, a doting girlfriend, perfect blood pressure, and a full head of hair. His only problem was the winter in New York, which he detested.
    It was this fear of freezing, as much as a desire to expand his business, that had caused him to take on Lucy Walcott as a junior partner. Nine months later, he had felt sufficiently confident in his choice to leave the office in Lucy’s hands during that first, suicidally unpleasant part of the year, from January to March. She was pleased to have the responsibility. He was pleased to have the sunshine in Key West. And Andre was pleased to be working with a pretty girl. As he came to know Lucy, he found himself looking for chances to extend the relationship, but he traveled too much, and she seemed to attract a new and dauntingly muscular young man every week. So far, they had yet to see each other outside the office.
    Andre was buzzed through a steel door, which led into an airy open space. Apart from a couch and a low table in one corner, the only furniture was a large, square production desk built for four. Three of the chairs were empty. Lucy, head down over a computer keyboard, was in the fourth.
    â€œLulu, it’s your lucky day.” Andre dropped his bag on the couch and went over to the desk. “Lunch, Lulu, a real lunch—Chez Felix, Bouley, you name it. I’ve just picked up a job, and I feel an overpowering urge to celebrate. How about it?”
    Lucy grinned as she pushed back her chair and stood up to stretch.
    Slim and straight, with a mop of black, curly hair that made her seem taller than her official five feet six, she looked far too healthy for a New Yorker in winter. Her skin color was halfway between chocolate and honey, a glowing dark caramel