The Mystery of the Lost Cezanne Read Free Page A

cakes he had bought. Mme Chazeau wished she could go home, put on her slippers, call her half brother Franz, and tell him about Michaud’s famed galettes des rois. But tonight she would be working, hosting a meeting of apartment owners who owned flats in the four-story apartment at 23 rue Boulegon. There had been a time, when sales were easier to get, that she had refused to work as a
syndic
. Smaller, less prestigious Realtors could take on the headache of dealing with the often-dailyproblems in running a small apartment building. Especially apartments that had been built in old Aix and were themselves often more than five hundred years old. But finding clients—French or foreign—to buy estates worth more than two million euros was getting harder to do, so she agreed to represent the owners at 23 rue Boulegon, if only for the prestige: it was a beautiful, well-kept building, and it had been Paul Cézanne’s last residence.
    A thud brought her out of her reverie; René Rouquet had walked into the glass door. Startled, she opened the door. “M. Rouquet,” she said, “you should walk with your head up. Welcome. You’re the first here.”
    Rouquet mumbled a good evening, walked in with his head still down, and stood with his back to Julie’s marble-topped desk, fidgeting with his wool hat. Mme Chazeau smiled, pleased that the gruff retired postman had remembered his manners and removed his hat. The tiny bell that hung above the door rang again and she turned around; it seemed that the rest of the owners had all arrived at the same time: Pierre Millot, who came with the new owners of his top-floor apartment, a young couple whom Mme Chazeau hadn’t yet met; Dr. Pitavy, a podiatrist who owned a two-room office on the ground floor, to the left of the building’s entrance; and Philomène Joubert, who owned and rented out the two apartments on the second floor, above Dr. Pitavy’s office.
    â€œDid you see the queue at Michaud’s?” Mme Joubert said as she walked in, blowing on her hands, wishing she had not left her apartment on the rue Cardinale without gloves.
    â€œI bought my galette this morning,” Dr. Pitavy said, smirking.
    â€œI made my own,” Philomène Joubert said, glaring at the doctor.
What a pretentious bore
, she thought to herself.
    Pierre Millot turned to the young couple, Françoise and Eric Legendre, who had just moved to Aix, and explained. “Michaud’s is an institution,” he said. “Cézanne even bought his pastries there.”
    â€œLet’s go upstairs to the meeting room, now that everyone is here,” Mme Chazeau said. She turned the door’s lock and left a large set of keys dangling in it.
    â€œ
Et le Belge?
” René Rouquet asked as they mounted the stairs.
    â€œ
M. Staelens
,” Mme Chazeau slowly said, “called me this afternoon. He’s at home in Brussels and sends his best wishes.”
    Mme Chazeau closed the conference room’s door, out of habit, once everyone sat down. She went to the head of the table and opened a red file. “Pierre, why don’t you introduce the new owners of your former apartment?” she asked, sitting down. She didn’t add that she thought it odd that Pierre Millot was present that evening, as he no longer owned an apartment at number 23. But she had seen it before—some people had a hard time letting go, even once all the documents had been signed. One seller, years ago, had such remorse that he drove every evening to his former house and parked in the street, looking at the grounds that he had lovingly tended for thirty years. When he began to wander around the yard, the new owners had to get a restraining order.
    Pierre straightened his back and began. “I’d like to introduce Eric and Françoise Legendre, who moved into my former apartment six days ago. They are returning to France after spending over ten years in