Cezanne's Quarry (27 page)

G
O OUT OF THE CITY TOWARD
the mountain. Not the road to Vauvenargues, but the road to the south, below the Cours, the road to Le Tholonet. Start out early and take a hat. The sun will be merciless. There is an inn at Le Tholonet at the side of the road. If you have no way to carry water with you, drink what you can there before going on, for you will have to walk at least another hour before reaching the village of St. Antonin. You do this by continuing on the same road. After a while, it zigzags upward until you reach a high plateau. The village is at the top of your climb. Go to the café, it is the only one, and tell Mme Calin that you are a student of mine and you need to borrow her spade. You won’t be far away. As you leave the village, you will enter a meadow. The sheer face of the mountain will be rising to your left. Walk about half a kilometer. If you take the time to explore the meadow, you may find a sea shell, proof that the mountain began as a coral reef rising from an ancient sea, a primeval sea as pure as her soul and green as her eyes.
Westerbury stopped. His grandiloquence had plunged him into dangerous territory, catching him off guard. He composed himself, before continuing.
Look to the right for two solitary pines intertwining their branches like lovers. I wrapped the letter in a cloth sack and buried it under their arch. I suppose I hoped that one day I would take Solange on this walk. That one day we would resurrect our love together, embrace under the pines, and forgive everything that had gone on before.
Again Westerbury had to fight back tears. His last words were spoken mostly to himself, almost beyond Martin’s hearing.
I don’t know what I hoped for, or why I buried the letter, except I could not bear to destroy it, and I was filled with shame.

The unrelenting sun was not the only reason to set out early. Martin needed to avoid detection, and he hoped for solitude, some escape from the ghosts inhabiting his attic room. He wove his way through back streets, watching at every corner for Franc or one of his men. Once he reached the outskirts of Aix, he walked with more purpose. Toward the letter. Toward a piece of evidence that might save him and explain everything.

The stony white road to Le Tholonet cut through a tall forest. Martin knew that the quarry where Solange Vernet had been murdered lay somewhere deep in the woods to his left. If he scoured them, would he find the place where Merckx had been shot? Would he see his friend’s blood or some evidence of his own paltry belongings? These questions kept pestering Martin. It was depressing to realize that the unfamiliar road was every bit as haunted as Aix.

The pallid face of the mountain came into view before Martin reached the inn at Le Tholonet. He made a hurried stop, then continued on. It was only as he walked up the slow incline leading out of the town that he discovered that Mont Sainte-Victoire was not the single peak one observed from Aix, but a great wall of limestone rising to three peaks, reaching far to the east. The wall shone white under the burning sun, and closed in on him as he climbed toward St. Antonin. There was no wind. Not even a breeze. His only companions were the cicadas, screeching at him from their hiding places.

By the time Martin reached St. Antonin, his shirt was heavy with sweat, but his spirits had lifted. So far everything Westerbury had told him was true. He found the café without any trouble, and drained two glasses of water before telling Mme Calin that he had been sent by Westerbury. It was easy to persuade her to lend him her spade. As she told him, she had done this often for the English geologist, who did not like to carry everything from the city. The professor was a good customer and a charming man, she said. What was Martin looking for? He hesitated. Proof of the world’s origins, he told her. This seemed plausible, and he hoped that this would not offend her. She patted his hand and told him he was just like his teacher.

But he was not like Westerbury at all. He did not have time to ponder the origins of the world, or look for the ancient sea shells still lingering in the meadow. His only thought was to measure his steps for half a kilometer until he could scan the horizon for two trees “intertwining their branches like lovers.” Even though he caught sight of them right on target, a twinge of doubt assaulted him as he dragged the spade through the still meadow toward the pines. What if the letter wasn’t there? What if someone had discovered it before him?

Martin quickened his pace. As soon as he reached the trees he began probing the ground for newly turned earth. He found the spot almost immediately. The digging did not take long. Westerbury had either been too hopeful or too distressed to really bury the letter. Martin grabbed at the sack, turning it round and round until he found the opening. The pages tumbled out of the envelope. He gathered them together and sat down under the pines, holding the letter to his chest.
This was it.
The pages stuck to his moist fingers as he tried to wipe away the dirt and the few tiny insects that had penetrated the sack. That’s when he caught a slight whiff of lavender, the scent he remembered from his encounter with Solange Vernet in the bookstore. Martin smoothed the delicate purple-tinged pages out on his knees and closed his eyes.
Tell me, please tell me, Solange, who killed you.
He wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and dried his hands on his trousers before he began to read.

The handwriting was surprisingly childlike, as if composed in a schoolroom. At first it was neat and precise, but it grew more erratic as, Martin presumed, weariness and emotion had overtaken the writer. He went over the letter again and again until he made out every word, even the few that had been smeared by sweat or blotched by tears.

My Dearest Charles,

You must read this before we can meet again. You must understand why I became so upset with you, and why I was so deeply hurt by your accusations. At last you must know everything.

You accused me of having an affair with Cézanne. Indeed, dear Charles, nothing could be further from the truth. You accuse me of betraying you. Of betraying us. But isn’t that the same thing? Didn’t you always tell me that in our hearts we were one? Worse, you accuse me of granting him the one favor that I have not granted you. How could you? That is why I had to send you away. I was too angry with you. And too ashamed for both of us.

Now that I am a little calmer, I realize that I must share the blame for your wild accusations, because I have not told you everything. I am weak, Charles, not like you. I cannot conquer the world. Yes, we have both known poverty, and yes, as you said, I have, unlike you, kept part of my past a secret. This was not because I wanted to be mysterious or alluring, as you seem to think. It is because the past shames me. Despite your love, despite all you have done for me, I cannot overcome it. Not completely. Especially not after seeing Cézanne on the Cours the first time. I cry as I write this. When you know everything, you may not even want me.

The first time I saw Cézanne was not in Aix. It was in Bennecourt, almost twenty years ago. I was sixteen. I don’t know how old he was. I had been sent to live with my aunt, to work on her farm. When summer came, the inn needed extra help, and my aunt offered my services so that I could help to pay for my upkeep. For weeks at a time young artists came to stay at the inn. Sometimes they brought their wives and lovers, but usually not. I even saw Zola then, before he was famous. I was fascinated by them. I had only a few years of schooling before my mother died. Despite my ignorance I wanted to hear them talk and laugh, to see their paintings, and to know what they were reading to each other. Oh Charles, it was all so new to me, the world of art and the mind. I listened as I cleaned the pots and the dishes in the kitchen. My aunt said I was too pretty to serve the men.

I have never told you about my aunt, my father’s sister. She was an ugly, cruel woman. I could not wait to get away from her. But I could not figure out how to do it. We women are different from you men. We cannot just set out in the world. It is full of dangers for us. This I know, Charles, I know this in the depths of my being. I hesitate before telling you the worst part.

Solange Vernet had scratched out a number of lines at this point.

I was curious. I’ll admit that. I wanted to know everything about these men, these vacationers from Paris. And when the other servants told me that they went to the river in the moonlight to swim together, I had to see it. How foolish we are at that age. I knew nothing. I had never seen a man naked. At least my father had kept me from that. I had only seen my little brothers. But that was not why I wanted to see them. I think I wanted to see their joy, to know what freedom and happiness looked like.

The second time I went to watch them, my aunt and her lover caught me. They had been looking for me because they wanted to make sure that I brought them the week’s wages. My aunt’s lover called me a whore and decided to teach me a lesson. He was so big and blond—a brute of a man. He grabbed me by my arm and hair, and dragged me into the woods. My aunt even held me down as he lifted my skirt and took me again and again. He covered my mouth so that no one could hear my cries. I was frantic. I thought I would die. My eyes went round and round looking for help. And then one of the artists appeared through the bushes on his way back to the inn. It was Cézanne. I will never forget his dark eyes staring at me. He stood still, watching me. And he did nothing. Nothing. I will never forgive him for that.

And, dear Charles, do you want to know the irony? Cézanne did not even recognize me when we first met in Aix. He still does not recognize me. It was you who kept telling me that I was a desirable woman. It was you who gave me the courage to pursue a plan of revenge once I understood that I meant nothing to him that horrible night so long ago. I decided that I would mean something, everything. I decided to seduce him so that later I could reject him with as much cruelty as possible. When I found out that he was still trying to make his name in art, I decided that once he had fallen in love with me, I would ridicule him both as an artist and as a man. That’s why I laughed when you accused me of making love to him. I almost slapped his face the first time he tried to kiss me.

I owe so much to you, dear Charles. My happiness. My belief that I am a woman worthy of being loved. And because of you, I could not carry out my plan. Why be cruel to someone who is obviously so unhappy? Why take vengeance on another human being when you have everything you want, everything you always wanted, except of course a child. I could not carry out my plan. It was beneath us. Now I am hoping he will grow discouraged and go away.

There was another hiatus and row of scratching out before she began again.

I said I would tell you everything. For my shame does not end with one night in the woods. My aunt’s lover was the village constable. His name was Alain Duprès. You should have seen how he strutted around, catching the poor poachers and starving little pickpockets. So righteous, so exacting in his punishments. He even wore his saber, the emblem of his paltry office, to mass on Sunday to show how important he was. But he was just as poor as the rest of us. This is why he was pursuing my aunt, to inherit her pitiful piece of land. I grew more and more sure that he didn’t love her. For soon after that night, he took me aside, and told me that I had become his second mistress. He warned me that if I ever told anyone about our “lovemaking” he would give me a beating that would scar me for life. Lovemaking! Oh, Charles, you wondered why you were my first lover. It was because you were so different from all the men I knew. You can’t imagine how much I risked when I surrendered to you. That is why I cried that first night. I was so afraid that I would feel the shame and humiliation again.

Yes, Charles, Alain Duprès was the man on top, the only one. I never knew when he would meet me on the road as I was heading home from work, and force me to come to his cabin. This went on for two long, cold seasons, until the next spring. Sometimes I felt that he would crush my very being. This is why I was so horrified when you accused me of letting Cézanne “mount me.” You cannot imagine how cruel your accusation was.

I wrote my father, begging him to let me come home, promising him I would do all the housework, care for the children, and hire myself out to anyone who wanted me. But I did not tell him why. I was too ashamed. And then I found out that I was with child. I knew the signs. I had seen my poor mother go through it again and again, until it finally killed her. At first I refused to believe it. I thought of throwing myself into the river. I was desperate. If my aunt knew, she would have thrown me out. My father would have never taken me back. I talked to one of the servants. She told me there were women in Paris called angel makers. If I could get to Paris, they would spot me as soon as I got off the train. She was sure I looked that desperate. I never told her who the father was. I was too afraid. She probably thought it was one of the guests, one of the artists, but those young men hardly knew I existed.

At least, Charles, I managed to garner a little courage. This is what saved me. One night, when I knew my aunt and her lover were together at the farm, I went into his cabin looking for money. I wanted just enough to get to Paris. He owed me that much. But—perhaps God or the Virgin was with me—what I found was a bag full of gold coins. I put one in my pocket, and stuffed the rest into my sack. They would take me to Paris, they would allow me to pay for a place to stay until I found work. I had no idea how much money was there. I could not believe my luck. I don’t know what got into me then, but I wanted to tell Duprès that I had gotten back at him a little. I wanted him to know that at least one person knew what a hypocrite he was. So I left him a note. I could not write very much in those days, so I remember it well. It said “I know who you are. Sophie.” And then I stole into the night, walking as fast as I could to the station, and waited there for the train.

When I arrived in Paris, I was made to pay very dearly for my sins. The angel makers did find me before I even left the station. I went with three of them to a hovel on the outskirts of Paris where I saw other girls, some younger than me, waiting their turn. I do hope my child became an angel. I nearly became one of the eternally damned. All I remember was pain and blood, blood that seemed to flow for days. One of the angel makers was very kind. When I finally came to my senses, she held my hand tenderly as she told me that I would be barren. She was also the one who found the money. The Virgin smiled on me again, for she did not steal it or divide it with the others. She kept it for me. She had a plan.

At first, when she told me about it, I became very frightened. Was I to be robbed? Left destitute, and alone in this vast city? She looked into my eyes, while she held my hands, trying to gain my trust. She told me that she did not care how I had gotten all the money. If I had robbed the man who had done this to me, so much the better. She needed to know if I had a family to return to. She was sure I could not make my way on my own.

I told her that I had no family, that I had been rejected by them and was afraid of them. Thankfully, she did not question me further. She had much experience with girls like me, who had gotten into trouble and wanted only to escape. She then told me that she knew where I could find work if I loaned the money to someone. I was still very frightened. What did I know about these things? I felt so alone.

She explained that she had a sister who had a shop that was in debt. This sister, she said, was the kindest woman in the world. Everyone who knew her called her Aunt Marie because she helped everyone. And now she needed help. This sister, like me, was barren. She had always longed for a daughter.

When I met Aunt Marie I felt, for the first time in months, that maybe I was not among the damned. She was so kind. I gladly helped her. What could money have done for me? She gave me everything, her love, her home, her livelihood. She was more of a mother to me than my own mother had been. This, my dear Charles, is the real secret of my success. This is how I became a rich woman. Aunt Marie and her sister Berthe became my family. Berthe bribed the other angel makers to tell anyone who had asked that they had never seen me. I don’t even know if anyone ever came looking for me.