Descartes’s stomach rumblings had been reverberating for hours in the museum’s workshop. Still, before leaving for lunch, he dashed upstairs to Gallery 6 for a look at the portrait whose entry-hall enlargement had caught his fancy. The original was even more vivid and striking than the reproduction. Mary Magdalene’s hair was long, wavy, and golden; her blue dress and red shawl were bright and cheery; her features, shown in three-quarter profile, were strong, anchored by a roman nose and eyes that were large, frank, and sensual. No downcast, demure virgin, this one, Descartes thought. John the Baptist was equally powerful. Over a furry animal pelt, he wore a full-length purple shawl trimmed in gold. His long hair and beard were dark brown and curly, and his sun-baked skin was a deep bronze verging on black, although the narrow, chiseled nose and cheekbones made it clear that he wasn’t African. Staring at the painting, Descartes finds himself entertaining inappropriately larcenous fantasies. Hell, as long as the guy was inside, he thought, why didn’t he steal this one?
Spiraling back down, he emerged, bleary-eyed, blinking, and famished, into the dazzling Proven?al day, the sun nearly overhead. A leftover sandwich awaited him in the refrigerator at police headquarters, but he was far too hungry for that now. Swimming against a tide of tourists, he angled across Avignon’s main square in search of a more satisfying lunch.
The museum was on the narrow, northern end of the long, thin plaza. Flanking the long eastern side was Avignon’s main tourist attraction, the Palace of the Popes, an immense Gothic fortress where a series of pontiffs had reigned during the fourteenth century.
Descartes had lived in Avignon for nearly two decades—ever since graduating from the academy—but he’d never set foot in the palace. He regarded Old Avignon as a museum or a stage set—mausoleum, in fact, might be the word that best expressed his sentiments. The papal palace and the art museums were fine for the flocking tourists, but Descartes couldn’t be bothered to care about power-hungry priests and self-indulgent artists who’d lived half a millennium ago. But now, the fact that a crime had occurred at the museum—not just spray-paint graffiti or rock-throwing vandalism, but something offbeat and baffling—suddenly made the museum itself intriguing. It was as if he’d discovered a youthful, racy photo of an elderly spinster aunt. Perhaps, he thought, there were similar mysteries, unknown depths to be plumbed, within the soaring walls and mighty towers of the papal palace.
Descartes’s hunger pangs brought his mind back to the primal exigencies of the body. He needed to eat, he needed to take a dump, and he needed to take a nap. For need one and maybe need two, he angled toward a Moroccan couscous place a block beyond the Palace of the Popes. The food was simple but tasty, and the prices weren’t bad, especially if you flashed your badge to remind the manager that you were a cop. Descartes’s mouth began to water as he imagined the restaurant’s chicken tagine, the succulent, tangy meat—seasoned with green olives and lemons and sweet, plump raisins—falling off the bone, the savory juices saturating the small pearls of couscous.
A few doors before he reached the restaurant, he passed Cinema Vox and paused to see what was playing. Leaning against the theater’s large front window, he cupped his hands around his eyes to block the glare and peered in at the posters. The Avengers, Battleship, and Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Foreign crap, he thought, conveniently overlooking the fact that he actually preferred foreign crap—especially American action thrillers—to the depressing, pretentious fare French filmmakers produced.