Cooking for Picasso (15 page)

Ondine flushed, for indeed, just thinking about her parents had brought her down to earth.

“They don't know a thing about this,” she answered. Seeking to assure him of her sincerity, she added, “I would only want the salary you usually pay your other models.” She made a broad sweep of her arm, indicating the many scattered drawings and paintings of the nude blonde woman.

“
She
doesn't do it for the money!” Picasso exclaimed, insulted. “Marie-Thérèse is a
real
woman! In all these years she never asked for ‘wages'—her reward is the joy of sacrificing for, and pleasing, a great artist! Do you think just
any
woman can be the subject of a painting that hangs in the best galleries of the world? But perhaps I'll end up giving
your
pictures to the trash man.”

His tone was so chilly that her own blood seemed cold, and she felt suddenly, completely worthless. He was scowling darkly, looking rougher and angrier than usual as he scanned a pile of books but apparently could not find what he wanted.

“Merde!”
he muttered. But when he spoke again, he sounded strangely casual.

“Have you heard of the Marquis de Sade?” Ondine shook her head. “No?” he asked innocently. “A brilliant man. He lived years ago—have you never seen the ruins of his castle here in Provence, up in a town called Lacoste? He kept his servant girls in a dungeon, where he used them for his pleasure and beat them when they displeased him,” he said, widening his dark eyes in exaggerated horror. “Until one day, Napoleon threw him in jail.”

“Then he must have been very wicked,” Ondine said decisively, instinctively fighting back.

“But that's what women want,” Picasso insisted. “In fact, they are only happy when they submit entirely to a man—body, mind and soul—doing whatever he commands. Even the pain he inflicts on a woman gives her great pleasure and makes her happy, don't you agree?” He was now standing right in front of her, almost nose-to-nose, as if trying to mesmerize her into compliance and defeat.

Ondine understood his bullying tone and she didn't like it. So she stared straight back into his black eyes. “No,” she said evenly.

He shrugged indifferently, abruptly turned away again and began leafing through his sketchbook, his attitude thoroughly dismissive. Ondine didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Was this a joke or another test of some kind? Tentatively she asked, “So—do you want me to keep coming here?”

Picasso didn't bother to look up when he said offhandedly, “Oh, come back when you know how to be a
real
woman!” He sounded disdainful, as if this transformation could never happen.

Ondine felt panicked, until she seized on an idea. “Well, if you don't need me anymore, perhaps Monsieur Matisse would like me to cook and pose for him,” she said innocently.

“Matisse?” Picasso bristled. “Don't be absurd! That woman Lydia is the only model he needs. You are
mine.
” He spat out the words like a viper. “Do I want you to keep bringing me my lunch? Of course—do you think I'm going to stop eating and just drop dead?”

“All right,” Ondine said, uncertain as to whether he'd just asked her to model again, too; but in any event, she felt a degree of triumph.

Perhaps he saw this because, as she walked past him, Picasso reached out suddenly and grabbed her arm to detain her. When he raised the flat of his other hand Ondine thought he might strike her, but she managed not to flinch. He only traced the curve of her cheeks like a sculptor. She hoped he could not feel that her skin was fearfully sensitive to his touch. Beneath his raised arm she saw the tangle of hair growing wildly in his armpit. It reminded her of his hairy Minotaur drawings.

Almost unwillingly, he gave her an amused smile. “What a troublesome feline you are. But you
do
have the head of a Roman goddess,” he observed. “I can see it on an ancient coin or statue. Perhaps your ancestors came here from Capri on a boat.”

Now his fingertip moved along the side of her neck, lingering at her throat before continuing downward, tracing the curve of her left breast all the way to her nipple. She could not help feeling a thrill of pleasure. But she tried to keep her expression neutral, for Ondine again had the instinctive feeling that, rather than respond or step away, she must simply stand her ground.

“Ah,” Picasso said, his whole face softening now.

He's going to kiss me,
she thought in wonder, in that split second before he pressed his warm, friendly lips against hers, firmly and purposefully. She felt her own mouth go soft and pliable as his kiss lingered for a brief but enticing moment. Then he drew back and surveyed her face critically.

“Good. A young girl
should
blush when a man kisses her,” he said approvingly. “Well, go on home to your mama now.”

L
ATER THAT NIGHT
Ondine lay awake in her bed, feeling tumultuous every time she recalled Picasso's deliberate, leisurely kiss. “He can't be in love with me, can he?” she wondered. “Half the time he sounds angry. Well, he certainly didn't like being asked to pay me wages. But what was all that other nonsense about? Torture and slaves and that Marquis de Sade?”

Once again she felt that Picasso had been testing her, but for what? Clearly there was a whole world out there she knew nothing about. But if he stopped painting her, what then? It wasn't money she really cared about. Her increasing desire to be near him again didn't feel like love, exactly. So she wasn't even sure what she was yearning for.

Yet somehow, in spite of his changing moods, Ondine still felt that the answer to her future lay with Picasso. She must find a way to make him show her how to use that key that he kept dangling in front of her—so she could finally open a door to the more beautiful destiny that surely awaited her, in a world where people could do as they pleased and work only for their own satisfaction, not merely to please others. Ondine had seen just enough of this earthly paradise to know that she wanted it for herself.

T
HE NEXT DAY,
O
NDINE FELT
apprehensive as she cycled into Picasso's driveway. She wasn't sure if she was still welcome here. Yesterday he'd been so unpredictable—one minute gentle and inviting, the next indifferent, even hostile. Would he forget that he'd asked her to keep cooking for him? And what if posing without her clothes was part of the deal to keep her job here?

“I don't mind so much if
he
sees me naked,” she realized with a guilty thrill. But imagine having the whole world—especially the villagers in Juan-les-Pins, like the Three Wise Men in the café—ogling pictures of her in a gallery and then making rude remarks for the rest of her life!

As Ondine stepped into Picasso's kitchen she was surprised to find him sitting right there at the table, drinking tea with a strange woman who definitely was
not
the demure blonde in his paintings. This sophisticated creature was just the opposite, with black hair swept back severely in a chic Parisian twist, and stunning black eyebrows to match. She wore rouge and blood-red lipstick, and dark smudgy eye makeup. She appeared to be in her late twenties, and was dressed in a smart suit and crisp white shirt like a man's. She had a fancy, professional camera in her lap and she was winding the film expertly.

“Ah! Come in, come in!” Picasso exclaimed with exaggerated courtesy, in a tone that struck Ondine as highly theatrical and artificial. “Dora, here is my Ondine—the
best
chef in all of Provence! In fact, this girl will one day be a great culinary
artiste
.”

Dora glanced up sharply, her eyes glittering like a flash of lightning, but she said nothing and just kept staring at Ondine while continuing to wind her camera. Ondine noticed that Picasso had not bothered to explain Dora to
her
. “And what has my kitchen goddess brought me to eat today,
chère
Ondine?” Picasso asked, rubbing his hands together with exalted glee.

“I am making you a sole
à la
meunière
,” Ondine said, a trifle reluctant to discuss this in the presence of a stranger. Without warning, the woman raised her camera, and in a blinding flash of light she snapped a picture of Ondine. It made her feel as if she had just been publicly assaulted.

“Excellent! We'll wait in the dining room,” Picasso said, rising. The woman followed him out.

Ondine set to work, but her hands trembled and tears threatened to tumble from her eyes. She winked them back ferociously. She'd brought enough food for two, but that was because Picasso usually invited her to eat with him after posing. Why should she now have to give up her lunch for this female?

“I guess I'm back to being only his cook. Well, I'll make it perfect!” Ondine grumbled, picking up two delicate fish, seasoning them with fresh pepper and dredging them in the flour which gave this dish its name—
meunière
for the miller who ground the flour. Then she browned the sole in a pan with clarified sweet butter and a tablespoon of olive oil. When they were golden on both sides, she put the fish on a platter, topped with a sauce of melted butter, lemon juice, capers and freshly chopped parsley. She was serving them with tiny new potatoes, and baby green string beans perfectly aligned with thinly sliced strips of red peppers; and a crisp white vermentino wine so young it was almost green.

When Ondine brought the tray into the dining room, Picasso and his female visitor were immersed in conversation. He leaned forward to gaze at the food on its platter, giving it a quick nod of approval, and Ondine set to work with her serving fork and knife, lifting the bones entirely off the fish in one expert maneuver before arranging the meal on individual plates.

“The world is full of hypocrites,” Dora was saying. “Headlines all screaming about Herr Hitler reoccupying the Rhineland—but
still
the politicians do nothing. They all know it's a blatant violation of the Treaty of Versailles! And yet those same journalists have orgasms about the Nazis hosting the summer Olympics. An outrage, to award Germany the honor, instead of Spain!”

“The fascists have more money. They can always outbid the leftists,” Picasso answered calmly.

“Yes, but where do the Nazis get all that money?” Dora said meaningfully. “Who gave Hitler enough funds to build his monster stadium—oh, how he loves stadiums, and this one's going to have a hundred thousand seats! And such sophisticated sound devices, just so that foul little man can broadcast his glory to over forty countries around the globe. The world's gone mad.”

Despite the frightening things they were talking about, Ondine couldn't help noticing how lovely Dora's voice was—melodic and mesmerizing, all the more so because she radiated high intelligence and a serious mind; and she spoke with passionate conviction, as if she'd thought about it deeply and cared personally about world events. Her gaze was sharp and clear, and Picasso seemed impressed with her.

“The world's been seduced by a man of force, as it always has and always will,” he replied.

Ondine could scarcely believe that a woman was discussing money and politics with a man. She certainly hoped Picasso wasn't going to ask Ondine
her
opinion on Germany. She was suddenly aware that Dora was watching her every move, not directly but out of the corners of her eyes, like a cat.

Meanwhile Picasso was watching Dora's attitude toward Ondine with a look of supreme amusement.

This woman must be a reporter, come to interview him,
Ondine thought uncertainly as she returned to the kitchen. Perhaps that was why Picasso was showing off about having a Provençal chef.

She was surprised to find herself feeling strangely possessive of Picasso. She'd never been bothered by the other, blonde woman, who'd seemed more like a phantom because she hadn't directly intruded on the special, weekday solitude that Ondine had been sharing with her
Patron
.

Later, when she re-entered the room to collect the plates, Picasso and Dora had moved on to an animated discussion of Parisian artists and art dealers. He looked up only to say rather grandly, “A fine meal, Ondine. We'll have our tea in the parlor,” as they rose from their chairs.

Ondine, who this afternoon was feeling like his servant for the first time, returned with a tray bearing the tea he liked and an apricot
tarte
she'd made this morning specially for him. She placed it all on the low table beside the sofa in the parlor, where Picasso was sitting with his legs crossed.

Ondine poured the tea. When Dora reached for her cup, Ondine briefly glimpsed a black-and-blue bruise on Dora's forearm. Some instinct made Ondine avert her eyes. Dora rose gracefully and moved around the parlor to view the paintings that Picasso had haphazardly placed here and there.

He drank his tea, then got up and stood beside Dora, murmuring in a playful tone, “Want to come upstairs? Last time you were here, we were so
busy,
I forgot to show you ‘my latest etchings'.”

Ondine, having sliced the
tarte
and put it on the dessert plates, straightened up just in time to see Picasso place a hand on one of Dora's buttocks and give it a firm squeeze.

Hastily Ondine returned to the kitchen and began washing the dinner plates as fast as she could. Why should she feel so blinded by—if not tears, then some sort of rage? She didn't realize that she was clattering the dishes with more vigor than usual and perhaps making a noticeable noise, until Picasso entered the kitchen and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Dora can't make up her mind whether she wants to be a photographer or a painter,” he said in a low, confidential voice. “She's a
professional
photographer, you see. But I have advised her to be a painter, because every photographer has a painter inside waiting to be released, anyway.”

Ondine said nothing. “You know how I met Dora Maar?” he continued conversationally. “It was at a café in Paris. She was playing ‘the knife game' with herself. Do you know it?”

He took Ondine's hand and placed it, palm down, on the cutting board on the kitchen counter. Then he put his own warm hand on top of hers, and separated her fingers so that there were spaces between them. He picked up one of the kitchen knives that Ondine had just washed.

“One, two, three, four, five, six!” he counted aloud gleefully while poking the knife into the board in the small spaces between their fingers, starting at the outside of the thumb and going between each finger until he reached the outside of the smallest one. Then he went back more rapidly, chanting, “Five, four, three, two, one!” Ondine gasped but refused to squeal because she sensed that that was what he wanted.

“The idea is to go faster than anyone else, without chopping off your fingers,” Picasso announced when he stopped. “Dora did it wearing a glove. By the time she was done, it was stained with her blood.” He sounded impressed. “I keep that bloody glove on a shelf in my studio.”

Then you're both crazy,
Ondine thought, but she waited quietly until he removed his hand from hers and set it free. When Ondine looked up, Dora was standing in the doorway, watching again like a black cat, but then she put her cigarette to her lips, exhaled a plume of smoke and drifted back to the parlor without having uttered a word. Picasso went out after her, and Ondine hurriedly returned to her dishes.

Presently she could hear them climbing the stairs. The house grew quiet, but soon she heard strange animal grunts and thumps and cries. Ondine paused in alarm, then realized that it was lovemaking—of a sort. There came a particularly loud, rather alarming thump—as if someone had fallen to the floor or against a wall, followed by a woman's unmistakable cry of anguish. For a moment Ondine imagined having to call Rafaello the policeman to intervene. There were more cries from both of them, but these subsided into low murmurs. Ondine picked up her hamper and slipped out the kitchen door.

As she was attaching the hamper to her bicycle, Picasso threw open a window upstairs, and Ondine could see him standing before his easel, speaking calmly to his guest. Ondine knew that stance.

“Now he's painting her,” she muttered, shaking her head as she pedaled away fast. All the way home she rode with a furious, violent energy. “Who was he trying to embarrass today—Dora or me? He seems to want to make both of us miserable. But why?
Why?
And what has become of the blonde lady in his paintings?” she wondered. “Well, why should I care, anyway?”

Even to herself, she could not explain the anxious, cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. All this time while he'd been painting her he'd made her feel like the most important woman in the world, and his pleasure warmed her as if she were lying on a beach basking in pure sunlight. Now, without warning, it was as if the moon had just eclipsed the sun, blackening it out and leaving her shivering in a day as dark as night, fearing that the sun would never return to warm her up again.