Cooking for Picasso (16 page)

O
NDINE ALMOST DREADED GOING BACK
to the villa on the following day. Undeniably, she was eager to cook for Picasso, to talk to him, even to pose for him—but only if they could resume being together in that companionable, quiet way she'd grown to cherish.

“I'm certainly not going to cook for that Dora woman again,” she told herself stoutly. “If
she's
still there, why, I'll leave his lunch hamper on the front stoop, and he can ask
her
to serve him!” Of course, in her heart, Ondine knew she was not really in a position to refuse him anything. Her mother had said so, right at the onset of this arrangement. Feeling rather glum, Ondine set off on her bicycle.

It was an unusually hot day for this time of year. That, plus the fact that it was a Friday was causing people to spill out onto the streets with an excited, festive air, as if they could hardly wait to finish work and enjoy their weekend. The breeze that filled Ondine's lungs no longer smelled solely of fish, seaweed and salt; now it was mingled with the perfume of flowers that were already tumbling over the high walls of the villas; and Ondine could hear, all around her, the heartening chirp of joyful birds.

But when she cycled up Picasso's driveway and parked her bicycle at the side of the house, she heard an entirely different kind of twittering—from two females evidently having an argument, their agitated voices clearly wafting out of the open kitchen window.

“You have no business being here with Pablo. He's
my
man!” said the first voice, very soft and feminine, yet raised with righteous anger.

“No woman can seriously believe that she can own a man like Pablo Picasso!” scoffed the second woman in an ironical, amused tone, but one that had a sharp knife-edge to it.

Ondine, who had been about to unhook her food hamper, thought she recognized this voice as Dora Maar's and paused. She was certainly not going to burst into the kitchen and interrupt a scene like this.

“
I
am the mother of his child!” the first woman shot back proudly, as if she'd played a trump card. “It is
my
place to be with Picasso. So you can just pick yourself up and get out of here, at once!”

“Whether or not I have a child makes no difference whatsoever. It's utterly irrelevant,” Dora said dismissively, as if engaged in a philosophical debate with someone she considered her intellectual inferior. “I have a perfect right to be here. It is
you
who doesn't belong with Pablo anymore!”

The soft-voiced woman must have crossed the room, for now her words grew more audible and, for a moment, Ondine could see her face as she passed by the window. Ondine recognized that distinctive nose, and the almost sleepy expression in the eyes. Yes, it was the blonde girl from all those paintings—the one Picasso had called Marie-Thérèse.

It was Ondine's first real glimpse of her, at last, so she could not help straining to see better. But even this docile, gentle woman had become moved to exasperation and indignation.

“Well, Pablo?” the blonde demanded, as she drifted out of sight again. “Why do you just stand there, so calm and
trop innocent,
as if it's all none of your concern? For heaven's sake, this situation is intolerable and you know it. So make up your mind. Which one of us stays, and which one must go?”

Ondine heard a chair scraping loudly on the floor, followed by a male snort of disgust.

“Pah!”
Picasso responded. “
I
don't have to decide anything! I'm fine with things as they are. But how is a man to get a day's work done, with a pair of hens each pecking an eardrum? If
you
two have a problem with each other, well, then,
you'll
just have to fight it out yourselves! I'm going out for some air!”

From inside came the sound of a sudden scuffle and the shrieks of both women. Before Ondine could move away, the kitchen door was flung open, and Picasso came storming out in exasperation. Dressed only in shorts, an open shirt, and thick, rough leather sandals like shepherds wore, his nearly naked body gave off the heat and scent of his fury, as if he might breathe fire with his next word.

Ondine stood quaking, not knowing what to do. But to her astonishment, Picasso gave her a broad smile of delight. “Ah! Thank God, a sensible woman!” he exclaimed. “Well, there's no point in bringing your basket inside, Ondine; not with those two harpies in my kitchen. They'll end up flinging the food like bombs, and they're sure to tear each other's hair out before they're finished,” he proclaimed with exaggerated horror. “Still, I suppose I could sell tickets to this fight.”

He was performing for her benefit. With a sly look of feigned dread he added, “Just suppose my wife showed up now? She'd tear them both to shreds. You and I would have to bury their remains in the garden here.” He looked as if he quite enjoyed the idea of having a bickering harem.

It occurred to Ondine that Picasso might have even staged this whole confrontation today. In fact, perhaps he'd even timed it deliberately for the moment when he knew Ondine was sure to show up. There was a strange streak of the prankster in him.

But now he was surveying the sky and fine weather, and he said impulsively, “This is no day to be stuck indoors playing referee. Let's go for a swim and have a picnic lunch! Come on, take your bicycle and follow me.”

He stalked off, surprising Ondine by seeming to know a shorter route to the sea, taking a beaten-earth path through his neighbor's flower fields. She followed him uncertainly, her bicycle wobbling perilously whenever she rode over a rock half-hidden in the ground. But she managed to keep up with him as he marched on—down, down, down to the sea.

They stopped at a small cove whose beach was mostly pebbles, tucked in a pocket of pine trees flanked by stone walls for shelter. Ondine leaned her bicycle against a wall. Picasso had already taken off his shoes and shirt, but kept his shorts on. His feet were surprisingly delicate, his skin so creamy and smooth that he reminded Ondine of an ivory statuette of Buddha that she'd seen in a shop window.

Now he glared at the sea as if it were a beast that he intended to conquer, and, sticking out his chin and chest, he marched purposefully toward it. When he reached the water's edge he just kept on going, stomping into the sea until he was up to his waist.

“Well?” he called out to her, trying not to gasp from the shock of the cold. “What are you waiting for? Aren't you an ondine, a little mermaid? Don't tell me you're afraid of the sea!”

Ondine had already removed her shoes and unbuttoned her dress, but she'd hesitated at pulling off her clothes. Now she decided that the faster she got into the water the more she could protect her modesty. She yanked the dress over her head, keeping her chemise and
culottes
on, then she rushed into the water several paces away from him. As soon as she could, she dove right in.

She began swimming immediately and rapidly in order to swiftly warm up her muscles. Luc had taught her how to swim by alternately exhaling into the water and then coming up for air, while stroking and flutter-kicking steadily. She ducked under the first thrusting waves, and she swam and swam, concentrating on her breathing while blinking her eyes open and shut like a lighthouse, on-off, on-off, so that the salty sea didn't sting them too much.

Then, gasping, she turned over and came up for air, recovering her breath, lightly treading water while glancing about to get her bearings and to see how far out Picasso had gone. But she couldn't find his head bobbing among the waves.

“Where is he?” she said, bewildered. “Did he go very far?”

Squinting in the sunlight, she paddled farther out, scanning the horizon. She turned back and finally spied him near the shoreline. He was splashing determinedly in a straight line, moving parallel to the shore, keeping rather close to the beach. When he saw her he waved grandly, then made a great show of stroking methodically while turning his head above the water, first left, then right, then left and right again. Ondine dove down and swam straight toward him.

As she came closer she could see his legs underwater. At first she couldn't believe it. But as she watched she saw that he'd been standing and walking the whole time! She popped up for air and saw that he was still stroking and splashing and turning his head dramatically. Then Ondine understood.

Picasso doesn't know how to swim! He's been faking it,
she realized, astonished. She swam to the other end of the cove so she wouldn't embarrass him. He climbed ashore now, and she hurried up the beach, ducking behind the trees to take off her wet underclothes and spread them on some rocks to dry in the sun. She used just the skirt of her dress to dry her torso before pulling the dress back on.

By the time she emerged from the trees, Picasso had dried himself off with the shirt he'd left on the beach. As Ondine drew near, he reached out and grabbed her arm, yanking her closer to him.

“That hair of yours is still dripping wet,” he said. “I don't want your mama telling me I made you catch pneumonia.” He began to vigorously rub the top of her head with his shirt, but worked more gently as he dried her long, long curls all the way out to their delicate ends.

“You're hardly more than a schoolgirl!” he teased as he rubbed her dry. “You barely know how to tie your shoes and blow your nose. Were you a good student or a bad one? Hah, I bet you were one of those little girls who know all the answers. But now, you have only questions for me. Am I right?”

Ondine unexpectedly felt flushed with an all-encompassing warmth, stimulated by his hands resting heavily on her head through the shirt, which gave off an exciting whiff of his masculine scent as it flopped around. Yet, at the same time she felt strangely overpowered, as if she could hardly breathe in his presence, as if, even here in the great outdoors, he was sucking in all the available oxygen around her.

“I was a terrible student, you know,” he confided. “All I ever wanted to do was draw. Numbers and words were of no interest to me whatsoever. I tried to concentrate on the things they wanted me to learn, but when I was supposed to be adding up numbers, they just looked like bird's eyes and claws.”

Having finished drying her off, he surveyed her critically. “You look good when you're wet. Good enough to eat.” He sat down cross-legged on a very large, warm flat rock, closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun, looking more like a Buddha than ever, saying, “Well, what have we got for our picnic? Did you bring raw fish that we must cook over a campfire? Should I rub two sticks together?”

“No, it's a
pain de viande
—a meat loaf made of ground veal and chicken. It can be eaten hot or cold,” Ondine said, unhooking the hamper and carrying it over to him. He helped her lay out the apron she always brought with her, to use as a makeshift tablecloth spread out on another flat rock.

They had to eat with their hands, and drink straight from the single half-bottle of wine she'd brought. Every time Picasso passed her the bottle, Ondine thought she could identify his salty taste on the bottle's mouth, as if she were dining with King Neptune himself.

“Your meals just get better and better,” he said reflectively. “And, you are one of the few chefs whose food has never upset me. Believe me, I have a most sensitive stomach! But how does a girl who's so young know so much about cuisine?”

Ondine explained earnestly, “When I was sent to a convent school, there was an old monk called Père Jacques who cooked the meals for us as well as for his abbey. He knew I came from a café so he chose me to assist him. He taught me these ‘fundamental secrets' of ancient Roman and Greek and Egyptian physicians: that, just like air, fire, earth and water, there are four elemental food properties—wet, dry, hot, cold—and all foods are a combination of these. It's not as obvious as it sounds—you see, onions are hot and
moist,
but garlic and leeks are hot and
dry
. Therefore each sauce, each spice, each choice of ingredients in a meal should be made by the chef not merely to show off, but to achieve perfect balance. There are neutral foods, too; goat meat, for instance.” Picasso nodded, looking serious.