Cooking for Picasso (17 page)

“I like goats,” he said thoughtfully. “So what do you do with all this knowledge?”

Encouraged, Ondine continued, “By pairing certain foods, you avoid having too much of one element in the diet. You balance food with the seasons, too. For instance, you offset cold, wet weather with hot, dry meals like meat roasts; but on hot summer days you serve fish or meat that is poached in water. Also, you take into account a person's physical complaints; Père Jacques says that some foods are catalysts which, properly used, can make a meal easier to digest—beet sugar, for instance, and fresh milk,” she concluded breathlessly.

She paused, having surprised herself by being so eager to talk. And for once, nobody had interrupted her. Such free rein for her own thoughts and feelings was new.

For Picasso listened acutely, watching her face as she became more animated with excitement over all the possibilities. When she stopped, he allowed a meditative silence. Then he nodded. “You
do
have the intelligence and sensual passion of an artist,” he observed.

Ondine, still flushed with enthusiasm, realized that she'd just revealed something intimate about herself, and she suddenly felt more naked than she had when she took off her clothes to swim.

For awhile they ate in companionable silence. Then Picasso said slyly, “I believe in a balanced life, too. I don't see why I should give up one woman for another, do you? I should just cut off their heads and keep them on a shelf. Then I can talk to them whenever I like, and put them in a box when I don't. So. Which woman do
you
think won the fight back at my house?”

Ondine tried not to think about the images he'd just conjured. But he seemed to want an answer, so she considered his question seriously. Luc had never made her fight for him, but she could recall the squabbles of other girls. “Neither,” she said finally. “Because if you have to fight for a man, the battle is already lost.”

Picasso threw back his head with a shout of laughter, then said conspiratorially, “
Exactement!
It's going to be a ‘draw'. You know something, Ondine? I
like
you.”

They finished eating, and together they repacked the hamper before heading back up the beach. Picasso put his arm around her shoulders to shelter her from the wind that had whipped up, and she stayed pressed against his sturdy chest until they reached her bicycle in its sheltered spot by the wall. She went behind the trees to collect her dry clothes, slipping on her
culottes
under her dress.

Picasso pretended not to watch, but he waited for her. When she returned to her bicycle, he stepped away and said rather formally, “Well, Ondine, thank you for a pleasant lunch. See you on Monday
.
” And with that, he headed back up to his villa alone.

O
N
S
UNDAYS THE
C
AFÉ
P
ARADIS
was closed, and Ondine drowsed in bed much later than on weekday mornings, feeling her body slowly relax, until it was time to go downstairs and accompany her parents to the Sunday Mass. But today, as the church bell tolled, her mother surprised Ondine by coming up to her third-floor bedroom and sitting down on the edge of the bed while she still lay there.

“Ondine,” Madame Belange said, a bit too casually, “wear your new blue dress to Mass today.”

Ondine sat up guiltily, for no one knew that she'd been wearing her best dress over and over, posing for Picasso.

“Monsieur Renard has invited you to dine with his mother after church,” her mother added.

Ondine felt a clutch of fear. Dinner with one of the Three Wise Men? “Why?” she asked.

Her mother rose, went to the armoire and took the dress from its hanger. “
What
have you been doing with this?” she demanded, shaking it out. “It looks as if you've mopped the floor with it!”

But clearly she had more important matters to discuss. “Ondine, times are not easy,” she began. “Your father needs a partner to keep the café going. Monsieur Renard has lots of money. And he's very interested in investing in our café.”

The dread in Ondine's stomach was now gnawing at her like a fox, but she said as offhandedly as she could, “Well, what's that got to do with me?” Madame Belange tried to suppress a look of regret.

“You need a husband. You can't live with us like a little girl forever,” she replied crisply.

Ondine felt as though her mother had slapped her across the face. But she covered her wounded feelings by objecting, “
What?
He's so
old
!”

“He's only thirty, and very healthy. He can still give you children,” Madame Belange said as delicately as possible. “A girl like you needs a mature husband to guide her. You'll soon see the wisdom of it.”

Ondine heard a creak out in the corridor, and her father appeared in the doorway as if he'd been standing there listening all along. He seldom came up here, and now remained at the threshold as if reluctant to venture farther in. He looked fondly at her, sorrowful but resolute.

“Monsieur Renard is a fine man who will provide you with a good life,” he said firmly.

“But I
can't
marry him. It would be a sin. I am engaged to Luc!” Ondine cried pleadingly.

“Luc had his chance and lost it. The church says you are no longer bound by a promise to a man who's abandoned you,” her father replied more sharply. “Monsieur Renard is dependable and successful. Not only with his bakery. He has informed me that he's just bought all that farmland that supplies so much of what we need for the café. Prices will keep going up—unless we own it ourselves.”

Ondine knew that her father had had his eye on the property because its owners were elderly and ready to sell. She'd seen her mother carefully counting the coins as she paid the dairy boy for all the regular deliveries of meat and vegetables. Not to mention the bread from Renard's bakery. And now this one man would own it all. Her parents called it a partnership. But to Ondine, it looked as if the baker were tightening a rope around the Café Paradis—and it felt like a hangman's noose on her neck.

“So you mustn't lose your chance with Monsieur Renard,” her mother warned anxiously.

“But—I don't love him! I don't even
like
him! He's so proud and proper.” Ondine looked entreatingly from one parent's face to the other. What she saw frightened her, for they were astonishingly indifferent to her tears. Apparently something else worried them more.

“You will
learn
to love him,” her mother assured her. “Most mamas would jump at a chance to marry off their daughter to this man! What makes you so picky, Ondine? People already think you're too independent and headstrong. That's why so many boys your age are already betrothed to other girls.”

“The boys like me the way I am!” Ondine insisted. “It's their mothers who think I'm too independent. They say that about any girl who refuses to act silly and coy.”

“Well, most boys listen to their parents when they choose a girl to marry,” Madame Belange explained. “You don't want to end up with no husband, no child, nothing. We only want you to be safe and cared for. Not lonely and unprotected.” Ondine noticed the worried pucker in her mother's brow.

“You were born after the war, Ondine,” her father said. “So you don't realize that terrible things can happen to people who don't prepare for the worst. We can't always get what we want, but we can learn to sacrifice some of our dreams to make sure our lives don't end up being nightmares.”

Ondine wailed and threw herself down on her pillow. Her father sighed and waited a few moments, expecting the storm of her tears to dissolve into:
Yes, Papa
. When she did not relent, he finally threatened to send her back to the convent, saying, “And this time, young lady, it will be for keeps!”

A
LL THROUGH
M
ASS,
Ondine fervently prayed that God would strike everyone dead so she wouldn't have to eat dinner with Monsieur Fabius Renard. But as the service ended and everyone filed outside into the spring sunlight, her hopes were dashed, for there stood the baker. He was all dressed up in his best blue suit and hat, with his neat little moustache and his ash-blond hair freshly barbered, waiting for her at the sidewalk, standing self-consciously erect.

“Good God, the entire parish can see what he's got on his mind!” she murmured, aghast, stepping past the ladies of the congregation who stood on the front steps, watching and whispering.

“Mademoiselle?”
Monsieur Renard said, tipping his hat to her in a dignified gesture before he took possession of her left elbow. He seemed so serious and attentive that Ondine felt momentarily ashamed of her feelings and unworthy of such solemnity. But even so, it was like being escorted by an overly attentive uncle. She heard her father's whispered command from behind her, saying, “Go!”

She kept her eyes lowered furiously and followed Monsieur Renard to his shiny new automobile. She had a moment of fleeting triumph when she saw the admiring faces of the gossipy ladies she'd left behind on the church steps.
At least this car shut them up,
Ondine thought grimly.

Monsieur Renard drove on silently, and the streets seemed to flutter past like the pages in a flip-it book. Ondine had never given a moment's thought as to where this man lived. With a sinking heart she tried not to think of it as her future home when he pulled up to a large house in what was once a very grand neighborhood. But the doctors and lawyers who'd lived here in the earlier part of the century had moved on, and now the neighbors were like Renard—working tradesmen who'd made enough money to afford the wide lawns and spacious rooms that wealthier people had just abandoned for more fashionable streets. “
Alors!
Home at last!” he said cheerfully as he parked, got out and opened her door.

Ondine was studying him covertly, mindful of her mother's admonition that most women would feel lucky to marry off their daughter to Renard. Yes, he was just the sort of man that mothers approved of for a son-in-law—clean, nice-looking, well-pressed, courteous—pleasant but unexciting. Pushing away her own trepidation, she tried to keep an open mind and imagine him as a good husband. When he held the car door for her she noticed that he did everything very carefully, deliberately, in the manner of a solitary man who is outgoing in public but quite shy in more intimate situations. She felt sorry for him, wondering,
How can I ever hurt this man's feelings by saying “no” because I still only love Luc?

For, following Renard up the long straight walkway, she'd gotten a panicked feeling that, merely by going along with him today, she was murdering and burying Luc forever. She fought off a sudden impulse to just run away as the baker unlocked his front door and escorted her into a darkened parlor.

She sensed the presence of another creature nearby; but Ondine had to wait until her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting before she glimpsed two spots of white hair—one belonged to an older lady with lace at her throat, sitting in a high-backed chair; the other to a little white dog asleep at her feet.

“Mother, this is the girl Ondine,” Monsieur Renard said as if they were approaching a shrine.

The woman fixed her small bright eyes on Ondine as Renard helped his mother struggle to her feet. Ondine now remembered having heard that this lady was lame in one leg from childhood polio. Renard gestured to Ondine to take the lady's other arm; and together they hauled her into a gloomy dining salon across the hallway, where a tall, gawky cook was serving the dinner she'd prepared.

Once seated at the head of the table, Madame Renard slowly and deliberately removed her napkin from its silver ring. Her son took the seat at the other end, so by default Ondine took the mismatched chair at his side, understanding the situation in a flash of misery.

These two have been dining across from each other for years,
she surmised. They were having an early Sunday meal, no doubt so that the poor woman could sleep it off for the rest of the day.

“My cook isn't as good as your
Maman,
” Monsieur Renard said quietly, with a slightly fastidious expression on his face. “But this will suffice for today.” If the dull-looking servant girl overheard him she didn't seem to care. Renard bowed his head and murmured an unintelligible prayer. His mother crossed herself. Then, they ate.

Since no one spoke to her—in fact, they didn't even chat with each other—Ondine could not help silently assessing the food, out of habit from working with her mother.
He's certainly right about this meal!
she thought. The soup was made from a chicken boiled days ago, with not a single trace of meat or carrot left in it. It had been watered down, no doubt to stretch it out
.
Some other unfortunate bird was served as the main course, but Ondine could not identify what it had been when it was alive. The cheese course was all right, and of course the bread was fresh. But the pastry served with chamomile tea for dessert was sickeningly sweet; and this, sadly, seemed to be the only course his mother relished.

Clearly Monsieur Renard kept his household on a minuscule budget. Why? Her father had said the man was well-off. She'd seen him gamble away money at cards with the other Wise Men at the café, where he indulged in a good lunch as well. So why was he so stingy with his mother's household? Heaven only knew what this poor woman ate when she was all alone here
.

Baffled, Ondine recalled an old saying she'd heard the marketplace ladies quote to one another.
If you want to see how a man will treat you once you become his wife, just watch how he treats his mother.

The ticking clock in the parlor echoed throughout the silent house. Ondine could see the older woman's bright eyes staring at her, sizing her up yet revealing nothing. The dog had been allowed to go into the kitchen, and Ondine could hear him gnawing on his bone with pathetic gusto. It seemed to Ondine that the entire house ached with such entrenched solitude that she doubted she could ever be strong enough to break the all-encompassing loneliness of a miser.

Finally Monsieur Renard pushed back his chair with a loud, scraping sound that shattered the silence, and he helped his mother to her bedroom. When he returned he said to Ondine, “Let's go into the garden.” She followed him through a primly maintained backyard to a small stone bench, where they sat down together. She'd never been this close to him before; he smelled of shaving soap, mothballs, pastry and pipe tobacco. He seemed nervous now. He spoke of the garden, and made a few mild remarks about the weather. She could not seem to catch his gaze and hold it, to connect.