Cooking for Picasso (33 page)

Yes, that distinctive hair again. And if Grandma Ondine
was
the girl in these canvases, then it wasn't so farfetched that Picasso might really have rewarded her with the gift of a painting, after all.

“Was there a third study of this model?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

The guide shrugged. “Not that I know of,” she replied, steering us into the next room. “But from time to time, unknown Picassos have turned up.” We entered another gallery. “This brings us to the Dora Maar Period. She was an intelligent, artistic photographer. In early, more naturalistic portraits we observe her looking happy and spirited. Yet Picasso called her ‘the weeping woman', and you can see that these later pictures indeed capture a look of utter despair and misery.”

“Please God, don't tell me she killed herself,” Magda said gloomily.

“No,” Aunt Matilda piped up, “but they say Picasso sometimes beat Dora until she was practically unconscious. And she had a nervous breakdown after he dumped her.”

My classmates groaned. We moved on to the exhibit's Postwar Coda. “The last two important women in Picasso's life were his mistress, the painter Françoise Gilot, who gave him two children, Paloma and Claude,” the guide explained. “And Jacqueline, his second wife, who was twenty-five years old when she met the seventy-one-year-old Master. Jacqueline outlived Picasso—but not for long. She shot herself.”

“Jeez,” Joey commented. “Two suicides, two nervous breakdowns—not a good track record.”

I'd felt proud that Grandma Ondine had achieved a place among the goddesses in this gallery. But now I found myself feeling uneasy for her. How had
she
survived her encounter with Picasso?

Our tour was ending as we reached the front door. “Any questions?” the guide asked.

“Did Picasso ever give away his paintings as gifts to people who, um, worked for him?” I asked.

“Why, yes,” she replied. “Picasso could be extraordinarily generous when the mood struck him. It's said that he gave artwork to his chauffeur, doctor, housemaid—even his barber. But there were also court cases where other people who claimed to have received such gifts were accused of stealing them.”

“How much is a Picasso worth these days?” asked Lola's brother Ben, ever the pragmatist.

“There was a recent sale at auction,” our guide said carefully, “in which a single painting went for the price of a hundred seventy-nine point four million dollars.” Joey whistled appreciatively.

“I don't care how rich and famous he was,” Lola announced on our way out, “someone should have put up signs around him saying,
Ladies, beware of the dog!
”

As we stepped outside back into the brilliant midday sunlight, I felt reinvigorated by all I'd seen. When I recalled how the lawyer Clément had chortled over the notion that a little old lady like Ondine might have possessed a Picasso, I decided that I shouldn't have let him make me feel that I was on a fool's errand. Clearly there was a lot about Grandma that he—and my mother—knew nothing about.

Then suddenly I had an idea about a person I'd overlooked, who just might have some answers for me. So while my class was waiting for our bus to pull up to the curb, I sat down on a bench with my phone and tapped out a message asking Grandma's lawyer for the contact info I needed. Good old Clément was on vacation and might ignore this, but I flagged it as urgent, just the same:

Dear Monsieur Clément: My mother told me that on the day my Grandmother Ondine died, a neighbor had looked in on her and called for the doctor. Do you know who this neighbor was, and if so, please provide me with the name, address and telephone number. Any other information you have would be most helpful, as I feel it is extremely imperative that I make contact right away.

As we boarded the van that took us back to the
mas,
I glanced at Aunt Matilda, but she and Peter were deep in conversation about possible day trips they might take when our class was given its “free time” at the end of the course. I hadn't yet found the right moment to tell Aunt Matilda that the
mas
we were staying in had belonged to Grandma. When I'd returned from seeing Monsieur Clément, and Aunt Matilda asked me how it went with him, I told her only that he didn't seem to know about a lost Picasso painting. Since I'd already searched the
mas
and found nothing, there didn't seem to be any reason to burden the talkative Aunt Matilda with another one of Mom's little secrets.

When we arrived at the
mas
we were offered complimentary massages in the spa's open-air white tents that overlooked the lush fields and cerulean sky. As I lay there on my massage table I wondered what other family secrets Mom didn't know about. I'd just seen two paintings of a model with a mirror who I felt sure was Grandma Ondine. And even Aunt Matilda recognized that striped pitcher in a still life. I felt I was truly on the right path, but now I knew that my mother's ideas could only take me so far.

While sea breezes fluttered the spa curtains, an expert French masseuse gently kneaded my muscles with massage oils made of local lemon and almond. Beneath the sheet which I was lying on were crushed flower petals of violet, jasmine, rose and lavender, and I wondered fleetingly if this was a new addition inspired by my impromptu flower-shower. I smiled, recalling the look on Gil's face when he plucked the flowers out of my hair. A bit unsettled now, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, surrendering to new impressions that came drifting in and out of my thoughts on the soft, scented air.

If I'm ever going to find that painting, I've got to stop thinking like Mom
, I mused. I ought to think more like Grandmother Ondine in order to figure this all out
.

Come to that, I might even have to learn—in whatever way possible—to think like Picasso.

J
ULIE TOOK AN INSTANT DISLIKE
to France. Even when Ondine reminded her that they were in a country that had recently been torn apart by yet another world war, Julie was in no frame of mind to understand why anyone would want to return here.

First, that awful sea voyage among a class of passengers comprised of wailing babies and their harried mothers, and rough men who drank too much and leered at her. And such unspeakable conditions for eating, sleeping and
toilette
! Then, the horrible docking here on a cold, pitiless rainy night. Julie had never felt such biting rain, hurtling in from an Atlantic Ocean bearing absolutely no resemblance to
her
warm summery Atlantic that caressed the beaches of New York.

As if that weren't enough, they had to go through customs and be quizzed by a horrible man who smelled of fish and cigars, before they could be granted the privilege of boarding a third-class overnight train car, where awful Europeans chattering in every conceivable language crowded in with their bundles and elders and unkempt children—and all of
them
smelled as if they hadn't taken a bath in a hundred years.

This
was France? This was the paradise that her parents always promised to show her one day? Her father Luc had worked and scrimped and saved and, ultimately, shed his blood for his wife and daughter—only to have them both end up
here
?

Poor Papa. Julie failed to accept, even now, that he was dead. Part of her believed he was hiding somewhere back in America. It was inconceivable that he'd been reduced to nothing but ashes confined in a small wooden box. And why should he have wanted his ashes scattered to the sea in a tiny provincial town called Juan-les-Pins?

Ondine felt apprehensive, too, as they finally arrived in her hometown. Everything seemed smaller, more compact than she remembered. And from the moment when they reached the Café Paradis, she instantly sensed that something was wrong. For one thing, the chairs were still stacked on top of the tables on the terrace, and it was nearly twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Did the café no longer serve lunch? Also, there was a very mangey cat sitting arrogantly right in the center of the terrace; this cat in no way resembled Ondine's girlhood pet.

Julie sensed her mother's hesitation. “This is where Grandma and Grandpa live? It
can't
be,” Julie said tearfully. She was tired—bone-tired, soul-dead tired, in a way she'd never been in her life. With all her heart she wished they were back in New Rochelle.

Ondine was silent for a few minutes, then found her voice. “Yes, it is,” she said rather sharply. “Don't whine. Be sweet and polite to your grandparents.”

The truth was, Ondine had no idea whether her parents were going to greet her with open arms or hurl her right back into the streets. They hadn't answered any of her letters. But even if they still bore a grudge, they couldn't turn away poor Julie, their sweet grandchild. Could they?

“You're wrong,
Maman,
” Julie whimpered. “See? Look at the sign above the door. It doesn't say
Café Paradis
. It says something else.” She squinted, spelling it out. “It says
Café Renard
,” she said, feeling vastly relieved that this grubby-looking hole-in-the-wall was not their ultimate destination.

“The awning. That's it! The awning is gone,” Ondine said, startled. She put down her suitcase near the front door. Julie, always obedient, did the same with hers. The mangey cat got up, walked over to the suitcases, sniffed them imperiously, and then, with a slight shudder, returned to the center of the terrace. Ondine pushed the door open and went inside. Julie had no choice but to follow.

The dining room was unoccupied. Its floor had not been polished to its usual lustre; in fact, it looked quite scuffed. “Well, that's to be expected; after all, there was a war here,” Ondine reminded the dubious Julie, who shrank from the stale smell of bygone meals. The white tablecloths were no longer spotless; they weren't even ironed properly. The cutlery and glasses were mismatched. The gilded mirror, once beautiful, looked downright smoky. And Rembrandt's
Girl at a Window
was gone.

“Allo!”
Ondine called out boldly, moving toward the swinging doors in the back that led to the kitchen. Suddenly the doors were flung wide, and a plump man came out with a guarded, suspicious expression.

“Who's there?” he said loudly.

Ondine, blinking in the dim light, identified the voice before the face. “Good God. It
is
him. He's the baker who wanted to marry me,” she told Julie in a horrified whisper. Earlier at the train station Ondine had recognized the stationmaster, and Rafaello the policeman, and other neighbors; but Monsieur Renard was the only person she'd met upon her return to France who'd gained weight since the war. It crossed her mind that people who'd been this well fed must have “played ball” as Luc would say, with the fascist invaders.

Julie was thoroughly disgusted now. “That awful fat man is the one Grandpa wanted you to marry instead of Papa?” she asked in disbelief, for Ondine had told her about it on the journey here.

“Shh! Yes,” Ondine said. With the brightest smile she could muster, she greeted Renard.

“You are Ondine?” he repeated, searching her face for a clue before remembering to nod politely to Julie. But when Ondine asked for her mother, Monsieur Renard looked panicked at her ignorance and quickly explained that her parents—both of them—had not survived the war.

“The Occupation was too much for them. It was terrible. First the Italian soldiers, then the German ones—it all took a toll on your father's heart. He died before the war was over. Your poor mother carried on a few years after that, but she came down with flu, and like so many, she was already weakened by exhaustion. You can't imagine how hard we all worked, just to survive! There was no
real
food to serve our customers. We didn't even have fresh fish, because the Nazis wouldn't let us put our boats out to sea. Everything had to be obtained on the black market. Even so, your mother had to bake
tartes
and stews made of things we wouldn't have fed to the pigs before the war.”

Julie noticed that the fat man had not even asked them to sit down, even though Ondine was now visibly teetering and pale, looking utterly exhausted by this devastating news. With an indignant glare at Monsieur Renard, Julie took her mother by the hand and led her to one of those tables with the stained cloth on it. She had to pull out two chairs before she could find one that was steady.

“Come and sit down,
Maman,
” she said pointedly.

Ondine, like a sleepwalker, followed her. Monsieur Renard, who'd seen the dirty look Julie gave him, pulled out another chair for Julie, then he sat down heavily on the rickety one.

“Désolé!”
he murmured consolingly to Ondine. “I hate to be the bearer of this sad news!”

Julie didn't really think he was sorry. He didn't offer them anything to eat or drink, not even a glass of water. As if fearing that anyone returning from America looking this sad must be destitute and seeking a handout, Monsieur Renard hastily explained the current situation about the café to Ondine in no uncertain terms. He even went into his back office and returned with a stack of papers to show her that he had all the proper documents proving his sole ownership of her parents' café.

“We all lost some money during the war,” Renard explained, “but your parents completely ran out of cash. So they had to sign over their half of the café to me. You can check with the judge who oversaw this. He'll tell you all about it.”

The papers indeed made it clear there wasn't any money left to Ondine, and no share in the café.

Ondine listened to all this quietly, trying to ignore the rising panic she felt at the realization that she was officially being thrown out of her family's café—and her childhood home. When Renard finally stopped for breath, Ondine steeled herself, swallowed her pride and offered to become his new chef, hurriedly trying to tell him about the praise for her cooking and the success she'd had in America.

But Renard interrupted her and, not without a certain smugness, said proudly, “No, I don't need your help! I have a fine young man cooking in my kitchen. Come meet him.”

Ondine rose shakily and followed him, glancing about doubtfully. Julie trailed behind, wondering if she could hold her nose and still not cause offense. For, if the café's dining room was a bit of a shambles, the rest of this place was worse, as Julie discovered when she hurriedly ducked past the kitchen, went to the lavatory and saw its leaky plumbing and other malodorous fixtures.

Meanwhile Ondine silently observed the dirty kitchen which to her emitted the smell of death—dead fish and meat bits that had undoubtedly fallen behind the stove and not been cleaned; decomposing rats and cockroaches probably entombed in the walls; rotting vegetables that should have been tossed into the compost but which lay in bushels waiting to be served to some unsuspecting diners.

The young chef was a blond, tousle-haired, handsome but slightly arrogant creature, and Ondine could see at a glance that his culinary skills were of the touristy, greasy-spoon variety. Yet Renard beamed happily as he gave Ondine a tour that ended by showing her out the door.

“Goodbye, goodbye!” Renard called out, waving his handkerchief as if he were on a dock and seeing them off to go right back on whatever boat had brought them here.

Witnessing all this, Julie found the whole scene unbearably humiliating. “Why did we have to come to France?” she whimpered as they were turned away.

It became a litany as soon as they boarded a train to the convent. “Nobody's been nice to us like they were in America when Papa was alive!” she pointed out. Ondine sighed and closed her eyes. The more their journey continued, the more Julie complained, while clinging to her suitcase as if it contained tangible precious memories of happier days in New Rochelle. She couldn't forgive her mother for making them leave America—and for what? To live with the nuns at the convent Ondine had attended as a girl?

It was nighttime when they arrived; pitch dark without a single light on. “Be grateful for their shelter, if they'll be kind enough to give it,” Ondine whispered warningly as she knocked at the door. Her head and feet felt too heavy to make another move.

A young nun peeped out, and Ondine, feeling as if she had only one sentence left in her, explained who she was and that she would gladly pay to put Julie in school here, while perhaps Ondine could work to cook for the nuns.

But by now something too heavy to bear was overtaking Ondine; some tidal wave of grief that she'd forcefully pushed out of her mind during the entire voyage but could hold back no longer, as if it had finally breached the seawall of her resolve, engulfing her at last.

Luc. Sweet Luc. It felt wrong, like a betrayal, to have made it back to France without him. This should be his triumphant return. Suddenly, acutely, Ondine could feel his absence from her entire universe, as if a dangerous black undertow was dragging away everything and everyone she'd ever loved. Her parents were dead, too, and she'd never even guessed it. Now there would never be a chance to reconcile, nor to share Julie with them.

“Madame?” said the nun worriedly as she opened the convent door wider and stepped out.

Ondine moved her lips but she could no longer hear the sound of her own voice over the loud thudding in her eardrums; and right then and there, her resolve, her courage, and her legs finally gave way, and she felt as if she'd turned into a bundle of rags as she collapsed on the convent's stony front step.