Cooking for Picasso (36 page)

P
ABLO
P
ICASSO HAD NEVER BEEN
so insulted in his life. He sat in a dark room alone, smoking. He had come to the conclusion that women simply weren't human, after all. You gave them everything—your love, your children, a fine house—so why did they make a man feel guilty for just being a man?

“They're all impossible,” he thought, reviewing his grudges. Take Olga. She remained his wife—and still went by the name of Madame Picasso—and she'd won a tidy share of his assets, but that wasn't good enough for her; she went about following his mistresses, shouting at them, pinching them, telling them that they had no business being with Picasso.

As for Marie-Thérèse, she now needed constant reassurance, so Pablo kept writing her letters swearing that she was the only woman he'd ever really loved; but lately, on his twice-weekly visits to see their child, Marie-Thérèse kept urging him to finally make good on his vague promises to marry her.

And poor Dora Maar, well, some of Picasso's friends actually blamed him for her breakdown, saying he'd crushed her spirit with jealousy, manipulating her by parading other women before her, egging her on and then rejecting her yet again. Friends found her wandering the streets of Paris, talking incoherently. Picasso had to call a doctor who carted Dora off to a rest home and gave her electroshock treatments. The vivacious, intellectual brunette was never quite the same after that; she “found” religion, and when Pablo saw her in Paris, she shouted at him that God would make him pay for his sins if he didn't kneel down right now and beg the Lord's forgiveness.

“It's not my fault that women are so weak!” Pablo protested to his friends. After all, God kept rewarding him with more money and success—and a new young mistress; so Pablo thought it would be different this time with Françoise. The Parisian girl with flowing, dark-russet hair was the young artist to whom he'd brought a bowl of cherries at the café, when the Gestapo were still running Paris; and after the war she'd defied her wealthy father and even her benevolent grandmother, to come and live with Picasso here in Vallauris.

“I allowed her to share my life, my time, my talent for a whole decade,” Pablo fumed, “and now, what thanks do I get? What does the lovely Françoise say to me?” Picasso repeated the words incredulously.
“I am sorry, Pablo, but I want to live with people of my own generation and the problems of MY time.”

And, she'd told him that she simply was no longer happy with their relationship.

He'd thundered back in outrage, “Your job is to remain by my side, to devote yourself to me and the children. Whether it makes you happy or unhappy is no concern of mine.”

But he'd failed to notice that the worshipful girl had turned into an elegant woman with a mind of her own; after all, she was in her thirties now—and he was in his seventies.

“She makes me feel like an old goat,” he thought savagely; and now his canvases were filled with nude young models indifferent to the pathetic dwarfs and clowns who sought to make love to them.

Still, Françoise didn't leave right away, so Pablo didn't really believe she meant it. He tried to make a brave joke of it to his friends. “Françoise's going to leave me soon,” he'd announce. “Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow.”
Poor me,
he was saying.
I am a man without love
. For a while it seemed to work; friends rushed up to Françoise and begged her not to do such a cruel thing to the Master.

And soon the word leaked out to the press, who hovered on doorsteps to ask Françoise if the rumors were true. She would flee to Paris, only to return to Pablo in the South of France.

“No woman leaves a man like me,” Picasso assured himself. The truth was, he really didn't know what to do in a situation like this with an independent-minded, modern younger woman.

So, when the moment finally came, Pablo was not emotionally prepared. On this otherwise beautiful September day, Françoise packed her suitcases, picked up her handbag, took their son and daughter by the hand and led them into a waiting auto. The driver seized their suitcases and deposited them in the trunk while the children piled into the car, then peered out the back window, their inky dark eyes dancing in the mischief of the moment, as if they were off on a dangerous but intriguing adventure.

“You'll be back,” Picasso had told Françoise with a shrug, pretending not to care. But just as she and the children settled into the car, he charged down the stairs like an enraged bull. By the time he caught up with them, the car was already in motion.

Pablo glared into the window as if to command his mistress to stop. She gazed back at him, defiant and resolute. The driver slowed uncertainly.

“Go!” Françoise ordered. The driver floored the accelerator, making the tires spin in the gravel. The car drove on.

“Merde!”
Picasso bellowed, brandishing his fist at the disappearing auto. He followed it for a few paces with a cigarette between his fingers, watching with an expression of utter outrage and betrayal.

In the deafening silence, he took a long, furious drag before he hurled the cigarette into the dust and stepped on it, as if to extinguish something more than just its glowing, ashy tip.

Then Picasso turned, went back into the house and slammed the door behind him.

T
HE NEXT DAY,
he awoke shortly before noon. The house was dark and shuttered, silent. He was alone. He would have to get up sooner or later, call a friend or servant in Paris, get them to help him make a change, make a move, do something. Pablo had refused to learn how to drive, fearing that it would affect and even injure his hands. He hated operating modern machines, even talking on the telephone, but today he did so, summoning the son he'd had with Olga to come and get him.

Picasso was not a man who was meant to be alone. Still, he lay there in his darkened room, smoking. Then he thought he heard a noise outside the house. Did he imagine it? It was too soon for his son to be here. He strained to listen to the light and lilting sound.

What could it be—human voices, or just birdsong? Warily he sighed, got up and went to the window, parted the curtain and peeped out.

There were two figures approaching the house. Pablo ducked out of sight from the window. Through sheer habit he waited for someone else to resolve this, then reminded himself that there was not a mistress nor a servant nor a friend in this house to send to the front door to investigate.

He would have to handle this for himself today. Or else ignore it.

The irresistible lure of his own insatiable curiosity tugged at him. He thrust his feet into his sandals and went down the stairs as noiselessly as possible. He paused on his side of the front door and waited there, feeling like a spy, listening to the voices as they finally reached the house. Female voices, light, sweet and pleasant.

Even so, his nerves were startled when he heard the sharp rap of the door knocker resonating through his front door while he remained right there on the other side of it.

Picasso held his breath, trying to decide, torturously, what to do.

Then he made up his mind.

A
T FIRST,
O
NDINE WASN'T ENTIRELY
sure she had the right house for Picasso. She and Julie had paused momentarily at the foot of a long, steep flight of wide stone steps, flanked on both sides by a free-spirited garden that was arranged in terraced layers on a hill, all leading up to a rather modest villa perched at the top.

“
Maman,
do I really have to climb all these steps with this basket on my arm?” Julie exclaimed.

“Yes,” Ondine had answered, gazing upward.

“Must I go looking like Little Red Riding Hood?” Julie whimpered. “I'm sixteen, after all!”

She's nearly the same age I was when I met Picasso,
Ondine thought to herself.

“Who is this man we're visiting?” Julie had asked. “Why is he so important?”

“I knew him back in Juan-les-Pins. He's very rich, and he might be able to help us,” Ondine answered carefully, mindful of her promise to Luc that she would never tell Julie about Picasso.

But I never said I wouldn't tell Picasso about Julie!
Ondine thought determinedly.

“Well, if he's
your
friend, why do
I
have to be the one to give him this basket?” Julie fretted.

“Because he prefers young women,” Ondine said, more to herself. She'd examined her reflection in the mirror only this morning; she was thirty-four now, and the face that looked back at her possessed a brave radiance. But life had toughened her up, and her eyes were those of a woman unafraid to look the truth square in the face.
Let's see if Picasso can do the same,
she thought.

Tenderly she smoothed out the shoulder seams of Julie's dress and gave a sharp tug to adjust her hair ribbon, saying, “Remember to call him
Patron
when you address him. And be sure to smile and curtsey. You look too gloomy when you fail to smile.”

Julie misunderstood and pouted.
My own mother thinks I'm not pretty enough,
she reasoned with a queer little feeling of hurt. In truth, she had a lovely face, with warm dark eyes and lustrous auburn hair, but nobody seemed to notice the shy little creature who kept her head down.

Obedience was the only weapon of survival that Julie had managed to make her own. She lowered her lashes resentfully but said, “Yes,
Maman
.”

Ondine saw her daughter's pout and wasn't fooled one bit. Everyone thought of Julie as pleasantly compliant, but the girl had a reticence which sometimes amounted to passive mutiny.

She blames me for everything that's gone wrong since Luc died,
Ondine reminded herself.

As they climbed the steep stone staircase to Picasso's house they could hear bees humming busily in the tall grass of the terraced gardens they passed. It was a hot day for September. Ondine thought she saw a curtain twitch in the window as she moved forward resolutely toward the house.

“Maybe your friend's not even home today,” Julie said hopefully, lagging behind. The hamper was heavy and she wished they could just leave it on the front stoop and run away. She couldn't imagine knocking on that door, curtseying and offering this basket to a total stranger.

Ondine had cooked a
lapin à tomates, les olives et la moutarde
—rabbit stewed with onions, mustard, tomatoes, white wine, black olives, capers and herbs. She led Julie right up to the front door. They had to knock on it twice before they heard a man's heavy tread at the other side of the door. After a long pause, the door creaked open a bit more, and the Minotaur peeped out, his dark eyes glowering.

“Who is it?” Picasso demanded, shading his eyes from the sun's glare with his hand. “Come closer, I can't see you,” he said, sounding irritated. He had a folded newspaper tucked under his arm.

She stepped forward courageously and said, “
Bonjour, Patron
. I am Ondine, your chef from many years ago, from the Café Paradis in Juan-les-Pins. My daughter has a gift for you.”

Picasso stared at Ondine, then opened the door a bit wider. Julie saw a short, leathery-looking, powerfully built man, dressed in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt that hung open to reveal his broad chest. He was tanned all over to the color of bronze, even his balding head. He wore a furious scowl with those smoldering black eyes. But this man, although he appeared strong and fit, looked more like a grandfather.

“He's so
old
! Not at all like you told me,” Julie whispered from behind, for Ondine had described this “friend” as a virile, dark-haired
Patron,
not a man in his seventies.

“Shh,” Ondine whispered back. Julie, terrified, stepped forward and mutely handed Picasso the picnic hamper. He looked astounded, but could not resist peering inside, sniffing. The scent of the food appealed to him just as Ondine knew it would.
No man can resist being pampered,
she saw in satisfaction, stealing a better look at him. He was even shorter than she remembered. His dark hair had turned white and was almost all gone now—yet her heart responded to his familiar, magnetic presence.

Picasso glanced from mother to daughter, as if Julie's youthful face was balm to his wounded pride. “Well, why not?” he exclaimed, stepping out and closing the door behind him. “No one else has thought to feed me a meal like this today! I'll eat in the garden. Want to see it, young lady?”

Julie beamed at him in relief, finding this change of tone encouraging. They followed Picasso around the side of the house to a sitting area where he deposited himself in a wrought-iron chair, placing the hamper on a matching table. Ondine swiftly unpacked the delicate rabbit stew that was so tender you could cut it with a fork. As she laid out the meal for him, he sat like an emperor allowing his attendants to wait on him. Then Picasso ate hungrily, looking pleased all the while.

Ondine nodded to Julie, who, on cue, did what she'd been told to do: leave the adults to have their private conversation among old friends. As Julie tactfully wandered off into the garden to look at the flowers, Picasso's gaze followed the girl, then returned curiously to Ondine.

“Tell me—how exactly do I know you?” he asked, as if stirred by only a distant memory—one so monumental to Ondine, but, she noted, hardly more than a footnote in this man's mind.

Trying not to be wounded by this she said quickly, “It was 1936 in Juan-les-Pins. I used to bring your lunch to you on a bicycle. I posed for you, in a blue dress, wearing your wristwatch. I am Ondine, your
Femme à la montre
.” She watched for any sign of the interest he'd once taken in her.

“Ah! Ondine,” he repeated in wonder, like a man waking from a dream. “Yes, yes! The one with the hair like the waves of the sea! Still cooking in that café? Or did you marry some local hero?”

So he did remember. There was even a fond note in his voice. Ondine found herself blushing. Absurd, at her age. “I
did
marry,” she said carefully, “and went to America, where we had our own café in a town called New Rochelle. Important people from Manhattan lined up at my door just to taste my
bouillabaisse,
” she said proudly.

“
Bon!
I only like to be around winners, not losers,” Picasso proclaimed. He tore off a corner of his bread roll to mop up his sauce. “And what kind of man is your husband?”

“A good one. But, he died,” she said quietly.

Picasso, apparently not wishing to indulge in chatter about death, especially of someone he didn't know, said rather curtly, “So—what are
you
doing here in Vallauris?”

“I am a private chef now. When I heard you were my neighbor I had to pay a call.” Tentatively she said, “My boss is changing his living arrangements. Could you perhaps use my services as a cook?”

He shook his head firmly, speaking more to himself in a bitter tone. “No, I've got my cook coming down from Paris. But I won't stay in this house for long. Why should I? It's time to move on!”

Ondine said softly, “I've thought of you often, ever since that day when I cycled to your villa in Juan-les-Pins, only to find the house empty. You left so suddenly. How I missed you! And I looked everywhere for the portrait you made for me, yet that was gone, too. But, you left me a precious gift from our love. I thought you ought to know. Your daughter has your eyes, as you can see.”

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the chirping of birds and the drone of insects in the grass. Picasso's gaze narrowed. “You come to me now, after all this time? That seems unlikely.”

Ondine was determined not to back down. “Julie is yours, but my husband loved her and cared for her as his own. So I promised him I'd never tell her about you, and I never will,” she said, so that he would understand that she was not going to make unreasonable demands.

“That's wise,” he said firmly, removing his napkin from where he'd tucked it under his chin to wipe his mouth. “These days, people usually want either of two things from me. Some wish me to immortalize them in a painting. The others—complete strangers—knock on my door and ask for money. Can you imagine? What do they think I am, a bank? I have four children now, and I give to them whatever and whenever it pleases me. But they know better than to ask for more.”

She heard his bullish tone and absorbed his warning. He was scowling again. Her heart sank but, sensing Julie still moving about in the garden, picking flowers, Ondine thought,
I must not fail her
.

Picasso studied her face. “Well, Ondine, what do
you
want?” he asked with some asperity.

She didn't dare say,
I want you to love and provide for this daughter of yours!
Obviously he'd sized her up as an unprotected woman without powerful male relatives to demand justice for her and Julie. So she tried to conjure an acceptable reply to Picasso's question, as if he were a genie who might grant her only one wish. Her thoughts landed on it as delicately as a butterfly on the grass.

“I want the special portrait you made of me after our night of love,” she said quietly. “We talked of Rembrandt, and you had me pose as your
Girl-at-a-Window
. You promised I could have it.”

Did he remember? Did he even still possess the portrait? His face remained inscrutable. She plunged on. “You said the picture was mine to keep. And I know you are a man of your word. It's important because now that painting will serve as your daughter's dowry,” she added earnestly.

“I'll have to think about that. When a decision is made, someone wins, someone loses. So there is always blood on the floor.” He looked as if such a dilemma already perplexed him. After a pause he wagged a finger at her, saying, “But you see, if I
did
give you that painting, it would be as a gift. And you must never sell a gift.” He wore a cunning look now; Ondine wondered if he was just playing cat-and-mouse. For all she knew he may have sold the picture, long ago. Clearly he was testing her.

She said carefully, “I believe I won't have to sell it. Just owning it will be enough to impress a suitor's family. I want our daughter to marry well, and have a decent start in life.”

Picasso said sternly, “If I give it to you, will that be an end to this?” His unsentimental eyes told her what the only answer could be.

Ondine sized up the situation and saw that she must take this offer before he withdrew it. “Yes.”

From the road came a noise of gravel as a car climbed up the hill. Picasso heard it, and he rose abruptly. Ondine rose, too, and Picasso swept his hand toward the villa as if throwing down a gauntlet.

“Who knows where that painting is? The house is bursting with artwork; I can't keep track anymore. People keep trying to ‘organize' me. I paint, I draw, I sculpt—then I have to buy bigger houses just to find room to hold it all! Some of my pictures were sent here from my apartment in Paris. Some I sold. Some I gave away. Maybe I gave away that
Girl-at-a-Window
? I don't have time to look for it now. But if I come across it, I'll let you know. Goodbye.” His tone was final.