Cooking for Picasso (37 page)

Ondine glanced up and realized that Julie must have wandered down the terraced garden steps; for now she returned, blushingly self-conscious, followed by a handsome red-haired man who appeared to be about six feet tall. He'd just arrived and, from the looks on both their faces, had been flirting with Julie.

“That's my eldest son,” Picasso said. “Since he has no gainful employment at the moment, he's working for me, as my chauffeur.”

At first, Ondine thought it must be a joke. This tall redhead the son of the short, dark Picasso? Ondine made a fast calculation and decided that this must be the child of Picasso's Russian wife.

“Your car's ready,” the tall fellow said.

Picasso was now eyeing Julie, who came toward him and remembered to curtsey before presenting him with a bouquet of flowers. For a moment he looked touched, even proud, almost in spite of himself. Ondine held her breath as the two black-eyed creatures gazed at each other.

“Yes, yes, very nice,” he said somewhat gruffly as he accepted her flowers, but then turned away and followed his son. Ondine had packed up the food hamper, and now she handed it to Julie. Picasso climbed inside his fancy car without a backward glance.

“Are we going home now?” Julie asked. Ondine nodded, but as they set off, her feet dragged. Picasso's car soon overtook them and roared ahead, kicking up dust as it disappeared beyond the bend.

As they walked past cicadas making their mind-numbing chatter in the tall grass, Ondine glanced at Julie. And suddenly the sight of her daughter, panting and staggering under the weight of a hamper full of Picasso's dirty dishes, was too much to bear. This must not be her fate.

“Julie, I forgot something,” Ondine said decisively. “You go on home ahead of me.”

Julie gave a long-suffering sigh and trudged ahead. Ondine hurried back to the villa, alert for any servant who might spy her and call the police. But the place was as silent as a tomb. She stole up the house's stone steps. The big French windows were locked, some even shuttered. She searched determinedly until she saw a smaller, high kitchen window that was left open to relieve the heat.

Ondine hoisted herself up, scraping her palms in the process. She squirmed through the window and landed on a kitchen counter. Tiptoeing around, she peered into shuttered rooms until she found a likely candidate—a room devoid of furniture but completely stuffed with art. Row after row of paintings were kept in groups, some arranged by size, others haphazardly tied with string, or piled on tables, or in stacks simply propped up on the floor. There must be hundreds here.

“I'd better move fast,” Ondine told herself, switching on a small light. She knelt down and attacked each group. They were stretched canvases on wood bars. She worked systematically and swiftly, trying not to get distracted by the strange beauty of the pictures, all full of life and energy. Some had dates painted on them; some did not. Some were grouped by a particular year or subject; some weren't.

So many pictures of that elegant woman whom Ondine recognized as the pretty mistress from the magazine photos. Sorting through the canvases Ondine felt her hopes diminishing, even as the artwork seemed to be going back in time, with pictures Picasso had made in the 1940s, perhaps to celebrate the end of the second world war—joyous images of frolicking goats and horses, cavorting nymphs and fauns and other mythological creatures.

As she dug deeper the stacks grew dustier; these batches even had spiderwebs wrapped around them, with a scattering of long-dead flies trapped forever. Ondine wrinkled her nose as she put her hand through the webs. These older paintings were more surreal and harder to fathom.

But then she saw a familiar face—the one that looked like a kite. “Ah!” she cried at another and another in those pastel Easter colors, all from the first week she'd met him. Paintings she remembered, but time had forgotten.

But the Minotaur with the wheelbarrow was gone. So was the still life with the striped pitcher. She reached for a last, smaller canvas, propped in a corner, its front turned away like a bad student forced to stand at the back of a classroom and face the wall. When she turned the painting around she let out a small cry—for it was like looking into an enchanted mirror that transported her back in time. The
Girl-at-a-Window
gazed right back, full of hope and triumph, her lips slightly parted as if about to speak.

“Was that really me?” Ondine murmured, barely able to recall what it felt like to be a creature who believes in her own unquenchable power. She sat back on her heels, remaining quietly in communion with her lost self. Then she heard the sound of a car approaching.

Ondine gasped. She'd never stolen anything in her life, not even small schoolgirlish thefts. But she reminded herself, “When he made this painting, Picasso said it was
mine
. He can't go back on his word. It's the least he can do for Julie. He just said now,
When a decision is made, someone wins, someone loses
. Well, I'm tired of losing.” The picture wasn't large, only about half a meter high and even less wide; she could carry it. Hastily she wrapped it in some old newspapers that lay beneath the canvases.

She realized in a panic that she'd have to go out on the other side of the house. She hurried into one room after another, each with its windows shuttered. She mustn't make a noise that might draw attention. Finally she found a window at the back of the house that opened quietly. She lowered the canvas out first, depositing it onto the grass below. She could hear the car coming closer to the house as she slipped out. She crept around the corner, then peered out cautiously.

It wasn't Picasso's car. It was a gardener, unloading his truck. Watching him walk back and forth several times, Ondine timed his moves until she knew when his back would be turned; then she ran out and ducked into the tall grass beyond the house. She inched her way down each terrace, lowering the painting ahead of her until she finally reached the road.

A
S SOON AS
she got home, Ondine hid the painting under her clothes in a large drawer. For a few days she waited nervously, but soon she believed that her painting
was
bringing her good luck. For one thing, Picasso evidently didn't miss it because no policeman showed up to arrest her.

Then, not long afterwards, while she was still desperate to find a job, she heard that the Café Paradis—or the Café Renard, as she must call it now—was in serious trouble. She decided to go there and see for herself, but when she arrived, the front window bore a sign saying
CLOSED
.

She shaded her eyes and peered inside, spotting the portly baker sitting alone in a crumpled heap at a corner table. He unlocked the door, listlessly allowing her to follow him inside. And—she couldn't believe it, but there were tears running down his face.

“What's happened to you?” she exclaimed.

“He left me!” Renard cried, sitting down heavily. “My chef has run off to Rome with an Italian aristocrat! To think I neglected my own business to give him everything I had to spend—everything, I tell you!” he blurted out, searching his pockets for a handkerchief. “He didn't even leave a note. Just slipped away early one morning like a thief! I had to hear about it from the stationmaster.”

Suddenly the whole thing was clear to Ondine, and she thought she understood why Renard had been an elusive bachelor all these years, only willing to marry when it suited his business plans.

Why, the poor man has at last fallen in love—with that ungrateful boy!
she realized. She was touched, but she also saw an opening. So for the first time, she spoke to Renard as if they were friends. “You know, Fabius,” she said gently, sitting next to him as he resurrected his handkerchief and wiped his eyes, “be glad that you have some good memories of love. But it's a mistake to try to hold on to happiness forever. It makes you miss the opportunities that are right here in front of you, right now.”

Renard had grown quiet, lulled by her soothing, maternal voice and the fact that she addressed him by his first name. “What opportunities?” he muttered interestedly, blowing his nose.

“For one thing, that boy was costing you too much money,” Ondine answered. “He wasn't a good cook, and you let him make a mess of this place. Now don't argue—you know it's true. He's lost you a lot of customers. You said yourself that your business is a shambles.”

“Yes,” Renard admitted sadly.

“I think fate sent me to you today,” she went on. “It's time you and I put our talents together.” When Renard looked faintly alarmed, she assured him, “I'm not speaking of marriage. We both have hearts that have not mended. But you are a good baker, and I can cook. I know this café and its local and seasonal clientele like the back of my hand. Together we can make it successful again.”

“It will take years—and all our profits—to fix up the café as it was before the war,” he warned. “But you're right, no one cooked like you and your mother. You surely
would
bring in more customers.”

Ondine said carefully, “Yes, I will cook here, but not as a hired chef. I want to be a partner, just as my father was.” Renard gasped, but she plunged on. “Do you still own the
mas
in Mougins?”

“Yes, but it, too, has seen better days,” he admitted.

“Ah. Well, I will help you build up the farm as well,” Ondine continued boldly. Luc had, after all, taught her a thing or two about bargaining and taking advantages of every single opportunity.

“Why should you do that?” the baker asked, astonished.

“Because that
mas
is the lifeblood of this café, and you are not using it well,” she said frankly. “I will put all my body and soul into making both businesses a success. But I'm not going to be a hired hand. I'll be your legal partner, or nothing.”

“But what does that mean, exactly?” Renard demanded.

“It means that we share the profits equally, and if you die, the entire business will go to me, just as if I were your wife,” Ondine replied firmly. “People will think we're a couple, but you're free to love whomever you please, so long as you do so quietly, without jeopardizing my claim on the café and
mas
. You won't ask any spousal duties of me but we'll be kind to each other. Agreed?”

She showed him her review clippings from America which she'd brought today to convince him to hire her. This time she made him read them. He studied each one, pausing now and again to eye her speculatively. Ondine had grown from an unpredictable, defiant girl into an intelligent, ambitious businesswoman. Renard, too, had a nose for a good deal, no matter whom it came from. At last he nodded decisively, looking both awed and relieved.

Ondine said, “I'll ask the lawyer I've been cooking for to draw up the papers. And one more thing. I want my daughter, Julie, to be employed as a waitress in our café. She needs to be around people, to cure her of her shyness.”

“Oh, all right,” Renard said. “Can you start right away?”

Ondine made another discovery that day, when she rolled up her sleeves and cleared out the café's kitchen and basement. Down in a jumble of old boxes she found her mother's pink-and-blue pitcher that had been intended for Ondine's wedding trousseau. “It's a sign that Julie
will
marry,” she decided, removing it to show to Julie so that she, too, would believe in a happy future.

But Ondine wasn't ready to tell anyone about her portrait. When she and Julie moved into the larger bedroom above the café, she waited until the girl was taking her bath, and only then did Ondine unpack the painting. It was lying at the bottom of her suitcase, face-up, protected by her clothes.

“Picasso was right to tell me not to sell you,” Ondine whispered to the
Girl-at-a-Window
. “You've brought me good luck.” Carefully she wrapped it in a clean pillowcase, laid it in a drawer of the armoire under her clothes, and locked it. Not until later did she realize that, this time, she'd put the painting face-down.

And shortly thereafter, her luck changed again.

“
C
ÉLINE DARLING,”
A
UNT
M
ATILDA SAID
breezily to me, “I need your skills as an Oscar-nominated makeup artist.” Our cooking class was having a class photo taken down by the pool, and Aunt Matilda commanded me to do her face for it.

“But don't make me a monster,” she warned. So I took out my brushes and pots of paint, highlighting her cheekbones, contouring her jawline, brightening her eyes and “sculpting” her nose. When I held up a mirror, she peered at her image in astonishment. “Ooh, I like what you do with the color white!” she marvelled, admiring herself. “I look so glamorous—and I feel ten years younger!”

We went down to the pool to join our classmates, who'd run out of gossip about the fate of Gil and his
mas,
so they were now happily talking about their own plans for the free days we had left.

Maurice snapped the pictures as Lizbeth informed our class, “For the rest of the afternoon you'll have the pool all to yourselves; and tonight you'll be served a champagne dinner at the pergola here.”

So now everyone was gleefully climbing into their bathing suits, determined to kick back and have fun. But my phone buzzed just then, with an e-mail from Grandmother Ondine's lawyer:

Chère Céline: In answer to your recent inquiry, I have arranged for you to meet Madame Sylvie, the neighbor of your Grandmother Ondine, who was with her just before she died. Madame Sylvie is believed to have the “second sight” and she has consented to read your fortune at two o'clock today if that meets with your convenience. You may telephone her directly at the number below. In any case, please let her know if you cannot attend, as she is in great demand and normally does not give appointments to first-time clients until the end of the year. Sincerely, Monsieur Clément

“Good Lord,” I grumbled, “I didn't ask to have my fortune told. Now I guess I'll have to pay her for this visit!” But I still had my rental car, and I had nothing to lose.

“Want to come and get your fortune told?” I asked Aunt Matilda after telling her where I was headed. She glanced across the pool and observed that the men were deeply engrossed in a game of
boules
in a nearby pit.

“It's like a cross between horseshoes and croquet,” she observed, sounding bored. “They'll be at it for hours. Sure, I'm game.”

M
ADAME
S
YLVIE LIVED
in Vence, high up in the hills above Nice. We got lost in the outskirts several times, and once found ourselves trapped in the dead end of a street so narrow that I couldn't turn the car around; I had to back up, inch by inch, on a road that was really just the perilous edge of a cliff. At the end was an old graveyard.

“Bet it's filled with dead Victorian tourists who fell off this cliff,” Aunt Matilda said, terrified.

Finally, we found my soothsayer. She lived in the center of town, in a building wedged among many others, with pretty window boxes full of geraniums. Her narrow front door squeaked as we entered a small, dark front parlor where she met with her clients. When she greeted us I had to stop myself from saying,
You don't look like a fortune-teller!
No wild gypsy scarves here.

Madame Sylvie had only been in her twenties the year that Grandma Ondine died, so now she was in her late fifties. She was still slender, with straw-colored hair and green eyes, impeccably dressed in a well-tailored beige suit and matching pumps. I introduced her to Aunt Matilda, then we sat down before a small, round table with a black marble top. A deck of gilt-edged cards lay upon it.

“A pleasure to meet Ondine's grand-daughter. But why have you sought me out?” Madame Sylvie said. Her fingers were long and nimble as she dealt the cards out in three neat rows of seven cards each. Aunt Matilda watched, wary and fascinated, since she loved playing card games.

Unable to resist a subversive urge to test Madame Sylvie, I said, “Maybe you can ‘see' what's on my mind?”

I half-expected her to betray some guilt—a flicker of the eyelid, a tightening of the mouth—to reveal that she'd been the one who pilfered Grandma's Picasso. Instead she continued to study the cards, then answered serenely, “Yes, I understand that you wish to protect your mother. But I also see that
she
did not defend
you
from the first man in your life. By forcing you to take on the role of her protector—against the father who should have guarded you both—your mother robbed you of the delight of being the younger one, the innocent one. So, now you have come to France to reclaim your right to be cherished as a woman. Your mother has her own destiny; she only wants you to find yours.”

Aunt Matilda nodded meaningfully at me. I caught my breath in shock, experiencing a peculiar feeling, as if my entire face were in peril of slipping right off like a mask. “Look,” I said abruptly, “I'm not really here to have my fortune told. I came because I heard that you were the last person to see my grandmother alive, and I just need to know what happened that day.”

“What happened is that you were born early,” Madame Sylvie said with a kindly smile. “Your mother and father had already gone off to the hospital when I stopped by to visit Ondine. We had some tea, and she was excited about
you
and your destiny! But then, God took her that day.” She paused, and looked at me keenly. “Now you are seeking to learn Ondine's secrets. Why?”

“I need to know one thing especially, just to set my mother's mind at ease,” I said. “Did my Grandmother Ondine ever own a Picasso?”

There was a moment of silence. “This is possible,” Madame Sylvie said finally.

If this woman stole the painting, would she dare say that?
I wondered.
Sure, why not?
It could even be upstairs hanging in her bedroom right now; although I doubted it, based on nothing more than when a trail feels hot or cold. I supposed that Grandma might simply have put the damned thing into a safe-deposit vault and died before she got the chance to tell Mom where it was.

Tentatively I asked, “I mean, have you actually seen the painting? Not in a vision. For
real
.”

“
Non
. But Ondine said Picasso gave her a valuable ‘gift'. She was worried about protecting it.”

“So, what happened to it?” Aunt Matilda interjected eagerly.

Madame Sylvie's expression remained calm and benign. “I do not know. She didn't say any more about it. I don't think dear Ondine expected to die that day,” she added softly, turning to me. “Even someone as practical as your grandmother always believes she'll live just one more day.”

Then, gazing meditatively off into the distance, Madame Sylvie said admiringly, “Ondine didn't do anything in the usual way. She was fearless about trying the unexpected, putting this-with-that. It not only made her a great chef; it made her a
femme
très formidable
.”

“Can't you—predict—where the painting is?” I asked. I was surprised at how pleading I sounded. Madame Sylvie obligingly closed her eyes, breathed deeply and became so still and quiet that I could hear a lizard scurrying on the path outside beneath her open window.

“She put it in a—
placard
—” She paused, searching for the English word, miming opening a door.

“A cupboard,” I supplied, startled.

“It's painted blue,” she added, opening her eyes now.

“Oh, my God,” I said, remembering the photo of Grandmother Ondine in the café's kitchen, with a bright blue cupboard in the background. “But that cupboard isn't at the Café Paradis anymore,” I said, feeling panicked that it must have been sold off to some antiques market.

She nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, I see it at the
mas
.” That made sense to me; Grandma could have brought the cupboard with her to Mougins when she stopped living in Juan-les-Pins. And, I thought cynically, my fortune-teller might have actually seen it there and was just now remembering.

Madame Sylvie collected and swept away all the cards. I felt I wouldn't be able to hold her much longer, so I cut to the chase. “But I haven't seen that cupboard at the
mas,
either. So exactly where is it now?” I demanded.

Madame Sylvie passed her palm in front of her face from top to bottom.
“Il s'est déplacé.”

“It moved?” I pressed her. “The painting? Or the cupboard, or both?” At this point, in spite of myself, I was hoping that her so-called psychic powers were operating like a GPS tracking system.

Now she only shook her head. “That's all I can tell you. I see nothing more.”

She was dealing out the cards again, but this time when she studied them, she gave Aunt Matilda a quick, sympathetic look. I didn't catch on right away. Madame Sylvie returned her gaze to the cards, not so much to study them as to avoid having to speak.

“I haven't got very long, have I?” Aunt Matilda said dryly.

“It all depends,” Madame Sylvie said gently. “You must learn not to worry. If your heart is more at peace, you may live a lot longer than you'd expect.”

I
WAS IMMENSELY
glad to leave Madame Sylvie's dark parlor after that. Deeply unsettled by everything she'd said, I was only too ready to shake off the dust of that strange woman's house, which seemed to have enveloped me with an unwanted air of inevitability. I couldn't believe what had just transpired with Aunt Matilda.

“What was
that
all about?” I demanded as soon as we got into the car.

Aunt Matilda took a deep breath, then said, “You heard her. It's my heart. Doctor said the same thing about stress.”

“What stress?” I prodded. I'd always assumed her life was as peaceful as it appeared.

“Money,” she said shortly. I suddenly remembered what she'd said when she learned of what my father did with all the money in his will. Aunt Matilda had commented,
No surprise there. My father did the same thing to my mom and me
.

“But all these vacations you take—you always seemed not to have a care in the world,” I said.

She smiled wryly. “Oh, it was fine while I was still teaching. And for awhile the pension held out. But then the medical bills kicked in, and I took out a reverse mortgage on the house. Frankly, I'm already living longer than everyone told me I would. So when your mother asked me to go with her, I knew she needed a friend. And I figured, what the hell? Might as well go out with a bang.”

I leaned over and gave her a big hug, then and there in the car. She allowed this for a moment, then said, “Oh, go on! Start driving.” And the farther away we drove from Vence, the more we felt the sun and the salty air reviving us, bringing us out of the dead past and into the lively present.

“At least the painting
did
exist and made it as far as the
mas,
” Aunt Matilda said encouragingly.

“So Madame Sylvie says! But if I find it, Aunt Matilda, we'll have enough money to help Mom
and
to keep you sitting pretty in that house of yours!” I said resolutely, determined to keep her alive and kicking.

She said, “Great. I'll take it.” Then she added meaningfully, “But you know, there's somebody else you ought to take into consideration. Gil. You saw those gorillas he's dealing with.”

I had been afraid all along that someone might suggest Gil had proprietary rights to anything found at the
mas,
and therefore owned the Picasso. “It belonged to Grandma,” I said with a stab of anxiety. “If it's there, it's Mom's. Not mine, and not Gil's. If he finds out about the portrait, he might want to keep it all to himself—he wouldn't care about my mother.”

Aunt Matilda eyed me speculatively. “Listen, that Madame Whatsis who just read your fortune may have been right—maybe it's more important for you to find yourself, not just that painting.”