Cooking for Picasso (42 page)

Picasso.

“I don't remember the date that I painted this,” he said, pausing. “Then again, I don't even remember today's date. Do you recall?”

“Yes, I remember,” Ondine said softly, for just this morning she'd looked at her leather-bound notebook with all the meals she'd cooked. Now she told Picasso the date he'd created it and he leaned forward again, concentrating like an earnest schoolboy in a way she found unexpectedly touching.

He painted
7 mai XXXVi
. When he was done, he straightened up, looking satisfied, and patted the top of the painting as if it were a pet or a child. “If you want it that badly, Ondine, you may as well have it,” he said, looking at her cunningly. “One cannot resist courage.”

She caught her breath. He knew she'd taken it! How long had he known? Was he playing with her the entire time, or did it just dawn on him?

But then there was a sudden slam of a door in another part of the house, and a woman's voice called out in a strange, shrill birdlike trill. “
Monseigneur,
where are you?” she cooed.

Picasso had the face of a schoolboy caught with the cookies. “Jacqueline won't like this,” he warned. “She'll try to stop you. If you want to keep this painting, go out that side door!”

Ondine picked it up carefully, for his signature was still wet. Unsentimentally, Picasso looked her straight in the eye now and said, “It will be worth more when I'm dead, you know.”

It was unlike him to mention death, yet he did so with courage, like a warrior prepared to confront the inevitable battle ahead. “May God grant that day to be far away,” Ondine said tenderly; and just before leaving him, something compelled her to kiss him on his warm, leathery cheek.

“Adieu,”
she said softly, then added,
“A Dios.”
He raised a gnarled hand to her cheek, as if carving her from clay—a gesture she remembered, but today he made it new, one more time.

“Yes, yes.” Picasso's face had become very gentle, almost mournful. “Now, go!” he admonished.

Indeed, the new wife's sharp footsteps were tap-tapping on the hall floor indicating that she was coming closer. Ondine hurried to the side exit, but cast one last look over her shoulder at the small man, still standing before his easel, surrounded by the paintings that he simply could not stop making.

Picasso had picked up his brush again, and with it, he waved goodbye.

W
ALKING BACK TO
the
mas,
Ondine felt as if she were encased in a soft, sacred glow, like having been in the presence of a holy man who'd finally, at long last, given her his blessing.

And for once, she could provide her daughter with a much better future, she reflected happily. She took a ride with the farm's delivery boy, whose truck was making its last run of the day from the
mas
to the café. Ondine burst inside the café, excited to show the painting to Julie.

But she found only Monsieur Renard waiting for her in the kitchen, wringing his hands. “Julie is
gone
! She sneaked out without a word to anyone. Can you believe it, she eloped with that Arthur! She left us only this very short note.”

Ondine's breath came out in one hard gasp. She sat down at the kitchen table and allowed Renard to read it to her—a brief, hasty goodbye from Julie, who'd obviously written exactly what Arthur had dictated, assuring them in somewhat legalistic language that she was perfectly certain about marrying him and going to live in America, and asking them only to be happy for her.

At first, Ondine did not believe it. Her fingers had turned to icicles and even her heart seemed frozen, for she could not feel anything. Only when she raised her eyes to the blue cupboard did she realize that something else was missing—the pink-and-blue striped pitcher which she'd kept atop it for Julie's bridal trousseau. Julie must have taken it with her, and now Ondine comprehended that her little daughter really was gone for good.

Like a sleepwalker, Ondine rose and went upstairs to the bedroom they'd shared. Her fingers were still clamped onto the wrapped painting which she'd carried up here with her. She laid it out on the bed as if it were a corpse.

“What does this matter now?” she said bitterly as she walked over to her window and gazed out, overcome with grief that was flowing through her blood. “What good is this painting to me? I may just as well throw it into the sea!”

O
N
T
UESDAY
I
AWOKE WITH
the rueful certainty that I'd finally exhausted every single idea I had about finding the lost Picasso. It was time for me to accept that wherever this phantom painting was, it was going to stay there.

Aunt Matilda and her friend Peter were due back this afternoon, but all the other guests were gone. I went downstairs and discovered that, even though I was the sole lodger today, the French staff was as courteous to their one guest as they'd be to a full house. They'd laid out a small but elegant buffet breakfast on the terrace for Gil and me.

I didn't really expect to see him, but there he was, at a table beneath a plane tree, talking into his phone. His profile was sober-looking but betrayed no sentimentality; it was as if he'd made up his mind to face the music with all the dignity he could muster.

I wished I could be like him, but just the thought of my mother nodding in her wheelchair out in that Nevada nursing home—which now seemed farther away than ever, as if she were in another galaxy and completely out of reach—brought such despair into my throat that it almost choked me.

When Gil looked up, he gestured for me to join him at his table, and a waiter quietly brought a new pot of coffee. “Look at what the world has already been up to,” Gil said, handing off the day's newspaper to me. “Bombings. Floods. War and pestilence. Death and destruction. I'd say there are far worse things that could happen to a bloke than losing control of his restaurant.”

“Are you going to London today to see Rick?” I asked in dread.

Gil shook his head. “The contracts are at my lawyer's office in Cannes. Apparently Rick wants to make sure I don't perish in a train or plane wreck en route to London before he gets my signature on it. But the good news is, he's put the money I need into an escrow account, so when I sign today I'll be able to pay off the loan shark on time.”

I glanced out at the sweeping property of the
mas,
but I found every beautiful garden view and every breathtaking farmland vista too heartbreakingly painful to look at now, so I averted my eyes rather than imagine it all in Rick's greedy hands. If this was how I felt about the loss of Grandma's
mas,
how could Gil endure it?

As if reading my mind, he said, “Your life and work have to be more important than one battle.”

“Why do the bad guys always win?” I grumbled.

Unexpectedly, Gil reached out and patted my arm so gently that I had to fight off the impulse to cry, even before he said softly, “Céline, you'll find another way to rescue your mum.”

I didn't trust myself to speak. He was being so understanding today.

“Why don't you take it easy, have a swim and a massage at the spa?” Gil suggested. “I'll tell my staff that everything's on the house while it's still mine! Lunch and drinks included.”

It crossed my mind that he was behaving like someone who's just sold his house and is determined to throw a party and use up everything before handing it over to a stranger. I pictured myself doing what he suggested and wandering around the spa in one of those fluffy bathrobes, looking ridiculous. Then I thought about sitting by the pool and ordering enough drinks to get good and snockered. Why the hell not?

“Well, I'm on my way,” Gil said rather abruptly now, as he rose to do the inevitable.

“Good luck,” I said. He nodded but didn't look back once. I decided that if he could endure the signing away of his beloved
mas,
I should be stoic, too.

Determinedly, I went up to my room, changed into my swimsuit, and walked along the garden paths, where the grass and plantings were still glistening with their early-morning watering. Inquisitive bees and butterflies flitted about their business. I stalked onward, to the hilltop infinity pool and its beautiful view of the valleys and the wide-open sky.

Among the neat rows of
chaises longues,
two had been discreetly set up with plush towels. I put down my things, walked to the pool and dipped in a toe. The water, undulating gently against the sides of the pool, was still cool from last night's air. But the sun was hot upon my back. I took the plunge.

I swam, listening to the rippling splashes coming from me, the lone swimmer. Back and forth I went, wanting to exhaust myself so I could turn off my worries about Mom. Then I remembered a sad story I'd heard about a polar bear in a New York zoo who went a little batty from captivity and kept madly swimming back and forth until he dropped dead.

I glanced up and saw a small figure hesitating by the side of the pool. It was Martin, dressed in a swimsuit but looking nervous about going anywhere near a pool, ever again. Lizbeth was with him, saying encouragingly, “See? The water's nice today.”

I opened my arms to Martin. “Come on, pal, if I can do it, you can. I'll watch out for you.”

Martin steeled himself, then came into the pool via the steps, gradually, until he reached my open arms, and he put his arms around my neck as if I were a lifesaver.

Lizbeth said in relief, “Give me a call when he's ready to shower up. Lunch is at twelve-thirty.”

She went off, and I held Martin up as he began to paddle tentatively. He'd been taught to swim, evidently, because it all came back to him. He just needed to know that someone was watching over him and wouldn't let him drown.

Eventually we climbed out and flopped down on the sun beds. The wind was rustling through the trees, whispering like a conspirator with vital clues. For awhile, I closed my eyes, lying very still, with an odd, unsettled feeling, as if someone had cast a fishing line and was slowly reeling me back in. Martin lay beside me, gazing up at the clouds and telling me about their funny shapes.

When a church bell tolled the noon hour, I said, “Well, we'd better get going, so we're not late for lunch.” I sent a message to Lizbeth that we were on our way.

“Can we go by the construction guys?” Martin asked eagerly. He took my hand and led me back by a different route, skirting along the older area where renovations were still proceeding apace. We paused to peer in and view the progress. Many of the workmen knew Martin and waved to him.

They were busily scraping off the old, peeling paint in Grandma's kitchen. I stood there, hypnotized by the rhythmic, up-and-down motions of the workers.

I found myself wondering if Grandma cooked for Mom and Dad when they visited her at the
mas
. But maybe they just ate in the café in Juan-les-Pins.

“What are you looking for?” Martin asked, perceptive lad that he was.

I smiled and admitted, “Hidden treasure. It was supposed to be in a blue cupboard.”

Being a kid, Martin didn't think this was at all strange. Immediately he scanned the area, trying to help. I shaded my eyes because the glare of the midday sun was reflecting off something with blinding intensity, the way it can bounce off metal such as on the hoods of cars in a parking lot on a hot day. Which was odd, I thought, since the site was made of wood and stone.

Gazing at the old kitchen I recalled the night I'd gone down there in the dark to investigate, and then it had begun to rain. The sound of that patter struck me afresh now: plink-plink
-plonk,
plink-plink
-plonk
. I recalled how the
plonk
had been a jarring note compared to the gentler first two notes. It occurred to me now that the rain might have occasionally struck metal instead of wood and stone. Perhaps a worker had left something metal there? I drew closer to get a better look.

Martin plucked at my sleeve. “That cupboard used to be blue,” he offered, pointing to the same area I was staring at, where a crewman was working on one of the built-in cupboards that had apparently been sealed off and painted over. The man was stripping away its white paint…revealing the original blue paint beneath it. And at the top of the cupboard there was that bright gleam of sunlight reflecting off something metal, as if it had a chimney cap on it.

Lizbeth arrived just then and steered Martin away. “See you at lunch,” he said to me, waving.

I nodded, but I remained rooted to the spot, squinting intently. Whatever this was, I had to check it out. So I abandoned all restraint and rushed right onto the work site to inspect it up close.

The foreman was none too happy to see me there. But when I asked him about the cupboard, he told me something that made me hastily dig into my pocket for my phone. I had to ring Gil three times—twice getting his recorded message—before he finally picked up.

“Gil!” I cried out.

“Céline?” he said in disbelief. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's
wrong
!” I bellowed. “Listen, have you signed that contract yet?”

“No.” He sounded annoyed. “My lawyer insists we read every word. He doesn't trust Rick.”

“Well, STOP! Whatever you do, do NOT sign it yet!” I shouted, not caring that the construction workers were gaping at me as I stood there with my big fat bathrobe hanging open, revealing my still-damp bathing suit. “Just put them off a little longer,” I continued vehemently.

“Céline, what the fuck?” Gil shouted back.

“Listen,” I exclaimed, “I think I found the REAL blue cupboard. It was built right into the kitchen of the
mas
! But we might have to bust into it or tear it out of the wall if necessary. Is that okay?”

“Céline, please, there's no more time for fun and games and treasure hunts. Rick's going to inspect the place tonight,” Gil warned. “So don't do anything stupid on your own.”

“Then, damn it, drop everything and get your ass back to the
mas
right now, so we can do something stupid together!” I commanded, exasperated.

“Jesus,” Gil said worriedly, “I'm on my way.”