Cooking for Picasso

by Camille Aubray

  But soon they were passing Picasso’s neighborhood, and Ondine sat up straight as if awakening from a bad dream. Her gaze cleared, and some relief must have illuminated her expression, for Monsieur Renard smiled at her as if she were a child who’d been roused from a drowsy Sunday nap.

  “They never should have let the Americans rent these villas!” he exclaimed as he steered his car past the hill that led to Picasso’s street. “It was bad enough, renting them out to the Parisians!”

  Ondine said nothing, but when she saw a familiar figure on the road, she leaned forward to get a better look. Yes, it was Picasso—all dressed up in a fine suit, shirt and hat, and even a tie. He must have gone into town, and he was walking home holding himself straighter and more proudly than ever, seeming conscious of the dapper figure he cut, out on a Sunday stroll.

  He’s not alone! she thought, straining to get a better look. For, just behind him, a woman was pushing a baby carriage. Yes, it was that blonde with the distinctive, long nose—the one called Marie-Thérèse—but now at last Ondine could see her from head to toe instead of just her face in the window.

  She was short, like Picasso, and full-figured in an athletic sort of way. She looked more Swedish or Germanic than French. And she had a blonde, cherub-faced infant in the pram, clearly her daughter.

  That must be Picasso’s baby! Ondine realized, fascinated. It was hard for her to imagine him as the father of an infant, when he seemed such a mischievous imp himself at times. And although the mama was dressed up in a fancy Sunday hat, she was licking an ice-cream cone like a schoolgirl, tilting her head in total concentration with a childlike expression of delight, while Picasso strutted ahead like a rooster.

  “That’s not his wife,” Monsieur Renard said in an unexpectedly harsh, disgusted tone.

  Ondine, feeling caught staring, blushed. “Who?” she asked innocently.

  “Over there. That man is a Spaniard. He’s been in town before, in the summertime. He’s friends with that noisy American crowd that started coming here in the twenties. His wife is a Russian lady of quality, dark-haired and fine. She always liked my millefeuille pastry.” Monsieur Renard clucked. “As for this affair, it’s disgraceful. It won’t last. Such dalliances never do. Who will marry this girl after he’s finished with her? I could never take up with a woman who’s had a child by another man,” he sniffed, turning the car around the corner.

  Ondine sat back as the little trio of figures grew smaller in the distance. It was somehow thrilling to finally get such a good look at Marie-Thérèse. She was not a great beauty nor a perfect goddess, just a normal, flesh-and-blood female—and, despite Renard’s verdict, she looked happy. Had she triumphed over Dora-the-lady-photographer? Or did they really agree to share Picasso? Perhaps his women had no choice but to do his bidding. The rules were apparently different high up on Mount Olympus, for any girl brave enough to come close to the gods. Just seeing him renewed her courage and made Ondine feel she could once again breathe in the salty air of possibility, and find freedom from stultifying propriety.

  What would the villagers in Juan-les-Pins say if they knew that Ondine herself had modelled for Picasso up at his studio? How it would shock Monsieur Renard! Ondine pondered this with some triumph. I never actually said “Yes” to Renard’s proposal, she consoled herself. So it doesn’t really count. But let him—and everyone else in town—think whatever they want, for now.

  And so Ondine merely feigned compliance, allowing Monsieur Renard to escort her back to the café to make his joyous announcement, confirming that she and he were betrothed. Her father opened a bottle of cognac infused with orange, and they all toasted the wedding. Then her parents set the date for September. Like a sleepwalker, Ondine went through all the motions of a bride-to-be. This was possible only because she’d convinced herself that somehow, this wedding would never actually happen.

  But she went to bed feeling frightened. She didn’t know how to exploit one’s connections with a powerful Patron. Marriage was the only future she’d been taught. Picasso conjured up many liberating ideas to her, yet he was not her idea of a good husband. She was not so foolish as to imagine that she could be his one true love. And being his mistress was clearly a perilous affair. He was more like an Arab with his harem, Ondine realized. How many other women did he keep back in Paris?

  No, there was only one man she could ever think of as a husband. Luc was a man of his word, she consoled herself. He would come back for her and carry her away from Juan-les-Pins, like a pirate!

  But, alone in her bedroom where she had lain in Luc’s arms as he murmured his promises to her, Ondine found herself struggling to remember the details of his gentle face, which were becoming alarmingly distant and blurry with each passing week.

  “Luc, where are you?” she whispered. Far into the silence of the night, Ondine lay awake, for the first time really wondering how she would survive without him.

  Ondine, a Girl at a Window

  IT WAS RAINING SOFTLY OUTSIDE Ondine’s window when she awoke at dawn to find a shadowy female figure standing over her like an angel.

  “Wake up, Ondine!” her mother whispered. “They’ve taken your father to the hospital. I’m going there now, so you will have to run the breakfast service today. Monsieur Renard has already delivered bread and brioche, so just make the coffee. Then for lunch, have the waiters serve cold terrines and salads. As for your artist’s lunch at the villa, you can make him a quiche.”

  “What’s the matter with Papa?” Ondine asked groggily, sitting up.

  “His heart again. He was working on the receipts and bills, but then he came into the kitchen looking peculiar, and he said, ‘Something is wrong—I can’t see the numbers…’ He collapsed right there on the kitchen floor. Monsieur Renard will drive me to the hospital. Listen, before you go up to the villa, you must pay the delivery boy when he comes with the eggs. Did you hear me, Ondine?”

  “Yes, yes,” Ondine said, awake and worried now. “Pay the boy. Where is the money for him?”

  “The fourth canister on the top shelf of the pantry,” her mother said hurriedly. “Get up. Now!”

  She swept out of the room, and Ondine heard her footsteps rapidly going down the staircase.

  The rest of the morning was a blur of breakfast service and lunch preparation. Word had already spread throughout the village that her parents were at the hospital, so the diners were prepared to be grateful for whatever they got to eat today. By the time Ondine had all the platters ready on the big kitchen table for the waiters to grab, the weather was not cooperating; it had grown so windy that they were once again going to have to close the terrace and serve lunch indoors instead.

  Ondine was packing up her supplies for Picasso when the delivery boy came with eggs and butter and cream from the farm. She went into the pantry and counted the fourth ceramic canister, which was labelled herbes but was instead filled with coins her mother squirreled away as petty cash. The fact that she’d revealed to Ondine where the money was hidden proved the seriousness of the situation. Ondine’s fingers shook as she opened it, and she dropped the canister’s cork top on the floor. Hurriedly she went to pay the boy, then she returned to the pantry to put the canister exactly as her mother kept it.

  When Ondine stooped to retrieve the cork top from where it had rolled under the shelves, she noticed a loose brick in the wall. She touched it, intending to push it back into place, but it fell out in her hand. There were several other loose bricks around it, and when she took them all out, she saw a deep, wide space, in which she discovered a bundle of white envelopes tied together with string. Ondine wondered just how much money her mother had been squirreling away for a rainy day. She could not resist drawing the bundle out to feel how weighty it was.

  But she was startled to see that the top envelope, which had been stamped and postmarked, was not addressed to her mother—the handwriting said Ondine. And, it had already been opened.

  “This letter was mailed to me!” Ondine ex
claimed, stunned. “What’s it doing here?” She untied the string carefully so that later she could put everything back as she’d found it.

  There were five letters, every single one for Ondine, each postmarked from a different exotic port of call. Tunis. Algiers. Morocco. On closer examination the handwriting was startlingly familiar.

  “Luc!” Ondine cried. She sank to the floor, allowing the letters to drop into her lap. She stared at them uncomprehendingly for several minutes before she picked up the one that had lain on top:

  My sweet Ondine,

  I have seen the most wonderful and terrible things that no postcard can do justice to, so I send you my thoughts instead. The world is a bigger place with a smaller heart than we ever imagined. A sailor’s life is not enriching me quickly enough to please your father. But don’t worry, I will work hard, and somehow I will find a way to make our fortune…

  Ondine had to keep blinking away her tears in order to continue reading. She reached blindly for another letter in hope of better news. It, too, had already been opened:

  Chère Ondine,

  I think of you every morning as the sun comes up. Each day I wonder—Is she ill? Is she still alive? Is she just angry with me for going away? Perhaps you feel guilty because you no longer want to wait for me? Or have you simply stopped loving me? Whatever you tell me will be all right. Only, please tell me. Love, Luc

  Her mind was whirling and her breath was coming out in short, hard gasps. “What’s he talking about?” she wondered, bewildered. “Why should he accuse me of not writing to him?” She seized the other letters, and all were entreaties for her to tell him that she was alive and well, and to explain her silence. All but the last one, which said:

  Darling Ondine,

  I am very sick with fever. They have called for a doctor. I will ask a friend to mail this letter. In case I never make it home, know that I love you forever. And please keep one small corner of your heart free for my poor soul to come to rest. Adieu, Luc

  “Luc!” she wailed in despair. She felt as if a fog had crept into the room, so thick that all sounds were muffled and she could barely make out her own voice when she whispered, “But I did write to him in care of his ship! Why didn’t he get my letters—?”

  A terrible thought crossed her mind, and she peered again into the slot in the wall, dreading what she’d find. Sure enough, farther in there was another similar packet—of her own letters to Luc. In utter disbelief, she seized them.

  “But I gave all these to the postman myself. I know I did!” Ondine cried, frantically sorting the unopened envelopes. Just seeing them again made her vividly recall how she’d felt writing these letters, her hopes progressively fading with each new attempt to contact Luc. And how, each time she wrote another one and handed it to the postman, he’d glanced at it, seen that it was addressed to Luc, and shaken his head as if he thought her very silly indeed.

  The answer came to her swiftly. “I gave them to the postman, but he must have been told not to mail them—to bring them to Papa instead. My letters never got past our café.”

  And all this time her parents had insisted that Luc abandoned her, while his letters—and her own—lay languishing just a few feet away from the kitchen table where Ondine worked every day. Her mother had hidden them here like a guilty secret; perhaps she thought she’d explain it to Ondine one day. Her father must have intended her to marry Monsieur Renard all along; the baker might not go into partnership with her family unless he got a young wife to work for him as part of the bargain. That must be why her father had turned Luc away. In an awful way, it was all starting to add up.

  The tears that had been streaming down her cheeks had finally stopped; and now her wet face made her feel chilled.

  “But how could they do this to me?” Ondine gasped, shocked. “And how could they be so cruel to poor Luc? He was so honest and trusting, obeying their command with his entire life!”

  At first she sought to find a more humane explanation. Maybe her parents truly believed that they were protecting her from a ne’er-do-well, who, no matter how much money he earned, could never measure up to a man with such standing in the community as Renard. Perhaps if Ondine’s brothers had survived the Great War and returned to take care of the business, things might have been easier for her; as it was, Ondine was her parents’ only hope to obtain more financing and security. One thing was certain; they absolutely didn’t want Luc around.

  But now Ondine felt as if her heart were being gripped by a cold hand. She checked the envelopes again; yes, Luc’s letters had stopped three months ago. There had been nothing since then. Either he’d recovered and found another girl to marry…or something much worse had happened.

  “Murderers,” she cried. “All of us. We all killed Luc, because we made him go away from everything he loved here. And for what? If we hadn’t interfered, he’d be alive, as he deserves to be! Luc and I would have been married by now, maybe even have a baby, and a happy life together. But now it will never happen!” She clapped a hand to her mouth, having finally said aloud the very words she’d tried so hard, all this time, to not even think about.

  Reality was burning away the fog of shock, and she saw her whole life under this sharp new lens. Instinctively she felt that no one must know she’d found these letters. Her parents might come down hard on her, even restrict her from leaving the house just to ensure that she got to the altar. She put the letters back exactly as they’d been. Trembling, she struggled to her feet and returned to the kitchen.

  While Ondine was packing up Picasso’s lunch, Dr. Charlot arrived to dine with his fellow Wise Men, and he had a reassuring message for Ondine. “Your father gave us all quite a scare! But I believe he’s out of danger now. Your mother will stay with him at the hospital awhile longer, but she wanted me to tell you she’ll be back here in time to run the dinner service. Don’t worry, my dear, he’s going to be all right.” He smiled and patted her shoulder before he returned to his table. Ondine nodded mutely.

  But she was seized with a wild urge to break something, to stab someone, to throw herself off a cliff, to do damage to something, anyone—just to exorcise this suffocating pain from her chest. She’d once seen a madwoman who tore her own hair and clothes. Now Ondine thought she understood why.

  She carried her hamper outside, climbed aboard her bicycle and pedaled furiously, flashing past the harbor, scarcely noticing that the wind was making the sea kick up angrily with choppy waves, and the sky was filled with heavy, lowering dark clouds like ominous battleships—grey, ponderous, threatening.

  When she reached the driveway of Picasso’s villa, the entire sky had gone as black as night, but it was no match for her own savage mood. She saw that there was only one lighted window in the house, upstairs in his workroom. She found the kitchen door unlocked as usual. She put the hamper on the table, went to the foot of the stairs and listened. All she could hear was the low rumble of distant thunder coming in from the sea, slowly moving closer, sounding like a growling beast prowling across the sky.

  Ondine did not want to set the table. She did not want to cook. She didn’t want to serve anyone. She only wanted to scream at the top of her lungs and wake up the dead, shout to anyone who would listen, tell them about the grave injustice that had been done to her and Luc.

  Silently she drifted up the staircase and glided like a ghost along the hallway to Picasso’s workroom. She had an idea that only he could help her now.

  He was not there, but tall, metallic lamps stood like giants, still turned on, burning brightly. They appeared to be the professional lighting that photographers used. The lamps had been on so long that they gave off a threatening smell of overheated metal.

  “He must have worked all night,” Ondine realized. “He’ll burn the whole place down.” She began turning off each one, careful not to touch the hot aluminum shades.

  Down the street, the thunder crept steadily closer, rumbling in derision, as if the devil himself were laughing at her. Ondin
e turned off the last lamp; but a moment later, a sudden, blinding flash of lightning made every window in the room seem filled with fire, illuminating two paintings that were propped up in the corner where she was standing.

  “That’s my pose! God, look what he did to me!” Ondine exclaimed, gazing at the first canvas, recognizing her blue checked dress and long curly dark hair. But it was like peering into a fun-house mirror. Both eyes were stuck on one side of her face, which was attached to a long goosey neck, which in turn seemed attached at the throat to two breasts shaped like oranges that were popping out of her unbuttoned dress. Meanwhile her hands looked like claws, and her feet were like flippers. And why were her toenails and fingernails black? She didn’t even wear polish!

  Yet here was Femme à la montre—she knew it because of the mirror, the comb and wristwatch, and the crown of yellow forsythia in her hair. Aghast, she turned to look at the second painting.

  “Me again. But it’s no better!” she said in dismay. Same pose with her blue dress and a mirror—but the yellow flowers and the wristwatch were gone, and now there was a second figure sitting on the floor who looked like a faceless wire mannequin with the same curly hair as Ondine’s.

  Everything was a joke to him! He’d called her a goddess, a Greek statue. Yet how people would laugh at her if they knew she’d sat here posing for this, without any pay, without any thanks, hoping that Picasso would guide her to a better life.

  “So he sees me as an ugly, foolish creature. Well, my life is a joke,” she said bitterly. “I’m to be sacrificed like a lamb to Monsieur Renard. They might as well roast me in one of his ovens! No, I won’t go to church and marry the baker! I won’t be his slave. They killed Luc—but they won’t own me.”