Cooking for Picasso

by Camille Aubray

  Watching them go, Ondine had a queer feeling; and sure enough, when Julie and Arthur returned to the café later that night, Arthur dramatically announced that Julie had agreed to become his wife. Beaming, Julie held out her left hand, so everyone could admire the sizeable diamond ring there.

  The staff and diners applauded—even tightfisted Monsieur Renard poured champagne to toast Julie and her fiancé. Ondine couldn’t believe how foolishly sentimental Renard was, knowing how she felt. Perhaps it was a displaced fatherly urge; and, he seemed intimidated by this aggressive American.

  Arthur was a sly one, she thought, announcing his proposal so publicly, just to make it difficult for Ondine to object without humiliating Julie in front of everyone she knew. He wouldn’t dare use this tactic if Luc were alive. Well, he’ll marry Julie over my dead body! she decided.

  When Arthur finally left, and Julie climbed the stairs to the bedroom she shared with her mother, Ondine said firmly, “Julie. This egoist is not the man for you.”

  Fearful that her mother would put a stop to it, Julie shrieked, “You don’t know him as I do!”

  For Arthur had confided many things to her. He’d confessed that he was not such a popular man with the ladies back home; his first wife, he felt sure, had been more interested in his money and success than in making him happy. “People can be rotten,” he’d said, adding that he’d “just about given up hope” until he met Julie. And when he proposed to her, he’d actually had tears in his eyes.

  He’d taken her hand and held it against his cheek, adding in all sincerity, “You’re the sweetest human being I’ve ever met, and I’ll raise heaven and earth to make sure you live the good life, because you deserve so much more than this life you’ve had.”

  It had been such a personal moment that Julie couldn’t explain it to her mother. And Ondine, although she knew that this was a troubled man, also sensed that there might be something genuine between her daughter and Arthur. So now Ondine asked, “How is he when you are alone? Does he ever ask what you want? Is he gentle? Has he said you’re beautiful, and that he loves you, ma chérie?”

  Julie was momentarily thrown by her mother’s prescience, for although Arthur had been affectionate, holding hands, smiling at her indulgently, eager to see her again, she could not honestly quote him saying anything about love. Surely he had, once? But some men didn’t like to have to say the actual word. Then she thought she understood what her mother really wanted to know.

  “Oh, don’t worry, he only kissed me. Nothing more.” Julie gaily waved her sparkling engagement ring. “He wouldn’t ask to marry me if he didn’t love me! Arthur is just like Papa Luc, only richer,” she boasted. “He says no wife of his will ever have to work!”

  Ondine said carefully, “I’m glad he’s good with money. But a woman should earn and handle money, too. If you rely entirely on him, you will be forever at his mercy. Even when a husband is loving, you don’t want him to know that he has so much power over you. Not that much.”

  But Julie felt only a strange thrill at the idea of total surrender to a husband. After all, that was what all the movies and fairy tales and operas said love was all about. Like throwing yourself off a cliff, trusting that the sea below would catch you—and ready to die if it didn’t.

  —

  THAT NIGHT, AS Ondine lay awake listening to her slumbering daughter’s measured breathing, she suddenly knew what she must do. She crept out of bed to retrieve her portrait from the wardrobe drawer, and tiptoed into the kitchen to lay it on the table.

  “Maybe it was a mistake to hold on to my Picasso! If I’d sold it, we could have moved away from Juan-les-Pins and sent Julie to university. Then she’d never have met this awful man,” Ondine fretted. “Well, I could still sell it and use the money to travel with Julie, so she’ll meet someone better.”

  Guiltily she thought of what Picasso said about never selling a gift. But why should he care if she sold one painting? He had so many more than he could count, sitting up there like a king in his castle.

  “It’s easy for Picasso to talk about not selling it—when was the last time he had to work for peanuts to keep from starving? He’s forgotten how hard it can be,” Ondine reasoned. “I wonder how much it’s worth,” she mused, staring at her Girl-at-a-Window. “But what if Picasso told all the dealers that this painting is stolen goods? If I try to sell it, they’ll catch me and put me in jail!” Well, that was a chance she’d just have to take. She recalled that the elderly lawyer she’d cooked for in Vallauris had a nephew who’d just recently opened an art gallery in Antibes. “I’ll get him to appraise it for me tomorrow,” she decided, wrapping it in brown paper and string, and replacing it in the armoire.

  She rose early the next morning to do all her cooking for the café, so she could leave Julie in charge of the breakfast and lunch service. Then, under the pretext of going to the market, Ondine slipped out while everyone at the café was too busy to notice the package under her arm. She paid for a taxi to carry her precious cargo to the gallery.

  “Picasso?” said Pierre, the dealer, who had the face of a cherub. Carefully but doubtfully he examined the painting. Then he called out to his assistant. “André! Come take a look at this, will you?”

  His assistant was finishing up with another client, and presently he joined them. “Look here, and tell me what you see,” Pierre commanded. Ondine stood by, holding her breath. What was wrong?

  André peered at the painting. “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Who painted it?” Pierre demanded.

  André frowned. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It hasn’t been signed by the painter.”

  Ondine had never noticed this. But now that she was looking closely, she saw that Picasso had not put a date on it, either, as he often did in those distinctive Roman numerals.

  “Well, who do you think painted it?” Pierre persisted. André shrugged, and named a few artists that Ondine had never heard of. “You left out Picasso,” Pierre said.

  André shook his head. “No, not at all,” he said firmly.

  “Thank you, André,” Pierre said. André nodded and went into the back room.

  “You see?” Pierre said in a low voice. “It’s just as I thought. It’s beautiful but it’s not what people think of as a Picasso. Who told you it was his work? I’d be careful about making such a claim!”

  “I was his model!” Ondine exclaimed indignantly. “I cooked for him and he made it as a gift.”

  Pierre looked from Ondine to the painting, considering this possibility. “Did he give you a letter or a receipt of some sort?” he asked hopefully. Ondine shook her head. He shrugged. “Without his signature, I can’t really sell it. Picasso surely knows that.”

  Ondine gasped. Had Picasso outfoxed her somehow? Were the gods punishing her for taking it? “But—there must be someone who’d like to buy it!” she protested.

  Pierre warned, “People will question its authenticity, just as I did. So you’d better go back and ask him to sign it. But I warn you,” he added in a low voice, “Picasso can be very touchy. I heard of a woman who asked him to sign an older work, and he said he wouldn’t put today’s signature on a painting he’d done twenty years ago. Another time with another request, he signed it, all right—he painted his name all over it so many times that he effectively defaced it and ruined it!”

  Ondine declared, “He wouldn’t do such a thing to this painting.” But her heart was hammering with guilt now. Heaven knew what Picasso would do with a thief like Ondine, especially if she were audacious enough to ask him to sign it.

  “Picasso might even say this painting was never ‘finished’,” Pierre went on. “Or, he could say it was an inferior work, not up to his usual standards and that was why he didn’t sign it, because he intended to destroy it. He’s a powerful man, and nobody in the art world wants to displease the great Picasso. If he should ‘disown’ your picture in this way, well…” Pierre’s voice trailed off.

  “What then?�
�� Ondine asked in dread.

  “The painting would surely lose its market value,” Pierre said formally. “I’m so sorry, Madame.”

  Céline and Gil in Monaco, 2014

  “PICASSO!” GIL EXCLAIMED AS WE drove along the highway to Monaco in the white minivan from the mas, since we couldn’t very well take a painting on a motorcycle, and I’d already returned my rental car. “That’s who your grandmother cooked for?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out Grandma Ondine’s notebook. I opened it up to the flyleaf and showed him. “See? P for Picasso. Every single recipe in this book was for him.”

  “Incredible,” Gil said, stunned. “No wonder she kept that notebook all her life.”

  “Mom said Picasso gave Grandma one of his paintings as a gift. So I’m telling you, she must have kept that all her life, too,” I insisted. “I don’t believe she sold it. She just didn’t want my father to find it, because it would be worth a lot of money. I think she went to great pains to hide it.”

  Gil absorbed this in awe. “And you really think you’ve tracked it down?”

  “Right,” I said, showing him the photo of Grandma Ondine in front of the blue cupboard.

  But I was glad that the heavy, unpredictable traffic distracted Gil, because I didn’t want to tell him that it was a fortune-teller who gave me the “hot tip” that put me on this trail.

  When we reached the bustling city of Monte Carlo, Gil drove right past the casino, past the fancy Hôtel de Paris, past the pricey, blingy shops and the deceptively plain-looking buildings that housed some of the world’s most expensive apartments. Toward the outskirts of town he steered past a heliport, and beyond that, a very large, unassuming structure that looked like a gigantic warehouse. When he pulled into the parking lot behind it, I glanced up at him questioningly.

  “What’s this?” I asked. “A private airplane hangar?”

  “Hardly,” he said. “You are looking at one of the most exclusive storage facilities in the world. Inside those walls are priceless everythings: artwork—antique furniture—rare jewels—prized Persian carpets—multimillion-dollar vintage wine collections—ancient sculptures—elephant ivory—and God knows what else.”

  “Are you serious?” I said. “In a garage?”

  “This ‘garage’ is a state-of-the-art fortress,” Gil said as he shut off the motor. “Every vault is climate-controlled and big enough to hold whatever you fancy. Yet each vault can, if necessary, be put on a giant freight elevator and moved down to the showroom level, where there are special meeting rooms for you to privately exhibit whatever items you wish to sell to the select buyers you invite here. Or, you can just come here on your own, sit there in your box and stare at your haul,” he added as we got out and approached the building.

  “Looks pretty drab and nondescript,” I observed.

  “Discretion, my dear,” Gil said with a knowing look. “So nobody knows the extraordinary value of what’s inside. A collector can quietly show up and pack his treasures quickly to move them to, say, a similar vault in Switzerland, South Africa or Dubai.”

  I finally caught on. “Sounds like some of the clientele got their collectibles in questionable ways? Looting an archeological site, taking artwork the Nazis stole—or buying it off the back of a truck?”

  “Quiet, the guards will hear you,” Gil warned. “Act as though you belong here. Just leave this to me, okay?”

  As we approached the front doors they automatically opened, and as soon as we stepped into a foyer they instantly closed behind us with an aggressive whoosh. Three burly security guards stood at the ready. Gil signed in at the reception desk, where a fourth man kept watch. The foyer was as cool as a wine cellar, but it had the scent of money the way banks do. It was all steel, chrome and glass.

  Across from the reception desk were two elevators. One door was very narrow. The other was very wide. Gil chose the narrow one and we stepped in.

  “Tight squeeze,” I commented. “What was wrong with the bigger elevator?”

  “Freight elevator,” Gil said out of the side of his mouth.

  “How come you didn’t have to tell them where you’re going?” I asked.

  “They have my information on their computer. They know,” Gil said, still sotto voce.

  “Hey, there aren’t any buttons for the floor numbers in here,” I said, feeling slightly panicked.

  “Front desk. Remote control,” Gil said shortly.

  Silently I counted the floors as we rose past them. One, two, three, four. Then, rather eerily, the elevator stopped of its own accord and opened onto another reception area with low lighting. This was more glamorous than downstairs. It looked like the lobby of a very posh auction house, with plush red leather chairs, golden glass-topped tables, and expensive carpeting.

  “This way, please.” A woman in a severe black pantsuit, with her pale brown hair pulled back into a tightly braided ponytail, appeared out of nowhere and seemed to know exactly where to lead us. She walked ramrod-straight with both hands held rigidly behind her at the small of her back, and with her elbows out, military-style. I suppressed a mad desire to giggle.

  We followed her noiselessly down the carpeted corridor. More security guards floated past us, wearing visible guns in leather holsters. I waggled my eyebrows at Gil. Occasionally other collectors and their clients wafted down the corridor, so light-footed and silent as they vanished beyond the doors of their own vaults that they seemed more like ghosts who’d melted right into the walls.

  Our escort stopped suddenly in front of a door marked with three brass numbers. Just then the walkie-talkie in her jacket coughed the way police radios do, and she stepped away to murmur into it.

  Gil moved up to our vault’s entrance where, instead of a doorknob, there was a keypad on which to enter a security code. He punched in some numbers. The keypad’s light flashed red in response.

  “Shit,” Gil whispered. “Rick must have changed the code, dammit.”

  I noticed that our ponytailed guide was now standing with two security guards who’d wandered over to her. The three of them were conferring in hushed tones. Were they discussing us? Had someone downstairs alerted them?

  Desperately I turned to Gil and hissed, “Well, you’d better figure out what the new code is, before Brunhilde over there has us arrested.”

  “It was the last four digits of his phone—the one he keeps in his car,” Gil said, trying again in case he’d punched it in wrong. The light flashed red once more. I thought of the day Rick gave me a ride in his fancy car.

  “His phone,” I repeated. “The one with the diamond and emerald horseshoe on it?”

  “Haven’t seen that model,” Gil said. “Maybe he upgraded when his racehorse won the Derby. He was ecstatic and he still won’t stop talking about it.”

  “What was the name of the horse?” I suggested.

  “Fancy-Dancer,” Gil said. “Too many letters for this code box.”

  “What was the date that he won the Derby?” I prodded.

  Gil looked skyward, trying to remember. I nudged him to hurry as one of the guards approached us. Gil drew in his breath and punched new numbers.

  The keypad absorbed this information thoughtfully.

  Then, just as Brunhilde moved toward us, the keypad’s little light turned green.

  A second later, the door to the vault quietly slid open on its tracks.

  Céline and Gil in Monte Carlo

  “WOW. RICK’S GOT A LOT of stuff stashed away in here,” I whispered to Gil, feeling worried.

  “But all we’re looking for is a blue cupboard, right?” Gil replied as we searched for Grandma’s furniture that he’d sent here from the mas. I followed him past Rick’s enormous, mysterious crates marked Africa Safari and Ming, China and Grand Hotel auction, Sweden. There were also polo mallets and antique horse saddles, and a hand-carved ivory chess set sealed in a glass box.

  “Here!” Gil said triumphantly, pointing to a more mode
st cluster of brightly painted, Provençal furniture: a red rocking chair, a yellow chest of drawers, a blue-and-white dining table surrounded by a set of six white dining chairs with bright blue tufted cushions.

  “This is definitely the stuff that came from the mas when I bought it,” he said positively. “Rick and I just threw ’em into the van and he carted it off here. I remember this box of pots and pans.”

  I wandered behind the yellow chest of drawers. “Look!” I exclaimed, having landed face-to-face with the blue cupboard. “It’s identical to the one in the photo of Grandma,” I said, getting excited now.

  “Okay, great. Check it out. Better hurry,” Gil warned.

  I studied the cupboard carefully. I knocked on its door with the funny wooden knob before I opened it up. Then I checked out the interior with its four shelves, and searched for hidden drawers or compartments. I tapped its walls to see if a painting could have been sealed up in there, or sequestered in a false bottom. Nothing. No sign even that it had ever belonged to Grandmother Ondine. It was just a nice, country-style oak cupboard painted a bright blue.

  “It’s empty,” Gil said, feeling it necessary to state the obvious. “You sure it isn’t in some other piece of furniture?”

  I was sure of nothing now, except that if I could ever get my hands on Madame Sylvie again I’d cheerfully wring her neck for giving me false hope with this fool’s errand.

  “I guess we’d better check them all,” I said, feeling gloomy now.

  Gil obligingly helped me ransack the other furnishings that had been trucked over here from the mas. We had to work quickly, but it was soon obvious that there was absolutely no Picasso hidden in their midst. I dusted off my hands, unable to look Gil in the eye after having completely misled him with false hopes. But he was busy sorting through boxes of copper pots and pans and other cookware that he’d gotten with the mas. He now put all the things he thought he could use in one box.