Cooking for Picasso

by Camille Aubray

  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!”

  Céline at the Mas, 2014

  ON TUESDAY 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 b
een 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.”

  Reunion: Ondine and Julie in Mougins, Summer 1983

  ON THE MORNING THAT JULIE was finally coming home to France for a visit, Ondine awoke early in her bedroom in Mougins feeling oddly apprehensive.

  After all these many years, she’d just had a dream about Picasso. His ghost was right here at the mas, wandering into her kitchen, looking hungry and alert, yet wearing only a long nightshirt, and barefooted, which she found disturbing. And when he spoke to her, his voice was oddly thin.

  “Where is my painting, Ondine?” he asked, looking bewildered. “Did you put it in a safe place? There are lots of thieves around the Riviera, you know.”

  She awakened with the strong feeling of Picasso’s physical presence in her house. But that was impossible, for he’d died ten years ago. She’d been startled and sorry when she heard it on the radio; somehow she thought he’d go on living and painting forever like Zeus on his mountaintop, unseen but very much alive. Predictably his art was now fetching prices that were sailing into the stratosphere.

  Yet in all this time Ondine could not bring herself to show her portrait to anyone. She’d kept it under wraps at the café, until Monsieur Renard died, and then she moved all her possessions to set up house here at the mas—on doctor’s orders, because he would not permit Ondine to continue living above the café and climbing those stairs to the bedroom every night.

  “It’s your heart,” the doctor said. “You must learn to listen to it. You’ve had a small attack already.”

  Ever since then, the Picasso portrait was Ondine’s secret companion, propped up atop a chest of drawers in her bedroom. She’d never had it framed; Picasso once told her that nothing kills a painting like a frame. Nobody was permitted to come into this room, so no one else knew it was here.

  Today, as she snapped on her light and peered across her bedroom, she was relieved to see that, despite the warning in her dream from Picasso’s ghost, the painting was still here. These days, at sixty-four years old, she preferred waking to this image of her younger self, full of confidence and hope and flush with love, rather than peering into a mirror and scrutinizing her face for further evidence of age.

  Ondine reached for her cane, got out of bed and dressed carefully. She went into the kitchen and drank her coffee standing up while making plans for the day. There was so much to do, now that Julie was at last coming home!

  “I must make it clear to her that I am no longer angry,” Ondine reminded herself. She had been resentful at first; in all these years since Julie and Arthur eloped they hadn’t once returned to France, nor even invited Ondine to visit them in America. All she got were the annual Christmas cards they sent everyone else—professionally printed with a proud family photograph showing the twins’ progress.

  Ondine kept all her photos in an album in her bedside table. Strangely, Luc’s image from so many years ago seemed more alive than Julie’s most recent Christmas photo. Year after year, standing amidst the aggressive-looking Arthur and his children, whom Ondine had never met, poor Julie seemed to be fading away, growing more pale and ghostly, her mouth forced into a smile for the camera while her unfocused eyes gazed off in the distance, appearing all the more sad to anyone who cared to notice.

  “A well-loved woman doesn’t look like that,” Ondine fretted each time she saw another photo. She was not the kind of mother who felt smug about accurately predicting an unhappy marriage; on the contrary, she heartily wished she’d been wrong about Arthur.

  Then came the joyous news that Julie was pregnant. And, just as gratifying, Julie longed to be near her mother, and wrote that she was accompanying Arthur on his business convention in Cannes, so they would finally come to visit.

  When Ondine got the letter she surprised herself by bursting into tears.

  “I’m going to get my daughter back! And, soon I’ll be a grandmother,” she boasted to the ladies in the market and at church, who’d always patronizingly pitied Ondine for not having any family in town, nor any grandchildren.

  This morning she hummed to herself as she prepared for her visitors. But, busy as she was, she paused to telephone that nice young Madame Sylvie, who was so gifted at reading one’s fortune, and had become such a considerate, dear friend.

  “You’ve got to come and tell me what you see,” Ondine said excitedly. “My daughter arrives today with that husband of hers. I need to know what will come of this.”

  “I can’t do it this morning,” Madame Sylvie said pragmatically. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

  “No, this can’t wait,” Ondine insisted. “Julie will be so anxious to hear what you think about the future.”

  “She’s going to have a healthy girl,” Madame Sylvie said patiently. “I told you that last week!”

  “Yes, of course,” Ondine replied, “but, there’s something else on my mind. I’ve had a dream. I saw Picasso. You know I cooked for him. He was warning me to protect a treasure he gave me.”

  “Ah! Well, perhaps I’ll manage to stop by this afternoon, then,” Madame Sylvie conceded, sounding curious now.

  When Ondine got off the telephone she felt better. She’d hired a new chef at the café who was eager to please her, so she’d instructed him to prepare a nice feast tonight for Julie and Arthur, and send it up to the mas with a waiter to serve.

  “The sun is bright today, yet the weather might be too windy to dine on the terrace up here,” Ondine mused. “We may have to eat indoors, but that will be all right.”

  She’d created separate cooking, dining and sitting areas in the spacious farmhouse kitchen, all elegantly decorated with Provençal ceramics and fresh flowers from her own gardens; and upon the yellow walls she’d hung paintings done by local artists who’d assembled here at the mas one autumn for a retreat she sponsored. They had wandered the fields and orchards, painting landscapes of the many lovely views. And like their Riviera forebears, they’d paid for their dinner by giving the proprietor some pictures.

  “It feels like a real home, even t
hough it’s just me living here,” Ondine observed, glancing around approvingly.

  Within a few hours she heard a knock at the door, and when she opened it, there was little Julie, already looking much happier than her photos, her modest face lit with an unusual expression of joy, as if a candle glowed from within her. She stood there shyly, almost tentatively, touchingly uncertain of whether she’d be truly welcomed by the mother she’d abandoned so many years ago.

  She forgets that I, too, ran away from home when I was a girl, Ondine thought, amused. She opened her arms wide with a cry of “Bienvenue, chère fille!”

  “Dear sweet Maman!” Julie cried, rushing to hug her. Arthur waited politely, looking grudgingly relieved that his wife was happy. Ondine quickly invited them both inside, surprised by how very pregnant Julie looked. Ondine had lost track of the months.

  “This is my miracle baby!” Julie declared, her eyes bright with joyful tears.

  Ondine took them to the terrace so they could assess whether to dine indoors or out. For awhile, mother and daughter sat companionably on the chaises longues, chatting animatedly. Ondine had decided to be gracious and welcoming to Arthur, but this only seemed to make him wary. He remained standing at the edge of the terrace with his hands in his pockets, jingling his loose coins and hardly seeming to notice the impressive property. It was clear that he had not wished to take this detour from Cannes, and now he roamed restlessly around the terrace as if plotting his escape.

  He knows I detest him, as he does me, Ondine thought ruefully. I guess it can’t be helped.

  When prompted by Julie to participate in their conversation about France, Arthur announced rather belligerently that he thought the French were politically ungrateful to America. Julie shushed him and he sulked, finally sitting in a chair to bury his nose in an English financial newspaper he’d brought.

  I should have invited my young lawyer, Gerard Clément, so Arthur would have a man to talk to, Ondine realized. Aloud she told Julie, “Madame Sylvie says your baby will definitely be a girl!”