Cooking for Picasso

by Camille Aubray

  “Oh, yes, I put the painting in the dumbwaiter! All because of Arthur. What a poor little fool Julie was to marry that man!” she exclaimed. “He’s not satisfied unless he can control everything he touches. Well, at least Arthur never laid his greedy eyes on my Picasso. And, by God, he never will!”

  It was too bad that Ondine had not regained an opportunity to speak to Julie alone, as she’d hoped she might do after dinner. But, alors! The baby Céline had insisted on interrupting them to be born.

  But perhaps that, too, was an omen, she mused. She’d already set up enough money in trust for Julie financially. She didn’t need the painting for a dowry anymore. It was Céline’s turn to have her dowry. Did girls even have dowries these days? Well, this grand-daughter would!

  Ondine went into the kitchen to retrieve her portrait from its hiding place. She pressed the button, but the dumbwaiter, like a stubborn beast, refused to budge, only making an alarming electronic groan before the motor died out completely. Ondine peered down the shaft.

  “How annoying that I can’t go downstairs and get that painting myself!” she said, exasperated. “Well, I’ll just tell Clément about it tomorrow, and ask him to go and retrieve it for me.”

  She had never shown Clément the Picasso, nor even told him about it, chiefly because Ondine didn’t want her lover to see how much younger her face looked in that portrait.

  “Ah, I can’t be so vain any longer,” she decided. She’d get him to draw up the proper legal papers so everybody would understand that Picasso’s Girl-at-a-Window belonged to Céline. Clément was an honest, discreet fellow; he would do whatever she asked.

  Thinking of the eager young man who loved to please her, Ondine smiled again.

  She felt much better now, having resolved this weighty issue in her mind. When she glanced up, she saw her face mirrored in a window. Drawing nearer she thought stoutly that, while young faces were nice, even at their best there was something a little blank about them because they were only halfway-there to becoming themselves.

  Somehow today, for once, Ondine was able to assess her reflection with enough detachment so that she could indeed see something worth capturing—not merely to illuminate who she was, but to express so much about life itself in all its bittersweetness. “Imagine what a portrait of me would look like now! But how would Picasso see it?” Contemplating this, she concluded sagely, “Women should paint. The human face is far too important to leave solely to the eyes of men!”

  She gathered her basket and gloves, but then another thought occurred to her that made her pause. A good organizer, after all, knows when there is still a loose thread somewhere in the tapestry.

  Céline in America, 2014

  MY FLIGHT WAS HALFWAY ACROSS the Atlantic Ocean when I overheard two women in a row behind me, high on champagne, having an animated conversation about what a bad idea it was to trust men.

  “You did what?” one of them asked the other incredulously. “You let him manage your finances before the wedding? So what if he’s a hedge fund genius? Don’t ever give a guy control of your money! Okay, don’t cry. My brother’s a lawyer. He’ll help you.”

  I closed my eyes, willing them to shut up. But their loud chatter continued unabated, making it clear that a boyfriend had run off with his fiancée’s money and his secretary, and the gullible woman here on the plane was left with some terrible financial “exposure” to his shady dealings.

  Thanks to those chatterboxes I suddenly imagined how horrified Sam, my lawyer, would be if he learned that the minute I got my hands on a Picasso I turned it over to a man I hardly knew. I’d left Mougins in such a blur. Aunt Matilda helped me pack my bags; then she wisely took Martin away for a two-day visit to one of Gil’s friends in Cannes, so Gil could deal with the painting—and his loan shark.

  Just leave it to me, Gil had said. But now, I pictured him running off with my painting, making a quick, dirty deal with his art-collector friend, pocketing the change, paying off his loan shark, and never looking back. I had no proof of ownership. I wouldn’t be able to do a thing. I recalled the night at the restaurant when the tipsy lady-in-red—the one he’d had an affair with—said, Once he gets his chef’s fingers on your money, well, honey, he’s gone, baby, gone…

  “Oh, God,” I said now. Well, I had no choice but to hope for the best. I determinedly tore open a packet from the airline containing an eyeshade and slipper-socks, and earplugs that I quickly stuck in my ears. I drank the glass of wine the stewardess offered, hoping that it would blot out my fears about my mother, too. I put my seat back, pulled up my blanket and shut my eyes.

  When I arrived in the States I needed to change planes in New York, with an hour’s layover, which was bad enough, but then came the news that my flight to Nevada was delayed because of “a weather event”. I sat in a café in the terminal anxiously fiddling with my phone, firing off messages to Gil asking for an update on the sale of the painting, but I got absolutely no response from him.

  At last I boarded my flight to Nevada, only to have the plane sit on the tarmac in an interminable queue of delayed flights. The final straw was when the airline announced that our plane was experiencing mechanical problems and we would have to disembark and wait for another flight.

  The airline personnel were sympathetic when I told them my mother was seriously ill, and they tried mightily to find me a quicker alternative, allowing me to wait in a private lounge normally reserved for VIPs. All this time I continued sending messages to Gil, spilling my woes about being unable to get to Nevada. I even checked my bank account, but found that no money had been wired to it yet even though Gil had asked for the number before I left. Not a single word from him.

  At this point I started muttering to myself. “Nice going, Céline. You have never trusted a man with your life and your money before, so what do you do? You pick this time to take up with some crazy chef, and after one sexual encounter, you just hand him your Grandma’s long-lost Picasso. Terrific.”

  Meanwhile, my mother was all alone in Nevada with those jackals. I was dissolving into tears of frustration in a public place, when out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall, purposeful figure come loping across the lounge, aggressively cutting through the crowd. He was wearing a hat and sunglasses.

  “Céline? Come with me,” Gil said authoritatively, and he picked up my carry-on bag.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasped. Then I found myself saying, “Where’s the painting?”

  “With my lawyer,” Gil answered. “He’s holding it in his safe, pending the sale. As soon as you left I knew I had to come after you. Matilda had already told me in no uncertain terms to go help you! But first, I did as promised—I got hold of my friend Paul. He jumped at it! He made an offer, and if you are okay with it, my lawyer will handle the sale, and Paul will wire the money to us. But right now, let’s get you on a plane.”

  “There is no flight,” I said sourly. “Didn’t you read any of my messages?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve had quite a few fucking balls in the air to juggle! Follow me,” Gil said briskly, steering me through a discreet airport corridor reserved for political and celebrity clientele.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. He was walking so fast that I could hardly keep up.

  “I told Paul that you would be the one to accept or reject his offer, so when I mentioned that you needed to get to your mum, he didn’t mind sweetening the pot by putting his private jet at my disposal, so I could get here fast, and then fly you to Nevada,” Gil explained with a sly grin, as the airport personnel nodded deferentially to us and stepped aside to let us through.

  And that’s how I ended up on a billionaire’s airplane. I kept staring at Gil in disbelief as we stretched out on the cushy black-leather seats that were more like sofa-beds. Our plane was cleared for takeoff, and a short while later we were airborne.

  “Paul’s standing by on his yacht in St. Tropez, waiting to hear your answer,” Gil announced, looking enormously satisfied with the
results of all his efforts.

  Still breathless from rushing across the terminal, I couldn’t help but ask, “So. How much?”

  “Well, keep in mind that this painting is not well known, hasn’t been verified as a genuine Picasso, nor have you presented proof of ownership along with the painting’s provenance,” he cautioned. “Paul wants an expert he often uses to look it over, so we’ve got him on standby, too.”

  “That painting is real, all right,” I said, feeling feisty now.

  “Yes, but even so, remember that Paul’s taking a big risk believing that your grandmother—and you—are the true owners.”

  “Yeah, yeah. How much?” I repeated.

  “Fifty-five million,” Gil said calmly.

  “Dollars?” I squeaked idiotically.

  Gil nodded. “He wants his pre-empt to be high enough so you don’t take it to auction,” he explained. “Plus, I got him to agree that if you sell it to him, he’ll let you come visit the painting once in awhile. I also told him you wanted the Girl-at-a-Window to ultimately end up in a place where everyone has a chance to see it. He seemed to understand that. Said he’d arrange right now for the painting to be bequeathed to a public museum upon his death. He’s eccentric, but he’s honorable.”

  For awhile we said absolutely nothing. Finally Gil said gently, “It’s your decision, Céline. I figure we’ve got a couple hours of keeping Paul on the string, but frankly he’s met all our demands, so I wouldn’t give him too much time to reconsider this deal. He’s a shark, and sharks move on.”

  For the first time, the whole thing was real to me; and I let myself feel the pang of regret that I seemed to be losing my Grandmother Ondine almost as soon as I’d found her.

  Gil was saying, “If you decide to sell, I’d like my lawyer to handle it today so he can pay off my loan and get Gus to call off his dogs. As it was, those meatheads were hanging around the mas again—I literally had to sneak out in the laundry truck to board this jet. Still, as I said, you can take all the time in the world, and even put it up for auction, if you want to. I’ll stand behind whatever you decide.”

  I thought of Grandma’s mas in peril of those thugs and Rick; and my mother in the hospital, waiting for me. I took a deep breath. Then I said firmly, “Sell!”

  —

  WHEN WE LANDED in Nevada, the town car that Gil had hired was already waiting for us. It took us straight to the hospital, and the driver would continue to wait for us there.

  “Where’s your lawyer?” Gil asked worriedly as the car pulled to a stop. I checked my phone.

  “Sam’s in some meeting but left me a message,” I muttered. “Says the twins gave explicit orders not to let any visitors in to see Mom, ‘not even other family members’. That means me, of course.”

  “Can they do that?” Gil asked. “What the bloody hell are they afraid of?”

  “Money, as always. Sam says they’re worried Mom will ‘fully revive and alter her will’,” I explained. “He told me not to try to get into the hospital without him, because the twins might call the cops and make the whole thing very unpleasant. He says it’s better to fight them in court. But my mother can’t wait for him and his dumb meeting, and neither can I.”

  My telephone rang then. It was a private detective my lawyer had hired to keep an eye on Mom’s hospital room for me until I arrived, and he was sending me an update.

  “Deirdre has just left,” he said. “So your mother is alone now. No change in her condition. I have two visitors’ passes that I will hand you as I go by your car. Don’t give your mother’s name when they ask who you’re visiting. I have another patient’s name; at least it will get you past the downstairs reception desk. Upstairs, you’re on your own. Your mom’s room is 243; third left past the elevator.”

  I told Gil this, and we watched in fascination as the P.I. strolled by our rolled-down window, dropped the passes in my lap and continued walking, having made no outward sign of even stopping, much less interacting with us. “I’ve got an idea about getting past the upstairs nurses,” Gil said.

  He and I went inside the hospital. The night crew was coming on, so during the changing of the guard they only glanced distractedly at our passes and nodded. But if we showed these passes upstairs we’d be directed to another patient’s room. So when the elevator landed on Mom’s floor, Gil said, “I’ll cover for you. Ready to rock and roll?” I nodded, ducked into the ladies’ room and counted to fifty.

  Then I returned to the hallway and cautiously inched toward my mother’s room. Gil was parked at the nurse’s station, where all the nurses on duty were gathered in a curious cluster around him while he regaled them in his irresistible English accent with a tall tale about Prince Harry. His broad back was facing me and he’d carefully squared his shoulders to block the nurses’ view, as he indulgently answered their questions with great charm. Inwardly I blessed him as I slipped unnoticed into my mother’s room.

  She lay there, asleep in the bed, with tubes in her nose. Several bags of I-V drip were hanging beside her, with tubing connected to her hand by needles. The first thing that struck me was that she looked incredibly small, making the bed seem bigger than it actually was. They had stopped coloring her hair, so instead of her usual auburn, she was more grey-haired now. Her skin, though very pale, was still youthful-looking for her age. I noticed that Mom’s lips were dry and chapped. A cup of water stood on a table beside the bed—just out of reach.

  I sat down gently on the bed and tentatively took her hand—the one without the I-V needle in it. Her fingers were soft and warm and delicate, as I remembered from childhood, but it seemed as if now she was down to just skin and bones. She had her usual trusting, hopeful expression on her face. Overwhelming love for her welled up in my chest, making it feel as if my heart were about to burst.

  She opened her eyes. For a moment, she didn’t seem able to focus, but stirred sleepily and then squinted to see who had taken her hand. I put the water to her lips and she drank. When she finally spoke, it was in such a faint whisper that I had to put my head close to her to hear it.

  “Who’s there?” she asked; then, as if she had sensed rather than seen me, said, “Céline, is that you?” Now she gazed directly at me with surprise and that pure delight of hers.

  “Yes, Mom,” I said quickly, kissing her forehead. “I love you.” She smiled sweetly and lifted her hand to stroke my face—first one cheek, then the other. Then she took my hand and squeezed it.

  Filled with emotion I said, “I’ve come to take you home.”

  “Home?” she said wonderingly. “Really, home?” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Then she said softly, “I love you, my brave Céline. Always my sweet one.” She sighed. “Where did you come from?” she asked with sudden clarity, sounding just like her old self, lucid and curious. “California?”

  “No, Mom, I’ve been to France. I found Grandma’s mas,” I began. Her eyes widened, but then her eyelids fluttered and I feared she was falling back into a druggy sleep. “Mom, I found Grandma’s painting. From Picasso,” I said more urgently. She murmured something unintelligible. “Mom?” I said. “Can you hear me? Everything’s going to be all right now. I went to France and I found what you wanted there. You were right. Picasso did give Grandma a painting!”

  I didn’t realize that Gil had come to the doorway and was standing behind me now. I tried again. “Mom, did you hear me? Grandma’s painting from Picasso. Mom, I found it!”

  She opened her eyes once more, as if it took an extreme effort to do so. But this time, she didn’t look at me. Her gaze went beyond me, toward the doorway where Gil was standing.

  She stared at him for a time, then smiled knowingly and looked back at me again, just as I was saying to her, “I found it!” She must have heard the last word differently, as she looked from Gil to me.

  “I’m so glad you found him,” she whispered conspiratorially, squeezing my hand once more. And just before she sank back to sleep she added, “He looks as if he lov
es you very much.”

  —

  DANNY AND DEIRDRE never knew that I’d gotten in to see Mom. I slipped out just as my P.I. warned me that Danny was on his way up. Gil and I took the private jet to Los Angeles so I could pick up a few things from my apartment before returning to Nevada. While Gil camped out with his computer in my living room to handle the money transfers from the sale of the painting, I worked with my lawyer via phone on the emergency court order so I could go back to see Mom without being harassed by my step-siblings.

  But in the early hours of the next morning, my mother passed away peacefully in her sleep. I heard about it from my P.I., who was still keeping an eye on her for me. After he delivered this devastating news, I sank onto my sofa and just sat there, quiet and immobilized for the rest of the day.

  Deirdre waited another twenty-four hours before she got around to officially notifying me. “Mom just died in her sleep,” she lied as we spoke on the phone. “There won’t be a wake. Her body’s been flown to New York to be buried with Dad’s. It’s the way she and Dad wanted it.”

  For all the world she sounded like a murderer hastily trying to bury the evidence. As far as Deirdre knew, I hadn’t seen Mom since she’d had her stroke, yet Deirdre never once asked if I wanted to sit with my mother’s body to say goodbye to her. My sister’s smug tone told me she was enormously pleased to be the one in charge, as if that conferred some sort of superiority on her. She continued ticking things off on her to-do list, sounding more as if she were planning a party instead of presiding over a death.

  “One more thing. Danny says to let you know—don’t expect much from Dad’s estate. The expenses for Mom’s care were very steep,” she recited in a parrot-like way, which told me she was reading a rehearsed speech she’d composed with her lawyer. “Céline?” she inquired, having noticed for the first time that I’d said nothing throughout the entire phone call.

  “Goodbye, Deirdre,” I said, and we hung up.

  Gil emerged from the next room. He told me that his lawyer had arranged the transfer of my share of the money from the sale of the painting to a new bank account for me in France. Just by the skin of our teeth we wired Gil’s repayment of his loan in time. But there were still a few documents we had to sign in person in France.