The Missing Matisse

by Pierre H. Matisse

  Papa must leave the car in Toulouse, stored in The Great’s garage. Maman, Gérard, Papa, and I head to the French Riviera via train.

  At the end of 1940, the magnificent French Riviera scenery is still intact—as if we are in another world, where the word war is not even an entry in the dictionary. We settle in Mouans-Sartoux, a small village situated halfway between Cannes (where a film festival will begin six years later) and Grasse, the world’s perfume capital.

  Our home is a small two-story house with a spacious attic that I claim as my bedroom. The massive oak beam structure supporting the tile roof is reassuring to me and seems to protect me. Just above my bed is a big skylight. Every night I look at the stars until I drift to sleep. When it rains on the clay tiles, the sound is music to my ears.

  Here, in this enchanted paradise, I rededicate myself to art. The Marrots have also moved here from Bordeaux. Their daughter, Odile, has artistic aspirations as well, and the two of us paint together. I create watercolor sketches of the spectacular ocean and mountain views. Through these paintings, something grows stronger within me, soothing the memories of the bombing raids in Paris and the traumatic exodus my family endured to get here.

  When my paintings are done, I sign them Tatiou. I still refuse to have anything to do with that unwelcome Leroy name.

  EVERY SCHOOL DAY from the winter of 1940 through the spring of 1941, I take public transportation to and from school in the city of Grasse about five and a half miles up a steep hill. Out the window, the landscape is breathtaking.

  Grasse, like an eagle aerie, is nested on a slope of the lower Alps. From its high perch, Grasse overlooks hills covered with white jasmine fields as well as red and white carnations, stretching nearly all the way to the Mediterranean. It is here, in the perfume laboratories of Grasse, that the oil of the delicate jasmine flowers is extracted to produce the world’s most luxurious perfumes. For miles around this charming city, the air is scented with the delicate fragrance.

  Unfortunately, the bus service has been cut in half, with the remaining buses rarely on schedule, which makes it a challenge to get to school. The vehicles are gazogène, fueled by wood-burning stoves attached to the back of the bus. This marvelous gadget sort of works, but it is very slow going.

  The buses are crowded beyond belief. If only one seat is available and ten people are waiting to be picked up, the driver won’t even stop. However, we quickly learn to adapt.

  One day, eight of us have been waiting an hour to be picked up, watching two fully loaded buses pass by. Finally, an old woman in our group, who has had enough, takes charge.

  “Madame, give me your little baby. All of you hide behind that big bush over there. I will make the next driver stop.”

  The next bus, creaking under its load, comes puffing up the hill. Our commander is in place with the baby in her arms, standing in the middle of the road. The bus grinds to a halt, and the driver opens the door. Then the rest of us burst out of our hiding place and charge the door.

  “I can’t take any more passengers. We are full. It’s the law!” the indignant driver shouts at us.

  We push and shove until we’re all inside, welcomed with colorful language.

  Now, stinking of oil and fumes, the bus starts up the hill toward Grasse and its fresh, fragrant air.

  Suddenly, smoke begins filling the bus. One of the gazogène stoves has burst into flames.

  “Our tail is on fire! We are going to burn! Everyone out!” screams our driver as he pulls the bus to the side of the road. We jump out quickly and then watch helplessly as the bus burns to the ground.

  We all must walk to our destinations. I do not go to school that day; it is closer for me to walk home. Since this is the only bus from Mouans-Sartoux to Grasse, my formal academic education ends abruptly, just days before the school year does.

  FOR ME, THAT SUMMER OF 1941 in Mouans-Sartoux is the eye of the storm. It’s a reprieve from the war and danger. I spend the whole summer raising rabbits so our family will have some meat on the table. Ironically, when I go to the granaries to get food for the rabbits, the farmers send me home with bags of wheat germ. (Now that I think of it, those rabbits had to have been the healthiest animals ever! Even though we were starving and could have eaten the wheat germ ourselves, I guess we got it indirectly from the rabbits.)

  I roam freely in the countryside picking grass for my rabbits and wild asparagus and mushrooms for the family table, stealing onions and ripe tomatoes from gardens—a risky but delicious business—and swimming in irrigation cisterns, which is dangerous when the gates are opened and water rushes in. I start a butterfly collection and enjoy pursuing them for hours, fascinated by the different shapes. I am impressed by God’s creativity regarding their aerodynamic wings and the wind. On rainy days, I build model planes out of balsa wood to train for my career as a fighter pilot, which is going to make me a hero.

  I don’t often play with Gérard because of his poor health. After he suffers one particularly nasty asthma attack, Papa takes him to a clinic near the Swiss border. When they return, Gérard stays inside the house, per the doctor’s instructions. It seems that the perfume country does not agree with his lungs.

  It is a trouble-free summer except for one occasion when I tangle with some bees. While I’m gathering wild honey from a nest in a tree, my improvised gauze face netting rips.

  When I return home, Papa is shocked. “What happened to your face, Pierre?” he asks. I don’t realize that my head is the size of a pumpkin.

  “Nothing. But look what I have. Two big bowls of honey,” I proudly explain, holding them in my hands with fingers the size of delicatessen sausages.

  Maman screams when she sees me. “What have you done?” She insists on taking me to the doctor, who identifies twenty-five stings on one hand and thirty or more on the other, and gives up trying to count the number of stings on my face and head.

  My face is so swollen I can barely see for a few days, and I run a high fever. But I never complain; besides, there is honey to enjoy. My pain is eased when Papa gives me a look that clearly says, “You are becoming a man, my son.”

  During this summer, Papa works on some sculpture projects. At times, I work as his apprentice and we get along well. Maman is painting and making ceramic figurines, and I help her, too, by taking them to Vallauris to be fired.

  ONE NIGHT WHEN I CAN’T SLEEP, I overhear a conversation between my parents that gets my attention.

  “Jean, this is insane. You shouldn’t go. It’s much too dangerous.” These words make me listen more intensely.

  “Nonsense, darling. There are no Germans or Gestapo in this area.”

  “On the contrary, I think it is crawling with spies and informants of all sorts.” Maman’s voice sounds close to tears.

  “You are always afraid of everything. I gave my word.”

  “You are going to get all of us shot.”

  “I won’t. But I have to do this, darling.”

  Silence. I can only hear my own heart beating in my ears.

  Then I hear Maman again. “Promise me that it is the first and last time,” she pleads.

  “I can’t promise that. Others are counting on me.” My father’s voice is firm.

  I want to race down the stairs and go with Papa on whatever secret activity he’s embarking on, but I know it will only aggravate an already tense situation between my parents.

  “Can you promise me you will get out when it becomes too risky?”

  “Of course! I’m not a fool, Louise. Come here, my darling.” There is a long silence. I’m sure Papa is kissing Maman. Then I hear the back door closing carefully.

  Through the skylight, the first quarter moon throws a pale light on my bed. Though Papa is off and away tonight, I feel comforted being wrapped in this light. I finally fall asleep, and when I wake again, the moon is gone, replaced by the Big Dipper, twinkling reassuringly. I whisper, thanking God for this beautiful display, that even through all the change here on earth, all is
as it should be above.

  As soon as I begin to drift back to sleep, that’s when I hear it. A plane. At first, it is only a faint sound. Maybe it’s something else. Planes never fly around this area. Then, no doubt! It is a plane.

  I start shaking as fear grabs me. I’m frozen, listening for the whistle of bombs. But after a few long minutes, the engine’s noise fades away. My knees stop dancing on their own. Then far away, from the southwest, the sounds of the flak guns bounce back and forth from hill to hill. A few dogs bark, and one howls long and mournfully. War has paid a visit to paradise.

  The echoes of the guns fade away in the darkness. All turns quiet again and eventually, I fall back to sleep.

  THE NEXT MORNING in our sunny kitchen, Maman serves large slices of bread covered with a war-thin layer of strawberry jam and coffee made of roasted black beans, made a little tastier with goat’s milk. A tall, thin, good-looking man about Papa’s age sits at the table talking softly with Papa.

  Papa looks up at me and says, “Pierre, this is Monsieur Charles Dupont. He will be our guest for a few days.”

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Dupont,” I say, extending my hand.

  “My friends call me Charlot. You call me Charlot.” His strong hand crunches mine.

  “For a few days, you are going to share your quarters with Monsieur Charlot.” Papa thinks for a moment and then looks me straight in the eye. “This is very important. Not a word about our guest to anybody.” He pauses again and then makes things crystal clear. “Total silence. Nobody should know that Monsieur Dupont is here. Do you understand?”

  “Why?” I am always questioning everything.

  “The less you know, the better. Charlot is not here and never was. That is all. Do you have that straight, my son?”

  “Yes, Papa, I do.”

  “Good.” He turns to our guest and gives a quick wink to Charlot. “We can depend on him.”

  Papa knows I can be trusted. A sense of pride swells in my heart.

  I spend the rest of the morning searching for food for my rabbits. It is the hot season, and we haven’t had rain for weeks. I only manage to find a few tender dandelions. When I arrive home for lunch, Charlot is not there. He isn’t at dinner either.

  AFTER DINNER, I climb the stairs to the attic and discover Charlot busily hiding four medium-sized suitcases under the boards of the attic floor. He gives me a welcoming smile and greets me in superb Oxford English, “Hello, Mister Pierre! Good evening. Did you have a good day?”

  I am startled. Charlot has the ability to go from impeccable French to proper English without the slightest trace of a foreign accent in either tongue! My surprise shows as I reply clumsily, “Good evening, sir.” It takes me some time to get these three English words out.

  “Could you be kind enough, old boy, to give me a hand to get this floor put back together?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Charlot completes the job by placing old broken pieces of furniture here and there over the loose floorboards.

  “What do you think, Pierre?” Dust is sticking to the sweat that is running down his smiling face.

  “Looks real good, Mister Charlot,” I say in halting English.

  “I think so too!”

  He cleans his face with a towel and then, looking at me with a mischievous gleam in his eye, asks, “Have you seen any suitcases, Pierre?” Immediately, his expression turns as cold as ice, with no smile.

  I shrug innocently. “Suitcases? What suitcases? No, sir, I have not seen any suitcases.”

  “Jolly good answer. A-plus.”

  His whole body seems to sag, and he looks very tired. “Today I rest. Tomorrow we start working together.”

  “Working at what, sir?”

  “Your English is a bit rusty, my young fellow. You need practice, Pierre.”

  “Please sir, would you be kind enough to speak slowly? I only know a few words in English.”

  I had memorized this response before Uncle Pierre came to visit Paris, as a quick way to stay out of trouble with Tata and Monsieur Sterny for not learning my lessons well. Most of the rest of my English vocabulary has escaped me.

  “No, little gentleman, I will not! You are going to have to get cracking and be serious about learning.”

  I only catch part of what he says but get the meaning anyway. Maman has asked him to give me some English lessons. While Charlot is with us, I will not have time to forage food for my rabbits. They will have to be content with table scraps seasoned with old hay.

  Charlot makes himself comfortable on a pallet of straw, with a bedsheet that has been sewn on the sides, serving as a makeshift sleeping bag.

  “It’s not the Ritz, but it’s remarkably comfortable, my boy,” he declares with a broad smile.

  DURING THE NEXT THREE WEEKS, with Charlot as my tutor, my English improves dramatically. He also has a miniature chess set, and he teaches me the fundamentals of this interesting game. The attic has become our clubhouse.

  To thank him for his lessons, I offer to make a portrait of him in charcoal. He abruptly declines with a resounding authoritative tone that holds just a touch of panic. “No portraits! Absolutely none. Not even from memory. Do you hear me?”

  But when he sees the disappointment in my face, he adds more kindly, “You can do my portrait, but only after the war is over, not before. You understand?”

  It finally hits me. Charlot is an undercover agent, hiding from the Boches.

  “Sorry, Mister Charlot, I understand. Only after the war.”

  These days, it seems everything good is being postponed until after this wretched war. I use my new skill in English to ask questions.

  “What do you do, Mister Charlot?”

  “I am a traveling salesman. I represent freedom. It’s something like, let’s see . . . I sell convincing peace arguments to the Nazis.”

  The grin on his face shows he is pleased with his statement.

  “Are the peace arguments in your suitcase?” I glance at the floorboards where the suitcases are often hidden.

  “Perhaps.”

  “May I see?”

  “No, you may not! I demonstrate them only to potential customers.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Only for my customers when I close the deal.”

  I’m intrigued and want to know everything.

  “Do you make a lot of sales?” I ask, studying his thin face.

  He corrects my pronunciation on a few words, then adds, “Remember this, Pierre. Silence is golden. Do not ask questions; mind your own business. Just stick to your rabbits.”

  Then he elaborates, “If anybody asks you anything, take careful note of who he or she is in order to tell your father. Play dumb, ask them to repeat the question, tell them that you didn’t understand. Finally, always say that you don’t know.”

  “I understand.” Truly I do not understand everything. However, one thing I do already know—one way or another in this war, if someone is not careful, he or she can get killed.

  “In this kind of war, Pierre, it’s better to appear—shall we say—slightly stupid.”

  SOME NIGHTS, Charlot disappears with Papa and returns just before daybreak. He then sleeps during part of the day. One day he falls soundly asleep on his bed during our English lesson. I want to surprise him, so I quietly keep busy, writing my homework exercise.

  Suddenly, he becomes agitated in his sleep, sweating profusely.

  His eyes are still closed as he begins in French, then switches to English, “Jette les valises. Tout de suite. Throw the suitcases. Now!”

  He mumbles something unintelligible and then, “Adieu la valise”—farewell, suitcase.

  Finally he screams, “No! No!”

  Charlot jumps awake, soaked in sweat and visibly shaking. I can’t disguise my shock.

  “I’m sorry, Pierre. It’s nothing. Just a little nightmare. Now let’s see to this homework, then we’ll play a game of chess.”

  One night when I return to the atti
c after finishing my chores, I find Charlot reclining on his bed fully dressed, with his back propped against a battered dark brown suitcase. The pieces of furniture that had been piled on top of the floorboards have been disturbed. He observes me looking at the suitcase and then glancing around.

  “I didn’t need the other ones—which were never there, Pierre.”

  “Are you leaving, Mister Charlot?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I like the smell of jasmine. It reminds me of England, which is very beautiful in the spring with lots of flowers.”

  Rubbing his hands together, he says, “No time to fool around, little gentleman. Repeat after me, ‘Silly Sally sold seashells down by the seashore.’”

  “Silly Sally sold she-shells down the sheetshore.’” Somehow it doesn’t sound quite right.

  Charlot bursts out laughing. Slowly he repeats the tongue twister and says, “Again and again, until you get it right, young man!”

  I fall asleep with my tongue in knots.

  THE NEXT MORNING WHEN I WAKE UP, there is no suitcase and no straw bed. Not a trace of Mister Charlot remains. Underneath my pillow I find a miniature English-French dictionary with Pierre written on the first page. A note says: In case of doubt, look it up in this book.

  When I reach for my sandals, I find Charlot’s chess game in one of them, with another small note. “Checkmate, old boy! Yours.”

  Charlot came with five medium-sized worn-out suitcases. He left with only one. I recall three nights when he left the attic during the night. If that is one suitcase per outing, it leaves one suitcase for Papa. Curious, I discreetly look all around our house for the suitcase. I want to know what is inside. No luck. Papa must have hidden it very well.

  A few years later, Maman tells me that Charles Dupont was his undercover name during the war. In peacetime, he was a French teacher at Oxford. Papa also told me after the war that Charlot had survived. He must have been a very good salesman!