The Missing Matisse

by Pierre H. Matisse

  I can’t wait for my first leave to go to Paris. The time passes so slowly here, and with Tata, so fast.

  FINALLY, A MONTH GOES BY, and I have my first weekend pass. This time when I see Tata, I feel awkward and I don’t know what to say. Mostly, I feel guilty for not having written more often during the three years we were separated. When she and I had last parted, I was a child. Now she is getting back a teenager who is somewhere between a boy and a man.

  But slowly we reconnect. I rediscover how extraordinary Tata really is. Her loving-kindness and wisdom are a wonder to me. Every move she makes and every word she says, however ordinary they are, take on extraordinary dimensions. She is pure love. Each moment I am with her is magical and gives me a peace of mind that I haven’t had in years, not since I was a little boy on the train with her traveling from Collioure to Paris for the very first time.

  And yet, in the back of my mind, there is the burning question I have about the awful Leroy name. I am still deeply wounded by this name change, but when I am close to her, it doesn’t hurt as much. I am tempted to ask Tata what she knows, but I am so thrilled to be with her that I don’t want anything to come between us. Here with her, I feel that I am in the eye of the hurricane—it’s quiet, peaceful, and tranquil, and there is an overall aura of serenity that I don’t want to disturb. I sense that she, too, doesn’t want to waste these precious moments we have together with anything disagreeable.

  One thing that Tata has never forgotten is my love of books. “Before I forget, I have a book for you to take back with you, Pierre. It’s called Maroussia.”

  “What is it about, Tata?”

  “It’s the story of a young Russian girl about your age. She belonged to the Russian partisans’ resistance during the Napoleonic invasion of Russia in 1810.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was caught by Napoleon’s soldiers, interrogated, and tortured, but she refused to talk. Convicted of underground activities against the French occupation forces, she was shot by a firing squad.”

  “I’d like to read that book, Tata.”

  As she hands me the book, she says, “Remember this. There is nothing new under the sun. History repeats itself again and again. Men don’t learn, Pierre. They just don’t learn.”

  She pauses, shaking her head. “I want you to survive the war, Pierre. Be careful. It’s not over yet, and it’s going to be a very long one.”

  “I understand, Tata.”

  THIS WEEKEND IS almost like the old days. Tata prepares delicacies from the little that she has, even finding flowers for the table. When she puts a plate of radishes in front of me, tears well up in my eyes. This is what she served me when I came home for lunch that first day of school years ago. The presentation is just as it had been then: The radishes are like little red jewels with artistic white cuts on the sides, garnished with a few green leaves for a sweet, loving touch. Small slices of bread covered with a thin coat of butter are also arranged on the plate. Where did she find butter? No one has butter in Paris.

  I am touched by everything on the table. Tata has gone to so much trouble to show her love. The cloth napkins are smartly rolled in their brass rings, sitting on the flowery tablecloth. Every radish says “I love you” a million times over to me. I will never forget those radishes. It was a feast that didn’t just feed me physically, but also fed my heart.

  When we finish, Tata says with a smile, “Another meal that the Boches won’t have.”

  We talk of one thing, then another, mostly small, unimportant things. Every gesture, every pause conveys so much. The time passes quickly like a strange dream in slow motion. There is music in the air, yet everything is silent. Graciously, Tata moves around tending to little details here and there.

  On Sunday evening, out of the blue, she says to me, “Pierre, I can see that when you marry, you’ll be good to your wife.”

  Yes, I think. And my wife and I will take care of you, just as I vowed when I was a small boy.

  THE WEEKEND IS OVER, and I have to catch my train. It’s too much to ask Tata to go to the station with me, but she walks down the stairs, and we say good-bye in the entryway of her building.

  “I will see you in a month,” I say, giving her a kiss. She slips a small parcel into my hand.

  “Take this with you, Pierre.”

  I give her one more hug before the door closes behind me. I hate leaving, but she assures me my family will be moving back to Paris in a few weeks, and soon we can all see one another.

  When I open the small parcel on the train, I gasp. There is chocolate, cookies, a few cans of sardines, condensed milk, a pot of strawberry jam, and roasted bread. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks. Where did she find these treasures? How much did she have to pay or give up from her own rations to put together this incredible treat?

  I read Maroussia on the train back to the Chateau, learning that French soldiers can be as cruel as the hated Boches. As Tata has told me many times, “Perspective is relative to where one stands.” How true that is.

  Back at the Chateau, the farming routine rolls by day after day. I am only living for my next visit to Tata. Unfortunately, the next month’s pass is canceled because the train to Paris has been bombed. Impatiently, I wait for another month to pass.

  I have something extremely important to tell Tata, something that I’ve never told her to my satisfaction. How do you say “I love you” to a saint? Yes, I know that saying the words “I love you” is simple enough. But how can I begin to match her giving love with my taking love?

  She is so small, so frail. I am so tall, so strong. I have promised her that I will take care of her. Promises, promises. The small house for Tata, the car, the dog, the sandy beach, the boat to take her sailing, all pie-in-the-sky promises. All lies, and I am guilty of them.

  IT’S A BEAUTIFUL early morning in the late spring, and I am working in the fields when the supervisor comes over to me.

  “Pierre, you have a visitor at the Chateau.”

  “A visitor? I’m not expecting anybody.” Could it be Tata? It’s only a few weeks before I can visit her again. Maybe she couldn’t wait that long either.

  “Is it a nice old lady?”

  “No. It’s a man.”

  I enter the majestic castle’s hall and Papa is standing there. What a surprise. I haven’t seen him for a year. When we last saw each other, our relationship was rocky. I had begun to rebel against a few things, affirming myself, I suppose. I don’t remember exactly which trivial issue triggered the dispute, but things went from bad to worse.

  A painful memory comes flooding back.

  OUR HEATED DISCUSSION has escalated quickly, and Papa is about to slap my face.

  “Nobody slaps my face anymore!” I tell him firmly.

  “That’s what you think!” he answers.

  I grab a bottle off the table and tell him menacingly, “You touch me, and I’ll defend myself with this.” He is standing three heads above me, strong and powerful, but I am not backing down.

  “You do that and I’ll lay you out like a carpet,” he retorts.

  “Try it,” I reply calmly. I know Papa is not himself today. He has had a little too much wine at the bistro. However, I’ve promised myself that this is it; I am holding my ground. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you what my reasons really were for this behavior—youthful rebellion, the stress generated by famine and war, or the loss of my father and my identity. Most likely, we are both feeling many of the same stresses.

  Finally, Papa’s head seems to clear and he comes to his senses. “Let’s settle this like gentlemen. Put down that bottle and go to your room now.”

  “If you give me your gentleman’s word not to touch me, it’s yes. Otherwise, respectfully, it’s no!”

  “You have my word, Pierre. Now go to your room.”

  I put the bottle on the table and go to my room. This regrettable incident has stood between us all this time.

  PAPA HOLDS OUT his strong arms to me, and we s
ilently embrace. Just as with Tata, I don’t want to let go. Then he says in my ear, “Your aunt is gravely ill, Pierre. She wants to see you.”

  “When do we go?”

  “Get changed. We are leaving for Paris right now.”

  It is a long walk to the railroad station. We follow the Loing riverbank to a bridge, which is a long detour.

  “I thought that you would like to walk through the forest on our way to the station, Pierre.”

  “Yes, Papa, I love the forest. It’s so peaceful,” I say. “And we have plenty of time. The train doesn’t leave until seven thirty.”

  The weather is superb—not too hot, not too cold, just perfect. Flowers are in bloom everywhere. The birds are singing, and the light breeze from the south is invigorating. Papa and I stop at a little inn by the riverside for lunch. There isn’t much on the menu, so we order a salad that comes with an atrocious dressing, and we wash it down with a homemade beer.

  “We call it frenette,” the owner says. “It’s made of ash leaves.”

  “It’s pretty good, but it’s not quite up to a Cabernet Sauvignon,” Papa says with a smile.

  “It’s the war, Monsieur,” she replies sadly.

  I am surprised that Papa seems so relaxed even though he doesn’t have any cigarettes or a glass of decent wine with his meal. Ordinarily, he would be venting his frustration.

  We chat about unimportant things, such as my life at the Chateau. It’s merely small talk. What’s the matter with him? We used to talk about serious things like boats or art, past adventures full of danger and funny moments. Maybe we should quarrel, I think. At least that would be lively. However, I am not going to start anything. Once again I have Papa back in my life, if only for a few days.

  BY MIDAFTERNOON we are walking in the beautiful Fontainebleau forest all by ourselves. The sun rays are filtering through the centenarian oak trees, where birds are flitting from branch to branch. Our footsteps scare a rabbit that vanishes into the underbrush.

  “Remember, Papa, when Tata rented a country cottage in Moret-sur-Loing and we used to go hunting for rabbits at the edge of the forest? It’s not very far from here.”

  “I remember when you took a shot at a rabbit with my sixteen-gauge, Tatiou, and fell on your behind,” he replies.

  “Yes, I did.” Neither of us is laughing or smiling. We should have been. Something is drastically wrong.

  The road weaves between some birch trees as we walk in silence. My father begins to slow down. Then he puts his right arm around my shoulder and holds me tight.

  “Pierre, you have to be brave.”

  For what? I feel something very bad is coming my way.

  “Tata died in her sleep two days ago. She didn’t suffer,” he offers simply.

  I go numb and cannot speak.

  He tightens his grip. “I had an aunt too, Pierre. I loved her very much. She died when I was about your age. I understand completely.”

  Words are not coming easily, and Papa has to clear his throat a couple of times. We are there, the two of us, in the big forest. I can see birds moving through the air, but they are blurry and I can barely hear their songs.

  The silence is sliced by a blue jay’s shrill scream as it crosses our path. I walk straight ahead. I look straight ahead. I can see the sun playing hide-and-seek through the canopy of the forest, but its warm rays are not touching my cold heart. Suddenly, everything becomes blurry. It’s still beautiful, but I can’t see it anymore. My eyes are full of tears. I don’t stop walking—I can’t. I walk and walk and walk. I want to kill my pain by walking until I drop.

  Artistic rendering of signatures by Pierre H. Matisse

  20

  IS HE OR ISN’T HE?

  To be, or not to be: that is the question.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  “HOW DID HE TAKE IT?” I overhear Maman ask Papa as soon as we arrive home.

  “Like a man, Louise. As I expected.”

  When she sees me, Maman takes me in her arms. “Poor Bunny Rabbit,” she whispers tenderly.

  I cannot cry because I am still completely numb. When I talk, I cannot hear myself saying anything. When I walk, I cannot feel the ground under my feet. There is no reality, only an immense void.

  I have to go to Tata’s apartment to see for myself that she is gone. When I arrive, I slowly climb the stairs and open the door with my key. Her things are there, in their proper places. A book of poems is open on her bedside table. But Tata is not here. That is when it hits me brutally, with full force. I will never see Tata again. I am traumatized and I want to die too. How can I enjoy the beauty of life if there is no Tata to share it with?

  The sky is gray and overcast for Tata’s funeral. While we stand at the gravesite, a German Dornier bomber roars low above the cemetery. I don’t even raise my head. No one can hurt me more than I am hurting now. The flowers that I throw on Tata’s coffin are discarded hope to me. Tata was so good. Silently I pray, asking God to receive her in His warm embrace.

  A few days later, it’s time for me to return to the Chateau. Maman has gotten my suitcase ready. “You’ll find a lunch inside, Pierre,” she says to me.

  “Thank you, Maman.”

  “Be good, my darling.” My mother can’t hide her concern about me, and I know that her red eyes are for me as well as Tata.

  “I’ll be all right, Maman. Don’t worry about me.”

  “The pain will pass,” she says as she kisses me. “Give it time.”

  THE CHARMING COUNTRYSIDE of the Île-de-France passes by as I gaze out the train windows, but I hardly notice its beauty. My nose is running, so I open my suitcase to get a handkerchief. Inside, a brown paper parcel is taking up most of the space. There is a letter from my mother sitting on top of it.

  My Dear Pierre,

  I found this parcel for you in Tata’s apartment. I could not bring myself to give it to you in person. Please do with it what it was intended for by her.

  I love you.

  Your loving mother

  Then I see another note in Tata’s handwriting, which simply says,

  For my Pierre, with love.

  Tata

  My hands are trembling as I open the package. Inside are lots of delicacies, including touron, a delicious sweet Spanish candy made with almond paste.

  Aurora used to give me the best touron that could be found in Spain. Aurora and now Tata—gone.

  For the first time in two years I am not hungry. I haven’t eaten since yesterday at noon. Without tasting anything, I close the suitcase and put it on the overhead rack.

  In the crowded compartment, most people are dozing, lulled to sleep by the train’s rolling rhythm. I look out the window and begin to cry. Once I start, I can’t stop. My whole body is shaking from the uncontrollable sobs.

  “Young man, are you all right?” an old man asks me.

  “Can I help you?” a woman with a baby in her lap says.

  Now I am crying loudly. I have to get out of here. I stand up and move erratically, like I am losing my mind, trying to find my way to the lavatory. I lock the door behind me and cry even louder. People are banging on the door.

  “Open up! Do you need help?”

  I splash some water on my face to wash away my tears, and I walk out.

  “Let me help you to your compartment,” a kind old woman offers, taking me by the hand. “Everything will be all right.”

  Once we are seated, she says, “Did you lose someone, dear?”

  I nod as the tears come back.

  “It’ll be all right,” she says to comfort me, her hand on my wrist. She sits with me for the rest of the journey.

  I CRY AFTER I get off the train, walking from the station to the Chateau. In the dormitory, I muffle my sobs with my pillow.

  The next day, exhausted, I go to work and then wake up in the infirmary. I had been found unconscious in the field where I was gathering grass for the rabbits. I am suffering from an acute case of jaundice. Three weeks later, Maman is at my be
dside.

  “My poor Bunny Rabbit. What’s happened to you, my darling?”

  It feels good to have my mother here, but I know she has her own problems, and I am just one more of them.

  “I was sick, Maman.”

  “The doctor told me that you are well enough to convalesce in Paris with me,” Maman says, smiling. “He feels that this would help you heal, Pierre.”

  “When are we leaving?”

  “Today. And you won’t be coming back. You have been expelled for misconduct,” she says matter-of-factly.

  Somehow the Chateau authority has discovered my food chiseling operation. I wonder why they picked on me because everybody else is doing it too. We are all hungry and need food one way or another. But it doesn’t matter. I am freed from this detestable place.

  “Good,” I tell her. “I can’t stand it here.”

  FOR NOW I AM staying with my parents at the Clamart apartment. After almost a year apart, the four of us are together again: Papa, Maman, Gérard, and me. The question is, what are we going to do with me? Maman confides that the real reason I cannot return to the Chateau is because I am notorious for my past activities and pose a danger to the school by being there.

  My parents are constantly quarreling, but I don’t have any idea what they are fighting about. Maybe it’s me, who knows? The war continues to take its toll on our family.

  Will it ever stop? Last year the Allied forces landed in North Africa, and a few months ago they invaded Italy. On the eastern front, the Russians are beating the Boches soundly. There are rumors of an imminent Allied landing on the west coast of France. Normandy should be a prime candidate for such an operation, so it looks like the action could come back to France soon.

  Paris is bombed lightly, but often, by the Allies, now that it is occupied. The Boches are getting more difficult. Massive arrests of civilians suspected of sabotage or subversive activities occur daily in and around Paris. Some are sent to Germany for forced labor, while others have been executed.

  ONE DAY MAMAN ANNOUNCES, “Pierre, I’ve found you a job as a printer’s apprentice.”