The voice continues to tell me what to do.
“Good, now put your left hand on the belly parachute. Looking good. With your right hand, pull the rip cord’s steel handle, and save the handle in your jacket pocket as you were instructed.” Who said anything about that? The only thing I’m interested in saving is myself! I throw the blasted handle away.
“You shouldn’t have done that. It’s against the rules.” This internal instructor is getting on my nerves.
“Damn the rules!” I scream. I know I will have to fill out a report explaining why I don’t have the handle, but I’ll worry about that if I survive. If I die, it’s one less thing to do!
In order to save my neck, I have to get the safety parachute positioned so that it will catch the wind and balloon out. I look down, and the ground is coming closer fast. The parachute is not cooperating.
In a move that is a combination of temper and desperation, I throw the safety chute out in front of me. The parachute becomes an inviting queen-size bed. Flat and white, it lies there doing nothing. This isn’t going to save my life. Then it collapses, and I can’t see it anymore. The main chute rips in two.
Suddenly, my left leg is jerked up, and I’m tilted at an angle. Wincing in pain, I look up. The safety parachute has opened next to the half-opened main chute. Suspended by one leg, I suddenly am not careening anymore. I’m floating like a daisy in the wind, and seconds later, my backside hits the ground with a thud.
I lie there for a moment, thinking the worst, until I realize that I’m alive, and nothing is broken! I breathe a deep sigh of relief and whisper my thanks to God while collecting my wits and shaking off my fear. Thankfully, no one else has a problem with their parachute. In practice rounds, there have been times when we have laughed at each other, especially if someone lands in a tree and can’t get down. But in the backs of our minds we know this is serious and could get us killed.
That night in the barracks, I think back to when I said good-bye to my parents and remember the look of envy on Papa’s face when he told me, “I’d give ten years of my life to go parachuting out of planes with you in North Africa.”
Yes, Papa, I would have loved to have you by my side today.
HALFWAY THROUGH MY TIME IN BOUGIE, it is national election day for the Algerians. I am patrolling the streets along with others, armed with submachine guns aimed at the citizens. Apparently, the election process is so crooked that the French government expects a lot of trouble. We only get some nasty looks and a few insults. There are no major incidents, and Algeria remains under French rule. The violence and war will come later when I am out of harm’s way.
Soon after, I am on a different mission. At Mathilde’s request, I set off to visit her son, Camille. I don’t look forward to this visit and simply go to please Mathilde. I have a terrible time just getting a pass, not to mention trying to find his apartment from the address I had been given. His home is in a nice complex of condominiums in the upper-class section of Algiers.
I ring the bell for the concierge at his building and ask for Monsieur Leroy’s apartment number. “Monsieur Camille Leroy is spending some time at his country villa,” she says and kindly explains how to get there.
Once again, I am lost for a while, zigzagging up and down streets and being turned around several times before finally arriving at his residence. It is a lovely hillside villa with a spectacular view of the Bay of Algiers.
I ring the bell, and my “father on paper” opens the door a crack. Like an idiot, I stand there proudly, resplendent in my soldier uniform. The door is now half-open, and I can see him standing there, silent.
Then he says, “Ha! I see you have a parachutist decoration.”
“Yes,” I reply.
More silence. The door doesn’t move.
“Listen,” I say, trying to get out of this awkward situation, “I was just passing by, and I didn’t want to leave the area without paying you a courtesy visit. Now that I have done so, I should probably go. Perhaps this is not a convenient time.”
“Thank you. Good-bye” are the words I hear from the doorway. Before I can get out my good-bye, he closes the door. I have no trouble walking away.
ONE NIGHT WHEN WE ARE OFF DUTY, four of my buddies and I somehow get hold of a Jeep to do a little joyriding outside of Bougie, heading toward Constantine. We aren’t out long before trouble comes. Boom! The Jeep hits a mine, and everyone but the driver is thrown out of the vehicle before it smashes into a wall. When I awaken, I am in the Constantine military hospital with a serious head wound, along with three of the joyriders, whose injuries were minor. Fortunately, the mine we hit was a small homemade explosive, not powerful enough to blow us sky-high.
At the hospital I see the consequences of the war raging in French Indochina, with the wounded being transported here from across the world, as well as the casualties coming from Algeria day in and day out by ambulance. Around me are young men, bandaged and writhing in pain from burns and wounds, some close to death. I see plenty of French foreign legionnaires, many with strong German accents, one whom I recognize from an encounter in Normandy from what seems like a lifetime ago.
When I am discharged from the hospital a couple of weeks later, the only way to get back to Bougie is to travel alone by train through Arab country. But before I leave, I take the day off, against doctor’s orders, to explore the ancient city of Constantine on foot.
I cross the iconic suspension bridge Sidi M’Cid that spans the deep Rhumel Gorge carved out by the river of the same name below. I wander through the Arab marketplace and the casbah—noisy and colorful and aromatic. What a sight! The city has been a trading center since it was founded by the Phoenicians, and everyone wants you to buy their wares. It’s hard to believe that I am in the twentieth century and not in the first.
Finally, I must bid the city adieu. The train, as usual, is packed solid with Arabs and Berbers, the corridor full of fatimas with their children, as well as some goats and a multitude of clucking chickens in woven cages. Cumbersome packages wrapped in colorful rags are everywhere.
As the train rolls out of the station, I offer the kids some of my sardines and bread. When I give them my entire chocolate ration, they scream with joy. A plump fatima with intricately tattooed feet smiles at me and gives me dates stuffed with almond paste, and the men sitting nearby offer me hashish. I have a difficult time explaining to them without hurting their feelings that, unlike Papa, I don’t smoke anything.
At the first stop, some Arab teenagers on the platform are peddling delicious fried pastries, a kind of pretzel dipped in honey. I get off the train and buy a whole basket of them to share with the children in my car. We resume our journey, and I let one of the boys try on my paratrooper beret. Before I know it, they all want to try it on! The beret is passed up and down the aisle, finally returned to me after one of the mothers puts a few drops of perfume on it.
Arab kids, like children all over the world, have something special. They possess an innocence or joie de vivre that I find totally enchanting.
Night comes, and one by one, the children fall asleep, followed then by their mothers. The men wrap themselves in burnouses, long woolen cloaks, but they don’t fall asleep. Like them, I keep an eye open.
In the corridor, a man sets up a small charcoal stove. A few minutes later he passes around cups of mint tea. I am offered one, which I gratefully accept.
Slowly, the Sahara Desert rolls by the window like a panoramic movie on a screen. Even though I am tired, I am too excited to sleep, taking in the exotic landscape. The Sahara sky is like no other. A city’s sky is crowded by buildings. A forest has some degree of light but little sky to speak of because of the canopy of trees. The sky above the sea is unique unto itself, almost as if there is no difference between them.
But there are no appropriate words to describe the awe you feel when standing under the glorious heavens over the desert. Breathtaking is an understatement.
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, we stop a
t a station that looks more like a camel camp than a railway station. I feel like a time traveler again, just like in the casbah. Bedouin tents are scattered everywhere, and fires burning camel dung create small pools of light in the sand. A few dogs are roaming around, and through my open window on the train, I catch the pungent musk of the camels, which I find surprisingly pleasant.
An Arab is tending to his camels, and when he passes closer to the train, the band of cartridges crossing his chest gleams in the moonlight. Up close, I can see the rifle hanging by a strap on his back. He looks fierce but not menacing.
“Tuaregs and Berbers, desert pirates,” one of my Arab companions explains.
One by one, the stars fade as the dark blue firmament lightens on the eastern horizon. It is the glorious moment of a new day, a sunrise like no other, an extravagant gift dressed in yellow, red, and orange flames.
“It’s going to be a good day,” I say to myself out loud. An Arab nods in agreement.
When we reach Bougie, the sun is high and burning hot like it only does in Africa. Intoxicated with beauty but aching with pangs of hunger, I check into my regiment just in time for lunch.
My days pass with doing what a soldier does: When I am not out on commando missions, I am guarding this and guarding that, always with an uneasy feeling that an uprising may occur at any moment.
But my inner battle rages on too. In the French army, roll call is done by last name. All day long, call for chores, call for guard, call for mail, call for patrol, call for inspection, call, and call, and call. Leroy, Leroy, Leroy. I hate it when I hear that name again and again, but I have no choice except to answer, “Present.” I only want to answer to the name I’ve known since birth. Matisse—like my father, mother, and brother, period!
I have decided to confront my mother alone with what Mathilde has told me once I return to France. It is much too tricky to make a frontal attack on Papa and Maman at the same time. Besides, it would not be fair to Maman. When I am alone, I rehearse my delicate speech to my mother, trying different approaches.
Once this name business is settled, I will set off for America.
28
ONLY A MOTHER’S HEART
Mothers never die; they live forever in places you never knew existed, deep inside your heart and soul.
PIERRE H. MATISSE
I LOOK AT THE WRISTWATCH Papa gave me and can’t help but think of him and Maman. I have been doing a lot of thinking here in Algeria.
I didn’t volunteer for an overseas post without reason. It was all part of a plan to accumulate an enormous quantity of courage, like others amass large amounts of money. I am certain that belonging to a commando paratrooper outfit will prove my courage to Papa.
I remember that night in Paris when I told my parents what I had decided to do. I could see that Papa was proud that I had volunteered for this “regiment of fools,” as Maman referred to it. Maybe fools, but brave ones nevertheless. Papa knew I would fight and work hard for what I believed in.
I want Papa to be proud of me, and I want to be worthy of him. I want to return to France a true hero. My visions are grandiose at age twenty.
I have been writing once a week to Maman since I first arrived in Algeria, and I eagerly await each letter from her. My letters are full of details about the people living in this exotic place, my studies, the antics of my temporary pet chimpanzee, and some of my future plans. She doesn’t need to know about any of the dangerous situations I’ve been in. Her responses are few and far between, and each one is only a few lines long. A few months after I arrive in Algeria, she writes to tell me her father, Grandfather Milhau, has died—another family member I loved. Still, even a few lines is a connection to Maman, and when I receive a letter, I find a place where I can be alone with her.
One afternoon, a letter comes, and when I read the words, I am in shock. Maman has left Papa. I’m in disbelief. How can this be possible? I know they truly love each other. What could have happened to destroy their loving relationship? Of course, Maman gives no personal details in the letter, other than to say she has moved to a one-bedroom apartment, and Gérard is with Papa.
It’s difficult to sit down and reply to her, but I write back, expressing my sadness and concern for her. I do not ask for further details other than the few she has given already. An absent son has no right to ask these questions.
AS MY SERVICE in the army comes to a close in October 1948, I contract malaria. But when I am discharged, I head straight to Maman’s new address in Paris, even though I am suffering. As soon as I arrive, I can see she looks worn out, but she takes me in her arms and wipes away a few tears. It feels good to be with her. Still, it disturbs me that she and Papa aren’t together.
“Gérard hasn’t been good to me,” she mentions. I don’t know what to say. But here, now, what can I say? She is frantically busy.
“I’m sorry I don’t have much time to visit, Pierre. I have an appointment with a night club owner regarding some redecorating,” she explains. “And then, a very important business meeting at one o’clock. But I did want to give you a gift from your grandfather.”
Maman hands me a copy of Grandfather Henri’s book Jazz. I sit down and admire each of the twenty colorful cutout collages, which seem to come alive and dance on the pages. Grandfather has written an inscription to me in the front of the book and also has written me a separate letter, which makes me feel like he is here. I leave both of the items with Maman for safekeeping.
“Listen, Maman, I have a little touch of malaria,” I say. This is putting it mildly, but I don’t want to worry her. “I will go to Normandy, put myself back together, and sort out my affairs. Then, in about fifteen days or so, I will come back to spend some time with you in Paris. Perhaps I can be of some help. What do you think?”
“Wonderful idea, Pierre. That would be perfect,” she answers with a faint smile.
I AM WELCOMED WARMLY by my grandparents in Normandy and know that I will soon be back on my feet. A couple of weeks after I arrive, I receive a telegram.
Pierre. Your mother is gravely ill. Stop.
Come as soon as possible. Stop.
Signed: A friend of your mother. Stop.
I HURRY BACK TO PARIS even though I’m still weak, feverish, and fighting the chills from malaria. There I am met by two of Maman’s friends, whose names I’ve long forgotten. They were so good to me that in my memory they are forever Monsieur and Madame Good.
Madame Good takes me to the hospital, and when we walk in, I can’t believe my eyes. This must be a mistake. Maman can’t be here. There are hundreds of beds that go on forever. My mother, Madame Louise Milhau Matisse, married for twenty years to Jean Matisse, the son of world-renowned painter Henri Matisse, is in a huge common room—a ward—that reminds me of a second-rate military barracks. My hospital room in Constantine was the Ritz in comparison. Once, when my brother had a bad injury, he was taken to the American hospital in Paris, the best one in the city. But now, I am seeing something straight out of the Middle Ages.
This hospital has to be a million years old, I think, a place for Paris’s poor and destitute.
I am so heartbroken, I can barely move or see or hear. As Madame Good takes my arm and leads me down the aisle, questions flood my mind. How can the Matisse family have allowed this to happen to one of their family members? Where are Papa and Gérard?
Madame Good stops and says softly, “We’re here, Pierre.” I am afraid to look at the person in the bed, and when I do, I hardly recognize her. Maman looks like she has aged two hundred years since I saw her just a few weeks ago. My anger builds inside. This is outrageous! Why isn’t my mother in her own home, her own bed, with Papa and other loved ones there to comfort her?
Maybe this is a nightmare that I will wake up from soon. It can’t be true. What has happened to her?
I sit on the bed and take her hand, which looks so small in mine. At first, she does not know who I am.
Then she says weakly, “Pierre?”
> “Yes, Maman, I’m right here.” I squeeze her hand, but a moment later she lapses into a coma.
I can’t bear it. “I want to see a doctor,” I shout to the first nurse I see.
“It is not possible,” a nurse answers.
“I want my mother out of here, now. Right now! Immediately! Do you understand me?” I scream in despair.
“It is not possible,” the nurse repeats.
“My mother is going to the American hospital with me. Now!”
Madame Good kindly puts her hand on my wrist and softly says, “Pierre, it’s too late. Your mother is dying.”
No, I haven’t had enough time with her. I want to talk to her, to know her and love her like I did Tata. I want to give her what I could not give to Tata. She could come with me to America, to live a long life and die happy.
While I was in Algeria, I fantasized what it would be like for me, as an adult, to have a relationship with Maman. In her letters, brief as they were, Maman seemed hungry for my attention, to possibly reclaim the lost years when I was at boarding school or living with Tata and the Leroys. And yes, I had been going over and over again how I would bring up the question, the question that has tormented me for years. I want to hear what she has to say about it.
I want. I want. I just want so much. I am a man, but like a baby, I want my mother. I need my maman.
But I have come too late. As I sit at her bedside, Maman takes her last breath. I don’t want to leave her here alone, so Madame Good and I sit there for a little while longer as she comforts me.
I CRY ALL THE WAY from Paris to Normandy. I think of that train journey years ago after Tata died when I couldn’t stop crying. Then I realized that I would never have a chance to take care of Tata. Now I will never have a chance to take care of Maman.
I want life to be right, to be fair. But it isn’t right or fair.
The Missing Matisse Page 27