The Missing Matisse

by Pierre H. Matisse

  Once in Normandy, I cry for days, grieving for Tata, Grandfather Milhau, and now my mother. I am only twenty-one. Where are my loved ones? Where is my family?

  Malaria hits me harder, and in the midst of that, I receive the invitation for Maman’s funeral. She will be buried next to her parents in Saint-Georges-de-Didonne. I’m too ill, and I don’t have the money to travel that far. Coming out of the army, I’m flat broke.

  To add insult to injury, the invitation lists all the family members—the Matisses, and then Pierre Leroy. It cuts me through the heart to see it.

  It’s probably best that I cannot attend. I was the only one there with Maman at the end. I am seething with anger toward the Matisse family, especially Papa. How could he let my mother die in such abject conditions, abandoned and alone? Maman loved him with all her heart and soul. I love him, but I am deeply hurt by what has happened and how he did nothing to stop it.

  I eventually write to Gérard, telling him how sorry I am. After all, he has lost his mother too. I never receive a response.

  The items from Grandfather Henri that I left with Maman are never returned to me either.

  Now everything in my mind is blurry and confused. Only one thing is clear to me. I hate the abominable name I carry. I am alone, without a family, and I don’t want to hear about it any longer. I will do what I have to in order to survive. Whenever I get to America, I am never looking back.

  29

  O CANADA

  There are two kinds of adventurers: those who go truly hoping to find adventure and those who go secretly hoping they won’t.

  WILLIAM LEAST HEAT MOON IN BLUE HIGHWAYS

  DURING THE WAR, my adventures did not include young women. But now that I have recovered somewhat from malaria and the loss of Maman, I turn to a new folly. Her name is Anna De Wever, and we have known each other since I moved to Normandy.

  Her father, George, is a Belgian farmer who lives a half-mile from the Leroys on a huge estate. Over the years, I ran to their farm nearly every day to buy something that either Mathilde or the craftsmen needed, so I naturally became friends with Anna, along with her two sisters and three brothers.

  Anna is twenty, a tall, good-looking girl, and I fall for her. Such lovely sirens have a tendency to get us sailors venturing into dangerous waters, mostly into deeper trouble than we can handle.

  We get married on April 1, 1950, and in December 1951 our first child, Patrick, is born. I adore him, and like most fathers, I work hard to support my family but steal every moment I can to hold him and play with him. I am concerned for his future here in France. The country is becoming socialist and communist, which is not what the good men and women fought and died for in World War II.

  We have been married for about a year and a half, but Anna and I have not grown as close as I thought we would. I hope that she will come to trust me and will share with me more freely over time.

  One day I tell Anna, “I’m tired of France and the direction this country is heading. I want to see the world and spend our lives in America. Right now, it’s easier to emigrate to Canada. What do you think?”

  I expect some resistance, but Anna agrees to the move. After bidding her family and the Leroys good-bye, our family of three flies out of Paris’s Le Bourget Airport in an Air France Constellation, heading to a new adventure in Montreal, Quebec.

  Since Quebec is a French-speaking province, it will be less of a culture shock for Anna, who speaks only French. She will have time to learn English before we move to the United States. However, when we arrive in 1952, Montreal is experiencing a chronic unemployment problem. Wages are desperately low, and I take as many temporary jobs as I can. The savings that we brought with us from France melts faster than the snow.

  I need to find steady work. So after only a month in Montreal, I buy a 1941 Dodge sedan that has seen better days. We leave Montreal in mid-March, heading nearly three hundred miles north to Chicoutimi in the Quebec wilderness, where I’ve heard there is work. At forty miles an hour, the car is sliding all over the icy road while passing eighteen-wheelers stranded in the ditch.

  We arrive in Quebec City safely—only 130 miles of desolate wilderness to go. The snow has stopped and the roads look clear ahead.

  “Don’t you think that you are going a little too fast, Pierre? I’m getting queasy,” Anna says with concern.

  “Relax. There is nobody on the road. Look out the window, Anna. It’s the great Canadian North—so beautiful and wild. Chicoutimi, here we . . .” Before I can finish my sentence, the car is doing fancy figure eights. I turn the wheel like a madman, hoping to avoid hitting the snowbank at full force. We don’t hit it, just do another pirouette. This car can really skate.

  I make an abrupt left turn, then right turn. Anna is screaming. Finally, the car stops spinning, right in the middle of the road.

  I am dizzy, but I get out of the car to steady myself. As soon as I put my foot down on the road, my feet fly up in the air and I fall on the icy surface.

  Somehow, we make it to Chicoutimi, where we learn the road’s nickname: the Boulevard of Death.

  THERE IS NO WORK in Chicoutimi, so we continue to Saint Joseph D’Alma. We find a room at a primitive hotel, and while we are having dinner, a tall man approaches our table.

  He holds out his hand. “Bonjour, my name is John La Rivière.”

  I guess we look a little out of place in our city clothes, sitting in a roomful of locals dressed in boots, heavy wool shirts, and fur-lined parkas.

  After the introductions, I ask the important question: Is there work here?

  John, a Plains Cree Indian from Saskatchewan, actually served with the Canadian army in France so we become fast friends.

  “The work is farther north, in La Chute du Diable.”

  It’s always a little bit north.

  What is a little bit north is the construction of a hydro-electric dam project, so John and I team up as carpenters. As we get to know each other, John learns that I have handled explosives in Algeria. Soon, John says, “Follow my lead,” as we enter the command shack.

  “This is Pierre, the Frenchman who knows all about explosives,” John says to the crew foreman.

  The foreman looks at me. “You can handle dynamite?”

  “Sure,” says John with a smile that says trust me.

  “Very well. However,” the foreman’s expression turns serious, “I must tell you that the last few dynamite jockeys died on the job.”

  “No problem,” John answers, and we leave to meet our crew.

  Once again, John makes the introductions. “Hello, this is Pierre, your new crew chief, and I am his assistant.”

  One man steps forward, offering his hand. “My name is Paulo. Welcome, Boss,” he says with a big grin and a thick Italian accent.

  “So, what are we trying to do?” I ask.

  Once I see what needs to be blown up, I begin calculating how much dynamite to use. I carefully check and double check myself, then tell John, who relays the information to Paulo. “We will need three and a half sticks of dynamite.”

  As I check once again, I turn just in time to see one of the workers take out his knife to cut the stick of dynamite in half. “No!” I scream, startling everyone and just about knocking John over to get to Mister Knife and snatch the stick from his hand.

  Now that I have the men’s attention, I wait for my heart to stop hammering in my chest and then show them how to whittle a piece of wood into a knife. “You have to use this to cut dynamite,” I explain, “to avoid any static friction from the metal that could ignite the dynamite and blow us to kingdom come!” The crew appreciates the valuable information.

  “John, we do this gig only for three months and then we quit. And not a word to Anna that I’ve been handling explosives. Agreed?”

  “Agreed!” he answers without any hesitation.

  They say God watches over fools and children—I know we fit at least one category.

  ANNA, PATRICK, AND I live in a rented log c
abin on a small river, which we call home until the fall. Each evening, when I get home, a lone owl welcomes me with its hoo-hoo. Anna likes seeing the occasional moose and black bear, and Patrick is lulled to sleep by wolves’ choruses.

  My budding photography skills are coupled with my love of aviation when I am hired to take aerial photographs of the construction as it progresses. That’s how I come to know a bush pilot whom I quickly nickname Flying Circus.

  His plane is a beat-up Piper Cub that looks more like a kite than a plane. I can tell he has had more than a few beers just by the way he is navigating himself toward me.

  “What’s your name? You ever flown before?”

  “I’m Pierre. Yes, in German Junkers, but I was only parachuting out of them.”

  “I don’t like parachutes. They make me feel that flying isn’t safe.” From that moment on, he calls me Frenchy Parachute.

  I show him on the map where we need to go for the photographs. As we get in the plane, I tighten my seatbelt as much as I can—the door has been removed on my side.

  Flying Circus makes the first pass, but the plane is too high and has drifted off target. On the second pass, my eyes are glued to the camera viewfinder. This time I know I got the picture, in all probability . . . posthumously.

  For whatever reason, Flying Circus can’t pull up, and we keep on going down. The menacing Devil’s Fall Dam construction site is coming at us so fast, I feel I can touch the rocks and taste the cold water.

  “That blasted down draft almost did us in,” says Flying Circus calmly, after he miraculously lands us on the ground safely. “I need a beer. How about you, Frenchy Parachute?”

  I am just glad that I have the photo I need and didn’t lose my lunch during the flight.

  IN MY FREE TIME, I return to my art studies, making plans for the future, and I dream. Hopefully, I can become as good a creative artist as Grandfather Henri and, with success, support my family.

  What an ambition! Well, if one dreams, why not dream big? Cheap dreams are for the timid. Besides, whether dreams are small or big, the cost is the same—nothing. Dreams are about the only free thing in this world.

  I remember well what Grandfather Henri told me many times: “Pierre, you have to have more than one string to your bow. What is your second string, Pierre?”

  Without any hesitation I would answer, “I will be a famous painter like you and a great writer like Hemingway.”

  Grandfather Henri thought for a moment, gave me a nod of approval, and logically concluded, “First you will have to get a regular job to support yourself, then work at your art on the side.”

  AT AUTUMN’S END, John leaves for Saskatchewan. Anna and I have decided to winter in Chicoutimi, and I find some odd small construction jobs to keep us going. When the work dries up, who shows up at our door? Flying Circus! I’m surprised he is still in one piece.

  “How about a little photo flying, Parachute?”

  “Does it pay?” I ask, not sure this is a good idea.

  “Danger always pays well.”

  “What am I photographing?”

  “We’re surveying wolf packs and a few other scenic shots.”

  “All right, but no drinking before flying!” I say firmly.

  “Only one small Molson before takeoff or no deal, Parachute.”

  I reluctantly agree.

  We are dressed for a polar expedition and with our bulky outerwear, we barely fit in the plane. Fortunately, the air is smooth. Half an hour later, we see only ice-covered lakes and snow-packed woods.

  “Take the controls while I read the map. I think I’m lost!” screams Flying Circus above the loud propeller.

  “I don’t know how to fly this thing!”

  “Nothing to it, Parachute. Grab the stick. Pull it toward you, and we climb. Push it away from you, and we go down. Left, we bank and turn left. Do the opposite to go right. If you need power, the gas control is on your left.”

  We bump up and down while I desperately fiddle with the stick.

  “Parachute, you’re all over the sky. Keep her steady, will you?” Finally, my fear begins to subside.

  “Much better, but watch your air speed. You’re a natural, Parachute. I know where we are. Get your camera out. I’ll take over from here.”

  I pass my first lesson with flying colors. After a few more of these outings, I am landing the plane and taking off too.

  WE ARE IN the initial weeks of the Canadian winter when Anna and I welcome our second baby, Louise Henriette Victoria, into the world. I have been making a hand-carved, wall-mounted table for a friend, Monsieur Mallard, and when he mentions that he is going to France to purchase some antique furniture, I give him names of dealers in Normandy. After his business is finished, he plans to visit the Leroys for me.

  When Monsieur Mallard returns to Canada, he has a surprise for me from Grandfather Leroy. As soon as he leaves, I open the box and cannot believe my eyes. Inside are the impromptu ink sketches that Grandfather Henri did while attending my mother’s exhibit of her figurines in 1942, as well as the finished composition pieces of the same sketches that he completed in his studio. I fall silent, overcome with emotion. It’s as if Maman and Grandfather Matisse are in the room with me. When my mother died, I was too traumatized to take care of the succession formalities and asked Grandfather Leroy to do it on my behalf. My inheritance from Maman was these valuable drawings that Grandfather Leroy had put away and forgotten about.

  After I show Anna the drawings, I put them in a safe place. It is a comfort to know they are here in my possession now. However, shortly after, Anna develops a serious health problem requiring surgery.

  I have no option except to get as much cash as possible for dear Anna.

  But what do I have of value? Only the Matisse sketches. With a heavy heart, I contact the local art dealer to show him the original impromptu sketches by my grandfather.

  I will not let the other drawings out of my hands, the cherished composition drawings Grandfather made of Maman’s ceramic figurines. They are all I have of her. When the art dealer offers me the shameful amount of ninety Canadian dollars for the drawings, I take it. What else can I do when adversity rocks my boat but survive as best as I can?

  I WORRY about our little family’s future, and say yes to one more lucrative adventure with Flying Circus. Off we go, in the middle of winter, to what looks like a wild, forsaken place. We complete our job and land for the night. Flying Circus sets the plane down as close as he can to the only inn for more than a hundred miles.

  We put on snowshoes and tramp through the drifts. Parked outside the inn are a few dogsleds, some with barking dogs still harnessed to them.

  Flying Circus kicks the door open. The big room is packed solid, and the smoke from pipes, cigars, and cigarettes is so thick I can barely see or breathe. My partner strides to the service desk with a tough air of importance.

  “We need a room,” he demands rudely.

  “You’re lucky. It’s the last one,” says the fellow behind the desk.

  “What’s for dinner?” asks Flying Circus.

  “Moose stew.” We find a table and sit down.

  Suddenly, a man the size of a mountain in a black bearskin coat enters the inn. He goes straight to the desk, takes a hand as big as a shovel out of his fur mitten, and pounds it for service. The whole place shakes. He appears to have consumed too much “caribou,” the local moonshine, and can barely stand.

  “I want a room!” The drunken Giant roars.

  “We don’t have any.” The clerk pauses, then looks at us. “Those two fellows took the last one.”

  I believe the Giant could kill me with his breath alone, so I am ready to duck under a table. The Giant grunts, burps loudly, growls, and gives us a dirty look. Then, rolling from side to side, like a vessel in a stormy sea, he heads straight to the wall and turns around. Backing up, he reaches for the collar of his coat, and hangs himself on a couple of big pegs like an abstract painting, immediately falling asleep a
nd snoring. I am having a hard time keeping the cork on my laughter, but I hold it in, just in case the Giant wakes up and takes offense.

  Eventually, I get a few hours of sleep, but not in our room. Flying Circus needed some privacy for a romantic interlude. So I stretch out on one of the tables in the big room. What a trip—thankfully, the last one.

  NEXT, I WORK HARD painting billboards for an advertising company, and for a while everything goes well. But then, an unwelcome intruder shows up in my life. I had no idea this troublemaker existed until he began complaining once in a while. I tell him to shut up, but he doesn’t listen. It turns out I have a serious back problem, and I need someone to fix it.

  The X-ray results are not a surprise—my villain looks like a snake! At times, the pain is so excruciating that I’m forced to stay flat in bed for a full week before I can go back to work. When I don’t work, there is no money. The Boches were easier to beat than the menacing Back. We are sinking financially, and our plans to move to the United States are being trampled by rising medical expenses and lost wages.

  EVERY TIME I look too closely at Anna, she gives birth to another child. Next comes Peter in November 1954, two years after Louise. At twenty-six years old, I have three wonderful children, whom I love with all my heart. I teach all of them English, and we speak it at home.

  Finally, the last week of November, I see a famous Chicoutimi orthopedist, who examines me, looks at the X-rays, and says, “Here’s the bad news: You need a serious operation. Without it, you will die.” Then he gives me the good news. “If you survive, you have a chance of not only living many more years, but regaining mobility. The surgery involves taking a piece of tibia bone and fusing it to your lower spine, then fusing two vertebrae together. I would surmise that this deterioration of your spine is a combination of malnutrition during the war, physical stress, as well as that fall you had on your back in that parachute jump you described to me.”

  “Operate? No way!” I reply. “I chicken out at the sight of a needle. I have a family to take care of. I must have time to prepare.”

  “Your sacro-lumbar area is a mess. You have waited too long, and now you’re in serious danger.”