Florida in the early seventies is not as overdeveloped as it will become. The landscape is predominantly made up of orange and grapefruit groves and large agricultural fields that seem to go on forever. In some ways, it reminds me of rural France. There are incredible amounts of wildlife, especially birds, and lakes where I swim with snakes and alligators.
After a year, I am promoted to manager of the cadastral department. I record property boundaries, buildings, and other details. Mr. Hausman lets me work at my own pace. Over a period of four years, I help take an unorganized department and turn it into one of the top mapping teams in the country. When I am interviewing potential employees, I look for the same three qualities that have served me well: a desire to work, a good attitude, and the ability to learn.
In my leisure time, I begin painting Florida landscapes, detailing the rich ecological diversity around me. Coastal and inland terrains, swamps, marshes, sunrises, sunsets—there is always something interesting to capture. With a palette knife I spread thick coats of flamboyant colors on canvases, developing my bold and dashing style. When I’m concentrating on landscapes, it brings me an inner peace as I drink in the handiwork of the Master Artist.
IN 1976, I AM EXHIBITING some of my work at the Maitland Art Center when a fellow artist quietly takes me aside. “I saw that Jean Matisse died in Paris,” she says. It is a shock to hear my father’s name, let alone hear the news. Other than the obituary my friend gives me, I have no other information and hear nothing from anyone, not even Gérard.
Over the next few weeks, memories of Papa come flooding back. He was the one who taught me that I could do whatever I wanted if I put my mind to it. When I was developing some of my inventions, he never laughed or said that they were silly or wouldn’t work.
When I assisted him in the studio, Papa would repeat his father’s mantra: “Simplicity, Pierre. Simplicity is the most difficult.” Unlike his fellow sculptor Maillol, Papa would work up a sweat, his beard full of stone chips, plaster, or clay, and he would muse, “We don’t have to please everybody, Pierre. Just be true to yourself and your art.”
Papa lived in the shadow of his father’s fame and never achieved real acknowledgment in the art world. I know this was painful for him—after all, I’m an artist too. Yet he didn’t give up. He had no choice because he was born an artist.
“Always roll with the punches, Pierre! One of these days your turn will come, my boy.”
In the process of creating art and while exploring the inlets and waterways in my sailboat, I slowly bid Papa farewell. I always spend time in the boat when I need to work things out. Am I alone? Maybe. Or maybe I am there with God. All I know is that I find some peace and solace at last.
MY JOB IS GOING EXTREMELY WELL. In 1982, Mr. Hausmann calls me into his office and announces, “Pierre, we have decided we would like to computerize your entire department. What do you know about computers?”
“Mr. Hausmann, I know next to nothing about computers and I don’t want to learn.”
“Pierre, you knew nothing about cartography when I hired you, but you learned that. You’ll be grand at this new challenge.”
Touché. He knows me too well.
NEARLY TWO YEARS GO BY. My office is located in the Orange County Courthouse and I am sometimes asked to be a translator for French speakers appearing before the judge. That is the case on January 10, 1984. The presiding judge asks me to explain to a young French woman arrested for hitchhiking how dangerous the practice is, and that she has twenty-four hours to leave Orlando. The two of us are dismissed and leave the courtroom, taking a seat on a bench just outside the door.
A few moments later, I hear a gunshot from inside the courtroom. People are screaming and when the door opens, a young bailiff runs out, rushing past us. “Get down!” I say instinctively, pushing the woman sideways on the bench while I lean forward. The shooter, Thomas Provenzano, runs out of the courtroom and fires again. The gun’s flash is so close that I sustain powder burns to my face. Provenzano disappears in pursuit of the bailiff, and the French woman bolts in the other direction.
When Provenzano is caught and everything is over, one of my friends is dead, another is critically injured, and a third corrections officer is shot too. Even though Mr. Hausmann encourages me to take the rest of the day off, I prefer to stay.
That evening, when I go to the parking garage—surprise! There are police everywhere and yellow caution tape cordons off an area. My car is in one of the restricted spaces. When I approach an officer and ask if I can get to my vehicle, he says, “I’m sorry. The car next to yours belongs to the shooter. We found multiple weapons, ammunition, grenades, and pipe bombs in his vehicle, and he may have placed a pipe bomb in your car and the one on the other side. They are investigating right now.”
It took a while before all three cars were checked thoroughly, and Provenzano’s vehicle was towed away. I never did find out if the police found a bomb in mine or not. Good thing I didn’t try to go home early. God had my back twice in one day. Once again, I thank Him for protecting me and so many others.
MY TEAM AND I are reaching the culmination of our computer challenge—to have the geographical information system (GIS) software ready to be sent into space on a satellite. That satellite launched by NASA will be sending information back, based on the interfacing with sensors that have been placed throughout the county. If it works, it could be the national standard for survey mapping.
On a cold morning in late January 1986, I am invited by NASA to be at the launch. Seventy-three seconds after liftoff, the Challenger shuttle explodes, obliterating the hopes, dreams, and lives of the seven crew members aboard.
I mourn the deaths of these fallen heroes, along with the rest of the country, and pray for their families. I remember President Ronald Reagan’s words that night on television. “We will never forget them . . . as they prepared for their journey and waved good-bye and ‘slipped the surly bonds of earth [to] touch the face of God.’”
The tragedy grounds US space missions for three years, pushing back our schedule for the computerized mapping. In due time, another satellite is launched and I can tell Mr. Hausmann that the project is finally working.
IN 1990, AFTER TWENTY YEARS in my quiet desk job, I retire to follow my dreams—I will be a full-time artist and pursue writing as well. Florida’s sun and waters finally get the back patched up, for the most part.
Shortly after I retire, marriage number two falls apart. I have to face the fact that I have trouble communicating with the people I love and hold dear. Years ago, I couldn’t talk to Maman to ask her the questions or say the words I wanted to say. The same is true with my children, even though I try.
But I do not have to wait long to fall in love again. The next charmer is pure French, a woman named Edmond. This marriage gets off to a rocky start because Chris is still in my life. I am helping Chris—there is no one else she can turn to.
IN 1992, I RECEIVE an unexpected letter from Camille Leroy, who is nearly ninety. He asks me to come to the French Riviera to sign some legal documents—again. On paper, I am still his son.
In France, there is a strict right of succession law concerning direct descendants and the inheritance of property. So Camille has cooked up a scheme. His wife is going to adopt me so that when Camille dies, she can inherit his property without having to share it with me.
I reassure him that I will not object. “You should know by now that I wouldn’t take a speck of dust from the Leroy family,” I write in response.
“Paper is always best. Better to be sure,” he replies.
Over the next few months, we exchange several brief letters, coordinating the time when I can visit. Hopefully this trip will break my connection to him forever.
When I see him, I feel nothing—I have no affection for him. Even in his older years, he is certainly nothing like his father.
After the lawyer leaves with the official papers and we are alone, I decide to tackle the burning question that
has been eating at my heart for years. Now that the property is forever his, he has no more reason to tell me anything but the truth.
“Your mother told me that you are not my father,” I say.
He looks at me with his cold blue eyes. “She was right. It was never in question among those of us so intimately involved. It was an impossibility. But if asked, I will deny it to the world,” he says, waiting for me to react.
I can feel the rage rising inside me, but I keep it inside. “Why didn’t you clear this matter up long ago? It would have saved you a lot of trouble.”
“Your mother was a wench, and your father, Jean, was a drunk. They used me and humiliated me. This is how I have gotten even with them all these years—through you.” His face is expressionless and emotionless.
“You all made it so easy,” he goes on. “Now, thanks to your stupid code of honor and pride, it is finished. I have it all, and more to the point, you have nothing from either side!”
I am at a loss for an answer but instinctively respond, “I loved my mother and father.”
“That’s visceral,” he answers, not the slightest bit disturbed.
I am ready to strangle him. “What did this achieve?”
“I did not want you, but I did not want them to have you either. Don’t you see? They had this son, but he could never really be their son.” His eyes gleam with vengeance, even after all these years.
Camille continues. “Jean got Louise, but I withheld his firstborn son and disinherited you. You have been very helpful in my plan, and now I have my victory!”
Though I am supposed to stay in the French Riviera for two weeks, I leave the next morning and head for Paris to visit a friend and then head home. As I make myself comfortable in my seat for the transatlantic flight, I am relieved. This Leroy chapter is truly finished now.
Unfortunately, another relationship ends for me two years later, when Edmond and I divorce in 1994. As Edmond reminds me, Chris warned her that I wasn’t good marriage material. Again I am alone, without a family. I wonder if this pattern will follow me all my life. But it is during this time that I bury myself in my art, concentrating on landscapes.
32
IDENTITY
It takes two to speak the truth; one to speak, and another to hear.
HENRY DAVID THOREAU
I AM SIXTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD and still hoping to find my life partner. I subscribe to a few formal introduction matchmaking services, which result in thirty-five first dates. I know what I’m looking for in a wife and can spot red flags immediately. None of the women I meet are the right one.
What I don’t know is that a woman named Jeanne is being strongly encouraged by a friend associated with one of the dating services to get in touch with me. It takes a while, but on July 25, 1995, she finally makes the call.
I have heard of love at first sight, but I know I love Jeanne at the sound of her voice, during our first phone conversation. I don’t pull any punches, quickly letting her know that I am not interested in casual dating; I am looking for someone to share my life with. She tells me both her size and her age, thinking that one or the other fact will certainly deter me. I just tell her my size and age.
With that out of the way, we discuss our philosophies of life, our views on relationships, the qualities we are looking for in someone, the fact that we don’t just want a companion—we want it all.
“I believe that there are really only two kinds of people in the world—givers and takers,” Jeanne says. “Takers should never be given a marriage license—they should be given a business contract!”
I completely agree.
I am captivated by her honesty and openness. She is bright and engaging, with an opinion on almost any subject. Midway through our first conversation, Jeanne asks if we can take a short break so she can drive home. It turns out that the entire time we’ve been talking, she has been using a Simon personal communicator mobile phone in her parked car, overlooking the ocean. (To this day, Jeanne says that we were introduced by Simon.) I give her time to get settled, then call her back, and we continue our four-hour conversation. We share our hopes and dreams and move on to shared interests: music, books, God, family, travel, photography, movies, and museums.
Jeanne has worked in costuming and set design for Broadway productions and ballet in New York City and has been in the travel industry and with Universal Studios in New York for both film and TV. And if that isn’t enough, she has done furniture design and fabrication with her father and brother, showcasing her creativity. I can’t believe that she has built furniture too!
Jeanne is Native American mixed with Scottish and French blood—one cannot be more American than that. I say that I was born in Paris but now am an American citizen—nothing more. At five minutes to midnight, we say good night, after I ask Jeanne to join me for dinner the next evening. We agree to meet in front of my house, where she will leave her car, and we’ll drive to dinner.
We go to a Chinese buffet, and Jeanne tastes her first mussels. How could that be! She had told me she loved oysters, so I naturally concluded that she must like mussels, too. Thankfully, she does. The restaurant isn’t busy, so we have the place nearly to ourselves. As I head back to the table with our dessert, I look at her sitting there and think, What a lovely woman she is.
When we get back to my apartment, I invite her inside to see my “etchings,” which are actually my paintings of Florida. Once again, we talk until midnight, a continuation of the conversation from the night before. I realize that we can be true to ourselves and be true to each other at the same time. In essence, she is a delight.
At the end of the evening, Jeanne asks if I would give her a hug. “Yes, of course,” I reply, taking her in my arms and kissing her gently on the forehead. You could say our first date went well, because we marry on our second date—a week later. My proposal is simple and to the point: “Why don’t you pack a bag, come for dinner, and spend the rest of your life?”
“What time do you want me to arrive?” Jeanne asks.
Later that evening, our vow to each other before God is simple: “I vow to spend eternity with you.”
TWO DAYS LATER, I get cold feet. I am afraid of our age difference—I’m sixty-eight and Jeanne is forty-nine. What if I’m unable to care for her at some point? I don’t want it to end, but I don’t want Jeanne to make a mistake and be hurt either. She senses my deep anxiety and is ready to leave. But before she leaves, she says, “I love you. But I won’t stay where I’m not wanted. If you can look me in the eyes and say you don’t love me, I will leave right now.”
“I can’t say that because it’s not true,” I respond.
“Then it is settled. We are together for eternity,” Jeanne replies.
I know I have met my soul mate, which Jeanne believes with all her heart has been God’s plan all along.
When I meet Jeanne’s family and we tell her parents that we are married, her mother says, “This can’t be allowed. There was no ceremony, no family, and no reception.”
As I panic, Jeanne joins her mother and they begin to plan a more formal ceremony and reception, choosing the date of September 23. We fondly refer to this as our second anniversary.
Over the next week, I meet all five of Jeanne’s children. Her daughter Laura says, “Mom met, fell in love with, and married this French guy. She was suddenly totally occupied before he was even on the family radar screen.”
Obviously, I’m the French guy.
THAT SAME WEEK Camille Leroy jumps back into my life yet again, after three years of silence. Annie Leroy calls to tell me her husband has died. I respectfully console her in her loss, all the while feeling nothing, not even a faint sense of loss at the passing of this stranger.
A few days later, Annie calls back in a panic. Camille’s lawyer, whom I met three years ago in France, has messed things up. The plan for Annie to inherit everything instead of splitting it with me has been foiled. The French authorities never finalized my “adoption,” probably
suspicious of an adoption request involving someone in his midsixties at the time—me. I am still Camille’s legal son and receive a letter notifying me of my inheritance. Annie Leroy is stuck; she cannot settle the estate without my approval.
I haven’t changed my mind about the inheritance, but I do not want to keep this a secret from Jeanne, even though now I have to explain this name and identity mess to her. Will this change Jeanne’s mind about our future together?
We sit down, and I give her a quick version of my family history that has led to the frantic phone call from Annie. I can see the surprise on Jeanne’s face, and then she says, “Pierre, this is your inheritance to give away. You do what you feel is right for you and Mrs. Leroy.”
That is all I need to hear. I send more official papers to France so that the grieving widow can inherit all of her husband’s estate. Even though I still have the Leroy name, I am finally finished with that part of my life.
I know that Jeanne fell in love with me without knowing any of my ties to the Matisse family, and yet I battle an underlying fear: Is this marriage going to work? I want it to work. I remember what Tata said to me the last time I saw her, more than fifty years ago. “Pierre, I can see that when you marry, you’ll be good to your wife.” Yes, Tata, I am trying to do that.
Months pass and then years, and our relationship grows stronger. We love each other every moment of every day, and we make sure to let each other know it. Love is like freedom—one must not take it for granted. One must work at it and protect it continually.
Each year we celebrate not a single wedding anniversary day—August 1—but an entire week, beginning on July 25. Even if we are in the same room, Jeanne picks up the phone and calls me, just like she did twenty-one years ago. We recreate the opening lines of that first conversation, until we start laughing together.
The Missing Matisse Page 31