Cooking for Picasso

by Camille Aubray

  That seemed unlikely, so she kept looking. A blank canvas stood on an easel in the far corner. Nearby was a small table crowded with unopened pots of paint and pristine brushes. She moved toward an alcove with a skylight overhead, where a large round table was heaped with newspapers and crumpled-up sketches, all thrown randomly about. Anything could be hidden under there.

  Ondine drew closer and peered at the drawings, then involuntarily exclaimed, “Dieu! Is this what he’s been up to here?”

  At first she averted her eyes, as if a sailor had lured her into an alleyway to show her bad pictures he’d gotten from a whorehouse. But the images were so complicated that she had to go on staring to make sense of them.

  One sketch was a terrifying tangle of two naked figures—a man and a woman—locked in the violent throes of a ferocious animalistic rape that at first seemed more like a lion devouring a horse. But no, these were humans, all right—for no anatomical detail was spared, including their pubic hair and sex organs.

  The female was a sweet-faced blonde with a rather long nose which prevented her from being a true beauty. She had full thighs and arms and breasts and buttocks—a sturdy, athletic-looking girl, yet she was thrown into a position of helpless submission, with her head flung back from the impact of the assault, and her round breasts and belly defenselessly upturned like fleshy melons being devoured by the man—if you could call him a man, for he was a strange, horned beast with a naked human body, his aggressive flanks and penis clearly visible. Yet, he had the head—and even the tail—of a bull; and this creature’s nostrils seemed to be snorting puffs of rage.

  Baffled, Ondine glanced at the other violent pictures and discovered that, although the poses varied, the model was always the same blonde woman. Ondine was relieved that the last sketch was a happier one, depicting the nude beast-man and his naked lady contentedly reclining on a sofa in repose, with wreaths on their heads and goblets of wine in their hands. Behind them was a window indicating a pleasant day outside. The couple looked sweet and companionable, a friendly satyr and his goddess wife at home, becalmed, sated and affectionate.

  This drawing had been held down by a large seashell employed as a paperweight. The shell’s rippling colors of peach and violet and cream were so appealing that Ondine picked it up and held it to her ear to see if she could hear the sea while she continued staring at the images, mesmerized.

  “You like the Minotaur?”

  A rich male voice, speaking in French with a slight Spanish accent, came from the doorway behind her. Ondine whirled about guiltily. Caught nosing around the man’s work already! All the worse since her Patron’s career involved drawing naked ladies doing strange things with bestial men. Ondine felt her face flush with shame.

  The man in the doorway looked inscrutable, lounging there with his hands in his pockets, staring intently at her with the darkest, blackest eyes she’d ever seen, his gaze so riveting that she froze like a forest animal who’d just heard a twig snap.

  “Bonjour, Patron!” she managed to gasp, wanting to flee and yet rooted to the spot.

  With his almond-shaped face, blunt nose and barrel of a chest, this man seemed like a primitive figure carved out of dark wood. Like a savage from Africa or Polynesia, Ondine could not help thinking, reminded of the missionary books in the convent—because it seemed as if this man belonged in animal skins and a headdress made of hawk’s feathers, instead of the good-quality jacket and cap that he wore.

  “Bonjour,” he replied, still studying her boldly. When finally he smiled, it was like warm sunlight suddenly filling the room with invigorating energy. Ondine exhaled in relief, for he looked more human now as he removed his jacket. In fact, his clothes belonged to a fairly conservative middle-aged man: open-collared shirt, pullover sweater, wool pants neatly belted.

  As he drew nearer she realized that for a man, he really was terribly short, even shorter than she was. He took off his wool cap, not to tip it at her as other men might, but merely to toss on a chair with his jacket. Absently he ran a hand over his thinning hair, which was parted on one side and combed over the top of his head; yet it was longish and floppy, indicating the freedom of an artist.

  Still the Patron did not speak. He continued staring in a way that most people would think rude. It was almost challenging, the way he seemed to take her in—not simply her clothes and appearance, but her thoughts and feelings, too. Part of her wanted to run and hide; yet there was such intelligence and vitality in his magnetic gaze that she found herself moving toward him, as if he were the planet Jupiter and she was a new little moon caught by his gravitational pull and turned into a willing satellite.

  “You are the girl from the café?” he now asked politely. His voice was cultured but slightly nasal. Although he spoke French easily, he hit his consonants harder and, to her ear, exaggerated the vowels.

  “Excusez-moi, Patron,” she murmured, guiltily putting the seashell back on the table. She knew that she should bow her head and not stare back at him; this was what her father and the village elders expected a woman to do when confronted by male authority.

  But then she remembered the red pepper he’d drawn on his note. How could a pepper look so playful? And yet it did. Thinking about that jaunty, cartoony pepper and the friendly words underneath it, Ondine suddenly could not hold back a smile.

  “I am happy to serve you. And, next time I’ll remember to add more red peppers,” she said.

  He appeared surprised. “Oh, so you are the cook? Well, you do good work for one so young.”

  Ondine hadn’t meant to claim credit for her mother’s bouillabaisse, but she could see no graceful way to retract it, so instead she gestured toward his pages on the table and said shyly, “Sorry to intrude on your work.”

  “Do you know the story of the Minotaur?” he asked, his voice low and compelling as if reading aloud a fairy tale. “He reigns over an island. The locals sacrifice their prettiest girls from the village to service the Minotaur in his decadent villa. He can’t decide if he wants to ravish them or kill them. Sometimes he does both. But he also invites poets and artists and musicians to play and sing and dance for him; everyone feasts on champagne and fish, and their orgies continue all day and night. The Minotaur rules by force over all the women, young and old—but they fear him, so he can never truly be loved for himself. But one Sunday, a young fisherman from the mainland will find his way through the Minotaur’s labyrinth, and kill the sacred monster with a dagger.”

  He lunged forward at the pictures and made a thrusting move as if with a sword. “But there will always be another minotaur to replace him,” he said matter-of-factly, “because all women love a monster.”

  Ondine was speechless, spellbound.

  “Which picture is your favorite?” he asked in a gentle, soothing tone, so calm that perhaps there was something mocking in it. He reminded her of the impish boys who congregated outside school and tried to trick a girl into showing them her underpants.

  He was waiting for her answer. Ondine lifted her chin defiantly. “This one,” she said, as casually as if she were selecting a rose from the florist, pointing to the friendlier, domestic scenario between the Minotaur and the blonde woman resting luxurious and naked on cushions together.

  “Well, you can’t have the calm without the storm,” Picasso teased. “What’s your name?”

  “Ondine,” she answered.

  “Ah, the water nymph! From the seas of Juan-les-Pins,” he exclaimed with humor.

  Something made Ondine say daringly, “Shall I address you as Monsieur Ruiz—or Picasso?”

  “Shh!” he said playfully, putting a finger to his lips. “Both names are mine. My parents gave me the longest string of names you can imagine—to honor so many uncles and relatives! Here in town, I use Ruiz, my father’s family name. But since he, too, was an artist, I sign my work with my mother’s family name; and so now I am simply—” he thumped his chest and declared with mock savagery, “Picasso.”

  As if remin
ded of his purpose, he turned away from her and began sorting through the many jars and brushes and other mysterious tools that filled the tables around him. Ondine understood that it was time to leave him to his work, and she quietly slipped from the room.

  Not until she reached the kitchen did she remember why she’d gone up there.

  “Oh, I forgot to ask him about Maman’s pitcher!” she exclaimed in distress. But she certainly couldn’t go bother him now. If her mother asked for it, Ondine would have to make up some excuse.

  —

  WHEN ONDINE RETURNED to the café, Madame Belange said briskly, “There’s a party at a villa out on the Cap. That Parisian family with the wild daughter, she’s having a birthday fête—and their chef needs help because one of his ovens broke down!” The kitchen table was already filling up with big trays of hors d’oeuvres. Ondine quickly tied on an apron. “They’re sending a car to pick it up,” her mother said. “Be ready to take the trays out, and make sure you show them which are hot and which are cold.”

  Ondine expected a chef’s delivery truck, so she was startled when, a few hours later a sleek black limousine pulled up to the café. She untied her apron, smoothed her hair and dress and went staggering out with a big tray, followed by waiters carrying more trays.

  The back door of the car seemed to open by itself. When Ondine peered in, she saw three young men dressed in navy and white flannel; and two women in pastel party dresses. They all had cocktail glasses in hand, and one of the men held a bottle of champagne.

  “Here comes our food, splendide! But alas—the trunk is full of our luggage from the train!” a young man shouted, and a burst of merry laughter made it clear that they were all rather tipsy. They were several years older than Ondine, but they had the cheerful, pampered faces of milk-fed calves.

  They must have come down from Paris on the luxury Train Bleu, and clearly for them the party had already begun—or perhaps to this exuberant crowd, life was one never-ending party.

  “Come on,” said another fellow enthusiastically, “we’ll move the girls into the front seat, and you—what’s your name? Ondine, you say? Lovely. Well, Ondine, you can pile all that food right here next to us!”

  There were shrieks of laughter as the girls popped out of the car and then slid into the front seat beside the driver. Ondine carefully passed her tray to the boys in the back, then the waiters placed their stackable trays on top of hers until the whole thing nearly touched the inside of the car’s roof. Ondine asked the driver, “Who should I give the instructions to? Some of these need to be warmed up.”

  One of the young men heard her and said, “Better come with us, chérie, and explain it all to our hostess.” The driver jerked his head at Ondine and she had no choice but to slip into his front seat where the giggling girls were now crammed.

  “Onward, sir! Here, Ondine, have some champagne,” shouted the first fellow as he passed her a glass. The car lurched away so she sipped hastily, just to keep her drink from spilling. It was very good—like cool, golden sunlight in a glass. Ondine, crushed between the car door on one side and a girl’s corsage on the other, felt dizzy from the mingled perfume that transformed the auto into a hothouse of orchids and gardenias. And each time the driver made a turn his passengers whooped and exaggerated the swerve, leaning chummily against one another.

  “Hooray for my birthday party!” shouted one of the girls.

  Her friend announced pertly, “We all know why you’ve dragged us down here; it’s because you’re in love with a boy from Nice! You should have come to my party in Paris last week. Jean Renoir showed up, just to persuade Coco Chanel to design costumes for his next film. Renoir insisted that, since she did the costumes for one of Cocteau’s ballets, there is no way she can refuse him now. I heard Picasso painted the backdrops for that ballet, you know. I wonder if he’ll do that for Renoir’s film, too?”

  This caused the birthday girl to squeal, “Did Picasso come to your party? I’d so like to meet him!”

  “No, don’t you know that nobody can find Picasso these days? He’s simply disappeared. I hear he’s gone to the Orient to paint geisha girls! Would you pose nude for him? I would!” the other girl said.

  One of their escorts insisted, “Picasso’s not in the Orient. I know for a fact that he’s gone to Spain.”

  Ondine stifled a giggle. The champagne was making her wonder how they’d react if she blurted out her big secret: Hah! Picasso is a mere stone’s throw away from us this very minute!

  For the car was cruising past the steep hill that Ondine had cycled up only this afternoon. But she remained silent as they moved on, circling along the coast and then up another hill to the long, private driveway of a large white villa with an array of autos parked haphazardly near it. The limousine had barely come to a stop when one of the men jumped out and opened the front door that Ondine was leaning on.

  When she tumbled out, he caught her by the elbow with impeccable good manners. “Whoops! May I have this dance?” he joked. Picking up a tray he shouted, “Come on, let’s all help Ondine carry the food!” His friends took the remaining trays and the group plunged across the lawn leading to the villa, where Chinese lanterns glowed in the deepening darkness.

  “Here we are!” he called out to a tall, slender older woman with alabaster skin, who came gliding across the lawn toward them, her long neck making her look like a swan. She must be the hostess, for she had a natural air of authority.

  Ondine’s escort declared, “Voilà! Where do you want this luscious food?”

  The swan-woman answered, “Mes enfants, bring them to the kitchen.” Ondine heard the tinkling of piano and violins tuning up inside the house. Still carrying her tray, she followed the young people to the terrace, where waiters were offering drinks to guests who wafted about in billowing silk and chiffon.

  But now the hostess stepped in front of her, blocking her path and signalling to a waiter to take Ondine’s tray away. Ondine hastily tried to explain which appetizers needed heating.

  “Thank you very much,” the hostess said in a firm, dismissive tone. “My chef will know what to do. Good night.”

  Ondine flushed as if she’d been accused of trying to steal the family silver. She had come so close to the villa that she could see through the long windows into the dining room, where a magnificent table was laid with crystal and china and glowing candlelight. The guests wafted inside, silhouetted against the light, looking just as Ondine had been taught that carefree angels moved about in heaven.

  She backed away, returning to the parking area where the limousine remained, but it was empty and the driver had disappeared. Clearly she was not going home in the same style in which she’d arrived. She would have no other choice but to walk back to the café tonight.

  The day had started out so promisingly and excitingly, but now, as Ondine trudged through the inky darkness of the streets, although the taste of champagne was still tingling on her tongue, she felt a certain bitterness in her heart. She even felt foolish for having hopes of a happier, better future where she might discover what kind of woman she was destined to become.

  “I’ll bet that, all over the world, rich and important people are just the same as this lady was tonight. So what makes me think I can go out into the Great World and be welcomed with open arms, when I’ve got no husband, no money and nothing to recommend me?” Ondine scornfully chided herself. “They’ll never let me in, and that means my life will never change, no matter what I do or where I go!”

  Yet as she reached the harbor, a shooting star flashed across the black sky with such dramatic beauty that Ondine caught her breath, and something new occurred to her.

  “Those people at the party tonight just wish they could meet Picasso, and I already have! He didn’t treat me like a gate-crasher. He liked me—he even asked my opinion of his work.”

  It dawned on her that perhaps today’s omens meant that she did not have to venture far away in pursuit of a better destiny. Maybe, just maybe, Pica
sso was bringing the Great World to her doorstep, right here in Juan-les-Pins.

  Picasso, Juan-les-Pins, Spring 1936

  PABLO PICASSO WISHED HE HADN’T bothered to read today’s mail. It disrupted his newfound peace of mind, which was as delicate as a young green shoot in spring. At first, when he arrived in Juan-les-Pins, the forecast was not auspicious; the weather had gone damp and chilly, making him wonder if he’d made a mistake in retreating here out of season. For awhile he’d simply slept a dozen hours each day—and that itself was a miracle, after so many sleepless nights in Paris.

  Then, when he finally ran out of the provisions he’d travelled with, he put on an old coat and hat and slipped into town, roaming the small neighborhoods, enjoying the whole cloak-and-dagger drama of sneaking out of Paris and escaping here incognito. He gravitated to the lively, friendly Café Paradis, run by locals who seemed to know how to mind their own business. He’d ordered a good peasant stew of wild boar sausages and lentils, which warmed his blood and nourished his body and soul in a profound way, reminding him of his boyhood days in Spain. The rough red wine and the warm café seemed to wrap itself protectively around his shoulders like a blanket from his doting Italian mother.

  “This is just what I need,” Picasso told himself. “A month of it and I’ll be strong as a Miura bull!”

  But he also understood that his newly regained strength could so easily dissipate while tussling with those small decisions and tasks that he found so life-sapping, like the daily questions of, what to eat? What time? And where? Having to settle these Lilliputian things for himself simply exhausted him.

  So when the proprietor of the Café Paradis asked if he could be of more service, Picasso impulsively made an arrangement with Monsieur Belange to have his lunches brought up to him at the villa. This would hopefully become an anchor in his daily routine, ensuring that Pablo would not waste his energy with endless domestic indecision—therefore leaving him to his privacy and his work.