It had been nearly a week since Ondine was at Picasso’s villa, for he’d notified them that he did not need his meals delivered during the long Easter holiday. Ondine assumed he had family visiting, and since he’d been vague about when he might want her to return, she’d worried that he might no longer require her services. Ondine had felt strangely mournful about such a possibility; she’d come to depend on his stimulating aura of energy, and she was eager to get to know her mysterious Patron better.
So now she was relieved to hear that she was needed once again. But Ondine peered out the window incredulously. The rain was coming down so hard that the birds had stopped singing, and the cat and dog ran inside looking like two wet rats who’d deserted a sinking ship.
“Bicycle up there in this weather?” she asked in disbelief. “I’ll get soaked.” Apparently her mother had no idea of what it was like to pedal a bicycle; she acted as if it were a horse. But Ondine’s father did not own a horse or an auto.
Madame Belange continued, “The Patron told your father that from now on he wants you to come and cook in his kitchen as you did for his guests, and wait there for him to finish his lunch. Perhaps he finds all the coming and going too distracting. Well, he’s willing to pay more to have you cook up there for him. The extra money will surely help!” she said with a small, satisfied smile.
“He wants me to be his personal chef?” Ondine asked, startled at this turn of events.
“He says it would be easier for you.” Her mother peered at her suspiciously. “Why should he care about making your life easier? Did you complain to him?” Ondine shook her head vigorously, and her mother concluded, “Well, men are always kind to girls. Wait till you get to be my age, then they’ll show you their true colors. Alors! You’re going to have to really learn how to cook now. We’ll do as much preparation as we can here. Better wear your blue dress—it looks more serieuse. Take your rain slicker with the hood. And keep your mind on your cooking. But if Monsieur Ruiz asks for something different, don’t pout or try to be the boss. Just give him whatever he wants!”
“Yes, Maman,” Ondine said, thrilled to be treated as an adult, yet a bit scared to be heading into unknown territory.
Madame Belange studied her daughter appraisingly, then chided, “Remember, you’re only a cook, not a fairy-tale princess. You’ve been walking around on a cloud for days—your father and our customers noticed that you’ve been putting on airs! Don’t make fools of us with this Patron.”
Ondine was surprised at how deeply her mother’s words stung. It was true that, after the lunch party with Picasso’s artist friends, she’d felt a lingering joy that gave her a new belief in her destiny. It never occurred to her that she was wearing her hope on her sleeve for the entire town to mock. She’d been out in the park regularly flying the kite Picasso gave her, too; until yesterday when a sudden gust of wind impaled it on a sharp tree branch. She brought it home, intending to mend it. But her mother threw it out, refusing to listen to Ondine’s entreaties, saying, “You are no longer a child, and you have no need of broken toys.”
—
SO TODAY, AS Ondine cycled cautiously on the shiny black streets, she was in no mood for any challenging ill weather. She heard the rain pelting against her oilskin hood and jacket, but it wasn’t too bad until she pulled away from town and lost the shelter of its buildings. Then there was nothing shielding her from the wind that blew straight in from the sea, driving the storm clouds hard and causing sharp droplets of rain to blow sideways and splash onto her face.
Worse yet, just as Ondine reached the big steep hill to Picasso’s villa, the wind suddenly blew back her hood, leaving it dangling uselessly on her back, with her head completely exposed.
“Oh, la!” she exclaimed. She kept her head bowed in such concentrated effort that when she made the turn onto Picasso’s street she didn’t see a rabbit who darted into her path until it was too late.
“Attention, stupid rabbit!” Ondine cried out angrily as the foolish thing froze in panic, and then, instead of hopping into the safety of the tall grass beyond the road, rushed headlong into her path.
“Ai!” Ondine shrieked as she swerved wildly into Picasso’s driveway, where the wind had blown open his gate. Her bicycle teetered and then crashed loudly, sending her flying headlong into the gravel.
“Merde!” she shouted. It was the first time in her life she’d uttered that curse.
Then she remembered the food and she jumped up, retrieving her bicycle. At least the lock on the hamper had kept the meal from spilling out on the ground. Ondine parked her bike, unhooked the hamper and staggered toward the house. And now the roof chose to spill its rainy troubles on her head just as she came near.
The kitchen door squeaked open even before she reached for it, and Picasso stood there looking worried. He must have heard the crash and peered out his window, then come running down the stairs.
A cigarette was still clasped between two fingers. The other hand had fresh paint stains on it.
“Are you all right?” he asked worriedly. “Poor girl, come inside quickly. You are bleeding!”
Ondine’s legs were shaking as she climbed the stone steps to the kitchen while he held the door open. He took the heavy hamper from her trembling hands and set it on the kitchen table.
“Sorry!” she gasped.
“Sit down, sit down!” Picasso said in a calm, authoritative tone, pulling out a kitchen chair for her. She took off her wet, hooded slicker, which sent rivers of water to the floor.
As she sank gratefully onto the chair Ondine realized that she had a serious gash on her right knee, from which a rather impressive amount of blood was coursing down her leg. Horrified, she pulled her dress away from the blood so it would not get stained.
“Tiens!” Picasso exclaimed. He left the room momentarily and she heard him rummaging in a closet. He returned with an ancient-looking first-aid kit that the landlord had probably left. From this Picasso took a bottle of disinfectant, a square of gauze and wads of cotton, and laid them on the table.
Ondine, embarrassed but fascinated, watched mutely as he pulled up another chair and sat on it, then very gently picked up her leg and put it in his lap. Her skirt was still hiked up but she did not want to draw attention to it by tugging on it. Now he reached for a cotton wad, opened the bottle and doused it. There was a strong odor of disinfectant.
“Aaah!” Ondine could not help gasping as he held the cotton against the wound.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” he said, smiling with satisfaction. “It has to hurt to do good. Hold it there and press hard to stop the bleeding.” His attitude was more businesslike than sympathetic. She did as he said, determined to show him how brave she was despite the pain. He reached for a thin tea towel, held one end of it in his teeth, and, with a single swift gesture, tore it into two long, narrower strips.
Ondine was impressed by this tooth-and-claw prowess. He deposited the torn strips into her lap, then told her to remove the disinfectant wad so he could place the square patch of sterile gauze there.
“Hold that firmly,” he instructed, and he wound the strips of torn tea towel around and around her leg so that they would keep the gauze in place. He tied the ends securely, then, done, he gave her thigh a brisk slap of satisfaction.
Ondine felt a tide of warmth surging in her flesh, starting from the spot where his big hands were holding her leg, as if his touch had made her blood flow right back into her veins, hot and healthy; but now the blood was rushing on heedlessly to that mysterious place between her legs which girls were supposed to ignore, until their wedding day when it became the property of their husbands. The only man who’d touched her there was Luc, that time he’d stolen into her bedroom to say goodbye. It had seemed such a sacred occasion that she hadn’t felt like a sinner at the time. Here, she did.
“Feeling better now?” Picasso asked, glancing at her with his piercing, all-seeing dark eyes.
Ondine ducked her head. Did it show, the strang
e arousal she felt? Could he sense it?
“Too tight?” he inquired, clasping her leg and making her bend her knee to test it.
Did she imagine it, or was he deliberately holding his warm paw against the inside of her thigh, sliding his hand up just a little, just to tease, as he adjusted the bandage? Ondine was now acutely aware of the physical presence of this male creature who was sitting so close with his shirt unbuttoned.
“It’s all right,” she said hastily. Calmly he packed up the first-aid kit and went out again. She glanced about the kitchen to recover her bearings, and something caught her eye. Upside-down in the drainboard by the sink was her mother’s long-lost pink-and-blue pitcher, looking all washed and dried!
In fact, the kitchen was suspiciously neat and tidy after a week without Ondine’s care. She felt sure another woman had been here. “A man just wouldn’t bother to wash up this much,” she reasoned. This could be a feminine warning to Ondine: Get off my turf, take your pitcher and stay away from my man!
“Fine,” she thought, relieved to have it back. She’d bring it home to her mother today.
Picasso returned and glanced at the metal hamper. Ondine cried out apologetically, “Oh, Patron, your lunch must be ruined! I’ll go home and make you another one!”
He waved her off and opened the hamper, peering inside. “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said calmly, pulling out each item and laying it on the table. Sauce had sloshed over some containers.
“It’s coq au vin,” Ondine wailed, then immediately struggled to get a grip on herself. She formed her apology in Spanish. “Perdóneme para la inconveniencia,” she murmured.
The effect of unexpectedly hearing his native tongue was immediate. Picasso’s features revealed a sudden, childlike astonishment, then softened into the gentlest, warmest, most benevolent expression she’d ever seen on his extraordinary face. Clearly she had touched him.
“Don’t worry, está muy bien,” Picasso responded. He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the sauce and tasted it. “Mmm. Still warm,” he announced with a broad smile. He got a dish and ladle from the shelf, and filled his plate as if he were at a buffet. “Ah, the noble cock,” he said with mock regret as he spooned up the meat. “When he can no longer service the hens, he gets thrown into the pot!”
He peered at Ondine interestedly. “Did you break his neck and drain his blood for the sauce yourself?” he asked eagerly.
“My mother did,” she answered truthfully.
“Well, anyway, it’s very good,” he said with relish.
Ondine smiled uncertainly, wondering where he wanted her to wait while he ate. She normally stayed in the kitchen—but now he settled himself right here at this table instead of the dining room.
Picasso sensed her quandary. “Why don’t you go upstairs and dry your hair? There’s a comb and towels in the bathroom,” he said with a vague wave. “Then you can look at the pictures in my studio. Women always like to have opinions about things they know nothing about. Every housewife secretly thinks she’s a genius.” He flicked his wrist and put his hand to his chin, miming a lady frowning critically to assess a painting. “Hmmm, it’s very interesting,” he said in a high-pitched voice, “but is it art?”
Ondine giggled, and, relieved by his matter-of-fact tone, she rose and went through the dining room and parlor. He had never invited her upstairs into his lair. But even before she reached it, her nostrils picked up the strong odor of wet paint. Six new canvases were propped right here on the staircase. She climbed up, pausing to view each one.
Every painting featured the same voluptuous, long-nosed blonde woman from the violent, erotic Minotaur drawings. But the attitude in these new pictures wasn’t wild and savage at all. The first three were all the same pose: the model sat fully dressed in front of a vanity table with pots of powder and perfume, primping before a mirror. Her figure and demeanor were no longer that of a goddess but a plump, comfy housewife. Picasso had put the date on each one, and the third one said: 12 avril XXXVI.
“Easter Sunday! So, his blonde lady was here over the holidays!” Ondine said triumphantly.
She climbed up the steps to view the next three canvases, all close-up portraits of the same lady. But now she didn’t seem maternal at all—she looked more like a schoolgirl, with a sweet, innocent expression and two doll-like circles of rouge on her cheeks. Her hair appeared more pixie-like and modern.
“He’s been painting her over and over,” Ondine realized with a dart of envy. One woman, in all her incarnations: housewife, schoolgirl, sexpot. Imagine being so fascinating to such a great artist!
Upstairs, the bathroom was dim inside and she could not find the light switch. But Ondine discovered a folded towel to dry her hair, and a freestanding, black-framed mirror propped by the sink. She picked it up, along with a white comb, and carried it into his studio, where there was plenty of light.
The first thing she noticed was the canvas on the easel—the very wettest, newest painting, quite different from the ones on the stairs. No more portraits, no more blonde. It was a still life: a bowl of fruit, a loaf of bread, a vase of flowers—and something so familiar with its pink-and-blue stripes that Ondine gasped.
“Why—it’s Maman’s pitcher!” she whispered in awe.
But he’d exaggerated its height, as if the pitcher had turned into putty in Picasso’s hands and he’d pulled and stretched and elongated it. Well, everything in this painting looked outlandish: the fruit bowl was crazily, precariously perched at the table’s edge; the ripe, round fruit inside it resembled a woman’s breasts; and the loaf of bread beneath the bowl stuck out like a man’s prodigious, erect penis. A vase looking more like a wine goblet held bright flowers with pinwheel-style orange blooms springing outward like riotously overgrown jungle plants that aggressively dwarfed their container.
“Wonderful!” Ondine clapped her hands in delight. It was all so defiant, like a prank played by a child who’d rushed into a stuffy, proper sitting room, blowing a comical horn. Yet somehow he’d achieved a strange, haunting beauty that elevated even a humble pitcher to something sublime.
On a nearby table was a collection of newspaper clippings, neatly pinned together, lying atop another one of those brown envelopes from Paris. Ondine could see that these were press clippings for a great, successful gallery sale of Picasso’s works, just last month. The headline proclaimed it one of the biggest events of the season, at which Picasso had made a brief appearance and was wildly applauded.
“He’s as important as a prime minister or an opera singer!” Ondine observed, awed.
With other paintings stacked on the floor, and scattered drawings, pots of paint, jars of brushes, and books and newspapers scattered everywhere else, there wasn’t a single surface left uncovered, even the chairs, so there was nowhere to sit. The only oasis was a slim, empty alcove designed for a narrow chest of drawers or full-length mirror. Ondine curled up on the floor there, glad to be off her sore leg.
“Uf! This floor is hard as stone,” she grumbled, looking for a pillow. All she could find was an orange cushion, flat as a pancake, trimmed with gold-and-yellow tassels. She slipped it beneath her, took up the white comb and propped the black-framed mirror against her lap so she could peer into it.
“I look like a drowned cat,” Ondine said, for her long hair was plastered against her head in a mermaid’s seaweed-like spirals. She fluffed out the ringlets with the comb. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. She put down the mirror and sighed, leaned against the wall and closed her eyes, listening to the rain. She must have dozed, because at first she didn’t hear Picasso when he came in.
“No, don’t get up,” he commanded, studying her keenly. He picked up his sketchbook and began making rapid drawings on one page after another and another. Suddenly she understood what he was doing—he was drawing her! She gasped. Was this why he wanted her to stay here during lunchtime?
Although she was thrilled, Ondine felt a momentary surge of panic, recalling tho
se violent images of the naked blonde woman being raped by the Minotaur-man, for the entire world to gawp at.
Is he going to make me pose nude like that? she wondered. His penetrating stare was like a magician’s, as if he could just wave his paintbrush to make a woman’s clothes fall right off her body.
But all he said was, “Put the comb on the floor and hold up the mirror as if you’re looking at yourself.” He had set aside the sketchbook and was moving around the room, assessing different angles.
Ondine followed him with her eyes only, not daring to move her head, even when he brandished a long strand of yellow forsythia that had been in a vase near the window, which he now draped like a crown over her bowed head. She suddenly felt utterly compliant, like a sculptor’s mound of clay.
Still frowning thoughtfully, Picasso removed both of her shoes, tossed them aside, and manipulated her left foot so that the sole was flat on the floor in front of her seated body. He handled her feet as if she were his prized sculpture. Ondine felt her flesh turn softer still.
“Better,” he grunted, tugging at her arm. “Hold the mirror lower. Yes, lower still, just so.”
Picasso disappeared behind his easel, and she heard a few long, decisive strokes. He had a vigorous, muscular way of attacking his canvas. She hadn’t realized that making paintings was such a physical activity—he was breathing noisily, harder and harder with each new effort as he sketched out the preliminary lines. In fact he was actually snorting.
Like that Minotaur, Ondine could not help thinking, whose nostrils blow great white puffs of clouds! Picasso was shaped like a bull, charging at his painting as if maddened with rage for his vision. Soon, every time he snorted, Ondine had to resist snorting with laughter out loud.
A short time later, when she dared to peek at him, his expression was like a swimmer raising his head above water to get his bearings. “No, it’s not right yet,” he muttered, backing away to observe it.
“Too pious,” he concluded. “Undo three buttons at the top of that dress.”
Cooking for Picasso Page 9