Ondine listened, enthralled by the vivid images he conjured. Sometimes he queried her about her own life, and she felt there wasn’t much to tell; but his smile and warmth were irresistible as he prodded her to sing the songs of her youth and tell him all that she knew about life in Juan-les-Pins.
However, once he was ready to work, he became focused and serious. While he prepared his paints—mixing his colors on sheets of newspaper instead of a palette—Ondine went behind a screen he’d erected for her. She changed into the same blue checked dress, which she brought with her in a bag because she didn’t want her mother to see her wearing her best dress over and over. Then she took off her shoes and stockings and, even though he did not keep telling her to remove her culottes, she did it anyway, feeling a thrill of rebellion against all the piety she’d been raised on.
Quickly she sat down on that same thin tasseled pillow on the floor, jammed into that same corner of the room, exactly as before with the props of comb and wristwatch; and, with her dress unbuttoned, her limbs all twisted, her bare feet posed just so, she pretended to gaze at herself in the mirror.
Picasso stared at her for a long time, like a pearl-diver on a cliff about to make the leap, until something seemed to get resolved in his mind and, abruptly, he disappeared behind his easel. Sometimes when he moved around, Ondine could see the muscles rippling in his sturdy arms and broad chest; and the room filled up with the masculine, and not unappealing, scent of his sweat.
Today he was so engrossed that they worked straight through his usual lunch hour. Ondine did not dare ask if she should get up and cook. Hour after hour went by, yet he kept her there immobilized, all twisted up on that hard wooden floor until her neck and back ached so much they felt as if they were burning. Even when her stomach growled loudly, he diabolically kept on painting.
Surely he hears my poor belly crying out for mercy, Ondine thought, peering at him beseechingly. He glanced up and then put on the expression of a simpleton, pretending not to notice, but she thought she saw a look in his eyes that revealed a peculiar enjoyment of her torture.
“Stop moving your arms,” he reprimanded.
She’d felt the urgent need to scratch and had tried to do so before he noticed, but he caught her even before her fingers reached the spot. All right, I won’t move, she told herself, feeling the full demand of the itch and the torturous pleasure of ignoring it. Which was stronger, the itch, or her? She tested herself, waiting to see if by sheer force of will she could sacrifice her own physical needs for the sake of his art, and master her own desperate urges in order to please his.
He seemed unaware of her struggle, yet, just when it began to be too much, he rewarded her with his most beautiful of smiles, saying, “You know that everything you and I do together in this room is of profound importance. Every word we speak, every gesture, every thought, do you understand?”
So what was a small itch when posing for a masterpiece?
Finally, when she was feeling completely light-headed, Picasso put down his brush. “Tiens!” he exclaimed, seizing her wrist to look at his watch. “Is that the time? Let’s go see what you brought me for lunch,” he suggested. “Don’t bother to change your clothes. We might work some more after we eat.”
She followed him downstairs into the kitchen, glad that today she’d instinctively packed food which required little preparation—a country pâté, some cornichon pickles, a beef-and-orange daube she’d made last night so it would “profit”, a salad dressed in vinaigrette, and a cherry tarte. She always politely set the table for one, not taking a plate for herself until he formally asked her to join him, which he usually did.
But now, to her surprise, he unpacked the meal himself. “Today I’m going to feed you, my little odalisque,” he announced, seeming suddenly playful. He would not permit her to handle the food; he insisted that she sit there with her mouth hanging open—like one of the pet birds that he told her he kept in his Paris studio—while he dangled each bit of bread or food above her lips and made her go for it, one morsel at a time. A few times at the very last minute he yanked it away, laughing uproariously.
“You have the lips of a movie siren,” he commented. He dipped a finger into the cherry pie, and then she felt his fingertips first on her lower lip as he colored it red, then the upper as he traced the cupid’s bow. She tried to ignore the strange surge of arousal this evoked in her.
“You’d better lick it off before I do,” Picasso commanded. “Slowly! Make it last.”
Ondine obliged with her tongue, watching him watching her. He sighed deeply.
“What a pretty bird you are! Maybe one day I’ll build a golden cage to keep you in, so that no other man can feast his eyes on you,” he said, surely teasing, although he looked queerly serious when he said such strange jokey things. “I’ll make you sing to me every day, but if your song doesn’t please me, then I won’t feed you. You’ll grow so faint with hunger that you’ll eat anything I give you, even the scraps no dog would touch, otherwise you’ll starve.”
“Just as well, I probably should go on a diet,” Ondine retorted teasingly.
“No, no! Don’t you dare. Girls today are too thin, they look like boys,” he said scornfully. “They hardly inspire me to paint them!”
He waved his hand as if swatting away a fly. She noticed that his forearm was stained with paint. He said, “I’m very careful when I choose someone to model for me!”
Picasso’s expression was sober and benevolent now, as if confiding to her his greatest secret. He was watching her closely with those inky dark eyes of his, to test her somehow, yet all he said was, “Well, let’s go back to work for a while longer, all right?”
As if it were her choice; as if she, like a goddess, could decide whether his genius would be indulged today. When they ascended the stairs Ondine felt elated.
For, although she wasn’t even permitted to move a muscle once she sat down in her little corner and resumed her pose, she still felt freer than her parents counting their money, and the chatterboxes in the village marketplace, and the proud Wise Men playing cards, day after day; and the girls in such a rush to get married, and the old people who never once in their life broke a rule.
Soon Ondine felt she was drifting lightly through the passing minutes like a cloud floating up into the foothills of the Alps, over the snow-capped mountains and beyond, to London and New York and all the wider world.
“Finished,” Picasso said unexpectedly.
Ondine received this remark as a physical jolt. “Already?” she asked, rudely awakened from her dreams. She felt a surprising sense of panic, which was surely absurd.
“Yes, we’re done with this one,” he said decisively. “Oh, I’ll work on it a little more myself. I may even do another variation of this. But you don’t have to pose for it anymore.”
She felt so utterly disappointed that she did not know what to say, and could only come up with, “I really do like working with you.”
He answered her neutrally, as if he had chosen to stop listening to her heart fluttering painfully like a bird beating its wings against its cage. “I’m thinking of doing a completely new series,” he replied thoughtfully, more as if he were talking to himself. “But I have a nude study in mind next.”
Ondine had automatically risen to go behind the screen to change her clothes. Now she heard the hopeful tone in his voice. “What do you think?” he asked casually.
Oh, so that’s what he’s after, she realized. Aloud she replied, “Perhaps,” imitating his careful neutrality. She was enjoying getting undressed in the same room, yet just beyond his all-seeing gaze.
“In fact, I have already seen you naked in my mind,” Picasso called out. “A real man can ravish a woman with his eyes, without ever removing a stitch of her clothing. So why the fuss?”
His attitude had become so matter-of-fact that Ondine felt foolish for imagining that he was trying to seduce her. Still, she wondered guiltily, What would Maman say? Suppose her parents fo
und out what she’d been up to all along here with Picasso? Perhaps she could deflect their anger if she was paid well for her modelling.
It was the first time she’d thought about wages. How much did models charge? And would he pay more for a nude? Picasso’s paintings had made him a rich man, she reasoned. So his models must earn a lot, like opera singers and actresses with all their jewels and furs!
Dressed now in the skirt and blouse she’d worn cycling over here, Ondine decided it was time to ask him about her earnings. Soberly she stepped out from behind the screen and asked, “How much wages will you pay me for—that kind of modelling?”
Picasso was fussing with his brushes. Now he looked up sharply.
“Who put that in your mind?” he asked. “Did your mama or papa tell you to ask me that?”
Ondine flushed, for indeed, just thinking about her parents had brought her down to earth.
“They don’t know a thing about this,” she answered. Seeking to assure him of her sincerity, she added, “I would only want the salary you usually pay your other models.” She made a broad sweep of her arm, indicating the many scattered drawings and paintings of the nude blonde woman.
“She doesn’t do it for the money!” Picasso exclaimed, insulted. “Marie-Thérèse is a real woman! In all these years she never asked for ‘wages’—her reward is the joy of sacrificing for, and pleasing, a great artist! Do you think just any woman can be the subject of a painting that hangs in the best galleries of the world? But perhaps I’ll end up giving your pictures to the trash man.”
His tone was so chilly that her own blood seemed cold, and she felt suddenly, completely worthless. He was scowling darkly, looking rougher and angrier than usual as he scanned a pile of books but apparently could not find what he wanted.
“Merde!” he muttered. But when he spoke again, he sounded strangely casual.
“Have you heard of the Marquis de Sade?” Ondine shook her head. “No?” he asked innocently. “A brilliant man. He lived years ago—have you never seen the ruins of his castle here in Provence, up in a town called Lacoste? He kept his servant girls in a dungeon, where he used them for his pleasure and beat them when they displeased him,” he said, widening his dark eyes in exaggerated horror. “Until one day, Napoleon threw him in jail.”
“Then he must have been very wicked,” Ondine said decisively, instinctively fighting back.
“But that’s what women want,” Picasso insisted. “In fact, they are only happy when they submit entirely to a man—body, mind and soul—doing whatever he commands. Even the pain he inflicts on a woman gives her great pleasure and makes her happy, don’t you agree?” He was now standing right in front of her, almost nose-to-nose, as if trying to mesmerize her into compliance and defeat.
Ondine understood his bullying tone and she didn’t like it. So she stared straight back into his black eyes. “No,” she said evenly.
He shrugged indifferently, abruptly turned away again and began leafing through his sketchbook, his attitude thoroughly dismissive. Ondine didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was this a joke or another test of some kind? Tentatively she asked, “So—do you want me to keep coming here?”
Picasso didn’t bother to look up when he said offhandedly, “Oh, come back when you know how to be a real woman!” He sounded disdainful, as if this transformation could never happen.
Ondine felt panicked, until she seized on an idea. “Well, if you don’t need me anymore, perhaps Monsieur Matisse would like me to cook and pose for him,” she said innocently.
“Matisse?” Picasso bristled. “Don’t be absurd! That woman Lydia is the only model he needs. You are mine.” He spat out the words like a viper. “Do I want you to keep bringing me my lunch? Of course—do you think I’m going to stop eating and just drop dead?”
“All right,” Ondine said, uncertain as to whether he’d just asked her to model again, too; but in any event, she felt a degree of triumph.
Perhaps he saw this because, as she walked past him, Picasso reached out suddenly and grabbed her arm to detain her. When he raised the flat of his other hand Ondine thought he might strike her, but she managed not to flinch. He only traced the curve of her cheeks like a sculptor. She hoped he could not feel that her skin was fearfully sensitive to his touch. Beneath his raised arm she saw the tangle of hair growing wildly in his armpit. It reminded her of his hairy Minotaur drawings.
Almost unwillingly, he gave her an amused smile. “What a troublesome feline you are. But you do have the head of a Roman goddess,” he observed. “I can see it on an ancient coin or statue. Perhaps your ancestors came here from Capri on a boat.”
Now his fingertip moved along the side of her neck, lingering at her throat before continuing downward, tracing the curve of her left breast all the way to her nipple. She could not help feeling a thrill of pleasure. But she tried to keep her expression neutral, for Ondine again had the instinctive feeling that, rather than respond or step away, she must simply stand her ground.
“Ah,” Picasso said, his whole face softening now.
He’s going to kiss me, she thought in wonder, in that split second before he pressed his warm, friendly lips against hers, firmly and purposefully. She felt her own mouth go soft and pliable as his kiss lingered for a brief but enticing moment. Then he drew back and surveyed her face critically.
“Good. A young girl should blush when a man kisses her,” he said approvingly. “Well, go on home to your mama now.”
—
LATER THAT NIGHT Ondine lay awake in her bed, feeling tumultuous every time she recalled Picasso’s deliberate, leisurely kiss. “He can’t be in love with me, can he?” she wondered. “Half the time he sounds angry. Well, he certainly didn’t like being asked to pay me wages. But what was all that other nonsense about? Torture and slaves and that Marquis de Sade?”
Once again she felt that Picasso had been testing her, but for what? Clearly there was a whole world out there she knew nothing about. But if he stopped painting her, what then? It wasn’t money she really cared about. Her increasing desire to be near him again didn’t feel like love, exactly. So she wasn’t even sure what she was yearning for.
Yet somehow, in spite of his changing moods, Ondine still felt that the answer to her future lay with Picasso. She must find a way to make him show her how to use that key that he kept dangling in front of her—so she could finally open a door to the more beautiful destiny that surely awaited her, in a world where people could do as they pleased and work only for their own satisfaction, not merely to please others. Ondine had seen just enough of this earthly paradise to know that she wanted it for herself.
Ondine and a Visitor at the Villa
THE NEXT DAY, ONDINE FELT apprehensive as she cycled into Picasso’s driveway. She wasn’t sure if she was still welcome here. Yesterday he’d been so unpredictable—one minute gentle and inviting, the next indifferent, even hostile. Would he forget that he’d asked her to keep cooking for him? And what if posing without her clothes was part of the deal to keep her job here?
“I don’t mind so much if he sees me naked,” she realized with a guilty thrill. But imagine having the whole world—especially the villagers in Juan-les-Pins, like the Three Wise Men in the café—ogling pictures of her in a gallery and then making rude remarks for the rest of her life!
As Ondine stepped into Picasso’s kitchen she was surprised to find him sitting right there at the table, drinking tea with a strange woman who definitely was not the demure blonde in his paintings. This sophisticated creature was just the opposite, with black hair swept back severely in a chic Parisian twist, and stunning black eyebrows to match. She wore rouge and blood-red lipstick, and dark smudgy eye makeup. She appeared to be in her late twenties, and was dressed in a smart suit and crisp white shirt like a man’s. She had a fancy, professional camera in her lap and she was winding the film expertly.
“Ah! Come in, come in!” Picasso exclaimed with exaggerated courtesy, in a tone that struck Ondine
as highly theatrical and artificial. “Dora, here is my Ondine—the best chef in all of Provence! In fact, this girl will one day be a great culinary artiste.”
Dora glanced up sharply, her eyes glittering like a flash of lightning, but she said nothing and just kept staring at Ondine while continuing to wind her camera. Ondine noticed that Picasso had not bothered to explain Dora to her. “And what has my kitchen goddess brought me to eat today, chère Ondine?” Picasso asked, rubbing his hands together with exalted glee.
“I am making you a sole à la meunière,” Ondine said, a trifle reluctant to discuss this in the presence of a stranger. Without warning, the woman raised her camera, and in a blinding flash of light she snapped a picture of Ondine. It made her feel as if she had just been publicly assaulted.
“Excellent! We’ll wait in the dining room,” Picasso said, rising. The woman followed him out.
Ondine set to work, but her hands trembled and tears threatened to tumble from her eyes. She winked them back ferociously. She’d brought enough food for two, but that was because Picasso usually invited her to eat with him after posing. Why should she now have to give up her lunch for this female?
“I guess I’m back to being only his cook. Well, I’ll make it perfect!” Ondine grumbled, picking up two delicate fish, seasoning them with fresh pepper and dredging them in the flour which gave this dish its name—meunière for the miller who ground the flour. Then she browned the sole in a pan with clarified sweet butter and a tablespoon of olive oil. When they were golden on both sides, she put the fish on a platter, topped with a sauce of melted butter, lemon juice, capers and freshly chopped parsley. She was serving them with tiny new potatoes, and baby green string beans perfectly aligned with thinly sliced strips of red peppers; and a crisp white vermentino wine so young it was almost green.
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