Cooking for Picasso

by Camille Aubray

  I quickly telephoned Clément, but a rather frosty receptionist told me that he was extremely busy. She said she’d give him my message; I doubted it.

  “Watch it,” Aunt Matilda hissed. “Here comes Gil.”

  By now, our class was cooking in earnest. Each day was a trial-by-fire devoted to one particular category of food: eggs, poultry, fish, meat, vegetables and beans. But some of the giddy novelty of a French culinary holiday was now giving way to the reality of if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.

  You never knew which one of your errors would elicit a laugh or a scowl from Gil. He treated the elders gently, but I think he figured that since I was younger I was fair game, and should somehow know better, just because I had a French chef in my lineage. He once actually told me to “Please move your spoiled little American cul a bit faster.”

  “What’s a ‘cuh-yool’?” Lola whispered to me in her Texan drawl.

  “Ass,” I whispered back, indignant.

  “Oooh,” she said knowingly. “He likes you.”

  Today, as we heard Gil’s animated voice out in the hallway, Aunt Matilda’s pal Peter warned, “He sounds rather more aggressive than usual, if that’s possible.” We soon found out why. Gil entered accompanied by a slender woman dressed entirely in chef’s whites, including a tall white hat.

  “Class, meet Heather Bradbrook, the best pastry chef in all of London,” Gil said proudly.

  She was delicate-looking, with naturally white-blonde hair, green eyes and an innate serenity that seemed to calm everyone, even Gil.

  “Heather has graciously agreed to be a guest chef today, to teach you all about the magic of bread-making,” he said, smiling down at her from his big sporty height. His broad shoulders looked even broader with Heather standing next to him.

  “They make a cute couple, don’t they?” Magda the Scottish dog-lady said in a stage whisper so loud that I stepped away in embarrassment, not wanting anyone to think I’d made that comment.

  “As for pâtisserie,” Gil was saying, “this delicate-looking chef will show you how tough she really is when she demonstrates how to pound puff pastry.”

  One of the men—Joey from Chicago, I think—murmured that she could pound him anytime. I tried not to be shocked hearing this from a man his age, but the others were totally unfazed.

  “So today, I leave you all in Heather’s capable hands,” Gil concluded, “but I will get a full report card on each of you, so behave.” He bowed shortly to Heather, saying, “I’m off to my meeting.”

  She gave him a nod and whispered, “Good luck.” Two young men from Gil’s kitchen staff came barreling in, carrying enormous sacks of flour over their shoulders, and a few sizeable bags of sugar. “Okay, gather round,” Heather said to the class in a pleasantly modulated voice, but with such authority that we all shut up and shuffled forward. “Bread is flour—water—salt,” she chanted like a high priestess. “The magic is in the simplicity. But don’t be fooled. You can’t scrimp on time or effort.”

  A baguette dough, a puff pastry made of folded multi-layers of butter and flour, a cake made of almond flour, and cookies of ground hazelnuts. The whole experience turned out to be so unexpectedly sensual—the warm yeasty scent of bread rising, and the soft, fleshy dough yielding beneath our kneading touch. We were working so intently that I didn’t even notice my mobile phone ringing in my apron pocket until Magda nudged me and said, “It’s yours, you know!”

  I wiped flour off my hands and fumbled for it. Heather did not miss the look on my face when I saw who was calling. She said calmly, “You can step outside. We’re done for today anyway; I was about to call a break. This afternoon there’s an outdoor tour around the farmland of the mas.”

  “Thanks,” I said, yanking off my apron and going out onto the terrace for privacy.

  It was Monsieur Gerard Clément. “Yes, bien sûr, I remember your grandmother.” In his deep, melodious voice he spoke flawless English with just a hint of an elegant French accent. “What can I do for you?” he asked. I told him I needed to meet with him as it was too personal to discuss over the telephone. “I see, I see,” he replied in a mild, polite tone indicating he had no idea why I was being so mysterious. “Well, I am sure that my secretary can arrange for us to meet next month—”

  “Oh, no, no, it can’t possibly wait that long!” I cried. “I really must see you right away.”

  “Ah, but you see, I leave this evening for les vacances,” he said.

  “Vacation?” I exclaimed. “Then I’ve got to meet you today! I won’t be here when you get back. My mother—she told me that you were the only one she trusted—” I choked up, then and there.

  “Please don’t distress yourself,” he said quickly, and I heard him rustling about as if he were consulting his calendar. “If it’s really so critical, the only time I can possibly see you today is at two forty-five—”

  “Bon, merci beaucoup,” I said quickly, wondering how I’d get there on such short notice.

  “But I must warn you we’ll only have fifteen minutes, because I have a meeting that starts promptly at three,” he said, sounding as if he absolutely meant it.

  “I’ll see you at two forty-five,” I promised. He gave me the address and some brief directions.

  After we hung up, I told Aunt Matilda what I was up to. “Good luck,” she said, crossing her fingers. I dashed upstairs to grab a cardigan and purse, then returned to the concierge desk.

  “I need a map for the old town area of Mougins,” I told the tall Frenchman, Maurice, who was on duty, “and, um, I need a car right away.”

  He sucked in his breath. “A car today will be difficult to get on such short notice,” he warned mildly, as he handed me the map. Then he straightened alertly as a well-dressed man appeared in the lobby acting like a guest, helping himself to the coffee cups and urns that stood on a side table.

  This surprised me, since the hotel part of the mas wasn’t yet open to the public, just to my cooking class. Maurice took note of the man and nodded deferentially to him, all the while still talking on the phone trying to find me a car. When Maurice hung up he rather insultingly addressed the stranger before me. “Monsieur Gil is away in meetings all day, I’m afraid.”

  Then with a slight change in tone he turned to me. “Sorry, mademoiselle. No car is available.”

  “Look,” I said, “failure is not an option here. I have to get to the old town, now.”

  The stranger meanwhile had begun scribbling on a small pad, and now he tore off a page and slid his note across the counter, not bothering to hide its contents, which said: Gil, I still have a few issues to resolve with the contract. I’ll be out of town until next week. Let’s talk when I get back.

  Maurice, being more discreet, hastily put it in an envelope and swept it into a drawer.

  I hurried outside, pausing to search my phone for some taxi or car rental service Maurice might have overlooked. I was so absorbed, I scarcely notice that the stranger had followed me out the door.

  “You’re Gil’s friend?” the man asked. He didn’t sound British, yet I’d noticed that Maurice had spoken to him in English. “Allow me to be of service. I’d be happy to drive you; I’m going past the old town anyway.” I studied him more closely. He was about ten years older than Gil. He had the look of casual wealth—a golden suntan, some bespoke but easygoing attire in linen and cashmere, expensive russet-colored loafers, gold wristwatch and rings, longish but well-styled hair like a lion’s mane, dark with a touch of grey; and the grey, alert eyes of a friendly but successful predator.

  “Richard Vandervass,” he said, extending a hand to shake. I took it; his skin was softer than mine, but his grip was firm. “Like the hotels,” he added.

  I had to think for a moment, then remembered a posh chain of very trendy, modern hotels all around the world owned by an enigmatic Dutch entrepreneur. “Any relation?” I asked jokingly.

  “You might say. I own them,” he said with a modest smile.
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  “Oh,” I said, blushing. A sleek black town car pulled up, its uniformed driver steering it to a stop precisely where this guy stood in his leather loafers.

  “I’m Rick, to friends of Gil’s. Shall we?” he said, gesturing toward the car as the driver sprang from it with alacrity and opened the back door for him. “Just give us the address you want.”

  I entered the car, sliding across its plush seat. Rick sat next to me, and the driver closed the door for us before slipping back behind the wheel.

  “So Gil is out today at a meeting,” Rick observed amiably as we drove away. “Who with?”

  I shrugged. “No idea.” His relaxed demeanor was a welcome contrast to Gil’s relentless energy.

  “Does he do that a lot?” Rick asked with a dazzling smile. “Have a lot of meetings?”

  I was so surprised by the question that all I could say was, “I couldn’t say.”

  “How long have you known Gil?” he pursued, totally unapologetic for being nosey in the most charming way possible. I figured this was the price for getting a free ride into town.

  “Just met him this month, but it feels like ages,” I replied, trying to remain as noncommittal as possible. “How do you know him?” I countered, back on my guard again.

  Rick looked surprised, then laughed. “Didn’t he tell you about me? I’m Gil’s partner.”

  “Ahh!” I said, curious now. He struck me as one of those appealingly courteous moguls who occasionally like to come down from Mount Olympus to see what regular folk think.

  “Construction workers can be so unpredictable,” he commented, glancing out the window as we passed the site with a crew hard at work. “Think they’ll be ready in time for the hotel’s grand opening?”

  I shrugged. “Gil seems pretty confident,” I observed, trying to shift the focus off my opinions.

  “You must think me an awful nuisance.” Rick’s brilliant smile showed perfect teeth. For a “silent” partner he sure was pretty chatty. “But I’ve known Gil for a long time, seen all his ups and downs. And he’s not the type to ask for help until he’s really under the gun. We who care about him just want him to be successful and happy, right? Women are so much better at assessing this stuff.”

  I caught the driver glancing at me in his rearview mirror before he exchanged a knowing expression with Rick, so I finally understood. They thought I was Gil’s new girlfriend. Maybe they’d seen some Internet photos of my little fiasco at the Café Paradis, I surmised with a touch of guilt. A jingling sound came from a mahogany box near Rick’s elbow. When I realized that the box served as a fancy charger for his phone—which was decorated rather showily with a diamond horseshoe studded with big emeralds—I managed to conceal my amusement at his ostentatious display of wealth, even when he said grandly, “Sorry, I have to take this,” then proceeded to spend the entire ride talking in low monosyllables so that I couldn’t follow it. I was just glad that somebody else had distracted him.

  We arrived in the old town of Mougins with only minutes to my appointment time. I’d seen from my guidebook that it was laid out like a circular honeycomb of medieval streets, designed by the rulers of Genoa to keep out other invaders. Trying to get a car in there was almost out of the question. I told Rick’s driver to drop me off at the corner. By then I was eager to escape. Rick stepped out of the car with me and he actually kissed my hand.

  “Thanks for the ride!” I said, and I rushed off, past countless art galleries, shops, stone archways and incredibly narrow streets that spiraled inward like a seashell. When I finally spotted the law firm’s door I hurried breathlessly inside to its cool, dark lobby. The receptionist, a stiff blonde girl in a grey suit, searched her calendar but could not find my name written down on her schedule.

  A door across the lobby opened, and a sophisticated-looking man in his sixties peered out. When the receptionist addressed him as Monsieur Clément, I said quickly, “Bonjour. I’m your two forty-five.”

  He looked stymied until I gave him Grandma Ondine’s name. Then his expression cleared and he said, “Yes, yes. Come in.” I followed and he closed the heavy door behind us with a soft thud.

  I took the seat opposite him across his imposing, old-fashioned desk which was topped with caramel-colored leather. “So you are the grand-daughter of Madame Ondine,” he said, leaning back in his chair and looking me over from head to toe with amused interest. “I thought your grandmother was quite marvellous. A woman who knew exactly what she wanted.” He smiled fondly to himself.

  I stared at him. Was this silver-haired gentleman really the “nice young man” that Grandmother Ondine hired years ago? As if to answer my thoughts, he said gently, “Your grand-mère was very good to me. I was—what’s the expression—‘wet behind the ears’ when she took me on. I was replacing a very beloved lawyer who was retiring. Some of his clients were not happy to have me take over the practice! Eh bien, now it is I who am the elder partner. Time passes.”

  His voice was pleasingly masculine with an air of natural sensuality; in fact, he was undeniably sexy. But I was eager to get past the niceties and raise the delicate question of the missing Picasso, so I replied quickly, “My grandmother—and my mother—always had the highest regard for you, too.”

  But this only prompted him to ask after Madame Julie’s health, and I ignored the plunge of misery that such ordinary questions about my mother caused. I told him she’d been ill but was okay.

  He accepted this. “And how is your father?” he asked politely. I took a deep breath.

  “He’s dead,” I said shortly. Somehow I still couldn’t believe it.

  “I’m sorry,” Monsieur Clément said, not particularly regretful but sympathetic, and looking quite observant, as if he’d astutely witnessed all the contradictory thoughts passing across my face.

  “He was a difficult man,” I acknowledged.

  “Yes,” he replied calmly. “I found him—aggressive. And, always angry.” He sounded puzzled.

  “Yeah, that’s him, all right,” I said, intentionally signalling that he could speak freely about Dad. “How involved did he get in the handling of my grandmother’s estate?” I asked directly.

  “I was well aware of Madame Ondine’s—concerns—about him,” Monsieur Clément said with the best of Gallic delicacy. “When she died, your father consulted with me in order to defend your mother’s interests. But I must say that the man seemed reckless to me, wanting to push the limits of the law and test it. I was not comfortable with this. I made it clear that the laws of my country must be obeyed to the letter. In France, we do things carefully,” he explained. “That’s really all I can say.”

  Still watching him closely I replied, “As I said, my mother had great confidence in you. But she had just one question she felt never quite got resolved.” I ignored his raised eyebrows here and plunged ahead, aware that our time was already half-gone. “Apparently there was a work of art that she believed Grandmother Ondine possessed. Mom was uncertain, after all these years, as to what became of it.”

  I braced myself for an exclamation of insulted outrage. But he only smiled tolerantly.

  “Oh, the Picasso!” he said in amusement, reacting as a confident professional would, taking no offense and adopting a tone of mild curiosity. “Yes, your mother asked me about it recently, very quietly—she didn’t want to excite your father. I assured her I’d never seen any such artwork. Even so, when your mother raised the issue I went over everything again to be sure I hadn’t missed anything.”

  I waited. He explained, “In addition to the documents Madame Ondine left in my care, I had collected all the papers she left in the house, and everything was in perfect order. Deeds, title, official certificates. There was nothing whatsoever about the purchase or sale of a Picasso. If she ever possessed and then disposed of such a treasure, she must have done it some time ago, long before she hired me.”

  He’d said the name Picasso as if it were as grand and out of reach as the moon. Also, there was just a tinge
of chauvinism in his tone, as if I were a fanciful female whose head was full of nonsense her mother told her. Now it was my turn to remain cool and unruffled, though I felt anything but serene.

  “Still,” I persisted, “I’d like to be absolutely sure about this.”

  Without a word, he rose and disappeared into an adjacent room. Agonizingly, I watched the clock on his desk—it was mounted inside a golden model ship anchored on a wooden base—mercilessly ticking the time as it flitted by. Finally he reappeared, carrying a thick file that he put on his blotter.

  “Here we have every single item of her possessions,” Monsieur Clément said, running his finger down the page. “Yes, it’s just as I remembered. The contents of her property were sold in their entirety to the buyers. Nothing had to go to auction, nothing sold piecemeal. No artwork of any kind. I assure you, if Madame Ondine had such a valuable treasure in her possession, I am certain she’d have told me.”

  According to his clock I had a scant minute left. “May I see this list, please?” I asked.

  The door opened behind me, and the receptionist peered in to say, “Your three o’clock is here.”

  “Yes, just a moment,” he said dismissively, and she faded back into her lobby. He turned to me and said, “Come. You can take this folder into my file room and peruse it yourself. But please, leave it there on the table when you have finished.” I followed him into an adjacent room that was lined with tall wooden cabinets, and in its center there was a long, narrow table with library chairs and lamps.

  “Okay, great,” I said, but I was feeling doubtful now. There is nothing more dispiriting than a pile of paperwork when you’re pretty sure it will provide only another dead end. “By the way—that doctor who tended my grandmother when she died. Do you have a name and address for him?”

  Clément said regretfully, “Alas, he died many years ago. A fine old bachelor.” He turned to go.

  I said, “One last question. Did anyone besides my parents go into my grandmother’s house in Juan-les-Pins after she died there?”

  “Juan-les-Pins?” Monsieur Clément repeated, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. “But your grandmother did not die in Juan-les-Pins.”