Cooking for Picasso

by Camille Aubray

  Ondine and Julie in Vallauris, 1952–1953

  ONDINE ONLY VAGUELY REMEMBERED THE Mother Superior at the convent summoning a doctor, who observed that she’d finally succumbed to a severe pneumonia which she no doubt contracted on the voyage over from America. The doctor quickly packed her off to a sanitarium in the mountains, and Ondine, weakened by too much grief, took time convalescing. The money she’d saved went quickly after that, to pay for her care and for Julie’s board at the convent school.

  Once Ondine’s savings were completely gone, the nuns placed Julie with a foster family—a farmer and his wife who needed “a little help”. What they really wanted was an unpaid servant who’d rise early, feed the chickens, milk the cows and shovel out the pigpen.

  The farmer had a fearsome temper, especially when in a drunken rage. Julie had never been around a violent man like that, but she soon understood why the farmer’s wife was relieved to have someone else in the house to become her husband’s scapegoat.

  His shouting was bad enough; but on nights when he was drunk, Julie quickly learned where every conceivable hiding place existed—behind bales of hay in the barn loft; on the hardened earth underneath the porch; in the small space behind the furnace. But one night, he came into her bedroom when she was asleep. He yanked her to her feet, then pushed her down on her knees, unzipped his pants and thrust himself into her mouth. The utter shock of it caused her to freeze, which ultimately pleased him. Gagging, she crept away, back into her bed, cowering beneath the covers, praying she might die. But it was only the beginning of a hundred humiliations to come.

  “If you tell anyone,” he threatened after each incident, “I’ll give you worse next time.”

  When Ondine’s health finally improved and she found out that Julie had been given away to a foster family, Ondine struggled to her feet, determined to go back to cooking so that she could earn a steady enough income to reclaim her daughter. The Mother Superior helped her find a job as a cook for an old widower lawyer near the pottery town of Vallauris, not far from Cannes and Antibes.

  “It’s going to be all right now,” Ondine promised Julie. But the truth was, she barely recognized her own daughter. Julie’s hair had been cut haphazardly; she had lost a lot of weight, and her skin had a terrible pallor, but worse than that was the mousy way she hung her head, as if afraid to raise her gaze and look anybody in the eye. She never spoke unless asked to; and even then, she mumbled in a submissive way that irritated people and inadvertently invited them to be sharp with her. Yet Julie flatly refused to talk to her mother about what her life had been like in foster care.

  When they settled in at Ondine’s new job at the lawyer’s house, Ondine was profoundly grateful, and for awhile it seemed as if they’d found a safe haven where they might recover from the string of recent shocks they’d endured. But after only a few months, the elderly lawyer’s housekeeper delivered some bad news.

  “The old coot’s getting married again! And his new bride is bringing her own servants from Bordeaux, so she’s kicking out all of us with only a month’s pay. You’ll have to find a new place to cook, Ondine.”

  It was amidst this servants’ chatter that Ondine once again heard the name Picasso. He’d left his mark in the most unlikely places. In 1946 he’d returned to Antibes and set up shop in the Château Grimaldi—the very spot he’d visited with Ondine on that last day in the donkey cart, when local urchins had invited him to explore the old castle which had become a museum.

  Upon his return there Picasso, undaunted by postwar shortages of paint and canvas, resorted to using boat paint to create his exuberant artwork upon the very walls of the castle; and he’d even painted over some old pictures he found there.

  Then, in that mysterious way of his, Picasso had gone off in search of other inspiration. Ondine learned that he’d taken a house right here in Vallauris and became intrigued with the local pottery. Inspired, he began making his own fantastic creations, and in so doing he’d single-handedly rescued the town’s dwindling pottery industry, causing business to boom once again.

  Ondine heard all this from the housekeeper where she worked, who showed her various magazine stories about it all. Ondine found herself scrutinizing one photograph in particular, of Picasso on a beach, pretending to be a slave while holding a parasol over his mistress who strode proudly ahead of him—a beautiful woman named Françoise. The article noted that she’d been a student at the Sorbonne when she met Pablo in Paris during the war. There was another photo of the two children they’d had together.

  They both have Picasso’s eyes! Ondine observed. She read that he now had four kids—a son by his Russian wife, a daughter by the blonde Marie-Thérèse, and these two elegant little creatures.

  “But rumor has it that this mistress and Picasso aren’t getting along so well anymore,” the housekeeper said in a low, knowing voice.

  Ondine could not resist asking, “Where is Picasso’s house?”

  The housekeeper replied, “Not far at all. It’s called Villa La Galloise.”

  Picasso in Vallauris, September 1953

  PABLO PICASSO HAD NEVER BEEN so insulted in his life. He sat in a dark room alone, smoking. He had come to the conclusion that women simply weren’t human, after all. You gave them everything—your love, your children, a fine house—so why did they make a man feel guilty for just being a man?

  “They’re all impossible,” he thought, reviewing his grudges. Take Olga. She remained his wife—and still went by the name of Madame Picasso—and she’d won a tidy share of his assets, but that wasn’t good enough for her; she went about following his mistresses, shouting at them, pinching them, telling them that they had no business being with Picasso.

  As for Marie-Thérèse, she now needed constant reassurance, so Pablo kept writing her letters swearing that she was the only woman he’d ever really loved; but lately, on his twice-weekly visits to see their child, Marie-Thérèse kept urging him to finally make good on his vague promises to marry her.

  And poor Dora Maar, well, some of Picasso’s friends actually blamed him for her breakdown, saying he’d crushed her spirit with jealousy, manipulating her by parading other women before her, egging her on and then rejecting her yet again. Friends found her wandering the streets of Paris, talking incoherently. Picasso had to call a doctor who carted Dora off to a rest home and gave her electroshock treatments. The vivacious, intellectual brunette was never quite the same after that; she “found” religion, and when Pablo saw her in Paris, she shouted at him that God would make him pay for his sins if he didn’t kneel down right now and beg the Lord’s forgiveness.

  “It’s not my fault that women are so weak!” Pablo protested to his friends. After all, God kept rewarding him with more money and success—and a new young mistress; so Pablo thought it would be different this time with Françoise. The Parisian girl with flowing, dark-russet hair was the young artist to whom he’d brought a bowl of cherries at the café, when the Gestapo were still running Paris; and after the war she’d defied her wealthy father and even her benevolent grandmother, to come and live with Picasso here in Vallauris.

  “I allowed her to share my life, my time, my talent for a whole decade,” Pablo fumed, “and now, what thanks do I get? What does the lovely Françoise say to me?” Picasso repeated the words incredulously. “I am sorry, Pablo, but I want to live with people of my own generation and the problems of MY time.”

  And, she’d told him that she simply was no longer happy with their relationship.

  He’d thundered back in outrage, “Your job is to remain by my side, to devote yourself to me and the children. Whether it makes you happy or unhappy is no concern of mine.”

  But he’d failed to notice that the worshipful girl had turned into an elegant woman with a mind of her own; after all, she was in her thirties now—and he was in his seventies.

  “She makes me feel like an old goat,” he thought savagely; and now his canvases were filled with nude young models indifferent to the
pathetic dwarfs and clowns who sought to make love to them.

  Still, Françoise didn’t leave right away, so Pablo didn’t really believe she meant it. He tried to make a brave joke of it to his friends. “Françoise’s going to leave me soon,” he’d announce. “Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow.” Poor me, he was saying. I am a man without love. For a while it seemed to work; friends rushed up to Françoise and begged her not to do such a cruel thing to the Master.

  And soon the word leaked out to the press, who hovered on doorsteps to ask Françoise if the rumors were true. She would flee to Paris, only to return to Pablo in the South of France.

  “No woman leaves a man like me,” Picasso assured himself. The truth was, he really didn’t know what to do in a situation like this with an independent-minded, modern younger woman.

  So, when the moment finally came, Pablo was not emotionally prepared. On this otherwise beautiful September day, Françoise packed her suitcases, picked up her handbag, took their son and daughter by the hand and led them into a waiting auto. The driver seized their suitcases and deposited them in the trunk while the children piled into the car, then peered out the back window, their inky dark eyes dancing in the mischief of the moment, as if they were off on a dangerous but intriguing adventure.

  “You’ll be back,” Picasso had told Françoise with a shrug, pretending not to care. But just as she and the children settled into the car, he charged down the stairs like an enraged bull. By the time he caught up with them, the car was already in motion.

  Pablo glared into the window as if to command his mistress to stop. She gazed back at him, defiant and resolute. The driver slowed uncertainly.

  “Go!” Françoise ordered. The driver floored the accelerator, making the tires spin in the gravel. The car drove on.

  “Merde!” Picasso bellowed, brandishing his fist at the disappearing auto. He followed it for a few paces with a cigarette between his fingers, watching with an expression of utter outrage and betrayal.

  In the deafening silence, he took a long, furious drag before he hurled the cigarette into the dust and stepped on it, as if to extinguish something more than just its glowing, ashy tip.

  Then Picasso turned, went back into the house and slammed the door behind him.

  —

  THE NEXT DAY, he awoke shortly before noon. The house was dark and shuttered, silent. He was alone. He would have to get up sooner or later, call a friend or servant in Paris, get them to help him make a change, make a move, do something. Pablo had refused to learn how to drive, fearing that it would affect and even injure his hands. He hated operating modern machines, even talking on the telephone, but today he did so, summoning the son he’d had with Olga to come and get him.

  Picasso was not a man who was meant to be alone. Still, he lay there in his darkened room, smoking. Then he thought he heard a noise outside the house. Did he imagine it? It was too soon for his son to be here. He strained to listen to the light and lilting sound.

  What could it be—human voices, or just birdsong? Warily he sighed, got up and went to the window, parted the curtain and peeped out.

  There were two figures approaching the house. Pablo ducked out of sight from the window. Through sheer habit he waited for someone else to resolve this, then reminded himself that there was not a mistress nor a servant nor a friend in this house to send to the front door to investigate.

  He would have to handle this for himself today. Or else ignore it.

  The irresistible lure of his own insatiable curiosity tugged at him. He thrust his feet into his sandals and went down the stairs as noiselessly as possible. He paused on his side of the front door and waited there, feeling like a spy, listening to the voices as they finally reached the house. Female voices, light, sweet and pleasant.

  Even so, his nerves were startled when he heard the sharp rap of the door knocker resonating through his front door while he remained right there on the other side of it.

  Picasso held his breath, trying to decide, torturously, what to do.

  Then he made up his mind.

  Ondine in Vallauris, September 1953

  AT FIRST, ONDINE WASN’T ENTIRELY sure she had the right house for Picasso. She and Julie had paused momentarily at the foot of a long, steep flight of wide stone steps, flanked on both sides by a free-spirited garden that was arranged in terraced layers on a hill, all leading up to a rather modest villa perched at the top.

  “Maman, do I really have to climb all these steps with this basket on my arm?” Julie exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Ondine had answered, gazing upward.

  “Must I go looking like Little Red Riding Hood?” Julie whimpered. “I’m sixteen, after all!”

  She’s nearly the same age I was when I met Picasso, Ondine thought to herself.

  “Who is this man we’re visiting?” Julie had asked. “Why is he so important?”

  “I knew him back in Juan-les-Pins. He’s very rich, and he might be able to help us,” Ondine answered carefully, mindful of her promise to Luc that she would never tell Julie about Picasso.

  But I never said I wouldn’t tell Picasso about Julie! Ondine thought determinedly.

  “Well, if he’s your friend, why do I have to be the one to give him this basket?” Julie fretted.

  “Because he prefers young women,” Ondine said, more to herself. She’d examined her reflection in the mirror only this morning; she was thirty-four now, and the face that looked back at her possessed a brave radiance. But life had toughened her up, and her eyes were those of a woman unafraid to look the truth square in the face. Let’s see if Picasso can do the same, she thought.

  Tenderly she smoothed out the shoulder seams of Julie’s dress and gave a sharp tug to adjust her hair ribbon, saying, “Remember to call him Patron when you address him. And be sure to smile and curtsey. You look too gloomy when you fail to smile.”

  Julie misunderstood and pouted. My own mother thinks I’m not pretty enough, she reasoned with a queer little feeling of hurt. In truth, she had a lovely face, with warm dark eyes and lustrous auburn hair, but nobody seemed to notice the shy little creature who kept her head down.

  Obedience was the only weapon of survival that Julie had managed to make her own. She lowered her lashes resentfully but said, “Yes, Maman.”

  Ondine saw her daughter’s pout and wasn’t fooled one bit. Everyone thought of Julie as pleasantly compliant, but the girl had a reticence which sometimes amounted to passive mutiny.

  She blames me for everything that’s gone wrong since Luc died, Ondine reminded herself.

  As they climbed the steep stone staircase to Picasso’s house they could hear bees humming busily in the tall grass of the terraced gardens they passed. It was a hot day for September. Ondine thought she saw a curtain twitch in the window as she moved forward resolutely toward the house.

  “Maybe your friend’s not even home today,” Julie said hopefully, lagging behind. The hamper was heavy and she wished they could just leave it on the front stoop and run away. She couldn’t imagine knocking on that door, curtseying and offering this basket to a total stranger.

  Ondine had cooked a lapin à tomates, les olives et la moutarde—rabbit stewed with onions, mustard, tomatoes, white wine, black olives, capers and herbs. She led Julie right up to the front door. They had to knock on it twice before they heard a man’s heavy tread at the other side of the door. After a long pause, the door creaked open a bit more, and the Minotaur peeped out, his dark eyes glowering.

  “Who is it?” Picasso demanded, shading his eyes from the sun’s glare with his hand. “Come closer, I can’t see you,” he said, sounding irritated. He had a folded newspaper tucked under his arm.

  She stepped forward courageously and said, “Bonjour, Patron. I am Ondine, your chef from many years ago, from the Café Paradis in Juan-les-Pins. My daughter has a gift for you.”

  Picasso stared at Ondine, then opened the door a bit wider. Julie saw a short, leathery-looking, powerfully built man, dressed in short
s and a short-sleeved shirt that hung open to reveal his broad chest. He was tanned all over to the color of bronze, even his balding head. He wore a furious scowl with those smoldering black eyes. But this man, although he appeared strong and fit, looked more like a grandfather.

  “He’s so old! Not at all like you told me,” Julie whispered from behind, for Ondine had described this “friend” as a virile, dark-haired Patron, not a man in his seventies.

  “Shh,” Ondine whispered back. Julie, terrified, stepped forward and mutely handed Picasso the picnic hamper. He looked astounded, but could not resist peering inside, sniffing. The scent of the food appealed to him just as Ondine knew it would. No man can resist being pampered, she saw in satisfaction, stealing a better look at him. He was even shorter than she remembered. His dark hair had turned white and was almost all gone now—yet her heart responded to his familiar, magnetic presence.

  Picasso glanced from mother to daughter, as if Julie’s youthful face was balm to his wounded pride. “Well, why not?” he exclaimed, stepping out and closing the door behind him. “No one else has thought to feed me a meal like this today! I’ll eat in the garden. Want to see it, young lady?”

  Julie beamed at him in relief, finding this change of tone encouraging. They followed Picasso around the side of the house to a sitting area where he deposited himself in a wrought-iron chair, placing the hamper on a matching table. Ondine swiftly unpacked the delicate rabbit stew that was so tender you could cut it with a fork. As she laid out the meal for him, he sat like an emperor allowing his attendants to wait on him. Then Picasso ate hungrily, looking pleased all the while.

  Ondine nodded to Julie, who, on cue, did what she’d been told to do: leave the adults to have their private conversation among old friends. As Julie tactfully wandered off into the garden to look at the flowers, Picasso’s gaze followed the girl, then returned curiously to Ondine.