Cooking for Picasso (5 page)

But there was no time to brood. A large group of out-of-town businessmen had arrived unexpectedly and were now seated on the terrace awaiting a late lunch, and the waiters were frantically hopping to serve them all. As soon as Ondine stepped into the hot kitchen, her mother, who was reheating the soups, quickly put her to work slicing, buttering and filling fresh baguettes with cold meats, cheeses, pâté and olive
tapenade
to make the delicious variety of open-faced sandwiches called
tartines
.

Madame Belange moved with the confidence of a cook who knows that her cuisine is well prized. Only when there was a brief lull did she turn to ask briskly, “Did everything go all right at the villa?” She was satisfied with a simple nod from Ondine.

Later, when her father strode into the kitchen, he glanced at his pocket-watch and said firmly, “Ondine! Go back to collect the
Patron
's dishes, now.”

“Yes, Papa!” Ondine washed her hands, put on her jacket and hurried outside. Hopping back on her bicycle she pedaled steadily, keeping an even pace, this time arriving without being breathless.

When she entered the
Patron
's silent kitchen everything was as she'd left it. She didn't hear any clink of silverware coming from the dining room. Cautiously she peered in.

There were only a few crumbs where the bread plate had been; and empty shells from the devoured shrimp and other shellfish. The salad and cheese were gone, too.

“He ate everything!” Ondine exclaimed softly in relief. Picasso's cloth napkin was now folded politely beside the plate, and she found this gesture somehow touching.

How lonely it was to be an artist, eating all by himself, she thought, as she carried his single plate and set of flatware back to the kitchen. Lonesome, and yet, how strangely liberating to be able to come and go as you pleased without having to explain yourself to anybody, nor listen to their reproachful opinions. Ondine could barely imagine that sort of freedom.

Lifting the lid of the cooking pot which she'd left on a trivet at the table, she exclaimed, “Ah!” for she saw that Picasso had gone back for more helpings of
bouillabaisse
. “
Maman
will be pleased.”

She began packing up the dishes. The villa was even more quiet than it had been before, and Ondine sensed that the house was truly empty this time. She returned to the dining room to tidy up.

The bowl of fruit and nuts had been ploughed into. And there she discovered her note to Picasso, still propped against the fruit bowl. Not only had he read it, but beneath her scribble, right on the same page he'd written something of his own:

S'il vous plait, je voudrais plus de piment

followed by a whimsical drawing of a long, bright red pepper, after which was written:

dans votre excellente bouillabaisse.

“He'd like more peppers in our ‘excellent
bouillabaisse
',” Ondine giggled with delight.

She must remember to write down his preference in the notebook when she returned to the café. She put his letter in her pocket, smiling. But just as Ondine snapped the metal hamper shut and loaded it onto the bicycle, she realized that something was missing.

“Why—where's
Maman
's striped pitcher?”

In this unpredictable place, it had apparently vanished into thin air.

O
NDINE COULD NOT DECIDE WHICH
would be worse—getting caught snooping on the
Patron,
or facing the wrath of her mother if she returned without the pink-and-blue pitcher. She decided to take a chance on this artist, and look around.

A quick tour of the kitchen cupboards made it clear she'd have to go farther afield. Nothing in the dining room or study, either. She nerved herself and called out boldly, “Hello?”

Silence. This might be her only chance to search upstairs for the missing pitcher.

Ondine took a deep breath and went up, peering cautiously through the open doorway of a very small and plain bedroom, where the pillows were rumpled and the navy coverlet cast aside.

Why would he choose to sleep in this little room like a monk? She got her answer when she moved to the next room, which was strangely devoid of a bed, yet cluttered with sketchbooks, newspapers and paint paraphernalia spread out on every available surface.

What a jumble. Helplessly she scanned the room for the striped pitcher. Nowhere in sight. In this impromptu studio, she did not know what to look at first.

“What's he done with it?” she wondered. “Maybe he broke it and threw it out?”

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 reminded 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.

W
HEN
O
NDINE 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!”