Madame Picasso, page 11
He tossed the newspaper back on top of the letters and patted Frika on top of her head.
“De nada,” he said affectionately to the dog. “I’ll make her clean that up. That will teach her for next time.”
He walked through the rooms with their tall ceilings and grand windows that looked down onto the tree-lined boulevard. Fernande had meticulously decorated them, largely with the profit from several of his recent sales. There was a massive red-and-blue Turkish rug, a black marble mantel over the fireplace and mahogany bookcases. The wall behind the sofa was covered with the paintings and sketches of his that she particularly liked. Many were nudes, or studies of her. He had taken only the very early work back with him to his new studio at the Bateau-Lavoir.
Picasso glanced around at the ornate room, remembering their first studio. It was bare with no carpets, no chairs and only a single iron-frame bed. They’d had very little food or heat.
“Fernande?” he called out. He was suddenly glad to be home, despite the uncertainty he was feeling.
She was in their bedroom naked and sound alseep on the bed with their Siamese cat curled up beside her. Picasso had once thought Fernande’s ample curves were the most glorious lines and shapes in all the world. He had been obsessed by them. He lost track of how many times he had painted and sketched her, with clothes and without, back when she had been one of the most celebrated artist’s models in Paris. God, how he had loved her then.
Sensing his nearness as he drew close to her, Fernande reached up and twined her smooth arms seductively around his neck. They had been through this dance with each other so many times. Their connection swiftly reignited his longing for her. He grabbed her forearm and brought it to his lips, kissing the delicate skin. Then he stopped just inside of her wrist. Could he go back? Could they?
As he sank onto the bed, then arched over her, kissing her neck and shoulder, Picasso found something incredibly erotic about Fernande half-asleep like this. Her thick auburn hair, splayed out on the pillow, framed her face, her eyes still nearly closed.
Only then, as he felt the passion rising inside of him, did he turn and see the empty opium bowl on the floor beside the bed. The pipe lay beside it. Disappointment was a heavy thing, quickly snuffing out the flame of his ardor, and he fell back onto the bed beside her. Picasso realized that he had not been able to smell the sour, cloying odor of opium smoke when he first came into the apartment because he had not wanted to. A larger part of him than he realized had wanted things to work out with Fernande.
As she surrendered again to sleep, Picasso looked over at her, remembering their good days with sadness. He felt a tender rush of love, of longing and regret for her. He probably always would. A moment later, he rose, took a blanket from the end of the bed and gently covered her with it. He pressed a kiss onto her smooth cheek. Picasso then nestled beside her, holding her tightly as if somehow they could outrun the fate that both of them felt ahead. But already he knew that would be impossible.
* * *
The next morning, Picasso was sitting at the breakfast table with an open newspaper spread out in front of him when Fernande walked into the kitchen. She had awoken covered over with a blanket, the empty opium bowl still on the floor. It only took a moment for her to realize the state she had been in last night when Picasso had returned and found her.
As their cat sidled up to her calf, Fernande looked at Picasso and she felt a shiver. She pulled her dressing gown more tightly across her chest just as he looked up over his newspaper. There was tension between them. “Sleep well?” he asked.
“You said you would be out late last night.”
“It’s always a risk around here these days to change plans,” he said dryly.
“I thought you would be gone all evening.”
“I thought so, as well.”
Finally, he put the paper down onto the table and looked up at her.
“Where did you get it, Fernande?” She knew he meant the opium.
“You know where.”
“Damn, Max! ¡Cabrón! ¡De puta! I’ll kill him!”
“It’s not his fault. I was bored. He took pity on me. You know how charmingly I can plead,” she said with a tentative wide-eyed smile, the one that had long ago won his heart so completely. When he did not respond to it this time, she went to him, sank onto his lap and coiled her arms around his neck.
“Let’s go away for the summer—get away from Paris, and from Max’s temptations,” she urged him.
“I need to be away for a while on my own.”
Fernande was stunned.
“Pablo, we haven’t been apart for almost four years,” she said in a kittenish tone.
“I know that. But my friend Manolo from Barcelona, you remember him? He’s working on sculptures in a little village called Céret. He thinks the light and the colors will inspire my work, and I need that just now. I need new inspiration.”
She stood again and ran a hand through her hair, pressing it back and letting it casacade like a fire fall over her silk-covered shoulders. “It’s always what you need, isn’t it?”
“I think we need a few weeks apart, that’s all. We both know that you have some unfinished business here. It might be easier to conclude it if I’m not in Paris.”
She saw his eyes flicker and she almost couldn’t look at him for the truth there. “He means nothing to me, Pablo. It’s just our little game, you know?”
“I know. Let’s give it a few weeks, though, hmm? Then I’ll send for you.”
“You’re not giving me much of a choice. I know that look of yours well enough.”
“No, I’m not.”
The crippling feeling of being abandoned returned to her with a vengeance. “Please don’t go,” she whispered.
Picasso stood slowly and faced her. “I need time.”
“And I need you.”
He caressed her cheek gently between his thumb and forefinger, and Fernande closed her eyes at the feel of his touch. Don’t beg, she thought. It never ends well.
She wanted to weep, but there was no point in that. She would win him back, she always did, she thought as he walked out of the kitchen, and then out of their apartment, slamming the front door behind him.
Part II
Fame, Love, Brilliance
I often have this dream, strange and profound,
Of a mysterious woman, who I love, and who loves me,
And who, each time, is not quite the same,
And not really different: and who loves me, understands me.
Because it is she alone who understands my true heart.
—Paul Verlaine
Chapter 9
Céret, July 1911
Ah, but this was God’s country, Picasso thought with a pleased smile—el país de Dios! His friend Manolo had been right to urge him to come here to the South of France to get away from everything for a while. Céret, this unpretentious little village, was always bursting with the sweet fragrance of ripe cherries, fresh from the harvest, and noisy with the steady hum of cicadas.
It had been so long since he had been without Fernande. He was not used to a world where her pungent perfume did not linger in every room.
Sitting at an outdoor café in town, he took a heavy drag on a cigarette, letting the hot smoke invade his lungs. He loved the burn. And the freedom to smoke without Fernande’s whining complaint. He did not drink enough alcohol to look forward to the effects of that, and he had given up opium early on. But this, yes, this was pleasure.
Céret was a largely Catalan village in the Pyrenean foothills, just miles from the Spanish border. Aged plane trees shaded the courtyards and cobblestone lanes. Beside him at the next table, speaking in Spanish, two old men were arguing about politics. Their accents were like music to Picasso, who cherished the sound now that he had lived for eleven years in Paris.
He glanced down at his unfinished plate of rice and pork, and took another deep pull on his cigarette. They even made an admirable Spanish bocadillo here, in spite of the fact that this town was in France, not Spain.
A warm summer breeze rustled the trees around him, signaling the coming intense heat of summer. Picasso intended to be gone, but this place was a slice of heaven. Hidden. Discreet. Calm.
Since he had been down here, other artistic mediums had opened back up to him, welcoming him like old friends. He was sculpting again alongside Manolo, which he had not done in years. And clay felt good to him, pliable, supple—sensual.
And he was painting differently—certainly with more abandon. His palette of colors here reflected his heart. Where Paris had called up to him the grays and muted shades of brown, beige and blue of the city, here he chose vibrant colors full of light. Picasso had begun to play with shapes, as well, and after listening to a quartet out on the square late one evening, drawn by their soulful tune, he began experimenting further with musical instruments—clarinets and guitars—as subject matter. He also incorporated musical notes, which led him to newspaper clippings with words and fragments he particularly liked. It was liberating not to need a model here, or a lover, and all that went along with it.
Yes, the break here was doing him some good already, away from the traffic, the hubbub and the distraction of the city. Yet away also from Eva.
Picasso exhaled and gazed out across the rue Saint-Ferréol where an old dray was crossing. Why the devil could he not forget that girl? It had only been a month but it felt like an eternity since he had seen her. There was a quiet elegance about her, and that heady spark of fire. Frustrated, he flicked the butt of the cigarette out into the street and stood.
Trying to put her out of his mind, he walked toward the dusty lane that led to the old Capucin monastery on the edge of town. Manolo’s benefactor, the wealthy young American Burty Haviland, had offered to let them both work there. It had been one of the lures that had drawn Picasso from Paris. The old stone building, with its terra-cotta roof and soaring, whitewashed walls, was stark and isolated. It was perched on a slight promontory above the town. He liked the location particularly because there were few distractions.
Being here, free of distraction from his personal life, left him free to focus solely on his work, and the people in his world who shared that same unique passion. He had not felt this inspired since his first foray into Cubism. That always brought thoughts of his friend, and fellow Cubist, Georges Braque—the only other artist who truly spoke his creative language.
Picasso had begun to think more and more of Braque in the weeks since he had been down here, and he felt his creativity at a peak. How they did argue, discuss and compare when they were together! Only a true rival could make him better, and Picasso longed for the challenge. And now that his idol, Paul Cézanne, was dead, other than Matisse, Braque was it. He was every bit as talented as Picasso, and they both knew it.
“Come to Céret,” Picasso had written to Braque in a tone he knew perfectly well sounded like pleading.
But then he had never been above using any means to get what he wanted. In fact, he had been a master of it since boyhood. Long ago, he had realized that being an only son in a house full of women, and an absent father, did have its advantages. And, after all, if he was not going to have the lure of sex for a while, then he needed the powerful draw of competition to tame his ardor.
Braque had said he would come at the end of July, that he would only stay for two weeks and that he had a surprise. Picasso was not a huge fan of surprises, unless he was the one providing them.
As he neared the end of the boulevard, the quartet at the Grand Café struck up a new tune. It was Harry Fragson’s wildly popular “Dernière Chanson.” Before now, Picasso had not been listening, but this one sailed at him through the bristling trees. Quite to his fury, he knew it only too well. The surprise of hearing the particular words ma jolie from the song, when he was so far from Paris, made him instantly angry.
Ma jolie indeed. She was not his anything. But that was her choice.
Picasso lit another cigarette and tried not to think of Eva.
Get here soon, Braque! he thought. How I need the distraction!
Chapter 10
Mistinguett and Maurice Chevalier were now officially an “item.” The beautiful diva wasted no time in telling anyone at the Moulin Rouge who would listen that all of her good fortune was due to Eva’s geisha act idea. It was currently the show’s most popular number—and also it was Mistinguett’s favorite act to perform. Maurice had taken notice. In addition, it was Eva who had provided her with an alibi for Monsieur Oller when she had been ill that evening. Now, several of the other performers were clambering for Eva to enhance their costumes, as well. It gave her even more panache backstage and deepened her friendship with the star.
“Just let me know how I can ever return the favor, and it’s done,” Mistinguett often declared, and with dramatic flair.
Eva usually nodded and smiled, unable to imagine a time when the celebrated performer could be of any real help to her. Their worlds were still so very different. For now, Eva felt it was enough that she was making a solid career for herself, and making her own way in Paris. She was favored among the cast and crew—and with Madame Léautaud—so that, at last, she might risk asking for a night off to take a brief trip home to Vincennes to finally visit her parents.
Picasso had paved the way with them, and she was grateful. The way he had facilitated her telephone call had eased the sting of his departure from Paris, and his abrupt absence from her life.
She had learned from Mistinguett that he had gone somewhere in the South of France to paint. Her sense of rejection was eased only somewhat by hearing that Fernande Olivier had not accompanied him—and that, presently, she and Picasso were estranged.
“Whatever estranged means when it comes to the two of them,” Mistinguett had quipped with a toss of her hair as she dressed one evening for a performance.
It was the night before Eva was planning to return to Vincennes, so she was already on edge with the anticipation. The mention of anything to do with Picasso did not help matters.
“How do you mean that, precisely?” Eva asked as she darned the toe of a red silk stocking Mistinguett was to wear in the second act of the show.
The actress leaned in to the dressing room mirror. “Only that Fernande has held sway over him for more than five years now. They fight like cats and dogs, but they always seem to find their way back together.”
“So, he has left her alone in Paris like this before to go and paint elsewhere?”
She turned around on her makeup stool as she fastened a pearl earring to the lobe of her ear. “That’s the thing. Can you keep a secret?” She lowered her voice. “Fernande told me last week at lunch that this is the first time he hasn’t wanted her to join him. It is the first time in years he has told her that he needed time apart. She was rather bereft about it all. Fernande really has taken the name Madame Picasso to heart, and I suspect she is not too eager, at this point, to surrender it.”
“But if they have fallen out of love? Or perhaps Monsieur Picasso has come to care for someone else?” Eva tried to retain a disinterested tone as she kept her eyes trained on her needle and thread.
“A woman does not exist who can compete with her beauty, or her charms.” Mistinguett chuckled. “If Fernande wants him back, she will get him. You’ve met her. You know what I mean. She will lure him back in eventually like she always does. Believe me, everyone in the group has seen her do it.”
Eva felt a shiver of disdain. It was all a hornet’s nest, pure and simple. Why she had allowed herself involvement in any of that she must now chalk up to an acte de folie. Delectible or not, she must move on from her incessant thoughts of Pablo Picasso. There was life to be had in Paris. A life that did not involve an affair with someone else’s lover.
The next morning, wearing her black cotton traveling coat, a black hat and high button shoes, she boarded the subway car bound for Vincennes. Louis was by her side for support, since Sylvette was required at the Moulin Rouge for rehearsal. Better a friend than no one, Eva thought as they sat silently, listening to the rhythmic clack of the wheels over the tracks.
Eva was eager to go home now, if only for a few hours. She wanted to sit in her mother’s simple kitchen again and take in all of the savory aromas, along with the sweeter memories that had helped to define her uncomplicated suburban childhood. Especially now, she needed the memory of security—things from which she once had fled.
After a while, Louis reached across the seat and took her hand, which she had not realized until then was trembling. Against every instinct she felt, Eva did not pull away. Louis was a good friend, he was a good man, and a part of her was glad he was here so that she would not have to face her return alone.
Her father was gruff at first, her mother was tearful. She welcomed Eva back into their small family home, with the faded rose wallpaper, the mismatched furniture and the curtains they had brought with them from Warsaw. Adrien Gouel sat as usual at the small kitchen table, his hand wrapped around a half-full glass of red wine, fingers tapping the base as her mother dried her tears with the end of her apron.
