Madame Picasso, page 14
Hearing the name struck Eva like a slap across the face. “Where did she go?” she forced herself to ask, knowing the answer before the question passed across her lips.
“To the South, of course, to be with Picasso. She despises that whole provincial set down there, but he pleaded with her so she had to relent.”
“Then they are back together?”
“Oh, but of course. It was only a matter of time with those two.”
“They do seem suited,” Eva lied, suddenly feeling weak.
“They are like fire and ice. But I suppose that’s why it works between them. And he will need her support now more than ever, what with the whole Apollinaire thing blowing up just this morning. They are all such a tightly knit group. Apparently they took a train back to Paris.”
Eva didn’t know what she meant and Mistinguett could see that she didn’t.
“Surely you’ve read the papers. They arrested the poet just this afternoon.”
“Arrested him for what?”
“He has been implicated in the theft of the Mona Lisa. Apollinaire’s former secretary confessed to stealing some carved Iberian heads, so they interrogated him and he confessed. Apparently they suspect a link between the two thefts, both from the Louvre.”
Carved Iberian heads. Eva remembered very clearly having seen two of them herself in Picasso’s private studio. But she couldn’t believe it was possible that he was involved in these crimes.
This was madness! There must be some mistake. Of course there was.
“I need some air,” Eva said abruptly, heading for the back door that led into the alleyway.
She was not sure what horrified her more: the thought that Picasso and Fernande Olivier had reconciled, or that Picasso might be a thief. Right now with Mistinguett standing before her, Eva could not afford to react to either possibility. She felt her heart break a little as she staggered outside before anyone could see the tears in her eyes.
* * *
It was ruined. Everything he had worked for would be over.
As if it were a great Iberian storm looming on the horizon, Picasso could see the tumult ahead. Today, Apollinaire had been arrested in connection with the theft of the Mona Lisa. Now that he and Fernande had returned to Paris, Picasso had only to wait helplessly for the inevitable. The fruits of all the years of poverty and struggle would vanish in the blink of an eye because of a stupid mistake. But a bigger mistake had been made by Apollinaire. Why Guillaume had trusted that useless secretary of his with sculptures that were clearly stolen, he would never know.
But that was a lie. He did know. Of course he did. Pablo Ruiz y Picasso was many things—vain, egotistical, selfish and demanding—but he was not a fool. He had played his part. Ambition had driven both of them to break the rules—and the law.
It was yet another example of why he needed to distance himself from the bad influences in Paris. He needed a change, and this was a sign that the time for change was now. Something drastic must happen.
Sending for Fernande had done little to stem the tide of this growing disaster. It had only served to multiply his problems. She believed that they were reconciled, and now that they were back in Paris, it appeared that way to everyone else. But things were quickly disintegrating further between them.
They had returned with Frika to the apartment on the boulevard de Clichy and, for a few moments yesterday, Picasso had even been glad to be there, comforted by the familiarity of his possessions. In the dining room, his father’s beautiful Spanish cabinet, inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl, held a commanding place. In the sitting room, his collection of African masks, an old Spanish guitar from Madrid and a mandolin shared space with his treasured flea-market finds.
But as much as he had found peace in being home, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. As he glanced around the apartment filled with all the things that defined the life he had built with Fernande, he felt a nagging resentment. Thank God Fernande had taken the dog for a walk. The cat and monkey were curled up together on the sofa. They were harmless, guileless creatures. At the moment, he envied them. He needed a moment to breathe.
He ran a hand through his hair, lit a cigarette and tried in vain to slow his racing heart. The pounding in his ears was deafening. He squeezed his eyes, but the blinding whirl of events from two nights ago was only made sharper in his mind. How pathetic all of it seemed to him now. As if he and Apo might actually have gotten away with something so unbelievably wild! He thought now how it had all begun two days ago.
Apollinaire had been waiting at the Bateau-Lavoir studio the moment they arrived back in Paris. He wore the same wide-eyed hunted expression that Picasso felt.
“What are we going to do?” he asked while Picasso unlocked the door. As a Spaniard, he was particularly terrified by the thought of the French police.
“No one knows anything for certain, do they?” Picasso asked.
“Anything implicating the two of us, you mean? Not yet, no. But I’m afraid it is only a matter of time until the truth comes out.”
Apollinaire came inside and Fernande closed the door.
“Someone denounced me anonymously. The police have a warrant. They are in my apartment as we speak, looking for something to incriminate me.”
“You’re innocent. What would they possibly find,” Picasso scoffed with puffed-up bravado that he certainly did not feel.
“Géry took the other Iberian head I had. Remember how I had it on my mantel?” said Apollinaire, pointing to the two Iberian artifacts still perched prominently on a stand in Picasso’s alcove. “He stole it from me while you were gone and apparently he was just waiting for a way to blackmail me. He gave it to the Paris Journal in order to prove how easy it would be for a thief to have made off with the Mona Lisa, too. Apparently, he means to indict security at the Louvre. An opportunist like Géry probably could not resist trying to find a way to claim the fifty-thousand-franc reward once the painting is safely returned.”
“Merde!” Fernande murmured with fingers splayed across her lips.
“Merde, c’est ça,” Apollinaire repeated. “We need to dispose of these other two heads, and fast.”
“What do you propose we do with them, Apo? Prance down unseen and drop them into the Seine?”
“Exactement.”
Fernande groaned and rolled her eyes.
“Have you a better idea?” Apollinaire countered as panic rose in his voice.
Picasso exchanged a worried glance with Fernande. A steady summer rain began to beat against the studio’s wall of windows.
“Why the devil don’t you keep any alcohol in this place?” Apollinaire droned as he sank onto the edge of the bed in the corner of the room.
“The noose does seem to be tightening, Pablo. I told you years ago not to accept these,” Fernande snapped uncharitably as she shook her head.
“Will you stop— I can’t think!”
He should never have agreed to take them. He knew that. But at the time his self-confidence had overcome his good sense. Picasso remembered having deluded himself into thinking that it was his right to own the ancient Spanish artifacts. After all, he was a Spanish artist producing great new work to glorify his homeland. Here in France, they had been stashed into a dusty display case in a back room.
The next hours that day were a terrifying blur. Picasso and Apollinaire stuffed the two relics into a suitcase and hurried out of Montmartre. They took one streetcar and then another, neither of them daring to speak, for fear of someone overhearing, or even sensing their guilt. When they arrived on the Pont Neuf bridge at dusk, it was crowded with people. Neither of them could do it. Picasso was perspiring and Apollinaire had tears in his eyes as they passed an Italian street performer singing a haunting tune called “L’as tu vu la Joconde?” “Have You Seen the Mona Lisa?” The case had gripped Paris.
At least they had done the right thing after they had come away from the Seine. They’d had the two heads delivered anonymously to the offices of the Paris Journal and they prayed that would calm the furor. Apollinaire had hugged Picasso on the street as they parted.
“It will be all right, don’t you think?” Apollinaire had asked, dipping his fedora low.
“Of course, amigo. It will all be fine.”
“Now can we please go?” Fernande droned as she glanced around impatiently. “They are holding our lunch table, and we have got to get all the way across town in midday traffic. Both of you owe me a hell of a lot more than a good meal. Pablo, there’s a ring I’ve been eyeing.”
As they turned to leave, Apollinaire gripped Picasso’s arm. “Do you actually believe it will be fine?”
Picasso forced a smile. “I always believe what I say.”
Picasso could feel the chill of terror now, two days later. Apollinaire had been arrested an hour ago, as they had both suspected he would be. The police would treat him roughly, considering the masterpiece at stake, and Guillaume was a weak man. He would not mean to implicate Picasso but he would do it nonetheless. A slip of the tongue, a desperate plea for his own freedom, and he would give Picasso over.
He took a last drag on a cigarette, tossed it into an ashtray and lit another. He needed to cut down with the smoking, he thought, yet knowing he wouldn’t. He drew in a deep drag, feeling the burn in his lungs, and thought what a fool he was.
Picasso had truly tried in Céret to give reconciliation with Fernande a chance, in spite of the pretext on which he had sent for her. But it was there that he realized even more fully that what he needed was a true partner, now more than ever, with his world falling apart and his career taking off. He needed someone who would help him through these challenges, and steer him away from temptation. He could no longer stand to be berated and used for his growing fame. After so many tempestuous years, he desperately needed someone who could allow him to create and flourish. Without this, he would never survive all that he knew was coming.
Chapter 15
Eva was continuing to thrive on her own in Paris. At first she had been hesitant, but now she was eager for the challenges of creating and enhancing several of the costumes for the performers. It was a career path she had not initially considered for herself, but she had discovered a hidden talent for dressmaking, and she loved doing it.
She had worked hard and now she was indispensable at the Moulin Rouge. All of the actresses relied on her, especially Mistinguett, and while Eva had initially thought of her as a condescending Parisian, she actually enjoyed her company. They sparred, joked and laughed together, because there was trust between them now. The two women were not exactly equals, but they understood one another, and Eva found that she had a generous spirit and a vulnerability to which she could relate.
Mistinguett had recently invited Eva shopping and Eva had excitedly accepted. Wearing fashionable cloche hats, gloves and low pump heels, the two women strolled companionably down the boulevard du Palais, on the Île de la Cité. As they passed Notre Dame, they giggled and gossiped, free from the rigorous demands of the Moulin Rouge.
“So what exactly are we doing over here on the island?” Eva asked. “Are there shops here?”
“I have a surprise for you,” Mistinguett said as they neared the charming storefront across the street from the ancient cathedral of Sainte-Chapelle. They stopped at the glossy black door beneath a red awning.
“I’m about to take you to the most exclusive hairdresser in the world. Sarah Bernhardt is a client here, but you mustn’t tell anyone that. Antoine revealed that to me in the strictest confidence.”
“Antoine de Paris?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
It was rather like asking if she had heard of the king of England. Antoine was as much a celebrity in Paris as some of his clients. He was known for his bob haircut, a style that had become all the rage. Everyone wanted one, but few could even think of sitting in Antoine’s chair. “I’m sorry but I—I can’t afford that.”
“I told you, ma petite, that I owed you a great debt for all that you’ve done. You saved me twice with Monsieur Oller, and you didn’t have to do it either time. We come from the same stock, you and I. Well, nearly, anyway. You’re my friend and I want to treat you.”
The small salon was a hive of activity when they walked in. A tall, elegant man with dove-gray hair, bright blue eyes and a slim mustache approached them. Eva thought that he was handsome, in a Parisian sort of way.
“Ma chère Mistinguett,” he said as they embraced.
Dressed as she was, in a fashionable new dark blue dress with small brass buttons down the front, Eva no longer looked like a seamstress, nor did she feel like one.
“Antoine, this is the girl I was telling you about, my friend Mademoiselle Humbert.”
“Charmant,” he said appraisingly as he took her hand and spun her around. “But I see what you mean. Time for a change. And she is young enough, and petite enough, to make it work. Yes, the new style will suit her brilliantly.
“Well, then. Shall we begin?” Antoine asked.
Whatever they meant to do to her, she was eager to submit. After all, Eva felt like such a different person now, she might as well look like it. So, for today at least, she resolved to nod, smile and enjoy every moment of this amazing petite escapade.
* * *
“I can’t believe how different you look!” Mistinguett boasted with excitement afterward as they turned the corner onto the rue de Lutèce.
Eva felt light, saucy and incredibly chic, her new chestnut bob shimmering and bouncing in the sunlight as they walked. She felt as if she belonged in Paris now.
As they passed the imposing Palais de Justice, they watched as a Pigalle-Halle-aux-Vins omnibus stopped to let off some passengers. A uniformed police officer, wearing a long coat and kepi held the arm of a dark-haired man in handcuffs forced to endure the degrading ride on a city bus to the police station. They couldn’t see his face, but they could see from his slouched stature that he was weary.
“Allez-y!” the officer shouted.
Mistinguett gripped Eva’s arm tightly, as if the prisoner might break free and dash at them across the street. It was an absurd thought, but dangerous things did happen in a big city.
As the guard walked the prisoner around the side of the bus, Eva and Mistinguett were able to get a better look, and in that moment Eva felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. She was glad Mistinguett had hold of her arm because her knees nearly buckled, and it felt as if she were melting directly into the pavement.
The prisoner led before her was Pablo Picasso.
“Will you look at that!” Mistinguett’s voice came at Eva as if from the end of a long tube, and everything that happened in the next moments seemed to pass very slowly. She saw his hair first, black as india ink, shining and long across his forehead. He wore baggy gray trousers and a beige corduroy jacket. Then she saw the flash of silver as he stepped onto the pavement. Handcuffs! Dieu, it was horrible. Pablo Picasso being treated like a common criminal.
Eva was relieved for him that there were no photographers, as there had been at Apollinaire’s arrest. His photo—that sheepish giant with the sad eyes who to her had seemed so kind—was splashed on the front page of every newspaper in France. She could not imagine how degrading that must have felt to her favorite poet.
Picasso couldn’t possibly have been behind the Mona Lisa theft, but Eva had seen the stolen sculptures. Was it possible that he knew the whereabouts of the missing painting, too? The timing, and the coincidence, did seem quite damning.
It hurt to admit that this was a man she really did not know at all.
The competing emotions inside her flashed like fireworks, the sound so loud in her mind that she could not think.
Then, as if the moment couldn’t get any worse, she saw Fernande Olivier huddled in the shadows beneath the overhanging eaves. She was with Germaine Pichot, the girl Eva had met at the Circus Medrano, and they were watching Picasso being marched into the police station.
Of course Fernande was there. She was Picasso’s partner—practically his wife. The two women were Picasso’s family, and Eva had been naive to think that their reckless coup de foudre had been anything more than a moment in time to him.
Her mind suddenly went blank as a blanket of gray fell over her like a shroud. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed onto the sidewalk, and in her last conscious moment all she could think was what an utter fool she had been.
* * *
“Will you please eat something? Drink the tea, at least,” Sylvette pleaded.
“I don’t know what happened to me,” Eva whispered. “I’m sorry.”
It was late—she didn’t know how late, but it was dark outside, and the lights from next door cast an amber glow inside their room at la Ruche.
“Well, if you don’t eat at least a morsel, Louis will barge in here himself to feed it to you. He has been pacing up and down the hallway since Mistinguett brought you home.”
Dear Louis. He was coming up in the world, selling paintings and sculpting now, too. She cared about him. They shared something similar and real, a fragile uncertainty like at least part of what Fernande and Picasso must have shared in their early years, and that was something with which no one could compete in anyone’s life.
Picasso belonged to Fernande. What Eva saw today had proved that she was Madame Picasso. She seemed to have earned the right to call herself that, and Eva realized she would never stand a chance. She wondered then if she could allow herself to become Madame Marcoussis, after all.
“Ask Louis to come in,” Eva finally said to Sylvette.
Perhaps it was time to find out.
Chapter 16
