Madame Picasso, page 29
“What is it, mon amour?” Picasso asked when he caught her standing over the sink, crying.
“It may sound silly, but it is everything in the world, and nothing at all,” she said with a tearful smile.
As he drew her into his arms, Eva wished more than anything that she could say that it was her emotions getting the better of her because she was pregnant. She so badly wanted that to be true, rather than worry over what the doctor suspected. For now she would focus on their new life here and the dinner party ahead. That, she decided, was enough for one day.
In the end, it was Max Jacob who made her forget her fears, and helped her to enjoy the evening. Eva did not expect to like him so much or to covet his friendship as she quickly did. But he was dear to Picasso, they shared a long history and she was determined one day to win him over. He was quirky and had a rapier wit, albeit fueled by alcohol, and he was filled with stories that had them all peeling with laughter late into the evening. When he recited some of his own poetry, she found herself rapt. Eva knew his allegiance was to Fernande so she accepted that it would probably take a while to get to know him, but she was eager for the challenge.
Juan Gris, another guest Eva had not met before tonight, was far more quiet, and his French was only passable. He and Picasso spoke in Spanish, from time to time. Then, occasionally, one or the other of them would suddenly laugh at something the other had said that no one but the two of them understood.
“Another of those Polish cookies and Gertrude will need to wheel me home in a barrel,” Max exclaimed as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his abdomen. He was quite drunk.
“We will probably need to do that, anyway,” Gertrude said dryly.
Alice stood and picked up two plates. “Let me help you with the dishes.”
“That’s not necessary,” Eva nodded. “We have a girl who comes in the mornings, and she is always quite desperate for something to do.”
“That’s because my darling Eva has yet to realize she is not the femme de ménage. There is someone else to do the cleaning now,” said Picasso as he lit his pipe.
Everyone laughed as Alice followed her to the kitchen. Eva put the dishes in the sink. She knew what Alice was going to say. She unlatched the window and a cold breeze filled the space, making the lacy curtains dance.
“So, did you see Dr. Rousseau?”
Eva turned away and scraped the plates into the trash. “It was a silly concern. He said I am a perfectly healthy young woman. I just need to get a bit more rest.”
“Good luck there, with a robust lover like Pablo.”
Eva blushed. “I will bear that in mind.”
“He is happy with you. We can both see that. He is calmer lately, and he has a focus that he never had before. It is quite obvious.”
“Thank you for saying so.”
Eva suddenly felt like crying again. It happened so often lately and she struggled to keep her composure. She couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed and saddened all at once, just as she had earlier that evening. In the silence, the conversation taking place out in the dining room drew her attention.
“She is certainly nothing like Fernande, Pablo, I’ll tell you that,” said Max.
“Precisely,” Picasso returned.
“She seems rather meek. I just don’t know about her.”
“But you will,” Picasso countered. “And Eva is a tigress for things she believes in. She isn’t meek at all.”
Max was speaking loudly enough so that they could both hear him from the kitchen, even over the clinking of silver and china. Alice smiled in response.
“Max can be rather persnickety and judgmental but he is intensely loyal to those he loves. Will you be all right that we are all still friends with Fernande?”
“He is Pablo’s friend so I had better win him over one way or another. I actually think I’m ready for the challenge,” Eva said. “Besides, I can’t pretend the past doesn’t exist and neither can any of you.”
“Not with Picasso, we can’t. His past defines much of him. So do his friendships.”
“I was there when Germaine and Ramón confronted him in Céret,” Eva admitted.
“Oh, dear. We heard about that nasty business.”
“I’m sure they thought they had his best interest at heart.”
“Even so, he will never forgive them,” Alice said.
Eva felt tears pressing at the backs of her eyes. That was happening so often lately that it had begun to concern her. She still wasn’t feeling particularly well in spite of the successful evening, and she was always tired. Inside, she felt like an emotional pendulum, but no one would have known it. No one accept perhaps Alice.
Her warmth and nurturing way made Eva think of her own mother for the second time today. She had been remembering home so often lately, and regretting things. She had an overwhelming desire to confide in Alice about what the doctor had said. But she resisted it. For now, no one must know anything.
“I did not break them up, I swear I didn’t.”
“No one can tame a horse that does not want to be tamed, without entirely breaking its spirit,” Alice offered. “Before Pablo met you, Gertrude always thought his spirit was close to being broken. He is a whirlwind, and he is on the cusp of even more massive stardom than this. It will be a great storm when it happens. She has always believed he is a genius, which the whole world soon will see. Take care of yourself, ma chère. Try not to get too caught up in all of that. He will need your support more and more every day.”
“I will be right there beside him. We will help each other,” she promised as Picasso came up behind them and affectionately encircled Eva, who was still standing at the sink. He pressed an affectionate kiss onto her neck.
“Our guests are beginning to leave. Can I tear you two away from your conversation to come and say good night?”
“Of course.” She and Alice exchanged another brief glance. They could both see that Picasso was happy that they were talking as privately as if they were already close friends.
“Eva is a perfectly wonderful hostess, Pablo,” Alice said. “Everything was so lovely this evening. You really should be so proud of her. We can be quite an intimidating group but she charmed everyone.”
“She’s already my good-luck charm, so I never had a doubt the rest of you would see it,” he said proudly as they all walked back into the dining room together.
* * *
Picasso had always loved the light in Céret.
It was winter now, and he wanted to stop there on the way to Barcelona for Christmas. He told Eva he wanted to secure a house for the summer, and he had heard of one that was perfect for painting, and not too far from the center of town. Eva was ready to go anywhere he liked when they left Paris the next week, but she was disappointed they would not be returning to Sorgues in summer. It was a place that would always be so special to her.
They were dressing for the ballet, which Eva wanted to take him to, when he told her of his travel plan. She had never been to the ballet in Paris, which was an elegant affair, but this evening was to be her surprise for him. She had organized the tickets with Alice and Gertrude’s help. Picasso had introduced her to so many new and wonderful things over the months, but this was a world she had loved all her life from afar. As a young woman, Eva’s mother had performed in a local ballet. There was even an old brown-and-white photograph of her in costume, placed over the mantel in her parents’ home in Vincennes. It looked nothing like the sturdy woman she ultimately became, Eva always thought. But she never forgot her mother’s face in the photograph—bright with youthful dreams.
“I was hoping we could rent our lovely house in Sorgues again,” she admitted.
Frika watched the conversation suspiciously from the top of the bed.
“The landlord is selling it, I’m afraid.”
“Your wonderful fresco! What will become of it?” Her expression was suddenly stricken, remembering what they had left behind, and feeling emotional about its loss.
“Well, now that is another story,” he said with a wry smile, taking her by the hand as he drew her into his art studio. “I had planned to make it a surprise for your birthday, but now seems as good a time as any.”
He motioned for her to pull a large slip of canvas back from a place near the wall, and when she did, Eva gasped. It was the last thing she expected to see.
“How did you possibly...?” Her words trailed away as she was struck with awe.
“Kahnweiler had it removed for me. The landlord was not happy that I painted it on his wall in the first place, and he fully intended to charge me to paint over it.”
“Oh, no!”
“I decided to save him the effort. Kahnweiler thought I was a bit mad to go to the expense of removing part of the wall and having it sent here. But then I suppose some would say I’m a bit mad, in general.”
Eva knelt in front of the great slab of plaster, protectively framed in wood. “It is beyond precious to me, Pablo.”
“I knew you loved it. Therefore, money was no object to save it. You know I would do anything to make you happy.”
“As I would you.”
“Then marry me, Eva. It’s high time I asked you formally, even though I hope you knew I would.”
“Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!” Eva flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheeks.
“I was hoping you would say that.”
“I will say it until my dying day!”
Picasso’s eyes widened, and he stepped back, as if he had been struck. “Dios, don’t ever say that again.”
“Say what?”
“Do not speak ever of your own death!”
“Pablo, I only meant—”
“It is bad luck! Don’t you understand? Come, quickly. We’ll go and say two Hail Marys, and then light a candle!”
Eva looked at him curiously. She wanted to remark that she thought he loathed God. How could such a thing matter in the face of the contempt he held for the Almighty? She knew about his superstitions, but it was another thing to see for herself how deeply they ran. Eva shook off a sudden chill. Yes, he had finally formally proposed, and she was thrilled. But it also felt, in that moment, like someone had just walked over a grave.
Chapter 28
Before they left for Barcelona to meet Picasso’s family, they spent a few days with Georges Braque, who was back in Paris. Eva loved to watch them argue and discuss art, especially when they were gathered at Gertrude Stein’s, where all of the conversations were interesting to her. She had a great thirst to learn, and his Paris group were wonderful teachers.
Eva was certain Picasso never looked so happy, surrounded by his friends and with her at his side, in those days before they left Paris for Céret. Although he had represented them for years, both artists had only recently signed official contracts with Kahnweiler, and Picasso was pleased to have cut a better deal with the art dealer than his rival had. It kept Picasso far more affable with everyone, on those evenings, than he might have been where a competition was involved.
At least, until he heard that Kahnweiler had also included Juan Gris in his stable of artists. Gris may be a friend, but he was an inferior artist, Picasso told Eva on the train from Céret to Barcelona after their brief stop. It was a rainy and gray winter day, and the landscape reminded him of a watery Monet painting, he told her as they sat in a little first-class compartment and watched the scenery go by.
“Juan seems nice enough,” Eva said, touching his knee as they gazed out the window.
“That has nothing to do with art. He has always tried too hard. Talent cannot be forced.”
“It’s a lot like love that way.”
Picasso smiled. “Wise beyond your years, ma jolie. You would have to be in order to deal with me. So tomorrow, my wise girl, you meet Don José.”
“You’re scaring me.” For weeks, she had been dreading meeting the great family patriarch with whom Fernande had spent time. There was just so much past to rise above.
“I only want you to be prepared. The old man can be quite daunting when he wants to be.”
“I can hardly wait.”
He kissed her cheek tenderly in response. “You will charm him as much as you’ve charmed me. He will say you remind him of my mother. If he says that, you’ve won him over, no matter how gruff he seems.”
“Did Fernande remind him of your mother, too?” Eva asked softly as the train car swayed and clacked over the tracks.
“No. He knew she was married when I brought her to meet them, so neither of my parents were very impressed.” He quirked a smile. “You’re not married, are you?”
“Not yet. But I hope to be very soon.”
“How do you feel about a spring wedding?”
“This spring?”
“Why not?”
She wasn’t entirely certain why it seemed like such a long time in coming, but it did. It felt like such a long time in coming.
“There is a church around the corner from our new apartment, the Abbey de Sion, and I’d like to have our wedding breakfast afterward somewhere utterly glamorous for you. How about the Hôtel le Meurice?”
“We couldn’t! I thought you were joking when you mentioned it that once. It would be scandalously expensive!”
“Kahnweiler assures me that, with my last German sale, we can afford it. I will use the profit.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “It sounds really lovely, Pablo.”
“I thought it was important that you knew the plan before my parents did. I hope you will feel a little more comfortable meeting them that way.”
“That does help.”
“I am going to ask my mother for my grandmother Picasso’s Spanish silver ring. My grandfather gave it to her when they married. I want it to be your engagement ring.”
“Oh, my love.”
He took her hand and held it tightly in his own. “And I’m sorry about what happened back in Paris. I overreacted about you speaking of your dying day, and I know that I frightened you—proposal or not. It’s just that I cannot bear the thought of something bad happening, now that we are finally together.”
“Bad things do happen, though, Pablo, no matter how we all wish they wouldn’t.”
“Well, they don’t happen to me. Not any longer. You are my talisman. I told Alice you were my good-luck charm and I meant it,” Picasso declared with conviction. “Look how you’ve inspired me with papier collé. That’s all because of you. And my colors are bright again. I’ve gone away from all the browns, because I don’t feel them any longer—and I made a far better contract with Kahnweiler than Braque did because of your advice.”
“Well, you certainly are the master. You should have a better contract,” she said.
“I like the way you think. But it really is you. I’m telling you, you bring me luck.”
He squeezed her knee as the train pulled into the station. “Remember now, no matter what my father says, he really will like you, eventually. So just be yourself.”
What a horrible man he must be, Eva thought, a self-centered man, an artist himself, ultimately overshadowed by his more talented son. At least the intimidation and expectation had fostered a genius. But in these moments when she couldn’t stop her heart from hammering, that rationale of her fear seemed cold comfort. She would have to go through with this, no matter what, if she wanted to marry Picasso.
* * *
They rode in a horse carriage, not a motorcar, because it was so cold that there were no taxis left at the train station when they arrived. But it was warm enough inside for the ride down the wide tree-lined Las Ramblas, one of the main streets of town.
Eva was not certain what she had expected of Spain, but Barcelona was a beautiful city, far more cosmopolitan than she had imagined. The tall, buttery limestone apartment buildings, with their scrolled ironwork balconies, were as elegant as any in Paris but with their own unique flair. Women strode arm in arm, with a pride that was captivating to see.
As the black carriage moved toward the sea, the landscape and the buildings steadily changed. The streets narrowed. This was the older part of town. The houses near the harbor were darker, the paint peeling on some of them. There were lines of laundry hung between the buildings, and blue-black puddles on the cobblestones in places where the sun rarely shone.
The carriage stopped at a street corner that held a small, dark café with an ancient sign overhead. Picasso opened the carriage door. He got out and held his hand out for Eva as the driver fetched their two large carpetbags.
“This is it. Just down there,” he said, motioning with a nod toward the narrow street framed by apartment buildings. “I have tried for two years to get them a larger place, but my mother refuses. She says she has moved enough in her life, and that this is home.”
Eva was glad to see pots of bright red geraniums spilling over some of the balconies, bringing in a bit of life, despite the winter air. She could hear a baby cry in one of the apartments, and there were children playing stickball up ahead. It certainly wasn’t Montparnasse, she thought. But this was Picasso’s world, the place he grew up, and she wanted this part of him, too.
She anxiously straightened her hat and skirt. “Do I look all right?”
“Absolutely ravishing. But, of course, ravishing you will have to wait. My mother, no doubt, will have her rosary out the whole time.”
