Madame Picasso, page 34
“The artist wishes to buy his own painting of me?”
“We wish not to see a masterpiece languish in a dealer’s crowded gallery, as though it were an unimportant offering simply there to cover a hole in the wall. We will pay you five thousand francs for the painting.”
A tepid smile lifted his heavy mustache. “That is a great sum of money, my dear,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension.
“I’m quite certain I can sell it for more. But it needs to be shown properly.”
“Are you saying that you know more about the sale of art than the man standing before you who has represented everyone from Vincent van Gogh and Pierre-Auguste Renoir to Paul Cézanne?”
“The painting is still here, is it not?” Eva heard the steely challenge in her own voice. She willed herself not to flinch.
“As it happens, I do have a client in Germany who had expressed some interest in that particular canvas.” He scratched his beard again. “He offered four thousand francs, which I declined.”
“Well, the artist himself is offering five thousand francs, so he must see value in it greater than what your client has previously considered.”
“Offering it through you.”
“Yes, through me. Perhaps your German client would be interested to know of a firm counteroffer. Does that not generally spark a sweetened bid from the original party?”
“From the artist himself? I’m not sure of that.”
“I don’t suppose a businessman, such as yourself, reveals every detail about the identities of his clients when there is an auction at hand.”
“Now it’s an auction, is it?” he asked with amusement.
“Is that not what you call it when two parties compete for the same painting? Monsieur Picasso and I have made you a firm bid for the portrait.”
“Since it has been shown in my shop all this time, I suspect you would like a commission, as well, if I were to sell it elsewhere?”
Eva let only the faintest smile turn her lips. Inside she was shaking. “But of course. Since you have never actually offered a contract to Monsieur Picasso to represent him, that would seem only fair. After all, business is business, Monsieur Vollard.”
“You’re a shrewd woman, Madame Picasso.”
“You may not have intended that as a compliment, but I intend to take it that way,” Eva replied as she turned and walked toward the door. “You have a week to sell it to your German client for six thousand francs or we buy it back for five. You will let us know as soon as possible which it will be, won’t you?”
Picasso was painting when she arrived back at the studio but when he heard the door he put down his brush and went to her.
Eva fell against him, her heart racing.
“Well, how did it go?”
“It is as good as sold! You should have seen his face!” Eva breathlessly chuckled. “He hated dealing with a woman, I know it. But there was so little he could say out of deference to you. He may not have been willing to offer you a contract in the past, but clearly he does not want to cut all of his ties with you.”
“Vollard is a tough old sot. You know I don’t want my own painting back. Especially not for five thousand francs when I gave it to him free of charge to try to get a contract out of him.”
“Of course not. It was a gamble. But we can’t have it just sitting in that shop for everyone to see when you are so close to becoming a worldwide star. There must be a mystique about you. As it turns out, he did have an offer on the portrait and he has been dragging his heels. But I think I may very well have lit a fire beneath those feet of his about it. If I am right, you will receive a nice little commission for his embarrassment over letting it languish.”
“Such a determined little vixen you are.” Picasso wrapped her up into his arms and kissed her. “What in the world would I do without you?”
“Hopefully, you will never have to know the answer to that,” she said proudly. Not only did Picasso love her. He believed in her, and after today, she actually did believe in herself.
Part III
War, Illness, Redemption
I have picked this sprig of heather.
Autumn has ended, you do remember.
Never on earth shall we meet again.
Scent of time, sprig of heather
Remember always, I wait for you forever.
—Guillaume Apollinaire
Chapter 32
Avignon, July 1914
Six months later, in July, the Great War that everyone had feared descended on Europe with the power of a firestorm and French citizens were eager to take up arms in defense of their country. Vive la France! echoed from Paris to Versailles, Céret to Nice, and the carefree years that had followed the Belle Époque were swiftly replaced with a riotous sense of panic, and frenzied cries of renewed patriotism.
The jolly ragtime tunes and boisterous celebrations that had not long ago filled the cafés of Paris were replaced by “La Marseillaise” and hushed conversations about military tactics, approaching airplane squadrons and the sudden food shortages.
When the first shots were fired, and planes strafed Paris, thankfully Picasso and Eva were not there. He had surprised Eva by renting a summer home in Avignon so that she would have a warm place to grow stronger.
He had found a little white house with blue shutters right in the center of town. She would heal there, he said. And so would their relationship. But the dark uncertainty of war set Picasso on edge. He combed through the papers every day. As he worried about his collection of canvases left in Paris, and the safety of his money, Eva started to feel the nausea resurfacing again. But she resolved not to say anything too quickly with all that was going on. Besides, her secret hope was that it signaled a pregnancy at last.
“If people panic, we could lose everything. All the money I have is tied up in the Banque de France in Paris,” Picasso declared one morning as he held up a newspaper. “Are you well enough to go with me to withdraw it? There is no time to waste.”
He was too anxious about his savings to notice that Eva was barely eating.
“Of course I am going with you,” she declared, hoping she could find the strength for the train ride into the city. Now that she was his partner, she meant to be so in every way.
The next day, as they stepped off the train and merged into a crowd, Eva clung to Picasso’s arm, stunned by a city that was so different from the one they had left. Gone were the glamorous Parisians strolling with their beautiful broad-brimmed hats and elegant dresses. Now there seemed to be no one on the streets but soldiers and policemen.
Everywhere they turned were mobilization notices soliciting able-bodied Frenchmen to take up arms. Throughout the city, joie de vivre had been replaced by fear.
“Don’t worry, I can’t be called up. I’m not French,” Picasso said beneath his breath as they rushed to the big stone bank near Montparnasse.
There was a huge crowd gathered outside, and there was a line to get in the door that snaked around the block. Picasso clutched Eva’s hand more tightly as they approached a stone-faced guard at the tall, iron doors.
“Excuse me, but I need to see to my account,” Picasso said. As he spoke, he slipped the guard a silver franc.
“Messieur-dame, bienvenue, but you mustn’t tarry outside here among this crowd to do your business. It may turn ugly. Please, go inside, quickly!”
Eva felt badly for having pushed with Picasso to the head of the line, and offering the guard a bribe, but she knew that things were desperate and waiting their turn could well cost them every centime they had.
Once they had withdrawn his savings, stuffed it into a bag and checked the lock on their new apartment, they returned quickly to Avignon. Paris was no place to wait out a war, Picasso said. But the conflict found them, anyway. When they arrived back at the house with the blue shutters, Georges and Marcelle Braque were waiting, along with André Derain, his mistress, Alice Princet, and their black German shepherd, Sentinelle. Marcelle Braque, in her familiar rope of pearls, was sitting teary-eyed on the wrought-iron bench near the front door.
“We hoped you would see us off at the station,” Braque said somberly. “We’ve both been called up.”
This wasn’t possible, Eva thought, suddenly feeling panicked. Between the war and her illness, it was too much to bear. Everything was changing far too swiftly to take it all in.
“My darling Alice here is going to wait out the war in Montfavet with her sister, but she can’t have Sentinelle there,” Derain said of his mistress.
Stunned by the news, Picasso crouched down and stroked one of the dog’s pointed black ears. Eva knew the gesture was designed to keep his composure. He had not allowed himself to show affection toward animals since the death of Frika, but he had known this dog since he was a puppy. Eva saw something in Picasso soften, quite against his will, as Sentinelle wagged his tail in response to Picasso’s touch.
Feeling nothing but compassion for her now, Eva sat down on the bench and wrapped her arm around Marcelle’s trembling shoulders. “I despise this wretched war already,” Marcelle sobbed into her hands.
“What are we to do about poor Sentinelle?” Alice Princet wept. “He’s such a gentle beast, and he’ll be absolutely lost without André. How can any of this be happening?”
“We could look after him while you are away,” Eva offered.
Picasso shot her a stricken glance.
“Please, Pablo. I really could use the company, with everyone leaving us, and with you shut up in your studio working all day.”
“I suppose we don’t have much of a choice,” Picasso eventually relented.
Later, the group gathered at the train depot. There were other families all around them beneath the great iron, steel and glass structure. Soldiers were in their new uniforms. Women were weeping as they embraced them. A little girl waved a small flag. Then a train whistle blew. Eva thought it made a mournful sound. Picasso finally took the dog leash from Derain and the two men embraced.
“Hopefully, it will be a quick war. So we can get back to our easels,” Braque said with a wink. He was trying to keep a brave face. They all were. “The Spaniard here will, of course, take full advantage, and grow even more famous in our absence.”
“You give them all hell, Wilbur, so we can all be done with this,” Picasso said as he gave his friend a mock salute. He could not bear to embrace Braque; that would have been too painful.
“Vive la France!” Eva chimed in a hopeful tone, trying her best to smile through her uncertainty about what lay ahead for them all.
Still weeping, Marcelle Braque pulled Eva into a deep embrace. “I must ask for your forgiveness, Eva,” she said.
“Whatever for?”
“Alice and I were not very welcoming to you in the beginning, I am sorry to say. We didn’t really give you much of a chance—the ties with Fernande, and all.”
“I had no idea,” she lied because she knew Picasso would be listening.
“You have really been good for Pablo. We can all see that.”
“You needn’t say so just because we are taking her dog,” Eva countered with a hint of humor, though she could still feel the sting of Marcelle’s words that day behind her back. Perhaps she was being overly sentimental because her husband was about to go off to war. Still, now was not the time to nurse old grudges or harbor old anger.
“I’m sincere, Eva, and truly very sorry. When he was with Fernande, he was always so volatile. But there is a wonderful sense of peace about him now. It’s really quite striking. Georges sees it in Picasso’s work. It is obvious that you are responsible for that.”
They all embraced one another one last time before the final train whistle blew. They tried to keep brave faces, but the enormity of war and its costs was too heavy on everyone’s hearts for that as Georges Braque and André Derain at last stepped into the train car and disappeared from sight.
* * *
In September, they received news that Apollinaire had enlisted in the military. Because of his criminal record, it had taken him twice as long to be approved. Picasso told Eva he was grateful that he and Apollinaire had reconciled before the start of the war. They had even begun to correspond. He said that last luncheon she arranged had meant the world to him.
Of their closely knit little group, only Max Jacob was rejected for service. But even for those left behind, war dominated everything. There was rationing, and there were shortages, and the newspapers were always full of postings of the wounded and the dead.
Through it all, Picasso did his best to keep working. He produced dozens of new Cubist canvases and he began to sculpt again. He had missed the feeling of wet plaster on his fingers.
Meanwhile, Eva was growing stronger, he told himself. It was time to feel confident again. She was young, and she was a fighter. She was fine, he thought over and over. They would be fine.
As he left his latest canvas to dry one morning, Picasso brought Eva breakfast in bed. He had gone through all of his rituals that morning to calm his superstitions, after he had come back from the bakery. He had stopped at the door, paused, turned around, counted to five, turned back around and entered the house. Nothing bad could happen. Not today, at least.
For a few moments, before the scent of fresh brioche woke her, Picasso watched Eva sleep. He relished the vision. Her face, when she slept, was still childlike, and so lovely. He did not believe it was possible to love a person so much as he did Eva, or to feel more devoted. After everything they had been through together, he only worshipped her more. He wanted a child with her—to see the culmination of them both in a pair of bright, innocent eyes. Yet he felt selfish. There was a part of him that was secretly glad he did not have to share her with anyone but Derain’s dog, who particularly adored her. True to his name, Sentinelle sat on guard at the foot of the bed, ready to protect her.
“What time is it?” Eva asked sleepily as she struggled up onto her elbows.
“Just past nine o’clock.”
“Why did you let me sleep so late? Did you come to bed last night?”
“I was working on something new. I will show you after you’ve eaten.”
He watched her face as she warily considered the tray of brioche, tea and freshly sliced melon.
“Oh, Pablo. You know I can’t eat first thing in the morning.”
“When we first met, you used to be ravenous for breakfast,” he said suspiciously.
“I was ravenous for you,” she said with a sleepy smile as he handed her a cup of tea and pressed a kiss onto her cheek. “What’s the new painting of?”
“You and your dog. You are wearing that silly fox fur stole.” He was referring to the stole he had bought for Eva in Nîmes after they had gone to a bullfight.
“That seemed the least you could do after making me watch that entire gory thing to the end,” she said with a mock pout.
“Clearly I failed in my effort to educate you about the majesty of les corridas.”
“Clearly you did.”
Picasso pressed her hair back behind her ear on one side. “After I have had a little rest, I am going to start another painting of you this afternoon. Of the two of us, actually.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Now, with your hair grown out, full and lush as it is again, I am inspired. I have the idea of painting you in the guise of an artist’s model. You will have just come from the dressing room, and I will paint myself waiting for you. Actually, I might just leave my own image as a sketch, not paint it in, so that the focus of the piece can be you and your glorious body.”
She lifted an eyebrow playfully. “I see. I’m to be naked, then?”
“Of course. And if it is as good as I envision it, I think I will make you a wedding gift of it.”
Eva sank back against the pillows. “Pablo, we’ve been through this. It’s too soon.”
“It has been a year, mi amor. You are as healthy as I am now. All of that dreadful business is behind us, and the mourning period for my father is at an end, so there is no reason to wait any longer to be married. If you still love me, that is.”
“Eternally.”
“Then it is settled. The newspapers say things have calmed down in Paris for the moment. I am desperate to check on the apartment, and all of my canvases there. Gertrude and Alice will be back, as well, so they can attend the wedding. My family waits only for my direction before they travel to Paris, too.”
“You know that the Hôtel le Meurice has been turned into a hospital for wounded soldiers.”
“There are other hotels. That cannot be your excuse.”
“But that hotel is special to us both. It will be bad luck if we have our wedding breakfast somewhere else.”
“Now who is being superstitious? I have it all planned. I’m going to drive us away from the church in high style with Spanish cow bells tied to the back of our motorcar.”
“You don’t know how to drive!” Eva gasped. Sentinelle barked.
“Not yet, I don’t, but I am going to buy a car, so I had better learn. I’ve arranged for a driving lesson with a young soldier for later today. Then I’m going to buy his car. His family is in need of money, but his father won’t take anything from me, not even a sketch. The man and his son reminded me a lot of my father and me. I suppose I want to honor that, too.”
“You know, you are a very kind man, Pablo Picasso.” Eva smiled, and kissed his cheek.
“Don’t let that get around.” He grinned. “Besides, what I truly am is a man in love with his woman...yo amo a mi mujer.”
As they walked through town later, Eva and Picasso were reminded yet again about the gravity, and seeming endlessness, of this war. Things had calmed down for the moment, but the conflict was far from over. And in the meantime, Avignon had been transformed into a military encampment. The lovely cobblestone streets were now teeming with regiments of soldiers and crowds of bedraggled and haggard-looking refugees. Hay carts and bicycles were now replaced by trucks loaded with weapons, or filled with soldiers. Troops were installed in the theater, the courthouse and even the historic Palace of the Popes.
