Madame Picasso, page 35
They met up with the young soldier in front of a stable near the Hôtel de Ville. He stood proudly in a new dark blue uniform with gold buttons, high black boots and a crisp new kepi on his head. Eva was certain, when she looked at him, that he was no more than sixteen, in spite of a waxy dark mustache designed to make him appear older. Picasso clapped him affably on the shoulder in an effort to put him at ease before they piled into his maroon-colored Peugeot.
Eva was still unaccustomed to the sensation of being in a motorcar, but as they drove, she felt revived by the blissful sensation of sun on her face and the wind in her hair. As the road snaked along beside the silvery river Rhône, and in the shadow of the four stone arches of the famous Avignon Bridge, she felt free of the war, free of fear, pain and worry about her looming illness.
Finally, the young soldier and Picasso got out to switch places. Eva held her breath with anticipation. Picasso was such a proud man that she knew this could not have been easy for him. The car rolled forward and Picasso tried to release the clutch, but the car jerked to a sudden stop. Eva could see the boy biting back a smile. Picasso tried again, and again the car chugged and jerked, stalling on the narrow dirt road.
“¡Mierda!” he growled, slamming his fist against the steering wheel.
Eva found it so comical that she covered her mouth to hide a burst of laughter. The worst of the pain came with the sudden movement. The intensity was so overwhelming that she gasped for breath. Picasso pivoted toward the backseat, ready to shout—until he saw her face.
“We had better find the hospital, Pablo.” It was all she could manage to say.
Chapter 33
As winter came, Eva tried very hard to remember what had happened on that terrible day. But for so long there were only fragments. The young soldier speeding through the streets of Avignon toward the Hôpital Sainte-Marthe as she slumped in the backseat crippled by pain. The long, jarring train ride back to Paris buried in Picasso’s protective embrace, her mind numbed by laudanum to dull the sharpest parts of everything. There was Picasso’s smile. The young soldier’s maroon-colored car. Troops marching through the cobblestone streets, a little boy waving at her... And their sweet little rented house with the blue shutters, which she had grown to love.
The doctor at the hospital in Avignon had confirmed what, in her heart, Eva had already known. The cancer had spread and the surgical removal of both breasts was now no longer an option—it was the only chance that remained to prolong her life.
Picasso insisted the procedure be performed in Paris, by the best specialist possible. Money was no object, he said. Gertrude trusted Dr. Rousseau, so Picasso trusted him. Eva had surrendered to the surgery passively as winter snow fell all across the city. She could fight her own body’s war no longer. Nor did she have the strength to go against what Picasso wished for her, despite her fear that after such a horrendous surgery things would never be the same between them. He was a man who had been inspired by beauty all of his life. Now, and forevermore, she would be like a chipped piece of fine China—a marred version of something that once was flawless.
Eventually, Picasso would be compelled to replace her in his bed—as she once had replaced Fernande. He would not mean to hurt Eva in that way. He would tell himself that she didn’t know, and he would take great pains to hide it, as he had, at first, hidden her. He might not even be fully aware of how defiant he was being against illness and death. But for a little while, she had changed him, and inspired him, because of it. Eva was proud of that, and the influence she’d had on at least some of his work.
Endlessly weary, her mind clouded by the heavy anvil of pain medication, it seemed such a long time before Eva could actually remember everything as facts, not dreams, when she finally opened her eyes. She was in the apartment in Paris on the rue Schoelcher the first time she felt fully aware of everything. As she lay alone, swallowed up by the massive mahogany bed and all of the bedding, the first thing she saw was the huge plaster fresco propped against the bedroom wall. It brought back sweet memories of Sorgues every time she looked at it. She would always miss that house, and the happy time she’d spent with Picasso there.
The Paris apartment was quiet now. Thank God Picasso had finally gone out. He so dearly needed a break. Eva remembered he had not left her side for days. She could hear his voice, the pained insistence that he could not leave her, even for work. Nothing mattered so much as her, he declared. Now all she could hear was the wind whistling through the trees outside the tall windows.
Eva struggled to gain her bearings. Slumber’s pull was immense. She glanced around and saw there was a fire in the fireplace, and over the mantel he had hung Ma Jolie for her. The bedroom was full of crystal vases of flowers, little bursts of cheerful color among the gray of blankets, bandages and medicine bottles. The flowers had all come from Picasso, except for the hothouse roses from Gertrude and Alice. They were the only ones of their friends who knew about the surgery. Eva had made them swear to tell no one else. The sorrow and pity she saw in Picasso’s eyes was quite burden enough. “Tell everyone else that it is influenza or bronchitis again. I couldn’t bear their pity otherwise,” she had pleaded. “Tell them anything, only not the truth!”
Picasso had held steadfast to his own stance. He would not leave her bedside. Days became weeks. He worked little, and slept even less. He argued with doctors. He pleaded for more pain medication. Especially when her eyes were closed, she could hear the raw anguish in his voice. The sound haunted her.
How odd, Eva thought now as she gazed out the window past the bristling trees, where the Montparnasse Cemetery lay in the distance. She only now grasped the great irony of the view, and how convenient it would soon become.
The macabre thought surprised her. Instead of feeling sad, Eva saw the dark humor in it. What did other dying people think about? She was glad that at least her thoughts were her own. In the privacy of her mind she did not have to accept Picasso’s strident optimism that everything would be all right, and his insistence that she not embrace the inevitable.
Paris was still a very different place than the one they had left to go to Avignon. That place seemed as if it had existed an eternity ago. The busy Montparnasse cafés she had so adored were now dim, hollow shells, where few patrons lingered. Air-raid sirens were a common sound in the city and the joyous clinking of glasses was long forgotten beneath the stark staccato cry of this seemingly endless war.
The worst of it seemed to have diminished, but those were still the hallmarks of their day-to-day world.
So many men were in uniform now that Picasso stood out on the streets. Women, whose husbands and sons fought with valor, glared at him with disdain. In their eyes he was just another young man who somehow had avoided serving his country during wartime. They tossed white feathers at him, as any other young man who would not brave the cost of protecting France. A white feather was the sign for a coward.
His work suffered further, as his notoriety did. Thousands of francs worth of his art was locked in Kahnweiler’s studio because he was abroad and had not been able to return to France. His shop had been seized by the government, all of the artwork impounded so that it could not be sold. It was left to languish. Kahnweiler owed Picasso a fortune, but the rise and fall of fortunes, like happiness, could be swift and ever-changing, Eva thought. Life certainly had been that way for her.
She forced herself to get up. She was alone, and she was determined to see for herself what was left of her. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, knowing that Picasso would not have permitted it, but he could not spare either of them forever.
Gathering all of her strength, she shuffled across the room to the wardrobe mirror. It made her suddenly think of the bright makeup mirrors at the Moulin Rouge. Had all of that been real—the lights, the costumes, the excitement?
Eva drew in a breath and exhaled it deeply, then she began to unwrap the gauze and bandages around her chest. She listened again for Picasso, but the apartment remained quiet. Alone, she must face the monster she knew now lived beneath the bandages.
As the gauze fell away she saw the dark red splashes of dried blood, and the long, angry scars. When she saw what had become of her once-beautiful body, she collapsed like a rag doll onto the carpet and finally allowed herself to weep with primal anguish that until that moment she had refused.
Through tears, she glimpsed the sketch then—that lovely sketch Picasso had made of her that night when all things had seemed possible. She was a delicate beauty in the image, flawlessly and sensually drawn. She had felt like a woman that day, and he had captured that. It was propped unframed, still on the sketch pad, on the top of the bureau, a bit like their life together: not finished. Incomplete. How would his artist’s eye see her now? She would never be pretty, never jolie again. Eva rose then, took the sketch and ran her fingers over the lines as more helpless tears flooded her eyes. She felt utterly foolish now for all the times that she had urged Picasso to find peace with God or to trust in their happiness.
“Why did You have to do this?” She wept aloud, turning an angry gaze to the ceiling. “It was all such a perfect dream....”
In a paroxysm of grief she could no longer battle, Eva tore the sketch from the pad, turned to the fire and surrendered Picasso’s image of her to the flames.
“Perfection is as fleeting as happily-ever-after,” she cried angrily. “I was a fool even for a moment to think otherwise!”
* * *
November came and the weather turned cold. Alice handed Eva a cup of tea with milk as she rested on the sofa beside the fire at the rue de Fleurus apartment she shared with Gertrude. Eva was still too weak to sit up for long periods of time, but it was nice to get out of her bedroom. The view of the cemetery was becoming too much to bear. And she did so adore Alice Toklas. For a moment, they watched Gertrude and Picasso huddled together over the large dining table in the center of the room. As usual, they were deep in conversation.
“Max should be here soon,” Alice said beneath the regular drone of war planes in the sky above them. “You know, he’s not one to miss a free meal.”
Eva smiled, thinking how true that was of the endearing poet who, that one summer, had been so kind to her. She knew about the continuing addictions that had held him captive since then. Yet he had made such an impression on her, and she missed the loyalty and sense of humor she had only begun to get to know. He would be bringing Sylvette. They had all grown close this past year, and most especially since Eva had finally allowed Picasso to reveal the truth of her condition. Along with Gertrude and Alice, they were such a wonderful source of emotional support.
When they walked in the door, everyone could see by Max’s grim expression that he brought bad news. Damn, this horrendous war, Eva thought, wondering if she would ever see its end.
“Is it Apollinaire?” Gertrude asked.
“Apo is fine, thank God,” Max said. Gertrude embraced him. “It’s not him. But I’ve had a letter from Marcelle Braque. Georges was badly wounded at Thérouanne. Shot in the head. No one knows yet if he will survive.”
“Wilbur. Dios, Madre María, no,” Picasso murmured, and Max made them all pray aloud with him for Braque’s full recovery.
At the table, Eva put an arm around Picasso’s shoulders. With tears in their eyes, Gertrude took Picasso’s hand across the tabletop.
“I don’t know what I’ll do without him if he doesn’t make it,” Picasso said, and there was a catch in his voice.
“You can’t think like that, Pablo,” Gertrude urged him.
“The harder I try to avoid death, the more it presses in.”
Everyone knew that he was thinking of Eva, too. The helpless anger flared inside of her again. Sylvette handed Eva a handkerchief.
“Marcelle would be destroyed. She wouldn’t want to go on living without him. Her life would be over.”
“No one wants to go on living when they lose someone dear, Pablo,” Eva said gently. “But there’s really no other choice, is there? People have to go on. They have to build new lives. In time, the wounds heal, and the memories become precious ones, right?”
“Not for everyone!” Picasso shot back, angry suddenly. Eva knew he was not talking about Marcelle and Georges Braque, but about the two of them. “Some loves are just too rare for the wound ever to heal.”
“I know, mon amour,” Eva said softly. “I know.”
It really was the only thing for her to say because she knew in her heart that he was right. She could never have recovered from the loss of Picasso.
The mood was somber after that. No one could think of what to say to lighten everyone’s spirits, yet still there seemed a comfort in all of them remaining together. They spoke of Braque and each who knew him recounted their memories of him, and happy times they had shared.
Eva wondered if they would all gather one day to do the same for her.
After dinner, they collected around the sofa so that Eva could lie down again. Sylvette sat on the arm of a plush chair by which Max seemed overpowered. He was smaller and so much more fragile looking than she remembered but he and Sylvette were now both smiling with cautiously eager expressions. Clearly tonight there was more to be revealed. By the look on both of their faces, it was better news.
“All right, out with it, both of you, what is it? I don’t know which of you is brimming over more than the other,” Eva said as, once again, Picasso and Gertrude spoke privately across the room and Alice joined them.
Sylvette answered her first. “It’s finally happened, Eva. I’m going to be a real actress. They are giving me a starring role over at the Théâtre des Variétés!”
“Oh, Sylvette, that’s wonderful.”
“You always told me I wouldn’t be in the chorus forever, and now it’s actually true!”
“Yes, I did. Congratulations. I am so happy for you.”
And Eva was truly happy for her friend. She was only sad that she would not get to see her triumph onstage. There were so many precious things she already knew she would never see.
“Well, I can’t top that,” Max said quietly. “Yet I am going to be baptized next week.”
“But you’re Jewish.”
His grin was sheepish and his blue eyes were bright. “I know. But it’s time for something drastic. My life is a mess. I’ve had a vision, and I was told to receive the Lord into my heart.”
“I should have guessed by the prayer you led us in earlier,” Eva said.
“Picasso has agreed to be my godfather at my baptism.”
“You’ve already spoken to him about it?”
“I wanted to ask you to be my godmother, but Picasso says you’re not well enough.”
“He’s probably right.”
“Would you be offended if I ask Sylvette in your place? She is so important to you that it will be like having you there with us.”
“It’s a wonderful idea,” Eva said weakly. “I cannot think of anyone better. I only wish I could be with you on your big day. Where will you be baptized?”
“The Abbey de Sion. Picasso arranged it. Do you know the place?”
It is where we were meant to be married, she wanted to reply. But there was no point in tarnishing his wonderful news. She pushed away the tiny hint of hurt she felt, knowing that Picasso hadn’t told her because he wouldn’t want to do anything to make her condition worse. Eva was sure he had chosen the place specifically because there was significance to it.
“Yes, it’s a lovely church,” she said, summoning a smile.
“He is certainly a changed man since you came into his life, Eva,” Max said. “To be honest, I never thought there could be anyone better for him than Fernande. They were quite a pair early on. The poet in me would liken her to a bright shooting star—brilliant and fragile. But you, you are like the wave whose depth and force is never ending. Picasso has a kindness now, which has certainly made him a better friend. He has been transformed. For that, you are solely responsible, and personally, I thank you.”
“He has changed me, too, Max. I don’t suppose I would have done half of what I have with my life if I hadn’t met him.”
“I hope you will forgive my reluctance with you at first.”
“You and I found our way in Céret. I’m glad we are friends.”
He leaned forward and his voice went very low. Suddenly she could see tears glisten in his eyes. “You’ve got to get better, Eva. Not just for Picasso, but for all of us.”
“I’m trying, Max. I really am.”
* * *
Death was a black specter that loomed every day around Picasso. Yet he painted with great purpose, his creativity at last renewed. He bucked against death like a champion matador over a bull. Never far from his mind was the corrida. He would always adore the proud ritual of the bullfights, and the determination it symbolized to him.
He painted and painted. Eva slept. It was all tangled to him. The work. The emotion. The anger. Life. Death. Love. Sex. The great longing for it to be as it once was, but could never be again. And betrayal. After all, had God not broken their deal when he had pressed himself to trust again?
Picasso painted on through the war, and Eva grew worse. There were the Cubist canvases, even new harlequins, in the moments that nostalgia took over the anger. He drew, sketched and sculpted as if his own life depended on it. And when the rage flared, he emptied his pain onto the canvas in themes of sarcasm, cruelty and even ridicule of her illness—because ultimately he could not be openly angry with a woman who lay dying. His pain made him declare that he would be the god of all emotion. Not God.
