Madame Picasso, page 18
“Then they are all parts of you.”
“Sí, if you like.” He was warning her, and he could tell that she knew it.
“I read the book you gave me about the satyr, and I am still here,” she offered.
“Ah, that was nothing, mi ángel, I assure you. Do you see that folio over there? It is full of sketches—chalk, pencil and ink studies. Many of them were done when I was young. For others, I have no such excuse. After you see them, if you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
He knew she had no idea what she was about to see, his erotic fantasies captured on paper. But better to reveal himself to her now before too much more of his heart was lost.
Eva rose, walked slowly across the studio and brought the folio back to the bed. Her silhouette was small and fragile in the dim candlelight. His heart began to beat wildly with anticipation and fear.
He watched as she flipped through the sketches, holding each one between her delicate fingers. They were crude. Vulgar. The sketch on top was certainly the worst. Although perhaps it was better to begin there. He gazed down dispassionately for the moment at his own work as she held it between delicate fingers. The image was a familiar one. In sepia, he had drawn a large phallus with a face that resembled Jesus. On the scrotum was a naked woman, crouching, arms outstretched. Behind this sketch was a pen drawing of a naked girl, probably Germaine, although Picasso could not remember now, as it was six or seven years old. The woman’s legs were spread, her fingers seductively placed on her own genitals.
He felt himself cringe as he saw these works now through Eva’s eyes. It mattered to him what she thought. The next was drawn in the style of a cartoon. Another phallus. A woman in service to it. But this was him, and he must reveal himself to her if there was ever to be full trust between them.
“I slept with Louis after you left Paris,” she said suddenly.
“I would have assumed.”
“Twice.” It seemed to him like a tender warning, perhaps her way of putting them on more even footing. He so admired that spark of fire she had, which always flared when he least expected it.
“All right.”
“The first time, it was because I was angry with you. The second time, I just wanted to do it.”
“I see.”
“So, I am not the complete innocent you think I am.”
“Es mejor,” he said, feeling a sense of relief.
“Better, how?”
“Relationships are a journey but this is one we could not share if I were always frightening or disgusting to you.”
“Is there a journey for us to go on together?”
“Oh, most definitely,” Picasso said.
“I really cannot see how.”
“Just yet, nor can I. But the path will reveal itself in time if we do not press too hard to find it.”
“That sounds very mystical.”
“Do you think so?”
His fascination with tarot cards, and knowing the future, had begun a couple of years earlier with Max Jacob, who was always studying religions and mysticism—ways to a higher consciousness, besides at the bottom of a glass. Picasso could not yet, however, bring himself to admit how strongly superstition played a part in his life. His Andalusian roots were deep, something not easily explained to a pretty girl from a suburban French town. He must tread carefully with them.
“Even when I was a child, my sisters and I were exposed to folklore and beliefs in Spain that are not easily explained here.”
“You had two sisters, then?” she cautiously asked.
“Lola and Conchita.” Picasso could hear the catch in his own voice.
“I wish I could have known Conchita since she meant so much to you. Is there perhaps a sketch or a painting of her?”
He chaffed at the French way Eva spoke Conchita’s name. Picasso did not like to hear anyone speak it. It made him defensive and angry. The wound would never be completely healed because he had been so young. But Picasso wanted to try to make her understand what of it he could. The sensations with this woman were all so new, and some were raw to him, but he wanted to push through them, anyway.
“I sketched my sister many times. She enjoyed watching my hand fly over the paper. She said it reminded her of a butterfly.”
Eva pressed her head into the curve of his neck. It was a small gesture, but at that moment it meant the world to him.
“Will you tell me how she died?”
“I don’t know if I can.” He drew in a breath. It had been a long time since he had spoken about her. Not even Fernande knew the whole truth. Thoughts and memories swam in his mind. Picasso squeezed his eyes for a moment.
It did not help that whenever he looked at Eva he was also reminded of Conchita’s vulnerability and her gentle spirit. The ache of losing his sister when he was just a boy rushed powerfully back now. She had not deserved to die so young, and he had not deserved the burden of her loss to weigh so heavily upon his heart. How he missed her sweet smile. Nothing in the world had changed the essence of him so much as the circumstances of her death had. It had brought with it a nearly obsessive fear now of illness and death tied deeply in with those Andalusian superstitions. He simply could not bear to be around it.
“When she fell ill, painting was already my great passion, but my mother spoke to us of humbling ourselves in our prayers for Conchita’s health. She said that God would save her if we were willing to sacrifice. I was so desperate that I offered to God as my sacrifice the only thing of value I thought I had in the world. I made a vow that if the Lord would spare her, I would never paint again.”
“That was really extraordinary of you, being so young.”
“Not so extraordinary. I failed after a week. I painted, and Conchita died of diphtheria. My sister died because of me.”
After Conchita died, Picasso had stopped believing in God, but he did not tell Eva that. He could not. Nor could he tell her that he had done everything since then to spite Him—anything to challenge a Lord that would do something so cruel.
“You have to know that it wasn’t your fault. Diphtheria is a powerful illness, and she was so young.”
“That shouldn’t have mattered. I made a promise.”
“You were a boy.”
“She never thought I could do anything wrong, either.” Picasso shrugged in an attempt to push back the tears he could feel at the backs of his eyes. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“I’m glad we’ve become friends, Pablo,” she said.
“Yo también, ma jolie,” Picasso agreed. But he wanted much more than her friendship.
Chapter 18
Summer faded and autumn came again.
The air was crisp, the clear sky was a broad canvas and a vast carpet of amber leaves swirled and danced, making a new landscape across the city. Steadily Parisians donned their heavier woolen coats, scarves and gloves, and lately everyone in the cafés and brasseries were chattering about the upcoming Salon d’Automne art exhibition.
For years, Picasso had chosen not to participate because he did not like the commercialization, or the potential ridicule, that seemed always to come with it. The violent criticism of the Cubist movement had put him off. “There is no need to devote much space to an art form that is utterly without importance,” one of the papers had said. And that was one of the more generous commentaries.
Still, his curiosity over what his rivals were doing would get the better of him every time—especially Georges Braque—and he knew this year he would attend just as he had the Salon des Indépendants.
He had not seen Eva for over a month, but a day did not pass when he did not think of her, or remember every word and nuance of their last conversation. He had not pursued her because he had said he wouldn’t, and he meant to show her that he could be a man of his word. He wanted to be the good man he knew she believed him to be.
On his easel now was an unfinished Cubist painting of her. She was different from any other woman he had known and so he was moved to create the image of her differently. The colors on his palette, and on the tip of his paintbrush, were autumnal: gold, brown, a muted green. The symbols he used to represent her would be obvious clues to anyone who knew who held his heart. But Picasso was safe in the knowledge that, at least for now, the only person who knew about his love was Eva.
A treble clef signified the music they had heard at the quaint Au Tambourin a month ago. Fingers were her sweet fingers touching her glass of Pernod as she looked up at him. The strings of a violin recalled his confession: “I wish I were holding you right now, as that musician holds his instrument.” And just a hint of her perfect smile; it made him think of the Mona Lisa. At the bottom of the canvas, he had painted in just two simple words: Ma Jolie.
Beyond the smudged windowpanes of his studio, a cool wind blew and a kaleidoscope of leaves was stirring across the pavement. He could not imagine what Fernande would do if she knew about Eva. He and Fernande were growing more estranged every day, but he had yet to decide how to leave her in a way that would not devastate her. Yet even so, Eva was now his sole obsession.
Picasso knew from his friend Joseph Oller that she was still working at the Moulin Rouge, though her foray as a stage actress had begun and ended that one impetuous evening. In spite of her protest against it, Picasso had spoken privately with Oller on Eva’s behalf. He meant to protect her job behind the scenes whether she wanted him to or not. Picasso told Oller that he would consider it a personal favor if there were no repercussions against Mademoiselle Humbert for having been brave enough to help one of the show’s stars.
At first, Oller, with blustering pomposity, had rejected the plea. Madame Léautaud was furious and had already reprimanded her. But not without a certain power of bluster himself, Picasso threatened to take his business, his friends and his rising fame across town, to the Folies Bergère. Two days later, Eva was formally made an assistant to the costume designer, in addition to the position she already held. Madame Léautaud’s only comment was a stiff-lipped congratulations. That much Picasso knew through Mistinguett. He wanted the best for Eva, whether or not he would ever see her again.
* * *
The sun was setting a brilliant gold and crimson as Picasso glanced beyond the steep steps of the butte, at the view from Montmartre. Before him, the Tour Eiffel was like a great mythical creature looming over the Paris skyline. He loved this view for all that it signified. Picasso exhaled a breath, then turned in paint-spattered shoes and wound his way along the twisting, cobbled streets. His cap was pulled low over his brow, keeping him happily unrecognized. He rounded a corner bordered by a great stone wall, and at last, down the steep lane, he headed toward la Maison Rose intent on stopping by before heading on to Gertrude Stein’s salon.
Picasso took a table outside in the fading sunlight of early evening since they were not due at the Steins’ until after seven. Silently, he watched a young waiter light candles stuffed into old wine bottles on each of the small, linen-draped tables. How many evenings had he and Fernande spent here, happily drinking, dining and enjoying each other’s company?
The charming pink bistro was the enterprise of his own long-ago lover Germaine and her husband, Ramón. Picasso always took delight in knowing that he had been the one to introduce them. For five years now, their foursome had been unbreakable.
Of course, years ago, before she had been Picasso’s lover, he had also introduced Germaine to Casagemas, his best friend from Barcelona with whom he had come to Paris—and she had been the cause of his suicide. But that was another story best buried now. The friendship between the four of them, one that included Fernande, was deep and enduring. There were few people in the world he trusted more completely than the Pichots.
Germaine came outside and Picasso stood to embrace her. She had the most remarkable green eyes, he had always thought, similar to Fernande. Everyone always thought they were sisters.
“I thought you had plans this evening,” she said as he sank back into his chair and another young couple took the table beside him.
“We do. I just thought I would have a beer with Ramón first. Is he here?”
“Where else would he be?” She chuckled. A moment later, she looked more seriously at him. “Is everything okay, Pablo?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” He knew he had answered too quickly because she paused before she spoke again.
“I don’t know. We just haven’t seen a lot of you since the whole Mona Lisa affair. We’ve been worried about you.”
“There is nothing to worry about. I’m working. My paintings are selling. Kahnweiler is organizing another show next month for me in London.”
Her expression grew suspicious.
“I haven’t seen Fernande for a while, either, since right after the two of you returned from Céret.”
“She is no doubt somewhere happily spending my money. That does seem to occupy a good portion of her time these days.”
He knew that he sounded brittle, but he could not help it. They had known each other far too long. Ramón came out carrying two plates for a group of diners a few tables away. He set the dishes down, then approached them.
“Hola, Don Quixote,” Picasso said.
“El hijo pródigo regresa,” replied Ramón as he sat down at Picasso’s table. The prodigal son returns.
Tall and lanky with a long, gaunt, bearded face, Ramón Pichot had long been referred to by Picasso’s Barcelona gang as Don Quixote, and the name had stuck.
For his part, Ramón had referred to Picasso as the prodigal son since their youthful days, sipping endless little inky cafés, amid the blue smoke of pipes and cigars at Els Quatre Gats in Barcelona, arguing about women and art.
A fraternal smile passed between them. “I always return, amigo,” Picasso said as Germaine went to greet another collection of diners and Ramón took her chair.
“So, will Fernande be joining you here?”
“No, she has no idea where I am, either. But I’m certain she will be at the Steins’ apartment when I get there. She wouldn’t miss a chance to be seen there after summer. One never knows what wildly famous person might be there to welcome Gertrude and Alice back to the land of civilized creatures.” He laughed.
“Besides yourself.” Ramón chuckled as he leaned back in the wooden chair.
“Ciertamente.”
A moment later, Germaine brought them each a glass of beer, gave Picasso a sisterly pat on the top of his cap and went back inside the bistro.
“Anything you can talk about?” Ramón asked in the evening breeze.
Picasso stared at the candle on the table between them. “Not yet.”
“I haven’t seen Fernande since that time last spring we all met up at the Circus Medrano.”
“I’m not sure that I recall,” Picasso lied because he could not bear to talk about that evening with someone who would not understand his feelings for another woman.
“You had invited that couple who went with us for drinks afterward, remember?”
“Fernande invited them.”
“I see.”
He had answered quickly and his tone was too sharp. Ramón caught it. He knew Picasso too well to let it pass. “The girl you sat beside, with whom you were whispering throughout the circus, she was pretty, no?”
“I didn’t notice,” Picasso lied again, even less convincingly.
“No?” Ramón arched a brow. A small silence followed. “I certainly did. She looked just like that delectable little actress Evelyn Thaw—difficult to forget. Fernande and Germaine were talking all evening about how small and perfect she was, and I’d have to agree. They could be twins.”
“You’re married, amigo.”
“Perhaps. But not dead.” Ramón chuckled again with a mischievous little wink. “Do you remember how you and I, Manolo and Juan Gris used to talk all those prostitutes on the carrer Avinyó into giving us half price?”
“Sí, and I remember what Juan got for it, too,” Picasso quipped.
Both of them chuckled devilishly at the memory.
“We’re going to the Closerie des Lilas for Paul Fort’s poetry reading Tuesday night, with Ricardo and Benedetta, since Fort is also back after summer. You and Fernande should join us. It would be good to get the whole group together again, don’t you think?”
What Ramón had meant was that it would be good to gather him and Fernande back up in the heavy cloak of friendship and tradition that would ever keep things as they were. “I’ll think about it,” Picasso said as he finished his beer. Then he left Montmartre, trekking down the steep stone staircase at the rue Foyatier, before he could say anything else to his friends that might show more of what he was really thinking. Besides, all he wanted to think about—for now, anyway—was getting lost in some wonderful debate with Gertrude Stein. She was the one friend he could count on, for an evening, to help him forget everything that was really troubling him.
Chapter 19
Going to Gertrude Stein’s this time had been Louis’s idea. He had insisted. He had run into Fernande Olivier on the street, coming out of the Métro station. She had personally invited them, he told Eva. Louis did not know that Eva had seen him with Fernande at the Taverne de l’Ermitage, so when he had presented the invitation to the salon, Eva had agreed to go as his companion. To do otherwise would have been to reveal that she, too, had stepped beyond the bounds of propriety that night, and to invite questions she would not wish to answer. She didn’t know if he had slept with Fernande, but that didn’t matter to her. Eva had used Louis, and she was still ashamed of that. She cared deeply for Picasso, and to her that made the act entirely different with the two men.
