The Missing Matisse Read online

  “Pierre!” Papa scoops me up in his arms and carries me straight up the stairs to my parents’ bedroom. My mother is on the bed, comfortably propped up with many pillows. She is lying on her side, smiling. And wrapped in a blanket beside her is a tiny baby.

  “C’est Gérard. He is your brother,” Papa says.

  I stare at the infant who is just minutes old. We are now a cozy family of four—Papa, Maman, Gérard, and me. My new brother is not what I expected; he is too small to play with, and I lose interest in him quickly. At least I still have Bouboule.

  A FEW YEARS LATER, our family moves to Spain. We arrive on the cusp of the Spanish Revolution and reside in a home in the charming fishing village of Tossa de Mar, not far from Barcelona. Here, as a seven-year-old, my adventurous life takes off at full speed.

  One night, I hear my father and two of his friends leave the house, and a few minutes later I follow. They walk along a country road, and as I trod behind, I am certain that I’ve concealed myself well.

  Suddenly, someone grabs my arm in the dark. “What is this!” Papa says. I’ve been discovered.

  He tells me to stay where I am. After a short discussion with his comrades, they decide to keep me with them. We are too far from home to turn back.

  It is pitch dark. Then a minute or two later, the moon comes out on the other side of a cloud, and I can see the shimmering bay almost as if it were daylight. Bathed by the mysterious moonlight, the Mediterranean takes on a bright silvery color.

  “Watch out,” Papa says in a hushed tone. We crouch down beside the road. Soon I hear footsteps coming in our direction.

  “Let’s hide here. Kneel down in the ditch, behind this big rock. Be silent. Not a sound.”

  Papa is leading this adventure. His friends furtively hide behind other large boulders while my father holds me tightly in his arms. First, we hear only guttural Spanish voices. Judging by the sounds, there are two of them. One is laughing. These are two guardias civiles, Spanish policemen.

  The two men walk so close to us that I can clearly see the texture and patina of their black cocked hats shining in the full moonlight. I even smell the pungent garlic sausage mixed with cheap red wine on the fatter policeman’s breath when he burps loudly a couple of times. Papa holds me close up against him and puts his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet. For a while we hear their heavy footsteps crushing the gravel in the road leading down to the bay. The sounds fade away as the two men disappear into the night. Then everything is silent again.

  One of Papa’s comrades lets out an expletive. “That was close.”

  We walk for what seems like hours along the road. I keep my fear pressed deep down inside, and when I catch Papa glancing at me, I push my weary legs faster and raise my chin higher. I don’t know our mission, but I follow our leader without question.

  We arrive home as morning touches the horizon. Maman is waiting for us. When she sees us, Maman goes from anxious to relieved to furious.

  “What were you thinking, Jean? Are you insane?” Maman stands straight as a rod with her hands clenched behind her back.

  “I didn’t take him; he followed me incognito. When I found him, there were two gendarmes close by, leaving me no other option than to continue my mission with him.” My mother has not moved, but I can see that her eyes are flashing with both anger and relief.

  “What about a spanking for the delinquent, Jean?”

  My parents look at me slumped in a chair, tired and hungry. Papa shrugs his shoulders and takes pity on me. “Look, he is exhausted. The long march in the night is punishment enough. He is not going to follow me again anytime soon.”

  Maman nods in agreement, and she sends me off to clean up. As the crisis appears to be over, Papa can’t help himself. “But, Louise, you should have seen him; he was a real trooper. He is good. You can be proud of him. I am!”

  “Good at what, Jean?”

  “Good at being bad . . . and that takes lots of guts,” Papa says.

  “Oh yes, a future revolutionary who will end up executed by a firing squad or hung for subversive activities against the government.”

  I fall asleep to my parents’ voices discussing whether or not I should be punished. I never learn the purpose of the secret nocturnal expedition with Papa. Knowing my father, my guess is they were smuggling illegal firearms, ammunition, or perhaps some vital secret information. Papa has an irresistible taste for freedom and welcomes any daring opportunity passing his way. My favorite part of this adventure was my father holding me tightly while the two gendarmes were walking nearby.

  My mother has told my father many times, “Pierre is constantly getting into mischief! He is impossible. You need to take this little troublemaker firmly in hand.”

  Papa often defends me. “He is at a difficult age. It will pass.”

  I am always involved in some kind of “funny trouble,” as my mother calls it. When I get in a fight with a bully, Papa explains to my angry mother, “Louise, he was defending his brother from a bully who was at least two years older than he is!”

  “He didn’t have to break his nose,” Maman says. “Maybe you should give Monsieur ‘Pierre Extraordinaire’ a medal. But don’t spend too much money on it; remember, we have to pay the doctor for that kid’s broken nose.”

  “Well, maybe now the local bullies will leave the French kids alone.”

  My mother does not understand me as Papa does. I am an adventurer at seven years of age. And I am in love.

  HER NAME IS AURORA, and she is our new Spanish maid. The first time we meet, she asks me with a charming smile, “What is your name, little boy?”

  “Pierre, mademoiselle,” I tell her, staring into her deep brown eyes.

  “Ha! Pedro, eh? But you aren’t Spanish. Let’s see . . . I’ll call you Tatiou. It suits you perfectly.” She seems very satisfied with me and my new name.

  “What does Tatiou mean, mademoiselle?”

  “We are friends, so you call me Aurora. Tatiou means ‘little clown boy’ in Arabic.”

  Later, Papa shares my new nickname with my grandfather, who laughingly agrees that it is fitting for me.

  One day, as soon as Aurora leaves the kitchen, I am in like a flash. There is only a short time to get to the bottle of wine under the sink, pull the cork out, take a good sip, and put everything back in order before she returns.

  However, I move too quickly and do not realize what I have gulped down is detergent, not wine.

  Aurora finds me lying on the cold ceramic tiles, writhing in agony. She takes me straight to the doctor to get my stomach pumped. When I return home, she nurses me back to health.

  When I am lying in bed, I overhear Papa and Maman talking about my escapade.

  “He got a good lesson here,” Papa says.

  “He doesn’t learn,” Maman replies. “The only one getting ahead here is the doctor. You don’t mind paying him because he’s one of your drinking buddies. Our son could have died, you know.”

  “What do you mean, my drinking buddies? Are you accusing me of being a drunkard?”

  “Sorry, Jean. Not at all, of course not. It’s just that Pierre is like a monkey, impossible to catch. The only way that I can get some control when he misbehaves is to throw a full bucket of cold water at him and hope that my aim is good.”

  “What he needs is some real adventure. I’ll take him fishing with me. That should calm him down a bit.”

  Maman shakes her head. “Rewarding the young scoundrel? What a policy.”

  Week in and week out, my love deepens for Aurora. I finally let her know my intentions. “When I am all grown up, Aurora,” I say, “I plan to marry you.” She smiles and accepts my proposal, so now we are engaged.

  After being rescued by Aurora, my commitment to her is total. I must marry Aurora now. My honor is at stake. Besides, she is so good-looking!

  THESE EARLY YEARS in Spain for me are alive with adventure. My father loves the bullfights, and he will go with a family friend Monsieur Pablo Pica
sso, but I like it when he takes me instead. When we go, he selects a place on the hard wooden bench close by the gate from where the bulls enter the arena. He always carries his little German 35 mm camera to take photos to use as references for future sculpture projects.

  I am fascinated with that camera and get my first taste of photography through it. Each time Papa clicks a photo, it feels imprinted upon my memory at the same time. Those bulls are so huge; how can they fit in my father’s small camera? Then I reason, if they can fit in my mind, why not in Papa’s camera? Bingo! I solve that mystery.

  While Papa clicks his camera, I sit on the edge of that hard bench and watch the scene unfolding in the ring below. The crowd roars as the matador turns and steps aside with a whoosh of his red cape, avoiding the sharp points of the bull’s horns. Olé! The spectators rise to their feet cheering and Papa clicks the camera, but my excitement fades when the bull is defeated and dragged away by two horses in a blur of sweat, blood, and dust.

  IN CATALONIA, the region of Spain where we live, just like in France, Le Père Fouettard (Father Whipper) comes with Saint Nicolas. He is like the bad Santa Claus, delivering mandatory spankings on Christmas night to the children who have misbehaved too often.

  Le Père Fouettard pays me a visit in the middle of Christmas night. I cry out at the spanking I receive, but I am more upset that I receive no gifts from Santa Claus the next morning.

  Gérard gets some very nice gifts, and I watch him with envy. Only Aurora can comfort me. She takes it upon herself to write to Santa on my behalf.

  A week later I receive a big package from the North Pole. Inside is a Meccano construction set, the European version of the American Erector set. How does Santa know that I am going to be an inventor? I have told this secret only to Aurora in strictest confidence.

  Included with the gift is a letter from Santa. It reads: “There was a small mix-up because you are a borderline bad boy. Not that bad . . . but you’ll have to watch it and do a lot better from now on.”

  I resolve to get in less trouble, although I continue to be an adventurer and to love Aurora. But in the summer of 1936, revolution breaks out in Spain.

  My parents quickly prepare to leave Tossa de Mar for Collioure, a little fishing village in France just on the other side of the Spanish border. But then I make an awful discovery. Aurora is not packing up her belongings, only ours. I race to my mother to get to the bottom of this.

  “Pierrot, we cannot take Aurora with us to France.” Pierrot is one of my nicknames.

  I am defiant and determined.

  “If you won’t take her, I will!” I stand with my hands on my hips as if ready for battle, but I don’t have a plan. I hold back the pain inside my chest, but hot tears erupt from my eyes and roll down my cheeks.

  Maman’s expression softens, and she comes toward me. “Listen, my darling Tatiou. We all love Aurora, but she is Spanish, and right now she wants to stay in Spain.”

  “Why? I don’t understand. We are engaged. Why won’t she come with me?”

  “Because she has a father and two brothers who are at war against General Franco, and she wants to stay close to them.”

  “Okay. I will stay in Spain and fight Franco too. Where is he?” No general is going to mess up my life.

  My mother explains that I am a boy still and that I must go to France with her, Papa, and Gérard until the war in Spain is over.

  AS SOON as we are settled in Collioure, Papa joins sculptor Aristide Maillol, a longtime friend of our family, working in his studio. Whenever I am looking for Papa, I know where to go first—next door.

  One day, as I stand at the studio entrance, Maillol looks up from the sculpture he is molding and invites me inside. Unlike Grandfather Matisse, who disappears into his art and often cannot be disturbed, Maillol is always aware that I’m there and he welcomes me. I know never to wear out my welcome.

  The spacious studio is filled with light that comes in through large windows like in a church. It is a place of infinite order where one can almost feel the hand of God creating things of ultimate beauty. For me, I feel closest to God when I am outside, aware that it is His place that He created.

  A model is in the studio, motionless, holding her pose. The clay has a fresh smell, and in Maillol’s magic hands, it is taking shape.

  I catch Papa frowning at me, concerned that I will distract Maillol, but I disregard his look. I have been invited here, and I know how to behave around an artist who is working.

  Maillol motions me closer. “Look very carefully, Pierre. Here, under our eyes, is the most profoundly beautiful thing on earth—a woman.”

  I watch him and wonder how he can manipulate all this clay without getting any of it into his long gray beard. He continues the lesson.

  “Always treat women with respect. They can give you a lot of trouble.”

  The model seems to smile just a little. This woman is beautiful, but she is no match for Aurora.

  “Aurora is no trouble at all. When she comes here after the Spanish Revolution, I want you to make a statue of her.”

  Maillol looks at me. “Who is Aurora, Pierre?”

  “My fiancée in Spain.”

  Maillol listens as I tell him about Aurora. He continues to work, and I am mesmerized by the way he beautifully creates the figure of a woman out of the clay.

  Maillol turns and says, “I have a gift for you.” He hands me a little watercolor paint set that has a folding ring beneath the palette for one hand to slide into, freeing up the other hand to hold the brush. I thank him and hurry out of the studio.

  From this day, I consider myself a serious and genuine artist and must get started.

  Later at dinner, I tell my parents that I have decided to be an artist as well as a writer who will illustrate my own books. I’m sure that my parents were expecting me to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a sculptor. But my mind is made up, and I give my reasons with authority: “Being a sculptor is too complicated and takes too much space.”

  I stay out of mischief for a while, spending most of my time gathering flat stones on the beach. The beaches on this part of the Mediterranean coast are covered with stones instead of sand, stones of all sizes that have been polished by the surf. The flat stones are perfect canvases for painting masterpieces. Using my watercolors, I paint nautical scenes.

  My first love is Aurora, then art, and then boats.

  2

  CONTRABAND, PIRATES, SARDINES, AND STARS

  I am not an adventurer by choice but by fate.

  VINCENT VAN GOGH

  BOATS, FISHING, AND THE SEA are such wonderful things to get me into trouble, as well as a perfect place to recharge my artistic, creative juices. My father often takes me fishing for sardines with him, and when I disappear from the house, my parents know that they’ll find me at the harbor.

  One late afternoon when I’ve escaped to the docks, I climb aboard Papa’s boat. The boat is about twenty to twenty-five feet long, with a tiny hold that also serves somewhat as a cabin, although it really is more like a locker. Lately, Papa has been sleeping all day and going somewhere at night. Even more unusual, he has not taken me fishing for a while.

  I miss our time together, but at this moment, I care for nothing, because now I am a pirate sailing the stormy seas. I fight off other pirates to save my treasures. But piracy is a tiring business. As the sun falls behind me and the sea takes on a silvery glow, I climb beneath a pile of dirty tarpaulins in the cabin. I will hide here, waiting to make a surprise attack when the next battle begins. I will just rest for a moment. Soon, I fall soundly asleep.

  Tug . . . tug . . . tug. The sound of the engine wakes me. The boat moves through the water, rolling and pitching in the swell. The small hatch to the cabin is closed, but through a crack between the planks, I see the stars shining in the night. We are at sea. Then I hear voices.

  “Those rifles are Lebels from the last war, rusted and worn out. Not nearly as good as the last German Mausers shipment.�
�� I recognize Papa’s voice.

  “Some are using pitchforks and knives to fight with now. These guns are better than nothing!” another voice replies, one I cannot place. “As long as the firing pins aren’t worn and the loading bolt is not too loose, they’ll work.”

  I hop out of the hold and join the men on deck. I see two men with Papa. I am now a contra bandito, a bandit fighting against the government, and I am delighted to be here. I understand now why it was so uncomfortable sleeping on the tarpaulin. The guns were hidden underneath layers of tarpaulins beneath mine.

  When Papa sees me, his eyes widen, and he’s furious, though not that surprised to see me appearing by magic out of the tiny hold.

  “Louise is going to hear about this, and she will keep that kid locked up,” he says to his compatriots. “Or even better, ship him one way to his great aunt in Paris.”

  Fortunately, my two other partners, who are gunrunners extraordinaire, take my side.

  “The kid has to learn about a man’s world someday. This day is as good as another,” says the skinny one. He has a face like a weasel, with a strange-looking crooked pipe firmly set between his teeth.

  The other one, with a huge mustache that makes him look like an authentic pirate, adds in a baritone voice, “If you want him to be good at anything, you have to start him young, Jean.”

  “I don’t want him to be a good smuggler or a gangster, Marius, and neither does his mother. Besides, how do we keep his mouth shut?”

  “Let’s make the best of it. He’s one more set of hands to pass on the guns and ammo at the rendezvous point,” answers Marius, my number one supporter.

  I am frozen, waiting for Papa to make a final decision about me.

  “Tatiou will be all right after I tell him a story,” promises Marius. Marius pauses and then suddenly he says, “I'm hungry. It’s time to eat. Alberto, pass the bread and sausage. The onions and the wine are in the port basket with the nets.”