The Missing Matisse Read online

  Sometimes we see the Auvergnat shepherds, dressed in blue overalls, guiding their flocks of goats with long canes through the streets of Paris while peddling their goat cheese wrapped up in a big plane tree leaf.

  I look around at people from many countries of the world. Black Africans and Arabs in their traditional clothing sell oriental rugs and various wares. Crowding the streets are horses pulling heavy carts loaded with huge wine barrels. Everywhere I look there is something that catches my eye—the spectacular statues, the majestic monuments, the Eiffel Tower, the fabulous fountains shooting their water high into the sky. All this is Paris.

  The stylish men and the chic women are dressed in the latest fashions of the season and are out for a stroll on the promenade. I smell their perfume a mile away. Oh, and then there are the magicians, the jugglers, and the organ-grinders cranking their music boxes while a monkey holds and shakes a tin can, entertaining the audience for a tip. Then I spy the entrepreneurs who demonstrate their mechanical toys on the sidewalk. My senses are overloaded with sights, smells, and sounds. I can’t believe what I see; I am filled with wonder at this extraordinary city. This is 1936, when Paris is still Paris.

  TATA ENROLLS ME in grammar school. I must learn some manners, including not using the Spanish profanities I learned from Monsieur Picasso, whom Maman had chased out of the house with a broom when she heard him giving me lessons.

  Tata polishes my French, which was all mixed up with Spanish. She improves my reading skills in record time and in the process passes on to me her love for literature. I can’t get enough to read—Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, and Mark Twain. For Tata, teaching is not a job; it is a calling, a crusade against ignorance, a sacred mission. She is more than a teacher; she is an educator who loves her students.

  Early in her teaching career, her exceptional abilities were recognized by her superiors. She was promoted to director of the rue d’Alésia School for girls. Dedicating her entire life to her career, she never married, but she raised my mother when my grandmother Milhau died giving birth to Maman. It wasn’t a good way to start her life, but fortunately Tata was there for Maman and thus became my surrogate grandmother.

  I have three women in my life: Aurora, Maman, and Tata. Someday, Aurora and I will have our life together. While I adore my mother, she has too many things to do, and I am too much of a pain in the neck for her. Maman has always shown me motherly attention and concern, but according to her, Tata spoils me rotten.

  Tata is very smart. I believe she knows everything. If I mess up, she knows, and what is more important, she understands why. Often, she even knows before I get into trouble and catches me just in time. I watch her with interest, wondering about her special powers.

  My first day of school, when I come home for my two-hour lunch, there on the table is a plate with beautifully cut radishes—it looks like a still life arranged for someone to paint. It is one more way that Tata shows her love to me in small but meaningful ways.

  On Thursdays and Sundays, my days off from school, Tata gives me my real education in the museums of Paris. We visit them often, and I never grow tired of these excursions.

  Tata is my personal guide, offering fascinating stories or interesting comments. She tells me about our family history dating back to Charlemagne. When we explore the military museums, Tata tells me stories about her father, who served seven years in a Zouave regiment under Napoleon III. There is a painting of her father, Louis Escousse, in his spectacular Zouave uniform hanging prominently above the living room mantelpiece. He was a sergeant who fought in the campaigns of Mexico, Italy, and North Africa. Behind Tata’s desk in her study is a golden frame protected by glass that holds all her father’s medals earned on the battlefields of Napoleon III’s war campaign.

  Tata and I explore the Louvre, the Trocadéro, le Petit and le Grand Palais, Versailles, le Musée de l’Homme, and les Invalides, which contains Napoleon’s tomb and artifacts detailing French military history. We rarely miss any art exhibit of the most famous painters, and I am surprised to see some of the work of my parents’ closest artist friends—Salvador Dali, Picasso, Georges Braque, Marc Chagall, and, of course, Grandfather Matisse. We attend lectures at la Salle Pleyel, where explorers and scientists show slides or movies of their voyages and discoveries.

  In the evenings, we go to the theater to see plays and attend concerts featuring all kinds of music, from symphonies to jazz performances in cabarets. Tata takes me to see the movie Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, which I am crazy about. The animation is fascinating to me, and for some time afterward, when I paint something, my artwork moves in my dreams.

  We are always so busy with something interesting to do or see that I seldom get into trouble anymore. I love every minute of it.

  I have the best of both worlds. I have Paris, full of wonder and intrigue, and Tata, who could not love me better and takes me on small vacations, and I have my longer summer vacation with Papa, Maman, and Gérard. I am blessed.

  Papa, a man of action, is my bigger-than-life hero. Whenever I return to Paris with Tata, I constantly wonder what he’s up to. Is he still leading late-night gunrunning or going on forbidden moonlit hikes?

  Papa has taught me to be my own man and to make logical deductions based on my own reasoning, and he has taught me responsibility so that I can learn from my mistakes. In Paris, Tata introduces me to intellectual knowledge, which is the perfect counterpoint to Papa’s lessons about a man’s world of adventures. Both were giving me precious gifts, the kind that couldn’t be bought at any price or taken away, even with all that was to come. The ideal world would have been to live life to the fullest with Maman, Papa, Gérard, and Tata at the same time, all together.

  IN FEBRUARY, Tata and I take the long journey on the train to the fabulous winter carnival in Nice. While in Nice, we visit Grandfather Matisse in his studio.

  Le Carnaval de Nice is a grand event, one Grandfather Matisse seems to enjoy as much as I do. There are parades with giant floats coming down the street, flooding the square. Bands fill the air with music, and confetti rains down on the crowd, thrown by people leaning from the balconies above the street. Grandfather Matisse leaves his studio and joins Tata and me for the festivities. I notice that his eyes are shimmering as he takes everything in. He and I seem to share a secret world at the carnival, one full of vibrant colors, music, and gaiety that only we know about or can enjoy. He expresses such a childlike excitement that I run and jump beside him, feeling a close kinship with him.

  When summer vacation arrives, Tata takes me to visit France’s castles. We visit all of them; les Châteaux de la Loire, Fontainebleau, and others in different provinces. Then we travel to Grandfather Milhau’s home. As soon as we come close to the ocean, I begin pestering every adult in sight to get me into a boat on the water.

  If I am introduced to someone who has a boat, I begin my sales pitch right away for a boat ride. “Don’t worry, I can swim, row, and steer by the sun during the day and by the stars at night.”

  How could they refuse? I got my wish many times.

  After such wonderful vacations, we return to Paris and to school.

  THEN I READ bad news from Spain. Franco is winning. I must act.

  Using small waxed coffee bags, I construct water bombs. These are destined for Franco’s spies, who have infiltrated Paris and are walking under Tata’s balcony. From my fourth-floor vantage point, the small bags of water are carefully dropped on any passerby who appears suspicious to my well-trained eye. It is quite a skill to hit a moving target. One must release the water bomb at the most precise moment. On impact, the muted noise, as well as the reaction, are impressive.

  But then I am spotted. The concierge of Tata’s building comes out to see what all the commotion is about.

  “Little no good! You should be ashamed,” she shouts up to me and menacingly points her finger. She’s standing still. I can’t miss, so I drop my bomb.

  The last water bomb misses
her by a fraction of an inch.

  After that, things get completely out of hand. The concierge calls the police. When they arrive and take control of the situation, I am hauled off to the police station. Tata, who has been running some errands, eventually arrives and sorts out the misunderstanding so she can take me home.

  After this unfortunate interlude, it is never quite the same with the concierge. She is out to get me, and I’m convinced she must be a Franco spy. One day when I come home from the park’s little pond with my sailboat and clothing all soaked because I had fallen in the water, the concierge has her revenge.

  She stops me at the door. “Little bum, I will not let you in the building with all that water dripping on my polished floor.”

  My response is less than polite.

  When the concierge reports to Tata what I said, Tata slaps me on the face. The slap doesn’t hurt me, but the very thought that I have offended Tata jabs my heart.

  I try to explain. “Alberto and Marius say that all the time.”

  “You are my nephew. We are in Paris, and you are a gentleman. You can say that in a boat with them in Collioure but not here.” The firm expression on her face presses the words into my mind.

  “I understand. Like Papa always says: ‘When in Rome do as the Romans do.’” Then I tell Tata that when I grow up, my wife, Aurora, and I will take care of her. We will have a home near a sandy beach with a boat, a dog, a car, and a plane, in that order of priorities.

  IN 1937, Tata and I visit the Paris International Exposition many times during its run from May through November. This world’s fair, the Exposition Internationale des Arts et Techniques dans la Vie Moderne, stretches from the Seine across Champs de Mars and Trocadéro, with the Eiffel Tower center stage.

  People come from all over Europe and the world to the grand event. Flags wave from every nation of the world, and countries exhibit their unique culture in art and technology. Monsieur Picasso’s mural Guernica, a huge painting that depicts the atrocities of Franco that are still going on, is definitely the talk of the Spanish pavilion.

  Rising prominently over the fairgrounds, on the east and west sides of the Eiffel Tower, two pavilions seem to face off—Germany and the USSR—with huge, striking statues atop them. On one side, a man and woman—Soviet Communist workers—are caught in motion, about to step off the building. On the opposite side, the German eagle sits even higher, perched on a swastika. The statues seem defiant and menacing, one threatening with a hammer and sickle, the other with a swastika.

  Tata takes a long look at those statues.

  “There is going to be a long, terrible war. You will have to be brave, Tatiou,” she says sadly. Tata—the prominent figure in my life—is so tiny compared to the towering statues.

  “France planted the seeds of this upcoming war in the last one,” Tata explains. “The Versailles Treaty was only a twenty-year intermission to raise another generation of gun meat. And in reality . . .” she adds reflectively, “World War I never stopped. Now, it is just continuing.”

  Tata is one of the few people who can see the dark clouds of war rising slowly on the eastern horizon, long before the terrifying shadow is cast over the entire world. Too soon, her prediction will become a reality. At first, the Soviets will be allies with Germany and enemies of France, but soon these allies will turn on one another, facing off like those statues at the Paris International Exposition.

  I understand some of what she is saying and know that war is a serious matter, but I’m not sure what I can do or how my own world might change. For now, I will enjoy every moment we have together.

  MONTHS LATER, Tata has a great surprise for me. We meet Grandfather Henri and go to a jazz concert in Paris, featuring Django Reinhardt.

  This live music is like nothing I have ever heard before. It seeps in, all the way down to my bones. I’m beside myself, jumping up, down, and sideways, shaking the whole row of chairs. Holy mackerel—do I love jazz!

  Tata has a piano in her apartment that she plays wonderfully. I have only heard her play classical pieces so I am surprised that she loves jazz, too, which makes for a lively discussion about music between her and Grandfather Matisse throughout the evening. Grandfather plays the violin and the bass and seems to enjoy jazz as much as I do. I don’t want this night to ever end.

  But there is one more surprise for me after the concert when Grandfather Henri asks me if I would like to meet Django Reinhardt. With a twinkle in his eye, he ushers me backstage to one of the dressing rooms. Inside is the jazz star. I’m stunned to realize by the way they greet each other that he is a friend of my grandfather.

  “And what music do you like, little fellow?” Django asks me.

  “Yours, Monsieur!” That’s the truth. I can’t go wrong with that answer, I think.

  “And what instrument do you play?”

  “The bass that is in our attic. It is much bigger than me, Monsieur.”

  He smiles. I must have given the right answer. On that very special day, I realize for the first time that my grandfather must be famous. How else can he get invited to Django Reinhardt’s dressing room? Grandfather Matisse has to be a big celebrity. As we leave the concert hall, I look at my grandfather, deeply impressed and with newfound appreciation for him.

  FOR SOME TIME things seem to be going well, and then I take up roller-skating.

  The four steel ball-bearing wheels on each skate are terribly noisy on the sidewalk. Noisy is normal for a boy my age so I do not realize how nerve-racking the sound is when I skate back and forth under the concierge’s window. This doesn’t endear me to the already cranky concierge and generates many complaints to Tata.

  I really don’t mean to upset the concierge, so I have a sudden inspiration. I will skate down the inside staircase from the fourth floor all the way to the first. My plan works well, and I make it from top to bottom without falling. But I don’t consider the noise I’m making. The racket is many decibels above the concierge’s tolerance. This time I’ve really blown it. She raises such a fuss that Tata has to send me to live with my parents, who have just moved from Collioure to Issy-les-Moulineaux, the same Paris suburb where Grandfather Henri has a large estate.

  I stay in my parents’ apartment for a few months until Tata’s building management finds an anti-Franco concierge, one more in line with my political views, not to mention more tolerant of a difficult child.

  During this time, I make an awful discovery. I overhear big people talking of Franco and the atrocities in Spain. How will I ever marry my Aurora?

  In the winter of 1938, my parents receive word that Aurora has been beaten to death by Franco’s men because she fought on the side of the Republicans. Her father and brothers were also killed in action, a few months into the Revolution. When I hear them talking about this disturbing news, I am devastated.

  For years I’ve plotted how I can dethrone Generalissimo Franco and reunite with my sweet Aurora. I had to save her. And alas, now it can never be. Yet I vow I will find a way to avenge my lost love.

  I BEGIN ORGANIZING the opposition against Franco. Gérard is too young for active duty, so I recruit him to film the whole operation for the benefit of the weekly newsreel at the local cinema. Move over, Cecil B. DeMille! However, my little brother is not as dedicated to the cause.

  “Gérard, pay attention! You must set the camera over there.”

  I point to the best locations and give him a hand installing the movie camera that I have built myself, using items from around the house. My mother has been looking for her special wooden toolbox and her magnifying glass for a week. And my father doesn’t know why his big alarm clock is missing—I needed some essential parts that were inside of it. The phonograph crank has mysteriously disappeared as well, but it is all for a noble cause. My magnificent movie camera is ready to film a hero for the glory of Spain and the honor of my beloved Aurora.

  “The objective, Gérard, is this greenhouse where Franco and his ferocious soldiers are entrenched within.�
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  My brother is momentarily impressed, but then he wants out.

  “It’s too dangerous,” declares a prudent Gérard.

  “No, it is not! You are only the reporter. The one who is doing the fighting and taking all the risks is me!”

  “I need to go to the bathroom.” Gérard tries every trick in the book to dodge his duties.

  “Not now! I must take the greenhouse first. Look through the viewer and turn the crank slowly.”

  Then I announce with enthusiasm, “Ready to roll!”

  To make it more realistic, I have requisitioned “hand grenades” from the elements of the family radio. The dry batteries are heavy lead cylinders, perfect for my purposes. Ammunition is such an important part of any battle. Franco will finally pay for separating me from my Aurora.

  “Lights, camera, action!” I shout.

  From the greenhouse, Franco and his men shoot at me. Bullets are flying everywhere, but I am invincible. I charge. I dodge the bullets. It’s all very scary. They get a real surprise when I start throwing grenades at them. The glass panes of the greenhouse shatter with such realistic cracking sounds. Glass is flying all over, making quite a racket.

  Papa hears the noise and comes to investigate.

  “He made me do it” is my brother’s defense.

  Franco makes his getaway as Papa comes toward me to deliver prompt retribution. But then, a sudden change of fate. I am saved by Gérard’s plaintive cry.

  “I made caca in my pants.”

  The priorities change. What luck! My father curses as he places Gérard on the table to clean him up.

  “You, Pierrot. Stay right there. I’m not through with you yet.” At least this diversion is buying me some time.

  Maman is out, as well as the maid, so Papa proceeds to undo the bottom of Gérard’s knickers and immediately caca runs all over. Jean Matisse is not good at this sort of thing. The whole scene is hilarious. I go for my movie camera to get this on film.