The Missing Matisse Read online

  But my father’s aim is right on. His slap stings my cheek, and all I see in the viewfinder are stars. Even worse is that the film did not turn out good at all! Gérard messed up the film. I have let down the Spanish Republicans at the Battle of the Greenhouse.

  The battle is over for now. But I am determined to fight on in the name of dear Aurora.

  Monsieur Franco will rue the day.

  4

  BLACK CLOUDS ON THE HORIZON

  Some folk are wise, and some are otherwise.

  TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT

  IN DECEMBER 1938, my life is about to take another U-turn. After being spoiled with Tata all to myself, she and Maman decide that I should attend the Lycée Michelet, a private school. This means it is time for me to return to live with my family full time. Gérard suffers from asthma, and his health is fragile. He spends most of his time inside the house reading. At Tata’s, there was love, structure, and interesting studies with ample time for adventures, but now she is a forty-minute bus ride away. I miss her greatly.

  I also miss Bouboule, who died shortly before I moved from Collioure. But I am happy to get acquainted with my new cocker spaniel, Mirasol de Glondes. When I come home, her tail wags frantically, and she quickly becomes my companion and confidant as well as a new partner in crime.

  Our family’s apartment is on the sixth floor of a new building atop a hill on l’avenue de Clamart. We have a long balcony from which we can see all of Paris. The panoramic view is spectacular.

  Just a short walk up the avenue, Grandfather Matisse’s estate is enclosed by a high masonry wall that has embedded shards of glass sticking out on top for security. There are two entrances made of majestic iron gates, one that leads to the mansion and the other to the studio. The three-level mansion, with its elegant stone staircase entrance, looks like a small-scale Château de Fontainebleau. There is a majestic green lawn surrounded by a circle driveway. Huge elms and plane trees grace the entire property.

  I especially enjoy the two ponds on the grounds. The one I prefer contains water lilies and poisson rouge—twelve-inch goldfish—that I occasionally try to grab while standing in the water. There is a big garden with a greenhouse and a garage attached to the gardener’s house. The estate is full of birds of all kinds. This is a paradise of nature, and when Maman and Papa are working there, Gérard and I are allowed to roam all over the grounds. None of the buildings are locked, which means there’s much potential for adventures and many opportunities for trouble.

  Along the crushed stone driveway leading to the studio are massive stone statues of nude ladies, many of them created by Papa, shaded by dense cypress trees. The studio is a large wooden structure with an office full of art books and artifacts such as African masks and all kinds of exotic costumes. Outside is a good-sized forge.

  My parents construct another large building by the side of Grandfather Matisse’s studio for their pottery business. The building contains deep cement containers for clay and three electric ceramic ovens. One of the ovens is so big that I can stand up straight inside of it.

  Here, when I am not in school, I help my parents in their art studio. I think my parents keep me busy in an effort to limit my tendency toward mischief.

  I become an apprentice sculptor, painter, and ceramist. We are always busy, and I learn a lot about art. I like to work, but because of my free spirit, I prefer my own projects. My personal plans rarely coincide with my parents’ needs.

  I spend a lot of time with two of my parents’ employees. Brosse is a young Italian immigrant, a talented ceramist. After the war he will go on to work with Grandfather Matisse’s old friend Pablo Picasso on his pottery projects at Vallauris in the south of France.

  There is also a kind Belgian ceramist we call le Père Straten who makes all the plaster casts. He is an older man who has such wonderful stories about life, including women. This particular subject puzzles me completely. I do not understand the full meaning of his stories, but I understand that there is more about this subject than meets the eye.

  Maman tells me not to listen to Père Straten because he could have a bad influence on my morality. Papa, on the other hand, says that I should listen. I agree with Papa. So on my two days a week off from school, I am covered in clay, with plaster of Paris sticking to my hair, and am gaining an informal education on art and women.

  ONE DAY, GRANDFATHER HENRI arrives from Nice, where he lives most of the year. As he enjoys an aperitif with my parents and Brosse before dinner, they get into a deep discussion about art. I am fascinated, although most of what they debate is incomprehensible to me. What do they mean by full form, controlled perspective, balancing masses, restraint? Who wants to be restrained? Lost contour? If I lost it, I would just go find it. Abstract definition? I like this term so much that I decide to use it during my school art class.

  “What are you talking about?” my art teacher says.

  “You don’t know what abstract definition is? Well, I guess my parents and grandfather are smarter than you are,” I reply.

  Strangely, my teacher does not care for my observation but then remarks that I am amusing on a dreary day. I am beginning to learn that I should be more diplomatic.

  During one discussion with Grandfather, Maman, and Papa, Brosse says all art critics are jackasses. Grandfather Henri agrees wholeheartedly.

  A month or two later, we all attend a vernissage (an opening reception for an art exhibition) for Grandfather Matisse’s works. I dress like a Parisian gentleman. While standing among a group of art connoisseurs, I am introduced to a professional newspaper critic. I know exactly what to say.

  “My grandfather Henri is a true artist, and he agrees with Brosse that all art critics are jackasses.”

  Maman’s face turns red, and Papa slaps my face and throws me out of the room. I don’t understand. My parents heard Grandfather Henri agree with Brosse. The art life is so complicated.

  I AM CRAZY about aviation, and in the spring I decide to undertake my biggest and most interesting project yet. I will construct a glider—not a toy, a real one.

  No one pays attention to me as I cut down bamboo on Grandfather’s property and gather up my additional materials—string, rope, rags, a tarpaulin and sheet, an orange crate, and two umbrellas—which I store in the garage of the vacant gardener’s house. This is where I do my calculations and most of my construction. When it is finished, I will launch myself into the sky from the second-story balcony of the gardener’s house. I keep everything under wraps because I want this to be a big surprise for everybody. I imagine Pierre, the flying ace, showing off by gliding majestically over the Matisse estate.

  I realize that my parents are somewhat suspicious when I overhear my mother say to my father, “I wonder what Pierre is up to?”

  “He has been unusually quiet recently. No trouble at all,” Papa muses.

  “Which is scary,” Maman replies.

  Finally, the day arrives. I’m on the balcony, making last-minute adjustments to my invention. I glance down and see my parents walking by below me, unaware of what’s about to happen. How fitting, I think, that Maman and Papa shall witness this monumental event. I straddle my orange crate seat and get comfortable for my first historic flight. My helmet, a copper mixing bowl borrowed from my parents’ studio, is sitting on my head, just in case I have a rough landing. I am ready.

  Certain of my success, I proudly announce, “Look! I am going to fly.”

  Suddenly I hear Maman shriek. “No, Pierre! Stop!” And I do. But it must be only a small delay. Once they understand what’s at stake—my reputation and recognition as an inventor, aeronautical engineer, and aviator—I must resume my experiment.

  Papa takes the stairs four steps at a time, while Maman frantically waves her arms and screams, “No, Pierre, no! You must not do that!”

  “Don’t worry, Maman,” I tell her. Women, I think. Still, I haven’t moved.

  Papa has reached the balcony. Perfect. He can give me an added boost by pushing as
I propel forward. Instead, he grabs me by my collar. My improvised helmet falls off my head, hitting the ground with an unsettling sound.

  “What is that, Pierre?” my father asks, half-angry and half-smiling.

  “A glider.”

  Doesn’t he know a flying machine when he sees one?

  “Are you crazy?” Papa’s question is a little irritating.

  It is well known that geniuses are never given the recognition they deserve. I try to explain. “Let me show you, Papa. It will fly.”

  “The one who is going to show you something is me, Monsieur Aviator. To begin with, this contraption can’t fly.”

  He leans over the balcony’s railing and calls down. “Louise, get out of the way.”

  Papa launches my glider over the side, and it falls straight down like a stone, smashing into pieces on the driveway below with a terrible noise.

  I lean over the edge, and the sight of the dead bird is disturbing.

  “Can you imagine what could have happened to you, Pierre?”

  “Yes, Papa,” I say, at a loss for words. I could have been all broken to pieces inside the wreck.

  “From now on, you stick to balsa models. Understood?”

  “Yes, but you see, Papa, there was no pilot at the controls.” Eureka! I have found both the problem and the weak point in my father’s demonstration. I knew my mathematical calculations couldn’t have been that far off.

  For quite a while, I am the joke of the family, and they call me Icarus after the Greek mythological character who escaped captivity by flying with wings made of feathers and wax. Icarus thought he knew better than his father and ignored the warnings of flying too close to the sun. When he flew too close to it, the heat melted the wax in his wings, and Icarus fell into the sea. Like him, I had to go back to the drawing board.

  A week after my aborted flight, I find a book on my bed, Aviation’s Pioneers. Inside is a note that reads:

  To Icarus,

  Please take note of how many pilots are dead.

  We prefer you stay in one piece.

  With love,

  Papa and Maman

  The book contains photos of crashed planes with each dead pilot’s photo bordered in black. The images are a serious setback in my burgeoning aeronautical career. As I stare at the grisly images, it gives me pause and cools off my enthusiasm for inventive flying.

  “I’ll learn to fly when I am grown up,” I declare, undaunted. For the time being, “later” sounds safer.

  “YOU ARE UNDER ARREST! Hands up! Higher, please. Not a move or I shoot.”

  We are in Paris, but the orders are given in English. In the dark corridor, Mister William Sterny hides in the shadows. As soon as I open his door, he captures me.

  From his wheelchair, Mister Sterny points a large-caliber pistol straight at my belly. He motions for me to walk into his office by waving the menacing barrel in the direction that I should follow.

  “Careful. Don’t be a hero, Mister Pierre. Sit here. Put your hands on the table, where I can see them.”

  I obey as I desperately try to understand every word of English he is saying. To give me a fair chance, Mister Sterny speaks slowly and pronounces his English perfectly.

  “I have observed you for some time,” he says. “I have deduced from your activities that you are a dangerous spy.”

  “C’est pas vrais!” I answer in French.

  He aims the gun toward the ceiling and pops off a shot, making me jump.

  “You are not fooling me. Now you pretend not to speak English. English, please, or the next shot is for you.”

  I correct myself fast in English, “I mean, it is not true.”

  He is interrupted by a noisy banging at the door.

  “Monsieur Sterny, I’ve told you a thousand times, no shooting in the building. You’re scaring the neighbors.” It’s his concierge, warning him in a friendly tone.

  “Madame, I am dealing with a dangerous spy. I had to shoot,” he calls out in French.

  Thankfully, his revolver is filled with blanks. My private English teacher makes our lessons an adventure. Mister Sterny is an English World War I veteran.

  He was seriously wounded during the Battle of Verdun, but when he tells me about the war, there are no hints of regret and anger. “Verdun had too many firecrackers; however, the wine had a definite bouquet while I was there. And then, there was this charming girl in the back country . . .” He married the girl, settled down in France, and received a comfortable wheelchair, which he says “was not a bad deal at all.”

  I am learning English by play-acting, and every lesson is a new scenario. Today is a spy mystery; at other times, there are pirates on the high seas, airplane pilots, cowboys, and adventurers. I love it.

  Soon my uncle Pierre will be coming to visit us from New York. I am his namesake, and I must honor him by speaking English.

  When Maman explains that Papa named me after his brother, I can’t wait to meet him.

  “He is Pierre Matisse, like me?”

  “Yes, dear, next week there will be two Pierre Matisses in Paris,” Maman says, shaking her head and adding, “I’m not sure any of us are ready for this.”

  I like the idea very much. When I meet the other Pierre Matisse, I find my father’s younger brother to be kind and polite. He certainly speaks English a lot better than I do. I often ask him the same question: “How is America, Uncle Pierre?”

  “Wide open for opportunity, my boy,” he answers with a warm smile.

  His answer has me thinking. Once I am sure he can understand my need for a newer, bigger country, I confide in him. “One day I will go to America.”

  “And what will you do there?” he asks.

  “I’ll become an American and get rich. Then I can buy Tata many beautiful gifts.”

  “That is a good-hearted plan. I’m sure you’ll succeed,” he replies, giving me a pat on the shoulder. He doesn’t laugh, but instead takes me seriously. This Pierre understands and believes in me. We already have the same name, and someday I know we will share the same country.

  IN THE SUMMER of 1939, we are on our last family vacation, visiting all of our relatives. I have had my color lesson in Nice with Grandfather Matisse, kept a low profile at Grandmother Amélie’s, and now am at Grandfather Milhau’s, where he breaks the news that France is now at war with Germany.

  Immediately the walls of France are covered with official posters: Ordre de Mobilisation Générale, every fit man has to report immediately to the army, navy, or air force. The posters also include the requisition of horses and mules as well as cars or any other items the French government needs. Now everybody has war on their mind.

  A few days later, I am sitting with my best and most admired war connoisseur, le Père Goudreaux, Grandfather’s gardener and l’homme à tout faire (an all-around man). He was a fighter pilot in the last Great War, and I love hearing his war stories.

  After finishing his first glass of white Bordeaux, he is doing a plane preflight checkup. At two glasses, he is taking off. The sky is black with the Red Baron and associates. Three glasses later, the Germans are plummeting in droves to the ground, their planes in flames.

  “So as I said, Pierre, I am in the sun. The enemy can’t see me. I dive. Then—tac-tac-tac—smoke is coming out of the fuselage.”

  This is my kind of man. I sit on the edge of my chair. “Tell me more, Monsieur Goudreaux.”

  “But the enemy is on my tail, bullets flying all around me.”

  “And what did you do?” By now I am sweating.

  With consummate acting skill, Monsieur Goudreaux moves his hands in the position of the planes in the air. It is all so realistic that I have goose bumps down my back.

  “I dive. So does he.”

  “And then?” I want all the details.

  “I make a loop.”

  “Ho!” I shout, gripping the arms of my chair with both hands. Monsieur Goudreaux turns his empty glass, the fourth one, upside down. The sky is now the gro
und, and the ground is now the ceiling.

  “Suspended by my safety belt at the top of the loop, I see a three-winged Fokker passing in my firing sight. I pull the trigger. Nothing happens!” He takes a deep breath to cope with a persistent hiccup.

  Then . . . “My machine gun is jammed!”

  I am beginning to worry about who is flying the plane during these few seconds of suspense.

  “A fraction of a second left, I clear it. Tac-tac. Only two short bursts. He goes down in a flaming spiral.”

  My heart leaps. By now I have lost count of how many enemy planes the ace has shot down.

  “Now I am on the next one’s tail. It takes only a small pressure on the trigger. Tac-tac-tac. This one blows up in little pieces all over the sky. I must have hit his gas tank. My work is done for the day. I head home.”

  I am so relieved that he lands safely.

  “Excellent, Monsieur Goudreaux. This is precisely what I’m going to do. One loop, tac-tac-tac, and Hitler’s pilots will be kaput.”

  “Not so easy, Pierrot! The problem is that we don’t have enough planes,” he tells me in confidence.

  “Why don’t we make more planes, Monsieur Goudreaux?”

  “Because then we won’t have enough pilots to fly them,” the expert replies.

  What a dilemma! War is so complicated—a lot like art. I have, however, worked out a solution. That night I find Papa.

  “Papa, Monsieur Goudreaux said . . .” I begin, but he interrupts before I finish my sentence.

  “Pierrot! You have better things to do than listen to le Père Goudreaux. He was only a cook for a bombing squadron.”

  My World War I hero has just been shot down, flames and all. No loops? No tac-tac-tac? Monsieur Goudreaux is, for me, the first serious war casualty. Soon after, Papa is mobilized and on his way to join his regiment.

  WHILE MAMAN GOES TO PARIS to take care of the art business, Gérard, Tata, and I stay with Grandfather Milhau from September to December of 1939. One day, out of the blue, I think of my beloved cocker spaniel, Bouboule, and something breaks open inside of me. I am beside myself with tears as if all the fears and sorrow and memories are unleashed within me—from Aurora’s death to Papa leaving to losing my sweet dog and best friend. World War II is starting off on the wrong foot. Tata tries to comfort me, but for a time I cannot escape the grief that wraps itself around me.