“Théo, do you have any more chewing gum?”
“Oui, madame.” He slapped his pocket. “Half a piece. It’s Hollywood gum. American cowboys chew it when they ride their horses.”
“May I please have it? I need it for something fun. Come with me. I’ll show you.”
“Is it a game? Will we play a game?”
He galloped up the hill slapping his bottom.
Inside the house he cried, “Cushions!” and ran around the room plopping his little derrière onto each one. “Ooh, little fruits! May I have one, s’il vous plaît, madame?”
“A fair trade. One fruit for a half stick of gum.”
He chose a cherry and produced a quarter of a stick of gum still in its wrapper.
“Is this all you have?”
With a grin, he pointed to his cheeks, bulging like a squirrel’s. “I want to see if I can chew a whole packet at once, the way American cowboys do.”
I chewed the morsel. “Here’s the game. I want to use these candy oranges and apples and these two saucers to make a copy of this picture,” I said, pointing to the still life.
I pressed half the gum from my mouth onto the back of a marzipan orange, stuck it to the saucer, and tipped it slightly. It held. Théo’s face was ebullient. I used the other half on another orange. I set five marzipan apples and one orange in a row on the table. Now his expression grew serious.
“If you can read a little now, you must be able to count too.” I pointed to the row of marzipans on the table. “How many more are there, not counting the pear?”
“Six,” he said, his voice dropping, making the word into two mournful syllables.
Slowly, thinking it over, he took the gum out of his mouth, pulled it into two pieces, and placed one in my hand.
“Oh, thank you, thank you, Théo. You are a true chevalier on horseback.”
I set the apples into a pyramid, securing them with gum.
“Why is there only one pear?” he asked.
“Because the artist thought that was all he needed. See how its top curves to one side? That makes it interesting and beautiful. There is no other pear in all the world exactly like that one. The same is true for little boys.”
I worked on the remaining orange, the most precarious, until it was securely in place. I placed a teacup upside down on the cabinet, bunched up a white cotton napkin over it, and set that saucer at an angle. It slipped into my waiting hand.
Without my asking, Théo chewed one last time and, with only a brief pout, gave the rest to me.
“Oh, merci, Théo.”
I pulled the gum into a length, wedged it between the edge of the tipped saucer and the cabinet top, and adjusted the napkin around it.
“It’s magic! I’ll be the only one who will know.” He raised his arms like a champion and skipped out the door, shouting, “I’m the only one!”
Joy and innocence incarnate bounded down the hill, all arms and legs, naturally buoyant.
“There’s no other boy in all the world like me!”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
LA VEILLÉE
1948
MY FRIENDS BEGAN TO ARRIVE FOR THE VEILLÉE AFTER the dinner hour, as was the custom. Maurice wore the traditional red Provençal sash and white shirt for the occasion. He winced the moment Louise saw the cushions.
“Oh! Lisette! Cushions!” Louise cried. “They’re beautiful. I’ve never seen such cushions. Roussillon has never seen such beautiful cushions.”
Louise was so focused on the cushions that she didn’t even notice my blue suit or the paintings on the walls. She went around the room and made anyone who was sitting on them stand up. “How can I see them when you have your fat derrières flattening these plump cushions?”
She ran her hands over the fabrics, picked out her favorite, lifted it off the bench, sat down on the wood, and placed the cushion in her lap, muttering, “Did she buy these cushions in Avignon, Maurice? You never told me there were shops in Avignon that sold such beautiful cushions. And we’re still sitting on wood like a couple of peasants.”
He squeezed the tails of his sash and raised his shoulders to his ears, trying to bury his face between them.
“No, he didn’t, Louise. They came from Paris,” Maxime said. “I’m sure Maurice would have bought you cushions in Avignon if the shops had any like these.”
She eyed him with exaggerated suspicion.
“Up to now, I thought you to be an honorable man, so I suppose I have to believe you.”
Odette and René came in, each of them carrying a francesco.
“Oh, the suit from Paris!” Odette said in admiration. “Très chic.”
Mélanie came in right behind her and walked around me in a circle. “You could make something like this, Odette, if you study the seams.” She traced her fingers over the seams to show her. “You can practice on one for you, and then make one for me!”
When Claude, the farmer who had painted the door of his borie the color of cantaloupes, arrived, I welcomed him with much attention. Émile served the wine and raised a toast to the recovery of the paintings.
“Santé!” my friends said, in agreement.
They admired each painting. The Bonnellys and Henri’s wife had never seen them before. Madame Bonnelly had tears in her eyes. “I have never beheld such beautiful paintings.” She gave me a bone-cracking hug. “At last. At last. I’m so happy for you.”
“I knew you would be.”
Everyone was talking at once except for Claude, who stood speechless in front of each painting. He looked the longest at Cézanne’s landscape. Would that I had two of them so I could give one to him.
There was a knock on the door, and when Maxime opened it, in stepped Bernard. They exchanged looks of acknowledgment, maybe even respect, but not surprise. I was the one who was astonished.
“I beg your pardon, madame. Maxime invited me, and I couldn’t stay away.”
“Oh! Constable! You’re most welcome here. I’m glad you have come. Thank you, Max, for making sure of that.”
They stood next to each other just inside the door. Bernard looked quite handsome in his trim, well-tailored jacket, red Provençal sash, red silk cravat, pomaded hair, and, of course, his freshly polished boots. I had to suppress a chuckle. In this instance, it was the Roussillonais who outdid the Parisian.
Recovering myself, I said, “I was just going to speak about the paintings, but first I want to thank everyone for your love and support in so many ways all the years I’ve lived here. You have stood by me during my bereavement and my search for Pascal’s paintings. Now they are all found, so I wanted all of you to see them together.
“Notice that every one of them has an area of ochre hues. For example, the ochre wheat fields in this landscape around Aix by Cézanne.” Looking directly at Claude, I added, “I have it on good authority that Cézanne had enormous affection for the countryside of Provence.
“Note the yellow-ochre pathway in this painting of the girl with the goat.” At that moment I gave a grateful look to Bernard that I hoped he would always remember.
“And here. Look here. It’s an ochre quarry near Aix. Cézanne was aware that the quarries and mines in our region are the sources of all the lovely warm colors. Just think! Pigments that you dug as young men are used on paintings by famous artists! Look at this modern one by Picasso. The skin of these women is creamy golden ochre, and their cheeks are tinged with rosy ochre. Picasso, I’m telling you! That should make us all feel proud.”
“Us? So do you count yourself among us?” asked Bernard.
“Oui, bien sûr! I have spent eleven years here. I came unwillingly to take care of a dying man whom I had never met, but whom I came to love. Some of the most significant events of my life have happened to me here. And here I’ve found wonderful friends.”
It took me a moment to go on. “Just before Pascal died, he told André and me to let the paintings care for us, but he also said that some of them belong in Roussillon. I agree with him.
The building in this painting is a paint factory near Pontoise. Pascal told me that he sold our pigments there.”
“He told me too. A dozen times, at least,” Maurice said.
“He was deeply moved that this paint factory was a bridge from our mines and our Usine Mathieu”—I flashed another look at Bernard—“to the great art of Paris. And one of the greatest painters, Paul Cézanne, Provence’s native son, who was born and died in Aix, painted this ochre quarry in front of—in front of, mind you—his most adored mountain, Montagne Sainte-Victoire. He chose that viewpoint intentionally. He knew the importance of ochre.” There were murmurs around the room, my friends grasping the significance of what I was saying.
“The still life with pottery will always make me think of the fertility and crafts of Provence, and the oranges on the tipped plate will remind me of Théo, the magical cowboy.”
He grinned, and I nearly melted into my shoes with love for him.
“And this one of a girl holding a goat and a chicken—”
“Geneviève and Kooritzah,” Louise said.
“—was painted for me by Marc Chagall, a Russian Jew who was hiding in Gordes. He loved Provence and hated to leave our beautiful countryside.”
I had to pause because my throat had tightened around what felt like a marzipan cherry.
“But these two paintings, the quarry and the paint factory, are part of Roussillon’s legacy. I present them now, in front of all of you as witnesses, to the commune of Roussillon, to be on permanent display in the town hall. What was it all for, if not for Roussillon to take pride in them? Aimé Bonhomme, I call upon you, s’il vous plaît, as mayor of Roussillon, to be their guardian and caretaker.”
“With pleasure. And with our gratitude for your generosity.”
Applause filled the room.
“I know that Roussillon can someday become a site that artists will paint. It might even have a gallery to complete the journey the ochre takes.”
Aimé’s son whispered to him excitedly, and widened eyes around the room showed that minds crusted by hardship and isolation were opening to new possibilities.
“Nobody is noticing,” Théo complained, tugging on my skirt. “Look, everybody. Look for magic.”
Bernard, the tallest, peered over everyone’s head. “The still life in miniature on the cabinet.”
“Oui! Oui!” Théo squealed, hopping up and down. “It’s magic. Look!” He went around the room tugging at sleeves and skirts, making sure everyone saw, and everyone marveled.
Maxime tipped his head toward Bernard and said something amusing just to him, perhaps about my marzipan efforts, and Bernard chuckled. Then he said, “The entire room is magical.”
Maurice pretended to be weeping, and when no one noticed, he increased the volume, sobbing so loudly that everyone laughed.
“So now that you have the paintings back, you’re going to leave us,” Maurice whined. “You will come back sometime, won’t you?”
“Òc, òc,” I said, and a cheer rose up around me.
“Aha! She speaks the Occitan of Provence!” cried Monsieur Voisin, the café owner. I felt redeemed in his eyes.
“How can I leave for good? I’ll have to be back to harvest my almonds and to help with the vendange and”—I shook my index finger at Aimé and his son—“to celebrate the installation of plumbing.” I glanced at Bernard. “It is possible, I know that. And I’ll be here the next Midsummer Night.”
“Don’t forget. Don’t forget,” said Théo. “The little fruits.”
“Oh, yes! Théo, my hero, who found the Picasso all by himself, will give out these marzipans. A toast to Théo, the magical cowboy.”
I followed him, passing around the plate of marzipan mine galleries, which delighted everyone, even though they fell apart in people’s hands. That didn’t matter. They looked splendid on the plate, and people ate the crumbles.
Each person embraced me and thanked me, some of them overcome with emotion, others enjoying the paintings, still others enjoying René’s francesco. They lingered awhile, then slowly began to leave. Claude appeared most reluctant to go, so I invited him to come anytime to see the paintings again. After surviving Madame Bonnelly’s iron clamp around my back, I picked up Théo and swung him in a circle.
“You won’t forget me, will you?” I asked.
“No, madame. I will remember you every time I chew some Hollywood gum.”
“And I, jamais je ne t’oublierai,” I sang to the tune of the children’s song.
And very quietly, following Théo, Bernard asked, “You won’t forget me either?”
“Never. You are engraved on my heart.”
“You are a remarkable woman, madame,” he blurted out, then ducked out the door.
MAXIME AND I STOOD ALONE.
“Thank you for inviting him. It was right that he should be here.”
I sat on the settee and brushed a crumb off my blue skirt. Maxime came to sit next to me.
“This will be the last time we will see all the paintings together,” he said.
That made us contemplative. I remembered what Max had said about what makes a painting great—its power to enrich us with a truth, to enlighten us so that we understand our lives more clearly. I felt a gentle warmth come over me as I saw that the yellow-ochre path leading beyond our vision had been leading me through the Roussillon years to my purpose, to André’s purpose, to Max, and back to Paris all along, only I had not recognized it. With that thought, peace descended. André would have wanted it so.
Then my gaze shifted to Cézanne’s fruit and Provençal pottery.
“I have to think it out to be sure,” I said. “At times it seems selfish of me to hold on to two Cézannes, to keep the still life hidden in a house away from people who need its freshness and colors. It seems almost against my conscience. It belongs to France. Marc would agree.
“There will come a day, when I have come to know every brushstroke as I know the lines in my palm, when I have nourished my soul with these fruits and have set the lesson of the lone pear to rest and can value my own uniqueness, when I can cherish solitude and companionship with equal grace—then perhaps I will be able to part with it, if I were permitted to stand before it as long and as often as I wanted to. Do you think the Jeu de Paume would buy it?”
He drew in a sharp breath. “Oh, my dear!” His eyes swam with wonder, although his mouth tightened in concern.
“Then I could maintain a Paris apartment for us.”
“For us?” His eyes glistened as they had so long ago.
“Yes. Us.”
“You astound me, chérie.”
“One more thing. The Picasso. It’s yours, Max. Keep it or sell it to start your own gallery, as you wish.”
“Oh, no. I can’t accept that. It’s too valuable.”
His hint of a smile told me that some thought was stirring in him. He drew me to him and whispered, “I won’t take it unless you come along with it.”
“I’m already packed.”
AFTERWORD
Lisette’s List is a work of fiction. Fabled Roussillon does exist, truly deserving its designation as “one of the most beautiful villages in France,” well worth a visit. The Sentier des Ocres, the Usine Mathieu, the Bruoux Mines, and Gulini’s bakery are all still there. The boules terrain is still alongside the public toilet opposite place de la Marie, where there is still a café and the town hall. But the spirit is new. To the visitor, there is no evidence of struggle, only of the enjoyment of life in the warm south.
Except for the artists, the principal characters emerged from my imagination, and I assembled them like beads on a thread. Sentences, even paragraphs in two cases, can be directly ascribed to Camille Pissarro, Paul Cézanne, and Marc Chagall. I felt I was honoring them by employing these passages. For more about these painters, please see www.susanvreeland.com.
The question of the authenticity of the paintings is a natural one. At the suggestion of my former editor Jane von Mehren,
who encouraged me to free myself from the limitations of biographical fact in shaping this novel in its early stages, as well as by following my precedent of a fictional Vermeer painting in Girl in Hyacinth Blue, I invented two of the eight paintings—Pissarro’s Girl with a Goat and Cézanne’s still life. The latter I assembled using items borrowed from his other still lifes, which I needed for their significance to Provençal material culture. In the case of Pissarro’s Girl, I have spent frustrating months trying to relocate a painting that I seem to recall in an art history book of a girl, a vegetable garden, a goat, and a path, which inspired its role in the novel, but to no avail. Therefore, I concede that it must have been a wisp of insupportable imagination. I am dreadfully sorry if this disappoints you. To be in accord with the novel, Pissarro’s Côte Jalet, appearing on the cover, has been altered. The painting given to Lisette by Marc Chagall is titled Bella with Cock in the Window, aka The Window (1938, private collection). All the other paintings are verifiable using the names I have used. Apparently, there are many studies of faces that Picasso drew in preparation for Les Demoiselles d’Avignon. That was my reason for being vague on the number and positioning of the heads.
Into Marc Chagall’s historic letter addressed “To the Artists of Paris,” I have inserted the actual cause of Bella Chagall’s death. The event of her death was already in the letter, reprinted in its entirety in Marc Chagall on Art and Culture, edited by Benjamin Harshav (Stanford University Press, 2003), some of which I did not use. Bella’s description of coming to Chagall’s studio on his birthday is taken directly from First Encounter, by Bella Chagall (Schocken Books, 1983).
I am neither a visual artist nor an art historian. Rather, I am a passionate lover of art, what the French call une amatrice d’art. I am grateful to the libraries and museums that have supplied me with information and images from which my imagination could soar.
FOR
Jane von Mehren
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt gratitude extends to so many. To trace their influence from conception to finish, I wish to name the following people: