A Proposal for Ondine
ON SUNDAYS THE CAFÉ PARADIS was closed, and Ondine drowsed in bed much later than on weekday mornings, feeling her body slowly relax, until it was time to go downstairs and accompany her parents to the Sunday Mass. But today, as the church bell tolled, her mother surprised Ondine by coming up to her third-floor bedroom and sitting down on the edge of the bed while she still lay there.
“Ondine,” Madame Belange said, a bit too casually, “wear your new blue dress to Mass today.”
Ondine sat up guiltily, for no one knew that she’d been wearing her best dress over and over, posing for Picasso.
“Monsieur Renard has invited you to dine with his mother after church,” her mother added.
Ondine felt a clutch of fear. Dinner with one of the Three Wise Men? “Why?” she asked.
Her mother rose, went to the armoire and took the dress from its hanger. “What have you been doing with this?” she demanded, shaking it out. “It looks as if you’ve mopped the floor with it!”
But clearly she had more important matters to discuss. “Ondine, times are not easy,” she began. “Your father needs a partner to keep the café going. Monsieur Renard has lots of money. And he’s very interested in investing in our café.”
The dread in Ondine’s stomach was now gnawing at her like a fox, but she said as offhandedly as she could, “Well, what’s that got to do with me?” Madame Belange tried to suppress a look of regret.
“You need a husband. You can’t live with us like a little girl forever,” she replied crisply.
Ondine felt as though her mother had slapped her across the face. But she covered her wounded feelings by objecting, “What? He’s so old!”
“He’s only thirty, and very healthy. He can still give you children,” Madame Belange said as delicately as possible. “A girl like you needs a mature husband to guide her. You’ll soon see the wisdom of it.”
Ondine heard a creak out in the corridor, and her father appeared in the doorway as if he’d been standing there listening all along. He seldom came up here, and now remained at the threshold as if reluctant to venture farther in. He looked fondly at her, sorrowful but resolute.
“Monsieur Renard is a fine man who will provide you with a good life,” he said firmly.
“But I can’t marry him. It would be a sin. I am engaged to Luc!” Ondine cried pleadingly.
“Luc had his chance and lost it. The church says you are no longer bound by a promise to a man who’s abandoned you,” her father replied more sharply. “Monsieur Renard is dependable and successful. Not only with his bakery. He has informed me that he’s just bought all that farmland that supplies so much of what we need for the café. Prices will keep going up—unless we own it ourselves.”
Ondine knew that her father had had his eye on the property because its owners were elderly and ready to sell. She’d seen her mother carefully counting the coins as she paid the dairy boy for all the regular deliveries of meat and vegetables. Not to mention the bread from Renard’s bakery. And now this one man would own it all. Her parents called it a partnership. But to Ondine, it looked as if the baker were tightening a rope around the Café Paradis—and it felt like a hangman’s noose on her neck.
“So you mustn’t lose your chance with Monsieur Renard,” her mother warned anxiously.
“But—I don’t love him! I don’t even like him! He’s so proud and proper.” Ondine looked entreatingly from one parent’s face to the other. What she saw frightened her, for they were astonishingly indifferent to her tears. Apparently something else worried them more.
“You will learn to love him,” her mother assured her. “Most mamas would jump at a chance to marry off their daughter to this man! What makes you so picky, Ondine? People already think you’re too independent and headstrong. That’s why so many boys your age are already betrothed to other girls.”
“The boys like me the way I am!” Ondine insisted. “It’s their mothers who think I’m too independent. They say that about any girl who refuses to act silly and coy.”
“Well, most boys listen to their parents when they choose a girl to marry,” Madame Belange explained. “You don’t want to end up with no husband, no child, nothing. We only want you to be safe and cared for. Not lonely and unprotected.” Ondine noticed the worried pucker in her mother’s brow.
“You were born after the war, Ondine,” her father said. “So you don’t realize that terrible things can happen to people who don’t prepare for the worst. We can’t always get what we want, but we can learn to sacrifice some of our dreams to make sure our lives don’t end up being nightmares.”
Ondine wailed and threw herself down on her pillow. Her father sighed and waited a few moments, expecting the storm of her tears to dissolve into: Yes, Papa. When she did not relent, he finally threatened to send her back to the convent, saying, “And this time, young lady, it will be for keeps!”
ALL THROUGH MASS, Ondine fervently prayed that God would strike everyone dead so she wouldn’t have to eat dinner with Monsieur Fabius Renard. But as the service ended and everyone filed outside into the spring sunlight, her hopes were dashed, for there stood the baker. He was all dressed up in his best blue suit and hat, with his neat little moustache and his ash-blond hair freshly barbered, waiting for her at the sidewalk, standing self-consciously erect.
“Good God, the entire parish can see what he’s got on his mind!” she murmured, aghast, stepping past the ladies of the congregation who stood on the front steps, watching and whispering.
“Mademoiselle?” Monsieur Renard said, tipping his hat to her in a dignified gesture before he took possession of her left elbow. He seemed so serious and attentive that Ondine felt momentarily ashamed of her feelings and unworthy of such solemnity. But even so, it was like being escorted by an overly attentive uncle. She heard her father’s whispered command from behind her, saying, “Go!”
She kept her eyes lowered furiously and followed Monsieur Renard to his shiny new automobile. She had a moment of fleeting triumph when she saw the admiring faces of the gossipy ladies she’d left behind on the church steps. At least this car shut them up, Ondine thought grimly.
Monsieur Renard drove on silently, and the streets seemed to flutter past like the pages in a flip-it book. Ondine had never given a moment’s thought as to where this man lived. With a sinking heart she tried not to think of it as her future home when he pulled up to a large house in what was once a very grand neighborhood. But the doctors and lawyers who’d lived here in the earlier part of the century had moved on, and now the neighbors were like Renard—working tradesmen who’d made enough money to afford the wide lawns and spacious rooms that wealthier people had just abandoned for more fashionable streets. “Alors! Home at last!” he said cheerfully as he parked, got out and opened her door.
Ondine was studying him covertly, mindful of her mother’s admonition that most women would feel lucky to marry off their daughter to Renard. Yes, he was just the sort of man that mothers approved of for a son-in-law—clean, nice-looking, well-pressed, courteous—pleasant but unexciting. Pushing away her own trepidation, she tried to keep an open mind and imagine him as a good husband. When he held the car door for her she noticed that he did everything very carefully, deliberately, in the manner of a solitary man who is outgoing in public but quite shy in more intimate situations. She felt sorry for him, wondering, How can I ever hurt this man’s feelings by saying “no” because I still only love Luc?
For, following Renard up the long straight walkway, she’d gotten a panicked feeling that, merely by going along with him today, she was murdering and burying Luc forever. She fought off a sudden impulse to just run away as the baker unlocked his front door and escorted her into a darkened parlor.
She sensed the presence of another creature nearby; but Ondine had to wait until her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting before she glimpsed two spots of white hair—one belonged to an older lady with lace at her throat, sitting in a high-backed chair; the other to a little white dog asleep at her feet.
“Mother, this is the girl Ondine,” Monsieur Renard said as if they were approaching a shrine.
The woman fixed her small bright eyes on Ondine as Renard helped his mother struggle to her feet. Ondine now remembered having heard that this lady was lame in one leg from childhood polio. Renard gestured to Ondine to take the lady’s other arm; and together they hauled her into a gloomy dining salon across the hallway, where a tall, gawky cook was serving the dinner she’d prepared.
Once seated at the head of the table, Madame Renard slowly and deliberately removed her napkin from its silver ring. Her son took the seat at the other end, so by default Ondine took the mismatched chair at his side, understanding the situation in a flash of misery.
These two have been dining across from each other for years, she surmised. They were having an early Sunday meal, no doubt so that the poor woman could sleep it off for the rest of the day.
“My cook isn’t as good as your Maman,” Monsieur Renard said quietly, with a slightly fastidious expression on his face. “But this will suffice for today.” If the dull-looking servant girl overheard him she didn’t seem to care. Renard bowed his head and murmured an unintelligible prayer. His mother crossed herself. Then, they ate.
Since no one spoke to her—in fact, they didn’t even chat with each other—Ondine could not help silently assessing the food, out of habit from working with her mother. He’s certainly right about this meal! she thought. The soup was made from a chicken boiled days ago, with not a single trace of meat or carrot left in it. It had been watered down, no doubt to stretch it out. Some other unfortunate bird was served as the main course, but Ondine could not identify what it had been when it was alive. The cheese course was all right, and of course the bread was fresh. But the pastry served with chamomile tea for dessert was sickeningly sweet; and this, sadly, seemed to be the only course his mother relished.
Clearly Monsieur Renard kept his household on a minuscule budget. Why? Her father had said the man was well-off. She’d seen him gamble away money at cards with the other Wise Men at the café, where he indulged in a good lunch as well. So why was he so stingy with his mother’s household? Heaven only knew what this poor woman ate when she was all alone here.
Baffled, Ondine recalled an old saying she’d heard the marketplace ladies quote to one another. If you want to see how a man will treat you once you become his wife, just watch how he treats his mother.
The ticking clock in the parlor echoed throughout the silent house. Ondine could see the older woman’s bright eyes staring at her, sizing her up yet revealing nothing. The dog had been allowed to go into the kitchen, and Ondine could hear him gnawing on his bone with pathetic gusto. It seemed to Ondine that the entire house ached with such entrenched solitude that she doubted she could ever be strong enough to break the all-encompassing loneliness of a miser.
Finally Monsieur Renard pushed back his chair with a loud, scraping sound that shattered the silence, and he helped his mother to her bedroom. When he returned he said to Ondine, “Let’s go into the garden.” She followed him through a primly maintained backyard to a small stone bench, where they sat down together. She’d never been this close to him before; he smelled of shaving soap, mothballs, pastry and pipe tobacco. He seemed nervous now. He spoke of the garden, and made a few mild remarks about the weather. She could not seem to catch his gaze and hold it, to connect.
Mopping his brow with his handkerchief, he finally recited what was clearly a prepared speech. “Dear Ondine,” he began awkwardly, as he reached out with a moist hand that reminded her of rising bread dough.
Here it comes, she thought with mounting dread as he clasped her hand firmly. But when she stole a look at his face, it dawned on her that this moment was difficult for him, too. His attitude could hardly be called ardent; he seemed dutiful, and slightly horrified by the necessity of showing any emotion at all.
She herself was fighting off the urge to burst into tears. He did not get down on bended knee; for this she was grateful, because such a gesture would have been too mortifying to bear. Instead he assured her that his bakery was very successful. He said with bashful pride, “You’ll see that my ovens are the most modern ones available! I assure you, you’ll like working there with me.”
Ondine suddenly understood the sort of bargain that had been struck, and now she could barely hear another word he uttered. She forced a smile to hide what she really thought, which was, I’d be exchanging Maman’s hot oven for yours and I’ll spend the rest of my days in the pit of hell. As for her nights, she tried not to envision sleeping in his bed and doing the things men wanted to do. He wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t ugly, or uncouth. But he was so fastidious and parsimonious that she simply couldn’t imagine him as the sort of husband who might inspire deep love, much less passion, in a girl like her.
“And so, Ondine,” he finally concluded, leaning closer, “be my wife.”
It sounded more like a command than a request, so Ondine remained silent. She only raised her eyes to mutely wonder, But, do you love me? He seemed to comprehend her message, for he looked slightly alarmed before he averted his eyes. Then in a sudden burst of resolve, Monsieur Renard put his arm around her waist and pulled her close to his stomach, as if it were something he’d seen a hero do in a movie. She saw that, compared to the rest of his body, he had a rather large belly, normally hidden by his jacket. To her further surprise, he hastily planted a slightly wet kiss on her lips. It did not say I love you. It was more like an embarrassed Will this do? Ondine found herself holding her breath until it ended.
MONSIEUR RENARD DROVE her home along a more scenic route, and Ondine wore a mechanical smile so he could convince himself that the afternoon was a success. Her panic had given way to numbed fear as she gazed out the window, leaning her cheek against her gloved hand, listlessly ignoring the landscape while pretending to be enjoying the drive. I didn’t want my marriage proposal to be like this, she thought with a flash of girlish misery. Everything felt too small and mercenary—the entire town of Juan-les-Pins, even its sea and sky, suddenly seemed crushed under a claustrophobic glass dome.
But soon they were passing Picasso’s neighborhood, and Ondine sat up straight as if awakening from a bad dream. Her gaze cleared, and some relief must have illuminated her expression, for Monsieur Renard smiled at her as if she were a child who’d been roused from a drowsy Sunday nap.
“They never should have let the Americans rent these villas!” he exclaimed as he steered his car past the hill that led to Picasso’s street. “It was bad enough, renting them out to the Parisians!”
Ondine said nothing, but when she saw a familiar figure on the road, she leaned forward to get a better look. Yes, it was Picasso—all dressed up in a fine suit, shirt and hat, and even a tie. He must have gone into town, and he was walking home holding himself straighter and more proudly than ever, seeming conscious of the dapper figure he cut, out on a Sunday stroll.
He’s not alone! she thought, straining to get a better look. For, just behind him, a woman was pushing a baby carriage. Yes, it was that blonde with the distinctive, long nose—the one called Marie-Thérèse—but now at last Ondine could see her from head to toe instead of just her face in the window.
She was short, like Picasso, and full-figured in an athletic sort of way. She looked more Swedish or Germanic than French. And she had a blonde, cherub-faced infant in the pram, clearly her daughter.
That must be Picasso’s baby! Ondine realized, fascinated. It was hard for her to imagine him as the father of an infant, when he seemed such a mischievous imp himself at times. And although the mama was dressed up in a fancy Sunday hat, she was licking an ice-cream cone like a schoolgirl, tilting her head in total concentration with a childlike expression of delight, while Picasso strutted ahead like a rooster.
“That’s not his wife,” Monsieur Renard said in an unexpectedly harsh, disgusted tone.
Ondine, feeling caught staring, blushed. “Who?” she asked innocently.
“Over there. That man is a Spaniard. He’s been in town before, in the summertime. He’s friends with that noisy American crowd that started coming here in the twenties. His wife is a Russian lady of quality, dark-haired and fine. She always liked my millefeuille pastry.” Monsieur Renard clucked. “As for this affair, it’s disgraceful. It won’t last. Such dalliances never do. Who will marry this girl after he’s finished with her? I could never take up with a woman who’s had a child by another man,” he sniffed, turning the car around the corner.
Ondine sat back as the little trio of figures grew smaller in the distance. It was somehow thrilling to finally get such a good look at Marie-Thérèse. She was not a great beauty nor a perfect goddess, just a normal, flesh-and-blood female—and, despite Renard’s verdict, she looked happy. Had she triumphed over Dora-the-lady-photographer? Or did they really agree to share Picasso? Perhaps his women had no choice but to do his bidding. The rules were apparently different high up on Mount Olympus, for any girl brave enough to come close to the gods. Just seeing him renewed her courage and made Ondine feel she could once again breathe in the salty air of possibility, and find freedom from stultifying propriety.
What would the villagers in Juan-les-Pins say if they knew that Ondine herself had modelled for Picasso up at his studio? How it would shock Monsieur Renard! Ondine pondered this with some triumph. I never actually said “Yes” to Renard’s proposal, she consoled herself. So it doesn’t really count. But let him—and everyone else in town—think whatever they want, for now.
And so Ondine merely feigned compliance, allowing Monsieur Renard to escort her back to the café to make his joyous announcement, confirming that she and he were betrothed. Her father opened a bottle of cognac infused with orange, and they all toasted the wedding. Then her parents set the date for September. Like a sleepwalker, Ondine went through all the motions of a bride-to-be. This was possible only because she’d convinced herself that somehow, this wedding would never actually happen.
But she went to bed feeling frightened. She didn’t know how to exploit one’s connections with a powerful Patron. Marriage was the only future she’d been taught. Picasso conjured up many liberating ideas to her, yet he was not her idea of a good husband. She was not so foolish as to imagine that she could be his one true love. And being his mistress was clearly a perilous affair. He was more like an Arab with his harem, Ondine realized. How many other women did he keep back in Paris?
No, there was only one man she could ever think of as a husband. Luc was a man of his word, she consoled herself. He would come back for her and carry her away from Juan-les-Pins, like a pirate!
But, alone in her bedroom where she had lain in Luc’s arms as he murmured his promises to her, Ondine found herself struggling to remember the details of his gentle face, which were becoming alarmingly distant and blurry with each passing week.
“Luc, where are you?” she whispered. Far into the silence of the night, Ondine lay awake, for the first time really wondering how she would survive without him.