Discovery: Céline in Mougins, 2014
I LEFT MONSIEUR CLÉMENT’S LAW office still feeling stunned. To suddenly recast my mother’s entire story of Grandmother Ondine’s last days at Gil’s mas instead of at the café presented mind-boggling new possibilities.
“I’ve been following in Grandma’s footsteps all along, right there at the mas,” I told myself, feeling goosebumps at the thought. That was where I needed to do my searching.
Standing in the labyrinthine center of the old town I realized that I had no way of getting back. I decided it was high time I got my own wheels. I lucked out at a nearby car rental; someone had just returned a pale blue Peugeot. Driving off, I felt a sense of independence and triumph.
Back at the mas I recalled that Gil arranged for my classmates to be out in the fields this afternoon. Aunt Matilda later told me they did a stint of farm work—milking wary cows, feeding nervous chickens and pigs, collecting eggs from indignant hens, picking the day’s multitude of vegetables and fruit.
Maurice reminded me of this scheduled farm work while I was trying to creep past his concierge desk in the lobby. I mumbled something about having to first attend to “a personal matter” and I hurried up to my room to plan my next move. Searching for Grandma’s Picasso here at the mas would be tricky; we had only three days left of the cooking course, and each was carefully mapped out; for instance, tomorrow was a trip to the museum.
So, with the whole class out in the fields this afternoon, this might be my best chance to snoop through my classmates’ rooms. It wouldn’t be my top priority to search the women’s area, since Monsieur Clément said that Grandma Ondine had become unable to climb stairs and her bedroom was on the ground floor. But I wondered exactly where those older bedrooms were. Then I recalled that the desk in my room had a get-acquainted brochure about the mas.
I saw now that it contained a map of the buildings and grounds, which I could use to plot my search. The brochure described it all in glowing P.R. terms:
This typical Provençal farmhouse, built entirely of local stone, was made in the tradition of creating a completely self-contained entity producing everything its owners needed to live independently: vegetable and grain, meat and poultry, fruit orchards, a dairy, and even its own silkworm farm called a magnanerie.
The “mas” or big main building is laid out in an L-shape facing south for maximum light and protection from the north winds. As you enter the lobby with its updated marble flooring, a spiral staircase takes you either upstairs to guest bedrooms; or downstairs to the bar, dining room and kitchen of Gil Halliwell’s Michelin-starred restaurant, called “Pierrot”. This large modern kitchen and dining area did not exist in the original mas; it was only a barn-like room where the animals were kept indoors in winter.
THEREFORE, THE KITCHEN that my class had been cooking in all this time wasn’t Grandma Ondine’s kitchen, I concluded, scrutinizing the map before continuing to read.
The other side of the mas—the shorter leg of the “L-shape”—was where the earlier owners spent their indoor hours, especially in winter. There were only two bedrooms and a farmhouse kitchen. In the summer, cooking was done in outdoor ovens, but in the winter months the owners cooked and ate in this original, large kitchen, using the big fireplace and its built-in ovens; so the room served as a combination kitchen-dining-and-living area. This section of the mas is currently undergoing expansion and reconstruction, as are the outbuildings, some of which were once used to grind and store grain, or to store fruit and vegetables. Our pool and spa are the first examples of our state-of-the-art renovations of the outbuildings.
So, I noted, the bedrooms on the shorter side of the “L” were where the men in our class slept. It appeared that they were both at ground level. I was willing to bet that one of them was Grandmother Ondine’s bedroom—right near the old kitchen, where she might cook and take her meals. No stairs to climb.
The women in my class called that section the “boys’ dorm” and everyone joked on the first night about how we’d been gender-segregated. Surely that was where I should search, and the sooner the better. Feeling inspired, I rummaged in my suitcase for any supplies I might find useful, and came up with an LED flashlight that I always take with me when I travel, and my nylon carry-on bag. I was optimistic enough to think that if I found the Picasso I could stash it inside. I hurried out of my room, moving quietly through the lobby. Maurice had gone back into his office, so he didn’t see me.
I stole down the spiral staircase to the lower level, past Pierrot, Gil’s restaurant, which had a cocktail area with a zinc bar and an enormous Art Deco mirror bearing needle-etched images of the legendary Pierrot and Harlequin clowns gaily chasing each other. I continued beyond the restaurant’s empty dining area, elegantly designed in burgundy and pale rose. Tomorrow it would be buzzing with weekend customers; you had to make reservations weeks in advance even in the off-season, and whole months ahead in summer. The tables on the terrace were especially popular.
Next was Gil’s shiny silver spit-spot-clean new kitchen where our class had been taking cooking lessons. I’d never gone beyond this modern kitchen because the other door was marked Staff Only. I opened it now, and stepped into a short vestibule leading to a heavy wooden door that appeared to be made of halved tree logs. Once I’d pushed past it, I found myself in the oldest section of the mas.
Shining my flashlight ahead, I could see that this long hallway eventually led to the old kitchen, now under construction. The site was like a big black pit with lots of treacherous scaffolding. But immediately to my left and right were two doors facing each other across the hallway.
“The old bedrooms!” I said, excited now as I squinted at my map. “So this is the boys’ dorm.”
The door on my left was ajar. I pushed inside. It was quite a large, elegantly decorated bedroom suite with a fireplace, and two alcoves containing beds. There was also a sizeable adjoining sitting room. The sitting room had a bed in it, too, so there was ample private space here for all three of my male classmates.
A pair of pajamas with a Texan flag on the breast pocket was draped on the sitting-room’s bed; Joey’s Chicago Cubs baseball cap lay on a table in one alcove; and, in the other alcove I spotted a British newspaper which surely belonged to Peter, the English wine steward who had become so chummy with Aunt Matilda.
I crossed the suite to a large closet and yanked open its door. I felt a stab of guilt, rummaging through my classmates’ clothing that was folded on shelves and draped on hangers. Then I thought of my mother stuck in that awful nursing home, and I quickly stooped down to the floor where the men’s empty suitcases were stacked. I hauled them out and examined the floorboards, which were slightly warped; and I noticed that, in the far right corner one particular plank wiggled like a loose tooth. Still, it took considerable work to pry it up. Once I finally got it out of there, I shined my flashlight and peered in.
I felt my pulse quicken, once again recalling what Mom had said about a secret storage area under a closet floor, where during the wars Grandma’s parents hid the café’s best champagne from the German soldiers…
The hollow space below was deep and wide enough to surely be such a storage area.
“Just like she told me!” I whispered, thrilled.
I had to lie down on the floor to really see into its corners. There I discovered only one item, tucked far in the back. Focusing my flashlight on it I reached in, gingerly at first, in case some mouse was nesting nearby. I hauled up the item and put it on the floor beside me.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed in disbelief. It was a cellophane cylinder, dry and brittle from being in its hiding place. I opened it and carefully slid the curled-up contents out: sheaves of large paper, heavy and linen-like. I could see that the interior side had vivid drawings done in strong black lines and bright colors—red and yellow and blue and green.
My fingers trembled a bit as I gently smoothed the paper which had clearly lain here for a very long time. At first it didn’t want to uncurl. There were at least five or six sheets, all rolled together…Slowly, carefully, I flattened out the top one and gazed at the artwork in my lap…
“Wallpaper,” I said aloud.
Scraps of sample wallpaper. With lots of clowns on it. And dogs and cats, also dressed in clown gear like ruffs and peaked caps. And believe me, the wallpaper artist may have been earnest, and even successful. But he definitely was no Picasso.
“Merde!” I growled. Dispirited, I rolled the pages back up, slid them into their cylinder, and deposited them in their burial chamber. I replaced the floorboard, stacked the suitcases on top, and, turning to the beds now, I cast the flashlight’s beam to examine the flooring beneath them. Nothing.
Nice going, Céline, I thought, thoroughly disgusted.
I straightened up, replaced everything as I’d found it, and went across the hall to inspect a smaller bedroom—lo and behold, this was the one decorated with clown wallpaper. In spite of myself I had to laugh when I saw more of the fanciful, Art Deco masked clowns chasing each other across a black-and-white checkerboard. The bed and armoire were modern, inexpensive Scandinavian furniture. Nothing here could be from Grandmother Ondine’s day. There were no clothes in the closet and nothing unusual about this room, which appeared unoccupied.
Maybe this wallpaper inspired Gil to name his restaurant Pierrot, I mused. It was such a modest-sized room, I wondered what Grandma used it for. A guest bedroom, no doubt. My parents might have stayed here when they visited. Well, if Dad had slept here, then this would be the last place that Grandma would hide a treasure that she didn’t want him to know about!
But just to be sure, I dove under the bed and checked for any more loose floorboards. Then, as I came to my feet, I had the strange feeling that I was not alone. I turned around, and spotted a little boy standing in the doorway holding a suitcase, and wearing a polite, puzzled look on his face.
“Hullo,” he said. “What are you doing in my room?” He had an English accent.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh. Hi there.” I had to smile; there was something innately sweet about him.
He studied me carefully. “You’re snooping around for something, aren’t you?” he asked. I could not answer. He grinned. “You’re not supposed to be here, you know.”
I recovered enough to say, “Well, who are you and what are you doing here?”
Very seriously he said, “This is my playroom now. My name is Martin, and my dad owns this place.”
I absorbed his little speech. Could this kid actually belong to Gil? Of course he did. He was a pint-sized version of Gil: blond, curious, lots of intelligence in his eyes, and a touch of sadness. He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt, too, just like Gil. I guessed that he was about ten years old.
“I sleep in the dovecote,” he said proudly. I had no idea what he meant.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Look, can you keep a secret?” I said. “I lost something. So, I was just checking to see if I could find it. I didn’t know you were staying here. I thought the room was empty.”
Martin considered this. “Well, okay,” he said doubtfully. “But what’s your name?”
“Céline,” I replied.
“Hi, Céline,” he said, reaching out his small paw, offering to shake hands. I found this touching, and although his handshake was firm, his fingers were delicate. He struck me as fragile, somehow. Then I remembered what Aunt Matilda said, about Gil’s wife committing suicide. The poor kid.
“Do you play cards?” Martin asked eagerly. “I have a brand-new deck of cards.”
“Yes, I do,” I said gently, “but I can’t play now. I know some folks around here who love to play cards. I’ll introduce them to you next time. But right now, I have to go.”
“Oh,” said Martin, failing to hide his disappointment. “Okay.” He really was so sweet.
I left, determined to see this through for Mom’s sake. I retraced my steps to Gil’s new kitchen, then slipped outside beyond the terrace, and set off on the winding footpath that led away from the main house, weaving past terraced orchards with a view of the olive groves, vineyards and farmland beyond. Scattered along this path were smaller, freestanding stone outbuildings with terracotta-tiled roofs, looking like miniature versions of the main building, which gave them a sweet, playhouse appeal.
“I suppose a painting could be hidden in one of those,” I muttered with waning conviction while eyeing the terrain. But whenever I paused to push a door open and peer inside, I saw that these were just rudimentary stone structures with earthen or cement floors; and while they may have provided useful winter storage for supplies or food, they were hardly the place to harbor a Picasso masterpiece.
I was now approaching a larger outbuilding which might be a good candidate—a barnlike structure near a small parking lot, with a dilapidated old picnic table in the grass nearby, where, judging from coffee stains and crumbs, the construction men had eaten their lunch. The men were gone, since they began their workdays at the crack of dawn; but they’d left a few construction vehicles parked nearby. I approached the building eagerly; yet as I reached the front path I heard the unmistakable vroom of a motorcycle approaching.
Sure enough, Gil came rumbling up on his Ducati and waved, so I couldn’t duck out of sight. I waved back, hastily concocting a reason for being here as he parked and began eyeing me quizzically.
“Is everything all right? How did class go today?” he asked, walking up the front path. He looked to be in a much better mood than I’d seen him lately.
“Class was fine. Heather was great,” I said brightly. “I never realized how many little storage buildings there are here! They’re so cute, like dollhouses,” I babbled on in an admiring tone. For some reason, acting a bit daft around men seems to work when you want to flatter or distract them.
Gil actually brightened with enthusiasm, like a boy who wants to show you his baseball card collection. “Over there is the old water mill that ground the grain they grew right here in our fields,” he said, pointing off in the distance. He was so pleased by my interest that I felt a bit ashamed, but I continued acting fascinated and wide-eyed while he obligingly pointed to each outbuilding: “And there’s the silo where they stored it. Beyond it is a henhouse, and a smokehouse…” His descriptions made me mentally cross each of them off the list as Grandma’s likely hiding places. That left only this one.
“And what is this building we’re standing in front of?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “A barn?”
“No, a pigeonnier,” Gil said. He pointed to a row of tiny windows at the attic level, now closed up, but where, presumably, pigeons once flew in and out with wild abandon. “A dovecote,” he explained.
“This whole building was all for pigeons?” I asked incredulously, while trying to assess whether Grandma Ondine would have raised pigeons. “Did people eat them, just like pheasants?”
“Sure, but pigeons were really prized for their excrement,” he said.
When I made a face, he insisted, “Seriously—it made great fertilizer! Pigeonniers were status symbols ever since Roman times. When you totted up the value of a manor house, you included how much pigeon shit it produced! Anyway, we’re converting this pigeonnier into a VIP guest villa. It won’t be finished till next year, when we’ll expand it and gussy it up. For now, I’m using it as my office. It’ll give me some privacy from the guests in the high season.”
I was thinking to myself, Grandma would hardly park a Picasso among pigeon dung. But just to be sure, I asked, “What was this pigeonnier originally like, inside? Did you have to change it much?”
“It was like a barn inside, actually,” Gil said, reaching into his pocket for a set of jingling keys. “We had to install all the basics: windows, sliding doors, electric wiring, all the heat and air-conditioning; we’re still working on the plumbing and bathrooms. It’s nice now. Come see for yourself.”
He let me in, smiling as if he were flattered that I’d chased him down to his private lair. It was big and open, like a huge loft with high ceilings and exposed beams. The floors had been painstakingly refinished, but the place was mostly empty, except for two modest beds, and a few provisional chairs around a table. One windowed alcove served as a study with a desk, lamp, and computer.
“Not much in the way of furniture for your VIP’s,” I teased.
“It’s temporary, of course,” Gil said, looking embarrassed. “There wasn’t much to work with. The dairyman who sold me this mas left some old country-style stuff, which my business partner’s got in storage. Some of it might work.” Gil’s mobile phone rang then, so he stepped away to take the call. I heard him say, “Yeah, Maurice, what’s up?”
I wandered around inspecting the place carefully, but there was really nothing more to see, and I could find no possible trace of Grandmother Ondine.
“Rick was here today?” Gil exclaimed suddenly. “Why the fuck didn’t he phone? What note? What does it say, then?” There was a pause, and he said in exasperation, “Yes, read it to me, now!”
I pictured Maurice quaking at his front desk as he recited the note Rick scribbled. Sure enough, Gil’s expression became livid. He listened awhile longer, then hung up and turned to me, still glaring.
“Well, you’re busy,” I said hastily. “See you tomorrow.”
“Hold on!” Gil said, looking at me intently now. “I’ve just heard from my staff that you’ve been sneaking all around my mas. I’ve got a fair idea of what you’ve been up to!”
For a wild moment I thought he’d somehow found out about the whole hidden Picasso thing. Then I realized how unlikely this was. “I don’t know what you mean,” I said warily. I wondered if his kid, Martin, had already tattled on me to the staff, just because I wouldn’t play cards with him.
“What were you doing in the men’s area?” Gil asked sharply.
Now I was sure that Martin ratted me out. “I took a wrong turn,” I said, feeling defensive. “Your son Martin is very sweet but I just got lost, that’s all.”
The effect of hearing his son’s name was immediate. It was as if Gil’s tough-guy mask just fell away from his face, and he looked raw and vulnerable.
“You saw Martin?” he asked in a completely different tone.
“Yes,” I said, realizing I’d blundered, because clearly it wasn’t the kid who’d told him. “He looks just like you. You ought to introduce him to the class. They’d adore him.”
“Yeah, I know,” Gil muttered. “He’s a good little guy.” Then he recovered. “Look, you still haven’t explained what you were doing there. We’ve got security cameras in the hallways near the construction site. Today you’ve had a starring role!” He was standing near his desk and he punched up his computer to show me. I peered at the screen, and there I was on the video, undeniably skulking in the corridors of the old section with my flashlight and duffel bag, looking like a cat- burglar.
“Who are you, really? Are you Rick Vandervass’ girl?” Gil demanded. “Is that why you’re collecting recipes and spying on local restaurants and sneaking around my mas?”
“Are you kidding?” I said, astonished yet relieved that he was so far off the scent. “I just met that guy in your lobby today!”
“Come on,” Gil said, “people saw you go off with Rick and they said you looked pretty cozy. Are you his spy? This isn’t my first time out at the rodeo. I’ve had bartenders who turned out to be bookies, waitresses who were food bloggers in disguise, and line cooks who stole my best recipes and sold them to the competition. So you can just tell whoever you’re working for that he can kiss my ass.”
“You must be joking! It so happens that I had a last-minute appointment in town today to see a lawyer about my grandmother’s estate,” I replied. “And I must say Maurice was no help at all at finding me a car. Rick offered to give me a lift. End of story. But quite frankly, even if I decide to go out with someone, it’s still none of your business. You don’t see me quizzing you about your girlfriend.”
“What girlfriend?” he demanded, momentarily thrown.
“Heather, the pastry-slinger,” I said. Then I was horrified with myself. Heather was perfectly nice. Why had I said that?
“Well, that would be well-nigh impossible,” Gil said calmly, “since she doesn’t fancy my type.”
“Oh? What type is that?” I asked automatically.
“Males,” he said. At my blank look he added, “Aw, for God’s sake. Heather has lesbianic preferences, okay?” He watched with satisfaction as it sank in.
“Huh,” I replied, resenting Gil for trapping me into this mortifying conversation. “Are all chefs as paranoid as you?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” he admitted, more quietly now. It dawned on me that he must feel I’d made a fool of him, egging him on to chatter about his passion for this place, pigeonnier and all. He only wanted to know why. And after all, I was being cagey. “So—what did you and Rick talk about in the back of his car?” he asked, still looking suspicious, more about his partner than me at this point.
“He acted just like you—he asked me how long I’ve known you, and if you went off to meetings a lot, and how the construction was going, and if I thought you’d be ready to open in time,” I said.
Gil asked instantly, “What did you tell him?”
“What could I tell him?” I retorted. “I said you’ve got a nice place, and business looks good.”
“But—why did he pick you to chat up?” Gil wondered. I recalled the smirking chauffeur exchanging knowing looks in the rearview mirror with Rick.
“He thinks I’m your latest girlfriend,” I said, feeling exasperated. “Perish the thought.”
Gil actually blushed. “There are worse fates,” he muttered. “But what gave him that idea?”
I didn’t want to remind Gil of the fiasco at the Café Paradis with tourists snapping pictures of us being escorted out by police. So I shrugged. “You’re up to no good, I can smell it,” Gil said. “Your aunt told me you’ve got personal issues, but obviously there’s more to it than she knows!”
Now it was my turn to be paranoid. “What exactly did my aunt tell you about me?” I demanded.
He said gently, “That you’re here because your mum fell ill, so you’re standing in for her. Which I guess explains why a woman who isn’t particularly fond of cooking is taking my course.”
I gave him my most enigmatic, Mona Lisa smile. He said, “Okay, I’ll walk you back to the main building.” We stepped outside and he locked the place up. Oddly enough, I found the walk quite restful; Gil, despite his boundless energy, was also capable of companionable silences. All we heard was the occasional hoot of those famous scops owls in the South of France, persistent in their lonely commentaries.
And just as we rounded a curved path leading to the front door, a whimsical little cloudburst caused soft rain to briefly shower through the branches of a tree, whose lovely pink blossoms were already drifting to the ground. I happened to be walking beneath the branches just as the rain made a cascade of pink petals come fluttering down, wetly and fragrantly, filling the air all around me.
All I could do was stop and catch my breath in childlike delight, turning my face up instead of trying to hide from it. The whole thing was over in seconds; but it was such an unexpected, sensual gift that I could only stand there, shocked, laughing and showered by the perfumed Mediterranean rain.
A moment later it was gone, and the sun peeped through the clouds. Gil had stopped, too, but he was on the outer curve of the path, so he hadn’t passed under the tree. Now he smiled.
“That was just incredible!” I gasped. Gil looked as if he were seeing me for the first time.
He moved closer, reaching out to pluck a few errant blossoms from my hair, saying quietly, “Beautiful.” I must have automatically backed up, breaking the spell, because a look of comprehension crossed his face before he said lightly, “I must remember to add a flower-shower to the spa menu.”
When we stepped inside the mas we parted at the lobby. I went up to my room to change clothes. Recalling the look on Gil’s face, I felt strangely exposed; and out of habit I did a quick mental check to assess how much of myself I’d given away. It was like searching my pockets to see if I’d lost my house keys.
At least, when he interrogated me in that pigeonnier, I didn’t blurt out anything about the lost Picasso painting. I found myself wishing my mother had kept her wild ideas to herself. The best thing I could do now was to stop sneaking around like a criminal, go back to being a normal person and finish this cooking class, I decided. Then, rather unwillingly, I recalled something Mom used to say while she sat there sewing in her kitchen in New York. When you reach the end of your rope, make a knot and hold on.
I sighed and went into the bathroom to towel my hair dry. My mother’s stories, my grandmother’s notebook—I’d been clutching at these straws as if they were a lifeline I just couldn’t let go of; because on the other end of the line, I could see my small-but-indefatigably-optimistic mother—so far, far away—yet still hanging on.