Port Vauban, 2016

IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS SINCE I sold the painting, and the buyer had promised to let me approve its new home once he found a place for Girl-at-a-Window. But as soon as Paul got his hands on it, he was not an easy man to pin down, and I began to have doubts about the deal I’d made.

That’s why, when I finally got a message from Paul saying I could come visit before he “cast off”, I hurried off to Billionaires’ Quay in Port Vauban for this impromptu meeting on his grand yacht, Le Troubadour.

And now, while I’m sitting here in the ship’s library, waiting on a bench that resembles a church pew, right before my eyes one of the bookcases begins to move—swinging open like the secret door that it is.

A blonde woman in a bright white linen suit and a dazzling necklace made of violet diamonds emerges from this inner sanctum and introduces herself as Cheryl, Paul’s wife. Smiling, she says softly, “You can come in now.”

I follow her into what turns out to be Grandma Ondine’s cabin. Amid sumptuous Louis XVI sofas, a pair of nineteenth-century bergère armchairs and some tiny Giacometti and Rodin sculptures, there is a walnut alcove, like an altar, where Picasso’s Girl-at-a-Window reigns supreme. She’s flanked by two slim, carefully placed windows that let in a glimpse of the sky and the splashing sea. As my hostess hands me a glass of champagne she explains that Grandma’s portrait spends spring and summer here on the Riviera, making stops at all the best hot spots where it is admired by esteemed guests. Then the Girl-at-a-Window gets a Grand Tour of the world, wintering in Palm Beach, the Caribbean isles and even Patagonia.

“And,” Cheryl says reassuringly, “Paul wants you to know that he’s made a special arrangement with the Louvre in Paris. They’ve picked out a wonderful spot for the painting there, once they get it as our bequest. So,” she concedes with a nod, “your grandmother will live on long after you and I are gone. Well, enjoy your visit with her.” Then she thoughtfully leaves the room so I can have some private time.

“Bonjour, Grand-mère,” I whisper. I stand there before her, listening to the distant cry of the gulls and feeling the occasional nudge of the tide. The youthful Ondine, gazing back at me, looks like a princess presiding over her new, opulent surroundings and she seems to be smiling down at me in triumph; after all, she has indeed, in her own invincible way, achieved a kind of immortality.

“Superbe,” I say softly. I perch at the end of a bergère chair, and fall into a brief reverie, recalling all that’s happened to get us here. And in this tranquil hush, I even feel my mother’s presence today, like a breeze that lightly, consolingly touches my shoulder.

“Merci, Maman,” I say, my eyes misty now.

For it’s as if Mom and Grandmother Ondine conspired to give me a new family to care about—not only Gil and sweet little Martin, but Aunt Matilda and her friend Peter, too. Among all these people I love, I feel more at home than I ever have in my life.

The ship’s horn toots. All ashore that’s going ashore. Reluctantly, I turn to leave, just as Paul enters the room. He’s a strange guy—quiet, short, bald, preoccupied-looking; and there is an eerie stillness to him, a peculiar serenity that is somehow a bit scary.

But then this man—a god in the world of merciless killer investors—pauses reverently before the painting as if it’s something holy. “She’s a beauty,” he says with a besotted look on his face. After a few moments he turns to me and says gently, “We’ll keep her safe. Come visit her again sometime.”

—

NOW THAT THE movie I’ve been working on has wrapped up production, I’ll soon be focusing my attention on the mas. It’s the same every year—we always brace ourselves for the juggernaut of the Grand Prix auto race in Monaco which officially launches the new season on the Riviera, and the real onslaught of tourists begins. Between Gil’s work and mine I know that soon we won’t have an hour we can call our own. And this year I’m doing the makeup for actresses at the Cannes Film Festival.

But just this morning Gil, already busy training new kitchen and hotel staff, advised me, “You should take a few days off before you plunge into that circus. Enjoy some time to yourself while you can get it!”

So as I return to my car in the parking lot, I see that, already, more yachts from around the world are returning to the Mediterranean, their white sails fluttering gently as they glide into view. They inspire me to do something I haven’t done in a long time—put aside my makeup brushes, and pick up my old paint box and portable easel, which I’d shipped over here from my apartment in L.A. and threw into the trunk of my car.

Ever since school I’ve painted, but only intermittently, usually on holidays. Now when I set up my easel in the park by the harbor at Port Vauban I finally, literally, begin to see the light—that bewitching combination of brightness and softness reflecting off the Mediterranean Sea which has held so many painters spellbound over the centuries. I scramble with palette and paint tubes, squishing out fat blobs of color in a delirious frenzy to capture what I see, starting with a horizon layered in every conceivable shade of blue—deep cobalt and French ultramarine and cerulean and azure and turquoise.

At noon in the marketplace, the sun ignites everything it touches to its eye-dazzling essence—cadmium yellow and scarlet and chrome green for the stalls bursting with spring vegetables, fruit, flowers and wheels of cheese so fresh that they are still warm when the fromagère hands them to me. And at day’s end, the departing light leaves a burnished monochrome trail somewhere between rose and ochre and umber, that washes over the sphinx-like faces of those old village men at picnic tables who play cards as seriously as if they are saying their prayers. I paint in a frenzy of inspiration which requires so much concentration that I manage, if not to forget the past, then at least to leave it there.

When I return to the mas I go straight to the pigeonnier to unpack the mouth-watering groceries I’ve brought home from the market. Gil and I often end up here at the end of the day to make drinks and supper. The light and shadows in the kitchen garden today are so striking that I can’t resist setting up my easel right there.

And as I work, Gil literally walks right into the scene I’m trying to capture. He’s carrying a box that he sets down with a thump on the old picnic table, which neither one of us could bear to throw away. “What’s that?” I ask absently as I begin to paint an image of him into my scenario.

“Old pots and pans,” he says enthusiastically. “They were in that box we took out of storage from Monaco when we were chasing down your wretched blue cupboard, remember? This cookware is great. And look, here’s an old-fashioned knife roll full of kitchen knives!” He places the rolled-up leather on the table and undoes the straps that are like narrow belt buckles.

“They’re beauties!” Gil proclaims, admiring each knife sheathed inside its own special felt-lined leather pocket. “Made in France. Vintage Opinel,” he muses, examining them one by one. “It’s a complete chef’s line. Huh.” He suddenly falls silent.

I am so absorbed in my painting that I don’t grasp what’s happening until he rises from the table and comes nearer, wearing an odd look on his face. He stops right in front of me, holding out an envelope. “It’s for you,” he says.

“What’s up?” I ask, putting down my brush and wiping paint off my hands.

“This looks personal. You might say it came special-delivery,” he replies, intrigued. “It was stuffed in one of those knife pockets. Apparently these kitchen things belonged to your grandmother. You know, a chef never goes anywhere without her knife roll.” Bewildered, I take the envelope and study the handwriting, which has become so familiar to both of us from Grandmother Ondine’s notebook, since we are using some of her recipes this season.

The front of the envelope reads: For Céline, on the day of her birth.

“Oh, my God,” I say, staring at it long and hard before I open it, so very carefully. I unfold the page that was inside, letting Gil read over my shoulder. I have to read it again and again, stunned by astonishing words like Picasso’s legacy and your mother’s heritage and your grandfather. Finally we look at each other, flabbergasted. Yet even then, I still can’t completely comprehend it.

“Picasso—and Ondine—so, my mother was his? But—what does it all mean?” I finally stammer.

Gil, looking genuinely awed, gestures at my riotous array of paint tubes and brushes.

“I think, my darling,” he says gently, “it means that, all along, your grandmother’s long-lost Picasso was really…you.”

THE END