ROSSA IS A VERY BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. With her deep, green eyes, freckled skin and dark reddish hair, she looks Irish. Almost always cheerful and affectionate, she expresses herself with a sweet simplicity. She is intelligent and conceals an underlying vein of melancholy caused by the many sorrows of her life. This is why, even though she appears calm and smiling, she’s a bit like a volcano, with unpredictable reactions. A setback or a misunderstanding can be enough to trigger an explosive outburst of rage that transforms her sweetness into an almost pitiless cruelty that she is unable to repress. I must admit that I really fear these sudden mood swings, because they spoil the harmony of our relationship and convey to me a sense of desperation, of profound disquiet, which then fades and is forgotten until the next explosion.
That day at Wilton’s we were relaxed and talked of our affairs in great intimacy, as happens between husband and wife. The delightful thing about marriage is that there’s no need to hurry. There is none of the stress of having to take leave of each other, of not knowing when you will see each other again. There is a tenderness, recreated every day, every night in bed and that is the basis of marriage. Sometimes you have to part, but this is followed by a return and you love each other even more. Disagreements lose their edge because neither of the two wishes to ruin a relationship made up of friends, habits common to both and a strength inherent to the couple. Husband and wife are united by many small things, such as, in our case, lunching at Wilton’s and eating the same things every time, hoping that there will always be the same grilled sole, the same black bread, the puréed spinach, the chilled Chablis, a piece of Stilton to eat with celery and a glass of port. Marriage is not about novelty, and even the most curious people don’t want novelty all the time. We grow fond of things that have been used, mended, resoled, repaired, because they have become truly ours.
That’s why I like to be alone with Rossa. Looking at her, I realise that even though time has left its mark on her face, it is as if her beauty has grown, become more precious, more real.
We went to the Royal Academy, where there was a Matisse exhibition: pictures, drawings and fabrics. I knew that Rossa had a weakness for Matisse.
That evening Sole had organised a dinner, she wanted to introduce us to her friends. It was a sweet thought on her part. I like it when she includes us in her life. I know that growing up hadn’t been easy for her, that my divorce from her mother had made her suffer very much. Rossa too felt that it had always been hard for her to win acceptance in life and gets furious when she feels that people don’t appreciate her, or take her for granted. Rossa and Sole became friends, they understand and respect each other. They are both aware of their charm, but also insecure. And it is that insecurity that makes them so attractive.
Although I intend to shelve my obsession for Sax, I wonder why I am so drawn to painters and painting. Perhaps it’s because they remind me of love stories. The most awful things can occur all around us, savage wars can break out, but a passionate affair lives beyond all laws because it has its own special laws. And the same holds for art. The First World War breaks out, there is the terrible battle of Verdun with its millions of dead and Matisse paints pictures that remind him of his winters in Tangiers, bowls of goldfish, piano lessons and portraits. During the Second World War, the photographer Brassaï used to go every day to Picasso’s studio in rue des Grands-Augustins, while the city was under German occupation. In his diary he describes Picasso’s chaotic habits, his secretary Sabartés, the cafés of Saint-Germain, Dora Maar—who had taken over from Marie-Thérèse Walter in his life—and a great exhibition of Matisse’s work. You never sense the presence of the Nazis. The conversation is only about painting, models, friends and ideas, as if there were no war going on. Picasso had painted Guernica in that same studio.
Somewhat similarly, Sax lives and works indifferent to the world around him, except for his family and a handful of friends. He is immersed in his pictures and in his relations with his models, male and female alike. He works in extremely long sessions, with brief pauses. He portrays a humanity that is deformed, devastated, suffering, all fat and wrinkles.
I too would like to be a great artist and paint Rossa’s portrait. I’d like to stay in the studio for hours looking at her, trying to discover her, interpret her. Perhaps I would arrive at a better understanding of that cheerful, elusive woman who loves to be alone and seems to prefer animals above all other things. A portrait with a black cat in her lap or nude with stray dogs. Every so often there would be breaks in which to make love and satisfy the intense desire that would have been aroused by my looking at her. I’m not very sure I know what love is. In men, Rossa looks for the security she lost when her parents died. I don’t know if she has abandoned all her men and if she is truly in love with me. I don’t know why she decided to marry me of all people, as I am not a powerful or reassuring man. I am not a genius who could immortalise her forever. This is why I envy Sax. Through his work, he can dominate any woman: the most sophisticated, the most cultured, or the coarsest, who on seeing herself portrayed reacts with either love or hate, but in both cases feels mastered and flattered. Literature today no longer has that power.
“Would you have liked to be Amélie, Matisse’s wife?” I asked Rossa.
“No, I’m happy to be your wife.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, it was my choice and I’m fine like this. I want to be with you.”
Rossa couldn’t care less for all my fantasies about Sax, she doesn’t give them a thought. Women are hard to decipher because they love strength, but weakness too. They want to be reassured, but also to reassure, they want to dominate but also to be dominated. A man can never really penetrate the mystery that is woman, understand all her fears, disappointments, hopes; he can never bridge the gap and does not have that mysterious and unpredictable je ne sais quoi that makes the heart beat faster and lends music to life. Perhaps the best way to live with a woman is to let yourself go, without trying to understand. No pleasure can be greater than the profound feeling of a love shared.