desire to capture all the shades of color in her hair.
Picasso immediately guessed her thoughts. “Hah! How would he like it if I went into his house and announced that I was going to paint
his
cook?” he said belligerently. “Well, perhaps I will!”
With a sudden flourish, like a magician, he handed her the thing he’d been working on. A diamond-shaped construction of tissue-thin paper, attached to a crossbow of delicate branches and sticks, with a long tail of colorful torn rags. The paper, she saw in delight, had a wonderful abstract face painted right on it, just like his earlier canvases she’d seen this week.
“It’s a kite!” she exclaimed in utter delight. “You just made a kite! It’s
wonderful
!”
Picasso feigned a casual attitude, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, watching her as she swished the kite around the lawn in a little dance of delight. “You like it?” he said. “Then keep it. You’ll have to take it into the park to give it a good run,” he added, as if it were a pet. He lit his cigarette, drew on it and exhaled, watching the smoke rings rise up and then disappear.
“Merci beaucoup, Patron!”
Ondine exclaimed breathlessly.
“Au revoir,”
he said calmly as he picked up his newspaper from the front step and then disappeared inside.
—
O NDINE WANTED TO go right out and fly it, but she did not dare make a detour to the park, where someone might steal her mother’s pots and pans from her bike. She decided she’d take the kite out early in the morning when fewer people would be there. Back at the café, she slipped upstairs quickly and hid it under her bed, for fear that somehow her father might confiscate it.
As she returned to the kitchen to unload her basket, her mother asked, “So? How did it go?”
“Just fine,” Ondine replied, feeling suddenly weak with fatigue and relief.
Madame Belange said pragmatically, “Perhaps so. We’ve had no complaints.”
Later that night Ondine indulged in a hot bath and finally allowed herself to relax, although it was hard at first for her nerves to “come down”; she felt like a sports car whose heart was still racing.
But when she climbed into bed and snuggled under the covers, feeling warm and silky inside, she could almost feel the presence of that kite underneath her, its face turned upward as if it could see her in her bed. Drowsily she recalled those lusty male voices singing her name all around the table.
“Mmm,” she murmured, “I wonder which one of them really
is
the best kisser.”
She imagined the three men insisting she test them, and she pictured herself moving from one to the other around the table, just like when she’d served the coffee. She guessed that Picasso would be a brutal kisser, and Cocteau might nibble on her ears like a deer; but Matisse might oh-so-politely lift her onto the table, push aside her skirt and savor her like a dessert, tickling her thighs with his bristly beard as he kissed her, higher and higher until he reached the rose of her sex, his connoisseur’s tongue encouraging the kind of yielding that makes a woman even hungrier than a man.
“I can’t choose who’s best,” she’d have to announce finally. “I want you all.”
“
Alors!
It takes
three
mortal men to satisfy this one sea nymph!” they’d proclaim.
Lying there in the dark, breathing deeply now, Ondine hummed the song that her triumvirate of great artists had sung to her today; and with this lullaby she drifted off to a most satisfying, peaceful sleep. For the first time in many months, she’d gone to bed without thinking about Luc.
A Mirror for Ondine
T HE INEVITABLE SPRING RAIN BEGAN suddenly one day, with a wind blowing so hard that the waiters had to open up the dining room at the Café Paradis and serve lunch indoors instead of on the terrace.
When the Three Wise Men arrived, they immediately began to argue over which country was responsible for sending over the winds of such bad
Picasso immediately guessed her thoughts. “Hah! How would he like it if I went into his house and announced that I was going to paint
his
cook?” he said belligerently. “Well, perhaps I will!”
With a sudden flourish, like a magician, he handed her the thing he’d been working on. A diamond-shaped construction of tissue-thin paper, attached to a crossbow of delicate branches and sticks, with a long tail of colorful torn rags. The paper, she saw in delight, had a wonderful abstract face painted right on it, just like his earlier canvases she’d seen this week.
“It’s a kite!” she exclaimed in utter delight. “You just made a kite! It’s
wonderful
!”
Picasso feigned a casual attitude, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, watching her as she swished the kite around the lawn in a little dance of delight. “You like it?” he said. “Then keep it. You’ll have to take it into the park to give it a good run,” he added, as if it were a pet. He lit his cigarette, drew on it and exhaled, watching the smoke rings rise up and then disappear.
“Merci beaucoup, Patron!”
Ondine exclaimed breathlessly.
“Au revoir,”
he said calmly as he picked up his newspaper from the front step and then disappeared inside.
—
O NDINE WANTED TO go right out and fly it, but she did not dare make a detour to the park, where someone might steal her mother’s pots and pans from her bike. She decided she’d take the kite out early in the morning when fewer people would be there. Back at the café, she slipped upstairs quickly and hid it under her bed, for fear that somehow her father might confiscate it.
As she returned to the kitchen to unload her basket, her mother asked, “So? How did it go?”
“Just fine,” Ondine replied, feeling suddenly weak with fatigue and relief.
Madame Belange said pragmatically, “Perhaps so. We’ve had no complaints.”
Later that night Ondine indulged in a hot bath and finally allowed herself to relax, although it was hard at first for her nerves to “come down”; she felt like a sports car whose heart was still racing.
But when she climbed into bed and snuggled under the covers, feeling warm and silky inside, she could almost feel the presence of that kite underneath her, its face turned upward as if it could see her in her bed. Drowsily she recalled those lusty male voices singing her name all around the table.
“Mmm,” she murmured, “I wonder which one of them really
is
the best kisser.”
She imagined the three men insisting she test them, and she pictured herself moving from one to the other around the table, just like when she’d served the coffee. She guessed that Picasso would be a brutal kisser, and Cocteau might nibble on her ears like a deer; but Matisse might oh-so-politely lift her onto the table, push aside her skirt and savor her like a dessert, tickling her thighs with his bristly beard as he kissed her, higher and higher until he reached the rose of her sex, his connoisseur’s tongue encouraging the kind of yielding that makes a woman even hungrier than a man.
“I can’t choose who’s best,” she’d have to announce finally. “I want you all.”
“
Alors!
It takes
three
mortal men to satisfy this one sea nymph!” they’d proclaim.
Lying there in the dark, breathing deeply now, Ondine hummed the song that her triumvirate of great artists had sung to her today; and with this lullaby she drifted off to a most satisfying, peaceful sleep. For the first time in many months, she’d gone to bed without thinking about Luc.
A Mirror for Ondine
T HE INEVITABLE SPRING RAIN BEGAN suddenly one day, with a wind blowing so hard that the waiters had to open up the dining room at the Café Paradis and serve lunch indoors instead of on the terrace.
When the Three Wise Men arrived, they immediately began to argue over which country was responsible for sending over the winds of such bad
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