Lisette's List (50 page)

“And the constable?”

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

He tipped his head and drew in a noisy breath.

At the stove, I went through all the steps of heating and cooling the ingredients, not forgetting the almond extract. When the mixture was ready to be divided into balls about the size of grapefruits, one for each color, I reached into the
panetière
.

“Look! Real food coloring! Four colors.”

“You don’t mean to tell me that you found it in the cramped little grocery store here?”

“No. I bought it in Paris the day I was by myself.”

With the four bottles, I mixed seven colors, drop by drop. Together we kneaded the colors into the marzipan and began to make
the shapes of fruit. Maxime watched me and tried the simplest shapes, oranges. He rolled too much in one direction, and it came out like an egg. He made several attempts and found that all he could make was a banana.

“You had better do it,” he said.

It was a pleasant time, doing this together, and we found ourselves laughing frequently. I worked at it until I had enough for each guest to take home one of each fruit, with plenty left over.

“My mother will think they are exquisite.”

“Good. I want her to see that I have talent at
something
.”

There was still some orange mixture left.

“Ah, I have an idea. An experiment.”

I pulled off a small amount, rolled it into a ball, flattened it and stretched it into an oval, trimmed it to make straight sides and a straight bottom, with only the top rounded. Then I pressed an imprint of my thumb, to make a shallow cavity, and pressed in my thumbnail at the rounded end to make an arch. I did this two more times, top to bottom, each one with a smaller fingernail.

“See this, Max? This is the way the galleries look in an ochre mine.”

I went to work mixing just the right orange-ochre by dulling the orange with the tiniest speck of blue and made one for each of the guests with a few left over. I smacked my sticky hands together in glee.

“These will commemorate Roussillon. Pascal would have loved them. Maurice will too.”

“Everyone will,
chérie
, if they can pick them up without them crumbling. It will tell them that you love their village.”

“My village too, Max.”

After a moment in which a worrisome look passed over his face, he conceded, “All right. Your village.”

W
E ATE THE LEFTOVER
ratatouille and rice, and while I cleaned up, Maxime went out for a walk. I dusted, swept, and put everything in order.

Then I had an idea. I ran down to Cachin’s grocery to buy some chewing gum, but he had just sold his last packet to Théo, who was now across the square watching a
boules
game. I found him chewing a big wad.

“Théo, do you have any more chewing gum?”

“Oui, madame.”
He slapped his pocket. “Half a piece. It’s Hollywood gum. American cowboys chew it when they ride their horses.”

“May I please have it? I need it for something fun. Come with me. I’ll show you.”

“Is it a game? Will we play a game?”

He galloped up the hill slapping his bottom.

Inside the house he cried, “Cushions!” and ran around the room plopping his little derrière onto each one. “Ooh, little fruits! May I have one,
s’il vous plaît, madame
?”

“A fair trade. One fruit for a half stick of gum.”

He chose a cherry and produced a quarter of a stick of gum still in its wrapper.

“Is this all you have?”

With a grin, he pointed to his cheeks, bulging like a squirrel’s. “I want to see if I can chew a whole packet at once, the way American cowboys do.”

I chewed the morsel. “Here’s the game. I want to use these candy oranges and apples and these two saucers to make a copy of this picture,” I said, pointing to the still life.

I pressed half the gum from my mouth onto the back of a marzipan orange, stuck it to the saucer, and tipped it slightly. It held. Théo’s face was ebullient. I used the other half on another orange. I set five marzipan apples and one orange in a row on the table. Now his expression grew serious.

“If you can read a little now, you must be able to count too.” I pointed to the row of marzipans on the table. “How many more are there, not counting the pear?”

“Six,” he said, his voice dropping, making the word into two mournful syllables.

Slowly, thinking it over, he took the gum out of his mouth, pulled it into two pieces, and placed one in my hand.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, Théo. You are a true chevalier on horseback.”

I set the apples into a pyramid, securing them with gum.

“Why is there only one pear?” he asked.

“Because the artist thought that was all he needed. See how its top curves to one side? That makes it interesting and beautiful. There is no other pear in all the world exactly like that one. The same is true for little boys.”

I worked on the remaining orange, the most precarious, until it was securely in place. I placed a teacup upside down on the cabinet, bunched up a white cotton napkin over it, and set that saucer at an angle. It slipped into my waiting hand.

Without my asking, Théo chewed one last time and, with only a brief pout, gave the rest to me.

“Oh,
merci
, Théo.”

I pulled the gum into a length, wedged it between the edge of the tipped saucer and the cabinet top, and adjusted the napkin around it.

“It’s magic! I’ll be the only one who will know.” He raised his arms like a champion and skipped out the door, shouting, “I’m the only one!”

Joy and innocence incarnate bounded down the hill, all arms and legs, naturally buoyant.

“There’s no other boy in all the world like me!”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

LA VEILLÉE

1948

M
Y FRIENDS BEGAN TO ARRIVE FOR THE
VEILLÉE
AFTER
the dinner hour, as was the custom. Maurice wore the traditional red Provençal sash and white shirt for the occasion. He winced the moment Louise saw the cushions.

“Oh! Lisette! Cushions!” Louise cried. “They’re beautiful. I’ve never seen such cushions. Roussillon has never seen such beautiful cushions.”

Louise was so focused on the cushions that she didn’t even notice my blue suit or the paintings on the walls. She went around the room and made anyone who was sitting on them stand up. “How can I see them when you have your fat derrières flattening these plump cushions?”

She ran her hands over the fabrics, picked out her favorite, lifted it off the bench, sat down on the wood, and placed the cushion in her lap, muttering, “Did she buy these cushions in Avignon, Maurice? You never told me there were shops in Avignon that sold such beautiful cushions. And we’re still sitting on wood like a couple of peasants.”

He squeezed the tails of his sash and raised his shoulders to his ears, trying to bury his face between them.

“No, he didn’t, Louise. They came from Paris,” Maxime said. “I’m sure Maurice would have bought you cushions in Avignon if the shops had any like these.”

She eyed him with exaggerated suspicion.

“Up to now, I thought you to be an honorable man, so I suppose I have to believe you.”

Odette and René came in, each of them carrying a
francesco
.

“Oh, the suit from Paris!” Odette said in admiration. “
Très chic.
”

Mélanie came in right behind her and walked around me in a circle. “You could make something like this, Odette, if you study the seams.” She traced her fingers over the seams to show her. “You can practice on one for you, and then make one for me!”

When Claude, the farmer who had painted the door of his borie the color of cantaloupes, arrived, I welcomed him with much attention. Émile served the wine and raised a toast to the recovery of the paintings.

“Santé!”
my friends said, in agreement.

They admired each painting. The Bonnellys and Henri’s wife had never seen them before. Madame Bonnelly had tears in her eyes. “I have never beheld such beautiful paintings.” She gave me a bone-cracking hug. “At last. At last. I’m so happy for you.”

“I knew you would be.”

Everyone was talking at once except for Claude, who stood speechless in front of each painting. He looked the longest at Cézanne’s landscape. Would that I had two of them so I could give one to him.

There was a knock on the door, and when Maxime opened it, in stepped Bernard. They exchanged looks of acknowledgment, maybe even respect, but not surprise. I was the one who was astonished.

“I beg your pardon, madame. Maxime invited me, and I couldn’t stay away.”

“Oh! Constable! You’re most welcome here. I’m glad you have come. Thank you, Max, for making sure of that.”

They stood next to each other just inside the door. Bernard looked quite handsome in his trim, well-tailored jacket, red Provençal sash, red silk cravat, pomaded hair, and, of course, his freshly polished boots. I had to suppress a chuckle. In this instance, it was the
Roussillonais
who outdid the Parisian.

Recovering myself, I said, “I was just going to speak about the paintings, but first I want to thank everyone for your love and support in so many ways all the years I’ve lived here. You have stood by me during my bereavement and my search for Pascal’s paintings. Now they are all found, so I wanted all of you to see them together.

“Notice that every one of them has an area of ochre hues. For example, the ochre wheat fields in this landscape around Aix by Cézanne.” Looking directly at Claude, I added, “I have it on good authority that Cézanne had enormous affection for the countryside of Provence.

“Note the yellow-ochre pathway in this painting of the girl with the goat.” At that moment I gave a grateful look to Bernard that I hoped he would always remember.

“And here. Look here. It’s an ochre quarry near Aix. Cézanne was aware that the quarries and mines in our region are the sources of all the lovely warm colors. Just think! Pigments that you dug as young men are used on paintings by
famous
artists! Look at this modern one by Picasso. The skin of these women is creamy golden ochre, and their cheeks are tinged with rosy ochre.
Picasso
, I’m telling you! That should make us all feel proud.”

“Us? So do you count yourself among us?” asked Bernard.

“
Oui, bien sûr!
I have spent eleven years here. I came unwillingly to take care of a dying man whom I had never met, but whom I came to love. Some of the most significant events of my life have happened to me here. And here I’ve found wonderful friends.”

It took me a moment to go on. “Just before Pascal died, he told
André and me to let the paintings care for us, but he also said that some of them belong in Roussillon. I agree with him. The building in this painting is a paint factory near Pontoise. Pascal told me that he sold our pigments there.”

“He told me too. A dozen times, at least,” Maurice said.

“He was deeply moved that this paint factory was a bridge from our mines and our Usine Mathieu”—I flashed another look at Bernard—“to the great art of Paris. And one of the greatest painters, Paul Cézanne, Provence’s native son, who was born and died in Aix, painted this ochre quarry in front of
—in front of
, mind you—his most adored mountain, Montagne Sainte-Victoire. He chose that viewpoint intentionally. He knew the importance of ochre.” There were murmurs around the room, my friends grasping the significance of what I was saying.

“The still life with pottery will always make me think of the fertility and crafts of Provence, and the oranges on the tipped plate will remind me of Théo, the magical cowboy.”

He grinned, and I nearly melted into my shoes with love for him.

“And this one of a girl holding a goat and a chicken—”

“Geneviève and Kooritzah,” Louise said.

“—was painted for me by Marc Chagall, a Russian Jew who was hiding in Gordes. He loved Provence and hated to leave our beautiful countryside.”

I had to pause because my throat had tightened around what felt like a marzipan cherry.

“But these two paintings, the quarry and the paint factory, are part of Roussillon’s legacy. I present them now, in front of all of you as witnesses, to the commune of Roussillon, to be on permanent display in the town hall. What was it all for, if not for Roussillon to take pride in them? Aimé Bonhomme, I call upon you,
s’il vous plaît
, as mayor of Roussillon, to be their guardian and caretaker.”

“With pleasure. And with our gratitude for your generosity.”

Applause filled the room.

“I know that Roussillon can someday become a site that artists will paint. It might even have a gallery to complete the journey the ochre takes.”

Aimé’s son whispered to him excitedly, and widened eyes around the room showed that minds crusted by hardship and isolation were opening to new possibilities.

“Nobody is noticing,” Théo complained, tugging on my skirt. “Look, everybody. Look for magic.”