Mistral's Daughter (82 page)

The
tax inspector from Avignon removed the seals that had been placed on the doors
only hours after Mistral's death had been announced.

"Mademoiselle?"
he asked Fauve, indicating the door.
 
She
shook her head in negation and again it was Delage who unlocked the studio
doors.

Now,
with one gesture, everyone stood back and Fauve was impelled, by their
politeness and sense of occasion, to go first.
 
She squared her shoulders and took half a dozen rapid, determined steps
into the shadowy studio before she came to a sudden halt.
 
The shock she had received from the scent of
the honeysuckle was nothing compared to the assault made on her senses by the
well-beloved, deeply familiar aroma of this dominion, in which her father had
painted for almost fifty years.
 
She
almost cried out as she collided with the most important hours of her past.

The
studio was not dark although all the shutters had been closed.
 
Part of the skylight was open and the work
lights were still on, as Mistral had left them.
 
Shafts of morning sun, swirling with a billion universes of dust motes,
seemed like columns from which the pungency of oil paint was released into the
air.

Fauve
closed her eyes for an instant, assailed by memories and then, recovering
herself, stood stiffly, looking at the floor.
 
Finally she raised her eyes and faced the studio.

What
was this?
 
What was this leaping symphony
of flying paint?
 
What were these huge
canvases breathing life, this feeling of creation so glad, so generous that it had
wings stronger than an eagle's?
 
From
what place came the rhythm that charged through the studio with majestic
thunder?

There
was nothing in all that vast space but some enormous paintings, larger than
Mistral had ever painted, each hung with an exactitude of placement that spoke
of much thought.
 
The only sign of his
presence was a sturdy, movable stepladder in one corner, his worktable and the
old easel on which was placed an empty, fresh canvas.

As
Fauve looked at the walls she gasped, bewildered, dazzled, stunned by the
complex imagery that swept dancing out at her.
 
Her eyes darted to one canvas and found crowned lions rearing into the
air, lambs cavorting, gazelles prancing and doves swooping about, all against a
tangled brilliance of jewel-bright wild flowers and apple trees, the green of
peridot and celadon. She looked further, at the next canvas, her eyes captured
by the majestic weight of piled sheaves of wheat and barley, heaping plenitudes
of pomegranate and date, grape, olive and fig.
 
Here, Mistral's lambent colors were the deep, opulent greens and golds
of full summer, grains waving as splendidly as banners.
 
The next canvas exploded with surging ripeness,
the deepness, the intensity of the hues of the autumnal equinox:
 
amethyst, wine, pumpkin and ruby, vibrating
with the fulfillment, of the harvest.
 
Palm branches wreathed in willow and myrtle were flung aloft as in a
glorious procession that took place beneath a full red moon and many stars.

Singing
birds...
 
the rose of Sharon...
 
the cedars of Lebanon...
 
what did it mean?

Then,
on the far wall she saw the largest painting of all and was immediately claimed
by its magnetism.
 
All the brilliant
profusion of other images faded around her and she narrowed her vision,
approaching the gigantic canvas on which a seven-branched candelabra blazed
with a crescendo of essential light, a monumental menorah that radiated glory
of thousands of years of faith against a background of triumphant crimson.
 
Fauve stood there speechless, looking upward,
her heart leaping, her mind empty of everything but awe.

Out
loud, from behind her, Eric said the words that Julien Mistral had painted in
tall, bold letters underneath the base of the menorah.

"
La
Lumière Qui Vit Toujours.
 
La Synagogue
de Cavaillon, 1974
–
the light that lives forever..."

"He...
 
he went to Cavaillon!" Fauve cried out
in wonder and joy.

"The
Cavaillon
series
—
that's what it means," Eric said slowly,
with reverence.

"But
the other paintings?
 
What... ?"

"There's
an inscription on each one of them," Eric answered.
 
Throughout the studio the group of other
visitors were spreading out, forgetting themselves in the adventure of
discovery, exclaiming out loud, speaking as much to themselves as to each
other, experiencing the uncharted seas of Mistral's genius.

Fauve
didn't turn but continued to look searchingly at the great candelabra that
commemorated the sacred vessel that had stood in the desert sanctuary and in
the two Temples in Jerusalem.
 
Finally
she turned and took Eric's hand.
 
Together
they walked back the length of the studio and stopped in front of the first
huge painting.
 
There two tall candles
were set in polished candlesticks, a twisted loaf of bread and a silver goblet
brimming with wine stood on a white tablecloth.
 
Each of the simple, elemental forms passionately spoke of gratitude for
the gifts of the Creator to man.
 
A
peace, a gaiety, a joyful solemnity poured forth from the painting and Fauve
nodded her head in the beginnings of comprehension.

"Shabbat,"
said the bearded art expert from
Paris, translating the inscription that was written not in French now but in
the letters of the Hebrew alphabet.
 
"The Sabbath."
 
Fauve
searched the strong, unfamiliar, evocative shapes of the letters and saw in
them the brushwork that was distinctively Mistral's, vivid and fierce, yet contained
within a discipline to which he had never bowed before.

She
moved eagerly toward the next paintings and she realized that the three
canvases, those on which gazelles were leaping and branches were growing, the
first canvases to catch her eyes, had been hung so that they were clearly set
apart from the others.
 
She stepped back
so that she could see them as a group.

Puzzled,
yet raised to another peak of visual delight, she looked in excited confusion
from one to another.
 
What was the key to
these passionate rhythms, the wealth of images?

At
her right shoulder she heard Adrien Avigdor's voice, pausing between each word
as he translated the meaning of the words of the Hebrew inscriptions, composed
of letters that he had studied for a few years, a lifetime ago, letters that he
discovered had never disappeared from his recollection.

"Pesach,"
he said in his resonant voice as he
gazed at the first canvas.

"The
Feast of Exodus," added the art expert from Paris.
 
"The anniversary of the revelation at
Sinai
—
he used the symbols of the Song of Songs."

"Shavous,"
Avigdor said, turning to the next
canvas, and again the expert's explanation came. "The Summer Festival
—
the bringing of fruits and grains to the Temple."

"Sukos,"
Avigdor read from the third painting and paused.
 
"The Autumn Feast," said the
Parisian's voice.
 
"The tabernacles
made of boughs and reeds in which everyone slept for a week, seeing the sky
above."

Fauve
swayed and around her the immense shapes of the pictures seemed to reach
higher and higher until they touched the roof of the studio, until they reached
beyond it into a firmament filled with moonlight.
 
The walls receded, the colors burned brighter
and brighter, she heard the stars singing and the palm fronds laugh, she felt
the wings of the wind as the images appeared to move, to lift off the canvases
and to whirl around her in a towering, glowing, incandescent hymn of praise, a
victorious hosanna of color.

Something
deep in Fauve opened and finally understood; Julien Mistral had crossed the
green fields of time and lived in old Jerusalem; his pagan brush had been
transported and he had expended his last and greatest forces on painting these
celebrations of a people who had
—
who still
—
worshiped an
invisible God.

He
had respected the invisibility of their God.
 
He had not tried the impossible; he had not attempted to paint the voice
from the Burning Bush, but he had reached into the heart of their festivals and
painted the spirit in which they commemorated their God, and painted it in a
way that all the other peoples of the earth could understand, for all men lived
by the ever-turned wheel of nature.

She
closed her eyes and leaned on Eric's arm.

"Are
you all right?" he asked anxiously.

"Let's
go outside for a minute...
 
I'll look at
the other pictures later."

As
they started toward the door Adrien Avigdor approached Fauve and put out his
hand, a question on his face which was answered by one look at Fauve's
transfigured eyes.
 
He dropped his hand,
satisfied, and let them continue.
 
Fauve
had passed Mistral's easel when she turned back, caught by the sight of a scrap
of paper that was tacked into the wood.
 
On it, in her father's familiar handwriting, was just one line.
 
She paused.
 
The bit of paper was worn, yellowed and smudged by a rainbow of fading
colors, as if it had been much handled, yet it flew from the easel like a flag
bearing a motto.

"Hear
O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One," she said, reading out
loud.
 
"That's all it says."

"Isn't
that enough?"

34

It's
so maddeningly inadequate trying to describe them on the phone like this
—
can't you fly over and see them for yourself, Magali?" Fauve pleaded.

"I
will, but right now it's impossible.
 
Things have never been crazier and I don't dare leave the agency to run
itself with both of us away.
 
The most
important thing is that we know that your father was moved to make those
paintings, we know that he wanted to create something that could be balanced
against the past.
 
I guess the only thing
to call it is redemption...
 
not a word I
normally find myself using, my darling.
 
I thank God that he had the time to do it."

"It's
more than his having the time, Magali.
 
You'll understand when you see them.
 
He painted with the last drop of his blood.
 
Monsieur Avigdor says that sometimes this
type of overwhelming vision visits an artist in his old age, but only the
greatest of them
—
Donatello, Rembrandt
—
something totally
fresh that soars above anything they've ever achieved.
 
Like everyone else Monsieur Avigdor had
thought, because father hadn't produced any new work in eight years, that he'd
lost it, that he was hiding out because he didn't want to admit that he
couldn't paint anymore."

"Were
they all as stunned as you?"

"Yes,
although, except for the Avigdors, they didn't have the extra shock of knowing
how father had felt before about anything to do with Jews.
 
The experts were stunned
—
just
knocked out
—
even though they deal with great art all the time.
 
The person who touched me most was the man
from the Department of Taxes.
 
He doesn't
have any background in painting but he wandered around in a kind of speechless
rapture, purely enjoying himself
—
so carried away by the
Cavaillon
series that he completely forgot about all the other paintings in the storage
room.
 
I wanted to call you right away
but luckily I remembered that it was still the middle of the night in New York,
so I waited till I knew you'd be at the office."

"Oh,
I'm' here all right," said Magali.
 
"After all, it's almost nine o'clock."

"The
thing is, I just can't leave Provence right away, Magali.
 
There's going to be incredible interest in
the series and since it belongs to me I have to stick around.
 
I'm not at all sure exactly how soon I'll be
able to get away.
 
I hate to leave you up
in the air like this..."

"Don't
worry about me for a second.
 
Everything's under control.

"But
your weekends," Fauve protested.

"Never
mind about them.
 
The garden has almost
finished blooming for the year and until you come back we'll go up to the
country only for Saturday and Sunday.
 
Darcy will understand...
 
when did
Darcy ever not understand?"

"Oh,
Magali, thank you, and thank Darcy.
 
I'll
call every few days or so.
 
Give everyone
a kiss for me, especially to Casey and Loulou and...
 
I love you, Magali.
 
I'm so very glad."

"I
can hear it in your voice, darling.
 
Take
your time, make wise decisions, just don't rush into anything.
 
I love you, Fauve."

Maggy
hung up and sat back in her desk chair.
 
Like Fauve she was in a shock of euphoria. The description of the
Cavaillon
series, although Fauve had considered it inadequate, had lasted for more than
twenty minutes of excited, rapturous details.
 
So that man had finally used his God-given talent to make a greater
contribution to the world than beauty alone.
 
Maggy discovered that as overwhelmingly happy as she felt for her
granddaughter, she was also happy for Julien Mistral, the Julien Mistral she
had loved and hated for so many years.
 
They had accounts between them that could never be settled, no, not if
he'd illustrated every last line of the Old Testament, but now, at least, she
could think, "Rest in peace," and mean it.
 
She sat thoughtfully for a long while.
 
Then, startled out of her meditations by a
glance at her desk clock, she buzzed Casey and Loulou to come into her office.

"I've
just talked to Fauve, ladies.
 
She sends
you both very special kisses and says that she's going to have to stay over in
France for a while.
 
There are things she
has to take care of."

"How
is everything with her?" asked Casey, anxiously.
 
"Absolutely wonderful!
 
Never better.
 
Now!
 
There are a few matters I've
been planning to talk to Fauve about that can't wait till she gets back.
 
Casey, I've been looking over the test shots
of that girl you found at the Southwest Regional Modeling Competition.
 
No way, Casey, no way."
 
Maggy shook her elegant head in firm
negation.

"Maggy,
she was clearly the most gorgeous girl in the competition," Casey
protested.

"You
fell into a trap.
 
You went and saw hundreds
of girls and you picked out the best one. But did you remember to take some
pictures of our own girls to compare her to?"

"Well,
no, I forgot.
 
But I spent three whole,
long, long days judging those girls."

"That's
the problem.
 
After three days of seeing
one girl after another you jumped at the best of the lot.
 
It's incredibly easy to fool your eye, to
compromise, to forget how supremely good a girl has to be.
 
I've done it plenty of times myself.
 
She is a very pretty girl, Casey, but not
pretty enough for Lunel."
 
Maggy
shoved the series of test shots over to Casey who looked at them carefully and
sighed in agreement.

"Point
made," Casey said.
 
"Ah well,
she's engaged to a boy back home anyway.
 
Maybe she'll be relieved.
 
Certainly he will be." "Loulou," Maggy said, "I've
been listening in on the open interviews.
 
I notice that our reception room never seems to empty out.
 
Are you aware that Bobbie-Ann has developed a
Pygmalion complex?"

"Oh,
Lord, she's been in charge of the auditions for a couple of months and I've
been too busy to pay much attention.
 
What's up?"
 

"Loulou,
there are a million ways to turn people down nicely.
 
But Bobbie-Ann doesn't say 'sorry' and keep
it short and sweet.
  
This morning she
spent seven minutes showing one girl how to use blusher before she turned her
down and another eight minutes with a different applicant talking about
changing her hairstyle
—
then she turned her down too.
 
It's not fair to give anyone false hope, not
even for a few minutes," Maggy snapped.
 
"Talk to her, Loulou.
 
If
Bobbie-Ann doesn't shape up she can always run a beauty school.
 
If an applicant has to experience rejection,
it should come with a minimum of personal contact, before she starts to feel
that she's made a new friend.
 
It doesn't
hurt as much that way, I promise."

"Yes,
Ma'am!
 
I'll pass the word.
 
Listen, Maggy, Bambi Two is worrying me.
 
She says she's homesick and she's eating like
mad.
 
I caught her at it yesterday."

"I'll
talk to her.
 
Maybe if you all just
stopped calling her Bambi Two it might help for a start.
 
Try it.
 
Let's see, she's had three
Glamour
covers and
Vogue
is
considering her.
 
I suppose she knows
that?"

"Yup."

"Well,
of course she's homesick, naturally she's eating all the junk she can get her
hands on...
 
maybe she can gain enough
weight to stay off the cover of
Vogue
if she gobbles fast enough.
 
It's just your everyday, ordinary, reasonable
and understandable insecurity surfacing. Who wouldn't be having a little
identity crisis
—
she was overdue for it."
 
Maggy beamed at the girls.
 
She'd helped half a hundred Bambis over this
particular hurdle.

"Anything
else?" asked Casey warily.

"No,
not right now anyway.
 
Have I remembered
to tell you that as far as I'm concerned both of you are absolutely
indispensable?
 
No?
 
Well, consider yourselves officially
notified.
 
Oh, and will you send someone
out to buy me a red carnation
—
just one, for my buttonhole?"
 
She picked up the phone to call Darcy as they
left her office.

"Hmmm,"
hummed Casey when they reached the corridor.
 
"What does that sound signify?" asked Loulou, still
delightfully rosy from Maggy's unprecedented compliment.

"It
feels kind of good to have Marie Antoinette on the rampage again.

"Didn't
we just get our asses kicked?"

"Just
enough," Casey grinned. "Just
comme il faut,
Loulou, if you
follow my meaning."

Nadine
Dalmas had decided to change hairdressers, to try Alexandre.
 
As always, when one is nice to people, they
tend to creep toward familiarity, forgetting that the line between those who
are waited on and those who wait on them may be invisible but it is real, and
must never be bridged.

When
she had gone to have her roots touched up last week, Monsieur Christophe, whose
job it was to do her color, had actually presumed to regale her with an account
of how his grand-father had died without a will.
 
He had had three sons, one of whom, it seemed
to be her destiny to learn, had been Monsieur Christophe's father.
 
The heirs had fought so stubbornly over the
division of the family farm that the property had eventually been sold at
auction.
 
Nadine hadn't been able to
simply get up and walk away from this sordid account since the man was actually
in the act of applying the bleach, nor had she dared to indicate that she was
outraged at being treated as a captive audience.
 
When a colorist has his hands in your hair
you take good care not to antagonize him, no matter who you are.

"So,
you see, Madame Dalmas, he was wrong, my grandfather, to expect his sons to
come to an amiable agreement.
 
He should
have made a will, but since he failed to, the property passed out of the family
forever.
 
A great pity, don't you
think?"
 
Her face perfectly calm and
remote, Nadine had had to incline her head to show that she was listening.
 
Why on earth was she being subjected to this
family history?
 
What gave Monsieur
Christophe the right to inflict his personal experience on her?
 
"Yes, Madame, even a bad will is better
than no will at all," he had said before turning her over to be shampooed.

The
astonishing impudence of the man, to speak to her in a
consoling
tone of
voice.
 
Was he her equal that he dared to
permit himself this intimacy?
 
To offer
her his understanding, his allegiance?
  
On what grounds did he believe that she needed comfort, fidelity?
 
His effrontery took her breath away.
 
Yet if she returned next week Monsieur
Christophe might have more to say on this odious subject, which he had
obviously seized upon to give himself airs of being on a level with her.

No,
here at Alexandre's, which she had never patronized before, she would be
treated in the way that was due her and, now that she was rich, she wouldn't
have to be as generous with her tips as she had been, Nadine reflected as she
sat on the circular, haremlike, oversized piece of furniture, covered with
leopard skin, on which everyone but queens had to wait their turn.

It
was horribly crowded, even granted that it was a Friday.
 
One of the advantages of her former salon was
that everyone there was on her schedule, Tuesdays and Fridays for a wash and
blow-dry, Mondays, Thursdays and Saturday mornings for a comb-out.
 
It would take awhile to break in the staff of
any new salon, Nadine reminded herself, determined to stick with Alexandre
until she had worked out her maintenance routine to her satisfaction. She had
no more worries about being late to the office, thank heaven.
 
It was really astonishing how quickly Albin
had been able to find one of the little Montesquiou girls to take over her job,
thankless task that it was.
 
She wouldn't
stay with him long, that silly young creature.
 
She'd be temporarily taken in by the chichi until she found out what a
cesspool Albin's was.