The Secret of the Villa Mimosa (41 page)

By the early 1950s my paintings were beginning to be noticed. I was offered an exhibition at a small exclusive New York gallery, and I sorted through my canvases carefully, reluctantly parting with those I considered my best. I bought myself a new suit for the occasion and shaved off my winter beard. I felt foolish and out of place as I stood in the gallery, clutching a glass of champagne and eavesdropping on the comments of the viewers. To my surprise they were mostly complimentary, and soon a row of little red stickers adorned my works. I was a minor success, but at least now I was an artist who had sold at
an exhibition. On the strength of that I received a commission from a man of power and high finance to paint a portrait of his wife.

My subject was plain but with dramatic bones that lent her great dignity. She had married her husband when she was eighteen and had stuck with him through all the hardships, living in garden apartments on Long Island and tenement apartments in New Jersey, until he had finally struck it big in the life insurance business. Mergers were followed by acquisitions, and over the years he had become a renowned, if shady financier as well as a multimillionaire. And now he lived like a lord. He was seen at every charity function and every fancy dinner, and he was a close friend of those in high places in Washington.

The only thing was his wife was never seen with him. Sometimes his daughter accompanied him, but more often it was a stunning blonde less than half his age, ablaze with diamonds and high couture.

I knew the portrait was a ploy on his part to make his wife feel he still cared.
And to keep her quiet
, I thought as I looked at her the first time we met. I also knew the reason he had chosen me as the artist was that I was cheaper than the better-known ones, and he thought his wife wouldn’t know the difference.

She was a sweet woman with a gentle kind of charm, a genuine goodness of heart that refused, against all odds, to see bad in anyone. I liked her, and I gave that portrait everything I had.

I dressed her in bronze green velvet, like a medieval princess, with her hair upswept, showing off those dramatic cheekbones and her Nefertiti nose. I hung her with gold and emeralds, and she lifted her chin proudly, standing tall and straight as a woman who values herself should. Shining through this arrogant
pose were her wonderful dark eyes, filled with a warmth and innocence that we rarely see.

That portrait became the cornerstone of my success, even though I was never in essence a portrait painter. It went on loan to various museums and the name John L. Jones began to be heard. I even read about myself in the newspapers and in
Time
magazine. I received more commissions, but I put them all on hold because I finally had enough money for that trip to Europe.

I traveled across the Atlantic by ship, the way I had come; only this time I had a decent cabin in second class. I could not yet afford first, but it was of no account. I was going home. I lingered awhile in Paris, stretching out the blissful moment of my return, and drinking in the sights that the war had not destroyed. I saw the museums and the paintings, and I sipped red wine in boulevard cafés and watched the world go by.

When I finally boarded the sleeper train to the south, I was like a lover held too long at arm’s length by his
amoureux
.

Though I could not remember it exactly, the Côte d’Azur was somehow, magically, how I had always imagined it: the way the light fell on the green hills, the sandy white lanes, the umbrella pines, and the tall cedars pointing like needles into a vivid blue sky. But it wasn’t until I saw the Mediterranean that I knew the true meaning of “azure.” I was trembling with delight. It was an artist’s dream, the light an inspiration.

I checked into a small auberge on the coast run by a couple of sturdy peasants, mother and daughter. The father was a fisherman who went out with his nets at night and returned at dawn with samples of the catch that later adorned our dinner table. They were a charming family, simple and courteous to the stranger in their midst, and they were intrigued
when they saw my easel and realized I was an artist and that I wanted to paint them. I was delirious with the way of life, the freshness and the still-unsullied beauty of it, the quality of the food and the wine, and the slow pace that belonged to a Mediterranean climate.

But having arrived, I nervously put off my search for the past. I told myself it was because I wanted to paint, but the truth was that now that I was there, I was afraid of what I would find. I was afraid that Nanny Beale was dead, perhaps killed in the war, or maybe that she had gone back to England. I was afraid that the Villa Mimosa belonged to someone else and that I would be forbidden entry to it, and my dreams would have to stay mere dreams. Most of all, I was afraid I would find Jack and Archer Kane there, lording it over my old home.

But I had to do it. I had to find out about my past. About Nanny Beale and the truth about my mother.

I found the Villa Mimosa right away, of course, the way a cat taken and dropped hundreds of miles away can find its way home. I cycled along the sandy road leading up the hill and past the crumbling pink stucco wall, half hidden under its burden of bougainvillea and roses. My heart was pounding like a rider in the Tour de France as I leaned my bike against the wall and rang the bell, peering through the rusting iron gates up the gravel drive.

The
gardien
, a pleasant fellow in blue work overalls who said he was also the gardener, answered my ring and told me no one was there.

“I used to know someone who lived here,” I told him, fishing for a response. “The Leconte family.”

His face lit up, and I could see he was pleased to hear the name mentioned again.

“They are long gone, m’sieur,” he told me. “Madame is dead, and her husband, the Foreigner, and the son live far away on some tropical island. I heard
they returned once, after the war, to claim the boy’s fortune, but they never came here to see the villa. The boy’s old home, m’sieur. The very place he was born. It would have broken Madame Leconte’s heart to know her son cared so little for the place she loved best.”

I realized that Maluhia had been right. There was an inheritance, and the Kanes had got their hands on it after all. I guessed that Jack had posed as me, pretending he was Jean Leconte and claiming my fortune. I shrugged. I didn’t give a damn about the money. I was alive and free, and I was happy in my own way. I wanted nothing more.

The
gardien
saw my interest in the house and offered to show me around. As we crunched up the gravel path and the beautiful pink-washed villa came into sight, I remembered with total recall the day my father came to get me. I remembered myself as a small boy sitting on the marble step, so cool against my bare legs, with the morning sun on my face and my beloved Fido clutched in my arms. And I felt again the terror when my father’s eyes met mine with such blank indifference and he said, “Pack him up. I’m taking him with me.” And then I recalled the black cloud that settled over me, blotting the sunshine out of my life forever.

I knew the villa. I remembered every detail, the marble floors, the great curving staircase with the koa wood banister that Archer had installed, as a present to my mother when they married. I hesitated at the door of my old nursery, looking at the empty room that had been Nanny’s domain.

The old fire grate still had the big brass club fender with the leather seat, but her high-backed rocking chair was gone, and the big toy cupboards were empty. I opened the door to my bedroom and saw my little cherrywood bed, my initials, JL, that I’d scratched on with a pin, were still there. I ran my
fingers over the place, smiling as I recalled how furious Nanny had been when she had seen what I had done.

I walked slowly through my mother’s empty rooms, imagining her looking out at the view of the sloping lawns and the fountain sparkling in the sun, past the cypresses to the sea. I thought of her being awakened by the melodious chirping of her gay little canaries and songbirds in the silver aviary that the
gardien
told me had been destroyed in a storm long ago.

I stood by her window, wishing I had known her, thinking that the Villa Mimosa was my rightful inheritance. I could legitimately claim my fortune; I could live here in this wonderful house, be free to paint, knowing I would never have to spend another summer season as a waiter in the Catskill Mountains again. But I knew I would not.

I thanked the
gardien
for his courtesy and asked hesitantly about Nanny Beale. I feared the worst, remembering how old she must be and expecting to hear him say he knew nothing or that she had gone home to England to die. Instead he told me she was living in a little cottage, just down the hill.

“She stayed here right through the war,” he told me proudly, “though many times the Germans threatened to intern her because she was English and they suspected her of being a spy.” He gave an insouciant Gallic shrug and said, “We were all involved in the Resistance in some way around here, channeling the escaped prisoners and the English airmen along the coast to Spain and then Portugal. Our little boats played host to more than just fishes in those awful years, m’sieur,” he added with a sly grin.

I cycled at top speed to the bottom of the hill and down a sandy white lane curving around the little peninsula to where there were a few scattered
houses. I knew which one must be hers: It was tiny and whitewashed, with a plume of smoke curling up from the chimney, even though the day was warm. The garden was a riot of English roses and delphiniums and big white daisies and lavender. And there, bending over her herbaceous border, wearing a large straw hat and sensible white lace-up shoes, was an old lady.

My heart jumped as I leaned on the gate watching her. She was totally absorbed with her task of snipping the finest blooms, placing them in the wooden garden basket beside her. Her back was stooped, and I noticed that arthritis had twisted her hands into grotesque shapes. I was shocked to see how tiny she was when in my childish memories she had been tall and stately.

She lifted her head, suddenly aware of my presence. Our eyes met, and it was as though time had stood still. Each saw before us the person that now existed and the one that used to be. I saw the strong-boned face that was indelibly imprinted on my memory, crumpled now and crisscrossed by a network of fine lines and the marks of pain of her crippling arthritis, and the faded patient eyes that told me she bore it with all her old fortitude.

And she saw the boy she used to know in the tall young man, his frailness gone, his sticklike limbs sleeked out with muscle, and a face that had finally grown into its features. She told me proudly afterward, it was the face of an interesting-looking man. Not handsome, but a face no one would forget. Especially with the evil-looking scar running along the cheekbone.

“You haven’t changed that much, Johnny,” she said quietly, her eyes smiling at me. “I still recognize you.”

“And I you, Nanny Beale.”

I jumped over the garden gate and clasped her to
me. Tears were running down both our faces, but I felt her frailness and knew that I was now the strong one.

“I thought you were dead,” she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. “Then they told me you had returned and claimed your inheritance. I said that it couldn’t be you, that you would have come here to the Villa Mimosa, that you would have found me. All these years I’ve thought about you, and every night I said a prayer for your safety. And every birthday that passed I wondered if you were still there to enjoy it, because I knew the man who took you was evil and capable of anything.”

I took her arm and we went inside, and she smiled at me through her tears. “I’ll bet you never thought you would see your old Nanny cry,” she said, “but these are tears of joy.”

She bustled about fixing tea, and we sat by the fire, she in her rocker and I on a straight-back wooden chair, balancing plates properly on our laps. We had starched white damask napkins and old-fashioned ginger cake taken from the special red tin she kept in the larder, but we were too busy talking and rekindling our love for each other to eat it. She poured tea from an old brown pot, though I noticed she was forced to use both hands to lift it and the cup trembled noisily on its saucer as she passed it to me.

I had come home again, and I sighed with the sheer glorious happiness of it. I looked around her room, seeing her things just the way I remembered, and I said, “I shall never leave you again, Nanny. I’m here now, and I shall look after you.”

I told her briefly about my years on Kalani and my life after. I did not want to distress her, and I said I was happy with my life.

“But you must fight for what is yours, Johnny,” she said, looking with concern at me over the tops of her round tortoiseshell eyeglasses. “When I heard
that Archer Kane had been here with his supposed ‘son,’ I went to the
notaires
and said it could not be you. They described the man who claimed he was Jean Leconte; they said he was tall, blond, blue-eyed, a young giant. I told them you were dark-haired and dark-eyed, like your mother, but they said time changes a person. Of course, I knew they were wrong. I guessed it was Jack Kane. And all my hopes for you disappeared, Johnny. I felt sure they had killed you, too.”

“Too?” I asked, puzzled.

And then she told me about my mother.

The teacup shuddered noisily in its saucer again, only this time it was caused by my trembling hand. Nanny handed me the letter written to me by my mother before she died, and I read it numbly. I thought about the pain my unknown mother had gone through: the plain little rich girl growing up and finally being forced to acknowledge her lack of beauty; the solitude imposed on her by her father deepening into isolation after he died; and finally the poor
la célibataire
living in lonely splendor at the Villa Mimosa, falling head over heels for a man she thought saw her as she really was, with the inner beauty she knew she possessed.

But Archer Kane never saw the beauty of my mother’s nature; he never cared about her soul. All he wanted was her money, and now he had it.