Chapter 42 Present Day
PRESENT DAY
OSCAR
Oscar and Elle shrugged and laughed together at the woman who had acted so surprised, but when they saw her pulling an old man in coveralls toward them, Oscar worried they’d really done something wrong. Perhaps he’d end up in a French jail after all.
Speaking maniacally with her hands, the woman pointed at them and tugged on the man.
He trudged unwillingly, but as soon as they reached the bridge, the man stopped short and behaved the same as the woman had.
“Mon Dieu! Incroyable!” he declared and babbled in French, and Oscar looked at Elle to translate.
She listened to his blustering and then laughed. “Apparently, we are ghosts.”
By then the two gardeners had ventured closer to them, and the woman stretched out her hand timidly and touched Oscar’s arm.
“Je n’en reviens pas!” she said and cried, followed by a French tongue-lashing.
Elle translated. “She is in shock. She says you look just like him as a young man.” Elle turned to the gardener and spoke with him, then looked at Oscar and laughed again. “Apparently, I am not the only one that thinks you look like Monsieur Monet.”
The woman whimpered again at the mention of the master’s name.
“The woman said that she thought the two lovers, Claude and Camille, had returned to their garden.”
Oscar estimated the woman’s age and realized there was no way she could have known the Monets personally and said so to Elle.
Elle conversed with them and then translated the man’s words. “You are correct, but, Monsieur, we have all grown up here…with his garden, with his art…with his photographs. You look just like he did in his twenties.” She grinned, “Are you sure you are not him?”
Oscar shook his head, “Of course not. Tell them.”
She crossed her arms and teased him. “I don’t know. That sounds like something he’d say.”
“Elle, please tell them.”
So she told them the story of how Oscar was related. This only made them more excited, and as they chattered to each other, Oscar heard his name mentioned several times.
The woman finally gathered her bearings and giggled, touched his arm again, and said with a heavy French accent that sounded very much like Doctor Jō’s “OsCar!”
The man turned to Oscar. “What an honor to have a descendant of Monsieur Monet with us today. You would honor us if you would come and join me for a cup of tea.”
* * *
Oscar and Elle reached the gardener’s thatched-roof cottage at the edge of the estate just in time.
The heavens opened with a thunderous clap and a flash of lightning.
Then, as if on cue, the rains came. “Aw, it is like the old master sends water to his garden and welcomes you to sit and relax. Please come into my humble abode, and let me put some water on the stove,” he said through Elle’s translation.
The cramped and dark room that served as a living room with a kitchenette on one side contained two worn cloth chairs, a leather couch torn at the corners, and an antique-looking coffee table stacked with old books and magazines.
“Please forgive the mess. I am an old bachelor and don’t receive many guests, as you can imagine.” He lit two oil lamps, illuminating the room with a soft flickering glow. Oscar looked up into bare wooden rafters, wondering if the roof would bear up against the storm.
“Oui, have no worries, Monsieur Oscar,” he said as Elle translated. “The house has stood for hundreds of years. It was the original farmhouse when Monsieur Monet eyed the place.” He added wood to the old iron stove in the kitchen. “Please sit and make yourself comfortable.”
Oscar looked at Elle, who didn’t seem to mind the clutter, and sat in one of the chairs, crossed her legs and smiled at him.
The fire in the cast iron stove crackled to life as the man filled a teakettle from the faucet and placed it on top. “So, you have the name from your great-great-great-great-grandfather?” The man asked.
Oscar laughed. “No, I think it is just some random quirk of the universe.”
“Or divine providence,” Elle added.
“I always kind of hated my name and thought my parents, who loved the movies, named me after the golden statue. It never meant that much to me until now,” Oscar said, getting distracted by the books on the shelves behind him.
He wondered how many of the old books were first editions, but then the painting on the wall between the shelves caught his eye.
He took a step closer to the colorful array of flowers with perfect lighting oozing between the buds.
An unmistakable Monet masterpiece and he said without thinking, “My gosh, is this an original?”
“Oui, of course. It is one of many that the master gave to my great-grandfather for his work.” The old man laughed. “He would tell him they are a centimes-a-dozen, but someday they might buy you a good meal.”
“You obviously know what this is worth now?”
“Oh yes, but I enjoy looking at it…and besides, I have everything I need,” he spread his arms over his eclectic mess.
He moved a stack of books from the other chair and invited Oscar to sit.
The old man sat on the torn leather sofa.
“First, so you know, I am chief gardener of the Monet Estate. My great-grandfather, Louis Lebert, as a young man, helped Monsieur Monet build his beautiful arboretum. Everything you see here came from the master’s mind and my family’s hands.
I am now the fourth-generation caretaker of this beautiful estate.
Before that, my family were all farmers.
I am Louis Lebert the fourth. My co-workers affectionately call me King Louie the Fourth,” he said and laughed.
“They also say that topsoil runs through my veins. I say it is better than manure.” He laughed again and looked at Oscar.
“It is like the paint that runs through your veins.”
Oscar glanced at Elle, who must have told Louis that he was an artist as well.
“Let me tell you what I know of Claude Oscar Monet,” the old gardener said before Oscar could explain that he did not consider himself on any level like his famous relative.
“Monsieur Monet started drawing caricatures as a teenager and did not sell paintings until well into his thirties, living a starving artist’s life.
It wasn’t until his forties that he and his friends, the impressionists, gained traction in the art world.
He bought this place from my family in 1883 and, with the help of my great-grandfather, built his garden.
The ponds were not here and, in spite of the grumblings of the neighbors, he had the nearby Epte River partially diverted to create them.
It was his passion to create a beautiful Japanese garden and surround himself with flowers. ”
“I saw in a Paris museum his love for Japanese art. Did he visit Japan?” Oscar asked.
“Non, Monsieur Monet never went to Japan,” he said looking at Elle with a curious smile. “But Japan came to Monsieur Monet and stole his heart.”
Elle and the gardener conversed in French for a minute until Elle nodded and turned back to Oscar. “He says that now you already want to know the family secrets.”
The teapot steamed and sang, and Louis jumped up to pour their tea.
He had arranged three teacups with spoon infusers and poured the steaming water over them, then brought the tray of cups and set it on the coffee table.
“We will let the tea steep for a moment, but you will like it. I make it myself from the flowers in the garden.”
“Family secrets?” Oscar asked, unsure if he could stand many more surprises. “Elle has told me that Monet’s love life was…uh…complicated.”
“Monsieur Monet had a beautiful artist’s heart.
A romantic at heart, I believe. He felt and loved deeply—loving both Madame Camille and Alice completely.
” Louis leaned over and stirred the spoons, thoughtfully watching the swirling tea.
“Monsieur Monet died in his bed here in Giverny and took these other secrets to his grave. I thought I would do the same. And now here you sit.” He continued to slowly stir, making up his mind if he should continue.
He looked contemplatively at Oscar and then continued.
“Very rarely, the wise visitor will ask me why the master loved Japan so much…the gardens, his collection of Japanese woodblock paintings—over two hundred of them. Some of them are now worth more than his own paintings.” Louis removed the infuser spoons and handed them each a cup of tea.
“I always tell them it’s because of the colors and light of the Japanese artist.” He shrugged.
“So why did he love the Japanese?”
Louis sat back down and smiled. “Oh, it is not the Japanese…it is one Japanese.” He smiled gleefully and took a sip of his tea.
Elle and Oscar blew across their tea and took sips. “Oh my,” Elle said, “that tastes marvelous. Like a bouquet of flowers.”
Oscar stared at Louis, eager for the answer.
“You do not fancy tea?”
“No. I mean yes. It’s just that I want to know…” Oscar was flustered, gulped too much tea, burned his mouth, and squinched his eyes.
“Eh bien, I understand,” Louis said, and Elle laughed.
Louis continued to explain Monet’s love of the Japanese.
“Shortly before Monsieur Monet met Madame Camille, a Japanese delegation visited France. Through an unexpected encounter, Claude met a young and beautiful Japanese princess. My great-grandfather said she was a samurai princess. The story goes that he fell madly in love. But she broke his heart by returning to Japan.”
“Did they ever see each other again?” Elle asked sorrowfully.
“Non, I am afraid not. This love story is one of tragic, unfulfilled love, I’m afraid.” The man’s face turned solemn. “Monsieur Monet created this beauty around us as a monument to her…the colorful flowers, the serene Japanese bridge…the water lilies. Very few people know of this story.”
“Did your great-grandfather tell you all these things?” Oscar asked.
“Oui, and…” Oscar followed his eyes to the bookcase.
Louis spoke with Elle until he seemed satisfied. He stood and retrieved an old shoebox from the shelf.
“Elle tells me you are to be trusted with our French national secret, and you are who you say you are. So now I must share this with you.” He sat back down and clasped the box in his hands on his lap.
“First, I must tell you why I am in possession of such a box, so you don’t think my family are thieves.
Monsieur Monet himself gave this to my great-grandfather for safe keeping.
You see, Madame Camille was a jealous woman, and Madame Alice even more so.
He loved them very much and did not want this to come between them.
So, he gave it to his most trusted friend to hold. ”
“Did his wives know about this woman?”
“I do not believe so. But these are the letters he wrote to the princess.”
“Then how do you have them?” Elle asked.
“Tragically, he never sent them. Either didn’t know how to address them to Japan or most probably, from the letters, he did not want to get the young woman in trouble with her lord.”
“You have read them?” Oscar asked.
Color filled Louis’s cheeks. “They are so romantique I’m afraid, they are impossible to resist.” He shrugged shyly.
“And there are two other things,” he said and lifted off the lid of the shoebox.
He lifted out two objects covered in faded white linen, gently setting each down on the coffee table.
Louis set the box with the remaining letters on the table as well.
Then he picked up one object and carefully unwrapped layers of linen, revealing an old, aqua-blue glass bottle.
Louis affectionately held the bottle up to the light and gently shook it. Then handed it to Oscar and said, “What do you see?”
Oscar took the bottle, sealed with a cork sticking partway out, and read the raised glass letters on the side of the bottle. “Sass & Hafner, Chicago?” Oscar said, confused.
Louis laughed. “Non, what do you see inside?”
Oscar held the bottle up to the light and shook it gently as Louis had, and finally said. “A letter in a bottle?”
“Oui, a letter from the samurai princess to Monsieur Monet.” He blew a long breath through his lips. “What adoring passion.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
Then he picked up the other object and, with even more care, peeled back the layers of linen.
The eight-inch-long stick of black lacquer had one sharp end and the other decorated with beautiful green and pink jade water lilies highlighted with gold and iridescent pearls that dangled from the end, like water dripping from the lilies.
Louis held it to the light for Oscar and Elle to see.
“It’s beautiful. What is it?” Oscar asked.
Elle answered before Louis could. “Oh my! What a magnificent hairpin. Oscar, you draw Japanese art, you must know what this is.”
Oscar blushed. “I’ve never actually seen one.”
“This was the hairpin of the young woman who ensnared Monsieur Monet’s heart. You will read about it in these letters.” He nodded to the box. “He told my great-grandfather that he tried to capture her beauty in a portrait that her father asked him to paint.”
“Have others seen this painting?” Elle asked.
“Oh oui, others, I suppose. But they do not know the whole story. The painting is in the Emperor’s palace.
It was given to Napoleon the Third at the Chateau de Fontainebleau,” he said, carefully rewrapping the hairpin.
“When Madame Alice and the master were married, she had the workers destroy anything that was Camille’s.
It is surprising that his paintings survived her wrath.
Monsieur Monet gave this shoebox to my great-grandfather for safe keeping. And now I give it to you.”