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“You have to understand,” Irmgard explained to Jane and me the evening before our departure, “spending time like this with Chagall is a privilege. You’ve been to their homes and we’ve all eaten together, but this will be different. You will be spending two weeks with a truly great artist. I hope you appreciate the gift we are giving you.”
Our friends — Irmgard and Alfred Neuman — had lived in London during the war, where Alfred manufactured accessories for clothing. As my father-in-law’s company made all the uniforms for the Canadian armed forces, he became a customer of Alfred’s company. After the war — fearing that World War III might erupt — the Neumans emigrated to Canada, living in Montreal where they became friends with my in-laws. Once these fears subsided, they moved to the south of France where they became intimate friends with Marc and Vava Chagall.
“Eric — boy — you will have a job to do.” I wondered what Irmgard was referring to. “Chagall is known worldwide, and his face is familiar to many, many people. He will be recognized; there’s no remedy for that. And people will want him to sign books, make for them a little drawing, or simply ask for his autograph. While he is very accommodating — usually — he will be on vacation and should not be bothered. You understand?”
At the restaurants where we had all eaten together, Chagall had been approached — on many occasions — and either Vava had shooed away the autograph seekers, or, more often, handed Marc a pen for him to sign their menus.
“Boy, your job will be to intercept …” I smiled, thinking Irmgard had adopted an American football term. “… and firmly deflect any such intrusions.”
I understood. Vava, too, would be on vacation. My job when we were together would be to act as her surrogate.
“Ah, les enfants,” Marc called out as I opened the passenger’s side door of Alfred’s Bentley when it pulled up to the entrance of the Waldhaus in Sils Maria, helping Chagall down from his perch. “Tu aimes Chagall?” the painter’s eyes asked, his artist’s hands caressing my cheeks. “Et Jeanne,” Chagall always called Jane, Jeanne, “viens ici, ma chère,” and he enfolded Jane in a bear hug. “Aides-moi,” taking Jane’s arm, he walked up the steps to the hotel’s entrance where the hotel personnel — led by Herr Kienberger, the owner and manager — greeted Chagall, ushering him into the hotel, while I helped Vava, then Irmgard, from out of the back seats.
“Bonjour, Eric.” Vava allowed Irmgard to precede her to join Chagall and Jane in the lobby. “You made it here before us. I am so pleased to see you and Jane,” and she took my arm and we walked up the steps and into the hotel.
On filing into the hotel dining room the first night, Jane and I were the last of our party, acting as a rearguard in case anyone tried to approach Chagall on his way to the table — as Irmgard had previously instructed me. While many of the diners looked, most
smiled, turning to the others at their tables, informing them who the 83-year-old man with the irregular mane of white hair and gesticulating hands, was. Noticing one of the women rise from her chair and realizing she was about to intercept Chagall, I quickly walked between the woman and the artist.
“Je m’excuse, madam, mais M. et Mme. Chagall sont ici en vacances. Vous comprenez,” and I escorted the woman back to her table.
During dinner, Irmgard told everyone that we should only walk the idiotenwegg the first two days. “The path leading from the hotel to the Fex is flat, with little incline,” she explained to Vava. “It will be easier for Marc.” Then she turned to Marc and told him, “Nous nous promenerons ensemble demain matin, mais dis-moi quelque chose de bien.”
“Malraux était chez nous avant-hier, tu sais ….”
“Oui, Vava m’a dit de ça. Avait-il des nouvelles?”
“Il veut les gouaches ….”
“Ceux pour la Bible? En plus des peintures?” she asked, shocked.
“Je l’a dit, oui,” and looked at his friend with smiling eyes.
“Cochon … mais, Marc, tu es comme un enfant, non-modifiable et naïf.” Then turning to Vava, “Vavachin, you didn’t tell me that Malraux asked for the gouaches?”
“I had thought he would … eventually, so I agreed.,” Vava told her. “You know, Irmchin, they really belong with Marc’s paintings. If it hadn’t been for Malraux the Message Biblique might never have been built. I saw it as a small gesture on our part.”
The mornings followed a pattern set by Irmgard. The first day, Irmgard chose to walk with Marc, and instructed Alfred to walk with Vava, leaving Jane and me walk the path together. We would all meet for lunch precisely at noon. On the days that followed, each took turns walking with Marc.
“Mon enfant,” Chagall turned to face me on our walk together, “dit-moi quelque chose,” and we walked, slowly, the artist putting his arm through mine, shuffling more than walking. Chagall was wearing a variation of his daily outfit: baggy trousers whose crease had been left sometime in his past, a flannel shirt buttoned to the top button, a cardigan cashmere sweater well-worn at the elbows, and a tweed sports jacket. We were on the well-maintained idiotenwegg, surrounded by Alpine evergreens through which could be seen glimpses of the lake that bordered the village and the mountains beyond.
“Jane et moi, nous sommes allés à la Fondation Maeght,” I told him, paying attention to the ground to avoid tree roots that might have protruded into the path while holding firm to the artist’s arm.
“Et, qu’est-ce que tu as vu là-bas?” Chagall asked, stopping in the path, facing me while he asked.
“Il y avait une exposition de Miró.”
Chagall returned to walking and we took a few more steps. Then he stopped, and turned to face me, with his arm still draped through mine. “Oui, je le sais. Tu l’aime?”
“Non, pas vraiment,” I replied.
“Tu as raison,” and we continued along the path, arm-in-arm. “Je ne le comprend pas. Ses peintures … que sont-ils?” Chagall frowned with eyebrows arched. We continued walking, then Chagall stopped. “Coleur?” he asked with a shrug of his shoulders. After a
few more steps, the painter stopped and looked at me. “Composition? Oui, mais je ne le comprend pas,” he repeated and tugged on my arm.
While we walked, I told the artist that during our visit to the foundation we had spent time sitting in the courtyard, admiring the Giacomettis.
“C’etait un artiste que j’admire,” Chagall said, shuffling along. “Un grand artiste et un homme profonde.” After a few steps, Chagall turned and looked at me. “Ce n’est pas à mon goût, tu sais, mais un grand artiste néanmoins.” We continued along the path, then stopped. “Tu sais, mon cher Eric, que nous avons beaucoup des ameublements de son frère, Diego, à la maison. Ils me plaisent,” and he took my arm and we walked. Jane and I had admired the floor lamps, dining table chandelier, and door handles we had seen when visiting La Colline. “Maeght est son agent aussi,” then after a few steps, “Cochon,” he spat out. “Mais, tu et Jeanne étaient à Paris après ta visite chez nous pendant Noël? Y avait-il quelque chose d’intéressant là-bas?”
I wasn’t sure I should be forthright and relate to Chagall that we had been to a Francis Bacon exhibition at the Grand Palais. After his facial expression and comments when I told him we had seen the Mirò exhibition at the Maeght, I didn’t believe my information would please him.
“Nous avons visité le Grand Palais ….” As I said this, Chagall stopped, turned, and looked at me with arched eyebrows.
“Et?”
“Il y avait une exposition de Francis Bacon,” I told him, my heart beating a little faster and thumping a little harder than normal.
“English painting,” he spat out — the only English words I ever heard him speak in the more than twenty years Jane and I knew him. He stopped, turned, and looked at me. When he noticed I was grinning, he said, “En fin; tu me comprends,” and, with mirthful eyes, he touched my face with the back of his hand. We continued walking.
A few moments later, Chagall stopped, and turning to me, asked, “Tu aimes Chagall?” his eyes arched.
“Mais, bien sûr, maître. Jane et moi vous aimons beaucoup.”
“Vous avez raison,” and we continued to walk a few steps more. “Vava m’a dit que tu ne veux pas travailler avec moi,” he said, and looked at me.
“Maître, vous n’avez pas besoin de moi ….”
“Pourquoi pas?” Chagall asked, but a smile appeared and his eyes sparkled.
“Vous avez Madame Chagall ….”
“Oui, bien sur.”
“Et Maeght et Matisse ….”
“Cochons!” and we continued walking, Chagall putting his arm through mine, the artist telling me of the difficulties dealing with dealers who only wanted more — more paintings, any paintings.
“Eric, mon enfant, tu dois faire ce que ton coeur te dit, comme j’ai fait. En Russie, nous étions très pauvre, tu sais, et mes parents n’ont pas voulu que je gaspille ma vie
comme un peintre.” We stopped while he spoke. “Mais ma coeur m’a dit autre chose. Toutes les heures pendant chaque jour j’ai rêvé, et ses rêves sont dévenues mes peintres.”
Then he began talking about the commissions he was being offered.
“À ce moment, je suis très occupé avec les vitraux pour Reims, tu sais,” Chagall stopped, then continued walking. “Le travail est difficile, mais Marq est un homme avec beaucoup de talent, un virtuose avec vitrail.” I knew that Chagall worked with Charles Marq in creating his stained-glass windows, and that the relationship between the two was a real partnership of equals.
“Malraux, il est different; c’est un homme très raffiné. Il m’aime,” and we continued to walk along the path. “Tu as vu la plafond de l’opéra à Paris?” I told Chagall that Jane and I intended to visit Palais Garnier on our next visit to Paris. “Mais La Message Biblique, c’est peut-être la plus importante oeuvre de ma vie.”
“Pourquoi?” I asked, wanting to know Chagall’s reason for feeling that he considered his museum to be the culmination of his life’s work.
“Pourquoi? Mon cher, ce n’est pas l’édifice mais les peintures. Les peintures, et aussi les gouaches — ils sont de moi … ils sont moi. Comprends?”
“How was your walk with Marc?” Jane asked when we were in our room, before going down for lunch.
I repeated, in detail, everything Chagall had said to me, including Chagall’s disapproval — in English — of Francis Bacon.
“You know Jane, he understands my reasons for not wanting to assist him. He said to me that I must follow what my heart tells me to do in life, as he had done when he was growing up in Russia. He told me that his family was very poor and that, because of this, his family didn’t want him to waste his time painting, as they didn’t feel that he could
make a living that way. But his heart told him otherwise. Every minute of every day he dreamed, and these dreams became his paintings.
“Marc was telling me to follow my own path in life, and not be sidetracked by others — like Irmgard, who means well but doesn’t know what’s inside me, what drives me.” I sat back and looked off in space. “For that matter, I don’t even know that myself,” and we both had a good laugh
At dinner that evening, the main discussion was the concert to be held in the local church the following day.
“It’s an all-Mozart program,” Irmgard informed us, “and the players are members of the Tonhalle-Orchester Zürich. I believe Christoph Eschenbach will be the guest pianist.”
“Tomorrow’s your birthday,” Jane said when we returned our room that night.
“Yes. I’ll be thirty-two,” I reminded myself.
“It’ll be a nice birthday present, spending it with the grumps (our nickname for Irmgard and Alfred), Marc and Vava.”
“And Eschenbach playing Mozart quartets,” I added.
We all assembled in the hotel lobby the following day, in the late afternoon. When Irmgard was told by the management that other guests would also be attending the concert, she insisted that the mini-bus take our party first, as she didn’t want any others mixing with Chagall.
The church, servicing only the small community of Sils, had seating for perhaps fifty persons, and it was full. Knowing this was a possibility, Irmgard had reserved the first row, in advance.
As we entered the church and were walking to our places, those already in their seats stood and began clapping their hands, in recognition of Chagall’s presence. He released Vava’s hand he had been holding, stopped, and smiling, waved to those in the audience, then continued on his way.
The church had been built and repaired a number of times since it was first established in the early part of the 18th century, for the winters in the Alps were often harsh, especially on wooden structures such as the church. Inside, tapers illuminated the rows where its parishioners and guests were sitting. The front of the church, especially its altar, was lit with massed pillar candles and votives. Aside from a large paster cross, the church’s décor was simple, as befitted a town whose inhabitants were small shopkeepers, farmers, and shepherds. The air inside was refreshingly cool, in contrast to the heat of summer outside its walls.
“This is quite splendid,” I said as Jane and I entered, following Marc and Vava.
“Are you excited?” Jane asked, looking up into my smiling face.
“It certainly is a memorable way in which to celebrate my birthday.”
“Well, we have Irmgard to thank; after all, if it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t be here, would we?”
The program consisted of two of Mozart’s compositions for strings and piano, KV 478 and KV 493, to be played without intermission.
“C’est ma musique,” Chagall said to Jane who was sitting beside him. “Comme j’aime Mozart, tu sais.”
When the ensemble, accompanied by Eschenbach, walked in from the rear door, the audience rose and applauded. Acknowledging their applause, Eschenbach turned and, sitting at the piano — a Steinway grand — raised his hand, and the music began.
During the two pieces no one talked or even whispered. The acoustics amplified the sounds without blurring the melodies. Occasionally, Jane turned slightly, to look at Chagall, who appeared to be absorbed in the music.
“He held my hand throughout both pieces,” she told me later, when we were in our room. “At times, I felt him squeeze, and when he did, he looked at me, smiling.”
After the ensemble finished playing the second piece, Eschenbach announced, “Nous avons le plaisir d’avoir ici aujourd’hui maître Chagall, le grand peintre, et en son honneur nous voudrions jouer une composition composée par Marlo Martelli: l’ouverture de La Flûte Enchantée de Mozart.”
“Do you think Irmgard requested that they play it because of Marc?” Jane asked later that day when we were alone.
“I wouldn’t put it past her. Somehow, she knows the right measure.”
“Most of the time,” Jane interjected.
“It’s one of the qualities I admire in her.”
Chagall was visibly pleased. After the ensemble finished playing the final notes and the applause ceased, he got out of his chair and walked over to thank Christoph Eschenbach. While they were talking, Vava passed a program to her husband, together with a pen she always had with her. Chagall signed it, with a dédicase, and handed it to the pianist.
Afterward, when we returned to the hotel and Marc and Vava had gone up to their room for Marc to rest, Irmgard gave her opinion. “The playing wasn’t bad; I’ve heard worse. The ensemble is the Swiss at their best, which, when compared to other more worldly chamber groups, isn’t perhaps saying much, but I thought they did a credible job.”
“How would you compare Eschenbach’s playing to Cherkassky’s” I asked, curious as we had recently met the Ukrainian pianist when he visited Irmgard and Alfred in Vence.
“Boy, there are several different pianistic styles, so not all piano players express themselves in the same manner, fortunately.”
“But you so admire Shura.”
“Yes, because, for me, he is one of the great of the romantic pianists, and by this, I mean that in his playing he expresses himself with passion and emotion.”
“And you didn’t feel that in Eschenbach’s playing?” I asked.
“Eschenbach played Mozart, and, as I told you a moment ago, the ensemble did a credible job. For Mozart, one need not — I would say, one should not — be overly
emotional. That is the Germanic style, of which Eschenbach is a proponent. Shura, being a mixture of both Jewish and Slavic, brings a wholly different approach to his playing.”
“What do you mean, Irmgard?” Jane asked.
“What I mean is that Shura has the emotions of the Jew and the Slav, which possess him when he’s playing, and these emotions differ from those of a pianist like Eschenbach whose heritage is Germanic.”
“Are you saying that the Germans aren’t emotional?” I asked.
“No, not at all. Germans are able to control their emotions, especially good artists like the one we heard today.” Irmgard took a moment to think. “You are aware that I am German, but I’m also a Jew. I was raised by my parents to feel Germanic. Many middle-class-German Jews, especially upper-middle-class-German Jews like my family, were. But when I played the piano, the Jew in me fought against my Germanic upbringing; it pushed me to allow my emotions to gain the upper hand, to play more expressively. My passion, though, was for Bach and Beethoven, and while I very much enjoy Mozart, I, to this day, fall back on Bach and Beethoven.” Irmgard looked at us. “I believe you understand me. Both approaches — the Germanic Eschenbach and the Jew-Slav Shura — are needed and valid.”
“Do you mean that one shouldn’t judge one against the other, that such a comparison wouldn’t be fair?” Jane asked.
“As I said, both are appropriate, depending on the music. Shura’s approach is perhaps more appropriate for composers like Chopin and Schubert, whereas Eschenbach’s interpretation, being less charged with passion, would be more in keeping with the likes of
Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart. And Eschenbach is beginning to become one of the very great performers. He’s your age, Eric, and see what he has accomplished? No, all in all, the concert was decent, especially when you think where we are.”
“I remember you suggested we attend Michelangeli’s return recital at Carnegie Hall a few years ago. You told us we ought to hear him as he was one of the most important classical pianists alive,” I said.
“Yes, I believe I told you so to expose yourselves to the best interpreters.” Irmgard looked at me as though in anticipation.
“His program included a late Beethoven sonata — the 32nd — and pieces by Debussy ….”
“We needn’t discuss Debussy. I never could understand the so-called popularity of impressionism in music. Painting, yes, but music? Go on,” Irmgard urged me.
“… and Chopin. How would you compare his playing to both Eschenbach’s and Shura’s?”
“In my opinion, the principal difference is that Michelangeli’s playing is cerebral. He stretches the notes to the limit, and sometimes beyond which, for me, is unacceptable.”
“Do you mean his hesitations?” Jane asked.
“Tempi and hesitations to musicians are like punctuation is to writers. Overuse by both can — and often does — lead to a distraction from the music and the writing. I’ve listened to Michelangeli playing Beethoven’s 32nd. In the slow movement it was as though he were thinking as he pressed down the notes — like some people do whilst talking in conversation. Both I find annoying. A musician should — I would say, must — think about the music while practicing, not whilst playing during a recital. But enough about interpretations. Tell me something.”
“The church was a lovely setting,” Jane remarked, “and the audience was respectful, especially of Marc, I thought.”
“Well, child, we are in Switzerland. People here are civilized. They know how to behave.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, “You can always expect the Swiss to do the right and proper thing. They always have…and they always will.”
That evening Irmgard decided we should all meet in the hotel’s reception room before going in to dinner.
“After all, it is a special occasion,” she said to me as we parted to go to our rooms.
After apéritifs during which I was wished a happy birthday by all, we entered the dining room. On our way, an older woman, seated at one of the neighboring tables, rushed to intercept Chagall, a program from that day’s concert clutched in her hand. I was about to ask the woman not to disturb Marc when Vava whispered to me, “Ça va, Eric. Laisse-la.”
“Excusez-moi, monsieur. Pouvez-vous le signer; c’est pour ma petite,” and she pointed to a young girl sitting at her table.
“Comment s’appelle-t-elle?” Marc asked the woman.
“Suzanne,” the woman told him.
“Elle est mignonne.” He signed the program and gave it to the little girl, patting her curly head.
“Merci, monsieur,” the little girl said.
As we sat down, I noticed a small package lying in front of me.
“Open it, boy,” Irmgard commanded.
Inside was a book, Chagall Dessins Inédits.
“It’s from all of us,” Vava told me, “… but Marc wants to put something in it.” She took several pens and crayons from her handbag and lay them, with the book, in front of her husband.
“You thought the concert was the present,” Jane said to me when we were in our room. “You looked stunned, especially after Vava handed Marc the book together with the pens.”
While Chagall worked on a drawing on the inside page, over the subtitle of the book “Le Gout De Notre Temps”, I attempted to express my thanks, but I was having difficulty getting the words out as my throat was constricted, and at one moment I felt I might pass out.
“The words were stuck in my throat,” I told Jane later. “Every time I tried, nothing came out.”
“I don’t think the others realized what was happening. They were too preoccupied watching Marc.”
“Boy, knowing we would all be here on your birthday, I hoped to make it a memorable one,” Irmgard said to me. “You must realize that Marc doesn’t do this sort of thing for everyone,” and she patted my hand. “You’re turning out to be, not quite everything I had imagined, but getting there. I saw potential, and I still do.” She looked at me, and I noticed a twinkle in her eyes. “Yes, I must say that I wasn’t wrong when I convinced Alfred that we should encourage you and Jane,” then she turned, to face Chagall.
After a few minutes Chagall looked up, then looked at the drawing: “Pas mal,” and he passed it around the table so that each one could see what he had done.
“Marc, c’est absolument une oeuvre,” Irmgard declared, passing the book to Alfred, who, after looking at the drawing, passed it to Jane. Finally, I was able to see for myself what Chagall had drawn.
“Maître, c’est un souvenir de vous que je chérirai toujours,” I told Chagall, then I rose from my seat and walked around the table to where the painter was sitting and kissed him on both cheeks.
“It was so unexpected,” I told Jane in our room.
“Aren’t you glad Vava always has a supply of pens and crayons in her handbag?”
During the remainder of the meal, everyone spoke of the concert and how unexpected was the encore.
“Comme ça m’a touché,” Chagall told us. “Ingrid (for some unknown reason to me, Chagall decided to call Irmgard — Ingrid — early on in their friendship), je sais que tu préfère Bach où Beethoven, mais moi,” and he pointed a finger in the air, “Mozart, toujours,” and he left his hand with his finger pointed skyward, and on his face was an expression of definitiveness, indicting to all of us that his statement was not to be disputed.
In his gift to me, Chagall had drawn a portrait of himself—in profile—tossing a large bouquet drawn in vivid pink and turquoise crayons and black ink, and wrote: Marc Chagall. le 28 juillet, 1972.
“Ça tu plaît?” Marc asked with his eyes that sparkled with childish humor.
“Il n’y a pas les mots à vous dire merci suffisamment,” I was able to say.
“Ça tu plaît,” Chagall told me, and everyone continued talking about the concert, and our plans for the next day.
“I don’t know if I can sleep,” I said when we were preparing to go to bed. “I feel so wide awake.”
“Maybe take one of the valerian Irmgard gave us. It’s supposed to calm the nerves., but it’s been a big day for you.”
“And tomorrow morning we’re to take Marc and Vava to the Hôtel Fex.”
At 9:20, the door to the hotel opened and Chagall, holding onto the arm of his wife, walked toward us.
“Bonjour, bonjour,” Vava greeted us. “Avez-vous bien dormi? Marc, attend-toi, mon cher,” and she helped him down the stone steps.
“Ah, les enfants. Embrasse-moi,” after which we all proceeded to climb into not-so-soigné open carriage and were off.
“Le concert vous a-t-il plu?” I asked Vava.
“Marc loves Mozart; it was a perfect choice,” she replied.
“Mais j’ai aimé l’encore le plus,” Chagall said as the carriage climbed the hill before entering the valley. “Vous avez voir ma Flûte Enchanté à l’opera à New York? J’ai traivaillé longtemps avec les peintures ….”
“Marc means with the sets that were so large he needed another studio in which to paint them,” Vava told us.
“… et le rideau. Ah, cela m’a causé les problèmes. Tout de même, il est beau.” He sat back against the cushions and appeared to be napping.
“The motion has lulled Marc. Let him sleep. We will enjoy the scenery,” Vava said. “Irmgard tells me you might live here, now that your university studies are in the past,” she mentioned as the carriage rolled along into the valley.
“I’ve finished at Brown,” I told her.
“Was that the university where you were studying?” Vava asked.
“Not at first,” I said. “I transferred there two years ago, to gain a different perspective on the discipline.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. I won’t bore you with the details, but now I find I must either leave the academic phase of my life and find something else to occupy me ….”
“Well, you know, Eric, that I could use you, to help me with Marc,” Vava offered once again.
“You are very kind,” I looked at Chagall who was dozing, “and I know you mean what you tell me ….”
“But …?”
“You understand, I need ….”
“You don’t have to explain to me, Eric; I do understand. You and Jane,” and Vava looked at Jane, “have your lives to live, and whatever that is should be of your choosing and not influenced by your admiration for my husband.” Mme. Chagall paused, and placed a firm hand on mine. “Now tell me, have you anything in mind?” We had left the path bordered by tall pines and were entering the valley. On either side, treeless mountains rose from its meadows, their surfaces grey with patches of green. Snow could be seen at their very tops despite it being mid-summer. While the air was warm, in the carriage it felt brisk, almost chilly.
“I have the opportunity to return to McGill,” I told her.
“Is that where you started your studies, in economics was it?”
“Yes. I’ve reached out to the professor who was my advisor there, and he told me I could transfer back.”
“Ah, is that what you want?” Her hand remained on mine. “You know, Irmgard would like very much if the two of you were to live here. I don’t mean here in Switzerland,” Vava laughed, “but near us, in the south.”
“I know, but I don’t know if it would be possible to continue my studies at McGill and have a home here.”
“Well, mon cher,” and Vava looked at me, her eyes caressing my face, “you know that Marc’s doctor — Maurice Charles-Alfred — has a practice near us, in a charming village — Saint Jeannet — and he told Marc just last week when he came for a visit, that he recently acquired a house there, on its ramparts. Perhaps it would suit you.” Vava paused, and looked at her husband. “Ah, Marc has awakened. Comment vas-tu, mon pétit?”
“Les rêves. Je rêvais da La Flûte Enchantée. Les costumes. L’un que j’ai conçu pour la reine de la nuit. Vous aimez Chagall?” he asked. “Ah, nous sommes ici.”
The carriage pulled into the courtyard of the hotel and we stepped down. I helped — first Chagall, then Vava, and finally Jane. The hotel, set in the middle of the valley, gave us panoramic views of the almost treeless mountains with the glacier far off in the distance.
A waitress showed us to a small table, set in the hotel’s courtyard. Everywhere one looked, there were beds of flowering plants, mostly small but some were the size of bushes. A low wall enclosed where we sat, the chirping of birds could be heard everywhere.
“Un chocolat chaud,” Marc asked the waitress.
“Marc, pas encore? Tu l’avais un à St Moritz,” Vava reminded him.
“Vavachin,” and he looked at his wife, one eye pleading, the other filled with mirth.
“Tu es un enfant, mon cher,” and she ordered a café au lait, as did Jane and me.
“Comme c’est beau,” Marc said and took out the pad he always kept in the pocket of his jacket. While we talked, he sketched.
“You are coming with us to Zürich?” Vava asked. “I promised Zümsteg we would have a dinner with him, and of course he expects you to be with us.”
While Marc filled his notebook with sketches of the mountains and the tiny church and its graveyard surrounded by another low stone wall across the road, a flock of goats shepherded by a young girl passed by while we drank their cafés — and Chagall, his chocolat chaud — and Vava told Jane and me more about the commissions Marc had been offered, and especially about those he had accepted.
“Irmgard must have told you about the museum being built in Nice for Marc’s biblical paintings?” Vava said.
“Yes, Irmgard mentioned that the State has offered to build a museum.”
“It’s being built now, the construction almost finished,” Vava told us. “You’ve seen one or two of the paintings that will be in it. They were lying against a wall in Marc’s atelier.”
“I remember the painting of Abraham holding his son, Issac, in his arms, ready to sacrifice him to god,” Jane said.
“Ce tableau est un des plus réussi,” Chagall interjected, as he continued noting the scenery in his notebook.
“You understand, children, that my husband takes in everything. You know, at home he reads up to four newspaper every day — not every article,” and Vava laughed, “only
those that interest him, especially when they are about paintings. If there’s time when we return to St Paul, he’ll show you some of the drawings.”
We continued to chat while Chagall drew, until, “It’s time to take my little one back to the hotel. He needs to rest,” Vava announced.
On the return trip, Vava asked, “Have you been to Chicago?” When Jane and I both said we hadn’t, she told us, “It seems there’s a possibility for Marc to create a mosaic for an outdoor area in front on one of their big banks. When it’s complete, you must join us for its unveiling. We have a friend, John Nef, who was a professor of economics at their university. When you come to Chicago, I will introduce you to him and his wife, Evelyn, for they will be attending the unveiling as well. It could be an interesting introduction for you, Aaron. Economics.”
Forty-five minutes later the horse-drawn carriage delivered the four of us at the entrance to the hotel where Irmgard was waiting — impatiently.
The following day we spent the drive to Zürich chatting, reminiscing about our vacation in Sils.
“Being with the grumps, Marc and Vava was a treat,” Jane said. “The walks — especially in the Fex — the conversations. Did you have a good time?”
“As Irmgard said to us the night before we left, being with a great artist like Marc was both a gift and a privilege. What do you think about what Vava told us?”
“What was that?”
“That Marc’s doctor recently purchased a house on the ramparts of his village, that he will be renting out.”
“You mean … that we might rent it?”
“Well, if I return to McGill to complete my doctorate, we wouldn’t have to be in Montreal fulltime. We could find a sublet in Montreal for when I have to be there to work with my advisor, and the rest of the time we could live here, near the grumps, Marc and Vava.”
___________E.P. Lande was born in Montreal, but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than 100 animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than two years ago, 37 of his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents.