“I will, Mademoiselle.”
“Now then, to work. Come along, sit down …”
Antoinette slowly adjusted the velour piano stool. She could have reproduced every stain, every rip in the material from memory. As she began her scales she stared mournfully at a yellow vase on the mantelpiece. It was full of dust inside, never a flower… And those hideous little shell boxes on the shelves. How ugly this dark little apartment was, how shabby and foreboding this place that, for years, she’d been forced to come to …
While Mademoiselle Isabelle arranged the sheet music, she cast a furtive look out the window. (It must be very beautiful in the woods, at dusk, with the bare, delicate trees and the winter sky as white as a pearl…) Three times a week, every week, for six years! Would it go on until she died?
“Antoinette, Antoinette, where are you putting your hands? Start again, please … Will there be many people going to your mother’s ball?”
“I think Mama has invited two hundred people.”
“Goodness! Does she think there will be enough room? Isn’t she worried it will get terribly hot and crowded? Play louder, Antoinette, put some spirit into it. Your left hand is weak, my dear… This scale for next time and exercise eighteen in the third Czerny book…”
Scales, exercises… for months and months: Grieg’s Death of Ase, Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words, the “Barcarole” from the Tales of Hoffmann … Beneath her schoolgirl’s fingers they all disintegrated into a harsh din …
Mademoiselle Isabelle banged out the beat with a rolled-up notebook.
“Why are you pressing the keys like that? Staccato, staccato! Do you think I can’t see how you’re holding your ring-finger and your little finger? Two hundred people, you say? Do you know them all?”
“No.”
“Will your mother be wearing that new pink dress from Premet?”
Antoinette didn’t answer.
“And what about you? You’ll be going to the ball, I imagine? You’re old enough…”
“I don’t know,” whispered Antoinette with a shiver.
“Faster, faster! This is how it should go: one, two, one, two, one, two… Come along, wake up, Antoinette! The next section, my dear…”
The next section … dotted with sharps to stumble over! In the next-door apartment a child was crying. Mademoiselle Isabelle switched on the lamp. Outside, the sky had grown dark… The clock struck four. Another hour had flowed through her fingers like water—lost, never to return. She wanted to be far away, or to die …
“Are you tired, Antoinette? Already? When I was your age, I used to practise for six hours a day. Now, wait a moment. Don’t leave so fast—you’re in such a hurry… What time should I come on the fifteenth?”
“It says on the invitation. Ten o’clock.”
“Good. But I’ll see you before then.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle.”
Outside, the street was empty. Antoinette huddled against the wall and waited. A moment later, she heard Miss Betty’s footsteps, and saw her walking quickly towards her holding the arm of a young man. Antoinette lurched forward and bumped straight into the couple. Miss Betty let out a little cry.
“Miss Betty!” said Antoinette. “I’ve been waiting for you for at least fifteen minutes…”
Miss Betty’s face was right up against hers; in a flash, her features were so changed that Antoinette stopped short, as if not recognising the person she was talking to. But she failed to notice her pitiful little mouth, gaping open, as bruised as a ravaged flower; she was staring at the man.
He was very young. A university student—maybe even still at school. His fresh lips were slightly swollen from shaving; his lovely eyes were mischievous. He was smoking. While Miss Betty stammered excuses, he said calmly and boldly, “Introduce me, cousin.”
“Ann-toinette, this is my cousin,” murmured Miss Betty.
Antoinette held out her hand. The boy gave a laugh, then said nothing; he seemed to think for a moment before suggesting, “Let me walk you home, all right?”
The three of them went down the dark, empty street in silence. The cool wind brushed against Antoinette’s face; it was damp from the rain, as if misty with tears. She slowed down, watching the lovers in front of her, their bodies pressed together, neither of them speaking. How quickly they walked … She stopped. They didn’t even turn round. “If I were hit by a car, would they even know?” she thought with bitterness. A man bumped into her as he passed by; she jumped back in fright. But it was only the lamplighter; she watched how each street-lamp burst into flame as he touched one after the other with his long stick. The lights shimmered and danced like candles in the wind… Suddenly, she felt afraid. She ran ahead as fast as she could.
She caught up with the lovers at the Alexandre III Bridge. They were standing close together, whispering to each other urgently. The boy looked impatient when he saw Antoinette. Miss Betty was flustered for a moment; then, struck by sudden inspiration, she opened her handbag and took out the packet of envelopes.
“Here, dear, take your mother’s invitations. I haven’t posted them yet. Run down to the little tobacconist’s shop, over there, down that little street on the left… Can you see its light? You can put them in the letterbox. We’ll wait for you here.”
She thrust the packet of invitations into Antoinette’s hand; then she quickly walked away. Antoinette saw her stop in the middle of the bridge and lower her head as she waited for the boy. They leaned against the parapet.
Antoinette hadn’t moved. Because of the darkness, she could see only two shapeless shadows and the dark Seine reflecting the shimmering lights. Even when they kissed, she imagined rather than saw them leaning towards each other, their faces almost melting together. She began wringing her hands like a jealous woman. One of the envelopes slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground… She was frightened and quickly picked it up, but then she felt ashamed she’d been afraid. Was she always going to tremble like a little girl? Well, was she? She wasn’t worthy of being a woman. And what about those two who were still kissing? Their lips were still pressed together! A kind of giddiness took hold of her: the wild need to do something outrageous and evil. She clenched her teeth, crumpled up all the invitations, tore them into little pieces and threw them into the Seine. For a long while, her heart pounding, she watched them floating, caught against one of the bridge’s arches. And then the wind finally swept them deep into the water.
V
IT WAS NEARLY six o’clock and Antoinette was coming back from a walk with Miss Betty. As no one answered when they rang the bell, Miss Betty knocked. They could hear the sound of furniture being moved behind the door.
“They must be getting the cloakroom ready,” said the governess. “The ball’s tonight. I keep forgetting… and you, dear?”
She gave Antoinette a tender smile of complicity, but her face was anxious. She hadn’t seen her young lover again in front of the girl, but ever since that encounter in the street, Antoinette had been so aloof that her silences, her looks, worried Miss Betty…
When the servant opened the door they were immediately greeted by a furious Madame Kampf, who was overseeing the electrician in the dining room.
“Couldn’t you use the service entrance?” she shouted angrily. “You can see very well that we’re setting up a cloakroom here. Now we’ll have to start all over again. We’ll never get it done,” she concluded, grabbing hold of a table to help the concierge and Georges, who were setting up the room.
In the dining room and the long adjoining hallway, six waiters in white cotton jackets were preparing the tables for the supper. In the middle was the buffet, decorated with stunning flowers.
Antoinette wanted to go to her room; Madame Kampf again started shouting: “Not that way, not that way… Your room is to be the bar, and yours, Miss Betty, is being used as well. Miss Betty will sleep in the linen room tonight, and you, Antoinette, in the little box room… It’s at the other end of the apartment, so you’ll be able to sleep. Yo
u won’t even hear the music … What are you doing?” she said to the electrician, who was working unhurriedly and humming to himself. “Can’t you see that this light bulb isn’t working…”
“Give it time, lady…”
Rosine shrugged her shoulders, annoyed.
“Time!” she muttered to herself. “Time! He’s been at it for an hour…”
She clenched her fists as she spoke, with a gesture so identical to the one Antoinette made when she was angry, that the girl, motionless at the doorway, began to tremble—like someone who unexpectedly finds herself standing in front of a mirror.
Madame Kampfwas wearing a silk dressing-gown and slippers on her bare feet; her loose hair hung like writhing snakes around her fiery face. She caught sight of the florist, his arms full of roses, trying to make his way past Antoinette, who was leaning against the wall.
“Excuse me, young lady…”
“Get out of the way for goodness sake!” she screamed, so sharply that Antoinette lurched into the florist and knocked the petals off one of the roses with her elbow.
“You are unbearable,” Madame Kampf continued, shouting so loudly that the glassware on the table started to vibrate. “Why are you here, getting in the way and bothering everyone? Get out, go on, go to your room—no, not to your room, to the linen room; go wherever you please but just get out of my sight! I don’t want to see you or hear you.”
Once Antoinette had gone, Madame Kampf rushed through the dining room and the butler’s pantry—which was piled high with buckets of ice to chill the champagne—to her husband’s office. Kampfwas on the telephone.
“What are you doing?” she cried, the moment he’d hung up. “You haven’t even shaved!”
“At six o’clock? You must be crazy!”
“First of all, it’s six thirty, and secondly, there might be a few last-minute errands to do; so it’s best to be ready.”
“You’re mad,” he repeated impatiently. “We have servants for that…”
“Oh, it’s just great when you start playing the aristocrat and gentleman!” she said with a shrug. ” ‘We have servants for that Save your airs and graces for the guests.’”
“Don’t get yourself in a state,” Kampf replied, gritting his teeth.
“But how do you expect me …” cried Rosine, with tears in her voice, “how do you expect me not to get in a state? It’s all going wrong! The bloody servants will never be ready on time. I have to be everywhere at once, supervising everything, and I haven’t slept in three nights. I’m at the end of my rope. I think I’m going mad!”
She grabbed a small silver ashtray and threw it on the floor; but this outburst seemed to calm her down. She smiled, slightly embarrassed.
“It’s not my fault, Alfred…”
Kampf shook his head and said nothing. As Rosine was leaving, he called her back.
“Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you … Have you still not received any replies to the invitations?”
“No, why?”
“I don’t know, it just seems odd to me … As if there’s something going on. I wanted to ask Barthelemy if he’d received his invitation, but I haven’t seen him at the Stock Market for over a week… Should I telephone him?”
“Now? That would be ridiculous.”
“Still, it’s very odd …” said Kampf.
“Well, people just don’t bother replying, that’s all!” interrupted his wife. “You either go or you don’t…And do you know what? It even makes me happy. It means that no one wanted to let us down. Otherwise they would have sent their apologies, don’t you think?”
Since her husband didn’t reply, she asked him again, impatiently, “Well, don’t you agree, Alfred? I’m right, aren’t I? What do you think?”
Kampf spread out his arms.
“I have no idea… What do you want me to say? I don’t know any more than you do … “
They looked at each other for a moment in silence. Rosine sighed and lowered her head.
“Oh, my God! We’re finished, aren’t we?”
“It’ll be all right,” said Kampf.
“I know, but in the meantime … Oh, if you knew how frightened I am! I wish it were over!”
“Don’t get yourself upset,” Kampf said again, rather un-convincingly.
He was absent-mindedly turning his paper knife over and over in his hands.
“Above all, say as little as possible…Just use the old cliches: ‘So happy to see you! Do have something to eat! It’s so warm! It’s so cold…’”
“The introductions will be the worst,” said Rosine anxiously. “Think about it! All these people I’ve only ever met once, whom I will barely recognise … and who don’t know each other, who have nothing in common …”
“Oh for God’s sake, you’ll think of something. After all, everyone’s been in our position. They all had to start somewhere.”
“Do you remember our little apartment on the Rue Favart?” Rosine asked suddenly. “And how we hesitated before replacing the old, battered settee in the dining room? That was only four years ago, and now look…” she added, indicating the heavy gilt furniture all around them.
“Do you mean,” he asked, “that in four years’ time, we’ll be receiving ambassadors and then we’ll remember how we sat here tonight shaking with fear because a hundred or so pimps and old tarts were coming? Eh?”
She laughed and covered his mouth with her hand. “Well, really, do be quiet!”
As she was leaving the room, she bumped into the maitre d’, who was coming to warn her that the pretzels hadn’t arrived with the champagne; and that the barman thought there wouldn’t be enough gin for the cocktails.
Rosine put her hands to her head.
“Wonderful, that’s all I need!” she shouted, starting her tirade all over again. “Couldn’t you have told me before? Well, couldn’t you? Where do you expect me to get gin at this time of night? Everything is closed … and the pretzels …”
“Send the driver, darling,” Kampf suggested.
“The driver’s gone to get his dinner,” said Georges.
“Of course,” screamed Rosine, beside herself, “of course he has! He doesn’t give a damn…” She checked herself. “He doesn’t care in the least whether we need him or not. He’s off having his dinner! And he’s not the only one I’ll be firing tomorrow,” she added, looking at Georges and sounding so furious that the manservant immediately pursed his long smooth lips.
“If Madame means me … ” he began.
“No, no, my friend, don’t be ridiculous …” said Rosine with a shrug. “It just slipped out. You can see very well that I’m upset… Take a taxi and buy whatever we need at Nicolas. Give him some money, Alfred…”
She hurried off to her room, straightening the flowers as she went and berating the waiters.
“This tray of petitsfours is in the wrong place … Lift the pheasant’s tail higher! Where are the caviar sandwiches? Don’t put them out too soon: everyone will make a mad dash for them. And what about the foie gras? I bet they’ve forgotten the foie gras! If I don’t do something myself… “
“We’re just unwrapping it now, Madame,” said the maitre d’, looking at her with ill-concealed contempt.
“I must seem ridiculous,” Rosine thought suddenly, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror with her purplish face, frightened eyes, trembling lips. But nevertheless—like an overtired child—she felt unable to stop the hysterics, no matter how hard she tried. She was utterly exhausted and on the verge of tears.
She went into her room.
Her maid was laying out her ball gown on the bed; it was silver lame, decorated with heavy layers of pearls. Her shoes shone like jewels, her stockings were made of chiffon.
“Will Madame be wanting dinner now? We will serve it in here, of course, so as not to disturb the tables…”
“I’m not hungry,” said Rosine angrily.
“As Madame wishes… But could I at least go and have my dinner now?”
asked Lucie, gritting her teeth, for Madame Kampf had made her spend four hours re-stitching all the loose pearls on her dress. “May I remind Madame that it is nearly eight o’clock and that we are people, not animals.”
“Go on then, offwith you! Am I stopping you?” exclaimed Madame Kampf.
When she was alone, she threw herself down on the bed and closed her eyes. But the room was as cold as a cellar: they had shut off all the radiators in the apartment that morning. She got up and went over to the dressing table.
“I look such a fright…”
Carefully she began to apply her make-up; first a thick layer of face cream that she mixed in her hands, then the liquid rouge on her cheeks, the black mascara, the delicate little line to extend her eyelids towards her temples, the powder… She worked slowly, stopping every now and then to look more closely— passionately, anxiously devouring her face in the mirror, her expression both scornful and cunning. In a fit of pique she took hold of a single grey hair near her temple and pulled it out with exaggerated violence. How ironic life was. Oh, how lovely her face had been at twenty! Her cheeks so rosy! But she’d had darned stockings and patched underwear… And now— jewellery, gowns, but her first wrinkles too … all at the same time. My God, how you had to hurry up and live! Not leave it till too late to be attractive to men, to love… What good were money, elegant clothes, and beautiful cars if you didn’t have a man in your life, a handsome young lover? A lover… how she had yearned for one. When she was still a poor girl she had gone with men who spoke to her of love, believed them just because they were well-dressed, with beautiful manicured hands… Boors, the lot of them! But she was still waiting… And now, this was her last chance, these final years before old age set in, true old age, impossible to fight, inevitable… She closed her eyes, imagined young lips, an eager, tender look, full of desire …
Hastily she threw off her silk robe, as if she were late for some lovers’ tryst, and started dressing: she slipped on her stockings, her shoes, her gown, with the peculiar agility of women who have never in their life had a maid. Then the jewellery… She had a safe full of it. Kampf said it was the surest investment. She put on the double strand of pearls and all her rings; she covered both arms with bracelets made of enormous diamonds; then she pinned on a large brooch of sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. She sparkled and gleamed like a treasure trove. She took a few steps back, looked at herself with a joyous smile. Life was beginning at last, finally! Who knew? Perhaps tonight…
David Golder, the Ball, Snow in Autumn, the Courilof Affair Page 20
