Becoming Lola

by Harriet Steel

  He nodded, although privately, he wondered if she aimed too high.

  ‘Will you give me a letter of introduction?’

  ‘With pleasure, although it may not do you much good.’

  She gave him a mischievous smile. ‘Surely you are too modest?’

  He leant back in his chair and laughed. ‘I never thought I would hear that from you.’

  Chapter 20

  Paris

  Lola found her way to the stage door of the Opéra and handed Liszt’s letter to the porter. ‘Please tell Monsieur Pillet I have come all the way from Prussia to see him and I bear greetings from his dear friend, Franz Liszt.’

  The porter gave her an admiring look. He had seen a lot of would-be stars in his time, but very few had been as beautiful as this one. He grinned. ‘For you I’ll go straight away.’ He gestured to the small room inside. ‘Will you wait there?’

  ‘Thank you.’ She sat down and lit one of her cigarillos. The man hovered in the doorway and she smiled. ‘Are you going then?’

  He chuckled. ‘Yes of course.’

  An hour passed before she was called to Pillet’s office. By then, she had regaled the porter with a dozen stories and taught him how to smoke in the Spanish fashion. He scratched his head as he watched her walk away down the corridor. He had never met anyone quite like her.

  Pillet stood up from his desk and bowed.

  ‘I am sorry you were kept waiting, Dona Montez. I see from his letter that my friend Liszt commends your talent, but I hope you will not be offended if I say I have a very difficult decision to make. My patrons expect the highest standards to be maintained at the Opéra. As far as I have heard, you have not been dancing for very long and the public’s reaction to you has been mixed.’

  She had anticipated some resistance and already thought of a scapegoat. A flash of anger crossed her face, ‘It’s true I haven’t been well received everywhere but it had nothing to do with my dancing.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘How is that?’

  ‘Ever since I was forced to flee from my homeland, I have been persecuted.’

  ‘Persecuted?’ he frowned.

  ‘The Jesuits: they are my mortal enemies. In Spain, my husband opposed their evil ambitions. He died for his beliefs and they can no longer torment him, but in revenge, they have turned their spite on me.’

  Pillet went to the window and looked out. She studied his back. Did he believe her? There was no truth in what she said, but the Jesuits were a good target. For many people, their very name aroused suspicions of sinister dealings.

  ‘I was a principal dancer at the Teatro Real in Seville,’ she added. ‘Surely your patrons will be interested to see Spanish dances performed by a native of Spain?’

  He turned around and she searched his face in vain for a sign of interest.

  ‘I am afraid that I cannot help you.’

  ‘Will you at least let me show you what I can do?’

  Her smile was so charming that, to his surprise, the hard-bitten director found himself shepherding her to the auditorium and summoning his rehearsal pianist to bring a sheaf of Spanish dance music.

  The pianist thumped out the opening bars of the bolero and she raised her arms above her head, knowing the pose showed off her full breasts and slender waist to perfection. Languidly, she launched into the dance.

  When she had finished, she felt a flutter of nerves as she waited for Pillet to speak. His severe expression betrayed nothing. She looked out into the auditorium behind him. There was no magic to help you in a theatre by day, she thought: no blazing chandeliers, no hum of anticipation. Somewhere up in the galleries, carpenters hammered and sawed. In the shadowy stalls behind Pillet, a cleaner clattered about with a bucket and mop.

  Pillet cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry, Dona Montez, but my answer has not changed.’

  ‘Oh, but I haven’t finished.’ She turned swiftly to the pianist. ‘Play El Olano.’

  The pianist hesitated until Pillet shrugged and nodded to him.

  ‘Very well.’

  Ignoring her surroundings, Lola cast her mind back to the Sevillian cave. Perhaps the gypsies would bring her luck. When she came to the part of the dance where she looked for the spider, she raised her skirts demurely at first, then glancing at Pillet, who seemed to be watching her with more interest, took the risk of going higher. As the last chord echoed through the auditorium, she saw a ghost of a smile on his lips.

  ‘All right,’ he said with a grudging nod. ‘You will perform the Olano and a bolero: five francs.’

  ‘Ten.’

  The smile vanished and for a moment she feared she had gone too far. Then he laughed.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  *

  A few days later, posters went up announcing she would dance in the interval of the following evening’s performance of Die Freischutz. By late afternoon, thanks to the curiosity her name by now aroused, every seat in the theatre was sold.

  Pillet watched from his box as he waited for her performance to begin. ‘I have to admit,’ he remarked to his wife, ‘in all the years I’ve been in the business, I’ve rarely felt such a buzz.’

  She surveyed the audience through her lorgnette. ‘Everyone is here,’ she remarked, ‘from the Jockey Club to the hoi polloi - hoping for a breath of scandal, no doubt.’

  The scarlet velvet curtains swept aside to reveal a backdrop of a whitewashed Spanish village with a Moorish castle on a distant hill. Lola stepped out onto the stage and bent down to unfasten a ribbon from one of her stockings before walking to the footlights. A seductive smile hovering on her lips, she let the ribbon dangle from her hand then threw it into the stalls. A ripple of surprise and amusement ran through the auditorium. The music of El Olano wound its way up from the orchestra pit. She began to dance.

  At first, the audience observed her in silence, but slowly, they grew restless.

  ‘What is she doing?’ one man whispered to his mistress. ‘I don’t think she understands the rules of style. Look at her feet! A soldier on the march has more grace.’

  The woman giggled. ‘I can’t imagine how she persuaded Pillet to engage her, or rather I can.’

  A mere scatter of applause greeted the end of the dance. Lola curtsied but she felt shaken and confused. She hurried off the stage and two of the house’s regular stars came on to perform their piece. Watching from the wings and hearing the cheers they received, a lump came into her throat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She must stay calm, it was not over yet: one more dance to go. She would make them love her.

  But as she stepped out onto the stage once again, her courage wavered and her eyes brimmed. The auditorium remained lit, as was customary, and the blaze of thousands of candles in the crystal chandeliers blinded her. She wasn’t ready for her cue and she stumbled through her Bolero de Cadix.

  In his box, Pillet grimaced as the dance dragged to its conclusion. How could he have let his judgment be swayed? ‘Tell the stage manager to call everyone back on stage as soon as the music stops,’ he hissed to the runner waiting at the entrance to the box. ‘Don’t stand there with your mouth open. Get on with it.’

  On stage, Lola felt hands snatch hers and sweep her forward. She found herself in a line with the rest of the cast and sank into a curtsey, hardly knowing what she did. A bouquet of red roses was suddenly in her arms.

  She returned to her dressing room in a daze. In front of the mirror, her shoulders sagged. She snatched up a piece of cloth and began to wipe away her makeup, angry tears mixing with the powder and rouge. ‘Pompous fools,’ she hissed.

  Her maid scuttled in and Lola swung round. ‘Bolt the door before you help me change. I won’t have anyone in here tonight.’

  ‘But what if Monsieur Pillet asks for you?’

  ‘Monsieur Pillet can go to the Devil.’

  *

  ‘Only you had anything kind to say about me,’ she said sadly the following evening as she dined with her new f
riend Pier Angelo Fiorentino. He was one of several she had made since she arrived in Paris and like most of them, a journalist.

  ‘Your dancing deserved praise.’

  She shook her head with a rueful smile. ‘It didn’t and you know it. I realised when I saw the others perform that I couldn’t compete with them.’

  ‘You are too harsh on yourself.’

  ‘I think not. It is wise to know one’s own strengths and weaknesses. Last night, I certainly had a lesson in the latter.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘The Opéra is not the only stage in the world. I’ll go elsewhere. But before I do, I intend to enjoy Paris.’

  He grinned. ‘I’m glad to see you so philosophical.’

  She shrugged. ‘What else can I be?’

  He touched her hand. ‘Then I would be honoured if you would let me help you to enjoy my city.’

  *

  A few days later at Lepage’s shooting gallery, he watched as she practised with a pistol. How fragile she looked, yet there was a glimmer of steel in her eyes as she took aim. It made a piquant contrast.

  The attendant took down the target and brought it over to where they stood. Fiorentino studied the neatly perforated card and whistled. ‘Every bullet found its mark. Congratulations, Lola.’

  ‘You have a natural eye, madame,’ the attendant said.

  She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  Fiorentino looked over at a tall, thin young man with prematurely receding black hair who had just walked in. He stopped at the entrance to their booth and smiled. Fiorentino gave him a friendly nod.

  ‘If you are waiting to take this place, you have a high standard to live up to.’

  The young man’s grey eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘So I see. If the lady were to challenge me to a duel, I think I would be very afraid indeed.’

  He bowed. ‘May I introduce myself, madame? Alexandre Dujarier: at your service.’

  Lola held out her hand for him to kiss and felt a tremor as his lips brushed her skin. He straightened up smiling. ‘Of course I already know who you are, madame, but nothing that I’ve heard has done justice to your beauty.’

  Fiorentino looked from one to the other. I might as well not be here, he thought glumly.

  Dujarier smiled. ‘I’m giving a dinner at L’Escargot tonight. Perhaps you would both care to join me?’

  ‘We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, Pier?’

  Dujarier did not wait for his answer. He kissed Lola’s hand once again. ‘Until tonight then.’

  ‘Tell me about him,’ Lola whispered as she and Fiorentino walked away.

  Fiorentino shrugged. ‘Very clever: whatever he touches turns to gold. He made a fortune in banking by the time he was twenty-five then when he was bored with that, he bought a bankrupt newspaper. People thought he was mad but he turned it around in six months. Of course he hasn’t time for much except work. Some people find him rather dull.’

  Lola looked at him sideways and squeezed his arm. ‘Please don’t sulk, Pier. I want us to be friends.’

  ‘And that is all?’

  ‘I have never pretended to be in love with you,’ she said gently. ‘And I don’t believe you are really in love with me.’

  Fiorentino gave her a wry smile. ‘I suppose you’re right. But it was worth a try.’

  *

  There were many guests at the dinner at L’Escargot, and although Dujarier welcomed Lola and Fiorentino warmly, they hardly spoke for the rest of the evening.

  At midnight, when Fiorentino’s carriage rattled away from her lodgings and she was left alone, she couldn’t ignore the bitter disappointment she felt, but she was angry too. Hadn’t she sworn such a short time ago that she had no need of a man? How weak her resolve was. Yet she couldn’t expel Dujarier’s image from her mind, vexing herself over whether she had read more into his gallantry than was really there. The question was like a stubborn knot that refused to unravel.

  The next day, she had no heart for company. She rose late and took a fiacre to the Bois de Boulogne. As she walked under the trees, she tried to compose her emotions and thoughts. The sky, blue as a duck’s egg, was feathered with hazy clouds. On the lawns, children dressed in neat pinafores and panama hats played with hoops and balls, supervised by their starched nurses. Couples strolled arm in arm in the sunshine and carriages bowled past on the broad avenues. Paris went about her business; it was an ordinary day. Why then did she feel so agitated? Dujarier was just a man. If she couldn’t have him, there would be others. But the wrench of pain the thought caused her made her afraid. She would be a fool to admit love into her life again, she knew it. Love brought with it humiliation and despair. When she parted from Liszt, she had vowed to build strong walls around her heart. But was it already too late?

  By the time she returned to her lodgings, she still hadn’t found an answer. She passed the landlady’s door and the woman came bustling out.

  ‘There’s a gentleman waiting for you, madame,’ she said. ‘I told him I didn’t know where you’d gone or when you’d be back, but he wouldn’t leave. He’s been here for two hours already.’

  Lola’s heart leapt. It couldn’t be Fiorentino, he’d told her he was going out of Paris for a few days and in any case, he would never wait so long. She felt her hands shake as she thanked the woman. Her legs would hardly carry her up the last flight of stairs to her door. When she opened it, she saw a tall figure in black standing at the window. He swung round as she came in. The low sun beat through the windowpane, throwing his face into shadow. The breath seemed to have left her body and she could not speak. Then he took a step towards her, his hands outstretched, and she knew there was no need for words.

  Chapter 21

  Lola touched the ring Dujarier had given her that morning and felt a glow of happiness. Since the day she had returned from the Bois to find him waiting, her life had changed utterly.

  Her mind strayed from the conversation in the group around her as she watched him across the room, talking with his friend, the celebrated novelist, Dumas. She couldn’t help smiling. Dujarier had a particular way of tilting his head to one side when he considered a point, but his serious expression became delightfully boyish when he laughed. After a few moments, she excused herself and went over to the two men.

  ‘Good evening, Monsieur Dumas.’

  Dumas kissed her hand. ‘Lola! What a joy to see you. As usual, you do my old heart good.’

  Dujarier tucked her arm into his. ‘Lola is dancing at the theatre at Porte St Martin next week. I hope you will come?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll make up a party and perhaps you would dine with us afterwards?’

  Lola smiled. ‘That would be delightful.’

  They chatted for a while then Dumas moved away to talk to someone else.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lola whispered when they were alone.

  ‘When everyone has gone, you may thank me properly.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course I am quite capable of organising my own publicity.’

  He chuckled. ‘I know you are. But not, I hope, above accepting help from someone who adores you.’

  ‘Flatterer.’

  ‘No. I always tell the truth,’ he grinned. ‘I’ll shout it out for the whole room to hear if you want.’

  She brushed her hand across his cheek. He caught it and pressed it to his lips. Across the room, Dumas saw them. Dujarier is a lost man, he thought with amusement.

  *

  The Porte St Martin was a large theatre but not in the same class as the Opéra. Its seats were shabby and the walls needed a coat of paint. Nevertheless, it was a popular venue and Lola’s notoriety and Dujarier’s patronage had drawn an exceptional crowd in spite of the freezing night. In the queue for last minute tickets, people stamped their feet to keep warm and their breath rose in clouds of steam in the frosty air.

  In the best box the place offered, Dujarier leant over the balcony to observe the audience. There were quite a few critics there, many
of them men who professed to be his friends or owed him favours. If they did not measure Lola’s dancing by the rigid standards of excellence the Opéra demanded, and gave her credit for the charm and character of her style, the reviews should be good. It was of the greatest importance to him that they should be. He had never felt like this before. He knew his happiness was inextricably linked to hers. The curtain rose and the audience quietened. He closed his eyes for a moment and willed her to succeed.

  *

  The morning was almost over when he woke the following day. Beside him, the rumpled sheets were cold and he heard Lola moving about in the little bathroom next door. He called out to her and she flew through the door and pounced on him.

  ‘Lazybones, I thought you would never wake up.’

  He gasped as she tickled his ribs. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Only when you tell me I am the best dancer in Paris.’

  He grabbed her wrists. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  She pouted. ‘You heard the applause and saw the flowers the audience threw. By the end, I could hardly find a place left to dance on the stage.’

  ‘All right, it’s true. All the others are mere glow-worms to your blazing star. Now come here.’

  She leant forward and nipped his neck with her small, white teeth. Alexandre shuddered and stroked her bare shoulder, his other hand sliding round her waist to pull her close. She felt his heartbeat and the rhythm of his breathing.

  ‘We’ll always be together, won’t we?’ she murmured.

  He kissed her lips. ‘Until death. Now come back to bed.’

  Hours later, they woke again. The winter afternoon had leached the colour from the sun and as it sank towards the horizon, it was almost indiscernible against the grey sky. Lola stretched. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and turned to look at him. How much she loved every inch of his pale, gangly body. She still found it hard to believe she had found a man she could love so deeply who loved her in return. Her success at the Porte St Martin had been exciting. Once it would have meant everything, but now nothing was as important as being with him.