TWENTY-SIX
It is dangerous for me, this List of Patrons and the letters with their esteemed signatures. I feel as if I have succumbed to that most classic of the magician’s techniques: my attention has been diverted elsewhere by all the glamour and mystique. I’m not looking closely enough at the mechanics of the trick. The challenges Zeno and Rosetta confronted in their new life should not be minimised. Despite their abundant confidence and the evidence I have seen, I have to remind myself that attracting the type of devoted clients who flocked to their door was a not inconsiderable task.
London in 1910 was the hub of a vast Empire. It boasted great public squares and classical monuments, palatial hotels and marble temples of commerce, bustling docks, thriving markets and gilded theatres, music halls, shops, restaurants and treasure-filled museums. Money was London’s lifeblood; it ran through the city’s streets and lanes as if through arteries and veins.
There were parts of the metropolis that had never experienced displays of such extravagance and wealth. The mansions were more splendid, jewels and gowns more opulent, the balls and dinners more magnificent than anyone had ever seen.
That the man at the very centre of this brilliance, King Edward VII, died in May and was replaced by his sober son, George V, made no difference. The indulgent, gorgeous, carefree life of the upper classes whirled on, for now safe and secure. It was admission to this world of unparalleled excess for which Zeno and Rosetta yearned.
The acquisition of suitable countries of origin was but the first step. In order to penetrate the upper echelons of Edwardian society, my great-grandparents had to be seen as not just respectable, which, all things considered, was challenging enough. Wild popularity depended on being perceived as stylish and smart. It was a high-stakes balancing act.
Zeno and Rosetta trod a line as fine and fraught with risk as any that Wonderland’s most daring tightrope walkers ever had, requiring infinite finesse. If they stumbled, if in an unguarded moment or by some inopportune circumstance their former lives were discovered, descent into a world of louche outcasts would be the unspeakable result. Only someone not just clever, but au fait with the arcane habits of society, would have been able to advise Zeno and Rosetta on the way to prevent this fatal fall from grace.
There was just one such person who possessed the necessary flair for publicity and presentation, in addition to the right connections, just one who could help them light the flame necessary to ignite their bonfire of success.
‘Don’t worry, my dear, from you I have no secrets; well, perhaps just a few.’
Rosetta has been reunited with her good friend Helena Rubinstein who, hungry for success, has cultivated all the right people and done extremely well for herself. The former impoverished Polish émigrée who once looked after other people’s children in suburban St Kilda now revels in her international popularity. She is brilliant, and driven.
The two women are in the upper drawing room of the elegant Georgian mansion at 24 Grafton Street that once belonged to the former British Prime Minister Lord Salisbury. Decorated with select antiques mixed with finds from flea markets, it has a modern quality of witty elegance.
‘The salon is of course at street level. Clients who happen to be visiting the Royal Academy of Arts, Fortnum & Mason or Berkeley Square find it most convenient,’ Helena remarks, then asks her maid to bring them cups of hot chocolate. ‘There is even a telephone. You must ring me – the number is Mayfair 4611.
‘Now, down to business. First, I have always believed one should go where the customer is most comfortable. It is the reason why I established my salon in Melbourne’s Collins Street and then in Paris on the rue Saint-Honoré. You must open your doors at precisely that place where all the best people want to be. I see that you have chosen Mayfair, just like me. So, you have made an excellent beginning.’
Helena turns to Rosetta, once more studies her friend’s appearance. The simple boater, blouse and skirt she would wear to visit the Melbourne salon have been exchanged for something more impressive. Now she is dressed elaborately in a tremendous black hat with a large feather. Wrapped in fur, she flaunts a brace of grey fox with heads and tails intact. At thirty, she personifies the late King Edward’s ideal woman: voluptuous and rather grand.
Though possessed of an equally full figure, Madame Rubinstein is dressed in quite a different style, simpler, yet with an exotic quality. Helena’s innate theatricality is heightened by the vivid green silk tunic she wears over a slim, dark purple skirt, by the glistening pearls and emeralds hanging from her ears and looping around her throat.
‘Ah Rosetta, I see you are admiring these.’ Helena’s fingertips caress her matchless jewels. ‘They are my vice. Each time my husband, Titus, and I argue, I indulge myself.
‘Strictly between the two of us, for, after all, we have known each other for so long, I left Titus when we were in France.’
‘Helena, whatever for?’
‘Because I discovered my charming husband engaged in an act of unfaithfulness when we were in Nice. After lunch one day I returned to our hotel suite. I hadn’t planned to, but I needed my parasol – and there he was. He simply adores beautiful, alluring women. But honestly, Rosetta, it was our honeymoon!’ She shook her head, her earrings swinging furiously.
‘Ah, I should have more sense. As you see, I have taken him back. I love the man, so what else can I do? It was after the French debacle that I acquired my first important string of pearls. The experience was quite uplifting. You know, I have discovered that shopping is a marvellous antidote for the absence of many other things.
‘And speaking of shopping, naturally you look very well in your clothes but something a little less complicated, more au courant, would be better, I feel. Do let me introduce you to my favourite couturier, Paul Poiret. His new designs are really the dernier cri. He has been inspired by the costumes – you should see the colours – from the Ballets Russes. Simply everyone is talking about the company’s divine dancers, Nijinsky especially. He has this wonderful, athletic grace.’
She takes Rosetta’s hand. ‘You must not, of course, dress like me. I am in the beauty business where it is essential to wear the latest fashion. That would not be appropriate for you, but as the wife of an eminent Professor,’ Helena winks, ‘you must still look chic. It inspires confidence. In my experience, important clothes impress important people.’
During a pause in Helena’s rapid, accented instructions, she takes the opportunity to sip from the delicate cup of rich, steaming chocolate that her maid has placed on a small gilt table.
‘Which brings me to the last important matter. I will refer clients, of course, but you yourself must come to know the right, fashionable people. Study them, their habits, interests and families, as I have done. Always be ready to oblige and, take it from me, the rich adore a little special treatment, you know what I mean? Waive the occasional account, give them a small gift, some bibelot or other, and they will think you quite marvellous. Before long, you will find they recommend you to all their friends.
‘Oh, and one more thing. Do not forget the benefits of publicity. Zeno needs something to prove his credentials, his – now what is the word, yes – veracity. Let me see … I would advise that he writes an article for a respected journal; it doesn’t have to be very long. But it should sound scientific and talk about all the latest techniques. Then you simply need to make sure it is circulated. It is extraordinary, I know, but it seems one only has to see a thing in print for it to be believed.’
Helena stops in mid-flow. She consults a jade and onyx clock. It is not one of her flea-market finds but has been purchased quite recently at some expense from Sotheby’s, a nearby auction house. Between Helena’s well-groomed brows, as finely etched and dark as swallows’ wings, a small frown appears, a tiny flaw in her otherwise perfect, porcelain skin.
‘Rosetta, I have been enjoying such a splendid conversation with you, my dear, that the time has completely run away. I must be on my way to
Dover to catch the boat for Calais. Colette, my writer friend, is having a soiree for me in Paris.
‘Colette is quite wicked, you know, but she’s been such a help to me. Did you read what she told the French reporters after she had one of my salon massages, the ones we offer with special extra, ah, how shall I put it … enhancements? She said that without them a French woman had no hope of keeping her lover! It was in all the newspapers, the publicity was wonderful. You must try the same massage, darling – we use those little electromechanical machines. They vibrate beautifully – anyway, when you come in you will see exactly what I mean.
‘Now I must say goodbye. And Rosetta, do just as I advise. Don’t forget a thing!’
TWENTY-SEVEN
There are no letters from Rosetta. I do know what her writing looks like, though, because it is on the back of several photographs that she sent from London to her sister Florence. Rosetta’s hand is neither small nor neat. Like her character, it is a touch flamboyant, has a certain flourish. She addresses her sister by her pet name, Florrie, and signs with her own diminutive ‘best love & wishes, Rose xxx’.
I wonder what Rosetta thought of the extraordinary new world in which she lived, how it felt to be sought by so many famous and important people; scientists, actresses, writers, a host of aristocrats and a brace of princes and princesses. At first it must have seemed as if she were inhabiting a fairytale, a kingdom imagined only in her dreams. Now this is the medium through which I reach out to Rosetta: she lives within my reveries.
In all the letters to Zeno, apart from the inclusion by grateful patients of such greetings as ‘Fond remembrances to Madame’, there is barely a word about Rosetta. This may well have been because most of his female clients – not just in London but from half a dozen cities scattered across the Continent – were at least half in love with him.
‘I think of you constantly,’ wrote Baroness Ernesta Stern, dear friend of Proust and a cache of European royalty, from her magnificent villa on the French Riviera’s Cap Martin.
Another devotee, this one from the Paris address of 65 Boulevard de Clichy, near the Moulin Rouge, exclaimed: ‘I will never forget the moment I met you, it was Light for me.’
A Hungarian noblewoman from Vas Megye, her letterhead among those bearing crowns, was equally entranced, confessing ‘You interest me more than I can say …’
Only a man of mesmerising, charismatic charm could have attracted this kind of adoration from such sophisticated women of the world. One can sense Zeno’s irresistible magnetism reflected in his admirers’ ardent words. Given this surfeit of adoring protestations, Rosetta could hardly be looked at askance for failing to dissuade an admirer of her own.
He is among the new men who stroll across London’s squares with such distinctive nonchalance. Slender and graceful, with brilliant black hair and sleek moustaches, they wear their suits cut close to their taut bodies and their hats at an angle just a little more acute than those of other men. Their skin is smooth and their dark eyes have a tendency to linger a moment longer than strictly necessary when they pass a beautiful woman. They are rich, have divine manners and practised charm. They ride superbly and dance in a disturbing, dazzling way that no one before has ever seen. They are from the Argentine.
It is likely that these are the men for whom the word ‘playboy’ has been invented, for they appear to have no purpose in life other than the ardent pursuit of pleasure. They are notorious for their womanising, though curiously few of their conquests ever seem to complain. Bearing names such as Vincente, Carlos and Eduardo, they are the pampered, well-born scions of South American families who have made vast fortunes from their herds of cattle and endless fields of grain.
With a life of luxury at their disposal, they seek indulgence far beyond the safe confines of Buenos Aires’ upper classes. First they sail for Paris, where these men and the dance they bring with them cause a sensation. After this triumph, they come to London.
Rosetta watches Lilian from the other side of an elegant panelled room. Since her arrival in London they have had few opportunities to enjoy each other’s company, for Arthur’s pursuit of a political career has required his wife to make a myriad of smiling, dutiful appearances, first in the electorate of North St Pancras and then in Marylebone East.
Now, at last, the two women are together once again. Lilian is just as beautiful as Rosetta remembers, though with a new quality. It isn’t just that her blonde hair is a shade deeper, has become more a burnished gold, or that motherhood has led to a more womanly figure. Behind Lilian’s customary poise, so artfully reinforced by years of training and control, Rosetta senses a vulnerability, a heightened need she has not noticed previously. It renders Lilian more appealing, less contained, a little more reckless than when she lived within the walls of Victoria’s Government House so many years ago. Rosetta observes that her friend’s attractions are not wasted on her dancing partner. This is not the staid Arthur Pakenham but a particularly stylish dark-eyed man.
Never before has Rosetta seen a gentleman hold his partner as closely as this stranger holds Lilian. It would be cause for scandal if not for the fact that this is exactly the way in which every other couple at Lady Diana’s thé dansant is entwined. The couples move together, twirling and turning to a pulsating rhythm that makes Rosetta’s senses sing.
‘Madame Zeno, I do adore your gown. Poiret, if I’m not wrong?’ It is Lady Diana herself; together with her mother, the Duchess of Rutland, she is hosting this soiree at their palatial Mayfair home. ‘How good of you to come. And Mrs Pakenham, too, I see. I say, she does seem to be having quite a good time, doesn’t she?
‘Now, as the Professor sadly cannot join us, you must have a dancing partner, too. Ah, perfect. Here is Senor Alberto Rivero.’
A tall man, a little younger than Rosetta, approaches bearing two sparkling glasses of champagne. He is not dressed as an Englishman would be. The shoulders of his coat are sharper, his trousers narrower on the leg. He holds himself differently, too, with formal elegance. There is none of the Englishman’s customary slouch.
Diana makes the necessary introductions. Her sapphire eyes are dancing with delight. ‘Take good care of Madame Zeno,’ she says. ‘She is a new and quite marvellous acquaintance of mine.’ With that, Diana, just a little pleased with herself, departs.
‘Madame Zeno, how fortunate I am that Lady Diana has been kind enough to introduce me to you.’ Alberto, despite his youth, has a considerable quantity of polished charm. ‘I would regard it a rare honour if a woman as beautiful as you would consent to be my partner for this dance.’
As Alberto smiles, Rosetta sees his lips part to show his teeth, white against his tanned skin. She catches herself wondering what it would be like to taste the champagne on those lips, how it might be to press her own mouth to his.
Alberto is not always sincere. But on this occasion he is not resorting to false flattery. Rosetta has taken Helena’s advice to heart; she no longer wears the voluminous, padded clothing deemed essential during King Edward’s reign. Her simple Poiret dress drapes across the fullness of her breasts, glides smoothly over her hips. It has restored to Rosetta a youthful suppleness.
The skirt, designed to resemble a tulip, curves at the front in two arcs. When she walks, the petal-like shapes part, daring to reveal the line of her long, slim legs. Rosetta’s gown is in a shade of orange customarily found only in a sunset. Heightening the amber in her hair and the gold within her eyes, it makes her radiant. Rosetta has the scintillating sensation that inhabits a woman when she knows she looks her best. It has bestowed a special confidence, made her more vivacious and more likely to take risks. Yet she declines Alberto’s invitation.
‘I am very flattered, Senor, but you see I am not familiar with the steps.’ Rosetta’s words are cool, almost dismissive. She is unwilling to betray her interest.
Alberto’s dark gaze is unusually direct. Rich, young and far from his home in Buenos Aires, he is accountable to no one. There is noth
ing to be lost by allowing the attraction in his eyes to show.
‘If that is your only objection, Madame,’ he responds silkily, ‘then that can be easily overcome. I will teach you everything.’
Rosetta’s resistance to Alberto’s charm is rapidly diminishing. ‘Well, if you are to be my teacher, the first thing I must learn is this dance’s name,’ she says. Alberto smiles once more as he responds. ‘Tango, Madame Zeno. It is called tango.’
The fashionable drawing rooms of Mayfair are a long way from the more dissolute brothels of Argentina. It might surprise the Duchess of Rutland and her daughter, should they realise the truth, that these wild, disreputable places are well known to their handsome foreign guests.
In Buenos Aires these men are bored, seek the stimulation of forbidden pleasure. Alberto and his friends leave the comfort of their palatial casas, ride recklessly into the night. They go to the barrios to find the danger missing from their lives. This is the place where they discover the icy white powder that makes life sharper, more intense; find hard women and harder men who do not hesitate to draw a sudden flashing blade. It is in this decadent domain that the most passionate dancing takes place.
Alberto knows that tango is many things. It is a dance of proud walks and of two bodies entwined in intimate embrace. It belongs to the night. Tango is a vehicle devised solely for the purpose of showing off the control of high pleasure. Like an intensely erotic encounter, it is a blend of giving and withholding, of surrender and restraint.
To have the undivided interest of an attractive young man is not merely gratifying. Just at this moment, it is exactly what Rosetta needs. She has observed that Zeno enjoys much success. This is what she wants for him, for both of them. She has even grown accustomed to the fact that she, his wife, is not the only object of his attention. But the realm in which they live has changed. The women who spend time with Zeno behind the closed doors of New Bond Street or in hotel suites are not simple showgirls. Duchesses and their like wield true power, the kind that comes with titles, wealth and position. If disappointed or dismayed, these privileged women can be dangerous, vicious. They will close ranks and a careless interloper will soon know the damage their authority can wreak, what a fall from grace can mean.
Rosetta Page 12
