The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  My legs felt weak beneath me, as if they’d turned to ribbons. I slipped to the floor, steadying myself with my hands. My heart was stammering – with nerves and anticipation and fear. “Madika,” I repeated in a whisper. I could see her now, looking over me from my bedroom wall. Anna Pavlova on one side of her and Isadora Duncan on the other. “She’s everything I want to be. I can’t believe she’s going to watch me. You know she trained as a classical ballerina and gave it up to retrain as a modern dancer, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes – I know all about Madika,” said Kitten impatiently. “This is your chance, Lucia.”

  I shook my head apprehensively. “I’m not good enough, Kitten. What if I can’t do it? What if she hates my dance? Or my costume? Or everything?”

  “She won’t, darling.” Kitten squeezed my hand. “You’re the best. Just dance for Madika. Forget the audience, forget everything, just dance for her.”

  “Sam’s coming and lots of Babbo’s friends. And Stella Steyn. I don’t want to let anyone down.” Waves of anxiety were starting to wash over me. “Oh Kitten, I had no idea the judges were going to be so celebrated.” I put my head in my hands, suddenly overcome with dread.

  Kitten knelt down beside me and put her arm round my shoulders. “You’re one of the best amateur dancers in Paris. You can do this. Remember what the newspaper said about you? Remember what you told your father last year? Remember how you told him you’d have your name headlined on the front page before him? Well, that’s because you’re a great dancer and a great choreographer. Now would it help if I watched your ‘secret’ dance? No one need know. What’s the music?”

  “All right. I’ll feel better when I dance. The music’s over there.”

  As Kitten moved towards the gramophone, I crouched on the floor, closed my eyes and twisted into my starting position. Four long deep breaths. Oxygen moving through my body like seawater. Limbs and breath fusing. Water circling and surging round me. To the opening bars of Feu Follet I was, once again, mercurial queen of the briny underworld, spirit of the oceans, empress of a salt green sea.

  Five minutes later Kitten was clapping her hands loudly and shouting “Encore!”

  * * *

  The Bal Bullier was cavernous and high ceilinged. Hot bright lights threw their beams directly onto my spangled body as I lay curled on the stage floor, listening to the audience talking and laughing behind the heavy velvet curtains. I had already performed twice. And each time I was announced as one of the winners. As I accepted my award and curtsied to the crowd, I heard Babbo’s cheers rising above the auditorium, and saw Monsieur Borlin waving his gloves from the box where he sat with his lover, Monsieur de Maré. But I hadn’t felt the usual glow of success because I knew the most difficult competition was yet to come.

  So now there were only six of us left to compete in the final and most demanding round. This was the dance I’d practised, hour after hour. My Mermaid Dance. Only Kitten and Monsieur Borlin had seen it. Of course Kitten had been fulsome in her praise. But Monsieur Borlin had nibbled the end of his fan and said, “Very ambitious, Miss Joyce. Very bold and very brave.” His words made me wonder if perhaps I’d extended myself too far.

  As I lay there, I imagined myself as a mermaid. I saw my tail meandering behind me, felt its firm fleshy weight in the waves. I imagined the ocean chewing and slurping at my scales, the salt collecting in my grainy hair, the crush and crackling of shells beneath my hands. And I breathed, as slowly and steadily as I could. I shut out all thoughts of the audience, the judges, my rival contestants. I was no longer Lucia, daughter, sister, errand girl. I was a mermaid who had bloomed from the wind-bridled sea.

  The orchestra started and the curtains swished softly as they drew back. I slowly unfurled myself before springing into a series of leaps and vaults, my head thrown back, my arms scissoring through the air.

  The stage lights were so dazzling that when I looked out to the audience, I saw nothing but darkness. A black ocean waiting for me. The music swelled, filling the hall as I spun across the stage, chin tilted upwards, back arched, fingers splayed. I was a flying fish, diving and swooping before I arced and twirled through the air. I was a mermaid, pouncing and plunging. I was half seabird and half eel, my arms fluttering and rippling, my head lowered as I sprang across the stage.

  As the music crashed to a finale, I slumped to the floor to finish as I’d started, suddenly tense and anxious. Had the audience liked it? Would the judges appreciate the gymnastic element? The intricate footwork? The complex varying rhythms? I waited for the final chord and as it faded out, the sound of clapping hands and stamping feet erupted into the hall, and my worries slipped away. I lay on the stage, my heart thumping in my ears, and waited for the applause to end. But it didn’t. For a full two minutes (Babbo timed it on his pocket watch) the audience applauded and shouted and drummed the soles of their shoes on the floorboards. The pigeon feather fins were cutting into my skin but I barely felt them, such was the surge of euphoria sweeping through me. When Kitten called me from the wings, I stumbled across the stage and fell into her arms.

  “Darling, you were electric!” she cried. “Electric!”

  * * *

  Backstage, the airless dressing room was thick with tension. Six of us had made it to the Finals: a Norwegian, a Greek, three French dancers and me. We exchanged hesitant smiles and fidgeted with our costumes, our hair, the odds and ends littering the dressing tables. The Norwegian dancer made a great show of stretching out her muscles while the Greek girl sucked on the end of her plait. No one talked. We could hear the audience shouting at the judges to hurry up. Their cries and the stomping of their feet grew louder. The Greek girl’s plait-sucking turned to gnawing. I offered her a toffee from my bag but she gestured to her stomach and waved it away. The orchestra began tuning up as if preparing for the next concert. We eyed each other nervously. What was going on? Why were the judges being so slow?

  Finally, we heard the strains of a Beethoven piece. The audience quietened and we tapped our feet impatiently, wishing the judges would get on with it. The longer we waited the more I wanted to win. I’d never felt so consumed by ambition, and the rawness of my desire startled and unnerved me. More than anything I craved a word of praise from Madika. But I wanted something else too. What was it? Recognition? Validation? And in that nail-biting second, it came to me. I wanted to win so I could dance forever. So Babbo would never mention book-binding again. So Mr Beckett would know my place was on the stage. So Mama would never call me a strumpet or a whore.

  A fanfare of trumpets sliced through the air. We ran our fingers over our hair, wiped the perspiration from our faces and smoothed the creases from our costumes. The Greek girl put her hands over her ears, saying she couldn’t bear to leave the dressing room. I took her hand and led her to the wings where we’d been told to wait while the judges announced their verdict.

  They sat in an ominous row at the end of the stage. I could just make out Madika, her hair piled high on her head and large gold hoops in her ears. Even the angle of her neck was graceful.

  The head judge stood up. The audience was so quiet I could hear the Greek girl chewing on her plait. He shuffled some papers in front of him, gave an important-sounding cough and began his announcement. My body braced itself, as if I was about to walk on very thin ice.

  “An impossible decision, Messieurs et Mesdames. But we have reached a conclusion.” He paused and surveyed the audience. “In third place, Agata Giannoulis from Athens.”

  My heart leapt. Would I be first? I’d had longer applause than Agata. I’d had longer applause than anyone. I drew the plait from her mouth and hugged her as the audience clapped demurely.

  “In second place …” He paused and looked down at his papers as if he’d forgotten who to announce. I felt the air stealing out of my lungs. The crowd was getting restless again and some had begun waving their programmes at the judging panel. “In second place,” he repeated, “is Lucia Joyce from Paris.”


  My heart sank. Second place meant no praise from Madika. Second place meant I wasn’t good enough. It meant I’d let Monsieur Borlin down. And Babbo. And what about Mr Beckett? I felt the crush of disappointment. My dance master had been right. The choreography was too ambitious, too bold for someone as pedestrian as me. Agata was jumping up and down, trying to put her arms round my neck. I heard the judge announce the winner but I didn’t catch her name. One of the French girls bounded out on to the stage, her lavish hair flicking in my eyes as she rushed past.

  As she curtsied, the judge announced her name again, Mademoiselle Janine Solane. I waited for an eruption of applause, for flowers and programmes to be thrown onto the stage. Nothing happened. Janine was about to do a second curtsey when something stopped her. She turned to the judges in confusion. I pricked my ears … I could hear my name. Who was calling me? Confused, I turned to Agata. She smiled and pointed to the audience. I craned my neck to look out into the darkness. The crowd were on their feet, shouting, heckling. My name. They were calling my name. What else were they saying? I strained to hear the words. And then I caught them: “Lucia! L’Irlandaise! Un peu de justice, Messieurs!”

  Agata pushed me on to the stage. Before I knew what had happened, I was back under the bright lights, bewildered – and intoxicated. Janine had retreated to the wings opposite and the judges were standing behind their long table, shrugging and gesticulating.

  My mermaid’s tail prevented me curtseying so I gave a low bow. Tulip heads and daffodils rained down on me. And in the audience I saw Babbo waving his cane, and Monsieur Borlin leaning dangerously over the edge of his box, blowing me kisses. And I wanted the moment to last forever and ever.

  It was only later that I read the lead judge’s assessment of me in the press: “The only contestant with the makings of a professional dancer …. Subtle and barbaric … A remarkable artist!”

  * * *

  It was hot and oppressive in the dressing room. Costumes lay crumpled on the floor, scarves and wigs slung carelessly over chairs. The smell of sweat and face grease and leather dancing shoes and unwashed feet had intensified now we were changing. The dancers were scrubbing make-up from faces, brushing out hair, searching for clothes, when a sudden silence fell across the room. I looked up and saw Madika picking her way through the discarded outfits strewn here and there. All eyes were on her as she walked straight past Janine Solane, winner of the International Festival of Dance, and stopped in front of my dressing table. She was dressed entirely in black, except for several long strands of pearls yoked together, with a tassel made of hundreds of tiny seed pearls that dangled at her waist.

  “Quite a triumph, Miss Joyce. You should have won, of course. The audience made that perfectly clear.” She spoke in heavily accented English but made no attempt to lower her voice. “There is a fashion for negroid dancing and we are all guilty of falling for fashion, are we not?”

  “Th–Thank you,” I stammered, overcome by the presence of my idol and heroine.

  “Perhaps slightly too acrobatic. Otherwise faultless, technically. You are a fugitive from classical ballet, like myself, perhaps?” Her dark eyes were appraising me, inspecting my feet then my legs, arms and chest.

  “No, Madame. I started dancing at the Jacques-Dalcroze Institute and then I trained with Raymond Duncan.” My voice trailed off as I saw the light dull in Madika’s eyes.

  “Oh, him!” she said contemptuously. “His sister, Isadora, was the real genius of course. He has done something for rhythmic dancing I suppose. Where else have you danced?”

  “Now I train with Monsieur Borlin and with Elizabeth Duncan, Madame. And I’m doing a few workshops with Margaret Morris.” I wondered if I should tell her about my dance troupe but Madika started talking again.

  “You have natural talent. Possibly genius. You must enter next year’s Festival of Dance.” She hesitated, fingering her pearls. “I will train you. I admit I am surprised you have had no classical training. It is generally considered a good thing. Give me your left foot.” To my surprise, she knelt down, twisted my foot and inspected my arch.

  Then she stood up, nodding vigorously. “Sometimes the modernists ignore the debt we owe to ballet. I myself am fleeing tradition but I cannot ignore its benefit in building a strong physical foundation. Do not worry. If you train with me you will win next year’s competition. Let me know.” She thrust a card into my hand and was gone, leaving me open-mouthed.

  * * *

  Babbo was beside himself with excitement – and fury. He whisked us to a celebratory dinner at the Closerie des Lilas, opposite the Bal Bullier. Mama wasn’t there. An hour before my performance, she’d complained of pains in her abdomen and retired to bed. Babbo said she was ‘revivifying herself after her recent attack of nerves’. He was referring, of course, to Giorgio’s debut, which had resulted in a surfeit of nervous tension at Robiac Square that had quite exhausted Mama. I’d felt hurt at first but later I wondered if her absence – the lack of accusatory eyes in the audience – had improved my dancing.

  So there we were, eight of us, around a table heaving with platters of discarded oyster shells and cleanly picked chicken bones. We drank glass after glass of champagne while Babbo berated the judges’ decision and repeated, several times, the words of the audience as they heckled. Every time he said ‘Nous reclamons l’Irlandaise!’ he chuckled to himself. Because Mama wasn’t present with her usual vigilant eye on the bottles, Babbo drank quickly, gulping down champagne as if it was water.

  Madika’s words followed me from the dressing room to the restaurant, where I repeated them to Beckett. He, like Babbo, was puffed up with pride and pleasure for me. But something in what she said irked me. Her lightning inspection of my foot had disturbed me. The aftertaste of her flattering words was slightly sour and cast a gauzy shadow over my night of triumph.

  “You should have won,” Beckett said for the tenth time. “You were magnificent. Everyone thought so.”

  “Thank you, Sam!” I felt my face glowing and my jaw beginning to ache from smiling.

  “You were extraordinary. So, are you going to train with the mad woman?”

  “Her name’s Madika. And she’s my idol.” I playfully slapped Beckett’s forearm. “Of course I’m going to train with her. She’s a terrific dancer.”

  “Will you have to leave Paris?” My smile faded. It hadn’t occurred to me I might have to leave to train with Madika. How could I leave Paris now? How could I leave Beckett?

  “Well, I mean she’s Hungarian isn’t she?” Beckett reached for his champagne glass and, as he did so, his hand grazed mine. A charge ran through my body and I involuntarily snatched my hand away as though I’d been stung. Beckett gave me a skewed look and I wondered how much champagne he’d drunk. He was rarely this talkative.

  “Yes, she’s Hungarian, but she works here. Paris is the dance centre of the world. We’re forging a whole new philosophy of movement, of rhythm. And I want to be part of that.” My words spilled out, making me sound like Babbo’s apostles, with all their fervour and passion. “Isn’t that right?” I called out to Kitten, who was deep in conversation with Stella at the other end of the table.

  “We Irish girls can do anything!” shouted Stella, brandishing her feather boa above her head.

  “Vive l’Irlandaise!” Kitten winked at me as she held her glass aloft.

  “La plus belle Irlandaise.” Beckett looked at me over the top of his glass. I moved closer to him, aware of his leg against mine, his hip against mine, his arm against mine. He’d barely talked to anyone that evening except me and Babbo. Indeed, he’d barely drawn his eyes from me all evening. But then Babbo began pulling at my sleeve and indicating his watch. “Your mother – the v–venerable and imperious Mrs Joyce – is alone at home waiting for us and for your news,” he said, his voice heavy with drink. He stood up and pushed back his chair, and Beckett did the same.

  “She should have come,” I said, irritated.

  “She’s still recuperati
ng,” Babbo chided, before belching softly. I refused to be cross or bitter. It was my night so I turned to Beckett and we latched eyes for a second.

  As Babbo headed towards the door, pressing coins indiscriminately into the waiters’ palms, Beckett reached out and took my hand. Giddy with champagne, I fell towards him. There were chairs and table corners butting up against us, waiters and diners pushing past us. I heard people calling for more wine, hollering for their bill, shouting goodbyes and au revoirs, the scraping of chairs and tables and the clunk of empty bottles being cleared away – and from far off the mournful sound of an accordion.

  Beckett put his hands on either side of my face and brought his mouth towards mine. But in a flash he had pulled back and was coughing and blinking and gesticulating.

  “Yes, Babbo’s waiting,” I agreed, soothingly. “He won’t see anything. He’s talking to the waiters and he’s half-blind anyway.” I put my arm out towards Beckett and was about to pull him back to me, when his words broke through the hubbub around us.

  “Behind you,” he rasped, pointing over my shoulder. “That man – he wants you.”

  I turned back to where Babbo’s table of guests were still drinking and laughing. And standing there, watching me, was Emile Fernandez.

  “Forgive me, Lucia, I just wanted to say congratulations.” Emile ran his tongue quickly over his upper lip. “I’ve never seen such exquisite dancing.” He lifted his hat to me and turned abruptly towards the door. I watched him snaking through the mass of tables, slipping past Babbo, and disappearing into the night.

  “I’m sorry,” said Beckett, looking awkwardly at his shoes. “Did you want to be alone with him?”

  “He’s just an old friend.” I picked up my gloves from the table and began easing my fingers into the ends. My previous feelings of elation were now barbed with guilt. Poor Emile! How sad he had looked. I wondered if I should pull Beckett back to me or perhaps fall against his chest. But the moment had passed. Babbo was waving his cane at us from the front door and Emile’s sorrowful face kept reappearing in my mind’s eye.