by Annabel Abbs
“Do you like my frock, Doctor?” I spread out my legs so he can see the full width of the skirt, the swathes of red satin that have been used to make this exquisite evening gown.
He looks at his pocket watch. “Why not wear evening dress at 11.30am? Indeed, why not?”
“It’s for my father. To inspire him. A final inspiration before he leaves Zurich.” I stand up and give a little twirl, so that the skirts spill out around me. “I will dance again, won’t I, Doctor? I mean proper dancing, not just jigging with Babbo. I want to dance on stage again, like I used to.” I triple step past his desk, swinging my hips and clicking my fingers to create a beat.
“Anything is possible, Miss Joyce.”
“I have to go now. Babbo and I are lunching together. Then we have an appointment with Doctor Naegeli. The blood tests I told you about.” I stop dancing and reach for my coat and hat.
“Ah yes, the syphilis tests. I wish you luck, Miss Joyce.” He walks with me towards the door. As he puts his hand on the door handle, he turns to me and says, “I can cure you, Miss Joyce. Of that I am certain. I can cure you.”
12
August 1929
England
It was in Torquay that Beckett haunted me most. When I looked at the cliffs, I saw his craggy face. And when I watched the sea from my window I was reminded of his eyes and the line of his collar bones. I watched the grey water and imagined the arc of his white-gold body splitting the waves. When Babbo brought me a pale pink freckled shell, I ran my fingers through its interior, remembered the dip at the base of Beckett’s throat, how it had inflamed me with love and desire.
When I wasn’t thinking of Beckett, I was longing to dance. I looked at the curved spine of the bay with its sweep of golden sand and wished it would stop raining so I could dance barefoot from end to end. I watched the foaming seahorses and churning waves and thought about composing a ballet in which I would perform a drowning sailor saved by white-maned seahorses. I studied the shifting colours of the ocean and promised myself I’d sketch out costumes in oyster blue, as soon as I’d helped Mama to settle in.
But the pleasure I took in these small fantasies came to an end, one damp afternoon when Mrs Fleischman arrived. I was looking out of the window of the suite I was sharing with Mama and Babbo. Giorgio had gone to meet Mrs Fleischman at the station and the two of them returned in a taxicab. They stepped out and loitered at the front of the hotel, presumably waiting for her trunks and hat boxes. I could see Giorgio twirling his cane and looking very pleased with himself, and Mrs Fleischman looking coy and haughty at the same time. She had on a Chanel dress that clung to every roll of well-nourished flesh and draped expensively over her vigorous hips. I watched her open her handbag, take out her purse and give Giorgio a wad of what I assumed were English pound notes. Mama was fussing around the suite, asking ‘Is Giorgio back yet?’ and I could hear Babbo’s crayon scraping as he wrote.
“They’ve just arrived,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the grey sky. “She’s wearing a Chanel dress.” Immediately I regretted my words.
Mama rushed to the window, craning over my shoulder to see Mrs Fleischman’s outfit. She began fiddling with the window latch, all the time staring greedily down at the hotel entrance. And at that very moment I saw something that made me wince and blanch. Because Mama saw it too.
Giorgio stood there, flicking through the notes Mrs Fleischman had given him as though he was counting them or checking they were the right currency. Then she twisted round her rolled parasol and hooked its ivory handle into the top pocket of Giorgio’s jacket. Mama gasped. “What on earth is she doing? She’ll ruin his new jacket!”
I wanted to push Mama away but it was too late. Besides which, I had frozen. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even blink. So the two of us watched in horror as Mrs Fleischman pulled Giorgio to her using her parasol. Even Giorgio looked faintly surprised and I saw him gesture up at our window. But it was too late. She had pulled him to her, unhooked the parasol, and put her arms round his neck. And now she was nuzzling his neck and had her hands inside his jacket in such an intimate and familiar way that nothing I said could have excused or explained it.
“Sweet Jesus! Blessed Mother o’ Mary! How long has this been goin’ on?” Mama turned to me, her top lip curled in disgust. “Jim – come quick! Giorgio and Mrs Fleischman are … are ….” She gave a small strangled cry.
Babbo hobbled to the window and peered out. “Are what?”
“Lovers,” I said with a grim satisfaction. For once Mama would turn her displeasure on Giorgio rather than me. For once I had done nothing wrong. This time Giorgio would be in trouble. And Mrs Fleischman too. Big trouble! I silently thanked Mrs Fleischman for being so indiscreet.
“Oh,” said Babbo blandly. “I can’t see anything. Are they fornicating on the hotel steps?”
“This is no laughin’ matter,” choked Mama. “She’s my age and she’s married and she has a babby!”
“But she is rich.” Babbo coughed delicately and began polishing his glasses with his handkerchief, bunching it tightly between his spidery fingers.
“What does that matter? She’s snared our Giorgio!”
“No doubt he will tire of her monetary charms.”
“And her wrinkles and her saggin’ flesh,” added Mama bitterly.
“Indeed, Nora. Paris is full of charming young ladies. I suggest we let it run its course.”
“If you think I’m not sayin’ anything, you’re wrong. I’ll not have any mischief here, in this hotel, under me own nose.” Mama gave a stifled sob and rubbed angrily at her eyes with her fists. “My Giorgio! ’Tis why he’s been out so much and never at home. And her all done up like a dog’s dinner! Oh my Giorgio!”
“She has a husband and a son to contend with too. No doubt Giorgio will tire of the competition.” Babbo put a consoling hand on Mama’s arm and tried to guide her away from the window. But she refused to move and kept wiping her eyes and looking down at the hotel steps where Mrs Fleischman now had her head on Giorgio’s chest as though she was a doctor listening to his heart beat.
“Nothin’ but an old tart! A strumpet … Mutton dressed as lamb. Not an ounce o’ shame!” She took Babbo’s handkerchief from him and pressed it to her red watery eyes.
“Now, now. It will run its course. Let’s not interfere, Nora. We forget he is twenty-three.”
But then Mama seemed to notice my presence, and she turned on me viciously. “All this goin’ on behind me back and you knew it! You knew it!”
“Hush, Nora. My Cassandra may have had a premonition, but that doesn’t mean it is her fault Giorgio is dallying with Mrs Fleischman. If indeed he is.” Babbo made soothing motions with his hands, stroking at the air. But his words only made Mama angrier than ever.
“So how long has this been goin’ on, Cassandra?” She sneered. “And what exactly have they been doin’? Have they copulated? Have they?”
“Nora!”
“She pulled the wool over me eyes. She’s lied to me. Me own daughter! Tell me, Cassandra – have they fucked?”
“Nora – calm yourself.” And Babbo’s words were so sharp and commanding that Mama fell against his chest with a low ragged moan. I drew back, shocked and confounded by the harshness of her words. My blood had stopped moving and turned to ice and I could feel my teeth biting down on my tongue. And inside me I felt something tugging, plucking at my intestines … her rage, the image of Giorgio copulating, fucking. My stomach started to churn.
“She is upset,” Babbo mouthed to me over Mama’s weeping head. “Go and warn your brother.”
* * *
Mrs Fleischman stayed for five days and during that time Mama preserved a cold hauteur. At meal times she fretted ostentatiously over Giorgio, making sure he ate enough, checking the waiters kept his glass topped up, fetching his cigarettes when he left them in his room, picking up his napkin when it slipped to the floor. But towards Mrs Fleischman her air of frigid aversion didn’t change. And her sile
nce said everything. Giorgio left early with Mrs Fleischman, saying he had an unexpected singing competition to prepare for. A lie, but I couldn’t blame him. Towards me, Mama maintained her sense of wounded betrayal. But she didn’t call me Cassandra again and she never, ever, used the word ‘fuck’ again. Not in my presence.
By then the weather had cleared up and I longed to get out and dance on the beach. But every time I tried to slip off on my own Babbo or Mama or their flattering friends would call out for me. I was needed to help Mama choose a hat or to accompany Mrs Flatterer along the sea front. Please could I read to Babbo or escort him to the beach to take the air, or pop to the post office with a parcel? These endless tiresome errands infuriated me but on the few occasions when I protested, Mama snapped at me and Babbo begged me to be gentle with her, blaming the huge shock she’d suffered over the discovery of Giorgio’s affair.
Mama was convinced that a good long break was exactly what I needed and repeated this to anyone who’d listen, while issuing a constant stream of orders and instructions to me. All I could think was that I needed a break from her and her endless errands. I barely had time to write to Beckett, although he sent me several postcards from Germany. And then Babbo fell over a wall and I had to keep him company on the beach while he lay there playing with the pebbles and asking, over and over, if I’d had any premonitions of him tumbling from a wall. When he suggested I dance on the sand in my bathing costume, I tried a few pliés and ran my feet through their positions. But in his most piteous voice, he said “What about your Isadora Duncan dancing?” I wasn’t in the mood, so I helped him arrange pebbles in tight whorls instead. Emir’s turbans, he called them.
Slowly, inexorably, my muscles slackened and my strength diminished. My body was atrophying. And at the back of my mind, Madame’s parting words lay festering. What had she meant when she said if I couldn’t be strong with my family, I may not have the strength for ballet? It was only after several sleepless nights that I suddenly understood Madame’s words. In her veiled Russian way she was trying to tell me I didn’t have the talent or the physical strength for classical ballet. On the train home I experienced another moment of clarity and decision. I had to prove Madame wrong. And there was only one way to do this. I had to remove myself from the suffocating clawing influence of my family. It was time to realise my destiny, to take control of my fate. It was time to marry.
* * *
It was marvellous to be back in Paris. After the damp, grey beaches of England I could barely contain my joy at returning to the city I now thought of as home. The boulevards were strewn with the hollow, spiked shells of fallen chestnuts and the leaves on the trees were starting to bronze and curl. And yet the city gave an impression of rebelliousness, as if it didn’t give a damn whether winter was coming or not.
It even felt good to be back at Robiac Square, tinkering on the piano, dancing in front of my full length mirror, sleeping in my own bed, eating breakfast with my hair unbrushed. Beckett appeared most afternoons and it seemed to me that his piercing eyes lingered a little longer and our hallway chats were a little more intimate. As if our tumblings in the parlour had awakened something in him. Only when Mama was around did he revert to his old stooping and shy self.
“I can’t live out of a suitcase,” I explained one afternoon, shortly after we’d returned. Beckett had arrived earlier than expected so I’d managed to steer him into the parlour for a quick cup of English Breakfast tea. “Mama and Babbo love staying in hotels. They love packing and unpacking and moving from place to place, ferry to train to motor car to hotel.”
“And you don’t?” Beckett sat perched on the edge of the sofa, three volumes of Shakespeare carefully aligned on his lap.
“They do it with such ease, so effortlessly. I hate the endless packing and un-packing and not knowing what the next hotel will be. It makes dancing impossible. Babbo can write on trains and ferries but I can’t practise, can I? And I loathe all the dressing up.” I gave a deep sigh, threw myself dramatically back against the sofa, stared at the ceiling.
“Dressing up?”
“Having to dress for breakfast, having to dress for dinner. Always having to look the part. I don’t want my life to be so … so unsettled. Or so much about appearances.” I twisted my head to look at Beckett. He’d started to dress like Babbo. He’d bought a pair of patent leather shoes with pointed toes, like Babbo’s. They were too small for him. I could tell they pinched his toes. Dancers spot things like that.
“Oh, I see.” Beckett leaned forward, dropped a cube of sugar into his tea and stirred it thoughtfully.
“I need space to dance. Preferably the same space each day. And a gramophone and my dance shoes. Mama doesn’t understand that.” I shrugged hopelessly. I wanted to give Beckett some idea of the life I hoped to have as Mrs Beckett. It was important he understood the requirements of a dancer.
I pulled myself up and edged closer to him. “I feel much better now I’m home, and with you, and dancing again. My equilibrium is quite restored!”
“Madame Egorova welcomed you back then?” Beckett’s gaze shifted beyond me to Babbo’s wall of portraits.
“Yes, but I know she’s watching me closely. And I’m practising like crazy.” I looked at him again. He needed to know I had no intention of giving up my dancing. He needed to know that, as Mrs Beckett, I would continue to dance. I didn’t want a life like Mama’s – sorting laundry and buying shoes and having my hair waved. No, I was a dancer and that was that. But Beckett was staring intensely at Babbo’s ancestral portraits, as if to imprint them on his memory.
“Although Mama and Babbo had me running hither and thither, my days felt quite empty without dance. I don’t think it’s good for me – not to dance.” I said this very emphatically. It wasn’t only that Beckett needed to be clear about the future Mrs Beckett’s requirements. It was also that two months without dance had helped me articulate its importance in my life, and I wanted to sound out my thoughts on Beckett. I knew he would understand. “Dance gives my life purpose and meaning, of course. But it’s more than that. When I dance I experience myself differently. As a different person, as different people.”
But Beckett didn’t seem to hear. I saw his eyes darting towards Babbo’s study door and back to the Shakespeare plays cradled in his lap. Then he said “Did your father enjoy England?”
I didn’t pursue the topic of my dancing. I could see he had something on his mind. “Oh he sat in pubs listening to the conversations of strangers and he worked on his book and saw another eye doctor in London, and played with a lot of pebbles on the beach.”
“Pebbles?” Beckett’s gaze swivelled back to me.
“You know – stones. The hotel in Torquay was like a palace. It had its own orchestra and an electric lift. They loved it – you know how they like the grand style. Mama hasn’t stopped talking about it. I preferred Cambridge. Babbo made a recording of himself there, reading from Work in Progress.” I paused and gave a clipped laugh. “Someone described his voice as ‘liquid and soft with undercurrents of gurgle’.”
“Did they now?” Beckett chuckled into his tea cup.
“Enough about us. How were your aunt and uncle?”
“Fine,” he coughed lightly. “Your father’s asked me to translate some of Work in Progress into French.”
My heart gave a little skip. “Babbo thinks you’re wonderful, Sam. So you’ll be here more than ever?”
Beckett nodded and then sank into a brooding silence, staring despondently into his tea.
“I can help you. It won’t be easy to translate but we’ll manage.” I stretched out and gave his forearm a reassuring squeeze, relieved to discover what was on his mind.
“You’re very kind, Lucia. Very sweet.” He ran his hand across his face. Oh how I wanted to reach out and take him in my arms. He seemed so tired all of a sudden, as if the prospect of translating Babbo’s work was weighing him down. “I have to go back to Ireland next week,” he added. “I have to sort out t
he renewal of my contract and see my parents.”
“When will you be back?” I took a sip of tea, leaned over him so my breasts brushed his chest, put my tea cup down on the table and sat back. Beckett blinked and swallowed so extravagantly his Adam’s apple rippled in his throat.
“November.”
And then Babbo appeared, his eyes all red and oozing. Mr Beckett leapt up and the two of them sloped off into the study.
I picked up Beckett’s tea cup and put my lips to the rim, exactly where his lips had been. How right it felt! How happy I was to be back in Paris, with Beckett, with Madame Egorova. I would miss Beckett when he returned to Ireland, of course. But that gave me more time to perfect my marital plans, to make them fool-proof and flawless. Yes, everything was edging forward perfectly.
* * *
I noticed the heavy perfume of the roses first, and then their colour, yellow like marzipan. Only when I was close enough to touch them, did I see Mrs Fitzgerald peering out from behind, her eyes wheeling up and down the stairs. I was just leaving Madame Egorova’s studio and Mrs Fitzgerald was arriving, holding her huge bouquet like a shield in front of her face.
“What beautiful roses,” I exclaimed.
“Oh these are for Madame. I bring her a gift every day. Usually flowers but not always.” Mrs Fitzgerald’s voice was gushing and breathless. “I can’t bear to think of the great Madame Lubov Egorova living in poverty. I just can’t bear it! She’s the Princess Troubetsky, don’t you know?”
I nodded, nonplussed.
“And now she lives in poverty. Have you been to her tiny house? She has no bathroom! I just can’t bear to think of her like that!” Mrs Fitzgerald was blinking hard behind her roses, as though she were fighting back tears.
“How are your classes going, Mrs Fitzgerald?”
