by Annabel Abbs
My lips moved wordlessly. “What are you trying to tell me?” I didn’t wait for an answer – I didn’t want Stella to report back to Babbo on my idiosyncratic behaviour in her ‘discourse’.
“Can you manage another painting or would you rather go home, Lucia?”
I took a deep breath. Why was Stella talking to me as if I was a child? Or an invalid? “Of course I can look at another painting. But I want to look at a painting of hands. Long thin hands. Male hands …”
“Hands?” Stella frowned and gave me an odd stare.
“Yes, bare hands.” I didn’t tell her about Beckett’s hands, the sculpted beauty of his wrists, his knuckles, his tapering fingers. I didn’t tell her that I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands, those beautiful hands that had held me, fondled me, burned themselves onto my skin. No – that was all mine and I wouldn’t share it with anyone.
14
November 1929
Paris
By the time Beckett returned to Paris it was late November and the days had turned dank and cold. While he’d been away Babbo had become utterly possessed by an Irish opera singer called John O’Sullivan. He was an elderly and cranky man, bitter at his lack of recognition after so many years touring the world’s opera houses. But he was in Paris to sing in William Tell and Babbo was determined everyone should see him and acknowledge his vocal ‘genius’.
I was enlisted to write invitations to everyone we knew. Perhaps ‘invitation’ is the wrong word, for as I sat at his desk, pen in hand, it seemed to me that I was writing begging letters – begging, beseeching, cajoling all our friends, all Babbo’s Flatterers, anyone we knew in Paris, every journalist Babbo had ever met – to buy tickets to William Tell. When I asked him why we were putting so much time and effort into the career of John O’Sullivan, he said it was to help Giorgio’s career.
Babbo paced the shadowy room dictating to me: “John O’Sullivan – no, drop the O – just say John Sullivan for the love of music – has the greatest human voice I have ever heard.” He paused, took off his glasses and rubbed his swollen eyes.
“You want me to write that? The greatest voice you’ve ever heard?”
“Lucia, please don’t question what I’m writing. It makes me lose my thread.” Babbo shook his head impatiently and put his glasses back on. “I do not believe – are you writing this, Lucia? – there can have existed in the past a greater tenor than his, and as for the future, I think it doubtful that human ears …” He paused, groping for the right words. “… will ever hear such another until the Archangel Michael sings his grand aria in the last act.”
I took down his words dutifully in my most elegant handwriting, meticulously looping the g’s and adding a little flourish to the s’s. Babbo bowed his head, resting his forehead in his ringed hand. Then he lifted his head and pointed a yellowed finger at me.
“Are you ready for the next paragraph?”
I nodded, completely absorbed now in perfecting each letter, embellishing where I could with curlicues and whorls.
He started pacing again, feeling his way round the two chairs, his hands outstretched to avoid collisions. “William Tell follows the same theme as Ulysses – a father’s search for a son and a son’s search for a father. Please join us for a champagne dinner, with John Sullivan, after the performance. There … I think that’ll do.”
Three hours later and my hand ached. So too did my back from stooping over Babbo’s desk. Two blisters were ballooning, one on the tip of my index finger and one on the corner of my thumb. I surveyed the pile of envelopes in front of me – well over forty. As I uncurled my back and stretched out my neck and shoulders I heard Babbo on the telephone talking about John Sullivan, his voice rising with excitement.
“You must come. He can reach High Cs with the greatest of ease. No other tenor in the world can do that.” There was a long pause and then Babbo was off again, eulogising, praising, beseeching. His enthusiasm bubbled out of him like champagne from a bottle. But I couldn’t share it. Indeed it filled me with disquiet for I realised this was nothing to do with helping Giorgio’s career. Why wasn’t I asked to write forty invitations to Giorgio’s debut in April? I thought of Sullivan – grumpy, old Sullivan who had come to dinner and only spoken in French and hectored everyone and bickered with his wife. I thought, with a spasm of pain, of Giorgio who was dutifully living out Babbo’s unlived life as an opera singer. For a measly five hundred francs a month singing in the choir at the American Cathedral on Avenue George V. I lay down on the couch and sucked my blistered finger. Babbo was still talking on the telephone, his splintered voice floating through the apartment. “John Sullivan … Yes, John Sullivan. You have to come and you must write something. He’s been overlooked entirely …. Yes, persecuted … exactly.”
And then it hit me. Why had no one written forty invitations to see me dance at the Bal Bullier? Or the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées? Or the Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier? Why had Babbo not enlisted his army of Flatterers to applaud vigorously for me? To demand encores for me? To write articles extolling my dancing? Where were the reporters and photographers that he was so assiduously courting for John Sullivan? Why did Babbo prefer quarrelsome old Sullivan to me?
And without warning, before I had time to stamp it out, a blast of fury rose inside me, closed over me.
I tried to crush it, but I couldn’t. I’ve re-lived that moment a hundred times, a thousand times, since then. Although I was alone in Babbo’s study, I felt the presence of someone else. Someone violent and desperate. As if the shadow that usually stretched behind me had come to fiendish life and stolen into my body. I closed my eyes and willed it away. But it slunk back, dark and ugly.
I pulled myself up from the couch, closed my eyes and began circling Babbo’s study, trying to rid myself of this thing. I twisted and turned, crouched and leapt and, when Babbo came in, I was whirling like a Turkish dervish, my eyes frenzied and my heart pounding. Books and papers spewed from the shelves. Pictures and photographs skewed from their hooks. The electric light swung dizzily from the ceiling.
“Lucia!” Babbo stood in the doorway, his body rigid with shock. I continued spinning, knocking over an empty wine bottle and an ashtray. Billows of ash rose from the floor as I kicked the ashtray away. Papers skittered into the corners of the room. Books tumbled.
“What – what are you doing?” He gaped at me.
The furious person inside me started fading, shrinking and diminishing like a vulture disappearing into the horizon. But then it hovered, not quite out of view. So I danced on, spinning with abandon, oblivious to Babbo, oblivious to the papers and books underfoot, oblivious to the empty wine bottle spiralling perilously across the floor. My arms outstretched, fingers splayed, palms open skywards. I threw my head back, arched my spine and orbited the books and papers and cigarette butts that now lay scattered across the study.
Babbo hadn’t moved from the doorway but suddenly, as quick as a flash, he darted into the room and snatched up the spinning wine bottle from under my feet. Then he retreated to the doorway where he stood, clutching the bottle and staring at me. He made no effort to retrieve his writing, his precious sheets of crayoning.
“Lucia?” There was a tremor in his voice. I was gliding by then, bending gracefully to avoid the chairs, the desk, the spilled papers, the books that sprawled promiscuously across the floor. Babbo moved gingerly, cautiously, towards me, his claw-like hands easing in my direction.
“It’s all right. I’m just dancing.” I curtsied so low my knees grazed the rug.
Babbo, his arms still outstretched, one hand still clutching the wine bottle, stared at me. He looked confused as though he didn’t know who I was. “Is … is that what you’re learning at the … the Margaret Morris school?”
I panted slightly as I bent to pick up his papers. “We do a lot of improvisation. Sorry about your work. I’ll try and put it back in order.”
“It’s of no importance. I can sort it out.” He got down on his kn
ees, put down the wine bottle and tentatively reached out his hands to feel for the books I’d knocked over. Slowly he started putting them back into piles, his eyes straining through his spectacles,.
“What about the invitations you’ve been writing, Lucia? Are they all right?”
I looked at Babbo’s desk. The invitations, in their thick cream envelopes, were still there in a neat stack, stamped, addressed and ready to be posted.
“Yes,” I replied shortly.
“Good. They need to be posted as soon as possible. I mustn’t fail John O’ Sullivan. Ah, John Sullivan. I think I’m right to insist he drops the ‘O’. Rolls more easily off the tongue, easier for the newspaper men to spell. Would you mind running them to the post box, mia bambina?”
* * *
Babbo never mentioned my wild dance. Not even to Mama. His obsession with John Sullivan grew until he could talk of no one and nothing else. Even his Flatterers were mystified by his efforts to promote John Sullivan. Beckett was not only perplexed but indignant that Sullivan was so lacking in gratitude. Together Beckett and I huddled in the hall at Robiac Square and complained about Sullivan and how much of our time he was consuming. Sometimes we made jokes at his expense and I discovered that Beckett, normally so grave and serious, had an acerbic wit. Mama banned any mention of John Sullivan’s name so Babbo was very careful not to say anything in front of her. But he showed no restraint with anyone else.
One good thing came from Babbo’s obsession: a new intimacy between me and Beckett. Our shared dislike of the querulous greying tenor became a private ‘anti-John Sullivan alliance’ – yet another thing that bound Beckett to me. One evening, a fortnight after his return from Ireland, we were corralled into attending yet another John Sullivan opera. Half way through, as we were both stifling yawns, Beckett shifted in his seat, pushing his thigh hard against mine. His warmth spread into me like a hot water bottle. I moved closer to him until it felt as though our bodies were melting into each other. I could smell his distinctive odour – tobacco and typewriter ribbon and soap. Then I felt the brush of his fingers against mine. His hand, his beautiful hand, fluttered onto my knee and lay there in the dark. It was five months since we’d almost made love on the parlour floor and I remembered vividly the taste of his mouth, the feel of his skin, the heat and press of him upon me. But I also remembered Mama’s words: marriage first and mischief afterwards. I decided, just this once, to take her advice.
So after a few minutes I picked up his hand and placed it very gently back on his own knee. And then I sat staring at his hands – the fingernails, the joints, the tendons and veins lying like spaghetti under his skin. I didn’t look up again until Sullivan minced onto the stage for his final bow, and Babbo burst into yet another flurry of applause.
“Sam?” I whispered, as I clapped limply.
“Yes?” Beckett had pulled away in his seat so that we were no longer joined like Siamese twins.
“I have a date for my eye operation. I will be starting 1930 with new eyes. No more squint. No more strabismus!”
“Oh.” Beckett continued his half-hearted applause while John Sullivan strutted round the stage like a puffedup cockerel.
“All romance is off until then, Sam.” I peered into his face, searching for signs of hurt or disappointment. But before I could decipher his expression, I felt the tip of Babbo’s cane butting into my shoulder.
“Astonishing! Incomparable! The man is a consummate genius. Beckett, did you count the High Cs?”
“No, Mr Joyce.”
“Will you dine with us, Beckett? We’re taking Sullivan to the Café de la Paix for champagne and cold chicken.” Babbo drew his opera cloak round his shoulders with an elaborate flourish.
“I can’t tonight, Sir. I have to pack. I leave for Germany tomorrow to stay with my aunt and uncle.”
As we shuffled from our seats, I looked again at Beckett’s inscrutable unsmiling face. Had he misunderstood my rejection? Had I pained him with my new strategy? I watched him wind his scarf round his neck and follow Babbo out of the opera house. And I reminded myself that Beckett was my destiny and soon I would be free to love and dance for the rest of my life.
15
February 1930
Paris
After my eye operation I lay on the couch for a week, my head wrapped in bandages. Babbo took time out of his John Sullivan campaign to tend to me, bringing sweets and pastries to cheer me up. Even Mama was exemplary in her solicitude and bought me a new hat to show off my new eyes.
When the bandages came off, Kitten and Stella appeared with bunches of hothouse flowers. They both inspected my new eye and declared it a miracle. Babbo danced an Irish jig and sang me a song about ‘the lass with the lovely eyes,’ and Mama huffed and puffed and said if this didn’t put a stop to my complaining she didn’t know what would. Giorgio bought me a bottle of perfume which he must have taken from Mrs Fleischman’s dressing table because it wasn’t quite full. Most importantly of all, Beckett brought me a book. He had written a message inside that said ‘What better use for eyes than reading. Much Love, Sam’. Frankly I could think of several better uses for eyes but I didn’t mention that. After he’d disappeared into Babbo’s study, Mama read his message and tut-tutted, rolling her gimlet eyes and shaking her head all at the same time. I read the two words, ‘Much Love’, over and over again. And my heart sang.
When Beckett came out of Babbo’s study one night, I was waiting for him in the hall. I passed him his coat, brazenly fixing him with my new eyes. I felt quite extraordinary, free and unshackled, as if I’d been released from an evil spell. His desire for me – and mine for him – was palpable. The air hummed with it. And then Babbo appeared silently behind us, waving a book in the air. Beckett leaped away from me as if he’d been stung by a hornet. I just laughed. He’d made himself perfectly clear and that was enough for me.
All that evening I smiled to myself. Babbo didn’t notice – he was too engrossed in his work, wearing his eye patch and two pairs of spectacles, one on top of another. But Mama commented several times as she leafed through her magazine, asking me ‘to share the joke’. I just sat there sketching (and smiling), preparing for my next art lesson with Sandy. With two perfect eyes, the possibilities ahead of me seemed endless, infinite. I couldn’t stop the words ‘Mrs Beckett’ echoing inside me. And each time I said them to myself, I smiled. Suddenly I saw myself back on stage, dancing to spell-bound audiences, their rapturous applause punctuated with the cries of ‘Encore, Mrs Samuel Beckett!’
Of course, it took my mother to bring me down to earth. She kept telling me not to get too far ahead of myself, that my check-up with Doctor Collinson would confirm everything. Babbo, however, shared my jubilation. He was amazed at how quickly the operation was performed – and with what success.
When I saw Dr Collinson he looked at my eye from every angle and through a hundred different devices and glasses. Then he declared himself satisfied and asked me to come back for a final check-up in a month’s time. Mama and I stopped for coffee and cake to celebrate and I very nearly told her about my marriage plans, but something made me stop and talk about the weather instead.
A week later, as I was washing the dishes and thinking about a new dance routine, Mama suddenly stopped prattling mid-sentence and stared at me. I thought she was about to scold me for not listening to her, but she didn’t. She just carried on staring. Staring at my left eye. She brought her face right up to mine and gripped my shoulders so I couldn’t move. I could tell from the expression on her face that something had happened to my eye. And then she shouted out to Babbo, “Jim, it’s rolling again!” Her words hit me like a boulder. Of course Babbo couldn’t see anything. He peered into my eye, pronounced it perfect and hurried back to his study.
But it was too late. What had she meant? Had my squint returned? Had the operation been a failure? Mama became evasive and said she’d probably been mistaken. She gave me a slice of seed cake and a cup of sweet tea in her best wedding chin
a with the pink rosebuds on it. When I’d calmed myself I decided to undertake my own examination with a mirror and a ruler.
As I stared into the mirror, trying to measure the distance between my pupil and the inner corner of my new eye, I saw something wasn’t right. From time to time, the pupil and the iris appeared to slide, very gradually towards my nose. I recalled Doctor Collinson’s words at the outset, that these operations are not always successful and I thought of Babbo’s many eye operations and how few of them had worked. And finally I thought of Mrs Samuel Beckett, in her wedding dress, her eyes crossed, squinting, deformed and sullied.
* * *
When Sandy arrived on our doorstep for my first drawing lesson, Mama turned him away thinking he was a salesman. He came on an orange bicycle, wearing a wool suit in broad orange and brown stripes, with a straw boater on his head. Balanced on the handle bars of his bicycle was a battered leather suitcase. Mama opened the door and then shut it firmly in his face. Unfazed, Sandy simply rang the doorbell again and laughed when Mama shouted out of the window that she didn’t want to buy anything. Babbo had to be cajoled out of his study to identify Sandy. And only then was he allowed in. When he insisted on conducting my drawing lessons from the kitchen table, Mama threw up her hands in outrage. Sandy just smiled and used all his American charm on her, before opening his suitcase and revealing some of the miniature circus he carried everywhere with him.
I loved his little sculptures. I picked them up and turned them over in my palm, relishing the feel of them – metallic, cold and spikey or cushioned, soft and plump. I loved the way each dancer, acrobat and animal moved and turned, some in strange staccato jerks, others fluidly like ribbons blowing in wind. I loved Sandy’s enthusiasm, the excitement with which he talked about ‘mechanical movement’ and ‘composing motions’. And I adored his tales of drunken parties. As he showed me how to sketch an acrobat tipping from a trapeze, he told me about all the parties he’d been to that week and the antics of his wild friends. If the parties had been dull, he’d reminisce about the times his circus had gone wrong – when the gramophone didn’t work in Berlin, when the head of the lion fell off in New York, the Left Bank theatre where he forgot to turn up. Each anecdote was accompanied by deep bellows of laughter. Sandy was immune to feelings of shame, embarrassment and regret.
