by Annabel Abbs
And if Beckett didn’t want to go to Ireland, perhaps we’d go to Germany and visit his aunt and uncle. We’d need somewhere to live afterwards. Once we were settled in a little apartment of our own, I’d have the walls painted duck egg blue and I’d buy a piano. He’d have a study with lots of pale oak shelves for his books and a mahogany desk where he’d write all day. I’d plant red geraniums on the balcony, to cheer us up when the weather was gloomy. I’d make our home so cosy and comfortable that Beckett would always come back at night. I’d play the piano and sing to him. And of course I’d dance on stage again. As Mrs Samuel Beckett, I’d perform again!
I was shaken from my reverie by Mama, standing in front of me and waving a letter. “We have to go to Zurich, Lucia. We’ve a date for your father’s eye operation – next week.”
“I can’t go! Miss Morris is over from England next week and I won’t become a dance teacher if she doesn’t see me. It’s an important week for me.” I let my voice taper off, appalled at the thought of missing Miss Morris’s visit, knowing she specifically wanted to watch me run a class.
“You don’t need to come, Lucia,” said Mama flatly. “You can be staying with Mrs Fleischman.”
“I don’t want to stay with Mrs Fleischman! Why can’t I stay here? Anyway, you’re not speaking to her, so how will you ask her?”
Mama grunted.
“Please let me stay here,” I pleaded. “Can’t Giorgio stay with me?”
“I’ll talk to Jim about it, but I’ll make no promises.”
In that instant I realised this was my chance. My chance to get engaged. With my parents away, Beckett and I would be free to discuss our marriage. Without Babbo breathing down our necks and scrutinising our every move, our every glance, we could finally talk freely of our love. My mind whirred with boundless excitement as I decided how best to do this. I couldn’t invite him to Robiac Square in case Mama insisted I stay somewhere else or in case Giorgio was home. Theatres and cinemas wouldn’t allow us enough time to talk. Dance halls and bars would be too busy, too full of people we knew.
What we needed was a quiet restaurant with dusky corners. An unfashionable shadowy restaurant with indifferent waiters. Close to somewhere we could walk, talk and kiss afterwards, hidden from prying eyes. I ran through the restaurants where we’d eaten with my family … too expensive … not enough intimacy … no romance. I mentally ticked off Babbo’s favourites: Fouquet’s, Les Trianons, Café Francis, le Closerie des Lilas. And then I remembered a little bistro, candle-lit and low-ceilinged, beside the southern exit to the Jardin du Luxembourg. We’d all been there, my parents, Mrs Fleischman and Giorgio, Beckett and I, just after Babbo’s birthday in February. It hadn’t been sufficiently swanky for my parents or Mrs Fleischman, and the waiters didn’t bow and scrape as they did at Fouquet’s, but Beckett had loved it, said it was the best steak-frites he’d ever had. It would be perfect for our first declaration of love.
Beckett would speak of how he’d thought of nothing but me for so long, of how he visited Robiac Square only to see me. We’d whisper of how our bodies ached for each other and how long we’d yearned for this moment. We’d reminisce about those moments of passion in Mama’s parlour and giggle over her horrified expression when she discovered us. We’d agree a date for our marriage and we’d discuss his outfit and the church and the flowers and the rings. I’d ask for his thoughts on pink rosebuds and white lilac and he’d ask my advice on what flower to wear in his button hole. Of course, he’d want a wild, Irish bloom. Perhaps a solitary rose from the hedgerow. And we’d have a traditional Irish wedding cake with three tiers, decorated with sugar roses. I’d suggest Man Ray take the photographs. And then perhaps Beckett would demur, saying he loves the pictures Berenice Abbott took of me. We’d both laugh and then Beckett would say ‘No – if you want Man Ray we must have Man Ray’.
And when we’d agreed our wedding, we’d discuss the honeymoon, our eyes still riveted, our knees caressing under the table. As I brushed aside the waiter, Beckett would tell me how he longed to take me to Ireland, to show me his garden, his dogs, his parents, the mountain hikes he did with his father, the attic bedroom he shared with his brother.
And then, our fingers laced together across the table, we’d talk about where to live. Should we find a small apartment near Babbo and Mama? Or should we move to the outskirts of Paris so we could have a garden with drifts of yellow daffodils, and a dog? I’d describe the plump cushions and the drapes I had in mind. I’d find out what he liked for breakfast and how he took his coffee.
Afterwards we’d amble, hand in hand, through the Jardin du Luxembourg. The moon would cast stripes of pale shivering light on the paths and a soft spring breeze ripe with the perfume of tulips would cool our glowing cheeks. We’d stop and kiss under the horse chestnut tree by the fountain. It would be a wild untamed kiss and we’d have to pull ourselves apart, panting and desperate. He’d beg to make love to me right there, against the ridged bark of the tree trunk. He’d tell me how he’d imagined and craved this moment … and I’d confess how I’d thought of nothing but him, for months and months and months. And his hands would creep beneath my dress. And my fingers would slip inside his shirt, inside his trousers ….
I was so engrossed I didn’t hear Mama banging on the door. Then the handle turned and there she was, standing in front of me, her mouth snapping.
“Lucia, it’s after ten. You’ll be late for your dance class, to be sure.”
* * *
Kitten, with whom I discussed everything, agreed my choice of restaurant was perfect. But she said I needed a new outfit and some new make-up. So I bought a pale green dress and a new lipstick in strawberry red and a new eye shadow in a matching tone of mint green. The green showed off my clear skin and my dark hair. And green was, of course, the colour of Ireland. I arranged to have my hair waved and I chose a necklace of jade beads to wear. By the time my parents had left for Zurich, I was ready. Giorgio had agreed to move back into Robiac Square while they were gone but he was never at home so I didn’t need to fret about him. I telephoned Beckett and invited him to join me for dinner at eight o’clock. There was a pause, as if the line had gone dead, then he said, “Yes, that would be lovely, Lucia.”
As I walked to the restaurant, my heart fluttered madly. I realised that not a day had gone by when I hadn’t thought of him, hadn’t imagined his arms round me and his lips on mine. And yet, on the brink of consummation, I was overcome with anxiety. I felt the palms of my hands, damp and clammy, and my throat, tight and crushed. I took deep breaths and said the words ‘Mrs Samuel Beckett’ over and over.
At the restaurant I was shown to a table for two in the corner. I positioned myself so Beckett would see me – and I him – as soon as he walked in. The surly waiter, to my relief, had no idea who I was. He lit the candle on the table and gave me a menu. I thought how blissful it was to be out incognito. After Ulysses Babbo was so famous we were accosted or gawked at wherever we went. Being out, alone and unrecognised, brought a frisson of excitement.
As I waited I ran through the evening ahead of me. I’d planned the conversation for several days by then. I wasn’t going to mention Sandy or Stella or Babbo but I’d talk about Mrs Fleischman and Giorgio and their wedding plans – just to set the scene. Beckett loved to talk about books, so I’d talk about Lady Chatterley’s Lover – again to set the scene. As usual I’d ask him what he was reading and what he was writing and who his favourite students were. But I didn’t want to loiter on these subjects. So then we’d talk about our favourite parts of Paris, our favourite colours, our favourite artists, our favourite flowers. And Ireland, of course. I always wanted to hear about his mother and her garden. Knowing I was soon to meet her would add poignancy to our conversation. I had to be sure she’d welcome me into the Beckett family. I didn’t want to be treated in the way Mama had treated Mrs Fleischman, although that was entirely due to Mrs Fleischman’s blatant abduction of Giorgio. Beckett and I would be completely differen
t. We were the same age; neither of us was married or divorced; we were both Irish and we were in love.
As I mulled over the differences between myself and Mrs Fleischman, I looked up and saw the waiter heading towards me. I quickly patted my hair for I could just make out Beckett behind him. Beckett waved to me over the waiter’s shoulder and I was so overjoyed a huge smile spread across my face. As the waiter stepped to one side, Beckett leaned forward and kissed my cheek. It was only when he stepped back that I saw another man behind him. I paused for the waiter to guide the other guest to his table. But he didn’t. Instead the waiter said he’d find another chair, lay another place.
I felt my face crumpling in confusion and bewilderment. I was about to tell the waiter we didn’t need another chair, when Beckett said, “I hope you don’t mind, Lucia, but I’ve brought my pupil, Georges Pelorson. He was hungry.” The two men laughed briefly and, in that moment, I felt a darkness within me, rising and churning. I struggled to conceal my feelings, to hold back the tide of anguish and disappointment. I felt my chest tightening and my breathing becoming laboured and panicky. I was glad of the candle light. Glad I was sitting down. I tried to focus on my breathing.
The waiter arrived with a third chair and two menus. Pelorson and Beckett discussed the wine, unable to agree on red or white.
Then Pelorson turned to me and said, “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about your father. Can you reveal some of his secrets? We’re all desperate to know the title of his new book, aren’t we, Sam?”
My mouth fell open. I shook my head dumbly. I was so discomposed by the presence of Pelorson, by what it signified, I couldn’t think straight. I kept asking myself why Beckett had brought his pupil. I replayed our telephone conversation over and over. When I telephoned and invited him to dinner, I’d said I had something very important to discuss, something personal, something pressing. Yes! Those were the very words I’d used … important, personal and pressing. So why had he brought this man, with his interrogative questions?
I felt my breath, tattered and frayed. I felt my chest heaving. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. When I opened my eyes I felt a little calmer but then I saw Pelorson staring at me. He quickly looked down at his menu but it was too late. I saw the distaste that crossed his face.
The waiter came to take our order. He looked expectantly at me. But the words on the menu dissolved into floating letters that ducked and dived before my eyes. Unable to read it, I threw the menu down and asked for the first thing that came into my head: a salad. But instead of taking my order the waiter asked me a series of questions, none of which I could answer. What sort of salad? Would I like something with my salad? Would I like it as a starter or a main course? I looked at him blankly, unable to reply. I wanted the waiter to go away. I wanted him to take Pelorson and go away.
And then I heard Beckett tell him I’d like a large salade niçoise. While he and Pelorson ordered, I breathed. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And while I breathed I looked at Beckett, at his still face and his pale blue-green eyes flicking over the menu. And his hands. Oh God – his hands! I felt all my love for him surging inside me, rolling and crashing. But I was also filled with foreboding, for I knew why he’d brought Pelorson with him. And it wasn’t because Pelorson was hungry.
I pushed my knees together under the table. I pushed them so hard I felt the joints grinding. I straightened my spine, made myself sit very upright, my back like a plank. And I breathed. As I composed myself in this way, I listened to Beckett and Pelorson talking about the food they’d ordered. I could see I’d disappointed Pelorson. No doubt he’d expected a miniature literary genius capable of enlightening him on the mysterious ways of the great James Joyce. No doubt he’d told his friends he was dining with the daughter of the celebrated writer. No doubt they were waiting to hear all about it.
The waiter brought the wine and then our food. For the next twenty minutes I pushed the limp lettuce leaves round my plate and counted and re-counted the silvery anchovies and the green beans. I was glad to have something to do and somewhere to look. Pelorson asked me about my dancing but I ignored him. I was too busy counting the beans on my plate – there seemed to be rather a lot of them slithering around in a pool of oil, squeaking when I stabbed them with my fork. Beckett said very little but he was squirming on his seat and his face was touched with colour. I knew I was embarrassing him in front of his pupil.
I played with my salad but I couldn’t eat any of it, not a single bean, not a single slippery anchovy. When the waiter took my plate I looked up and caught Beckett’s eye. He held my gaze and, for a minute, I thought I was at the top of the Eiffel Tower again – everything spread out before me, stretching away, bleeding into the horizon. And then the feeling of giddiness, the slow spinning in my head as I looked down. As I stared at Beckett, I was reminded of those sensations. But there was a wary look in his eyes and it was slowly dawning on me that perhaps he didn’t feel the way I felt. Had I misunderstood something? Beckett turned to Pelorson and asked him if he’d like a dessert.
Should I raise the subject of our marriage now, regardless of Pelorson? Perhaps he’d take the hint and go away. After all, that’s why I was there, in my new dress, with my coiffured hair, my reverting squint concealed beneath a sheen of newly purchased eye shadow. And suddenly I saw everything I’d hoped for and dreamed of splintering into a thousand little pieces. I saw my wedding bouquet exploding above my head, the pale pink rosebuds falling listlessly to the ground. I saw the little home I’d imagined wrenched apart, the fat cushions ripped asunder. And Mrs Samuel Beckett. I saw Mrs Samuel Beckett dissolving like an apparition. Vanishing limb by limb. Until nothing but her head remained, dismembered and floating in the air, a single eye swerving before me.
I gasped for breath. Pushed the table away from me. Had to get out. Air! I needed air! As I stood up, shaking and awkward, I saw Beckett looking at me, his face taut with concern and embarrassment. Pelorson asked me if I was ill and tried to steady me by putting his hand on my arm. I thrust him away and floundered towards the restaurant door. Once outside, I took deep gulps of air and ran down the road in the direction of the Seine. Hot tears welled up – tears of shame and defeat and despair. Everything was black, except the moon which hung in the darkening sky like a cold silver coin. And then through the crouching dusk I heard Beckett’s voice calling my name. I didn’t look back. I ran and ran, tears tipping down my face, until I got to Robiac Square.
* * *
I’d been home for no more than ten minutes when I heard the doorbell. I lay on the couch in the parlour, in the dark, listening, not moving. The bell rung again and again. And then I heard Beckett’s voice calling my name from the street. My head whirred but eventually I got up, walked down the unlit hall and let him in. I knew my eye make-up was smudged, and my face streaked with tears, but I no longer cared.
In the gloom Beckett told me, his voice stuttering, that I’d misunderstood his intentions.
“Were you … were you … expecting … something else?” Beads of sweat had appeared where his forehead met his scalp.
I nodded mutely.
“I like your new outfit.” Beckett’s tone was diffident but kindly. “And I think you’re very beautiful. But I hope I haven’t misled you in any way.”
“You come to the house every day,” I mumbled. “I hoped we’d get married.” Once the words were out, hanging like flares between us, I felt a sense of relief.
“Oh, Lucia, I come to see your father, not you.”
I recoiled instantly. “What?” I whispered.
“I come to help him with his work. That’s the only reason I come.” His words were cold and hard. His eyes had become flickering blue flames pushing me away, warning me off. I froze. And then a million questions started forming in my mind. Questions about the way he looked at me, the way he
touched me in passing, all those moments of intimacy, our aborted love-making. He touched me where no man had touched me before. We had nearly made love. Had he forgotten all this? Had the whiskey wiped it from his memory? And all the walks, the trips to the cinema, the tea in his rooms. All just to see my father?
“If that’s the only reason you come, what was everything else?” I asked bleakly.
Beckett looked at his feet, his shoulders stooped and hunched. “You’re like a … like a sister to me,” he stammered. “But so … so beautiful … so full of life – sometimes I couldn’t … can’t …” He paused, then lifted his head, so his shoulders rolled back. Sweat dripped down the side of his face. “I’m not the marrying sort. It’s your father I come to see, Lucia.”
I couldn’t bear to be with him any longer. Betrayed, deceived, humiliated, I pulled myself up to my full height, feigned composure. “So I was nothing more than … than an hors d’oeuvre?”
“I suppose not,” he said quietly, wiping the back of his hand across his face.
“I think you should go,” I said. “Immediately.”
“I’m sorry.” Beckett seemed to wilt again, his shoulders deflating and his eyes returning to the floor. “It’s as though I’m dead inside. I don’t have human feelings … that’s why I can’t fall in love with you. I tried …”
“Immediately,” I repeated. I couldn’t listen to any more of his feeble excuses. He’d used me to get closer to Babbo. Just another sycophantic Flatterer. I’d turned down Emile – charming, sweet-natured Emile – for him. I’d been ready to lose my virginity for him. And all the time I’d been nothing more than a pawn in his game of ‘chase the genius’. Nothing more than James Joyce’s daughter. A tasty little hors d’oeuvre, chewed and swallowed in a second.
“Will you tell your father?” Beckett’s eyes were glued to the floor but his voice was timorous, quivering.
I didn’t answer him. He’d taken everything from me. I felt like a husk, a thin brittle husk, empty and blundering – and all he could do was ask whether I’d tell my father. How could he be so cruel, so callous?
