36

BESS is dreaming. Which is unusual. But so much of what is happening is different: this place; the climate; performing again after so long; the pressures mounting on her husband; the composer … and they are all in the dream from which she wakes on Friday morning. But usual roles have been swapped around, as if people had chosen cards with assigned parts from a freshly-shuffled pack. Bess is like her husband in the routine he will perform on stage at the Opera House that night: wrapped in ropes. But these restraints are being pulled in several opposing directions. Her husband is tugging at one loose end. Puccini, with his melancholy expression and soft hands, has hold of another. Now Audran, his spectacles reflecting the lights, is begging her pardon for insisting he follow her somewhere else.

She has never attempted this routine herself, though she has watched her husband pull it off countless times. So she writhes and twists, trying to sense the weakness in any of the knots. She feels progress being made, some slackness in the restraints, but stops upon hearing weeping close to her. She knows that cry. It is her son, Mayer Samuel, and when she rolls to face the front rows she sees the doll, with vacant seats on either side of him and reproachful tears trickling down his impassive face. His mouth is closed but she can still hear crying, and only when she wakes does she realise that the sounds are coming not from her son but her husband.

He returned to the Metropole much later than Bess had expected the previous evening. There had been plenty of time for her to soak in a bath with mineral salts. Time to soak her bruises and strains and wash away the smell of cologne and cigarettes and sweat. Time to apologise to her son for her absence during the day and assure him she will make it up to him.

Harry seemed preoccupied and withdrawn when he arrived, shortly after six o’clock, and said nothing about the Champion phonograph to which Bess has given pride of place in their room. It was as if he had no memory of leaving it in the morning. He was unusually silent. And wounded – a handkerchief wrapped around the knuckles of one hand. The white cloth was streaked with red, but he had dismissed her concern and muttered something about difficulties with the flying machine. Then he took much longer than usual to clean himself, carefully scrubbing his hands and forearms with soap and a brush before preparing to leave for the theatre and his Thursday-night show.

When he saw Bess standing ready to go with him, her costume folded in a cloth bag, he had stared at her, mystified. He had forgotten all about the Metamorphosis routine and her part in it.

Then he checked himself. Smiled. Offered his arm.

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Let us go together. We will have time to talk about the day over some dinner later.’

He winced when her fingers brushed his damaged hand.

AFTER another successful show he told her he would not be returning to Diggers Rest in the morning. Brassac, he complained, had still not resolved mechanical issues. And conditions remained unsuitable. On their return from the Opera House, with his hand bandaged by Kukol, Harry asked a night porter to get word to Jordan the driver of his changed requirements. Then he collapsed on to his bed, without even removing his clothes, soon after they had entered their room.

Now, instead of waking to find him gone and another handwritten note left for her to read, her husband is still there. Another unusual event. But his rest seems troubled. His arms move as if he were swimming. The noises he is making, sounds rather than words or weeping, subside as he rolls onto one side. From where she is lying, Bess feels as if she is a spectator to another one of his performances. Just like Mayer Samuel seemed to be watching her on stage in her own dream.

But she is awake now while Harry dozes. And she has time to change her plans; rearrange the cards she laid out in matching pairs on a green baize table. Today will be for her husband. It will do him good not to head off again with Jordan and return, already fatigued, shortly before a performance. Today she will be caring and attentive. She will suggest a leisurely breakfast in the hotel dining-room and later, if it’s not too hot outside, a stroll with Mayer Samuel. First, though, there is one card to be shifted to one side. It can be played tonight – after she has scribbled a note and discreetly left it with Audran at breakfast.