For all of March and April I did nothing but dance and stitch. I was blistered all over. My feet ached from dancing all day and my fingers were red and raw from sewing all night. There were only two weeks to go before the International Festival of Dance, at the Bal Bullier in Montparnasse, and I was starting to tingle with anticipation.
I’d thought long and hard about my performance. Babbo had wanted me to do a dance of the River Liffey. I knew the Liffey was an important part of Work in Progress, but for some reason I didn’t want it to be the central theme of my choreography. Eventually I’d decided to dance as a mermaid, appeasing Babbo by suggesting I came from the watery depths of his beloved Dublin Bay.
I designed and made a costume of blue, green and silver sequinned moiré that would transform me from Lucia, daughter of James Joyce, into Lucia, dancing fish and writhing mermaid. I would have scales and fins and gills but also long braids of seaweedy hair tumbling to my waist. I made the fins from pigeon feathers I’d collected in the Jardin du Luxembourg and dyed a luminous briny blue. On my head would be a skull cap of scales into which I could tuck my hair.
Whenever I pricked my finger or accidentally tugged the thread so it cut into my skin, I closed my eyes and imagined myself on stage, glittering and sparkling as I dived and leapt and twisted and turned. I imagined the enthralled shouts and cries of an ecstatic audience. I imagined the eyes of Beckett upon me, wild and thrilling. I imagined Monsieur Borlin waving his fan and shouting, ‘My most talented pupil!’ And Babbo, standing, his hands sore from clapping, his throat parched from cheering.
Mama was still recuperating after her surgery and so we spent most evenings sitting together in companionable silence, listening to the rasping of Babbo’s pen and the rising and falling of Giorgio’s voice as he practised. Giorgio was to make his singing debut, his first solo recital, the week before my performance. Mama and Babbo were so enthused about Giorgio’s concert, so anxious that nothing should affect his voice, that I was left to dance and sew in peace. If only Mama knew about Mrs Fleischman, I thought. But I had no intention of revealing his secret.
One Sunday morning, as I sat in the parlour sewing my mermaid cap, carefully pulling the needle through the stiff shiny fabric, Beckett arrived to walk in the Bois de Boulogne with Babbo.
“Are you joining us?” He slid his long, thin body onto the sofa beside me. Mama was brushing Babbo’s coat in the hall and Babbo was hunting for his scarf and gloves.
“I can’t, Sam.” I gave the needle a sharp tug. “I have so much sewing to do and I need to practise my routine again. I haven’t practised at all this morning.”
“Oh.” Beckett looked at me. No – not looked, he stared at me for far longer than was polite, and my heart began to skip and my blood began to bound under my skin.
“The Bois de Boulogne will be beautiful now – the daffodils and crocuses and catkins. Not as beautiful as Ireland, of course, but it’ll cheer Babbo up all the same. We’ve been rather cooped up recently.” I pushed the needle slowly through the fabric, aware of Beckett’s eyes burning into me. “What have you been up to, Sam?”
“Not much,” he replied, guardedly. “Tell me about your dance. Mr Joyce says you refused to dance the River Liffey.”
“I’ve only seen it once and it was so dirty and covered with filthy hovering fog. I couldn’t. Not even for Babbo. Is he terribly disappointed?”
“He’s stoical. What is your dance?”
“It’s a secret. Only Babbo knows. But I’ll tell you this – one of my legs will be completely naked,” I said, lifting my eyes and coolly meeting his gaze. “I’m not telling you any more than that. It’s going to be a surprise.”
“Naked?” he repeated.
“Just my leg. So that the other looks like a tail.” I was about to say, again, that it was a secret and he’d have to wait for the big night, when he reached out and ran his fingers down the side of my face and along my jawbone, as if he was quickly tracing a line there. The surprise of it made me give a little mewling sound but when I turned towards him he’d drawn back his hand with such haste I wondered if I’d dreamed it. And then Babbo appeared in the doorway, cane in hand, asking if Beckett was ready.
“Yes, Sir,” said Beckett, jumping to his feet. He moved towards the door and only then did he turn back and look at me. And I knew I hadn’t dreamed it. His eyes had a hungry abandoned look, like the eyes of a beggar child. He gave one of his half-smiles and said, “I’ll see you next week, at Giorgio’s concert.”
I nodded and tried to concentrate on the movement of my needle. But as soon as I heard the front door close, I threw my sewing to the floor and began spinning and twirling round the parlour, my arms wide and my head back. Oh – that touch! The roughened tips of his fingers on my cheek. The charge of emotion that had coursed between us. And soon I would be teaching him to dance, holding him in my arms, feeling his body sway against mine. I wrapped my arms around myself and swooped past the window. Wild euphoria washed over me, as it had at my last performance. And it struck me that being in love with Beckett was not dissimilar to dancing – the breathless sense of invincibility, the feeling of time and space falling away.
“Lucia! What are you doing? You know you’re not to dance in me best parlour!” Mama stood in the doorway, her arms folded on her chest. “Giorgio needs peace for his vocal exercises, so stop this dancing right now! And why is your bedroom full of old slices of potato?”
“Oh Mama,” I said, breathlessly. “I’ve just experienced a moment of utter perfection.”
“Some of us are trying to recover from surgery.” She scowled. “So that’s enough ‘utter perfection’ for one day. Now clear up the potato from your bedroom and get on with your sewing.”
“It’s for my eye.” I slung myself back onto the sofa and ran my fingers down the side of my face, exactly where Beckett’s fingers had been. “Kitten said I should put cold slices of potato on my squinty eye. It’s an ancient remedy.”
“What hogwash!” Mama came into the parlour, picked up my sewing from the floor and gave it to me. “And you better stop thinking about your eye right now. How can we be paying for you to have surgery when we’re begging money for your father’s eye operations?”
“Have you ever had a moment of pure joy, Mama?” I asked, running my fingers down my left cheek again.
“Sweet Jesus! All this dancin’ on stage is makin’ you vain and selfish, Lucia.”
“Have you?” I persisted. “You must have had a single second of complete bliss. When you met Babbo?” I reached for a cushion and hugged it suggestively to me.
“You know nothin’ about the real world!” To my surprise Mama’s eyes were blazing. She yanked the cushion from me and began beating it with her hand. “You know nothin’ about men! You know nothin’ about what I had to do to keep this family together! And you have the gall to talk to me of bliss!”
I shrank back into the sofa, wounded and speechless.
“I’ve seen you moonin’ over Mr Beckett. And you need to be forgettin’ about …” She paused and then spat out her next words. “… joy and bliss and perfection.” She whacked the cushion so hard it shot out a thick flare of dust. “Men are animals with appetites. Just remember that when you’re smirkin’ about ‘pure joy’.”
“Why are you always so horrible?” I shouted, tears pushing at the corners of my eyes.
“I’ve worked bloody hard to raise you nicely. And look at you! Paradin’ round in front of your father – and on a public stage – half naked. In Ireland only strumpets prance on stage with no corsets and their legs showin’.” She punched the cushion again and then flung it on the sofa. “And all this blarney with visions! In Ireland only crazy nuns have visions. So you better make your mind up – are you a nun or a whore? Or is it Joan of Arc you are?”
“Babbo understands. Just because you’ve no creative spirit, no genius. You’re nothing but a chambermaid. I don’t know why he ever married you!” I leapt from the sofa and hurled the cushion at her. How could she be so hateful! I rubbed my eyes with my knuckles, as a tear rolled down my cheek.
“Oh I could have been a dancer all right! If I hadn’t been beaten, and taken from school, and put out to work changin’ filthy sheets!” She stooped for the cushion but as she did so, she gave a cry of anguish.
“Mama? Are you all right?” I rushed towards her. She had eased herself down onto the edge of the sofa.
“Yes, yes, Lucia. That I am. ’Tis a pain from the surgery.” She clutched her abdomen and I wondered if I should apologise. I’d never spoken to her like that before.
“Sorry, Mama.” I looked at my hands and as I did so all her words came back to me. Strumpet. Whore. That’s what she thought of me. She hated me. My dancing – the thing I loved best – was a source of shame to her. I waited for her to apologise. Surely a mother should apologise for saying things like that?
A hush fell over the room. And then she heaved herself up from the sofa and shuffled out, saying she was going to lie down.
I tried to think about the touch of Beckett’s fingers on my face. I tried to re-live the moment his eyes met mine, that moment of utter perfection. But it was too late. Mama had ruined it.
* * *
I didn’t want Mama’s angry words festering inside me while I practised, so I tried to forget what she’d said. I put it down to her still being in pain after her surgery. And when that wasn’t convincing enough I told myself she was traumatised at having lost her womb. Finally, I told myself she was jealous. But to no avail. Her words repeated on me as if I’d eaten rancid food, disrupting the rhythm of my dance and upsetting the smooth sequence of movements I was trying to master. It wasn’t her accusations that plagued me but her cryptic reference to the things she’d done to keep our family together. What had she meant?
I could tell she was still cross with me because she sniffed ostentatiously whenever I referred to my dance. And if I mentioned Beckett, she scowled and turned away. But she said nothing – and I knew it was because she didn’t want to upset Giorgio. The air at Robiac Square was crackling with tension because of his debut at the Studio Scientifique de la Voix, where he had been studying Voice with the acclaimed Professor Cunelli.
When the evening of Giorgio’s debut finally arrived, his nerves were thoroughly shredded. Mama and I tip-toed round him while he stood in front of the mirror running through his scales.
As he sang, Babbo (who had almost been a professional tenor and still fancied himself one after a few drinks) made his views very clear. Every time Giorgio hit a wrong note my father let out an unnecessarily loud sigh. If he was in Giorgio’s line of sight, he’d shake his head with theatrical abandon. As I danced I reflected on this and realised that Babbo had rarely forbidden Giorgio anything. Instead he sighed and looked mournful or used carefully chosen words that made his desires implicit and incontrovertible. Sometimes he sat in stony disapproving silence, his wordlessness speaking volumes. It was different with my dancing, of course. For me, he stroked his little beard or played with the end of his moustache, always nodding and tapping his foot, sometimes humming and clapping the rhythm, or scratching down a few words in his notebook.
And now every time Babbo sighed, Giorgio stiffened. Which made his voice creak like an old rocking chair. Eventually Mama came in and told Babbo to go and get changed, to put on his flowered waistcoat and his jacket with the purple silk lining.
“And you, Lucia. You can be changing into that new frock I bought you. Mr Beckett will be here any minute.” Mama took Babbo’s arm and steered him out of the room. Giorgio immediately collapsed onto the sofa where he lay prostrate, with a cushion over his face.
“What if my voice doesn’t come out right? What if my throat seizes up? What if I get my nervous cough? Oh God! Why am I doing this? Why?” Giorgio pushed the cushion from his face and looked at me despairingly. Then he swung his body round until he was sitting upright, and ran his hands through his hair before remembering Mama had oiled it in readiness for his performance. He seemed so vulnerable and frightened I felt a rush of pity for him. He was like my old Giorgio again, Giorgio before he became money-obsessed and Mrs Fleischman-obsessed.
“You’ll be fine.” I sat beside him, took his oily hand in mine and stroked the marbles of his knuckles with my thumb. There was a distinct undertone of liquor on his breath which worried me. Monsieur Borlin told us repeatedly never to drink before a performance, not even to calm our nerves. But then I thought of Babbo who always sang perfectly after guzzling several bottles of wine.
“I won’t! Father’s completely un-nerved me. Help me, Lucia! You’ve done far more of this stage stuff than me.” He sniffed and blinked and for a horrible moment I thought he was about to cry.
“Take lots of deep breaths before you go on stage and imagine you’re singing to me. Or to Mama.”
“Is that what you do?” Giorgio’s voice wobbled.
“Yes, that’s how Monsieur Borlin taught us to conquer our nerves. He also told us to imagine the audience naked.”
“Urgh!” He shuddered. “That might be a step too far. Imagining Father and Mother naked.”
We laughed and, briefly, fleetingly, it was like old times when we were the best and closest of friends. Before Mrs Fleischman stole him away. Would she be there tonight, I wondered? No surely not. Surely he wouldn’t risk exposing their affair tonight? Not on his big night. Or perhaps she’d slip into the back row and then slip out before she was spotted. And thinking of her reminded me that Beckett was coming. I felt a delicious shudder of excitement run down my spine.
“The truth is I’m not the sort of singer Babbo wants me to be.” Giorgio pulled his hand from mine and stood up awkwardly.
“You’ll be fine,” I repeated.
He shook his head. “You’re a great dancer and I’m a second rate singer. And any fool can see that.” He pressed his fingers against his mouth as if he didn’t want to talk any more. And as he did so, I smelled the drink on him again.
“Just remember my tip,” I said. “Promise?”
* * *
By the time we were all sitting on the hard wooden chairs at Professor Cunelli’s studio, I was so overwrought I could barely sit still. I tried to think about the ambitious footwork I’d choreographed for the finale of my mermaid dance, running my feet through it under the chair. But even that couldn’t distract me. Beckett sensed my jitteriness and pressed my forearm reassuringly.
“Don’t worry, he has a wonderful voice,” he murmured.
“For the love o’ God, will you sit still, Lucia,” Mama hissed. “I can’t concentrate and your chair squeaks every time you wriggle. Sure he’s only singing. You’re more likely to distract him with your carryings on.” She glowered at me then re-arranged her hat and looked round the audience to see who was there. I followed her gaze, expecting to see Mrs Fleischman in her sable coat. But there was no sign of her. Perhaps Giorgio had asked her to stay away, either for the sake of his nerves or to preserve his dignity in the event of any vocal humiliation.
By the time Giorgio appeared, I was ready to explode with worry, convinced he’d drunk himself into a stupor backstage. As he announced the two pieces by Handel he was to sing, my hand shot out and grabbed Beckett’s. I reddened when I realised what I’d done, but it was too late by then so I squeezed hard and prayed that Giorgio’s debut would be faultless. I knew my hand was clammy and damp but I didn’t care.
Giorgio cleared his throat, nodded to the pianist and opened his mouth. His first note warbled slightly and he stopped. The pianist stopped. My fingers dug into the soft cushions of Beckett’s palm. Giorgio cleared his throat again. He nodded to the pianist and opened his mouth. But instead of singing he gave a small yodelling sound, then a little spluttering cough. Babbo and Mama were both sitting rigidly, like a pair of chisels. I gripped Beckett’s hand even harder and prayed silently for Giorgio. Professor Cunelli appeared on the stage with a glass of water. Giorgio drank it, handed the glass back and cleared his throat again. He looked out into the audience and, surprisingly, I saw a glimmer of a smile on his face. He gulped, nodded to the pianist and opened his mouth. And this time there was no fissure in his voice, no irritating nervous cough – just beautiful deep notes, one after another, filling the studio until the air throbbed.
When he finished and the applause had died away, Beckett showed me his palm, marked with a line of red crescents.
“My nails?” I asked, horrified.
Beckett laughed and then showed his hand to Babbo. I heard the word ‘stigmata’ as the two of them chortled like school boys.
Relieved that Giorgio’s performance had been a success, I shifted my chair closer to Beckett’s. He was too busy chuckling with Babbo to notice, so I sat quietly relishing the warmth of his thigh, its clean muscular hardness against mine. There was something reassuring, comforting, about his physical proximity. Bizarrely, the words of Kitten’s Pa floated into my head. Only married women are truly free. And I wondered if this was what he meant … that love provides the scaffolding of life. Would Babbo have written his masterpieces without Mama? But if that’s what Kitten’s Pa had meant why hadn’t he said ‘only married people are truly free’?
Giorgio’s arrival put an end to my musings. After much back-slapping from Babbo and hugging from Mama, she asked him why he’d smiled at the audience after drinking his glass of water.
“Lucia told me to imagine the audience naked.” He grinned as he fished for his cigarettes. “So I did. And if that doesn’t get you going, I don’t know what will.”
“Where are we dining tonight, Jim?” asked Mama, leading the way out of Professor Cunelli’s studio and onto the boulevard.
“Fouquet’s.” Babbo turned and raised his cane in the direction of the Champs-Élysées, letting it swish through the air like a samurai sword. “For a continuation of the celebration of Giorgio’s oration.”
“How about peroration, Mr Joyce?” suggested Beckett.
“Ah, I think recitation might be more exact, technically.” Babbo turned to Beckett and clapped a claw-like hand on his shoulder. “Beckett, you understand me so completely I am beginning to wonder if some sinister form of witchcraft is afoot.”
“Which craft might that be, Sir?” Beckett asked with mock curiosity.
“Has elle sinned, perchance?” And Babbo chuckled with such unbridled glee I found myself chuckling too, although I had no idea what the two of them were talking about.
“In God’s name, will you two never stop this blather?” Mama linked her arm through Babbo’s, smiling even as her eyes rolled up into her head.
Beside us the lights from the barges and fishing boats reflected on the black water of the Seine, moving and rippling in the evening air. Pale shreds of mist hung above the river and on the far bank a brace of ducks stood, their heads twisted into their feathery bodies. I thought about my mermaid dance, the way I planned to thrash and flick my tail. Perhaps it was too forceful. Perhaps I should move more like mist. Floating and drifting.
“It’s mesmerising, isn’t it?” Beckett was at my shoulder, following my gaze.
Yes, I thought. That’s how I want my dance to be. Mesmerising.
* * *
Kitten rushed into the dance studio, laughing and panting and waving a piece of paper at me. The Bal Bullier competition was just a few days away and I was practising day and night.
“It’s the final list of judges, Lucia!”
I stayed where I was, rooted to the spot and mute.
“Charles de Saint-Cyr and Emile Vuillermoz!”
Both were highly respected dance critics and I felt a tremor of excitement run through me.
“But wait for the rest.” Kitten paused dramatically and then reeled off the names of some of the most eminent artists in Paris. “Uday Shankar, Marie Kummer, Djennil Annik, the musician Tristan Klingsor. But there’s one more.” She posed like a statue, eyes wide.
“Who?”
“Madika! The final judge is Madika!”
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 recuperating,” 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.
When we got to the front door, Beckett touched my arm gently and said, “I’m looking forward to our dancing lesson. Goodnight, dancing mermaid.” And once again I was lost, completely lost.
* * *
The next morning I woke late, my head woolly from the previous night’s champagne. Almost immediately the sound of applause and the cries of the heckling crowds came back to me and I smiled as I stretched out under my blanket. I recalled the conversation with Beckett over dinner, the feel of his hand on mine, his admiring glances that seemed to take in my whole body, his attempt to kiss me, his parting words – affectionate and intimate. I remembered Madika’s words, her proposal to train me for the next International Festival of Dance. And then I remembered her question about whether I had been classically trained and it was as if a small dark cloud had appeared in a bright summer sky.
A few minutes later the cloud cleared, and my future was suddenly obvious. Of course! Why hadn’t I realised this? Hadn’t she said I was like a building with shaky foundations? Well, perhaps not quite. But that was clearly what she had implied. The foundations were not in place. And without foundations I would be nothing. I would be little more than a rootless tree blowing in the wind.
And as the image of a rootless tree appeared in my mind’s eye, a recent dream flashed before me. A chestnut tree under a restless sky. Its boughs dragging in the air. Its gnarled roots creeping over a single nameless grave. I clutched at the memory. Was this an omen? A sign that I needed deeper roots? I’d ignored the dream at the time. Such a sliver of a dream it had been. So flimsy and indecipherable and without the vividness and bright colours I associated with my clairvoyant dreams. But now I realised this snatch of a dream was telling me something. Was it telling me that without well-grounded roots I might die? Was that it? Was this eerie image a sign that my spirit might die if I didn’t anchor my dancing in classical ballet?
I leapt out of bed, threw on my dance tunic, tugged a brush through my hair and ran through the apartment, down the five flights of stairs, out into Robiac Square and down the rue de Grenelle. Past the concierges scrubbing doorsteps on their knees, past the butchers and bakers winding down their awnings, past the fat fishmonger heaving slippery eels from wooden crates, past the white-aproned waiters laying out rows of chairs on the sidewalk, past the musty shop where I bought my first dancing shoes. I ran all the way to the Seine. Cyclists rang their bells at me, horns beeped, motor cars swerved, a caped gendarme blew his whistle, flocks of pigeons rose into the air. But on I ran. Along the edge of the Seine, past the booksellers setting up their stalls, past the flower carts where the air was thick and heavy with the scent of hyacinths, past the caged birds where the immured parrots flapped and shrieked.
I ran until I got to the rue de Sèvres, where I stopped to smooth down my dress and wipe the sweat from my face. I knew where her academy was and, although it was too early for classes, I knew enough of Madame Egorova to guess she’d be there, preparing for her pupils, tidying the studio, dabbing at the mirrors with a handkerchief. I pushed open the door, climbed several flights of stairs and there at the top was her studio. This was it! The best place to train as a ballerina in all of France. And there she was, Madame Egorova, standing in front of a mirror and pulling her hair into a knot.
* * *
“You’re doing what?” Kitten could barely hide her incredulity.
“Training as a ballerina,” I repeated, pushing a cup of tea towards her.
“So you won’t be training with Madika?”
“No. I have to master the principles first. It was Madika who made me see that.” It seemed very clear to me and I couldn’t understand why Kitten was being so stupid.
“But that’s what Zelda Fitzgerald’s doing. You must have heard what people are saying about her. You don’t think you’re too old?” Kitten dropped a cube of sugar into her tea and stirred it, watching me from beneath her lashes.
“Of course I’m not too old! I’m much younger than Mrs Fitzgerald. Madame Egorova danced with the Ballets Russes and Diaghilev and Nijinsky – she knows what she’s doing.”
“Yes, I know that.” Kitten’s voice was a trifle sharp. “She knows what she’s doing but do you? Everyone says you have a gift for dancing, but for rhythmic dancing, for modern dance. It’s completely different.” Kitten pulled her lips into a thin line and shook her head as if I was an idiot.
I explained to Kitten that I was like a wonderful building without foundations. And then I pointed out of the window towards the Eiffel Tower as if to make my point.
“Tosh!” Kitten tossed her head. “Do you know how terribly hard she’ll make you work? Do you have any idea of the hours and hours she’ll expect you to practise?”
I was taken aback by the vehemence of Kitten’s views. She was still stirring her tea, scraping the spoon round and round the bottom of her cup, as though she might find something there that would confirm her words. “What do your parents say?”
“Oh they don’t care. Their minds are on other things at the moment. Babbo has a book of essays coming out and Mama’s planning some big trip for him or else she’s waiting hand and foot on Giorgio. I think they’re pleased I’m going to be out of their way. Anyway it’s too late now – I’ve already told Madika I won’t train with her this year. And she thinks it’s a good idea. She’s offered to have me back after I’ve done a year of ballet.”
“Have you had one of your Cassandra moments? Is that why you’re so determined this is the right course?”
“No,” I said, toying with my necklace. I didn’t want to share my strange dream of a tree and a grave with Kitten when she was in such a hostile mood. She’d probably interpret it in an entirely different way. She might even say it was a sign of impending death if I did take up ballet.
“Well, I think it’s a mistake. I’m sorry, but I do.” Kitten took the teaspoon out of her tea and laid it carefully in the saucer. After a few minutes of jagged silence, she continued, “But I’m your friend so I’ll support you whatever you do. What about the dance troupe – will you carry on dancing with us?”
“I will if I can but I can’t make any promises. Madame Egorova made it very clear what she expects from me.” My voice trailed off as I recalled the meeting with Madame, her dark glittering eyes like polished pebbles, her hair pulled back so tightly I could see the stretched line of her scalp. Madame had demanded ‘no less than six hours a day, every day, here in my studio’. I hadn’t balked. I had been dancing for six years, often for hours and hours every day. Her pebble eyes flashing, Madame had talked of ‘the need to subdue the body’ and said I must prepare ‘to push my body beyond its physical limits’. She had mentioned the word ‘discipline’ at least five times. I decided not to repeat any of this to Kitten.
“Did you see Zelda Fitzgerald there?” asked Kitten. “Do you know her?” Mrs Fitzgerald was notorious for her American glamour and her tempestuous marriage to an American writer. There was always something in her life to gossip about, and Kitten, being a fellow American, always had the latest gossip.
“Madame said Mrs Fitzgerald was training with her.” I hesitated, trying to recall what I knew of the Fitzgeralds. “I think my parents had dinner with them once. Yes, Mr Fitzgerald wanted to throw himself out of a window. I think they must be a bit crazy. Are they crazy? I’ve not read any of his books – no time for reading! Too much dancing to do. Anyway she’s much older than me but Madame didn’t seem to think that was a problem.” I took a long mouthful of tea, steeling myself for another round of Kitten’s condemnation.
“Apparently she’s dancing for eight hours a day and she’s become completely obsessed. Ma says she was an awfully good child ballerina back in Alabama.” Kitten looked pointedly at me. “Did you ever do ballet?”
“You know I didn’t,” I said. “You just said you’d support me, whatever I did.”
“I just think you’re more of a gymnast, an acrobat. I’m sorry, darling.” Kitten pulled me towards her and hugged me. “I know you’ll be wonderful at whatever you set your mind to. I’m just not as brave as you, not as adventurous.” She heaved a sigh and then added, “Speaking of such, how is your adventure in love going?”
“Oh Kitten,” I grabbed her hands in mine. “It’s Beckett that’s given me the confidence to do this.”
“He thinks you should train as a ballerina?” Kitten’s eyebrows shot up into her fringe.
“No, silly! But my love for him and his love for me. I feel as though I could take anything on. Knowing he’s there for me, that someone really cares for me. I can’t explain it. You need to fall in love, Kitten.” I pressed her hands in mine and wished I was more articulate, wished I could explain how the prospect of imminent liberation was impelling me forward, urging me on, giving me courage and audacity.
“You’re so lucky.” Kitten turned to gaze wistfully out of the parlour window. “You have a world-famous writer as a Pa, a tall, handsome man in love with you, and now Madika wants to turn you into a celebrated dancer.”
“It’s not all wonderful.” I paused and swallowed. “Giorgio has taken up with a married woman who’s old enough to be his mother. No one knows. But I thought you should. I’m so sorry, Kitten.”
“I knew he wasn’t interested in me. A girl knows these things.” She squeezed my hand. “But you’re still as close as you were?”
“No,” I said, biting my lip. “I don’t think he’s forgiven me for not marrying Emile. And I don’t like the woman he’s having an affair with.” I lowered my voice. “She tried to have an affair with Babbo while she was working for him. Right here, under Mama’s nose.”
“Your Pa would never do that! He can’t live without your Ma. What’s she like, Giorgio’s new flame?”
“Old. Her face looks like an over-baked apple. But she’s very, very rich. Her father made millions selling pots and pans in America and now she’s spending it on Giorgio. It’ll kill Mama.” I shook my head dejectedly. “She hates divorced women and she’s always been besotted with Giorgio.”
“Well, don’t worry about me. I’ve got a few men wanting to take me out.” She stood up and shook out her skirt, before adding, “It’s you I’m worried about. I don’t want you to dance yourself into an early grave, as my Ma would say.”
“My mind is made up.” I pushed myself up onto the balls of my feet and pirouetted, arms outstretched. “I want proper foundations.”