Rosetta (19 page)

AUSTRALIA, AUGUST 1914

The nation, obedient and united, follows Britain. Prime Minister Joseph Cook vows, ‘If the Armageddon is to come, then you and I shall be in it … if the old country is at war, so are we.' He makes a pledge to place the Commonwealth's vessels under the control of the British Admiralty and offers an initial force of twenty thousand men. He does not imagine that during the next four years four-hundred thousand more will serve; that sixty thousand of these soldiers will die on foreign soil so very far from home.

The response of Mr Andrew Fisher, Leader of the Opposition, is equally enthusiastic. Fisher declares that Australia will stand beside the Mother Country ‘to the last man and the last shilling'. The statement strikes a resonant chord, wins him great support. By September this lion of the Labor Party is, for the third time, leading the government.

In Melbourne, two young men join the crowds that gather in the streets to sing patriotic songs. They are brothers. The elder, Hubert
Jacobs, is an honours graduate from an exclusive school, Wesley College. He is also
aide-de-camp
to Victoria's Lieutenant-Governor and in possession of a university scholarship. Though still a medical student, he is sent to Gallipoli in early 1915 where he does his best for soldiers who are wounded and dying. Frederick, four years younger than his brother, is eighteen when war breaks out. At twenty he enlists. He is not quite so talented as Hubert but a great deal more interested in the ladies. He sets sail for France.

One day Fred Jacobs will meet Rosetta's daughter, Frances Raphael, and make her his unhappy wife. One day they will have a child, my mother. Yet, lacking Zeno's professed powers to see into the future, neither can know that this will happen.

 

Frances remains at the convent, far from war, safe. In their small, closed world the girls speak French at breakfast overseen by the Paris-born Mère Angèle. They receive thin bread and butter and an apple. Frances knows she must cut and peel the fruit in the proper fashion, eat it with a knife and fork. Surprisingly, after this meagre meal, the girls are served good coffee. It is an indication of the nuns' French heritage.

There are not quite forty boarders at the school. Frances is well aware of the number because the girls are promised a holiday when the fortieth is enrolled. The holiday never comes. Perhaps it is the war.

At seven o'clock each morning Genazzano's students attend mass. There they are instructed to pray for the holy sisters and the children who suffer in the distant convents of Belgium and France. How fortunate they are to be so far away from bloodshed: the nuns remind them frequently. The girls are taught to knit khaki socks for the soldiers. Some organise raffles or plan small concerts to raise money. They try to do their bit.

There are dreadful days when the newspapers' black-edged casualty lists contain a name that one of the girls recognises.
Louis Raphael has not gone to war. He is too old. But many girls have fathers or brothers who have left to fight. Nobody knows when, or even if, they will return. The nuns counsel prayer; they must keep their hopes alive.

Frances doesn't understand this hoping. She learnt a long time ago to put hope aside.

LONDON, OCTOBER 1914

The threat, when it arrives, comes not from a duchess but from a half-forgotten girl who has emerged from the shadows of the past.

‘I suppose you don't remember me, do you?' she says.

It is late in the day and Zeno has left for his laboratory. The girl has just strolled through the waiting-room door in a manner that Rosetta's mother, Fanny, if she were there, would declare to be ‘as bold as brass'. The girl is addressing Rosetta who, taken by surprise, looks at her quizzically from behind her pretty walnut desk.

‘Let me explain. I used to work at Wonderland, one of the chorus girls Mr Anderson employed. I don't believe we ever met,' she says, a smirk upon her lips. ‘Oh, there was one occasion when we got close to it, but you were in, well, let's say, something of a hurry at the time.

‘You never really noticed me, did you?' The girl pauses, theatrically. ‘But your husband did.

‘My name's Mildred, by the way. I'm known as Marguerite these days – it's a lot more posh, you see. It was easy to make the change. But then you'd know more about that business than me.'

Rosetta realises, with rising consternation, exactly who has stepped back into her life. The memory remains, of the Palace of Illusions, of her husband in the half light embracing a figure wrapped in silver spangles … Rosetta never saw the girl's face but recognises something in her posture, the way she arranges her limbs. Yes, she knows exactly who this intruder is.

Mildred is a pretty girl, even though her heavily applied powder has failed to hide her ginger freckles, and her thick, curly hair looks to Rosetta an unnatural shade of platinum. She has dressed up for the occasion; Rosetta observes her stylish suit, notes that here, too, something strikes a jarring note. ‘Probably second-hand,' she thinks. ‘Well cut, but obviously made for someone else.' Her eyes travel to the girl's shoes, a little worn, a little dusty. One of them is scarred by a scratch across the toe. ‘She's fallen on hard times,' Rosetta thinks. ‘This can only mean trouble.'

Then she speaks. ‘Mildred.' Determined to regain the upper hand, Rosetta's brisk delivery masks the anxiety she feels. ‘Exactly what is it that you want?'

‘It is not a matter of what I
want
,' Mildred responds tartly, with a vermilion smile. ‘It's really all about what you and your husband
need
.'

‘Really? I can't imagine anything you have that either of us could possibly require.'

‘Oh, but that's where you're wrong, Mrs Zeno. I do. Let's just call it … protection, security.'

Rosetta's heart is thudding, but she remains absolutely still. She will not let Mildred see the rising panic that she feels.

‘It's very simple, really. I came over here to find my fortune, thought I'd make a splash in one of the big shows. But it hasn't turned out quite as easy as I thought it'd be. I used nearly
every penny I had to get here and now, as the Americans would say, I'm flat broke.

‘You and Zeno, however, seem to have had some luck. Oh, I've hung about outside. I've seen the toffs line up.'

Rosetta, silent, waits.

‘I read the illustrated papers every chance I've got. I can spot a title when I see one. The Duchess of Rutland, Lady Diana, the Countess of Glasgow and the rest of them. They all come here, don't they?

‘Why, you must be making money hand over fist.'

Rosetta breaks her silence, though retains her cool hauteur. ‘Mildred, perhaps you would be so good as to come to the point. I repeat, what exactly is it that you want?'

‘I think you know, Mrs Zeno. But let me spell it out. It's simple, really. I want money and unless you give it to me, all this,' she gestures at the elegant room, the Persian rug, the delphiniums in their porcelain vase, ‘will be gone. It'll disappear, a bit like … yes, that's it,' she laughs, snaps her fingers. ‘Like in a magic trick.

‘I'll tell the papers who you two really are and where you're from. Just imagine the scandal! Wait till all your fancy patients find out. Ooh, I'd love to see their faces when they discover that their wonderful Japanese Professor is just a shabby little fairground fake who's been putting on a show.' Mildred laughs again; the sound is shrill and sharp.

Despite her fear, Rosetta maintains her composure. She knows what she must do.

‘Mildred, my dear,' she smiles sweetly, ‘I quite see what you mean. Life in London can be so expensive and I'm sure neither of us would want you to go without.

‘Only we need to discuss this a little further, to decide on what is the best arrangement we can come to. Now, for the time being, as a demonstration of good faith, do you think that five pounds would do?'

Slowly, she counts out each note on the table. Mildred eyes the money, runs a pink, hungry tongue along her painted lips.

‘And perhaps something to brighten up that lovely suit you are wearing?'

Rosetta unpins a small ruby and pearl brooch from her lapel, picks up the money and places both into Mildred's outstretched hand.

‘Take this as well. I am quite certain that we can enter into a suitable agreement, but I really can't discuss it here; a patient might call in. Do you know the Gardenia Tea Rooms? They are not far away. Go there now and I'll meet you, just as soon as I can get away. I'll not be long.'

Rosetta watches Mildred leave, waits five minutes, then five minutes more. She strews the contents of her reticule across the floor, then pulls at the collar of her coat until it tears. Finally, she takes a pair of scissors from the drawer, leaves their gleaming blades open on the desk. Satisfied, she departs. Once outside the New Bond Street rooms, Rosetta walks a little way, then turns left. Yes, he is in his usual spot, close to the smart barber's shop.

Rosetta runs towards the thick-set policeman and, breathless, but with her most enchanting smile, cries out, ‘Oh, I'm so very glad to see you, Constable Hall!'

He tips his tall hat. Mrs Zeno is a favourite of his; she and the Professor never fail to show their appreciation for keeping this expensive neighbourhood so safe. There is always a ham at Christmas for him and Mrs Hall. She's a good-looking woman too, a real stunner. Hall wonders what is wrong.

‘Constable, a terrifying young woman just forced her way into the Professor's consulting rooms. I was there alone. She took money from my reticule and look –' Rosetta points towards her coat – ‘she tore off my pearl and ruby brooch. She had sharp steel scissors – she threatened to cut my throat!

‘Do hurry, Constable. She was raving; quite mad, you know.

‘I was too frightened to follow. But I was able to watch her from the window. I think she went in the direction of the Gardenia Tea Rooms. Perhaps if you're quick, you'll catch her there now.'

As Constable Hall sets off at a clip Rosetta breathes a deep sigh. She has been lucky this time. But she knows it is a sign. Life cannot continue as it has been. Something is bound to come out soon. And what with Britain and Germany at war, and Zeno close to breaking point …

‘We are on the wrong side of the world,' she thinks. ‘It is time to go home.'

NOVEMBER 1914

There are hurried goodbyes, frantic packing, a passage booked, a long sea voyage to be made. The many distinguished friends and patrons of Professor and Mrs Carl Zeno are very sorry to see them leave. Members of various royal families, a legion of lords and ladies and a number of outstanding representatives from the worlds of arts, letters and science all express their disappointment. Some of Professor Zeno's female patients shed tears. But in these most uncertain times, well, of course it is understood that, though the loss will be very great, the Professor and his wife must do what they think best. Mrs Zeno has relatives in distant Australia; it is only natural that she wishes to join them.

It is Lilian who suffers most. Rosetta says, ‘Darling, you could come with us. We both want you to. Why not?' But her dearest friend is anxious and confused. She feels torn in two. There are her children. It is complicated.

 

The day before their ocean liner will set sail, Rosetta pays a final call. There is one matter to which she must attend that has so far remained undone.

She takes a cab from Portman Square to a smart Belgravia address. It is a white Georgian townhouse fortuitously located in a discreet side street. Rosetta had planned to wear her chic new navy Lucile suit, indeed, was already dressed when, suddenly, she changed her mind. Now, beneath her sombre coat, she wears a crimson garment that is considerably less restrained.

It is a dress in which to take a risk, a dress that can induce recklessness. Rosetta thinks of the last time she wore it, on Tamarama Beach, though so much has happened since then that the moonlit night seems less a recollection, more like an enchanting dream.

Rosetta knocks with her black suede-gloved hand upon the oak door. She hesitates. The person she has come to say goodbye to is probably not home. The wisest course would be to turn around and go.

Unexpectedly, the door swings open. ‘Madame Zeno!' the striking young man before her exclaims. ‘But I had no idea! Please, come in. Let me take your coat.'

It is clear that Alberto has not been expecting company. There are no servants and he looks unusually disordered in his attire. He is without either his jacket or a tie, and his high-collared shirt is unbuttoned and awry. She can see his throat, the outline of the muscles on his chest.

‘I must apologise for the state of my undress.' He smiles ruefully. ‘As you can see, I am leaving soon and have been busy sorting out my paintings and my books.'

‘Alberto, really?' Rosetta's response is accompanied by a look of bemusement. ‘And you didn't think to tell me? I am intrigued.'

He pushes back a lock of black hair, an expression of contrition on his handsome face. ‘I am sorry I have caught you – what is it that you say? Yes, unawares. But everything has happened so suddenly,' he explains.

‘With war declared, there is a great demand for wheat and beef. My father needs my assistance to run our estates in Argentina. I must return immediately.'

Alberto gestures with his hand. ‘Everything I own is currently on the high seas, and I will soon set sail as well. All I have is a bed to sleep on and what little you see here.'

The only furniture remaining consists of two simple chairs and a small ebony table on which there is a gramophone. A record plays. It fills the bare room with music that Rosetta has come to know well. Pulsating, driving, it is unmistakably from the
barrios
of the Argentine.

‘There is another reason I have to return. I am marrying.'

Rosetta looks up sharply.

‘Yes, I see you are surprised. I am a little myself. Perhaps it was your husband's vision that changed my mind,' Alberto says with a droll look.

‘The fact is, it is my father's wish. I have known Maria Louisa since I was a child. She is from a well-placed family. It is, what you would call, a very suitable alliance.' He shrugs his shoulders, gives an exaggerated sigh.

‘In any case, there is only one woman I truly desire. Let me describe her to you. She is very beautiful, has hair the colour of the darkest wine and at the moment, she is looking quite enchanting in a very pretty red dress. Unfortunately, she has continued to reject me. What can I do?'

Alberto's stay in London has done nothing to lessen his easy charm.

‘But I am forgetting myself. We can at least sit down. I still have brandy, or coffee if you prefer. Just don't ask me for some of your awful tea. That is one habit of the English I will honestly never understand.'

Rosetta shakes her head. ‘Really, I only came to say farewell. Thank you, but there is nothing that I want.'

As the intoxicating music continues to pervade the room Alberto asks, ‘Truly? Nothing?' Then he rises to his feet. ‘Well,
there is something I would like to ask of you, as we are quite alone. Just this once, while I still have the chance.'

Rosetta looks at Alberto, at the tanned skin of his chest, his white teeth and lazy smile. She feels her pulse begin to race, a slipping of her hard-won self-control.

Alberto reaches for Rosetta's hand. He looks at her and says with fierce intent, ‘
Donna Rosa
, you know what I want most in all the world.'

In the fading autumn light, in an empty house in Belgravia, they begin to dance.