Wild Lavender (28 page)

Noir bolted upright and fumbled for his handkerchief, patting his face and wiping the cloth across his mouth. When he recognised me, a shudder passed through his body. ‘You stupid girl!’ he snarled. He charged at me and punched me so hard in the chest that I fell to the floor.

I looked up at him, my eyes smarting from the pain. He has lost his mind, I thought. Noir glowered and I was sure he was about to attack me again when the orchestra started up the music for his act. Then I questioned if it was I who had gone mad because Noir transformed in an instant. He threw away his handkerchief, straightened his suit, donned his top hat and leapt out onto the stage exactly as he had done the last time I saw him perform.

‘Ladies, ladies. Please! What will your menfolk think?’

I stared at the stage, unable to believe my eyes. I glanced
at the opposite wing. Noir’s wife was back in her seat, knitting.

I picked myself off the floor and staggered to the wardrobe mistress’s room. Fortunately, she had been called away for another emergency and Agnès, her senior assistant, had taken it upon herself to start working on my headdress without me.

‘Good!’ she said, standing on tiptoe to slip the headdress on and fasten it behind my ears and at the nape of my neck. ‘It fits properly now. Hurry! We must go to your dressing room and get you ready.’ She peered at my face. ‘Your mascara is running.’

I touched my cheek and examined my fingertip. It was chalky black. I wondered what I looked like. I couldn’t believe what had taken place with Noir. If it wasn’t for the throb in my chest where he had hit me, I might have thought it was a dream.

‘Quick!’ said Agnès, pushing me out the door. ‘There are only seven minutes before you go back on stage.’

Agnès’s warning spurred me into action. I couldn’t explain what had happened with Noir, but there was no time to think about it now. I had an audience to entertain.

What had happened became clear the next day, however, when I arrived for my rehearsal and found Monsieur Etienne waiting outside the stage door.

‘They want to fire you,’ he said. ‘You are accused of trying to sabotage Jacques Noir’s act.’

I dropped my purse. It clattered down the steps and my compact and lipstick tumbled out. Monseiur Etienne’s announcement had stunned me so much that I couldn’t speak.

‘You have a contract and I am going to argue the decision with that,’ said Monsieur Etienne. ‘But you had better tell me what happened last night before we go to face Monsieur Volterra.’

Monsieur Etienne was an impeccable dresser but that morning the knot in his tie was crooked and his hair was dishevelled. It occurred to me that I had never seen him look so agitated. The blood rushed to my head. Fire me? Lose my beloved act at the Casino de Paris after less than three months?

‘It is a lie, Monsieur Etienne.’ I sank down on the stairs and tried scooping up my lipstick but my hand was trembling so much I ended up knocking it further down the steps.

‘Oh, I am sure of that!’ said Monsieur Etienne.

The tone of his voice calmed me a little. If Monsieur Etienne didn’t doubt that I was innocent, perhaps once I’d had a chance to explain what had happened, Monsieur Volterra wouldn’t either. I told Monsieur Etienne why I had been in the wings and about Noir.

Monsieur Etienne clenched his fists. ‘I knew it would be something like that,’ he hissed. ‘This is not the first time Noir has pulled a dirty stunt. He gets rid of any talent that he perceives as a threat.’

‘But we don’t do the same act,’ I said.

‘You got a better review than him from the same reporter,’ said Monsieur Etienne. He reached into his pocket and passed me his handkerchief. I wasn’t crying, but the fear of being fired was stinging my eyes. If Jacques Noir sullied my reputation at the Casino de Paris, I would have difficulty getting work anywhere else.

‘Was he pretending to be sick?’ I asked. ‘Was that a trick?’

Monsieur Etienne shook his head. ‘That part is real. It is his nerves. That is why they had to get rid of the rook prop. Only a few people know about it, and Volterra turns a blind eye because he figures it helps Noir’s routine. It is unfortunate that you stumbled across him like that. He is trying to use it as ammunition against you before you can use it against him. If you go to the gossip columnists with the story, he will say it is sour grapes because you got fired.’

Monsieur Etienne decided it would be best if he explained the situation to Monsieur Volterra himself, in
case the discussion became heated. My nerves were on edge and it was taking all my reserves even to talk coherently. I returned to my hotel by taxi and, as soon as I opened the door to my room, collapsed into the nearest chair. Kira, my kitten, was sleeping on the windowsill. She lifted her head and blinked. She must have sensed something was wrong, because she stretched back on her hind legs and leapt from the windowsill into my lap, sacrificing her sunny position in order to comfort me. I glanced at the hands of the clock on my bureau. It was already three. How much time would Monsieur Etienne need? I closed my eyes, dreading the thought that I might not be performing that night—or any night—at the Casino de Paris. It had become my life.

‘
Murr
,’ meowed Kira, rubbing her chin against my hand. I massaged her back, my fingers sinking into her lavender fur. I had bought my little friend from an old woman I met one morning when I was walking around Parc de Monceau.

‘A companion is what you need,’ a voice had called out. I turned to see an old woman smiling at me and pointing to a cage draped with a blanket that she had propped on the bench next to her. Unable to resist my curiosity, I approached the woman and she lifted a corner of the blanket. Four kittens stared back at me. I stuck my finger through the wicker bars to play with them.

‘A cat is the best cure for loneliness,’ the woman said.

She had looked at me with her faded blue eyes as if she were trying to see into me and discover what kind of person I was. I wondered if my loneliness was that obvious or whether that was her line to draw people in. She was dressed in an olive-coloured coat with black trimming and her grey hair was tucked under a velvet hat. I guessed that she was about seventy, but her hands trembled with the frailty of a much older woman. All in all, she didn’t seem like someone who was on the make, and if she was, she had chosen the wrong place. The only people she was likely to meet in Parc de Monceau at that time of day were the wealthy, who were not taken in by sob stories, or the
nannies of children of the wealthy who were instructed not to talk to anybody. Then again, she had also met me and I didn’t fall into either of those categories.

‘I’ll take all of them then,’ I laughed.

‘Only one per person,’ the woman answered. ‘They each require special attention. And I have to see where you live before I make my decision.’

Showing a stranger where I lived didn’t sound like a sensible idea, although the woman seemed harmless enough.

‘What kind of kittens are they?’ I asked.

‘Russian Blues. Their father is a descendent of Vashka, the favourite cat of Tsar Nicholas I.’

She had made the last statement so matter-of-factly that I couldn’t tell if she was tricking me or not.

I played with the wriggling balls of fur. They reminded me how much I missed the company of my pets on the farm. I had a warm room now and could afford to feed another mouth. Maybe a kitten would be a good salve for my loneliness. All of them were sturdy-looking and healthy but there was one who did not take her eyes from me.

The woman let out a laugh that ended in a cough. She reached into her coat for a handkerchief. When she shook it out the scent of lily of the valley trailed in the air. Holding the lace to her mouth, she cleared her throat, and when she had recovered, she said, ‘That’s Kira and she has chosen you. She is a perceptive little one. She knows you will be good to her.’

I was lost to Kira’s sweet face. ‘I’ll take her,’ I said.

‘She is five hundred francs,’ the woman said.

I opened my eyes in surprise. It was twice my fee for a performance. Did people really pay as much as that for a cat? Maybe the woman thought that because I was in Parc de Monceau and well-dressed that I was richer than I was. Still, I reasoned, because I had my heart set on the kitten now, I had paid much more than that for the leopard-skin chairs. And Kira was a living thing.

I nodded. ‘Do you want to see where I live now?’

The woman patted my hand. ‘No, I shall come tomorrow at this time. Here,’ she said, opening a notebook and handing it to me. ‘Write down your address.’

I did as she told me. ‘I am Madame Ducroix, by the way,’ the woman said, holding out her hand.

‘I am Simone Fleurier,’ I replied, reaching out to take it.

‘Oh, I know who you are,’ the woman said and winked.

Madame Ducroix had arrived the next morning with Kira sitting in a cane basket with a red bow around her neck. ‘Very nice,’ Madame Ducroix had said, looking around my room.

Straight after leaving the park the previous day, I had gone shopping and bought rugs, a floral tea set and a crystal platter on which I had just placed a fig tart from the patisserie near the park, supposedly the best in Paris. I had no idea why I was going to so much trouble to impress Madame Ducroix. After all, I was going to pay five hundred francs for her kitten. And yet, when I thought of Kira’s wise eyes peering out from her fluffball of a face, I was convinced that I was taking on responsibility for something more than a cat and that somehow I had to earn her.

‘The suite is warm and sunny. And the doors are secure, so Kira won’t get out on the balcony,’ I told Madame Ducroix, bemused at the tone of desperation in my voice. I was acting like a hopeful bride-to-be trying to win the approval of her future mother-in-law.

‘I am sure you will take good care of her,’ said Madame Ducroix, lowering herself into the seat I offered her. ‘I sense these things and Kira does as well. Cats are psychic, you know.’

Madame Ducroix’s face became downcast and I wanted to ask her what she meant. But then she brightened again and began serving the tea and cake, although she was my guest. Despite my doubts of the previous day, I concluded that Madame Ducroix’s intentions were honourable. She asked me about stage life but gave only brief answers to questions about herself. The most I could glean from her
was that she was a widow, she lived near the park and one of her grandparents had been Russian. After about an hour, she stood up and patted Kira then bent over to kiss the top of her head.
‘Ya zhelayu schast’ya tebe, moy malen’kiy kotyonok,’
she whispered in Kira’s ear. I was about to joke with her that I hoped Kira spoke French as well as Russian, but stopped myself when I saw the tears in her eyes.

‘This is for you,’ I said, handing her the five hundred francs we had agreed upon.

Madame Ducroix pushed the money back towards me. ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘That was a test. I need to know if the people who take my kittens really want them or not. Anyone who is prepared to pay five hundred francs for a cat understands their true value.’

I walked Madame Ducroix to the front of the hotel and hailed a taxi for her. ‘I would like very much for you to come again and see Kira. Or perhaps I could visit you?’ I said.

Madame Ducroix’s face lit up. ‘Visit? I would love you to. Please, here is my address,’ she said, handing me her card.

The driver helped her into the taxi and Madame Ducroix waved before the car set off. She looked as happy as a child leaving for the summer holidays.

A few weeks later, when I hadn’t heard from Madame Ducroix, I decided to pay her a visit. Her apartment was on Rue Rembrandt. There was no concierge in attendance so I went up the stairs myself. I rang the buzzer to Madame Ducroix’s apartment, but no one answered. I expected that she would have a maid, so I waited a few moments before trying again. I was about to leave when the door across the landing opened and a well-dressed woman in a cream suit looked out.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘I am looking for Madame Ducroix,’ I told her. ‘But she doesn’t seem to be home.’

A startled expression passed across the woman’s face and she said, ‘But, Mademoiselle, Madame Ducroix died last week. The apartment is up for rent.’

I gripped the banister. I hadn’t been expecting anything like that. Madame Ducroix had appeared frail, but she had been so lively the last time we had met.

The woman stepped forward, leaving the door to her apartment open. ‘I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I have given you a shock. Won’t you come inside for a moment? Are you a relative?’

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘She gave me one of her kittens a few weeks ago and I came to tell her how well she is doing.’

The woman nodded. I was about to head back down the stairs when, as an afterthought, I turned around and asked, ‘Do you know if Madame Ducroix found homes for all her cats?’

A smile broke across the woman’s face and she pointed to her feet. Poised on either side of her were two adult cats, one larger than the other. From their regal bearing and vivid eyes, I knew they must be Kira’s parents. ‘Oh, you can be assured of that,’ she said. ‘Madame Ducroix wasn’t prepared to go until she had found homes for them all.’

I was remembering these things when Monsieur Etienne knocked at my door. It gave me such a start that I jumped up and sent Kira flying onto the rug, but she was quick to forgive and chased me to the door. Before I opened it, I squeezed my eyes shut and made a wish that I would continue to sing at the Casino de Paris. I opened the door full of hope. But I only had to look at the drawn expression on Monsieur Etienne’s face to know that he wasn’t bringing me good news.

P
aris was at its most beautiful in the spring, but even in the Jardin du Luxembourg, with its chestnut trees bursting into clusters of white blossoms and the flowerbeds teeming with irises, anemones and tulips, the glory of the season was lost on me. I was out of work and out of luck.

I sat on a bench under the branches of an early blooming lilac, barely noticing the syrupy perfume that enveloped me from its panicles of purple flowers. What had happened with Jacques Noir at the Casino de Paris was a disaster. Although Monsieur Volterra had insisted that he believed my story, he had also insisted on firing me, because if he didn’t, Noir had threatened to leave the show. Monsieur Volterra had paid out my contract but only after deducting the expense of my costume and Vincent Scotto’s fee. I’d had to return to my hotel in the Latin Quarter, to a smaller room than the one I had rented before. I sold one of the leopard-skin chairs, the oriental screen and some of my clothes. The chair I kept was an apology to Kira for dragging her with me into lowered circumstances. But if she minded that we now shared a narrow bed in a shabby room, she never showed it. As long as she received a saucer of milk and could nestle into the crook of my arm, she was happy.

The blow of losing my spot at the Casino de Paris would have been softened if Monsieur Etienne had been able to find me a part somewhere else. But even though Monsieur Volterra never publicly announced that I had tried to sabotage Noir’s act, the comedian spread the story
everywhere he could. The Folies Bergère was already in rehearsal for ‘
La Folie Du Jour
’, in which they were going to launch Joséphine Baker, the American singer
.
After spending a fortune on over a thousand different costumes and music by Spencer Williams, they weren’t willing to do anything that might upset their temperamental star. The response from the director of the Moulin Rouge was the same. They had just paid over half a million francs to the Dolly Sisters over a dispute with Mistinguett, and were not going to put the diva’s nose out of joint again by hiring competing acts. Only the Adriana expressed any interest, but their singing and dancing roles were filled for the next two seasons.

A child in a red coat skidded on the gravel in front of me, sending the pigeons scattering in fright. The girl crouched on her knees, her eyes wide with astonishment. She burst into tears the moment her nursemaid swept her into her arms. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to go running so far ahead of me?’ the nursemaid chided her, brushing the dust off the girl’s coat.

I watched the woman and child angle off the path and disappear amongst the trees. The day was sunny and the park was full of people strolling through the formal gardens and terraces. Everyone seemed lively, happy that winter had melted away into a vibrant spring. The laughter of children came from the direction of the pond. And above that noise rose the sound of somebody singing.

I gazed at my feet. If I couldn’t succeed at the Casino de Paris, where could I succeed? Was it all over? Was it time to admit defeat and go home?

The singer moved closer, his voice grew louder. The tone was rich but he sang off key.

The more you get

The more you want

You want and want

and then it’s all gone.

I sat up straight and looked around.

‘What’s wrong?’ a man’s voice asked. ‘You look dejected.’

I peered through the lilac. The speaker had positioned himself so that his face was hidden by the leaves. I could see only that he was tall and wore a camel coat and well-polished shoes. One of his hands rested on the bough of the tree, smooth and brown like an Indian’s, but I knew the speaker couldn’t be from the subcontinent because the hand was too large. Besides, the voice was familiar.

André Blanchard.

The hand reached up and brushed aside the leaves. Those eyes that always sent the blood rushing through my veins looked back at me. For a moment I forgot my woes and I didn’t have to force myself to smile.

‘I’ve heard the gossip,’ he said, manoeuvring himself around the tree. ‘Imagine trying to sabotage Jacques Noir’s act.’ When he gave that resonant laugh I could almost forgive him for making fun of my predicament.

‘I think I have lost my chance,’ I said. I would never have admitted defeat to anyone else, but there was something about André that made him impossible to lie to.

His face grew serious, as if he had read my thoughts. He stared at the space on the bench beside me. ‘May I?’

I nodded and he sat down. ‘Jacques Noir doesn’t need someone to sabotage him,’ he said. ‘He is bad enough as it is. It is just that he has made good connections. That line, “The most adored comedian in Paris”—he made it up himself. He is good at publicity.’

‘Good for him, bad for me,’ I said.

André rubbed his chin. ‘It is not always easy to explain why one thing takes off in Paris and another doesn’t,’ he said. ‘Singers are sought after for more than their vocal ability. Take Camille Casal—we can understand her stardom because she is a beauty. But Fréhel? Now, who can explain that?’

‘I don’t know who Fréhel is.’

‘No?’ he laughed. ‘Well, we shall have to go and see her
some time. She is middle-aged and ravaged and sings in a hoarse voice about prostitutes and doomed lovers. And Paris loves her.’

The tips of my ears felt as though they were alight. Had he really said, ‘We will have to go and see her some time’?

‘I was surprised when I saw Mistinguett perform,’ I said. ‘Her voice is flat, she wobbles when she dances and she is not particularly beautiful.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But everyone thinks of her when they think of France. She is as essential to Paris as coffee and
croissants
.’

I bent to pick a blade of grass and twirled the sprig between my fingers. André leaned over and mirrored my action. ‘And there you are,’ he said. ‘You can sing, you can dance and you’re pretty too. And you’re out of a job.’

He fixed his gaze on my face and smiled. The burn in my ears and cheeks spread over my entire body.

‘If you are free this evening, Mademoiselle Fleurier, I would like to take you to dinner,’ he said.

Maxim’s had changed from the grand days of the Belle époque, when the kings of England, Spain and Belgium entertained courtesans such as La Belle Otéro and Cléo de Merode in style there. Nevertheless, in 1925 the restaurant still retained its Art Nouveau opulence with curving lines of mahogany pillars, plush banquettes and statuettes of windblown damsels. As the
maître d’hôtel
led us to our table I gazed up at the glass ceiling decorated with flowers, fruit and lemon tree leaves. The
maître d’hôtel
pulled out a chair for me and slipped the handwritten menu into my fingers. I glanced around the dark salon
,
lit by miniature lamps on each table, and at the elegantly coiffured women whose diamond earrings and necklaces sparkled. The patrons were no longer aristocrats but they still glittered: Well-to-do artists, writers, entertainers, journalists and politicians. Maxim’s might be more respectable now but it
was still not the kind of place a man brought his wife. I understood why André had chosen it: there was a kind of complicit discretion among the patrons. It was one of the few places in Paris where we wouldn’t be stared at.

‘They have the best beefsteak in Paris,’ André announced, glancing at the menu which included
caviar osciètre
and a cassoulet made with frogs’ legs.

I still hadn’t recovered from the shock of being asked to dine with him and tried to cover my self-consciousness with chatter. ‘I haven’t seen you around Paris for a while,’ I said. ‘Have you been travelling?’

‘I was in Rome, Venice and Berlin,’ he answered. He shifted in his chair, turning to look for the waiter. I couldn’t tell if it was because I was boring him already or whether he just found it hard to stay seated.

‘What were you doing there?’ I asked.

‘It is my training,’ he said, taking a sip of champagne. ‘My father has acquired hotels in those cities and was showing me how they are run.’

The fluid in our champagne and water glasses was vibrating. I looked down and saw it was because André was bouncing his leg against the table. Bernard used to do that around Uncle Gerome whenever the older man made him nervous. André hadn’t come across as fidgety before; was something worrying him?

The waiter set down our
entrées
. I stared at the blinis on my plate and wondered how to eat them. I watched André pick up a spear of asparagus with his fingers and dip it in the bowl of sauce. I shrugged; I might as well be adventurous and guess. I rolled the blini closed with my fork and ate it in one bite. The nutty flavour of the caviar exploded in my mouth. Whether that was the correct way to eat blinis or not, André didn’t seem perturbed.

‘Are you and your father very similar?’ I asked him.

My intuition could have answered that for me. Ever since I had met André, I had read everything in the paper I could find about the Blanchard family. In his business dealings Monsieur Blanchard came across as a formidable
character, confident to crush strikers protesting against low wages and to use foreign immigrants as labour in the face of public opinion. André, from what I had seen of him, was ambitious but also warm and fair-minded.

He shook his head. ‘We are different people. I thrive on change while my father has a horror of it. He lives his life by clockwork, disappearing into his office at the same time each day, eating his meals precisely on the hour and going to bed at exactly twelve minutes past midnight. When they were first married, my mother made the mistake of rearranging his office. I don’t think he has ever forgiven her for that.’

I was unsure whether to laugh or sympathise. André was smiling, but something in his eyes told me that his father’s exacting behaviour was not as humorous as he made out.

‘My father has a theory that money is made in the first and second generations and lost in the third and fourth,’ he continued. ‘He is determined that I won’t follow that trend. He has said I can have all the fun I want and hone my entrepreneurial skills on any business I care to, until my thirtieth birthday. Then I must marry and take over the business.’

‘You must feel under pressure,’ I said, beginning to understand André’s fascination with the music hall. Life was beautiful on stage and unpredictable off it. There was a sense of living on the edge. Doing exactly the same thing every day because that was what you had done for years didn’t seem like living to me.

‘I have more than a decade yet,’ said André, the lightness returning to his voice. ‘I am only nineteen. I like people much more than I like machines. I am going to show my father that what he considers my hobbies are things I can make financially successful. I am not going to lose the family fortune, but I am determined to live differently to him.’

‘I have a feeling you will succeed,’ I told him. My words were sincere but I was trying to hide my surprise at his age. So he was nineteen? He was only a couple of years older than me but seemed worldlier. Perhaps that was the way
wealthy people were, because they had less insecurity in their lives.

Something behind me caught André’s attention. ‘Now there is a sight you should see,’ he said.

I turned to find a black woman standing in the entrance of the grand salon. She had expressive eyes and a shiny helmet of hair. I knew instantly who she was; I had seen her poster everywhere. Joséphine Baker. She stood motionless until one by one the tables grew quiet and every eye turned to her. Then she flung the chinchilla coat she was wearing to the floor—sending the cloakroom girl scrambling for it—to reveal a scarlet gown with a neckline slashed to the waist.

While the
maître d’hôtel
showed Mademoiselle Baker and her hangers-on to their table, the music hall star batted her eyelids and wiggled her hips for the diners at every table she passed on the way.
‘Bonsoir, mes chéries,’
she called out, sweeping her arms about her and blowing kisses. ‘How wonderful you all look this evening.’ Although it wasn’t considered the done thing to interrupt people while they were eating, no one was affronted by her behaviour. Smiles lit up as she passed by. The whole mood of the salon had transformed. Instead of the subdued whispering of earlier in the evening, the conversations were animated and laughter burst from all the corners of the room.

‘Did you see that?’ André whispered, amusement twinkling in his eyes. ‘She is not half as talented as you. But she knows how to play the part of the star.’

‘Is star quality something people just have? Something they are born with?’ I asked.

André shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t suggest that if you had seen her before. She has learnt from watching what others do and added her own touch.’

‘And I haven’t learnt it,’ I said. ‘That is what you are trying to tell me.’

André leaned forward. ‘I am trying to tell you that if you cultivate it, you will be formidable. You should take what
Jacques Noir did to you as a compliment. If he thought you were nobody, he wouldn’t have bothered. You threatened him.’

I looked down at my plate. ‘How will I cultivate it?’

André reached across the table and brushed a speck of caviar from my chin with his thumb. ‘I could help you,’ he said.

I clutched my serviette in my lap, rolling it into a tight ball. My skin burned where he had touched me. I had thought about André often enough to know that I liked him. He was every showgirl’s dream—handsome, young, rich and willing to help my career. And yet I could feel my feet pressing into the floor as if I were slamming on brakes. I did not want to be one of a succession of girls on his arm. I imagined Camille taking me by the shoulders and shaking me:
What do you expect, Simone? Love?

‘Rivarola and I weren’t lovers,’ I said. I was taken aback by the tone of my own voice. The coldness in it made the meaning clear. I lifted my eyes to meet André’s. If he was disappointed, he recovered quickly.

‘I have entrepreneurial blood in me,’ he said, pushing his plate aside. ‘One thing an entrepreneur can’t stand to see is wasted potential. And when I look at you, that’s what I see: millions of francs’ worth of stardom going to waste. A potential French icon floundering on the river bank like a dying fish.’