by Eva Ibbotson
But the undoubted triumph, the chef-d’oeuvre of the evening – Parker was sure of it – would be the eruption from her cake of the prettiest girl to arrive in the New World for a decade . . . He himself had personally supervised the construction of this cake: a massive three-tiered plywood gateau painted a mouth-watering pink and decorated with ribbons, mock icing-sugar hearts and cupids – the whole delectable concoction resting on a trolley whose mechanism was concealed by a sea of subsidiary confectionary lapping at its base.
Now, looking round the Club’s banqueting room with its mirrors, gilt lamps and red-damasked walls, Parker could not help feeling that he was upholding a fine and worthwhile tradition. Not at Maxim’s, not at the Café de Paris could they offer anything better than Marie-Claude, clad in her hair, erupting to the music of La Belle Hélène.
In the smoking room, Parker’s satisfaction was far from being shared by Rom. He had been drinking with Alvarez for nearly an hour and the Minister continued to be charming, urbane and impeccable. Immaculately dressed, his hair and moustache pomaded to perfection, his feet in their narrow, hand-made shoes resting on a brocaded footstool, Alvarez showed interest in Rom’s horticultural innovations, gossiped about his fellow politicians, was informative about the state of Brazilian drama – and again and again led the conversation away from Ombidos.
‘If you could go there yourself, sir – just for a day. That damnable company must be disbanded and the people brought to book!’
‘My dear Verney, if I personally investigated every rumour of that sort on the river, I would be quite unable to attend to my work.’
‘Ombidos is like nowhere else. I assure you that the report seriously understates what is going on up there.’
‘Well, well, we shall see.’ Alvarez selected a cigar, a matter which appeared to absorb his entire attention. ‘I’ll have a second look at the report in the morning and then we can have another talk. Now tell me, is it true that Calgeras is selling his interests in the Minas Gerais? It seems an odd move just now in view of what’s happening to rubber, but de Silva swore it was true . . .’
Half an hour before the dinner was due to begin, a message was brought to Parker to say that young Wetherby was down with a bad attack of malaria and would be unable to attend.
‘Damn! That means we’re down to thirty-five – I hate odd numbers,’ he said to his assistant. ‘I suppose it would be best just to remove his place – he was right down at the bottom of one of the side tables anyway.’ He stood for a moment, frowning. Then: ‘No, wait a moment!’
He hurried out to the annexe, where Edward was lying on his bed, disconsolate and bored. The expedition he had accompanied had run into trouble and although a price had been agreed with the porters, an altercation had developed at the end of the first day and the men had decamped, leaving the scientists no choice but to return.
‘Listen, Finch-Dutton,’ said Parker now. ‘There is a vacant place at the banquet – one of the guests is ill and can’t make it. Why don’t you come along? I can lend you some tails. You would be a good long way from the action and between a couple of Brazilians, so there’s no need to say much. Just clap and cheer in the right place. You’d be doing me a good turn, actually – an empty space looks bad at a do like this.’
‘I say, that’s very decent of you,’ said Edward. ‘I was just going to go to town and look for a bite to eat. . .’ and greatly cheered, he rolled off his bed and followed Harry Parker to his room.
Meanwhile in the Teatro Amazonas, where the curtain had gone down on Fille, Marie-Claude had grown pensive removing her make-up.
‘’arriette, I think it would be kind if you came with me, to the Club? I think it would be better if I came with a friend, so that the gentlemen don’t get any ideas.’
Harriet was surprised, for Marie-Claude had always seemed so unconcerned about anything the gentlemen might get up to. ‘Don’t you have your Tante Berthe’s hat-pin?’
‘Yes, I do. I have it. And while I am performing there can be no question of . . . anything. But—’ She broke off. ‘’ariette, please come?’ For to tell the truth, she had not actually erupted in quite that way since her engagement and somehow it was not as it had been before. ‘You see, I do this for Vincent. . . for the restaurant. . . but of course one knows that Vincent himself would not necessarily approve. He comes from a very strict family. And you being the daughter of a professor . . . that always lends a certain something.’
‘Of course I’ll come, Marie-Claude. I can take a book and wait until you’ve finished.’ She smiled. ‘Monsieur Dubrov has a copy of The Maxims of de Rochefoucauld in his office. If I carry that, then everyone can see I’m the daughter of a professor. Shall I put my hair in a bun?’
‘Thank you, ’arriette.’ Marie-Claude’s ravishing smile was a little more wistful than usual and though Harriet was wearing one of Aunt Louisa’s least fortunate purchases – a sludge-green dress spotted in purple – she forbore for once to criticise.
And ten minutes later they were in the cab which Harry Parker had sent, bound for the Sports Club.
‘Everything is ready!’ said Parker, coming forward to meet them.
‘This is my friend, Miss Morton,’ explained Marie-Claude. ‘Her father is a professor.’
Harry Parker, recognising the girl that Verney had brought from the garden at Follina, cordially shook her hand. ‘Good, good! They’re just on the last course – you’re in excellent time. Everything is laid out for you. The cake looks splendid, I must say!’
‘And the money?’ asked Marie-Claude sharply.
‘The money is waiting for you as promised,’ said the Club secretary a little stiffly.
They passed through the service door and into the kitchen quarters. From the banqueting room they heard the noise of laughter, of raised voices, to which Marie-Claude listened with a professional air. ‘Drunk, but not too drunk,’ she said, turning to Parker. ‘In fact, exactly right! Where do I change?’
‘In the little room along the corridor. We can wheel you straight in from there. There will be four men in livery and Monsieur Pierre, the Minister’s chef, will accompany you and pretend to plunge in his knife just before you come out. It should give a really good effect. He’s a great tall fellow with an amazing moustache and in his white hat—’ He broke off, for Marie-Claude had given a little cry and clutched Harriet’s arm. ‘Good heavens, there’s no danger of his hurting you,’ he said reassuringly. ‘He’s a very good amateur conjuror – used to have everyone in stitches back in Montpellier, we understand. He showed us how to bunch the sparklers so that they looked like Catherine wheels; in fact he’s been most helpful altogether.’
They were walking down the corridor and, passing an open door, caught a glimpse of an enormously tall, hatchet-faced man haranguing an underling.
‘Here we are,’ said Harry Parker, throwing open another door to reveal the trolley with the waiting cake in all its splendour. ‘We’ve put a screen there, and a mirror – and there is a wash-basin behind those curtains. No one will disturb you. Shall I fetch another chair for you, Miss Morton?’
‘There is no need, thank you.’
‘Well, that’s fine, then. About fifteen minutes?’ he said to Marie-Claude.
Harriet glanced at her friend. Surely she couldn’t be suffering from stage-fright? She had gone quite white and totally silent.
‘I’m sure that will be fine,’ Harriet said and, aware that Mr Parker was waiting for something, added, ‘The cake looks absolutely beautiful.’
‘Yes, I think it’s a success,’ said the secretary with quiet pride. ‘I’ll leave you alone, then. Just knock on the door when you’re ready.’ And he went, throwing a puzzled glance at Marie-Claude. How pale she was! The artist’s temperament, no doubt. But what a stunner!
Marie-Claude had vanished behind the screen.
‘’ariette, please come!’ The voice was unrecognisable as that of the self-assured and cheerful French girl.
Harriet peered
round the screen. Marie-Claude had made no attempt to change, but stood looking down at the envelope containing her fee which she held in a trembling hand. ‘I can’t do it, ’ariette! I can’t perform. It’s impossible!’
‘But, Marie-Claude, why? What’s the matter? They’re just a few old men having dinner; they won’t harm you.’
‘Certainly they won’t harm me!’ For a moment, Marie-Claude showed some of her former spirit. Then her face crumpled. ‘That man in the kitchen – the chef who is to cut the cake – he’s Vincent’s cousin! He’s the head of the whole family and very, very strict. He was not at all in favour of Vincent becoming engaged to me because I am a dancer, but Vincent persuaded him that ballet was respectable. If he sees me it will be the end of everything. He will write and tell Vincent—’ And Marie-Claude, the practical and invincible Marie-Claude, broke into piteous tears.
‘Then you must say you can’t do it,’ said Harriet decisively. ‘Say you have been taken ill and then we can go out quietly before Monsieur Pierre sees you.’
‘It’s too late, I’m trapped here,’ sobbed Marie-Claude. ‘If he even knew I intended to do it . . . You have no idea what he’s like. He is a man who makes three genuflections before he cooks a profiterole. And I have taken Mr Parker’s money!’
She looked down at the notes in her hand – almost the exact sum needed to make up the deposit for the auberge – and fresh tears welled up in her eyes.
‘You must leave the money and go out quickly the way we came,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ll stay and explain to Mr Parker. I’m sure he won’t give you away.’
From the banqueting room came the sound of clapping, followed by cheers. The speeches were finished. Soon now, very soon . . .
‘They are waiting.’ The disgrace of letting down her public, built into Marie-Claude since she was six years old, added to her anguish and her tears came faster.
‘Marie-Claude, if I could do it for you, I would,’ said Harriet, ‘but—’
Marie-Claude lifted her head. She picked up the envelope containing the money which she had just put down. ‘Oh, ’arriette, if you could! You are an excellent dancer, better than me, and the light will be very dim. That will keep everyone happy and while Pierre is in there, I could escape.’ She looked at Harriet standing there in her Aunt Louisa’s dreadful dress – and then at the fish-net stockings, the garters, the little rosettes to cover the breasts which she had brought. ‘No,’ she said, ‘you are right.’ She put down the money once more and gave a heroic sniff. ‘Come then; let us go! Perhaps it will not be as bad as I think.’
Harriet did not move. She was reliving two moments in her life which resembled this: the moment when she had been called into Mrs Fenwick’s study to be told that her father was taking her away from school; and the moment when she had brought home a stray puppy and Aunt Louisa had pushed it down the front steps to let it run, frightened and unheeding, into the traffic. This moment, with the feeling of being caught in a nightmare from which she could not wake, was the third.
At the same time, she was thinking. The gentlemen had to be kept quiet. Harry Parker had to be placated so that he would keep Marie-Claude’s secret. Marie-Claude had to make her escape.
‘Get behind the screen, Marie-Claude. Stay there until the cake has gone – then go quickly while everyone is in the banqueting room. If you’re caught, tell Monsieur Pierre that you came to protect me – to plead with me not to do it – but that I wouldn’t listen.’ She gave a crooked smile. ‘Say that I was too depraved . . .’
‘You’re going to do it, then?’ Marie-Claude stared at her friend. ‘You’re going to do what I do?’
Eagerly she picked up the stockings, the garters, ready to help Harriet dress.
‘No, I can’t do what you do. But I can do . . . something.’
‘Are you ready?’ Harry Parker’s voice came from outside the door.
‘Just a minute,’ called Harriet. ‘My friend is nearly ready.’
She took off her dress . . . her shoes . . . her stockings. Aunt Louisa’s meanness had had its effect even on Harriet’s underclothes. Her broderie anglaise petticoat was much too short – it came only to her calves – and she wore a narrow bust bodice of the same white material laced at the front.
‘Like that you are going?’ said Marie-Claude incredulously. And seeing Harriet’s face, ‘No, I cannot let you do it!’
‘Laissez-moi, Marie-Claude,’ said Harriet wearily – and climbed into the cake.
The table had been cleared, the port brought. Blue smoke from the men’s cigars wreathed the chandeliers.
‘Gentlemen!’ said Harry Parker, stepping forward with a self-satisfied smile. ‘The dessert!’
There was a blast of trumpets, the huge double doors were thrown open and there appeared, pushed in by four men in crimson livery, an enormous and sumptuously decorated cake.
‘Oh, God,’ thought Rom, sitting beside Alvarez at the centre table. ‘Not that old bromide!’
He had made the required speech with the expected eulogies and jokes, had set himself to amuse and enter-tain the Minister; but beneath the veneer of good manners he was savage with frustration and contempt. This idle, venal man would do nothing to help his countrymen; he would not set foot outside Manaus with its comforts and the flattery that was showered on him there.
And now this tired music-hall rubbish . . .
Edward, sitting at the foot of one of the side tables, had already drunk a great deal more than usual. Now, aware that something was about to happen that did not happen after dinner at St Philip’s, he leaned forward eagerly with an excited flush on his long face – and Rom, noticing him for the first time, threw him a scornful glance.
A tall chef in a white hat entered, followed by two assistants carrying a silver platter with a long-handled knife. On the dais, the six-piece orchestra broke into the music from La Belle Hélène.
And out of the cake there burst a girl!
Except that ‘burst’ was not quite the word . . . It was the slight air of puzzlement, the cessation of voices which might otherwise have been expected to go on talking through an event of this kind, which made Rom turn from Alvarez and look over the silver epergne which concealed him to see what was going on.
And certainly the figure which had emerged from the sea of tissue justified the mystification of the diners. Dressed like their little sisters bound for the bath, her arms folded in incorrigible modesty across her chest, the girl’s dark eyes were wide with fear and from her limbs there came a faint but uncontrollable trembling.
A man in a blond toupee broke into laughter. The leader of the orchestra raised his eyebrows at Parker, whose ferrety face as he recognised the professor’s daughter twitched with despair. Disaster clearly was upon them.
Then, from behind the silver epergne, there came the sound of clapping. Enthusiastic, thoroughly supportive clapping, evincing pleasure at the spectacle to come. Verney’s lead was always followed and Alvarez, who had clamped his monocle to his eye at first sight of the girl, had already joined in. Now the others followed suit; there were good-humoured cheers, fists thumped the table.
It was all that was needed. Harriet’s terror receded. She could make out no faces in the blue-wreathed, overheated room, but she sensed that the applause was kindly and now she climbed on to the rim of the cake, leaped lightly down on to the floor – and began to dance.
She danced naturally and with a perfect innocence, making no attempt whatever to match the gestures of Marie-Claude, but to the men watching her she purveyed an extraordinary sense of happiness, of fun. It was the delight of a young girl allowed to stay up for a party that Harriet shared with her audience – the excitement, the wonder of being awake in this glittering grown-up world – and the leader of the orchestra, getting her measure, quietened his players so that the showy, exuberant music revealed its charm and tenderness.
‘Who is she?’
Alvarez’ aside to Rom had none of the languor that had characterised his utt
erances hitherto. The dissipated, puffy face looked younger, almost vunerable, as he followed the girl’s movements with his eyes.
‘One of the dancers from the Dubrov Ballet.’ Rom’s own expression, as he watched and waited, gave nothing away – yet he was amazed by her performance. Though he had seen in the first instant that Harriet was pursuing some appallingly difficult task which she had set herself, it had taken all his control not to seize her by force and carry her from the room. But now, as she danced, he found himself – along with all the other sated, experienced men – following her movements with a forgotten thirst for innocence, for those dreams of a selfless life and a noble love that are the gift of youth. Without one step that could not be seen in any dancing class, without one ‘revealing’ gesture, Harriet held her watchers spellbound, fastened by an invisible thread to her soft limbs, her tender eyes and loosened hair.
Only a few bars now to the end of the Offenbach and she moved closer, looking beneath the folds of the damask for the footstool. It was difficult, the next bit . . . Marie-Claude had practised it a great many times; there was only a small space between the diners, but she had to do it – she mustn’t be afraid.
And now she had done it! Jumped in a graceful, soaring leap on to the table!
They had not expected that. There was a hiss of surprise, and glares of disapproval at the drunken Englishman on a side table who cried out and might have disturbed the concentration of the little dancer as she stood, pensive and relieved, testing the damask with her bare toe.
‘It is necessary to be more legato on tables,’ Marie-Claude had said. Moreover the table was narrow, the pink blurs that were the gentlemen’s faces disconcertingly close. Harriet let the first, languorous bars of The Odalisque go by before she knew what to do. Then she smiled . . . stretched her arms slowly above here head . . . began, most musically, to yawn . . . and to cover the yawn with splayed and slender fingers.
And for the men who by now would have been horrified had she as much as lifted her petticoat by a few inches, Harriet danced the irresistible, slow and delicious onset of sleep as it overcame the excited – now overtired – girl she had been down there on the floor. She let her head droop forward . . . brought up her folded hands to make a cushion for her cheek. She rallied to perform a few quick pirouettes, as if she could not yet bear to let the bright day go . . . and faltered, overcome once more by weariness.