The Queen of the Night

by Alexander Chee

  For I did think of him as a fantasy now. I had imagined him so often, he had become a figure of imagination, almost as remote and mythical to me as my hidden god. That old fantasy, my imagined flight from Baden-Baden, in defiance of my circumstances, had been a hopeless one. It is better, I had told myself, to wait. You would be destroyed. By waiting, I hoped we would be reunited in some future where I was finally a singer and he a composer. The Empress dead, the Emperor also.

  Would we recognize each other then? I wondered.

  The belief we would be reunited, that the world would organize itself to bring us together, this seemed comic at best set against the very real city around me now. All I risked, if I went to the Mabille that night, was to enter and find another woman beside him, leaning over the piano, pushing his hair back as he played—though that still had the power to keep me away.

  This, at least, was what I told myself each time I took out and then put away my cancan shoes, which were too old now and, no doubt, out of style. And besides, it would be August; the city would begin to empty from the heat.

  I instead took to returning to the opera house on my own, to sit outside of it, almost as if I were keeping it company; soon it became a regular pilgrimage. I stood on the sidewalk opposite the entrance and imagined my own likeness there, not among the busts of the composers, but along the roof, perhaps in the place of the golden Apollo, or joining him. I’d once thought the Empress to be ridiculous, having herself painted as a goddess, and yet there I sat at a table outside of a bistro sipping a coffee and imagining an image of myself shining down from the top of the Opéra Garnier.

  After a month of these visits, I heard a voice behind me say, Can I enlist you to help me knock some of them off the roof?

  I turned. My composer sat at the table behind me. He raised his glass and nodded at me.

  There’s no room for me up there, he said.

  The sight of him, a reproach for all of my doubts. The path to him had indeed led away from him to here.

  I did recognize him. His face had thinned instead of thickening, a sign of, perhaps, difficult times for a man. I wondered for just an instant if he recognized me as well, and then he said, I searched for you.

  I sat still, shocked, unable even to move.

  The other grisettes said you had run off. With that tenor singer. I wondered where you could have run off to, and it would seem you ran here. I hoped it would be.

  He was here, he was talking to me, he had looked for me.

  I had hoped it would be me. I never had the honor of your name, he said.

  If I had to die here in the war to come, at least he was here with me. Though as I looked at him, the old fears—that we were watched or would be discovered—returned the louder. I studied the area around us for signs someone was watching us, but there were none. Perhaps our watchers had abandoned us.

  I wanted to imagine my fears were senseless, but I knew better. That seemed to be the mistake I made each time.

  Please excuse me, he said, and he came to my table and made a bow. I am Aristafeo, Aristafeo Cadiz. My name means “ugly knob.” My mother invented it, as she felt I’d ruined her looks. But I like it, as I don’t think anyone else has this name. I’ve been watching you come here for several weeks and wanted to be sure it was you before I spoke to you. It is you, yes?

  Lilliet Berne, I said. And then I added, Falcon soprano, most recently a student of Pauline Viardot-García’s in Baden-Baden and newly returned to Paris. I am here in case of war, apparently. Should Paris need to be defended by sopranos.

  He smiled. I devoutly wish it will not come to that, he said. I congratulate you. You did well to run off; you must be an extraordinary singer to have been her student. I’m honored. This means you have seen her copy of Don Giovanni written in the master Mozart’s own hand?

  I said I had.

  I look forward to hearing you sing. I must ask you, I thought I knew you another way, he said.

  What way is this? I asked.

  I used to play in the band at the Cirque d’Hiver, and there was a rider there I fell in love with. She was beautiful and so quiet. The other girls were so crass and loud, but she said nothing, not once. She was let go before I could speak to her. I would see her also at the Bal Mabille, where she seemed more lively. But I was playing in the orchestra there and could not stop playing to ask her to dance.

  You should have, I said. You should have asked her to dance.

  Then, I suppose, she was let go again, from whatever job she had, he said, for I saw her next as a maid at Compiègne.

  I stared at him, uncertain as to whether I should laugh or run.

  How many women are you? he asked.

  A legion, I said. How many orchestras have you played in?

  All of them, perhaps, he said, smiling.

  I heard the chiming of the clock behind us and knew I had to return.

  Monsieur, I said. If you’ll please excuse me, I must take my leave of you.

  Mademoiselle Berne, please, he said, still holding my hand. We were just getting to know each other.

  I nodded and could not stop the smile on my face.

  I did not dare let him into this life here, not yet. It was too soon. And yet I did not dare let him go. But surely the tenor could not begrudge me an accompanist.

  I slid a card from my calling-card case, the one the tenor had given me to give to my dressmaker.

  Is it beneath you, I asked, if I ask you to rehearse with me? I must prepare for my debut.

  I have looked for you everywhere, he said. Everywhere but here, and he smiled, holding up the card before putting it inside his jacket’s ticket pocket. Consider me your servant.

  Call on me there, I said. Tomorrow. Come for tea. I will try to explain everything.

  He laughed out of surprise and shock, and then said, a little louder, Until then, and then he bowed until I walked away.

  §

  When Aristafeo arrived the next day, Doro showed him in, her surprise at his arrival kept from her face except, as she entered, her eyes, full of fear.

  The tenor was in rehearsals, I knew, and would not be free until well after dinner. We had hours alone.

  Thank you for coming to rehearse with me, I said, loud enough for Doro to hear as she left. My skills with the piano are rudimentary at best, and the piano is out of tune.

  Aristafeo did not flinch in the slightest. Of course, he said.

  The music room is this way, I said. If you’ll follow me?

  He followed, and I drew the doors shut. As he passed me, I whispered, Play anything.

  He smiled as he sat and began something that began in arpeggios and wild flourishes, and then settled into a melody, sweetly sad. As I walked to the piano bench, the pleasure of hearing him play again filled me. It was like it had been the first time, being admitted to a place where only the two of us existed. But on this afternoon, it was also exactly like being somewhere only the two of us could speak to each other.

  For I was sure Doro would have to listen in on me as part of her duties.

  Now it is harder for us to be overheard, I said.

  Yes, he said. You’re good.

  Will you remember this? I said. This theme you are playing?

  Of course, he said.

  Play it for me always, then, I said. When I ask for it.

  Of course, he said. He met my eyes and did not pause. What am I here to help you with? Or is this song the one you wanted?

  I set out the music for Bellini’s La Sonnambula.

  You can adapt it for piano? I asked.

  He raised his eyebrows in mock contempt. Of course, he said. I won’t refuse you anything I can do.

  Please, I said, as he studied it. Let’s begin.

  I sat silently, afraid even to meet his eyes, as he found his way through the music confidently. I only watched his fingers as they moved along the keys. The long hours of sitting on the Empress’s bench, waiting for her to ring for me, listening to him in memory, had become t
he long hours of listening to Pauline play the Chopin nocturne in Baden-Baden almost every night as night fell. I knew it well enough to ask for it by name, though I didn’t dare to, not yet. I still felt guilty that I had given up on him, that I had believed myself foolish to think he cared for me. This man now beside me, playing for me, hidden in my past, who had somehow kept watch over me this whole time, close but not close enough until yesterday afternoon.

  And yet we were too soon. Cupid’s slow arrow was still too fast. All those years ago, I had told myself I would look for him only after the Empire had fallen or the Emperor or Empress died; that seemed safe. I did not have the luxury of taking risks. I did not ask him, but I felt sure he didn’t, either. I could have waited, I suppose, a little longer then, except I could not. And neither could he; he leaned in and kissed me once more, his hands still playing evenly, as if this were the most ordinary of gestures.

  Five

  ON SEPTEMBER 2, 1870, after an earlier false report of French victories, the Emperor surrendered to the Prussians and was taken captive along with the Prince Imperial.

  There was no negotiation for the Emperor’s return, but instead the Sénat noisily convened and declared the new republic without him. The Empress was chased from Paris.

  There were wild celebrations in the street for the birth of the new republic. It was as if in defeat, Paris dressed in the air, briefly, of a liberated city—liberated from empire. Crowds descended on the Tuileries and it was looted before the new government’s troops took control and continued, at least, the posture of a continued war with Prussia.

  All over the city, old newspapers immediately covered over the imperial N’s and E’s, soon to be replaced by immortelles, the symbol of the new republic.

  I received the news from my dressmaker, who admitted he was in mourning. His eyes were red from grief.

  I am ruined without her, he said. Without Compiègne alone, it would be a disaster, but now there will be no winter balls, either. Will these senators have balls? My congratulations on taking receipt of my last dresses, he said, and bowed ostentatiously.

  When I then informed him I was there to order even more clothes, the dressmaker prolonged our visit, urging me to try the newest dress forms on. When I left him, he was all smiles again. As was I.

  I had kept my impatience from showing—I nearly ran all the way back to the apartment.

  All over Paris, I passed workmen busy chipping off the imperial seals. The imperial seals had been taken off me as well.

  This was the day of my liberation, the end of my bargain with the Comtesse. I would leave him soon, I decided—within a day or two. I would have to leave the apartment as if I were going on one of my walks and take almost nothing with me except the jewels, which I would sell as I went to pay my way. The departure should be sudden so that he would have no way to stop me, as if he turned a corner and I went another way on to another life entirely.

  But where to go? I thought to go to Pauline, back to Baden-Baden; the jewels meant I could afford to pay my own way this time. Or, if it was too dangerous to be in Baden-Baden—the tenor knew her, he could be there in an instant—perhaps Leipzig, then. Pauline had spoken fondly of it and had a good friend there, a composer. I could debut there instead of Weimar. I knew I could simply go to her unannounced. She would take me in.

  Back at the apartment, I planned a dinner, thinking to have a last grand meal with the tenor. I would give him one last happy memory. I gave directions to Lucy for the shopping, named some of the dishes I knew he liked from our days in Baden-Baden, asking if she thought she could make carré d’agneau boulangère, poisson vert, even something as festive as punch à la russe.

  She looked at me strangely. I had never suggested or planned anything of this kind to her. Lucy and Doro had adjusted after my return to my new schedule of rehearsal, the new clothes, the new bearing, but we’d also resumed many old habits, like our game of cards with gin, and this house still ran itself without my guidance, as if it were still the petite théâtre du désir it began as. I had never intruded on Lucy’s duties this way, never acted the part of maîtresse. I had never had the tenor to dinner, either, not this way. Sometimes, after a night spent here, he would make his way to the larder and return with a sausage, bread, and cheese.

  No sooner had I wondered if this dinner was some unwelcome intrusion or if the menu was eccentric to her at best—the French could be quite strict about what was eaten when and how, none the more so than servants—when Lucy spoke.

  Mademoiselle, I will do my best, but . . . and she gestured around us, with a laugh.

  What is it? I asked.

  Well, she said. Poisson vert, perhaps. But carré d’agneau? Most likely filet de chat.

  When my expression showed I did not understand, she said, You may recall the Siege?

  Of course, I said, chastened. Of course. But . . . didn’t the Emperor surrender?

  She gave me a cutting look that surprised me. Yes, she said. He surrendered himself. With his prince, poor child. But we have not surrendered. We’ve lost the man who could never lead us to victory, but we have not lost. Now, it seems to me, we very well might win.

  I tried to seem cheerful at this prospect or even to believe her. She noticed, and I could tell it offended her.

  There is mail, she said. And with that, she pushed a letter from Pauline my way.

  The letter had taken almost two months to reach me. Pauline had stayed until the third month of the Franco-Prussian War. She’d stayed later than most, remaining even when the fighting came close enough so that the smoke could be seen and the cries and cannon fire heard in the mountains near her house. She left when the Germans she’d loved so much, and who previously had loved her, began picketing her home.

  These protesters were unmoved that their side was winning the war and cared not at all that Pauline had moved to Baden-Baden along with her husband in protest of the reign of Napoleon III—they did not know nor did they care that at the war’s start she’d even hoped it might result in the removal of Napoleon III, as that meant she could return home to Paris. She was almost on their side, except for their new belief she was an interloper. Eventually M. Viardot left first, for London, to secure accommodations for waiting out the war safely. Turgenev then took Pauline by train to the coast and put her on a boat with her children before following soon after; and with that, they were in exile. By the time she had returned home to Paris, Paris was her exile from Baden-Baden.

  I know that when I see you again, whenever that is, it will be as if we each carry a piece of that vanished place with us against the day it might be reassembled or returned to glory. I hope you are still well and happy and safe, and that you continue with your lessons. Keep your piece of our lost home well. Do not let the voice rest; you have gained too much to let go.

  I am, as ever,

  Pauline

  She was in London, then. I would have to get to London.

  I’m delighted to see you take an interest in these things, the tenor said to me that evening as Lucy wheeled in the first course, a potato soup with leeks. I understand you have begun rehearsing here at home.

  The rehearsals had been in part a test to see what Doro or Lucy said of my doings to him, and I quietly registered the success even as it disappointed me.

  I am glad to hear of your rehearsing for your debut, he said. And how are we paying for our young accompanist?

  I shrugged. I am helping him, I said. He is writing something new. An opera, if I understand correctly. With a role for me.

  The tenor smiled. So he loves you, he said.

  It is not love he feels, I said, joking. He did not laugh.

  He set down his knife. A toast, he said. To your original role. An honor rare to the greatest of singers and rare certainly for a singer who has not yet debuted.

  I raised my glass and touched it to his, and it did not shake.

  I would not have this amant de coeur staying past sunset, he said. I looked away at this to trea
t it as ridiculousness, but it was generous and surprised me. He raised his glass to his mouth.

  Of course, I said to the tenor. And never past sunset. For my accompanist.

  Good girl, he said. Thank you. I’m moved by the thoroughness of your preparations for this role. He brushed his hands on his napkin and then lifted the spoon to his soup at last. I will help.

  I would never ask—

  You’re not asking, my love. I insist. I know the Elvino role quite well. He smiled at me, glittering through the dark. We’ll begin the day after tomorrow. That way you can tell your pianist to prepare.

  Amant de coeur—this lover, he pays nothing, he visits only after the others have their fill of you, he must not interfere. You never give him a ride in a carriage provided to you by another lover, you never make a gift to him of anything that was given to you. You never entertain him at any hour the others might prefer. The affair is tolerated entirely on the premise that it exists in the realm of pure love, untainted by the touch of money, and so, this amant is envied, of course, and so it is better if his identity is unknown, but it is good for a courtesan’s reputation if she is thought to have one of these, it shows she has the normal emotions. The fantasy is then alive for her other lovers, that if circumstances were different it might be any of them who held court in her heart instead of him.

  Of course, if a man has a courtesan, he does not more than tolerate the fantasy that her love could be freely given.

  It was time for me to have something only for me.

  You must always leave before sunset, I told Aristafeo as we sat at the piano, and he played for me again.

  Is he a vampire, then?

  I smiled as I considered this. I saw myself in black, the needle of prussic acid at my fingertip. No, I said. It would be easier if he were.

  He kept playing.

  He knows that we’ve been rehearsing, I said.