Becoming Lola

by Harriet Steel

  ‘We’ve not eaten all day. Give her something in the kitchen and send supper up to my room.’

  The woman’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Do you think this is the czar’s palace? It’s late, missy, and as soon as I’ve shown you where you’ll sleep and locked up again, I’m off to bed myself.’

  Lola swallowed a retort. She was very tired and, for once, she didn’t have the strength to argue. In silence, she followed the woman upstairs. The room was plain, but it was clean and the bed quite comfortable.

  ‘How many nights do you want?’

  Lola shrugged. ‘I’m not sure – probably not many. I’m a friend of the czar and a celebrated dancer. Once he knows I am here and I have an engagement at the opera house, I’ll need a much larger place where I can entertain.’

  For the first time, the woman smiled, showing brown, stumpy teeth. ‘Of course you will,’ she chuckled. ‘Well, goodnight to you. There’ll be breakfast in the kitchen in the morning if you want it, and your maid can heat your washing water on the copper and bring it up.’ As she went off down the stairs, Lola heard her cackle.

  ‘Damn you, you old fool,’ she muttered.

  She stayed up half the night composing a letter to the czar. In the morning, she handed it to her maid.

  ‘I need you to take this to the palace.’

  The girl looked doubtful. ‘I don’t understand the barbarous language they speak here, madam. I’ll get lost and never find my way back.’

  Lola glared at her. ‘Nonsense, if I can find my way about, so can you.’ She looked at the girl’s downcast face. ‘Oh very well, I’ll ask old Vitebsky to send a servant. You had better spend the morning darning my stockings and cleaning up my clothes. God knows, they need it.’

  *

  Her visit to the opera house later that day was not a success.

  ‘The manager is in the middle of rehearsal,’ the doorman said firmly. ‘It is impossible for anyone to see him without an appointment.’

  She left a message and went back to the hotel. There she waited for the rest of the day, but no news came. At midnight she gave up hope and went to bed.

  Fresh snow fell on each succeeding night. In the mornings, before the street sweepers had done their work, it lay so deep on the pavements that it was a struggle to walk along them. Carriages had to stop frequently for their coachmen to knock gluey lumps off the wheels; icicles a foot long hung from the eaves of the houses.

  Lola walked back from the opera house one dark afternoon, after yet another attempt to speak with the manager, her hands throbbing inside her thin gloves. As she passed the gates of the royal palace, she slipped on a patch of ice. She stumbled up and brushed down her dress. It was already splashed with muddy slush, now her petticoats were soaked as well. She shivered and felt an ache in her side where she had landed on the frozen ground. Nearly two weeks had gone by and there was always some excuse from the theatre. She had delivered many notes to the palace too but no reply had come.

  She grimaced. What a fool she was. She should have realised this might happen after the way she had been treated in Poland. And, she reflected ruefully, I probably didn’t help myself.

  ‘Damn all Russians!’ she burst out, stamping her foot. A passer-by, huddled in a greatcoat and fur-flapped hat, looked alarmed and hurried on. ‘And damn Abramowicz in particular,’ she muttered. He was the one who had had her blackballed, the spiteful, lecherous toad. She ploughed on through the snow, facing the fact that this time he had won, and she must accept defeat.

  ‘We’re leaving,’ she announced to her maid the next day. The girl’s face fell at the thought of losing her nightly place by the warm kitchen range.

  ‘But won’t it be dangerous to travel? Mrs Vitebsky was saying yesterday that it’s coming to the worst time of the winter, when the wild animals are so hungry that they come into the city to look for food.’

  ‘Nonsense, you goose, Mrs Vitebsky is a silly old woman who enjoys frightening you. I won’t spend the rest of the winter in this miserable place. We’re going back to Berlin.’

  It was hard to find anyone who would take them, but eventually Lola secured two places on a coach going south. They would have to change many times before they reached Berlin, but she was determined not to wait for spring.

  Day after day, she stared out at the louring skies and the flat, featureless countryside. Her spirits were so low all she wanted to do was sleep. If only the coach would not jolt so over the frozen roads, she might have been able to do so. She ignored her fellow passengers’ attempts to engage her in conversation, and during the long, freezing waits while the coachmen dug through the frozen drifts that often blocked the roads, she brushed away offers to share flasks of brandy or travelling rugs.

  Doubts clouded her mind and she found it hard to think. She had told her maid they were going to Berlin, but what was there for her in Berlin? She had to face the fact that her previous visit had not been a great success. If she was honest with herself, the last few months had been more notable for setbacks than triumphs. Perhaps after all, it would not be so bad to be kept by some man and give up chasing the limelight.

  At one of their stops at an inn to change horses, she picked her way over the slippery, cobbled yard and went to find a place to sit on her own inside. In the small, cosy parlour, a blazing fire roared on the hearth. The warmth sent the blood rushing to her cheeks.

  She ordered a glass of wine then picked up a newspaper that lay on a table nearby. She took it over to a chair and sat down to read. It was good to find out what was happening in the world. In Russia, she might as well have been on the moon.

  On one of the inside pages, she saw a name that pricked her interest: Franz Liszt. The innkeeper’s wife bustled over with the wine.

  ‘Ah, I see you are reading about Maestro Liszt. He travelled this way just recently on one of his concert tours. He was gracious enough to stay a night at our humble inn. He praised the wine I served him too. I hope that you will approve of it.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall.’

  Another customer snapped his fingers for attention and the woman went away to serve him. Lola put down the paper and rested her chin on her hand. So Maestro Liszt was close by. He was an artist and a man of passion, a kindred soul. Perhaps fate had meant her to leave Russia after all. If she could meet Liszt, it would make up for all her disappointments.

  She scanned the list of dates and venues for the concerts he was about to give then folded the paper with a smile. She might just catch up with him before he left Prussia.

  Chapter 19

  The tables in the vast, crowded banqueting hall were laid with fine china and silverware that gleamed in the light of a thousand candles. A small army of servants darted about carrying steaming platters of schnitzel and creamed potato. The aroma of the food mingled with the scent from great vases of white lilies. At one end of the room, a small orchestra struggled to be heard over the buzz of conversation.

  Lola looked around her. Here she was at last, at the dinner in his honour, just a short step from her goal. She must not fail now.

  The attractive woman opposite her stroked the bracelet she wore on her slim wrist. When she saw Lola watching her, she smiled.

  ‘It’s my most precious possession,’ she curved her wrist to show off the narrow band of plaited wire. ‘See, it is woven from the broken strings discarded from Maestro Liszt’s piano.’ She turned to glare at a voluptuous woman in crimson satin and a magnificent jet necklace seated half a dozen places away. ‘I had a piece of the handkerchief he dropped yesterday,’ she said loudly, ‘but that bitch grabbed it right out of my hand.’ The other woman shot her a triumphant smirk.

  ‘You all seem to admire him a great deal.’

  ‘Of course: he is a genius.’

  A waiter arrived and began to serve them, but Lola waved him away and stood up.

  Her neighbour looked surprised ‘Are you leaving already? He might speak after the meal is finished, you know. Sometimes he even walks around the ta
bles.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Once, I touched the hem of his coat.’

  ‘Oh, that wouldn’t be enough for me. I think I shall go and meet him properly.’

  The woman gasped. ‘You wouldn’t dare! No one approaches the Maestro unless they are invited.’

  ‘What nonsense. I grant you he’s a brilliant musician, but he’s a man like any other.’

  The woman’s hand flew to her mouth. She watched with envious horror as Lola threaded her way between the packed tables until she reached the platform where the high table stood. A waiter tried to bar her way, but she evaded him. Now only a few paces separated her from Liszt and the air around him seemed charged with life. His blue-black hair sprang in shining waves to touch his collar. His pale, Olympian profile thrilled her. He was deep in conversation with a distinguished-looking man whose chest dripped with medals, but as her perfume wafted towards him, he broke off and looked up. A lazy smile hovered on his lips.

  ‘May I help you, madame?’

  Lola bent down and whispered something in his ear. His smile turned to a roar of laughter then he stood up and kissed her hand. A buzz of curiosity swelled through the other tables.

  ‘Bring a chair and another place for my guest,’ he commanded, ‘and be quick about it.’

  Two waiters hurried to carry up a chair and Lola sat down. Liszt motioned to one of them to pour her wine then he raised his glass. She felt a wave of hatred reach her from every corner of the room as she chinked her glass with his.

  ‘I am honoured, Maestro. I have waited for such a long time to meet you.’

  *

  She stirred from sleep a few weeks later to find the bed cold beside her. Her brow furrowed. In the beginning Liszt would have woken her to make love, but now, in the dim light coming through the drawn curtains, she saw that he was already dressed.

  She sat up. ‘It is so early. Come back to bed.’

  He finished fastening his cuffs and flicked a speck of dust from the sleeve of his black velvet coat.

  ‘I can’t. I need to go down to the concert hall.’ He flexed his long, slender fingers. ‘The cold has made these stiff. I must practise to loosen them up.’

  ‘You said we would spend the day together, just the two of us.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow. No, it will have to be the next day. Tomorrow the mayor and the city fathers are holding a reception in my honour and I have promised to tour the city.’

  She scowled. ‘Why is there always something? We’ve visited three cities in as many weeks. You never have time for me.’

  He drew a sharp breath. ‘Not this again, Lola. You knew what it would be like with me. And I’ve told you over and over again that you are welcome to accompany me wherever I am invited.’

  ‘And be ignored by everyone? No thank you.’

  ‘You are behaving like a spoilt child.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  A cut-glass decanter of brandy stood on a table near the bed. She leapt up and grabbed it by the neck, but he was already gone. As he walked down the corridor, he heard the crash of breaking glass.

  ‘There has been an accident in my suite,’ he said to the startled chambermaid that he passed. ‘You had better go and help Dona Montez.’

  In the bedroom, Lola watched the brandy trickle down the door and pool around the shards of glass on the floor. Her eyes misted and she clenched her fists. She picked up a jagged fragment and pressed it to the pale skin on the underside of her wrist, wincing as beads of blood appeared. She would cut herself and he would be to blame. She pressed harder and the beads of blood swelled.

  ‘But he probably wouldn’t care if I died,’ she muttered and threw the glass away. She put her wrist to her lips. The blood tasted salty but the cut was not deep and the flow soon stopped. She slumped on the bed. He had the power to make her so angry. He was too vain to love anyone but himself. Why had she been such a fool as to fall in love with him?

  There was a timid knock at the door and the chambermaid sidled in. Her eyes widened at the mess on the floor and Lola’s furious stare. ‘The Maestro sent me, Dona Montez.’

  Lola rallied. ‘Clear this up and call my maid to dress me. I’m going out.’

  The chambermaid got down on her knees and began to collect up the pieces of broken glass.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, you stupid girl? Get my maid. I’m in a hurry.’

  *

  The rich sound of a Hungarian rhapsody filled the concert hall. His head inclined a little to the right to catch every note and nuance, Liszt was deep in concentration when Lola stormed down the central aisle, the manager and two of his assistants running to catch up with her. Skirts flying, she rushed up the steps to the stage and slammed her fist down on the piano keys.

  Liszt threw up his hands. ‘I will not put up with this! I must not be disturbed when I’m playing.’ He glanced at the perspiring manager who had just reached the stage. ‘Show the lady out, if you please.’

  Lola stamped her foot. ‘I advise none of these men to touch me if they value their eyes.’

  The manager and his assistants backed away.

  Liszt jumped up from the piano stool. He grabbed Lola’s arm and twisted it behind her back. ‘Then you will go by yourself,’ he hissed, ‘unless you want me to break this.’

  She gasped with pain, but anger outweighed it. ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she spat.

  ‘You should be. I warn you, I won’t tolerate your tantrums much longer. You will not embarrass me in public.’

  ‘I will if I choose,’ she panted.

  He lowered his voice. ‘Lola, I have never made it a secret that my music comes first with me. If you can’t accept that, there’s no future for us.’

  Suddenly the rage went out of her and she went limp. He shook her.

  ‘What is it?’ There was a note of guilt in his voice.

  ‘You are not all to blame,’ she sobbed. ‘It’s my fault too, but I can’t help it.’

  He let her arm go and she clung to him. He felt her chest heave.

  ‘My poor darling,’ he murmured. ‘I make life hard for you, don’t I?’

  She drew back and took the handkerchief he held out to her. She wiped her eyes and gave a shaky laugh. ‘At least I don’t have to fight for scraps of this with the other women.’ She folded the square and handed it back to him. ‘Forgive me. I love you too much.’

  He bent down and kissed her cheek. ‘Go back to the hotel. I’ll follow you as soon as I can.’

  She nodded and turned to go. He stood and watched her as she walked away past the bewildered manager and his assistants and disappeared into the shadows of the aisle then he sat down at the piano and started to play once more.

  Lola’s head throbbed as she walked back to the hotel. Waiting there for him – he did not return until early evening – she examined her heart.

  She had told him she loved him too much, but was it true? Was what she felt simply a passion nourished by his beauty and fame? Before she met him, she had said she was tired of love. There was no denying it would be wiser to forget him. A life with a man who eclipsed her in the eyes of the world as he did would never make her completely happy. But was some happiness better than none at all? She had no answer to that.

  *

  The waiter held a taper so that Lola could light her cigarillo then offered it to Liszt to kindle his cigar. Candlelight flickered over the cut-glass balloons of brandy on the pristine white tablecloth.

  ‘Will you be requiring anything else, Maestro Liszt?’

  Liszt shook his head. ‘You may leave us.’

  The waiter closed the door softly behind him. There was no sound in the private room except the tick of the ormolu clock on the mantelshelf. Liszt sipped his brandy and watched Lola.

  Two months had passed since she had invaded the concert hall. In those months, not a day had passed without an argument between them.

  ‘Have you nothing to say?’ she asked after a while.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘There is more than
enough, wouldn’t you agree? But you must promise not to lose your temper for once.’

  She frowned. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Not much of a promise,’ he chuckled.

  Her eyes flashed. ‘As much as you deserve.’

  He opened his mouth to retaliate then changed his mind. ‘I don’t want to quarrel any more, Lola. I know you think I let you down, but there’s nothing I can do about it. In my fashion, I love you, but it’s not enough, is it?’

  He leant forward and gripped the stems of the brandy balloons. ‘It’s better for us to part, but I hope we can part as friends.’

  Lola looked down at his elegant hands, the knuckles white against the tawny glasses. To her surprise, she was glad he had been honest. She knew that he was right. The passion between them had faded a little more with every sharp or resentful word. Soon there would be nothing but bitterness. It was madness to cling on to an image of love that did not meet the reality. Gently, she prised his fingers from the glasses.

  ‘You need not be afraid. The brandy is too good to waste.’

  The look of relief that came over his face made her laugh.

  ‘What fools we are,’ she gasped when she had finished. ‘You and I are far too much alike to be happy. I should have known it from the start.’

  He didn’t answer and her expression grew sad. ‘Will you be so glad to be rid of me?’

  ‘When I told you I wanted us to remain friends, I meant it.’

  She nodded. ‘I’d like that too.’

  He raised his glass. ‘Then let us drink to friendship.’

  Her glass clinked against his. She drank and felt the brandy’s warmth suffuse her body, bringing comfort with it.

  ‘Where will you go?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not sure. Not to England, that at least is certain. I hate that damp, miserable country.’ She traced a line on the tablecloth with the tip of her finger. ‘Paris perhaps, I’d like to dance at L’Opéra.’