After my barre and floor-work exercises, Mademoiselle Louvet had me perform sauts de chats across the room.
‘Use the whole room, Paloma!’ she called out. ‘You are the queen of the stage!’
The two-hour lesson flew by. When it finished, I was left with the familiar feeling of exhaustion and exhilaration that made me love ballet.
‘You’ve done well,’ Mademoiselle Louvet told me, after we had thanked Monsieur Clary for playing for us and were alone again in the room. ‘I expected that we might have some catching up to do … but if anything you’ve improved.’ She took a step back and regarded me fondly. ‘There’s something different about you … Paloma, have you fallen in love?’
I felt myself blush. Had I fallen in love? Was that why whenever I thought of Jaime I couldn’t concentrate on anything else?
‘I’ve had a couple of flamenco lessons,’ I said. ‘The teacher invited me to stay for dinner one evening and the whole family danced. It was inspiring! But I think I’m going to have to give up the flamenco lessons to train for the audition.’
Mademoiselle Louvet shook her head. ‘I don’t know at what point ballerinas became elite athletes with no room for a life outside rehearsals. Of course in my day we worked very hard, but we also socialised with other artists and in that way fed each other’s creativity.’
She smiled whimsically and began performing a gypsy dance from Les Deux Pigeons. Mademoiselle Louvet was in her sixties but she moved with expressiveness and grace. Her slim body and stately beauty had never turned to fat. I thought she characterised a gypsy convincingly. She curtseyed and I applauded her presentation.
‘That was an enjoyable ballet to do,’ she said. ‘I modelled myself on the flamenco dancer la Rusa for that one.’
The sound of the name made my blood freeze. I had never heard of la Rusa until a couple of weeks ago. Now I sensed that I was being drawn into her life, and that she had intended it to be so. But why?
‘I’ve heard a lot about la Rusa lately,’ I said.
Mademoiselle Louvet drew in a breath. ‘Oh, what a dancer!’ she said. ‘She was formidable! So regal and so proud! At the end of her performance she had people eating out of her hands.’
‘Did you know her personally?’ I asked, hoping to learn something about la Rusa from someone who had seen her in the flesh.
Mademoiselle Louvet shook her head. ‘I watched her perform in authentic flamenco bars when I travelled to the United States, but she was not someone who taught students, or gave interviews, or mingled in society. It’s remarkable, isn’t it? She would appear on stage where she completely dominated her audience and had everyone at her feet, and then she would disappear. She was incredibly seductive, but there was something dark in her eyes too. A lot of Spaniards had that look about them. So many of them had seen things — or done things — during the Civil War that made it impossible for them to enjoy life again.’
I probed a bit more, but it was clear that Mademoiselle Louvet didn’t know much more about la Rusa than I had already discovered.
‘Anyway,’ she said, rubbing my arm, ‘do you have to rush off somewhere or do you have some time to come to my office? I have something I want you to hear.’
Mademoiselle Louvet’s office had a view over the rooftops of Paris, and the late afternoon light streaming through the windows gave everything an ethereal glow.
‘Here,’ she said, placing two chairs near her record player and offering one of them to me. ‘Being a dancer is not just about being in time to music,’ she said. ‘You have to feel the music with the essence of your being. It must circulate in your veins.’ She placed the needle on the record and slipped her hand into mine before sitting next to me. ‘Now close your eyes.’
The beautiful, nostalgic notes of Brahms’s ‘Intermezzo in A Op 118 No 2’ filled the room. It was one of those pieces that made me see life as a crystal glass: so beautiful and yet so fragile.
Mademoiselle Louvet let go of my hand, and I opened my eyes to see that she had lifted her arms to the ceiling as if the music had become drops of rain and she was relishing their cool freshness on her skin. I thought of Xavier and the way Mamie had described him. I thought about Avi too. I was sorry that I had not known my grandfather as he had been when he was younger.
The music finished and Mademoiselle Louvet opened her eyes. A smile came to her face. ‘I was sitting in my office listening to this very piece of music, when your mother came rushing in to tell me that her pregnancy had been confirmed.’ She laughed at the recollection. ‘Julieta was so happy, so full of life. She wanted you so much. Of course, everyone at the Opera was shocked when she resigned. “But your career, Julieta! Your career! You’ve only just been made an étoile!” they all cried.’
Mademoiselle Louvet stood up and gazed out the window for a moment before turning back to me. ‘Do you know what your mother replied? She told them, “But mothers are the greatest artists of all. They create lives.”’ She sat down next to me again. ‘Your mother was so happy, Paloma. As soon as your father found out, he proposed. Julieta had not one doubt that what she wanted most in the world was to be a mother to you.’
I stared at my hands. I knew that Mama had loved me deeply. I only hoped that she had been too sick to suspect Papa’s betrayal of her — that she didn’t die with regrets about him.
‘Thank you,’ I said to Mademoiselle Louvet. ‘Thank you for telling me that.’
Although she was smiling, Mademoiselle Louvet had tears in her eyes. I was sure that there must have been many men who had loved her, yet she had never married nor had children. The retirement age of étoiles at the Opera Ballet was forty, but people were still coming to see Mademoiselle Louvet perform when she was in her fifties. They would probably still have been coming if she herself had not decided to retire and devote herself to teaching.
‘You are truly one of the grand ballerinas,’ I told her. ‘But did you ever regret not getting married and having children?’
She touched my cheek. ‘Never, darling. I made the right decision for me. To devote my entire life to ballet was what I was meant to do. Exactly as your mother knew that she was born to be a mother to you. We are not all the same. We must make the decisions that our hearts cry out for.’
My heart was crying out for something. But what? Ballet — or something else?
‘Listen,’ said Mademoiselle Louvet, ‘let me tell you something. I’ve performed with the greatest ballet dancers of all time — people like Danilova and Chauviré. They were not great people because they were great dancers. They were great dancers because they were great people.’ She took my hand and placed it on my heart. ‘Strive to be a great person first, Paloma. Then you will succeed at whatever it is your heart tells you to do.’
I left Mademoiselle Louvet’s office in a swirl of emotions, my thoughts alternating between Mama and la Rusa. I felt as if I were on the verge of solving some grand puzzle. The pieces were coming to me, but I had no idea where they all fitted.
I went to the administration office to pay for the private classes and to sign up for the final examination. After completing the paperwork, I was looking forward to going home. I was meeting Jaime for dinner and then we were going to see the flamenco guitarist who had known la Rusa. I needed a soak in a bathtub and a catnap first.
On my way out of the office, I ran into Madame Genet, who had been one of my teachers when I was a petit rat. If Mademoiselle Louvet was the type of ballerina I dreamed of being, then Madame Genet was the one I feared I’d become. Instead of being lithe, every sinew of her body seemed to be stretched tight. She was tense in her movements, not fluid, and even being around her made me feel anxious.
I curtseyed to her, but from the way she stared at me I thought she mustn’t have recognised me. ‘Bonjour, Madame Genet,’ I said. ‘It’s me, Paloma.’
The corners of her mouth turned down and she moved towards me. I instinctively stepped back. I’d received a few whacks from her in my time for not lifting my leg
high enough. Madame Genet was overstrung and you never knew when she was going to lose her temper. She had been one of the most brilliant dancers with the Ballet, but her nerves had cracked during the opening night of Swan Lake. Odette had been the role she had always aspired to dance. She’d had to retire to teaching after that, and seemed never to have recovered from the bitterness of her disappointment.
Madame Genet brought her face close to mine. Her breath was a mix of stale smells — coffee, cigarettes and ham. ‘I don’t believe the school should let you take the examination again,’ she said. ‘Do you really think that after you have devoted another six months to practising and taken up Mademoiselle Louvet’s precious time, you are going to succeed in a second examination?’
My skin prickled. I sensed what was going to happen next: Mademoiselle Louvet had lifted my spirits and now Madame Genet was about say something nasty to dash them. I glanced towards the corridor, wondering if I could make an escape without appearing rude. But I had to keep the school — and its teachers — onside. I had no choice but to hear her out.
‘You were outstanding in your last examination,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen a student perform so well under the pressure. And yet, despite the fact that the ballet director had seen you dance dozens of times before, every teacher at this school gave you the highest recommendations and the independent judges accepted you, still you did not make it into the corps de ballet!’ Her voice rose in pitch. ‘If Mademoiselle Marineau had enough influence to stop you getting into the corps last year, what do you think will have changed this time around? She is still the ballet mistress, and if she says she can’t work with you, they won’t hire you! That’s it!’
Madame Genet stared at me as if she were waiting for an answer. I knew her anger had more to do with her own thwarted career than it did with my fate. And yet, how could I argue? I struggled not to cry. Everything she said was true. Maybe I — along with the director of the ballet school and the well-meaning teachers — was deluding myself that the Opera’s ballet director would override Mademoiselle Marineau’s influence this time. A tear fell down my cheek, followed by another. Soon I was sobbing. But Madame Genet was not inclined to be compassionate.
‘Even if you were successful in getting into the corps de ballet,’ she continued, ‘Mademoiselle Marineau would make life hell for you. She hates you with a passion: all those years of playing second fiddle to your mother!’
‘My mother is dead,’ I said, trying to calm myself. ‘Mademoiselle Marineau has not had a private conversation with me once for me to have given her any personal offence. If anything, she should be grateful. It is because of me that my mother retired at twenty-one. Mademoiselle Marineau was promoted to première danseuse after that.’
Madame Genet’s eyes narrowed. ‘And even then, your mother found a way to make Marineau second best.’
I didn’t know what she meant. After her ballet career was over, my mother had raised me. She hadn’t even taken up teaching, except to occasionally help Mamie. She had been entirely removed from Arielle Marineau’s life.
‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.
Madame Genet’s chin trembled and she glanced over her shoulder. Her cheeks were blotched, which happened when she was agitated. ‘It’s not my place to tell you,’ she said, perhaps realising she had gone further than she had intended. She glanced in the direction of her office again and moved away from me.
‘Please!’ I grabbed her arm. ‘If there is some reason I don’t know about that will cause Mademoiselle Marineau to always reject me, tell me what it is!’
Madame Genet pushed me away. ‘It’s not my place,’ she repeated. ‘You will have to ask your father.’
‘My father? What has he got to do with anything?’
But she was already rushing down the corridor as if she were trying to escape a dangerous animal. ‘You’ll have to ask him,’ was all she said, before disappearing into her office and locking the door.
After my disturbing conversation with Madame Genet, I doubted a bath and catnap were going to calm me. I stopped at a café near the Métro station and ordered an espresso and a chocolate éclair. I didn’t usually eat creamy things, and the richness of the éclair made me nauseous even though I only finished half of it. I paid the waiter and walked to the nearest telephone booth. The call I was about to make was not one I could place from home.
The telephone rang a number of times before a young man’s voice answered. Pierre? I had never spoken to Audrey’s son, but I guessed it must be he who had answered.
‘I’d like to speak to my father,’ I said. It felt strange to be talking to someone who now had a closer relationship to Papa than I did.
Pierre didn’t answer straight away. Perhaps he was taken aback. I had never called before. ‘I’ll get him,’ he finally said.
My heart thumped in my chest. I had expected that my father would probably be away on tour. It was months since I had spoken to him and I didn’t feel prepared.
My father’s voice came on the line. ‘Paloma? Is everything all right?’
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I’m taking the examination again for the corps de ballet. I met Madame Genet at the school today and she was adamant that Arielle Marineau will still be against me. When I asked her why she should hate Mama so after all these years, she said that you would be able to explain.’
My father didn’t answer.
‘Do you know the reason?’ I demanded. ‘I’m about to do six months of intensive training, but Madame Genet says I’m wasting my time.’
My father sighed. ‘Paloma, I’m leaving in an hour for the airport. I have some concerts in New York. But I will be back in a week. Will you come and see me then? This is not something I can explain over the telephone.’
A sick feeling churned in my stomach. So there was some reason beyond the Ballet for Mademoiselle Marineau to still hate Mama. But I had no choice except to wait a week before finding out the truth.
‘All right, I will call you then,’ I told him, and hung up the telephone. I didn’t want to get into a discussion with my father about anything else. I certainly didn’t want him to ask if I was coming to his birthday party.
I wasn’t in a good mood when I met Jaime on rue du Faubourg Saint-Denis in Montmartre. I spotted him as soon as I’d parked Mamie’s car. In a grey pea coat, floral shirt and flared tailored pants, he was an appealing mix of snappy dresser and Bohemian musician. His glossy hair glinting in the streetlights turned the heads of several women who walked past him. The idea that such a coveted guy was about to take me out to dinner should have been enough to pull me out of my ill humour, but I found it difficult to be optimistic when the dream of my lifetime was about to be thwarted for reasons I couldn’t yet fathom.
‘Wow! You look like you’ve had a bad day!’ said Jaime, kissing me on the cheeks. ‘Why the long face?’
I did my best to change my scowl into a smile. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Is it something you want to talk about?’
I shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do was bore Jaime with my problems. ‘It’s something I want to forget.’
He nodded and guided me towards rue Cail. ‘Well, hopefully you’ll like the restaurant I’ve chosen,’ he said with a smile. ‘I couldn’t decide whether we should eat at a Catalan restaurant, an Andalusian one or a French one — so I booked a table at an Indian restaurant. I hope you like curry?’
‘I do,’ I said, trying to forget that the last time I’d been to an Indian restaurant was with my father in London. My mother would only eat French or Catalan food, and hated touring if it meant she’d have to exist on foreign foods for weeks. But my father was adventurous for a Frenchman.
The cocoon-like atmosphere of the restaurant Jaime had chosen, with its candlelight, vegetable-dyed tablecloths and embroidered mirror-work cushions, helped me relax. The music playing in the background reminded me that the gypsies were supposed to have originally come from India, and that was why there were
similarities between Indian music and gypsy singing and dancing.
When we sat down at our table and the waiter handed us our menus, the scents of basmati rice and coriander wafting from the kitchen stirred an appetite in me that I hadn’t had earlier. We ordered some dips, samosas and pakoras to start.
‘So did you like my family?’ Jaime asked. ‘They certainly liked you.’
It pleased me to think that I hadn’t alienated them with my usual awkwardness. ‘I liked them very much,’ I told him. ‘I have the impression that you would do anything for each other.’
‘Pretty much,’ he agreed. ‘And that’s not the whole lot of them. Most of my relatives are still in Spain.’
‘That must be hard … to be so divided.’
‘I miss my sisters especially,’ said Jaime, tearing a piece of naan bread. ‘They are younger than me and every time I see them they have grown several inches.’ He pushed the mint and yoghurt dip towards me. ‘This is good, try it.’
I scooped the creamy mixture onto a piece of bread. ‘Mmm,’ I said, taking a bite. ‘Garlic, ginger and coriander.’
We chuckled as we remembered how Carmen had tested her Andalusian food on me at dinner.
‘Your grandmother is from Barcelona? She must have been a supporter of the Republic?’ Jaime asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said, picking up my serviette to dab my mouth. ‘She’s only started talking about her life in Spain now that Franco is dead.’
‘It’s still too painful for many of them … tía Carmen rarely talks about my uncle.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He died in gaol. He was arrested for protesting against the Franco regime. That’s when Carmen and Isabel left the country.’
‘How have you been able to come and go so freely?’ I asked. ‘If your uncle was a political prisoner, I thought they wouldn’t let you go anywhere.’
‘My father is an important surgeon in Granada,’ he said. ‘He hates the system, but he stayed because he saw his main purpose as saving people’s lives. His position gives him special privileges but he thought I’d get a superior music education in France. The arts are tightly controlled in Spain, although that might change now.’
Golden Earrings Page 21