by Lydia Syson
‘That’s where I sit.’ Anatole pointed down towards the orchestra pit, immediately below. It was dark and workmanlike, scattered with chairs and music stands and sheets of paper, and felt a very long way down. Zéphyrine staggered dizzily backwards and sat down rather more suddenly than she’d intended on a soft padded chair.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, blushing, and looked around the inside. The space of the box was not much bigger than the room in which she’d eaten, slept and worked for the past two years with Gran’mère, though it had a sight more furniture. The carpet was soft as moss, and there were even curtains, though she couldn’t see how they could close. How you’d imagine a smart tart’s bedroom, she supposed, without the bed. Did that mean she’d soon be lying on her back on that soft mossy carpet with her skirts pushed up to her neck? She hoped it would be quick. She hoped it wouldn’t hurt. She just wanted to get this whole business over and done with. She shuddered.
‘Are you cold?’ Anatole asked. ‘Can I —’
‘No, no.’
‘I thought —’
‘It’s nothing.’
He stood just behind her, suddenly formal, staring straight ahead of him, hands clasped behind his back. She could hear him breathing; it was slightly uneven. When would he touch her then, or was she supposed to start the whole thing off? Zéphyrine sat bolt upright, gripping the seat of her chair. This was worse than waiting on the bench at school to say catechism for the nuns. From force of habit, her hands crept under her thighs: if she sat on them, perhaps it might stop her doing the wrong thing. He seemed to be waiting for something, but she hadn’t a clue what for. Why didn’t he make it more obvious? If he wanted his money’s worth, it was a funny way to show it.
She didn’t think she could stand much more. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she wanted to say. She needed to get … home. It still counted as home, as long as Gran’mère was still there. But she should never have run away. What was she thinking, to leave Gran’mère alone? People shouldn’t be alone when they’re dead. It’s not right. She wanted to earn her francs as quickly as she should and get back to make all the arrangements. Zéphyrine glanced behind her.
Anatole shuffled his feet.
Go on, then, she kept thinking. Just do what you have to do. Or tell me what to do. Let’s get it over with.
Anatole coughed. ‘I’m Anatole, by the way. Anatole Clément. And you’re …?’
‘Zéphyrine. My name’s Zéphyrine.’
Names! Who needs names at a time like this?
‘Well, here we are,’ he said, his voice artificially bright, like the gas lamp’s flare. He tucked his violin case between his legs, put the bread and wine on one upholstered chair, and took off his jacket to hang on another. ‘It’s a bit like a picnic, isn’t it?’
She didn’t answer. Her eyes jittered over every gold fringe and tassel the box boasted, every carved leaf on the elaborate candlesticks, every scratch on the mahogany sideboard. Anything rather than meet his eye. And then Zéphyrine caught sight of a pile of bloody bandages shoved behind the door, and her mouth went dry. A broom was leaning across them casually, as if someone had thought of clearing up properly, but had been called away in the middle of things.
‘Stage props?’ she asked, her voice squeaking. Her knees had begun to shake. Why had she come here? She’d obviously fallen into the hands of a murderer: a young man with easy charm who picked up young girls, only to get rid of them in all sorts of horrible ways in the dark chambers of an empty theatre. Maybe there wasn’t a violin at all in that case he gripped so tightly between his legs, but something sharp and gleaming. Maybe that was why he’d taken her through the meat market. Perhaps that was where he collected his instruments of torture.
Anatole took out a small pocketknife, and tested the blade absent-mindedly against his thumb.
‘Props? Good Lord, no! The real thing, I’m afraid. This theatre was turned into a hospital during the siege.’ He opened the bottle of wine and set it on the side table at the back of the box. ‘You wouldn’t believe the mess they left behind. All those actresses pretending to be nurses.’
Anatole gave the pile of rags a half-hearted kick, then consulted his watch again, and frowned. He was late to meet Marie. She probably wouldn’t be very happy about that. She didn’t strike him as a waiting-around kind of girl, especially not for the likes of him. Oh well, it was too late now. He’d done it again. It would be something to make Jules laugh when he told him about it later. He always mocked Anatole’s habit of taking pity on waifs and strays. Though he had rather fallen for the half-grown kitten Anatole saved from the casserole during the siege. (A few seconds later, and Minou would have been strangled and skinned.) And what about Jules himself? When Anatole first ran into him last summer, Jules had been attracting the wrong sort of attention from a suspicious restaurateur in the Passage des Panoramas, one of the glass-covered passages that ran through Paris. Jules had lost his sense of direction, wandered back and forth too many times in front of one establishment. The police hadn’t actually been summoned, and of course Jules would never admit Anatole had rescued him. But Anatole knew better.
‘Would you mind waiting a little?’ He couldn’t just throw her out now, still so hungry and exhausted. He really had mistimed things, but he didn’t fancy letting Marie down either. And he’d been looking forward to their private rehearsal, a chance to get the measure of her away from the company. When he came back he’d make sure this Zéphyrine – pretty name, if it really was hers – he’d make sure she was fed and then see her safely onto an omnibus. Duty discharged. She could stay here and rest and eat until then, and nobody need ever know. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got an urgent appointment just now. But I’ll only be an hour, at the most.’
She shook her head.
“I don’t mind.”
‘Make yourself at home here,’ he said. ‘You won’t be disturbed, I promise. Don’t move!’
Zéphyrine couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the bread.
‘And for heaven’s sake don’t wait for me to eat.’
The door whispered shut behind him and Zéphyrine listened intently. To her relief, no key turned. The carpet outside was too thick for her to hear his retreating footsteps, but he had gone back to his whistling, and that seemed to be dying away. She jumped to her feet. How she needed that bread. Stuffing a large chunk of it into her mouth, she ripped away the greaseproof paper folded round the cheese, and shoved that in too. She chewed steadily, pressing herself into the shadows at the back of the box. Anyone might be watching.
Anatole had left his coat. She eyed the garment warily, and went on swallowing down the bread and cheese, mouthful by determined mouthful. Hiccups threatened, so she reached for the bottle and gulped down a little red wine. It didn’t stop her heart beating so fast, or the pain in her stomach, but it gave her a bit more courage. It wouldn’t hurt to look, she decided. She might as well. After all, he had promised to pay her. She brushed her hands against each other to get rid of the crumbs, then wiped them on her skirt. The jacket felt well made, in a good flannel, though its green silk lining was fraying at the seams. A cleanish handkerchief and a receipt for some violin strings from a shop called Voirin in one pocket. She put them both back, and listened again. The sound of a piano came from somewhere behind the stage.
A new doubt entered her mind. An hour would be plenty of time for Anatole to get the police. Was that his so-called ‘appointment’? Her skin felt clammy and her stomach began to churn in a different way. Maybe he was an agent, on the lookout for girls just like her. Arrest would mean inspection, at the police station, for disease. Everyone knew that. Worst of all, her name would go on the police register, and it would be there forever. If the police said you were a prostitute, that was it; it was official. You’d be a fille publique for the rest of your life.
It was time to go.
But still Zéphyrine hesitated. She had come too far to trudge back to Montmartre empty-handed now. Steal an egg, steal a cow. How co
uld pinching a few francs to pay for her grandmother’s funeral be any worse a sin than selling herself? If the Heavenly Father did exist, he ought to forgive her. She crossed herself, just in case, and shook Anatole’s jacket until she heard the jingle of coins. Then she took the lot.
5.
Marie, waiting in a practice room on an upper floor of the Théâtre Lyrique, had just cast on the ribbing for a second sock when she heard Anatole coming. She quickly thrust her knitting out of sight just as he burst in.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said.
‘Are you?’ she said. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ An obvious lie, but it had the right effect and he smiled. Her eyes followed his as he bent to pick up the ball of grey wool that had rolled off her lap and under the piano. Smiling even more as he wound it up, he presented it to her with a bow.
First she blushed and then she smiled, mock-prim. ‘You caught me at it.’
‘The darning diva,’ he said. ‘Not what I was expecting.’
‘I wasn’t darning,’ she replied. ‘I was knitting, if you must know.’
‘Making something for —’ Anatole stopped himself. Best not to ask about her brother. She was looking so much brighter than she had a few days earlier, and he wanted her to stay that way. ‘Let’s get started then. No point in wasting any more time,’ he tried again. ‘Not that you have of course. Just me. Sorry.’
He occupied himself with opening and propping up the lid of the baby grand. Alone with Marie in the practice room, Anatole found himself unnerved by her newfound poise. He couldn’t remember what she had been wearing before, but he noticed it now: a black silk afternoon gown, very fashionable, and well suited to her golden hair and ivory complexion. The bodice was low-cut, but modestly veiled in the same sheer black material that had been used to make the long sleeves – some kind of gauze, Anatole supposed. Very effective. If the story going round the orchestra was true, that disappearing banker must have been a real fool to let her go.
‘You’ve got the music?’
Marie nodded, and straightened the sheets of paper on the music stand above the keyboard, before stepping away so that Anatole could push back the stool and sit down. He wished she would say something. She’d been easy to talk to when she was upset a few days earlier. You’d hardly think she was the same person this afternoon. He stretched his hands, waggled his fingers, and set off on a series of arpeggios, major first, then minor. Heat rose from his body, and sweat beaded on his forehead. He couldn’t play like this, but he couldn’t find his handkerchief to wipe it away either.
He shrugged apologetically when she offered him hers. ‘Warm up?’ he joked.
Anatole relaxed a little as she began to sing. Up and down, up and down. Her voice rose and fell with his notes. Eventually they were ready to start work.
‘Now, you’ll have to tell me what kind of speed you think we should take the opening … does this sound about right?’ Anatole played the introduction, and stopped, questioningly.
Marie nodded. ‘Almost. Just a little more slowly … at least that’s how I’ve been practising … and Léon – you know, the new répétiteur we’ve been rehearsing with – he seemed happy enough with it at first.’
‘Fine … we’ll go from the top then.’
But when Marie came in with the first few lines – ‘Your noble ancestors …’ – Anatole shook his head. ‘I think I’d better take it more slowly – you’re bringing the whole tempo down too suddenly.’
Marie bit her lip. ‘Sorry. Let’s try again.’
‘No, don’t apologise. That’s why we’re here, remember.’
‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’
The next attempt was more successful. Anatole nodded encouragement, and they made it to the end with just a few hiccups.
‘To my ear, you’re making too much of the breath before you sing “esprit” … Look, just here … I don’t want to hear any inhalation there … How does that line feel to you?’
‘Yes, I think I know what you mean …’ said Marie. ‘I feel as though I’m almost swallowing the word. Let’s just take this section. And then could we work on some of the transitions, like here?’ she pointed. ‘I find that part very tricky.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Anatole reassured her. ‘All that ornamentation. Nobody could find that section easy. We could slow it right down a few times, and make sure you’re getting those bars quite accurate?’
‘I think that would help a great deal.’
It was indeed a demanding aria. But Marie had been trained to perform with her lips forming a smile, and before long they were both smiling. Her voice returned true and strong and clear. Anatole could believe Marie was Princess Néméa in her Indian palace, singing of love to a dreamy fisherman.
‘Excellent!’ cried Anatole, and she bowed her head. ‘The coloratura was superb that time, didn’t you feel?’
‘Thank you. Yes. It felt much better. Let me just have a sip of water, and perhaps we could go through it just one more time. I wasn’t completely happy with the breathing in this bar …’ Marie sang the notes, and then leaned over his shoulder to show him the place on the score. She smelled of jasmine.
Anatole almost wished he hadn’t noticed. He knew Marie had no great reason to set her sights on him. What did he have to offer an up-and-coming soprano who’d probably soon have Paris eating out of her hand, apart from a reliable accompaniment and a bit of company? But then again, how much did it matter what Marie thought of him? A flirtation would be fun – it was impossible to be completely immune to her – but she didn’t quite make his heart surge. That was what he was still waiting for. Anatole knew exactly how the throb of passion should feel – a swooping, tremulous mass of strings, soaring and sinking, catching you unawares and loosening reason. Hadn’t he recreated it often enough?
‘No, I agree,’ he said, slowing his own breathing. ‘Tell me when you’re ready.’
They began again. This time the first section went very well. Then they reached a short interlude, during which Anatole played the part taken by the cello. Suddenly he stopped. ‘That was your entrance …’ he said. ‘You missed it! Do listen. I’ll start again.’
‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry.’
‘Look, I’ll take it from here.’
Marie missed her entrance again.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll sort it out by tonight.’ Anatole twisted to look at her over his shoulder. ‘Are you feeling quite well? Why don’t you sit down for a moment … or have another glass of water?’
He stood up, eyes flicking towards the door.
‘No, no. I’m just a bit distracted. Please, let’s try again.’
‘Of course. Whatever you prefer.’
One last look at the door – he didn’t realise he was doing it – and Anatole settled back at the piano to play. Again, her first section was fine. His eyes and mouth widened as he neared the point Marie needed to come in for the second time. He even began to nod his head … but too late. He stopped. Silence.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I don’t know why I can’t concentrate all of a sudden. So much for third time lucky.’
‘Fourth time instead perhaps?’
‘No … I don’t think it would help. I’ve just got too many things on my mind. I need to clear my head. And anyway, I’m sure you’ve got things you need to do.’ That was a little prickly. Surely she hadn’t seen him come in with that girl, Zéphyrine? But then Marie leaned across to gather up her music from the piano, perhaps slightly closer to Anatole than she strictly needed to, just for a moment, before rustling away. He stretched his hands out again, closed the piano lid and drummed his fingers briefly on the polished wood. He couldn’t think what to say.
‘No more word from your brother?’ Anatole spoke over his shoulder.
‘The prisoners of war are only allowed to write once a week,’ she reminded him.
‘Of course. You did tell me. Well, at least there was last week’s letter. And he is reasonably well cared for in Bavaria, you th
ink …?’
‘I suppose so. He’s not going hungry certainly. There seem to be rules. But how much longer will I have to wait to see him again?’
‘It’s the trains, I believe,’ Anatole offered. ‘They don’t have enough carriages for so many prisoners.’
‘Oh yes. I know that’s what they say. But it was agreed, wasn’t it? They promised. The armistice has been declared. The Prussians have had their victory march. And they had enough trains to bring their own troops here to defeat us. What are they waiting for? It’s just so unfair.’ Her words thickened in her throat.
Anatole stood up. ‘Yes, very unfair,’ he agreed.
‘I just want all this to be over, and everything to get back to normal.’
‘Hmmmm.’ What did she mean by normal? Anatole wondered. The bright lights of the empire? Comings and goings and parties till dawn and plenty of people with plenty of money to spend? ‘I’m sure everything will settle down again after the elections.’
‘I hope so. But what if the government supporters are defeated? Can you imagine what might happen if the Reds get in? Or if they don’t, and then there’s a repeat of the bloodshed of ’48? Another revolution?’
‘Surely you’re not old enough to remember 1848?’ Anatole said tactlessly, looking at her more closely.
‘No, no, of course not – I wasn’t even born. But my parents often spoke of it.’
Spoke, Anatole registered. Then he remembered the only other thing he knew for certain about Marie – that both her parents had been killed in a famous railway disaster a few years earlier. That might explain the banker.
‘Sorry … yes, of course.’
Marie seemed to forgive him. Suddenly unguarded, she began to gabble out her worries. ‘I really thought this nightmare was over.’
Anatole was a sympathetic listener, usually the perfect audience for anyone wanting to pour out their heart. Maybe it came of having so many older sisters. Today he was distracted. He kept thinking of that girl in the box, Zéphyrine, and wishing she had been a bit more ready to talk. It would have made it far easier to help her. Silence made everything so much more awkward. She was out of her depth, he supposed, and he had to admit that he was too. He really must get back and see her off the premises as soon as he could. The last thing he needed now was for Marie to run into her. Marie was still talking, her voice ever more breathless and uneven.