Wild Lavender

by Belinda Alexandra

  ‘Monsieur Gosling,’ she purred, brushing her fingers over her neck before sinking her hand into the petals and pulling something out. It glinted in the sunlight. A diamond bracelet.

  Monsieur Gosling’s confidence lifted when he saw the delight on Camille’s face. Her voice turned from cool to husky when she said, ‘That’s better,’ and kissed him on the cheek. He was like a puppy who had pleased his mistress by peeing in the right place.

  ‘After the show…?’ he said, trying to sound manly and demanding, but it was still a question.

  ‘After the show,’ replied Camille, before slinking past the doorman and into the darkness. The doorman rolled his eyes. Monsieur Gosling skipped down the stairs but started when he saw me or, more precisely, Bonbon.

  ‘Is that…? I must ask…Is that…?’ he stammered, edging towards me.

  ‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘This is the puppy you gave to Mademoiselle Casal. I walk her every day.’

  His eyes opened and he started to laugh, showing his crooked teeth. I would have run away if the doorman hadn’t been standing there. Monsieur Gosling slapped his hands together and turned his face to heaven, his mouth breaking into a beaming smile. ‘She loves me after all!’ he shouted, loud enough for the whole of Marseilles to hear. ‘She loves me!’

  I missed going to the theatre the following night. I had Bonbon at the door, ready to go, when Aunt Augustine called down the stairs to say she had an urgent note for me to take to her lawyer. ‘You can combine the two trips,’ she said. Not really, I thought, knowing that I couldn’t walk all the way to her lawyer on Rue Paradis and go to the theatre.

  The next day, as I was fitting Bonbon’s lead for our walk, Aunt Augustine called out that she had a letter she wanted me to deliver to the pharmacist. I hoped that she wasn’t going to make a habit of these combined errand/dog walks. After dropping the letter into the pharmacy, I ran all the way to Le Chat Espiègle. When I reached the alley, my heart leapt with joy to see that my crate had been set up for me, along with a jar of water for Bonbon. I took my seat and poured some water into my palm, which Bonbon lapped up. But after waiting a quarter of an hour still no one had arrived. I leaned back against the wall, trying to contain my disappointment. I was half an hour later than I had been the first couple of nights and had missed them all. I was about to get up and leave when the stage door swung open and a familiar voice called out, ‘I thought you weren’t going to show up.’

  I looked up and saw the doorman smiling at me.

  ‘Have I missed them?’

  He nodded and my heart sank.

  ‘That being the case, Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘I suggest that you come inside and watch from the wings.’

  I jumped up, scarcely able to believe my ears. My legs trembled so much I could barely move.

  ‘Come on,’ the doorman laughed.

  I needed no further encouragement. I ran up the stairs and plunged through the doorway where I had seen the others pass before me. At first I was dazed from the contrast of the sunshine outside and the darkness within, but after a few seconds my eyes adjusted and I saw that we were standing in a stairwell crowded with stuffed armchairs and panels painted with scenes of a Turkish bath.

  ‘My name is Albert,’ said the doorman. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Simone. And this is Bonbon,’ I said, holding her up to him.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you both,’ he said, gesturing for me to follow him up the stairs then down a narrow hallway. ‘Now, Simone and Bonbon, it’s very important that you be quiet otherwise the management will not be impressed.’

  He pulled aside a curtain and pointed to a stool sitting under some stairs. I edged my way past more panels of scenery, a chandelier lying on a broken sofa and a bucket of sand, then eased myself into the space and perched Bonbon in my lap. My nose itched from the smell of dust and paint but I didn’t care. Albert pressed his finger to his lips and I nodded my promise to be quiet. He smiled and disappeared.

  I peered through a crack in the curtain and squinted at the bright lights that shone like four suns towards me. I discovered that I was in the wing closest to the backdrop, which was a painting of buffaloes stampeding across a plain. In the distance a wagon train was weaving its way alongside a river. I had a view down the stage into the orchestra pit and beyond to the first three rows of seats. In the middle of the stage was a towering wooden pole with primitive faces carved into its sides. The band was warming up and a man with spindly legs and a moustache with the ends waxed into curlicues darted about, yelling at someone in the front wings to close the curtains.

  ‘We’re about to let the audience in,’ he shouted, running his fingers through his slicked-down hair. ‘What do you mean the cord is tangled?’

  He was answered by several grunts and a scraping sound. The curtains jerked from the wings but came to an abrupt halt a metre from each other. Further grunts sounded from the front wing, followed by a string of curses.

  The tall man stared at a spot on the backdrop for a moment before sighing. ‘What do you mean they won’t close any further? I told you to check them at rehearsal. It’s too late to oil the runners now.’

  There was a bang and the scenery wobbled. Bonbon yelped but luckily the sound had been so loud that its echo drowned her out. I rubbed her back and squinted through the crack. The totem pole was lying on its side. Two men in overalls with hammers in their back pockets rushed onto the stage and righted it, fixing a support at its base. The curlicue man’s eyes bulged and his hands clenched into fists by his sides. He seemed to be on the verge of exploding, but after the totem pole had been secured and the two stagehands returned to the wings, he let out a slow, whistling breath, threw his arms in the air and shouted, ‘On with the show!’

  The stage went black and I wondered what was going to happen next. I could make out a row of lights around the orchestra pit and a circle of light shining from a lamp in the front wing.

  After a while, there were voices. The sound grew louder. My nose twitched: tobacco smoke drifted in the air. I peered beyond the gap in the curtains and made out the silhouettes of people pouring down the aisles and filling the seats. A few minutes later, a man’s voice echoed around the hall and the chatter abruptly ceased. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Le Chat Espiègle…’

  A shiver ran all the way down my spine to the backs of my legs. Bonbon pressed herself against me and pricked up her ears. A circle of light flashed on the stage in front of the curtains. The audience clapped. The vibration of the applause shook the floorboards under my feet and made the chandelier tinkle. The band struck up a romantic melody and a man in a striped shirt and beret stepped into the spotlight. He turned and I caught his profile. His face was covered in white make-up and his eyes and lips were circled in black. He held out his hand, pretending to smell a flower. After admiring it, he offered the bloom to imaginary people passing by. I had seen mime artists at the Sault fair, but this one was more convincing. Each time his offer of the flower was rejected, his shoulders drooped and he bowed his head in a way that made me feel his disillusionment. I couldn’t see his facial expressions but the audience burst into laughter and stamped their feet at his performance, which ended when someone accepted his flower and he skipped down the stage steps towards them.

  The percussion instruments burst out with an explosion of drums and rattles. The curtains flew open and light flooded the stage. A stampede rumbled on the stairs above me and the stage filled with chorus girls dressed as American Indians. Their tan stockings shimmered under the lights and their plaited hairpieces swung around their faces as they bucked and stomped around the totem pole, singing out their war cry. The audience stood up and cheered. Some whistled and others made catcalls. With the brighter lights I could see them more clearly than before. They were nearly all men in dark suits and caps, or sailors, but dotted among the crowd were showy women in sequins and feathers and about half a dozen out-of-place men dressed like Monsieur Gosling. On stage, the dancing turned wilder. India
n braves arrived with a canoe, but were overrun by the squaws who wrestled them to the ground and stole their moccasins.

  Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the girls departed like ants before a storm, fleeing into the wings or up the stairs. The sound of their fading voices ricocheted around me. The lights blacked out again. Bonbon quivered in my arms. My own heart thumped in my chest. Seeing the performance was like being hit by lightning. My skin burned and my temples throbbed. I had never experienced anything like it before.

  I peered through the curtain again and blinked. Ghostly beings were scuffling around on the stage. They hoisted something over the backdrop; it unfurled with the thump of a sail opening into the wind. They pushed the totem pole into the wings and in its place set out objects that looked like trees. A few minutes later their shadowy shapes retreated, like assassins slinking away. I became aware of a muffled voice and saw that another act was taking place in front of the curtain. The rounded shoulders and grim posture were familiar and I realised that it was the sullen comedian. I couldn’t hear what he was saying because he was projecting his voice towards the audience, but whatever it was they didn’t like it. They were booing and banging the sides of their chairs with their fists.

  ‘Bring on the girls!’ a surly voice shouted above the riot.

  Whether the comedian had finished his act or not I didn’t know, but a few moments later a harp began a lilting melody. A flute joined in and weaved around the notes like a serpent. Golden light spread over the stage. The audience gasped and so did I. The scene was ancient Egypt with a backdrop of sand, pyramids and palm trees. The chorus girls stood or knelt before a staircase that disappeared into the rafters. They were dressed in white robes fastened at the shoulder with a silver clasp and all looked alike in ebony wigs and with eyes elongated with black liner. Eunuchs stood on either side of the stage, waving fans of peacock feathers. The chorus girls chanted and their voices were answered by a warbling one from up in the flies.

  Feet bejewelled in silver anklets appeared at the top of the staircase and began to descend. They were followed by slim legs and a torso. When the woman came fully into sight a breathless hush fell over the audience. Draped over her hips was a swirl of muslin fastened at the waist with a clasp in the form of a cobra. She shimmered with jewels. They glistened at her ears and wrists and on each upper arm she wore a gold band. Over her chest dangled strings of beads which scarcely hid her pert breasts. One foot in front of the other she glided down the stairs. It was only because of her elegant walk that I recognised her. Camille. She had transformed from a pretty woman into an exotic temptress. Suddenly I understood Monsieur Gosling’s fever.

  Camille reached the bottom of the stairs and moved towards the footlights where she began snaking her arms and gyrating her hips in time to the music. A man in the front row clamped his hand over his mouth but couldn’t take his eyes off her. The rest of the audience didn’t move at all. They sat clutching their seats. Camille rolled her shoulders and hips and turned in a circle. I caught the flash of her eyes, her haughty expression. Everyone else on stage faded into insignificance. Her voice was thin but her stage presence was formidable. A boat with a purple sail slid out from the wings and stopped at the foot of the staircase. Flanked by the chorus girls, Camille stepped into it. She turned and gave the audience a last cheeky swing of her hips before being spirited away. The lights went out. The dance was over. The audience stood up and roared, their applause louder than a thunderstorm. I clutched Bonbon to me, both of us quivering.

  After several encores, for none of which Camille appeared, I realised that it must be getting late and I would have to miss the second act. I stood up to go home.

  Albert was smoking on the landing and I thanked him for letting me see the show, but I barely heard my own words, so fresh was the memory of music and applause in my ears. I wandered down the Canebière in a dream, Bonbon’s paws pattering on the cobblestones beside me. Camille’s act played before my eyes again; it had impressed me more than anything I had ever seen. It wasn’t lewd or vulgar, as Aunt Augustine had described. It was spellbinding. And in comparison to it, my life seemed even more dreary.

  I reached the front door as the sun was setting and lifted the latch. But the girl who had left the house that evening was not the same girl who returned to it. I knew then that my life would have to be the stage, or it would be nothing at all.

  FOUR

  Le Chat Espiègle was not a high-class music hall with a large production budget and an audience that included dukes and princes. But it was a place of magic to me. I thought that the lights and music, the bright costumes and the chorus girls, were the height of glamour and excitement. I had nothing to compare it with. I was blind to the tattered curtains, the shabby seats, the near starved faces of the performers. I lived for those evenings when Bonbon and I walked to the theatre and Albert sneaked us into our secret place in the wings.

  Sometimes acts were changed from the second to the first half of the program, and once I saw the Sunday matinée when Aunt Augustine was down with a migraine and told me not to disturb her or make any noise around the house. In this way, I had a chance to see the other performers. The artists and the impresario, Monsieur Dargent, discovered me from time to time but said nothing. Even Camille turned a blind eye to my presence, remaining aloof but not giving me away to Aunt Augustine and continuing to pay me to walk Bonbon.

  The mime’s name was Gerard Chalou. Although I only saw his back during his performance, I often stumbled across him backstage, practising a shoulder stand against a wall or lying flat on his back, contracting and relaxing his stomach muscles. He would sometimes warm up in the wing where I sat, and often spent four or five minutes just rolling his eyes.

  ‘They convey everything,’ he replied to my puzzled expression. ‘They must be limbered up too.’

  During the interval Chalou gave me and Albert a performance of his sketch about a poodle who would not behave. To emphasise the comedy he froze in some of his positions. I scrutinised his lips and chest, searching for some telltale sign of breathing, but couldn’t find any. Madeleine and Rosalie, two chorus girls who appeared nude in the show except for jewel-studded cache-sexes, begged Gerard to teach them his special ‘immobilisation’ technique.

  ‘Practise by running around,’ he said. ‘Then stop in a pose. You must not move a muscle. But you must not look dead either. Your eyes should convey inner life.’

  Madeleine and Rosalie pranced around like ponies. When Gerard shouted ‘Freeze!’ they came to a stop, doing their best not to teeter on their high heels and holding their feather boas out behind them like wings. But for all their earnestness, each time they tried something would give them away. An earring would rattle against a headdress; a bracelet would slip down an arm; or their breasts would continue to bounce. For women who were supposed to be nude, their ‘costumes’ were often heavier than those of the chorus girls who appeared clothed.

  Monsieur Dargent, passing by, watched their attempts with interest. ‘It will never do even if they manage to freeze,’ he said. ‘Not with all that running around.’

  Albert explained to me that, according to the law, nude showgirls could appear in the program as long as they only paraded and posed. If they danced or moved too much, they would be considered strippers and the police could close down the production.

  Claude Contet, the magician, was dazzling. He had the luminous skin and pale eyes of a mystical conjurer. When he paraded across the stage, his cape glittered and sparked with electricity. I watched him sweep his wand over the bird cage three times and tug away the purple scarf. The canary was nowhere to be seen. The audience clapped. Claude held out his palms to their enthralled faces. ‘You see, my hands are empty.’

  When the Zo-Zo Family appeared everyone backstage came out to watch, their painted faces, and my unpainted one, turned towards the spotlights while Alfredo, Enrico, Peppino, Vincenzo, Violetta and Luisa dusted their hands in chalk and scaled the rope ladder to take thei
r positions on the platforms.

  ‘Oh my! Oh my!’ Madame Tarasova, the wardrobe mistress, would mutter into her handkerchief.

  Violetta and Luisa leapt for their swings and swept over us like spangled birds, moving back and forth to gather momentum. The Zo-Zos performed their act without a net and the groan of the trapeze under their weight added to the tension. Often there were gasps and the occasional scream from the audience. Sometimes when the strain was too much, I’d have to look down at the musicians in the pit. There was no music for the act: the wrong beat could be fatal. The conductor would have his eyes squeezed shut. The violinists sat with their heads bowed, like monks at prayer. Only the brass section was brave enough to keep watching. I’d lose my breath the second before the transition and my heart lurched in my throat. Suddenly the women were spinning, somersaulting through the air like silver dolphins. A sensation in my stomach made it seem as if they were falling, swooning towards the deadly edges of the stage. But with a slap! their hands clutched those of their catchers with such split-second timing that for a moment the audience remained dazed. Then the sound of applause roared through the hall. Those whose legs weren’t still trembling stood up to shout their admiration. Somehow, from that point on, I knew that the Zo-Zo Family would be safe even though their pirouetting and passages became increasingly complicated as the act progressed.

  Although I saw the act several times, each time it ended and the band played the victory tune tears blurred my vision. The performance stirred my sense of beauty and loathing. Beauty because the act was more about trust than tricks; loathing because of the snatches of conversation I heard backstage. ‘Not this time, I guess,’ muttered as a sigh. When all the Zo-Zos had scaled back down to the stage and taken their bows, the collective exhalation of relief that went through the other performers contained a tinge of dissatisfaction: the same disappointment as among onlookers when a suicide decides not to jump.