I listened to the first number, and joined in as soon as I understood the melody. My voice resonated in the empty basement. It sounded clear and pretty. But Madame Dauphin didn’t compliment me; in fact, she showed no expression the entire rehearsal.
Who cares? I told myself. I won’t let her put me off.
I was pleased with my performance and after an hour left to attend the chorus line rehearsal with Gilles, confident that I would impress Monsieur Dargent with my audition. I tried to keep my thoughts from straying while Gilles took us through the harem routine until he was satisfied that we rolled our hips and undulated our stomachs with ease. ‘You’re as stiff as a corpse,’ he said to Claire, who screwed up her nose at him as soon as he turned his back.
At four o’clock the dance rehearsal ended and Monsieur Dargent made his way into the hall with Monsieur Vambier. They slipped into seats in the second row. Madame Dauphin turned around and nodded to them. She shuffled through her notebook on top of the piano and unfolded it at the first song we had rehearsed that afternoon. Monsieur Dargent took out his watch and placed it on his knee. I glanced around the room. To my dismay, the other girls showed no sign of leaving. Madeleine, Ginette and Paulette took seats a few rows behind Monsieur Dargent and whispered to each other behind their hands. I wondered why Monsieur Dargent didn’t send them away. Perhaps he wanted to see how I performed in front of an audience.
‘Whenever you are ready, Simone,’ Monsieur Dargent called out.
Even on that first night, when I was pushed on stage for the Hawaiian number, I hadn’t felt as nervous as I did now. I didn’t have anything to lose then. The stakes were higher this time: if I failed the audition I wasn’t likely to be allowed to try again.
Madame Dauphin ripped into the song’s introduction without waiting to see if I was ready. She played it an octave higher than the one we had practised in and I had no choice but to start singing:
It’s up to me—don’t be frightened
It’s up to me—I’ll bewitch him
It’s up to me—I can do it…
In the wrong key, my voice sounded tight. I strained to lift it higher. I’d planned to give the song a warm, sweet tone. Instead, I was singing like a shrill bird. But Monsieur Dargent didn’t appear displeased. He was leaning forward, studying me. If I get through this okay, I thought, he might let me try it again in the right key.
Madeleine and Paulette sank lower into their seats and giggled. I did my best not to let them intimidate me. Monsieur Vaimber was staring at the ceiling. But that wasn’t a bad sign; if he didn’t like me, he would have stopped me before now. My body loosened and my confidence increased.
Other girls have gone to their deaths—but not me
I’m stronger
Other girls have lost their heads—not me
I’m smarter
He might be the ruler
But I am a woman.
The curtain in the wing next to me fluttered. I thought it was the breeze, then lost concentration for a moment when I saw Claire lurking in the opening. She was in full view of me but hidden from the audience. ‘You won’t get it,’ she muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. ‘You’re awful and you’re as skinny as a bean.’
Irritation swept over me but I resolved to carry on. If I stopped the number, Claire might get in trouble but it would end my audition too. Monsieur Vaimber was a stickler for continuing to sing no matter what. ‘Performers need to know how to hold the attention of a hostile audience as well as a friendly one,’ he often said. Le Chat Espiègle certainly had its share of hostile audiences. Even towards the end of its run, when ‘On the Seas’ had full houses, the success of the show didn’t stop rowdy hecklers throwing cigarette butts and programs rolled into missiles at the chorus girls. But Monsieur Vaimber made it clear that we were to go on despite the hooting and catcalls.
A burning sensation seared my throat and my eyes watered. I tried to blink away whatever it was that was irritating them. A stinging vapour filled the air. Through my blurry vision I saw Claire pouring something from a bottle onto the floor. It ran towards my feet in an oily line. In the heat, the smell was noxious: ammonia. My hand flew to my mouth and I missed a beat. I tried to take in enough air to complete the chorus but I couldn’t breathe. My voice went off key. Monsieur Vaimber shook his head and Monsieur Dargent frowned. I tried to struggle on but it was no use. The blood pounded so loudly in my ears that I could barely hear the music.
I was on the verge of crying when I reached the final chord. But before I could catch my breath, Madame Dauphin launched into the next number. Monsieur Dargent held up his hand. ‘I think that’s enough for today,’ he said.
‘But Monsieur Dargent,’ I gulped. ‘It’s not fair…I can do better. It’s just that—’
‘It is one thing to start well but you need to be able to finish a song well too,’ he said. ‘Otherwise how can you perform a whole show?’
It was not said unkindly, but there was no need for him to say anything more.
The following morning, I woke to see that the sky had turned grey. Water gurgled down the drainpipes. Rain that alternated between downpour and drizzle splattered the houses and turned the streets into dank-smelling channels of mud. The spring rains had been so brief as to be barely noticeable and the summer had been dry. I hadn’t seen rain like this since the day of my father’s death and for a moment I thought I was at home again on the farm. A trail of subdued light fell across Bonbon, who was still asleep by my leg. I ran my hand over her silky fur. Long rehearsals and late nights had made me a heavy sleeper but I couldn’t sleep any longer that morning. I pulled the covers around me and listened to the water drip from the roof tiles. I thought about the letter I had received from Aunt Yvette when I returned from the theatre after my disastrous audition.
Dear Simone,
I am very worried to hear about you working in a music hall…I know that you are a good-hearted girl but I have heard bad things about those kinds of places and am concerned about you…Bernard will come to see you as soon as possible. He thinks he can find you work in a factory in Grasse.
PS I have also enclosed a message from your mother.
I was sure that the job Bernard had suggested was light, clean work—probably with perfume—but Aunt Yvette’s letter could not have come at a worse time. I needed her to have confidence in me because I had lost it in myself.
The enclosed message from my mother was a picture she had drawn of a black cat. I had smiled at that through my tear-stung eyes. She was telling me ‘good luck’. I had always been closer to my father than my mother, although I loved them both. Now my father was gone, my mother’s mysterious messages meant more to me than ever.
‘You did not inherit my gifts, Simone,’ my mother had once told me when scrying into the fire. ‘You are too logical. But my, what marvellous gifts you have been given. And what a glorious flame you will ignite when you are ready to use them.’
I squeezed my eyes shut and wondered what face-saving stratagem I would have to use to make myself go back to Le Chat Espiègle for the rest of the show. What hope was there of achieving a better life if I was never going to be anything more than a chorus girl kicking my legs to make seventy francs a week so I could pay the rent on my single room with a communal cold water tap and a lavatory down the hall?
‘But you would have done a great job if it hadn’t been for Claire,’ Marie whispered while we waited in the wings for the harem dance rehearsal that afternoon. ‘She’s the one who spoiled your chance. You should still believe in yourself.’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘If I was really good, I would have ignored her.’
‘You are too hard on yourself,’ Marie said, touching my arm. ‘Wait a while. You’re still young. There will be another chance.’
I put on a cheerful smile and wiggled my hips and arms as if I didn’t have a care in the world although the rehearsal was torture. When Gilles called out instructions he either avoided looking at me or
stared at me too long. Once I saw him flinch when I caught his eye. The sympathy in his gaze hurt me more than if he had ignored me. While I practised my solo part, the other girls sat in the front row to watch. Claire made a show of yawning until she was sure that she had caught my attention, then she smiled. I ignored her. She was nothing to me. But my hardened attitude was a day too late.
Monsieur Vaimber supervised the rehearsals while Monsieur Dargent was away in Nice negotiating the contract with the new star. One afternoon, a few days after my audition, he took us through the final number. The whole cast was in the scene, including the Zo-Zo Family who were to be giant birds swooping overhead as Scheherazade and the Shah declared their love for each other. The couple were to be spirited away on a magic carpet, thanks to an illusion involving ropes and mirrors which had been designed by Claude. The scene was to wind up with a frenzied dance by the chorus girls, a song by Fabienne, and me finally unhooking my veil. Madame Baroux filled in for the part of Scheherazade. Most of the time she posed like a prop rather than a performer, but for the final scene she made the effort, despite her walking stick, to strut down the rehearsal staircase on her spindly legs, her vertical axis so perfectly straight that I could almost see the ‘imaginary piece of string’ she so often talked about running from the top of her head to the ceiling. Suddenly, the auditorium door opened and slammed against the wall. We all turned to see Monsieur Dargent standing in the aisle next to a woman with yellow hair.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, gather around,’ Monsieur Dargent called out, waving to us to move forward. We wiped our faces and necks with handkerchiefs and towels and crept towards the edge of the stage.
‘I would like to introduce Mademoiselle Zephora Farcy—the new star of the show.’ Monsieur Dargent took the woman’s hand with exaggerated courtliness.
It took a few seconds for the cast to recover from their shock and greet her. The skin on Zephora’s forehead was so smooth she couldn’t have been more than thirty but the rolls of fat on her chest and upper arms were so matronly she could have been anyone’s mother or even grandmother. Her breasts were like two sandbags hanging from her chest and her rotund stomach was barely contained by her girdle.
‘She must be a good singer,’ Gerard whispered.
The stage lighting caught the fuzz on Zephora’s cheeks and made me think of dandelions. Framed by her red lips, her crooked teeth were sensual and her mildly crossed eyes glistened. The smile she flashed at Monsieur Vaimber and the other men in the room was full of feminine charm, but her face turned stony and her mouth pinched into a scowl when she laid eyes on the rest of us.
‘She’s no Camille,’ Fabienne muttered to Marcel but he didn’t hear her. From the way his eyes were shining, he was as taken with the new star as Monsieur Dargent.
It is just as well, I thought. He’s playing the Shah. He has to kiss her.
Oblivious to our stunned expressions, Monsieur Dargent clapped his hands and announced that Mademoiselle Farcy had recently completed a run with Madame Lamare’s Theatre in Nice and before that had performed at the Scala in Paris.
Madeleine and Paulette exchanged glances. The mention of Paris made it more understandable why Monsieur Dargent had chosen Zephora to replace Camille. Having performed in the capital gave her kudos. All Monsieur Dargent would have to do to draw audiences was mention that he had a ‘Paris star’. It wouldn’t matter, at first, if she were any good or not.
Later that afternoon, we rehearsed a scene from the second act that included Zephora, Marcel, Fabienne and myself. Those not in the scene milled around the wings, curious about the new addition to the cast. ‘What’s she doing here when she could be in Paris?’ Claude asked Luisa. ‘Something seems fishy to me.’
‘The chorus girls aren’t needed in this scene any more,’ Monsieur Dargent called from his place in the front row of seats.
‘What?’ asked Claire.
‘Mademoiselle Farcy doesn’t dance, so we don’t need you in the scene. Simone’s dance will be enough.’
The other girls didn’t care either way. They shrugged and left the stage. Only Claire remained, her fists clenched by her side. It was the number where she cartwheeled and danced all the way from the backdrop to the front of the stage; it was practically a solo. She bit her lip and jutted out her chin. For a moment I thought she was going to cry. But she dropped her shoulders and seemed to think better of it. After all, she had rent to pay and the change in schedule wouldn’t affect her wages, only her ego. She flashed her eyes at me and stormed off the stage. I listened to her stomp up the stairs to the dressing rooms. Where had all Claire’s tricks got her now? I could dance. So could Fabienne. If either of us were playing Scheherazade she could have kept her part.
Zephora was unmoved by the chorus girls’ departure. She sat on a bench, reading over the score, oblivious to the rest of us.
Marcel eyed her curiously before sidling up to her. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Farcy,’ he said, bowing. ‘We haven’t been properly introduced. I am Marcel Sorel, your leading man. It is a pleasure to meet you.’
Zephora glanced up at him but didn’t smile. ‘I think we should stick to what’s on the page, don’t you?’ she said.
Marcel gaped, puzzled over whether he had been slighted or not. Zephora picked up her score again and gave no indication that she was aware of his existence. He slouched away like a beaten dog.
From the haughty way she looked at me, I knew better than to approach Zephora directly. I took all my instructions from Monsieur Dargent. But I did have to read some lines with Zephora and it surprised me when I heard her shrill voice and muffled enunciation. Up until then I had been feeling embarrassed about being on the stage with a performer whose part I had tried out for and had failed so miserably to get. But any sense of superiority I had was dashed when Zephora sang. Marcel and Fabienne’s jaws dropped open with awed respect.
Zephora had a commanding voice. It was a touch brassy, and her tremolo was so exaggerated that the floor vibrated with every rolling ‘r’, but when she sang you were drawn to her, like a fish being reeled in to shore. And even though the flesh on her hips wobbled when she shifted her weight from foot to foot, she oozed charisma rather than obesity. Zephora was a beehive dripping with honey. I knew that she was going to be a success with the men in the audience. And considering that about ninety per cent of the people who came to see shows at Le Chat Espiègle were men, that was what really counted.
The following day I had an appointment with Madame Tarasova to be fitted for my costume.
‘Why the gloomy face?’ she asked, glancing up from her sewing machine. Her hair was plaited and coiled on top of her head in a style that was more fetching than her usual tight chignon. I wanted to leave the subject of my failed audition alone and tried to change the conversation by complimenting her on her hairstyle. But Madame Tarasova saw through my tactic and persisted. ‘Well?’ she asked, arching her eyebrows. ‘Who died?’
Vera was hanging costumes on an upper rail with a stick. ‘She’s upset about the audition,’ she said.
Madame Tarasova scoffed. ‘It was your first audition and you were foolish to try one without any preparation. You might be able to get up and sing at a wedding, but it’s not like that on stage. You must practise and practise.’
She stood up from the machine and pulled the measuring tape from around her neck. ‘Why don’t we adjust the costume Camille was supposed to wear?’ she said. ‘The new leading lady is going to need one in an entirely different size.’
‘What should I have done for my audition?’ I asked Madame Tarasova, when she bent down to measure my legs.
‘I was wardrobe mistress with the opera in St Petersburg,’ she said. ‘Believe me, good performers practise for hours to make what they do look easy. You just don’t stand on stage and become a star, even if they make it seem that way.’
Vera held a scarf against my hair. ‘You’d make a much better Scheherazade than Zephora if you trained your voice,’ she said.
‘Your tone is good,’ she said, ‘but your voice is untrained. There is no way you could sing for a whole show.’ She drew in a breath and sang a phrase from one of the ‘Scheherazade’ songs, holding the last note before letting it fade away. The sound was even and pretty.
Vera laughed at my astonishment. ‘I was planning to be a singer myself, but the Bolsheviks had other ideas.’
‘You could help Simone with her voice,’ said Madame Tarasova, slipping her tape measure around my waist. ‘Although she will need proper lessons eventually.’
‘We can practise on the piano in the basement,’ agreed Vera. ‘We can do the songs from “Scheherazade” before anyone else comes along for rehearsals.’
I chided myself for being so easily defeated. The problem was not me; it was a lack of experience. And Madame Tarasova and Vera seemed to think that if I worked at it, I could be a good singer.
‘Scheherazade’ was Le Chat Espiègle’s most successful show. By the end of the second week word had spread and the crowd lining up for seats spilled from the cashier’s desk, through the foyer, down the steps and along the square. The patrons weren’t even deterred when the skies opened and a torrent of rain poured down. They merely raised their umbrellas and chatted beneath them while waiting for their tickets. As well as our regular clientele of sailors and factory workers, the publicity had attracted shipping clerks, teachers, doctors, hairdressers, town officials and other respectable inhabitants of Marseilles. Monsieur Dargent was aglow with his first real success. The gauntness that had sucked in his face since Camille’s departure vanished in a matter of days. He slapped our backs, pinched our cheeks and took to smoking cigars like a true impresario.
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