The success of the show didn’t put a stop to the backbiting, however. If anything, it became worse. Gerard watched from the wings, rubbing his hairy knuckles and muttering about everyone else’s shortcomings. And even though Claire’s cartwheel dance was put back in the show, it didn’t stop her scowling at Monsieur Dargent or hissing at me. There was a rumour that Paulette had replaced Madeleine’s spirit gum with honey and that was why she had lost her cache-sexe during the Wednesday night show and had to be pulled offstage by Monsieur Vaimber. In retaliation, Madeleine had mixed sand into Paulette’s cold cream, and now Paulette was nursing grazes on her cheeks and chin. But, somehow, all those egos vying for the limelight improved the performance of the cast.
Zephora remained aloof and her coldness even began to extend to Monsieur Dargent. Before and after the show she would retreat to her dressing room and refuse callers. One night Monsieur Dargent begged her to show her face to the fans waiting at the stage door and he received the curt reply, ‘Go away! I’m too tired!’
Fabienne and I were sent down to make conversation with Zephora’s eager fans instead, although I had no idea what to talk about with the multitude of babbling men outside the stage door. Fabienne, who took adulation as her lot, helped me. ‘Oh, don’t harass her. She’s far too young for you. Come over here and talk to me.’
Although we were rushed off our feet, Vera wasted no time in getting down to work on my voice. No matter how late we finished the night before, we met every morning at eleven o’clock in the basement. She played notes on the piano for me to sing to, moving higher and higher as far as I could follow.
‘You have a delightful mezzo-soprano voice,’ she told me. ‘And your projection is good. I don’t know what happened at your audition. Perhaps it was nerves.’
Vera explained that I could overcome my nerves if I breathed properly. ‘Don’t take in any more air than you would need to sniff a rose, then let your voice glide over that cushion of air,’ she said. We sang all the songs from ‘Scheherazade’ and she demonstrated how to phrase them properly and put the right amount of emotion into each one.
I was enjoying my lessons and performing so much that, instead of feeling jealous of Zephora, I tried to learn from her. I studied her whenever I could, from the wings or during rehearsals. Although her voice had a different quality to mine, I memorised her delivery of the songs, imitating her when I was on my own. Then when I met with Vera, we adapted the songs to my own style.
During one matinée I was surprised when Zephora gave a listless performance. Her voice sounded hoarse and, despite her make-up, there were circles under her eyes and a feverish tinge to her cheeks.
‘Please take me with you to the Shah’s palace,’ I said, giving her the cue for her song. She stiffened. For a moment I thought she had forgotten her lines and tried to mouth them to her but she did not respond. Fabienne tried to get Zephora’s attention by stamping her foot, but that didn’t work either. The conductor lifted his arms and directed the orchestra to play a few bars of the song before going back to the beginning. His trick succeeded: Zephora snapped out of her dream and began singing. Fabienne and I let out a sigh, but Zephora’s heroic song about going to the palace to outsmart the Shah came out more as a whimper.
‘If you ask me, she’s taking opium,’ said Fabienne later in the dressing room. ‘I hope she pulls herself together for tonight’s performance. It’s shaping up to be our biggest night yet.’
‘Ah,’ sighed Luisa, ‘she’ll come to no good if she takes drugs. Where we performed in Rome, one of the chorus girls used to snort cocaine. One night she fell asleep on the rail tracks.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘She was squashed like a tomato!’ replied Luisa, slapping her hands together.
Fabienne and I grimaced. I had heard that in the fancier clubs, audiences were sometimes served drugs on platters, and occasionally a chorus girl at Le Chat Espiègle received a bag of crystalline powder from an admirer. Often I would go into the laneway to escape the heat of my dressing room and find groups of men there, huddled together or staring at the sky, their noses streaked with white powder. Once, during interval, I saw a man screaming that he had cockroaches crawling under his skin. His pupils were dilated to twice the normal size and he was sweating and shaking. Albert threw a bucket of water over him and told him to go away. The man responded by vomiting all over our feet.
The chorus girls who took cocaine said it made them feel ‘on top of the world’. For me, just going out on stage was enough of a rush.
‘Zephora certainly covers up for such a vamp,’ said Fabienne, wiping away her greasepaint with a cloth. ‘Mind you, I would too if I had those size thighs.’
I cut a peach into quarters. It was sour but I was too hungry to care. I wasn’t interested in maligning Zephora; I was worried about what would happen if she pulled out of the show, as Camille had.
‘I bet she was kicked out of Paris,’ said Fabienne. ‘Otherwise why would you want to play at this theatre when you could be strutting your stuff before millionaires at the Scala?’
‘I hear there will be a few reporters in the audience tonight,’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘I hope they give us good reviews.’
‘I hope there will be a few rich men in the audience,’ laughed Fabienne, clutching her breasts and pushing them skyward. ‘And I hope that they will give me good reviews too.’
I sat in front of the mirror and watched my hand tremble. I put on my eye make-up, rubbed it off and daubed it on again. The liner was still crooked and the flicks at the corner of each eye were too curly. My shadow and eyeblack looked like bruises on my lids. I sighed, picked up my facecloth and charcoal pencil, and poised to try all over again.
I had received a telegram from Bernard saying that he was coming to tonight’s performance. The last letter I had written home had been to tell them I was working as a seamstress. I hadn’t said anything about performing on stage. I was sure Bernard was coming to see if Le Chat Espiègle was a legitimate establishment and to allay some of Aunt Yvette’s fears. What a shock he was in for.
‘Why are you here so early?’ asked Madame Tarasova, flitting into the room with the Zo-Zo sisters’ costumes.
‘I couldn’t sit still at home,’ I told her. ‘Look!’ I held up my hand.
‘You’ve got the jitters. It’s nothing,’ she said, hanging the costumes on a hook. ‘It means you’ll give a good performance tonight.’
She smiled reassuringly before darting out the door. I closed my eyes. Slow breath in and slow breath out. Slow breath in and slow breath out. I opened my eyes. The tremble was still there only now I was light-headed as well. ‘This is useless,’ I mumbled, examining my grubby facecloth. I needed to wet it again if I wanted to clean off the mascara I had smudged over my cheek. I pulled my kimono around my shoulders and headed towards the bathroom.
When I passed Zephora’s dressing room I heard a crash. The door swung open and Zephora stumbled out, clutching her stomach. She took two steps before doubling over and dropping to her knees.
‘Zephora!’ I rushed towards her. Her face was pale. ‘I’ll get Madame Tarasova,’ I said.
She grabbed my arm and dug her nails into my flesh. ‘No!’ she spat. ‘I don’t need your interference. I’m all right. It’s just…something I suffer from time to time.’ She let out a dry, spiteful laugh.
Her manner was more severe than her usual brusqueness. She was shivering although it was hot in the theatre. I stared at her, trying to think what I should do. I couldn’t leave her there like that. I rushed to the bathroom and wet my facecloth, intending to give it to Zephora to put on her forehead. When I returned she was sprawled on the floor, her face covered in a film of sweat.
‘Oh God,’ she moaned through chapped lips.
I knelt down and wiped her face. She stared back at me, clenching her teeth. There was something in her eyes that frightened me.
‘I will get help,’ I said.
Madame
Tarasova was backstage, brushing down costumes with Vera and Martine, the new dresser. ‘Something has happened to Zephora!’ I told them.
The three women followed me up the stairs but Zephora was not in the corridor. ‘She’s in here!’ said Vera, pointing to the open dressing room door. Somehow Zephora had managed to drag herself back into the room and was lying on the floor, clutching the legs of a chair. Madame Tarasova’s eyes widened. She crouched down beside Zephora. The singer rolled onto her back, her hands gripping her stomach.
‘It is something she ate,’ said Martine, stepping forward. ‘My brother and I had something like that when we first came to Marseilles. It was terrible.’
Madame Tarasova frowned and pressed her hand to Zephora’s stomach. She looked up, alarm on her face. ‘Quick!’ she said. ‘Help me pull that couch from the wall and get her onto it!’
Martine and I dragged the divan to the centre of the room and Madame Tarasova and Vera lowered Zephora onto it. It was no easy feat for them, as Zephora was a few stones heavier than either woman and didn’t seem able to exert any strength of her own. She curled up on the couch and stuck her fist in her mouth to stifle another groan.
‘Zephora,’ Madame Tarasova said, shaking her shoulder. ‘Is it what I think it is?’
The muscles in Zephora’s face tightened and she let out a wail which was drowned out by a blast of music from the rehearsal room. The spasm passed and she nodded. ‘It’s coming.’
Vera and I exchanged glances. Madame Tarasova hissed out a breath, readying herself for action. ‘Vera, go get a doctor! Quick!’
Martine grabbed my arm. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Her appendix?’
‘No,’ said Madame Tarasova, propping a pillow under Zephora’s head. ‘Our star is about to have a baby.’
I stood outside Monsieur Dargent’s office, tying and untying the knot of my kimono. Somehow, in the chaos that followed Madame Tarasova’s announcement, it had been decided that I should be the one to break the news of Zephora’s impending motherhood to him. I knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ he called out.
I was greeted with a mist of cigarette smoke. Monsieur Vaimber and two men I hadn’t seen before were sitting with Monsieur Dargent. From the relaxed expression on Monsieur Dargent’s face, I assumed that the men weren’t creditors trying to retrieve their money nor had they anything to do with the mafia.
Monsieur Dargent jumped up from his chair and ushered me into the room. ‘Ah, Simone, come in,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce you to Monsieur Ferriol and Monsieur Rey. They have come all the way from Nice to see the show.’
‘Enchanté,’ said Monsieur Ferriol, rising from his chair and kissing my hand. Monsieur Rey followed suit.
‘If they like the show, they will invest in it,’ whispered Monsieur Dargent.
My stomach twisted but I did my best to feign delight. ‘Monsieur Dargent,’ I said, smiling. ‘I need to speak to you for a moment.’
Monsieur Dargent gave me a puzzled look but didn’t seem alarmed. His carefree attitude made me all the more sorry for what I was about to tell him. He followed me to the cashier’s booth, which was empty.
‘Investors, Simone! Can you believe it?’ he said as soon as we were out of earshot. ‘Le Chat Espiègle has never had investors before…only me.’
‘Monsieur Dargent, I have…’ I clenched my toes. How was I going to tell him? I grasped for the right words but he didn’t give me a chance to speak.
‘My time has come!’ he said, squeezing my arms. ‘The day my father threw me out of home he said that I would die penniless in the gutter. What will he say now?’
‘Oh God, Monsieur Dargent—I have terrible news!’ There: it was out. He looked at me askance, his lips thinning into a frown.
‘Zephora is having a baby,’ I said.
Monsieur Dargent’s eyes bulged and he took a step back. At first he did not seem to believe me; then his face lit up with understanding. ‘No wonder she left that show in Nice. She probably figured she would get away with it in a smaller theatre. I’ve had pregnant performers before, but if she puts on any more weight I’ll have to fire her.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I said. ‘She’s having her baby now.’
At that moment Vera rushed into the foyer with the doctor. ‘Are they still in the dressing room?’ she asked. I nodded. Vera signalled for the doctor to follow her.
Monsieur Dargent’s face turned white. He pulled out his watch and stared at it. ‘It is an hour to the show. Can’t she wait until afterwards?’
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I told him.
He squeezed his eyes shut and collapsed into the cashier’s chair. ‘We are ruined,’ he said, banging his head on the desk.
Monsieur Vaimber stepped into the booth. ‘What is taking you so long?’ he hissed. ‘I sent the gentlemen away. They will come back for the show.’
I explained the situation to him and was grateful when he took the news more calmly than Monsieur Dargent. ‘We shall have to cancel the show tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing else we can do.’
‘We can’t cancel the show!’ cried Monsieur Dargent, tugging at his hair so viciously that I thought he was going to pull it out. ‘Those investors will go straight back to Nice. They aren’t going to wait around in Marseilles until we find a replacement.’
‘You don’t need to find a replacement.’
We turned around to see Madame Tarasova standing behind us. ‘You have someone who can stand in for the part right there,’ she said, pointing at me.
Monsieur Dargent looked from Madame Tarasova to me and back again. He shook his head. ‘She can’t carry it.’
Madame Tarasova crossed her arms. ‘She can do the part. I know. Vera has been teaching her. Marie can take over the handmaiden’s role.’
Monsieur Vaimber took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. ‘There is no way we can put—’
‘What choice do you have?’ Madame Tarasova cut him off. ‘You either take the chance or let those investors go for ever.’
Monsieur Dargent stopped pulling at his hair and looked up. ‘Okay!’ he said, wobbling to his feet. ‘Okay! She saved us once before—maybe she can perform that miracle again. She’s on!’
I don’t suppose that as long as I live, I shall forget that night at Le Chat Espiègle. Even as I stood in the wings, listening to the orchestra play the lead-up to my first number, I couldn’t believe I was there. I had wanted a singing part and now I had one; albeit with no notice. I was going on cold again.
Monsieur Vaimber waited with me for my cue. Sweat dripped from his forehead and the way his hands trembled did nothing to calm my own nerves.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You’re on.’
I braced myself and swept onto the stage. The crowd sighed and clapped. I stretched out my arms and they applauded more. It was a good sign that they were cheering, but it could only have been for the beautiful costume I was wearing, because I had missed my first line and hadn’t sung a note. Luckily the conductor was used to covering mistakes and led the musicians into the introduction again. I glided towards the stage apron, bordered on either side by the chorus girls twirling in the harem dance. Marie winked at me and Jeanne smiled. Claire nodded. Had I really seen that? Perhaps she was grateful, understanding that I was risking my all to save everybody else.
The spotlights sent down a stream of white heat across my face and shoulders. I could only see as far as the first few rows of smiling faces, but I sensed that Bernard was out there somewhere. Oh God, I prayed, my legs shaking beneath me.
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 audience cheered again. My voice rang out over the noise, clear and strong. I had no trouble keeping my breath. My legs stopped trembling and I wiggled and swirle
d and improvised a dance to go with the words. Something fell at my feet and my heel clamped down on it. Squish. Oh no, I thought, they’re throwing food at me already. I glanced at my foot but instead of a tomato, which had happened before even when they’d liked my act, I saw a rose. I bent and picked it up. Still singing, I held the flower to my nose, as if I were appreciating its scent, then passed it to Claire with a flourish. I didn’t miss a note. The cheers sounded louder.
‘Mademoiselle Fleurier!’ a man shouted from the audience. Other voices joined him. ‘Other girls have gone to their deaths—but not me, I’m stronger.’ The song that had caused me so much pain a few weeks ago was now my battle cry. When I hit the last note, unwavering, and threw my arms up bravely for the finish, the roar from the audience told me that I had won.
The rest of the show was a blur: two and a half hours flew by as if they had been only two minutes. Each time I raced upstairs for a costume change, Vera was ready with an update on Zephora’s labour. ‘The doctor says she hasn’t long to go. It won’t be too bad for her. She’s built for it.’
I tried to sit still while Martine pinned on my wedding headdress. ‘The doctor has been listening to you between the contractions,’ she told me. ‘He says you are very good and that with a voice like yours you could sing anywhere.’
I stood up while Madame Tarasova and Martine checked my hooks and pins. There were so many sequins and diamantés on the wedding gown that it took all my concentration to keep my balance. When I stepped out the door, I heard a long moan come from the direction of Zephora’s dressing room and, seconds later, the sound of a baby crying.
It was all Martine and I could do to stop from laughing. ‘Two new people have been born tonight,’ she said.
The curtain came down after the ninth encore. The adrenaline that had sustained me for the show plummeted. My heart pounded and pins and needles prickled my feet and fingertips. Marcel took my arm and squeezed it. He had been shocked to find out that I was going to be his leading lady, but the surprise had improved his performance. I struggled to get my bearings. The rest of the cast flocked around us.
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