Wild Lavender

by Belinda Alexandra

  ‘That day, because I knew Mademoiselle Chanel was coming in, I had worn my best dress and thought that I looked très chic. I didn’t put on my cosmetician’s coat, as I normally do, because I wanted to impress her. In her bad mood she didn’t notice anything, so I tried to humour her by asking, “And how would you dress the Americans, Mademoiselle Chanel?”

  ‘She sprang from her chair and seized my scissors, her eyes ablaze. For one terrifying moment I thought she had lost her mind and was going to cut my throat. She pointed the scissors at me and snipped the baubles off my collar. Then, before I could register what she was doing, she cut off the lace from my waistline and the ruffles from my sleeves. The only thing she left was my gardenia corsage. My four thousand franc dress was in ruins.

  ‘“There,” she said, oblivious to the tears in my eyes. “Always take away, pare down. Never add! The Americans wear too much of everything.”’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ I cried, not quite able to imagine what a four thousand franc dress would look like. ‘What an awful woman! Did you make her pay for the dress?’

  ‘Ma chérie,’ laughed Madame Chardin, ‘it was the best lesson I have had in my life. Decoration must have no purpose other than to set off simplicity.’

  I stared at Madame Chardin. She was speaking a foreign language. ‘I thought decorations were to make things pretty.’

  ‘Look at this,’ said Madame Chardin, stepping back and opening her coat to reveal her dress and elaborate brooch. ‘The line must be plain and perfect. Then you choose one decorative thing so that, like a diamond on a piece of velvet, it will stand out. The Americans can never make up their minds between the pair of red shoes, the African beads, the jade bracelet. They wear them all! But in order to be stylish, you must know where to draw the line. Choose one decorative item and one only. That is the secret of looking chic.’

  When Madame Chardin had finished cutting my hair, she heated a curling iron and put waves into my side locks and ends. I stared at my reflection, unable to take in the transformation. I was stunned but pleased. I pictured myself drinking a café crème at the Rotonde. I could go anywhere in Paris with hair like this.

  ‘Goodness,’ said Odette. ‘You are stunning. Wait until my uncle sees you!’

  Outside, the sky had turned grey and it was beginning to sleet. ‘We’ll get a taxi,’ said Odette, waving one down. The car came to a stop and I clambered in after her.

  ‘Galeries Lafayette,’ Odette told the driver.

  ‘Why are we going to the Galeries Lafayette?’ I asked.

  Odette rolled her eyes. ‘For the new dress you need to go with your hair.’

  If one thing became clear that day, it was that Odette and I were as impractical as each other. I lived in a room with no heating and one thin mattress. I needed a rug on the floor and curtains at the windows to keep the cold out, otherwise I would soon be dead from pneumonia. But instead I paid everything I had for a black dress, knowing that if I had shown it to my mother and Aunt Yvette, they would have looked at its straight lines, the V-neck, the velvet on the cuffs and the fine crêpe de Chine material and asked: ‘Whose funeral?’

  TEN

  The entrance to Café des Singes was a door at basement level under a bedding store. I pushed the buzzer and waited for an answer, checking my hair in the reflection of the brass plate. No one answered so I tried the buzzer again. When there was still no answer, I turned the door handle and was surprised to find it unlocked.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out, pushing open the door and staring into the gloom.

  I hesitated by a potted palm and wrinkled my nose: the air was congested with the faded smells of tobacco, mint and anisette. The only natural light source was frosted panels on either side of the door, and the club’s decor of brown carpet, leather chairs and wood-panelled walls conspired to absorb the little illumination they gave. The club was what was called a boîte de nuit; squashed into the space was a bar with no stools and a wall-length mirror behind it. In the opposite corner to the door was a platform with a piano. Scattered in front of it were a couple of tables for groups of six and about a dozen for pairs. Beyond the tables was a swing door which I assumed led to the kitchen. I projected my voice towards it.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was a sign informing patrons that while drinks and food could be consumed during a performance, they could only be ordered between the acts. Clearly this was a club that took its musicians seriously. I ran my tongue over my lips, pleased and nervous. Monsieur Etienne must be taking me seriously to suggest that I audition here. I hoped that I wouldn’t disappoint him.

  There was a menu lying on a table. I glanced at it. Cassoulet—15 francs. My mouth dropped open. I had paid three francs for an entire meal of bread, mutton cassoulet and wine at the student café. I ran my hand over my dress, glad that Odette had made me buy it, and shuddered to think that I would have come wearing my old dress to a place where people paid fifteen francs for a meal.

  I examined the menu again: Pâté de foie gras truffé—25 francs; coq au riesling—20 francs. My stomach growled. I opened the flap and found another menu tucked inside. Menu Américain. Corned beef—15 francs; fried chicken—16 francs.

  A woman’s voice bellowed in the darkness. ‘You hungry?’

  I looked up. The woman was standing near the kitchen door, garbed in a sequined hobble skirt. She stood with her stout legs planted on the floor, in heels as high as her feet were long. Her red hair was cut short around her heavy jowls and decorated with a beaded headband.

  ‘Yes. I mean, no!’ I stuttered, dropping the menu.

  The woman gave me a sideways smile. ‘We’ll feed you soon enough,’ she said with good-natured scorn. ‘When Eugene finishes stuffing his own face in the kitchen, we’ll do your song.’

  From her gravelly laugh and beaming presence, I knew that she had to be Madame Baquet. She told me to take off my coat and sit down at a table. She sat opposite me, the chair creaking under her weight.

  ‘See anything you like?’ she asked, pointing to the menu.

  Although it was the most luxurious menu I had ever seen, my nerves got the better of me. All I could say was that an omelette would be nice.

  She threw her head back and sent a laugh thundering around the room. ‘We’d have to go down the street for one of those. How old are you? You’re younger than I thought you’d be.’

  For a second I considered lying, then thought better of it. She was too sharp for that. Stretching the truth was better. ‘I’m almost sixteen,’ I said.

  ‘A baby, just as I thought.’ She made a clucking sound with her tongue. ‘It’s a long time since I was your age. Still, Monsieur Etienne said you were exceptional, and if anybody understands that term he does.’

  The sound of pans crashing to the floor burst from the kitchen. Madame Baquet swivelled around and shouted, ‘Eugene! Are you coming or are you just destroying the place?’

  ‘Coming!’ a man’s voice answered from beyond the swing door.

  The buzzer sounded and Madame Baquet got up to answer it. I was relieved to see Monsieur Etienne and Odette waiting on the step.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Madame Baquet said. ‘I’ve just been speaking with your singer. Eugene’s working on giving himself indigestion in the kitchen but he’ll be out in a minute.’

  No sooner had Monsieur Etienne and Odette greeted me than the kitchen door swung open and a black man wiping at his lips with a serviette rushed into the room. He flung the serviette down on one of the tables. ‘Hello,’ he said, reaching out a sticky hand and grabbing mine. ‘What a lovely-looking lady you are. Why, your face just says joy all over it!’

  He took Monsieur Etienne’s hand and said something I didn’t catch because he mixed up English words in amongst his French sentences. From the crystal clarity of his voice I took him to be an American.

  ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ he asked me, sensing my confusion.

  Of course I didn’t speak English, but as everyone else seemed to understand
him, and I was so eager to please, I answered, ‘A little. I know Yawl and Schure.’ I did my best to imitate the American accents I’d heard on my first night in Pigalle.

  Madame Baquet roared with laughter and slapped the table. Eugene sent me a cheeky smile and rolled his eyes.

  ‘She’s funny, Monsieur Etienne,’ said Madame Baquet. ‘I like them cute and funny, and as she’s brought her music along I think we’d better get her to sing.’

  I followed Eugene to the piano. He wiped his fingers on his pants and took my music from me. ‘These all French songs?’ he asked, flicking through them. ‘Nice. Yep, now we’ve got someone to sing in English, someone to sing in German and someone to sing in French. We should change our name to Café des Singes Internationales.’ This time I understood his joke and laughed. I was beginning to see that there was a lot of laughter at the Café des Singes.

  Eugene picked out the music for ‘It’s Him I Love’. I was glad he’d chosen that one because it was the song the rehearsal pianist and I had worked on the most. The pianist had emphasised that for a boîte, delivery was as important as technical skills. I had solved my problem of never having been in love by thinking of my father when I sang the song. I might not understand l’amour but I understood loss.

  It’s him I love

  Though he’s far away

  It’s him I love

  But I should live for today

  Eugene’s hands sprang over the keys. For a moment I was mesmerised by them; the movement was so fluid, his touch so agile and light. Luckily, my concentration returned fast enough that I didn’t miss my first line. From the instant I sang my first note, I knew that I had Madame Baquet on my side. When I sang, she couldn’t sit still. She fidgeted in her chair and tapped her foot, her teary eyes gazing at me all the time with wonder. When I finished the song everyone clapped. Monsieur Etienne and Odette beamed with pride.

  ‘Sing another,’ Madame Baquet called out. ‘You’ve got us wanting more now!’

  Eugene began another number: ‘La bouteille est vide. The Bottle is Empty’. It was about a man who loves champagne so much that he drinks himself to ruin, the cynical words contradicting the upbeat tune. Eugene played it faster than I’d rehearsed it but I did my best to keep up. Madame Baquet hummed along at first, then started singing in a husky voice when she caught on to the words. She drifted from singing along with me to discussing my contract with Monsieur Etienne and then back again without a break.

  ‘Monsieur Etienne, I want you to make up a contract this afternoon. I don’t want any other club grabbing this girl. I can start her on eighty francs for two performances a week, plus tips. And I’ll give her a good meal after each show to fatten her up.’

  I kept singing even though I was on the verge of fainting on the spot. Eighty francs for two performances a week plus tips? I had estimated that, living frugally, it was going to cost me at least four hundred francs a month for my rent, meals and métro tickets. Assuming that I could double what Madame Baquet was paying me with tips, and deducting Monsieur Etienne’s agent’s fee, I was going to be making almost five hundred francs for just two nights’ work! I continued singing my song, dizzy with thoughts of what I was going to buy with the extra money, completely missing the irony of the words or the warning in them: The more you get, the more you want, you want and want, and then it’s all gone.

  Although I normally wouldn’t be required to arrive at the Café des Singes until half past one, Madame Baquet suggested I get there earlier on the first night. ‘You can watch Florence and Anke and get to know the place,’ she said.

  I caught a taxi on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, feeling pleased that I didn’t have to take the métro just to save money. When the driver stopped in front of the Café des Singes, I was startled by the difference in atmosphere from when I had seen it during the day. The mesh shutters of the bedding store were closed and spotlights flickered around the entrance of the club. A man in a coat and velvet hat worked the door.

  ‘It’s as crowded as a can of sardines in there, Mademoiselle,’ he said, his Russian accent rolling the ‘r’s even more deeply than Zephora’s tremolo. ‘Are you alone?’

  I explained who I was and he waved me inside. All I could see at first were the backs of the people huddled in the entranceway, waiting for a table or just some space. ‘Excuse me,’ I said to a man still padded up in his coat and gloves. He scrunched up his face. I thought he was annoyed but then realised he was trying to get enough elbow space so he could lift his arm up for me to pass. The club was full and most people were standing. A wispy woman was on stage, singing a blues number in English. Her voice quivered like her black skin under the lights. Madame Baquet, with a dress of white fringes and a feather in her hair, was flirting with a young man wearing a monocle. She caught my eye and waved, although we had no chance of reaching each other through the crush. She pointed to a stool by the piano and I understood that I was to take it. I zig-zagged my way through the crowd and let out a sigh of victory when I reached the stool and plunked myself down on it. I was surprised to see that the piano player, who I had assumed to be Eugene, was not Eugene at all. He was black and thin with the same protruding eyes, but was younger.

  The singer, who I guessed must be Florence, delivered her songs with heavy-lidded eyes and down-turned lips but closed each number and introduced the next one with a beaming flash of white teeth. I didn’t understand a word she said, but when she sang her voice bounced off the walls and vibrated through me.

  When her session ended, the audience clapped and showed their appreciation by stuffing notes into her jar. A crowd converged on the bar to order the next round of drinks. French, I thought, listening to their cheerful babble. They are nearly all French. I wondered where the Americans were.

  Eugene stepped out of the kitchen with a tray balanced on his shoulder and served dishes of pâté de foie gras and shrimp cocktails to a table by the piano. He caught sight of me and winked. ‘That’s my brother, Charlie,’ he said, thrusting his chin towards the young man at the piano. ‘We take turns waiting tables and playing. It gives us a break. You want anything?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t like to eat before I sing.’

  He nodded, patting his stomach. ‘Good thing about being a piano player—you can always eat.’

  Although it was true that Vera had told me that a singer should never perform on a full stomach, my not wanting to eat had more to do with my nerves. I’d been comfortable singing at the audition, but as soon as I’d stepped into the taxi on my way to the club I was hit by shakes and sweats. Seeing the sophisticated audience up close did not help. Was I good enough? What did they expect? Certainly I couldn’t sing as well as Florence whose enchanting voice could bend a note without breaking it. Not yet, anyway. I wondered if the churning in my stomach, the nausea, that tightness in my throat, would leave me once I became a seasoned performer. Or would I have to live with them for ever?

  Madame Baquet sang a quirky song about a man who gets caught by his mistress trying to seduce her mother, before announcing that the patrons should take their drinks and settle down because it was time for ‘the fabulous Anke’ to come up on stage. This is the German, I thought.

  A man in tails and a top hat pushed through the crowd to the stage. The spotlight settled on his back. Charlie hit the first note and the man spun around. I blinked. He had smooth skin and blue eyes smudged with black eyeliner. The singer was a woman. She’d made herself look like a man by brushing her short hair away from her face and the way she’d swaggered onto the stage. A hush fell over the audience and the woman started to sing. Her voice was as androgynous as her appearance, discordant and strange. She cupped her face in her hands, flicking out her green-painted nails like claws. I grimaced. Her act was disturbing. Her German words crawled over me like spiders. Vernichtung. Warnung. Todesfall. By her third number my skin was itching and I could barely stay in my seat. Yet the rest of the audience was spellbound—not one clink of a glass, not a murmur no
r a cough.

  When Anke finished she didn’t bow or thank her spectators. She rushed from the stage and shoved her way through them to the door, as if they had made her angry. When she didn’t come back to accept her tips, the audience rose to their feet and applauded wildly, leaving me to wonder what I could do to match her act.

  There was a flurry of activity around the cloakroom girl, who stood in a booth not much bigger than a closet. The tables emptied and so did the space around the bar. No one is staying to watch my act, I thought. I couldn’t take it personally. I was hardly ‘a name’ in Paris and the audience was probably rushing off to another show, or to meet friends for supper or more drinks. That was the way of things in Paris. There were so many restaurants, music halls, cafés, bars and theatres, so many distractions to be had in the city, that staying in one place for a whole evening was not an option.

  But no sooner had the café emptied than it started refilling. The new audience rushed towards the bar, shouting greetings at each other and passing drinks over the sea of heads. Madame Baquet greeted the arrivals in English, and stopped for a moment to chat to a girl in a purple dress with roses on the sleeve and neckline. Eugene swapped places at the piano with Charlie and warmed up the atmosphere with a jazz riff. The Americans had arrived.

  Eugene leaned across the piano. ‘You’ve got a good crowd tonight. That’s Scott Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda,’ he said, indicating with his chin a man and woman entwined in each other’s arms. They were attempting to dance in the crowded space, splashes of whisky spilling from their glasses. The man’s features were fine and his mouth so delicate that he looked almost feminine. His partner’s face was more severe. Her salmon pink gown had silver straps across the back and flared out from her hips into a bell-shaped skirt. I wondered if that was what a four thousand franc dress looked like.