Wild Lavender

by Belinda Alexandra

Bernard pulled to a stop in the yard. I didn’t wait for him to open the door for me; I jumped out and ran to my mother. She rushed forward and clasped my head in her hands, punching kisses onto my cheeks. Her eyes brimmed with tenderness—and a hint of surprise, as if I were an apparition that had appeared out of the forest.

  ‘It is good to see you, Simone. But you won’t be staying long, will you? Not yet,’ she said, giving me one of her mysterious smiles.

  ‘Simone! Is that you?’ Aunt Yvette cried, leaving the pan on the windowsill and fiddling in her pocket for her glasses. She slipped them on and squinted at me. ‘Look at your hair!’ she said. ‘What have you done to it?’

  I had forgotten that she might be shocked. The women in my village kept their hair long from childhood to death, and wore it tied up.

  ‘So the lavender harvest went well again?’ I asked, trying to deflect the attention away from my hair.

  ‘Even better than last year,’ beamed Aunt Yvette.

  ‘Where is Gerome?’ asked Bernard, lifting my suitcases from the truck and carrying them to the doorstep. ‘He would probably like to see Simone.’

  ‘He is sleeping just now,’ said Aunt Yvette. Turning to me, she explained, ‘We have converted the front parlour into a room for him. That way he can join in at mealtimes and watch the farm work without us having to drag him up and down the stairs.’

  ‘He’s better then?’ I asked, taking the glass of chilled wine my mother handed to me and sitting next to her on a bench in the yard. The trellis sagged with the weight of the wisteria blooms which dangled above me like bunches of grapes. The sugary scent attracted swarms of bees. One landed on my skirt, drunk with the sweetness of the nectar. It floundered on the material for a few moments, wings and legs flailing, before soaring off again.

  ‘He is improved,’ said Aunt Yvette, pulling up a chair. ‘He can sit up by himself and even says a few words now and then. We didn’t need to get extra help in the end. Your mother and I can cope with him.’

  My mother passed me a slice of melon and looked into my eyes. ‘Go and lie down before dinner,’ she said. ‘You look tired. We can talk more after you have rested.’

  I lay down in one of the bedrooms in Aunt Yvette’s house, so exhausted by the journey that I didn’t bother to take off my dress. Bonbon jumped up on the bed and nestled next to me. I ran my fingers through her fur. She gazed at me before stretching her mouth into a yawn. She was my mother’s companion now, but I was pleased to see her again. I napped restlessly, the heat inducing a string of disjointed dreams about dancing at the Casino de Paris to the sound of a train’s squealing brakes.

  ‘Simone!’ my mother’s voice called from downstairs. I jolted upright, my heart thumping in my chest and my back damp with sweat. Bonbon had disappeared. Outside, the sun had set and a blue tinge glimmered in the early evening sky. I must have been asleep for hours.

  I made my way downstairs, towards the sound of plates being set on the table and the scent of rosemary chicken. When I opened the kitchen door the flame in the hurricane lamp made me blink. Uncle Gerome sat at the head of the table. His expression was less contorted than the last time I had seen him, but one of his eyes was still clamped shut and his hair, always salt and pepper, was a shock of white.

  My mother carved the chicken on the bench. Aunt Yvette, who was serving soup into bowls, paused the ladle mid-air and stared at me. ‘Simone, are you all right? You are so pale.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘It’s the heat. I had forgotten what it was like.’

  Bernard poured a glass of wine and held it up to Uncle Gerome’s lips so he could drink. I cleared my throat. ‘Hello,’ I said. I had spent most of my life fearing or hating Uncle Gerome but the sight of his twisted body threw me into confusion. I wanted to cry.

  Uncle Gerome tilted his head. Rivulets of wine dribbled down his chin. His expression was glassy and it was impossible to tell if he had understood me or not.

  ‘Why is his arm in a sling?’ I asked Bernard as I took my place at the table.

  ‘He can’t feel it,’ Bernard said, wiping Uncle Gerome’s chin with a serviette. ‘He forgets sometimes that it is there so we have to bind it to prevent him catching it on something and wrenching it out of its socket.’

  Uncle Gerome emitted a groan then muttered, ‘Pierre?’

  ‘No, it is Simone,’ Bernard corrected him. ‘Your niece.’

  ‘Pierre?’ Uncle Gerome repeated. ‘Pierre?’ He began to sob. The plea in his voice wrenched my insides. I glanced at my mother and Aunt Yvette. They sliced tomatoes and garlic cloves as if nothing were wrong. How could they not be unhinged by that pitiful sound?

  ‘Don’t be upset, Simone,’ Bernard whispered. ‘He is not unhappy. The doctor said it is normal for stroke victims to cry for no reason.’

  I winced. Bernard and I both knew that wasn’t true. We were listening to the sounds of a man buried alive, trapped in the coffin of his body. What Uncle Gerome was suffering was worse than death. He didn’t have the peace of unconsciousness. He was aware of all his regrets; they paraded before him each day and he was impotent to do anything about them.

  My mother and Aunt Yvette served the food. Aunt Yvette spooned the soup into Uncle Gerome’s mouth and he quietened down. After dinner he stared at his hands and didn’t say anything else for the rest of the evening. Bernard tried to lift the mood by asking why I had brought three suitcases from Paris. ‘Did you think we would be going dancing at Zelli’s each evening?’

  I laughed. ‘When we clear the table I will show you what is inside those suitcases.’

  My mother and Aunt Yvette refused to let me help clean up after dinner. But once they were done, I unpacked the gifts I had chosen before leaving Paris. ‘It is the latest thing,’ I said, holding out the black and white packets for my mother and aunt.

  My mother opened the box of perfume and examined the square bottle and the bold print on the label: Chanel No 5. The design was everything that was chic in Paris: sleek, unfussy and modern. She unscrewed the lid and took a sniff of the amber liquid then recoiled. Her nose wrinkled and her eyes watered as if she had smelt an acerbic onion. She sneezed so hard that the empty box flew off the table.

  Aunt Yvette dabbed some of the perfume on her wrist and trailed it past her nostrils. ‘Yes, it is unique, isn’t it?’

  Bernard, with his ability to pull scents apart, was the most appreciative of my choice of fragrance. ‘Neroli and ylang-ylang,’ he said, dabbing some of the fragrance onto the back of his hand. ‘Jasmine and rose.’ He waited a few minutes before sniffing his skin again. ‘Sandalwood, vetiver and vanilla.’

  ‘It contains some synthetics too. They make the fragrance last longer,’ I said.

  I thought of the gifts of single flower perfume Bernard had brought from Grasse over the years, with their ribbed glass bottles, tapered necks and stoppers decorated with porcelain flowers or birds; and also of the herbal sachets and candles my mother anointed with lavender or rosemary oil for special days of the year. Chanel No 5 might be the fashion in Paris but I realised how things that were sophisticated there could be incongruous with the south. Bernard suited the emerald necktie I had bought for him, but the mustard-yellow waistcoat I had given Uncle Gerome was too bright against his muted clothes and made him look like a ghastly clown.

  Aunt Yvette wrapped the kimono I had bought at Galeries Lafayette over her farm dress and served the coffee in it. The crimson silk billowing about her as she moved from the bench to the table gave her the appearance of a harlot pacing the Rue Pigalle. But it was my mother who I managed to make the most foolish. I had spent a week’s wages on the silver fox fur which, despite the heat, she now wore around her neck. Against her tanned complexion and fuzzy hair the accessory lost all its sleekness and looked exactly what it was: a dead animal wrapped around a woman’s throat. My misjudgment showed me how different our lives had become, and it made me sad. Was this the result of going out into the world and carving a life of my own? Since my fathe
r’s death I had felt a new closeness with my mother, but now we were going our separate ways. I wondered if we would even recognise each other in a few years.

  My two weeks in Pays de Sault passed slowly at first, but when the fortnight came to an end I felt as though the time had flown by too quickly. At first, with none of the bustle and distractions of Paris, I had to relearn the habit of doing things slowly and with purpose. Water needed to be fetched from the well each day, vegetables plucked from the garden, distances covered by foot or by bicycle rather than taxi. My body had to get used to the rhythm of farm life again: rising early and going to bed after dark. I helped in the kitchen and with the animals, but whenever I offered to help with the farm work everybody laughed.

  ‘You were bad at it before,’ Bernard said, patting my back. ‘I can’t imagine you have improved at all in Paris.’ Considering his miraculous adaptation to rural life, how could I argue?

  Each day, I visited my father’s grave in the late afternoon. Bonbon came along with me, the only time she would leave my mother’s side. One day, as I was planting some lavender near his tombstone, the words to ‘La bouteille est vide’ drifted into my mind. It was true that the more we got, the more we wanted. If someone had told me that one day I would be wearing department-store clothes instead of homemade hand-me-downs, that I would be living in Paris and making my living by singing, I would have thought that was the grandest life imaginable. Suddenly I found that I wanted more. I wanted haute couture clothes like Camille; I wanted an apartment like François’s; and I didn’t just want to be a singer any more—I wanted to be a star. More: I wanted all of those things on my own terms.

  I decided that I was going to take risks and stand or fall on my own. I would not rely on men as Camille did. André Blanchard’s face came to mind. If I was going to be with a man, it would be because I loved him.

  When the morning came for Bernard to take me back to Carpentras for the return trip to Paris, I realised that my visit had been more than a rest from the demands of my life in the capital. It had allowed me to take a breath before ascending the mountain of success.

  Aunt Yvette and my mother propped Uncle Gerome in a chair near the door so he could watch the drama of me and Bernard running up and down the stairs with my suitcases, and me flying back up to my room for things I had overlooked in my packing. When everything was loaded into the truck, I kissed Uncle Gerome’s cheeks.

  ‘Good,’ he said, fixing his eye on me before lapsing back into his own thoughts.

  Aunt Yvette threw her arm around my shoulder, kissed me and guided me towards the truck. ‘Hurry along,’ she said, ‘or you will miss your train. I don’t want Bernard negotiating that road like a racing driver.’

  I patted Olly, Bonbon and Chocolat in turn. Bonbon looked up at me with guilty eyes; perhaps she sensed that I was lonely in Paris. But Chocolat had adopted her, and my mother adored her, and there was no way I would separate them. I rubbed Bonbon’s ears so she would know that I understood. ‘You are just like Bernard,’ I told her. ‘You have fallen in love with the countryside.’

  Bernard started up the truck. ‘Come on, Simone,’ he said, ‘this is your curtain call.’

  I laughed and kissed my mother. She grabbed my hands in hers and squeezed them. There was soil ingrained in the lines around her knuckles and her skin was rough; they were honest hands, hardened by honest work. The sight of them filled me with love.

  When I arrived back in Paris, Madame Lombard handed me a letter which threw my plans into chaos. My act in the new season’s show at the Casino de Paris had been scrapped. Not because it wasn’t good enough, Monsieur Volterra’s assistant tactfully wrote, but because the show was running overtime and Monsieur Volterra couldn’t cut any of the material belonging to the comedian star, Jacques Noir.

  I collapsed onto my bed. What would I do now? After my spending spree on gifts for my family, I had only two hundred francs left and my rent was due the following week. And I no longer had a slot with the Café des Singes to fall back on.

  The situation was ironic, given the resolution I had made in Pays de Sault. Instead of getting more than I already had, I was about to lose the little I had got. My dreams of becoming a star were further out of reach than ever.

  The next afternoon, Madame Lombard asked me to come downstairs to take a telephone call. It was Monsieur Etienne on the line. He told me to go to the Casino de Paris immediately.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked, keeping my voice low because Madame Lombard was hovering in the reception area, arranging a vase of tulips and fluffing the sofa cushions.

  ‘Miguel Rivarola’s wife walked out on him last night. They have to find another tango partner for him today or he has threatened to return to Buenos Aires.’

  I twisted the telephone cord around my wrist then let it spiral out again. The tango had been popular in Paris ever since Rudolph Valentino had danced it in the film The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and I had seen it performed in cafés and at bals musettes. But there was a huge difference between how couples danced in cafés and at afternoon teas to how Rivarola and his wife performed the tango for an audience. I had seen them dance at the Scala once and been mesmerised by the sensuality of their movements and the power in their limbs. They were two flames burning up the stage.

  ‘Isn’t Rivarola more concerned about finding his wife right now?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ laughed Monsieur Etienne. ‘He is a professional artist. No matter what, he gets on with the show. Don’t forget that it opens in three weeks.’

  Who could match Maria? I thought, smoothing down my collar. The depth of feeling required for tango wasn’t something you could learn in a day. The fact that the Casino was asking me to try was a sign of how desperate Monsieur Volterra was.

  Madame Lombard brushed by me and sat down at the desk, sorting through the day’s mail. I told Monsieur Etienne I would be at the Casino in less than half an hour. I wasn’t going to argue if Monsieur Volterra offered the part to me; I needed the money.

  When I arrived at the Casino de Paris I was piqued to discover that Monsieur Volterra was not only trying me out for the role of Rivarola’s dance partner but the entire chorus line and some other minor female acts as well. The first three rows were filled with women in loose dresses and dancing shoes. Sophie, the lead chorus girl, was sitting next to Monsieur Volterra, a rose clutched between her teeth. I was about to turn around and walk out again when Monsieur Volterra caught sight of me and waved. I smiled back and took a seat. For the sake of smooth relations in the future it would be wiser to stay.

  Rivarola was on stage, trying out a tango figure with one of the chorus girls. He manoeuvred like a stalking cat, painstakingly and deliberately. Suddenly he pounced. ‘No, no, no,’ he muttered, pulling away from his partner and addressing Volterra. ‘Esta chirusa no me sigue!’

  As Rivarola didn’t speak much French and Volterra spoke no Spanish, the remark was translated by the lighting technician who was from Madrid. ‘He says that she doesn’t follow his lead,’ the boy explained.

  ‘But she is lovely,’ protested Monsieur Volterra, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and patting his forehead. ‘Surely that is something she’ll learn if he teaches her. It’s not as if we can just pull another Argentine tango dancer out of a hat for him. And, after all, we do have a contract.’

  There was a moment’s delay while the technician translated for Rivarola. The dancer folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. ‘Esta mina salta como un conejo,’ he growled, shaking his fist towards the flies. ‘Yo quiero una piba que sepa deslizarse como un cisne.’

  The lighting technician shifted from foot to foot and picked at a loose wire around one of the footlights, obviously avoiding translating the last comment.

  Seeing there was no use pursuing that line of argument, Monsieur Volterra sent the chorus girl back to her seat and called up another one, who stepped gingerly onto the stage like a virgin to a sacrifice. ‘No wonder his wife left
him,’ one of the chorus girls near me whispered to another. ‘He is too difficult to please.’

  Although I had resigned myself to the fact that the audition was going to be a waste of time, I was intrigued by Rivarola’s method for trying out potential partners. He started by demonstrating a tango figure for the girl to follow. Once he was sure that she knew the pattern, he would turn and nod to a stagehand waiting in the front wing. The man would lower the gramophone’s needle onto a record and tango music wafted up into the air. Rivarola would then step forward and clasp the girl with his hand tucked into the small of her back and his torso pressed against hers. The embrace was suggestive but there was not a trace of intimacy in Rivarola’s stony face. He stood in that position, not blinking his eyes or twitching a muscle for at least a minute. If the girl squirmed, giggled or shifted her feet, she was dismissed.

  I leaned forward and studied Rivarola. He was in his late forties at least; even though his body was as lithe as that of a boy, his age showed in his face. There were puffy bags under his eyes, and his neck, while firm under the chin, was goose-fleshed. Yet somehow those faults were surpassed by the flicker of his hooded eyes and the curve of his pursed lips. Every turn of his head and bend of his legs oozed sensuality. I began to suspect that his tight embrace was to test whether his partner would be burned by the flame smouldering under his skin or whether she would fuse with it. After what Camille had said about me being so obviously virtuous, I knew I would not be chosen. Yet I was curious to see who would be.

  If his potential partner passed the embrace test, Rivarola performed the tango figure with her, propelling the girl around the stage and frequently changing direction. I noticed that dancers were not discarded for muddling their footwork; Rivarola didn’t seem to be looking for perfection. I was intrigued by the way he guided his various partners—hovering over them, occasionally flinching from them or sniffing the tops of their heads—as if he were choosing flowers at a market by their perfume. But after more than an hour of try-outs, none of the girls pleased him.