by Yvonne Fein
Swimming had begun. Of all the nationalities, only Israeli Galit joined the Australians in this endeavour. Everyone else opted for tennis. So that meant our little group comprised me, naturally, Iris from Pyrmont, Belinda from Adelaide, and Annie, of course, my friend from home. Annie had taken up with an entirely other clique in Lac d’Or so that we passed each other by and smiled at one another in the corridors, or occasionally shared a cup of tea in one of our rooms. Annie was a talented linguist and studied advanced French and German as well as the optional Italian. How I envied her skill, not least because I occasionally came across her and Carla chattering away in Carla’s mother-tongue.
It’s a cliché, but the Aussies were all proficient swimmers. Galit never had a hope of keeping up with us. We amiably ignored her presence in the pool, rather to the distress of our mild-mannered coach, and raced each other with a sort of wild energy.
‘Do you remember Mr Crooke, Katie?’ Annie asked me late one afternoon as the five of us sat drying off on the lawns surrounding the pool.
‘Meanest coach in the world. He threw me in at the deep end when I was very little and told me to follow the bubbles to the top.’
‘He did it to all of us,’ Annie said. ‘He knew what he was doing.’
Iris looked appalled.
In spite of Crooke, or more possibly because of him, we became fleet, fluid swimmers well before the ages of ten, Annie, Vivienne and I. It was a gift our parents gave us. From their New Australian vantage point they also understood that not only did literacy bring great freedom—we could pilot our way through the fattest books in any library—but also, that swimming was a significant step towards survival, (an ever-present leitmotif in the drama of their lives). It was also our way of becoming authentic citizens. Bronzed life-savers, Olympic swimmers, surfers with blond dreadlocks and zinc on their noses, this was a culture strange to them, but they offered it to us. To be properly Australian and fearless—which amounted to the same thing in their eyes—we learned to swim, cycle and ski. And it made them at once proud and disbelieving when they saw the children they had produced.
My father once told me that when he had studied mediaeval Jewish law he learned that it required parents to instruct their offspring in a trade, in the Torah, and how to swim—this last no metaphor for survival but a strict injunction. Thus, I came to understand so many years after the fact, that teaching us to swim, especially for my father, was an old, old idea. Unless there were two or more of us, we were not allowed into town without a chaperone. The rationale was that, by ourselves, we might be tempted into unsavoury behaviours, whatever that meant. It always struck me as laughable: within a group we were far more likely to goad each another into finding ways to transgress than a solitary jeune dame might manage on her own; but it didn’t really matter. Carla, Ivory and I were always a threesome so were never in need of supervision.
I was not the wealthiest pupil at Lac d’Or by a long stretch, but I probably did have a great deal more disposable income than most. My parents were generous like that and they trusted me, not something I always deserved. Generally, I put most of the allowance in the bank because I only used it on our excursions into town or on my monthly trips to Zürich.
On our outings we would always buy Maria-Elena little gifts: a Spanish novel she asked for from the foreign language bookstore; chocolate; little posies of fresh alpine flowers; and once, I even bought her a garnet ring. It was in the window of the town’s only jewellery store. I saw it sitting on black velvet, silver filigree edging its way around a scarlet stone, pure and beautiful. I knew at once it was hers.
‘I could never afford that,’ said Carla, her tone wistful. She would like to have given it to Maria-Elena herself, but her father scrutinised every franc she spent.
Maria-Elena shook her head when she saw it, as though she could never accept it; but then she took it and I never saw her without it after that.
And then there was something very wrong with Maria-Elena; we all noticed it.
‘I can’t stand it, anymore,’ she said softly in the fumoir one night.
It was nine o’clock and we still had an hour before we had to go to bed. Except for Kristjana, the four of us were alone. For some reason—to do with that Icelandic girl’s steadiness, I suppose—Maria-Elena had entrusted her with the story. Such was Kristjana’s temperament that it was always all right to have her around.
‘I’m going mad stuck inside, stuck in here,’ Maria-Elena said. ‘They can’t possibly think it’s all right to do this to me.’
Kristjana looked grim. I thought Carla and Ivory might cry.
‘We’ve got to get her out,’ I said.
Kristjana nodded. Carla and Ivory looked at me as though I had lost my senses.
‘I have an idea,’ I said and went to the phone booth where we were actually allowed to speak in private to whomever we wanted.
‘Tommy?’
I heard his warm laughter through the wires. ‘Thought you’d never call.’
‘I need your help,’ I said.
‘You’re away from home for five months and you’re already pregnant?’
‘Now how would you know that?’
‘Seriously?’
‘No, you idiot.’
‘Still guarding your virginity, I see.’
‘Not guarding so much as looking after it.’
‘So, can I have it?’
‘No.’
Which was the wrong call in so many ways, but I couldn’t have known it then.
‘So, why’d you ring?’ he asked.
I explained Maria-Elena’s situation to him. When I was finished he was silent a long time.
‘What can I do to help?’ he said at last.
‘I want to get her out. I want her to go to your next party.’
‘Okay, so we’re talking logistics,’ he said. ‘I’m your man.’
Over the next half hour, we planned the expedition down to its most minute singularity.
‘You’ll need to pay off the guard at the gate,’ said Tommy.
‘I’ll need to what?’
‘I can take care of it if money’s the issue.’
‘Of course, money’s not the bloody issue, but I’ve never had to do anything like that before. What if he won’t take it? I’m sure he won’t take it.’
‘Yes, he will,’ said Tommy, ‘especially if you offer him the same again when you come back’.
‘All right,’ but I shivered as I said it.
‘And what about this Maria-Elena? You sure she’s game?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t told her yet.’
‘Houston, we have a problem.’
‘No, we don’t, Tommy. Even if she doesn’t realise it, she’s dying to get out.’
‘She does realise it. You told me she realises it. That’s not the same as having the nerve to do it.’
‘Leave it to me,’ I said. ‘When I explain what we’ve just worked out, she won’t be able to refuse. Trust me.’
I could almost see him shaking his head.
‘If we’re on, call me by tomorrow night and I’ll get things moving,’ he said. ‘If I don’t hear from you…’ He let the sentence dangle and hung up.
And so it was that Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan went on their adventure…
I had told the girls that Tommy and I had a plan; that we were all going to a party on Saturday night and the only thing they had to worry about was what they were going to wear. They begged me for details but I refused. Tommy believed in the old Benjamin Franklin adage: ‘Three can keep a secret only if two of them are dead’. So, it was a measure of how desperate they were to engage in this escapade that they agreed to leave all details to me.
On Saturdays and Sundays, meals in the dining room were voluntary as any number of girls might be away. Very early, on the evening in ques
tion therefore, we were able to gather in Carla and Kristjana’s room. The most level-headed of us all, Kristjana, was happy to help but had no desire to sign up to our little escapade.
And so it began.
Maria-Elena was more slender than I, so I gave her one of my slinkiest dresses which had become a little tight for me. Too much of the schnitzel with noodles. When she slipped into it, it seemed as though Mlle Faucheux had taken her into the Couture classroom’s fitting room and tailored it precisely to her form.
‘I don’t want to be a Grinch,’ said Carla, ‘but anyone who sees that hair of hers will recognise her’.
‘I could tie it up.’
‘Or back,’ said Ivory.
Carla shook her head. ‘Not good enough. There’s just so much of it.’
‘Give me a minute,’ I said.
I returned from delving into the drama room’s costume box with a white-gold wig cut in a medium-length bob. Kristjana twisted Maria-Elena’s long, soft hair into a knot just above her neck and then fitted the wig securely to her head. We all laughed with delight when we saw it.
Next came makeup and perfume. I had always known Maria-Elena was beautiful but when I saw her dark eyes outlined with kohl and her lips drawn to match the colour of her garnets I actually balked. For the first time I asked myself what I was doing, risking her life like that; and as though she knew what I was thinking, she reached out and took my hand.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘This is the first time I’ve felt really alive since they took her.’
Kristjana was the advance guard. The corridors were weekend-quiet as she led us to the common room: it was the only room whose balcony had outside steps leading to the garden. At the room’s entrance she held up her hand. The movement had something stiff and urgent about it so we skidded to a halt.
‘It’s Iris,’ Kristjana hissed. ‘Only her, but she’s reading something very thick. What if she wants to finish it?’
‘We’re shot,’ whispered Maria-Elena. I thought she might cry.
‘If she sees you all dressed up, she’ll know something’s up’ said Kristjana. ‘Hide behind the double doors.’
We had no idea what was to come next, but we watched breathlessly as Kristjana strode into the room.
‘There you are, Iris. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
Iris looked up from her book in astonishment. ‘Me? Why?’
‘Never mind why. What have you done?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Mme Mirielle wants you. And she’s seething.’
‘But I haven’t done anything,’ wailed Iris.
‘I’m just the messenger. You better go and find her.’
Iris fled and we surrounded Kristjana in gratitude and glee.
‘What will you do when Madame confronts you?’ asked Ivory.
‘Deny everything,’ she said with a shrug before leading us down the balcony stairs.
Fog had descended, but of course Ivory knew exactly where we had to go. In our stilettos, we dashed as fast as we could towards the high gates.
‘This is where I leave you,’ said Kristjana. She gave Maria-Elena a gentle hug and stroked her new white-blond hair.
‘Take good care of her,’ she said to me and I knew she was holding me responsible. Then she turned and disappeared back into the mist.
Inside a little alcove, protected from the cold, sat Monsieur Geroux, one of the security guards.
‘And what might you all be doing here?’ he asked us, smiling. ‘I have not been given word that I am to open the gates to you. I see there is a limousine out there with diplomatic plates. Is it in any way connected to your–—?’
‘Yes, yes, it is,’ said Carla, sounding a little too desperate.
‘Then why haven’t I been told?’
‘Perhaps, Monsieur Geroux, I could show you the papers which have our permission written on them,’ I said.
‘Most certainly, Mademoiselle. I would like to see those.’
From my pocket I withdrew a sizeable wad of notes and showed them to him. His eyes widened. Before he could say anything, I told him, ‘I will show you more papers like these when you let us back in later tonight.’
He opened the gates only a little and the others slipped swiftly between their wrought-iron stripes.
‘How long will you be?’ he asked.
‘A few hours. I’m not sure.’
‘I may not still be on duty,’ he said.
‘Then do a deal with the next guard. Tell him you need to do a double shift. Make up a reason. And tell him that you’ll make it worth his while. I’ll pay you ten per cent more if you manage it.’
I had been coached well. Every word I had said to Monsieur Geroux had come from Tommy’s instructions, but still I was shaking.
A chauffeur opened the door for us. I sat between Tommy and Maria-Elena. Carla and Ivory faced us. Tommy poured champagne and we toasted our adventure.
‘You know you’re all mad,’ he said, once he had been introduced to the others.
‘Well, you organised most of it,’ I said, ‘which means you must be mad, too.’
Carla had picked flowers for my hair. Kristjana had woven a garland of white bellflowers and fragrant tuberoses through it. When we arrived, Tommy saw me properly in the room’s bright lights.
‘That’s pretty nice,’ he said, before introducing us to his friends. It didn’t take long for Maria-Elena, Carla and Ivory to be asked to dance. I stood close to Tommy, our arms touching as we leaned into one another. Between us there was a buzz, a sort of continuous humming sound.
Tommy grinned at me. ‘Do we need to find a room?’
I frowned. ‘What we need is to keep an eye on my friends, especially Maria-Elena.’
She danced with a wild intensity, at once graceful yet fierce. She pitched months of loneliness, isolation and confinement into her movements. Every so often she would look around, find me and smile. Sometimes she waved. I saw Carla and Ivory drinking too many glasses of champagne but I wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. The entire room seemed to have been overcome by a spirit of abandon. Very Gatsby.
I drank champagne, too. It made me a little light-headed and at risk of laughing too often. Still, everyone else was laughing and dancing and drinking too, so I did not stand out, but I could feel the bubbles fizzing in my brain. I noticed Tommy looking at me.
‘What?’
‘Those flowers in your hair, you look like Juliet.’
‘Bit tragic for my liking,’ I said. ‘I’d want us to have a happier ending.’
‘Us?’
It was the champagne.
He was about to say something when I took his arm and said, ‘Let’s dance. We don’t need to talk. We know what we mean.’
‘Always have,’ said Tommy.
‘Always have,’ I agreed.
The hours glided by until Tommy said it was time to leave. Carla and Ivory were unsteady on their feet, needing Tommy to support them on our way to the limousine. As we were driven back, the two of them slept while, in the dark along the highway, street lights flashed past us. Maria-Elena leaned on my shoulder.
‘This will last me awhile,’ she said and fell asleep too.
‘You did a good thing,’ said Tommy.
‘Couldn’t have done it without you.’
Again, that exchange of energy. I thought he might kiss me, but somehow the moment passed.
When we arrived, Tommy told his chauffeur to wait. I paid Monsieur Geroux as promised and he agreed to open the gates once more for Tommy when he returned.
Kristjana was standing by for us, cold, impatient and nervous. She dragged Ivory from the car and Tommy took Carla. Maria-Elena was awake again and together we floated back to the balcony stairs with Tommy accompanying us as far as the outside doors to the co
mmon room. When we took Carla from him he smiled and raised his hand in farewell. As I watched him go, I wondered when I would see him again. In a week he would be going to the Sorbonne for a two-month Intensif exchange programme, and at the end of term I would be on my way as a volunteer on a kibbutz in Israel for six months. Both following our dreams, I suppose, but all at once, it didn’t feel quite as breathtaking as it had just a few weeks ago.
For all that, in the odd moments when I thought back to that night, I would wonder if there might not indeed be a God, the benign sort, the sort Who watched over dreamers and fools so that even if they stumbled, they did not fall.
JUNE 1972
And so, it was over. But a week before the final hour, we had a riotous farewell party, the eighteen-year-olds permitted a single glass of champagne, the younger minions non-alcoholic cider. The music was loud, but the teachers were in good spirits and tolerated it.
We girls danced together in twos and fours and even in circles as though Heidi had taken possession of us, spiriting us away to some alpine festival. Of course, Carla, Ivory, Maria-Elena and I danced together. When the slow rhythms of Norwegian Wood drifted over us, we held one another close and swayed in time to the music.
As the sun set, I watched it highlight all les jeunes dames as we danced and sang, but in particular my friends, casting them in the lake’s gold, imprinting them on my mind’s eye.
Much later that night, the four of us stole into the fumoir and opened a bottle that Ivory had bought. It was a very old, very good single malt whisky. Carla handed around cigars and we all got quietly drunk, giggling at first as though everything we said was extraordinarily droll. Then we became maudlin and swore eternal allegiance to one another.
All for one, one for all…
And once again we were not caught. God?