The Girl from the Paradise Ballroom

by Alison Love

  Bernard was not paying attention. He could hear a man’s voice, talking excitably, on the far side of the room. “Hush,” he said, “there’s some news. Listen.”

  The whisper gradually spread through the crowd in the theater foyer. Hitler had invited the prime minister, Neville Chamberlain, for talks in his mountain retreat in Berchtesgaden, and Chamberlain had accepted; he would fly to Bavaria the following day. Little by little the taut elegant faces eased. Nobody dared to raise a glass, but the atmosphere lightened. The word peace began to bubble through the Queen’s Theatre like an underground spring.

  During the second act the audience relaxed, determined to have fun. In the darkness of the auditorium Bernard gazed at the stage: a dinner scene, candlelit, the family reunited while handsome John Gielgud proposed a toast. Bernard’s own family had never been like that. Nevertheless he felt a joyous nostalgia, a sense of rightness, as though this was something to which they could all belong. Impulsively he reached for Olivia’s hand.

  “I love you, my darling,” he murmured. “You mustn’t doubt that. You’re my wife, I’ll take care of you. Everything will be all right, I promise.”

  Olivia turned to him in astonishment, but he had looked away once more, smiling as he watched the golden stage lights bathe the perfect image before him.

  The relief of the Munich Agreement did not last. In March 1939 Hitler, without argument, claimed the rest of Czechoslovakia; his lust for territory had not, it seemed, been satisfied. Half incredulous, half fatalistic, London prepared for war. The trenches in Hyde Park, crumbling and waterlogged, had been abandoned; now there was talk of building air raid shelters in back gardens, and shoring up church crypts to withstand the force of German bombs.

  “I might volunteer as an air raid warden,” Dickie said, standing at the window of his flat in Chelsea. In the distance you could see the silver barrage balloons, nicknamed Flossie and Blossom, that had been launched to prevent German planes flying low across the city. “I’m sure the most ghastly thing about an air raid will be the boredom. Better by far to have something to do. Don’t you think, Bernard?”

  Bernard poured himself some whisky. He was feeling disconsolate. That morning his chosen publisher—an urbane, clubbable man, whom Bernard had always considered a friend—had turned down his novel, gracefully but emphatically. Bernard did not lack talent, he said, but perhaps fiction was not the best way for him to express it. He should stick to journalism, where he was having some success. Then he had hinted that if Bernard really wished to see the book in print he might do it at his own expense, a remark Bernard considered nothing short of an insult.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’ve had a marvelous idea.” Dickie crossed toward the sofa, gently straightening one or two of his framed photographs as he did so. “It’s Olivia’s birthday in May. Why don’t we throw a costume ball in her honor? We can hold it at Bedford Square, there’s more space than I have here. The weather may even be fine enough to use the garden.”

  “Oh,” said Bernard, “yes. Why not?”

  Bernard was glad that he had not told Olivia about his meeting with the publisher. She would have asked him about it when he got home, confident, as he had been confident, of success. Bernard could not bear his humiliations to be witnessed, especially by those close to him. He preferred to drag them into a corner, as a dog drags a bone, and chew over them until he could make them acceptable to himself.

  “I’ll design it, of course,” Dickie went on, blithely. “And we can ask Herr Fischer to write a song for her. Antonio can sing it. Perhaps it will lift Herr Fischer’s spirits, to hear his own work in public once more.”

  Bernard drank some of his whisky. “I’m not sure that anything can lift Konrad’s spirits. I took him to see The Bartered Bride at Covent Garden last week, thinking it might cheer him up, but it was no good. They put on the performance especially, to show solidarity with the Czechs. Of course, it didn’t help that they sang it in German.”

  “Ha,” said Dickie, “we do that in this country. We have the best intentions but somehow we fail in the execution. Well, Olivia will be thrilled, anyway. I don’t suppose anyone has given a party in her honor before.”

  “No,” said Bernard, “I don’t suppose they have.” He looked at his uncle, who was affectionately contemplating Olivia’s photograph. The picture had been taken on their honeymoon; in the background you could see the potted palms of the green and ivory ballroom.

  “You don’t sound enthusiastic, Bernard,” said Dickie.

  “Oh…” Bernard stretched out his hands in a vague dismissive gesture. A curious thing had happened in the past months. He had ceased to desire his wife. As the weeks went by and still Olivia did not conceive, making love had become a means to an end, not a pleasure at all. Bernard had expected this feeling to pass, but it had not passed; if anything, it had become more acute. He could not help thinking that this was somehow Olivia’s fault. Other women, surely, managed the transition from mistress to wife to mother without quenching their husbands’ sexual appetites. What flaw was there in Olivia—in her nature, in her background—that prevented her from doing it?

  Aloud he said: “You don’t think that it’s tempting fate, to have a party? Fiddling while Rome burns?”

  Dickie shook his head. “No, Bernie, no. Life must go on. Another gaudy night, and all that.” He set down Olivia’s photograph, positioning it with care. “Besides, war is not inevitable, even now. With luck it will not happen; or at least, not in my lifetime.”

  —

  In the tiny backstage dressing room at the Golden Slipper, Antonio was waiting for his second performance of the evening. While he waited he studied the song Herr Fischer had written for Olivia’s birthday. The text, chosen by Dickie, was from Romeo and Juliet, and the first line was a tongue-twister: Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright. Antonio mouthed the words silently, trying to get the phrasing right.

  The night before he and Danila had had a quarrel, hissing at each other in the darkness of their bedroom. Ever since the incident with the gas masks Danila had turned against their life in Britain; or perhaps, thought Antonio, she had always been against it, but now she felt justified in saying so. She talked endlessly about returning to Italy. It was unfair to their son to grow up in exile, not hearing his own beautiful language in the streets. Besides, if there was a war Hitler would bomb London to smithereens. They would be much safer in Italy, the duce’s regime would protect them, there would be no bombs, no poison gas in Lazio.

  Antonio tried to answer her calmly. That winter Enrico had been ill again, and someone had to share the burden of running the kiosk. Besides, he was earning good money from his singing now. It would be folly to jeopardize his promising career, and for what? He would be lucky to find work of any kind in Lazio, never mind work that paid so well. As usual the moment he disagreed with her Danila began to cry, her sweet kitten’s face contorted with distress. You care more about your singing than you do about me, she said. If you loved me, if you loved our child, you would take us home to Italy.

  The bitterness in her voice haunted Antonio. To blot it out he concentrated upon Herr Fischer’s score. My best work, the Austrian had said, eyeing the manuscript on Bernard’s glossy black piano. A man from the BBC whom Dickie knew was coming to the party to hear it. He will adore it, Dickie had said, lavishly waving his jade cigarette holder. It could be the most marvelous opportunity for you both.

  There was a knock on the dressing room door. Antonio thought it must be the call boy summoning him onstage, but when the door opened he saw that it was Bernard’s friend Iris. Over the winter she had drifted out of view, but lately she had begun to visit the Golden Slipper once more. She would sit at a table close to the stage, watching intently as he sang. It stirred Antonio’s vanity in spite of himself: a society beauty, making eyes at him. That would never happen to me working in the fields in Lazio, he thought.

  “Hallo there,” Iris said. “I came to say, don’t rush off
when you’ve finished. My escort tonight has got pots of money. If you come over to our table I’m sure I can persuade him to hire you for one of his parties.”

  Antonio rose to greet her. The room was so small that when he stood he was almost touching her. She wore a flimsy yellow dress with a halter neck that revealed small round breasts. “Thank you, Iris,” he said. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Are you learning a new song?” Inquisitively she leaned over his shoulder to peer at the score upon the dressing table. “Oh, dear. Shakespeare. Very highbrow. You’re not going to sing it here, are you?”

  “No, it’s for the party Mr. Rodway’s giving next month. My teacher, Herr Fischer, wrote the music.”

  Iris straightened up. Her face was suddenly level with his. She had a wide-eyed expression, not bold now, but unguarded.

  “Antonio…,” she breathed.

  It seemed oddly natural to kiss her. Her mouth tasted of crème de menthe, her hair smelled of vanilla. I could have her if I wanted, thought Antonio. I could have her here, now. The violence of the thought shocked him and he pulled away.

  “No, Iris. We mustn’t—”

  “Is it because of Bernard’s wife?” Iris demanded. “I’ve always thought you liked her.”

  “What? No. It’s got nothing to do with Olivia.”

  “Olivia, eh?” said Iris, exaggerating the name. “That sounds very chummy. Have I stumbled on a secret passion?”

  “Of course not,” said Antonio. He did not want to talk about Olivia. There was something too private, too complicated, about his knowledge of her. “I’m a married man, remember, Iris.”

  “I know,” said Iris, “but it’s an arranged marriage, isn’t it? You don’t actually love her.”

  “Of course I love her, she’s my wife, she’s the mother of my child.” The words tumbled out like a catechism, unquestioned. “That was a mistake, Iris, I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “I wanted you to kiss me.” Iris fixed her filmy blue eyes upon him. At that moment there was a rap on the door, and the call boy put his head into the room.

  “Five minutes, Mr. Trombetta.”

  Iris pulled a rueful face. “Saved by the bell,” she said, and she began to rearrange her neckline, pulling up her shoulder straps, tidying her breasts. “I’m glad that you’re not having an affair with Bernard’s wife, anyway. She can’t stand me. Bernard wanted to invite me to this party of his, but she wouldn’t let him.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Antonio said.

  “Oh, I don’t care. There are plenty of women in London who don’t like me. It’s never stopped me from doing what I want.” Iris glanced down at his lap, a glint of satisfaction on her face. “You might want to wait awhile before you go and sing in public.”

  Antonio felt his cheeks redden. He had not realized that his state of arousal was so obvious. He thought fleetingly of Olivia and then, with a pang of guilt, of Danila.

  “Well,” said Iris, “it’s nice to know you’re not entirely immune to my charms.” From the doorway she blew him a kiss. “Just you remember what dear stuffy old Bernard said. Once I pounce you’re done for.”

  When she had gone Antonio sank into the dressing room chair once more. I could have her, he thought again, coolly this time. It would be very discreet, nobody need find out. My brother, Valentino, would do it without a backward glance. He felt a frisson of disgust. I am not like my brother, I could not sleep with a woman I do not love. He pictured Danila, the tender curve of her neck, her pretty peony mouth, the softness of her thighs as he entered her. Perhaps she will be sorry that we argued, he thought, perhaps she will be eager to make up. Sometimes a quarrel can clear the air. Tonight, when I go home, I will talk to her. Tonight I will woo my wife, and together we can make a new start.

  On the evening of her birthday party Olivia sat before the glass examining her face for signs of age. She had the sense that thousands of women had done this over the years, and thousands would do it in the future, tracing the creased circlets about their necks, eyeing the first silver threads at their temples. She felt a flicker of pity for those vain battalions of women. Beauty is our currency, she thought, how would we—how will we—live without it?

  The costume she was wearing had been designed by Dickie. It was green, to give her the air of a mermaid, with a fishtail hem and a slit skirt so that she could dance. Dickie loved watching Olivia dance; he said that it reminded him of Katya. Downstairs, the Bedford Square house and garden had been transformed. The hallway had been hung with swathes of colored silk, like a caliph’s tent, while outside there were red and gold Chinese lanterns swaying upon the trees. They could be glimpsed through the windows, as though out of doors the tales of the Arabian nights were slowly, enticingly unfolding. Olivia could hear the musicians tuning their instruments, jagged runs and swells rising up the stairs. And there is a surprise, Dickie had said. No, I won’t tell you. It’s a secret.

  Olivia reached for her vast powder puff. She looked paler than ever tonight, her skin white and luminous. And it is two months, one week and four days, she thought, since my husband last made love to me.

  In the beginning Olivia had not noticed Bernard’s waning enthusiasm for sex. She was too worried about her own body, waiting to see if this month she would bleed. Little by little, though, she realized that her husband had altered. When he made love to her he went about it briskly, no longer kissing her breasts or running his tongue along her thigh, no longer gasping I love you as he reached orgasm. Then he began to avoid her. He would stay out late, not returning until one, two in the morning when he could be sure that she was asleep. Even when he was at home he would sit till midnight reading or preparing papers for one of his committees, frowning by lamplight over his desk. You go to bed, my darling, he would say, when Olivia knocked on the door. I’ll be with you in a minute or two. Ten minutes at the most.

  Olivia touched one of the silver hairs at her temple. It seemed coarser than the rest, as though it had achieved strength by sacrificing color. She knew she ought to speak to Bernard but she had no idea how to do it. When she tried, her mind went blank, and underneath that blankness was a terrible fear. What would she find, if she lifted the stone slab of Bernard’s indifference?

  Just as she thought this the door opened and Bernard came in. Dickie had designed his costume too: Neptune, to accompany Olivia’s mermaid. He wore a pair of wide Turkish trousers, which like Olivia’s were encrusted with sequins to resemble fish scales, and a loose robe of green gauze. It revealed half his chest, his hair fair and curling like the golden fleece. On his head there was a verdigris coronet, in which he looked handsome but sheepish.

  “I’ve left my trident on the landing,” he said, with a smile. “We should go downstairs. People have started arriving. Dickie and my mother are holding the fort.”

  Olivia sprayed perfume along the arc of her throat. It was a spicy, rather masculine perfume that Dickie had helped her to choose. Bernard had never told her whether he liked it or not.

  “Your mother’s here already, then?”

  “Yes. I asked her to come early, in case we needed her to play hostess.” Bernard watched as she rose from the brocaded stool. “You look beautiful.”

  “It isn’t very comfortable,” said Olivia. “And I’m cold.”

  “Well, pride must suffer pain. You’ll soon get warm downstairs.” Bernard hitched up his green gauze robe and took her hand. “Besides, it’s authentic. Mermaids are meant to be cold-blooded, aren’t they? That’s why they find it so easy to lure men to their doom.”

  “Just as I lured you,” said Olivia. She said it teasingly, before she could stop herself. Bernard did not hear, though, or else he decided to take no notice of the remark, because he turned his head aside, tucked her arm beneath his and led her toward the stairs.

  —

  In the drawing room Dickie was holding court. He had dressed himself as a Persian caliph, in a grandiose outfit filched from an ancient production of James
Elroy Flecker’s Hassan. It smelled strongly of mothballs when you got close to him. On the mosaic table before him was a hookah, the water bubbling as he drew upon the pipe. The costumes of the party guests were less coherent. Some wore Harlequin and Columbine outfits, others Venetian masks. Most of the women had made a token gesture to the party’s theme, with marabou on their frocks or silken turbans wound about their heads, but several of the men had made no effort at all, and wore their accustomed evening dress, or rumpled corduroys. Beside the piano a cluster of musicians was playing “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

  “Perfect,” said Dickie, when he saw Olivia and Bernard. Bernard had collected his trident—verdigris like his coronet, wound with a green satin ribbon to resemble seaweed—and was brandishing it with his free hand. “Who says that the things you imagine cannot be achieved? I am not disappointed in you at all.”

  “What is my surprise?” Olivia said. “I’m longing to know.”

  Dickie patted her cold hand fondly. “Possess your soul in patience, my sweet. It won’t be much longer. Bernard, come and talk to Charles Connor. My friend from the BBC.”

  Olivia, left alone, looked around the room. It might have been her party, but she scarcely knew anybody, and those she did know she did not much like. She had a sudden desire to see Jeanie strut through the door, with her cheap scent and her crimped hair, flagrantly eyeing up the men. That would rattle them, thought Olivia with bleak glee. A photographer was prowling the room, his flashbulbs popping at unexpected moments. In the corner she could see Konrad Fischer in eighteenth-century knee breeches, talking to a man from one of Bernard’s refugee associations. Beside him Penelope Rodway was pirouetting happily, a cigarette in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other. She wore a gold lamé gown that revealed her crumpled cleavage. She was supposed to be Cleopatra, but she had turned up her nose at the heavy horsehair wig Dickie had provided. Don’t be ridiculous, she had said, I’m not going to put on that smelly old thing. Not when I’ve spent a fortune at the hairdresser’s.