He lay low at the bungalow for the next few evenings. He did his sums and worked out that, at forty-four years old, he had been an active soldier for twenty-eight years, which meant he was entitled to a full pension of 2,800 guilders a year – enough to live on, but only in a place where the cost of living was cheaper. This would necessitate another move. He enquired among his fellow officers and was told that he could rent a villa in Sindanglaja, further into the jungle.
All in all, he thought, it was a good decision. Bejoe-Biroe was not the paradise that Medan was, even though the locals called it the City of Light. There was nothing to look at except mountains. He detested the constant chirring of crickets, the invasions of flying ants and termites by day, and the nightly plagues of moths and mosquitoes. The nights were terribly quiet and dark, except at the crossroads, which were lit by dim lanterns. Without his almanac, he had no sense of what day of the week it was, or what date. Yes, he was looking forward to Sindanglaja where, he had been told, the climate was much healthier.
When Gerda returned from the coffee plantation fully recovered, she invited Dr Roelfsema to dinner, to thank him. Gerda wore one of her many brightly coloured sarongs. She adored their exotic colours and had taken to wearing them all the time now. MacLeod changed into his dark-blue dress uniform, which Gerda noticed was beginning to look a little worn.
At the dinner table, Gerda served the doctor some wine while MacLeod drank brandy. They ate roti and sweet potatoes. MacLeod complained about the food. They had a fruit salad dessert and coffee. Roelfsema listened as Gerda told him about Ulingie, where it was drier. Interrupting her, MacLeod mentioned Kitchener’s victory at Omdurman.
‘If we’re not careful in the south, he’ll take over the whole of Africa,’ he said.
‘Have you been back to Europe recently, Dr Roelfsema?’ Gerda asked.
‘Indeed I have. I went to visit my brother in Paris only six months ago.’
‘Paris! How wonderful. What’s it like there?’
‘You’ve never been?’
‘No,’ Gerda said; ‘I’d love to very much.’
‘Well you should. The cafés there are quite the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. And the dancehalls are spectacular as well.’
‘I hope to go there one day,’ Gerda said.
There was a lull in the conversation. Roelfsema said it was getting late and that he ought to drop in on a nearby patient. Gerda noticed it was still early. He rose and thanked them for the meal. MacLeod said nothing. Gerda gave Roelfsema his jacket and said goodnight as he left. MacLeod opened a new bottle of brandy and sat on the sofa with a glassful. He unbuttoned his tunic. Gerda wanted nothing more to do with him and retired.
In bed, she tried to picture the dancehalls and cafés of Paris. She imagined they would be large ornate buildings, with luxurious interiors. Everyone in them would be welldressed – the men in black and white, the women in bright, rich colours. She wondered if she would ever meet that kind of people. She stretched and turned over.
She was woken by the sound of breaking glass. Her bedside clock said it was past two. She lay still, holding her breath to listen. MacLeod was moving around the front rooms, opening and closing drawers. There was a moment of silence, then a crash as something fell to the floor. She heard him mutter. She got up.
In the dining room, MacLeod was standing in front of the dresser with the bottle of brandy in his hand. He was looking for something. The bottle was half-empty and there was a drawer lying on the floor, its cutlery spilled out.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
MacLeod looked around. He staggered a little. ‘Oh, it’s only you,’ he said.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘A glass. The other one broke,’ he said.
‘That was the last one. You’ve broken all the others.’
MacLeod crouched down to hunt through the cupboards. ‘No it wasn’t; there’s another one somewhere.’
Gerda sighed and sat down at the dinner table. ‘No there isn’t,’ she said.
MacLeod stood up abruptly, knocking over a chair. ‘If you want to go to Paris that much, why don’t you just go and leave me alone!’
Gerda froze. He swayed on his feet and glared at her. She was afraid to say anything. He moved towards the bureau and opened a drawer. He seemed to find what he was looking for and studied it for a moment with his back to her. When he turned around, she saw that he had a revolver in his hand. He glared at her again. The gun was shaking slightly in his hand. MacLeod walked round the table and stopped at Gerda’s side. He pointed the revolver at her. Gerda’s heart turned to stone. He touched the end of the barrel against her temple and pressed so hard that her head was forced down on to her shoulder. He leant over and whispered into her ear:
‘If only I could get rid of you, you harridan.’
She couldn’t speak for fear. The muzzle was cold and hard against her skin. It felt terrible.
MacLeod chuckled and walked back to the bureau. He dropped the revolver in the drawer and slammed the drawer shut.
‘I’m going out to find a glass,’ he said as he staggered out of the door. He moved away into the night.
Gerda took several breaths. She was shaking and a cold sweat broke out all over her body. She put her hands on the table and looked up. Her gaze fixed on the dresser, with three or four patterned plates leaning upright on its shelves. Behind them was a mirror. She caught sight of herself, and was surprised at how drawn and aged her reflection appeared, as though the woman looking back had knowledge she couldn’t afford to keep.
5
Amsterdam, 1902
MacLeod was upstairs in the house in Van Breestraat, folding a few shirts, underpants and trousers, which he put into neat piles on the bed. The ceiling was low and he had to stoop. He then cleared out the drawers of his shaving gear, belts, studs and cuff-links. He collected his high boots and dinner shoes from the cupboard and packed everything into a large carpetbag. Packing had always cleared his mind; it gave him patience and purpose.
When he had finished, he checked Gerda wasn’t in the hallway or on the stairs and then went to fetch Non. She was fast asleep in her cot. He gathered her up in his arms and made sure she was wrapped up well. She briefly opened her eyes while he did this, but went back to sleep immediately. He walked down the narrow staircase and placed his bag just inside the reception room, where Gerda couldn’t see it. When he opened the door to the kitchen, Gerda was preparing some fish and vegetables for herself. MacLeod had eaten some olives and canapés at the Café Americain.
MacLeod produced an envelope from inside his jacket. ‘I’m going out to post a letter.’
Gerda placed a saucepan on the stove and ignored him.
‘I thought I might take Non out into the night air, it may do her cold some good,’ he said.
Without looking up, Gerda nodded.
‘Right,’ he said and closed the door. After waiting for a few moments, he said a low farewell, but heard nothing other than the scrape of a chair. He opened the front door and felt the wind whip across his face. It was very dark, but he could make out light on the wet cobbles. He picked up his bag, closed the door softly behind him and, still clutching his daughter, ran to catch the train for Arnhem.
In Het Nieuws van den Dag the next day, there was an announcement in which MacLeod absolved himself of any further responsibility for his estranged wife’s debts or liabilities. The announcement went on to warn all dressmakers, milliners, cordwainers and haberdashers in Amsterdam not to supply his wife with any kind of goods, since he would no longer settle any of her bills.
6
Paris, 1903
A little after two o’clock in the afternoon, a train pulled into Gare de l’Est and shunted to a standstill. Gerda collected her Gladstone bag and stepped down on to the platform. As she walked through the crowds, steam drifted up into the joists of the iron-and-glass roof. It was cold.
She left via the main entrance and walked down rue du Faubo
urg Saint-Martin. The long, tree-lined boulevard was busy with pedestrians. In gaps between the buildings and on large areas of wall space were huge coloured posters. She stopped to look at one advertising the ‘FOLIES BERGÈRE’ and admired the scarlet and salmon-pink dresses the dancers wore on the poster.
Night was beginning to fall. A man was selling newspapers beside an arched entrance. His front teeth were missing. People placed a few coins into his palm and raced off with their papers. Another man with a face as round as a plate stood behind a counter selling oysters, crabs and lobsters. The ice sparkled and melted under three bright lamps. Gerda felt the warmth of the lamps and the coolness of the ice as she passed by.
Two women walked towards her, wearing cream crêpe de Chine dresses and grey astrakhan fur coats. The grey and cream together were exquisite, Gerda thought. Their hats were covered with tangles of white net, their shiny leather shoes were high-heeled and protected by cream duck covers. Gerda looked down in disgust at her own plain merino dress.
When she reached the end of rue du Faubourg Saint-Martin, she checked her map. She felt small and uncertain in such a large city. All the street signs were white with blue writing and soon she found boulevard Saint-Denis. The street lamps, dotted at regular intervals down the wide boulevard, were being lit. Men with ladders worked in pairs, one climbing up to light the lamps, the other holding the ladder steady.
She turned into rue du Faubourg Montmartre and stood under a street light to read a piece of paper she took out of her bag. A friend in Amsterdam had told her about a good, cheap restaurant on this street called Chartier. She checked the numbers of the buildings for number 7. She passed a busy café and a small couturière before seeing the restaurant. The revolving doorway was set back from the street.
Inside, each of the dozens of tables was occupied and she had to share a table with a short stocky man, more interested in his food than in her. His napkin was tucked into his collar. The high ceiling was yellow with nicotine stains. White glass lamps dropped down from the ceiling in clusters. Huge brown-framed mirrors covered most of the walls. She ordered the prix fixe of saucisson sec et beurre followed by rôti de veau, courgettes à la niçoises from the paper menu. When the food arrived, she ate quickly – she hadn’t had a hot meal since leaving Amsterdam the day before. She paid and left the restaurant and continued along rue du Faubourg Montmartre which, according to her map, would lead her to Pigalle.
After MacLeod’s disappearance, she had waited two days before she realised he wasn’t planning on returning. She went to the local courts and asked for a legal separation. The decision, granted three days later by the Amsterdam tribunal, was entirely in her favour: Gerda was to keep Non and MacLeod was to pay her 100 guilders a month in alimony. But when the first payment was due, MacLeod claimed to have no money. She appealed to him in a private letter, but he made it clear that he would not pay her another penny. What could she do? She could take him to court over the matter, but in the meantime she had no means of living. She had no choice but to leave the child in his care while she found work, at least until she could afford a court case. But what kind of work could she get? ‘Go to Pigalle,’ a friend had suggested to her; ‘something will come along.’
Pigalle was busy. Motor cars and commercial vehicles, their sides emblazoned with liveries, crossed the large square and disappeared down side streets. Trolley cars rattled past and a taxi sounded its horn. The pavements were crowded with people, all walking in different directions. Gerda could see dozens of bright windows and illuminated signs for cabarets dansants, bars, cafés and restaurants. They remained etched on her eyelids long after she closed her eyes. Many women stood on their own or in pairs in doorways and on street corners. She stopped and watched them. Men in frock coats and top hats strolled by, eyeing them furtively before passing on.
Gerda was tired after her journey. She had enough money for a few nights at a cheap hotel. From a dark street behind her, she could hear music. She looked down and saw the outline of a man in a doorway turning the handle of a barrel organ. She listened to the refrain, then recognised a tune she’d heard in Amsterdam: ‘Les Fraises et les Framboises’. Amsterdam was already beginning to seem like a world away.
From out of the darkness, a short man came up to her and spoke to her in French. From his intonation, she understood that he’d asked her a question and was waiting for an answer. She looked at him. The man became impatient and rubbed his fingers together in front of her face. When she shook her head, he shouted and pushed past her.
Further down the street, Gerda saw a plaque advertising a hotel called the Régence and decided to try it. She passed by a bar. It was small, with sawdust scattered on the tiled floor. A trio of men stood in one corner playing a violin, accordion and drums. Most of the people inside stood at the zinc counter, drinking beer from wineglasses. A few others were sitting at wooden tables and were served by a waiter carrying three plates of bifteck along his left arm.
The lower window panes of the hotel were dirty and broken, but she was too tired to try anywhere else. The entrance smelled of absinthe and perfume. Behind a worn wooden desk, a fat lady in a silk dressing gown was reading a book. She had the last of a croissant in her hand, which she dunked into a glass of wine and ate.
‘Do you have any rooms?’ Gerda said.
Still reading her book, the lady reached over her shoulder and took one of several keys off its nail.
‘C’est pour un moment?’ she asked.
‘No, for the night.’
The lady looked at her, then behind her. ‘But you’re alone!’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m alone. I’ve just arrived in Paris.’
The lady looked at her again and then chuckled. She put her book down and came out from behind the desk. Her dressing gown rustled as she led Gerda up the stairs, stopping at the mezzanine to show her the toilet. The corridor was dimly lit and the carpet made up of yellow and brown whorls. The lady breathed heavily as she walked, explaining that she was the patronne. She opened a door and peered inside. Over her shoulder, Gerda saw some stockings and shoes on the floor. Among the messed-up bedclothes, someone lay sleeping.
‘Marie?’ the patronne said.
A woman raised her head. She had long dark hair.
‘Oh! Excusez-moi,’ the patronne shrugged and closed the door. She opened the door to the next room and looked in. Satisfied that this room was empty, she motioned to Gerda. The room contained an enormous bed, a clothes-hanger by the door and a Japanese screen that hid a washbasin. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling. Gerda asked how much.
‘Deux francs la nuit.’
Gerda looked around the room again. There were no curtains. Her heart sank a little, but it was cheap. She promised herself that she would only stay a few nights.
‘D’accord,’ she said.
The patronne glanced at her. ‘Are you sure, ma petite?’
Gerda nodded.
The patronne sighed. ‘This room has no key but you can bolt it from inside. I’ll be downstairs if you want me.’ She left, shaking her head.
Gerda bolted the door and opened her bag. She put her clock on the bedside table. She tried the basin: the water was ice-cold. She hung her few clothes on the hanger and looked out of the window. The organ-grinder was still there, playing the same song. It was dark. She lay on the bed and listened to him, wondering when she would be in Amsterdam again.
When she awoke, it was still dark outside. Her clock said it was just before midnight. She got up and looked out of the window. This time the street was full of people. A sign opposite her flashed ‘LE PARADIS’ and she saw two flower sellers standing underneath. A man shouted and then ran past. She heard a woman’s laughter in the hotel corridor and someone tried her door; a man’s low voice and the clinking of glasses. She stood still until the voices departed.
Gerda tried the basin again: the water was piping hot now. She washed, undressed and got into bed. She turned out the light and lay still. The bed was co
mfortable. In the room next to hers, a man and a woman began arguing. They talked too fast for her to understand, but she knew it was over money. Gerda sank deeper into the bed, expecting the man to hit the woman at any moment. It was quiet for a while, then a door banged.
Gerda was very tired, but she couldn’t sleep. All night, doors were opened and slammed shut, people came and went. A bell rang. By early morning, the organ-grinder had left, but a woman repeatedly sang ‘Mon Paris’ by herself for more than an hour. At one point, there was a huge dispute between several women outside the front of the hotel. Gerda heard police whistles. The hotel and street became quiet only when dawn broke. Exhausted, Gerda fell asleep.
*
It was light when she woke again. Her clock said it was after two. She got up and washed. When she had put on her only clean clothes, she tied her hair into a neat chignon and went downstairs. Today she would look for work. The patronne was still at her desk, reading the same book and dressed in the same silk gown. Gerda wondered if she had moved at all.
Two young women were standing in front of the desk, as if waiting for something. One was dressed in a tight, shiny skirt. The other had long blonde hair which was very flat and very straight. So unlike the fashion, Gerda thought. She recognised the perfume from the night before.
‘Bonjour, chérie,’ the blonde woman said.
‘Bonjour,’ Gerda replied.
‘Are you the one who stayed here the whole night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where in heaven’s name have you sprung from?’ she said.
‘Amsterdam,’ Gerda said.
‘What for?’
‘I’ve come to look for work.’
The blonde woman looked slowly down the length of Gerda’s body, taking in the cheap black flannelette skirt and duck jacket. She frowned.
The Red Dancer Page 4