‘You like this?’ Harry asked.
‘I like very much, but what is it?’
‘Jazz.’
‘How?’
‘J-a-z-z.’
‘Tell me about it?’
Harry found himself describing the origins of jazz among African-Americans; Dixieland, the Mississippi, the roaring twenties after which Odette’s dress was modelled. She listened, riveted, apparently incredulous. Happy to have such an attentive audience, he kept talking, and the more he talked, the more she soaked in the information, like some exotic variety of deep-sea sponge.
After another glass of punch she wanted to dance, and a 1940s-style big band was starting up in the main hall. Harry glanced around at other women, who wore long, sequinned gowns, short black shift dresses, or designer numbers with odd tufty skirts and overexposed shoulders.
‘You’re the best-looking girl here and the best dressed too,’ he told Odette.
‘Dress is gift from Mitzi.’ She beamed at him, holding up her arms in ballroom posture.
‘Where did you learn to dance?’ He was intrigued by the old-fashioned but expert way she moved.
‘I have lessons as child. I learn waltz, mazurka, polka, polonaise. I love polonaise. We dance polonaise tonight, perhaps?’
‘Er, we’ll see… You haven’t danced like this before, then?’
‘This?’ Odette laughed, he thought a trifle contemptuously. ‘This is too easy. Nobody does steps, they only jump here and there. No skill.’
‘Well, some of us have two left feet.’ Harry experimented, holding up one arm; Odette twirled beneath it, back and forth. ‘You’re a gorgeous dancer,’ he said, both hands settling on her slender waist.
The first number finished and the band struck up ‘A String of Pearls’. Odette wanted to keep on dancing; and so she did, Harry discovered, at the end of every number. His brow was turning sweaty. He longed for some ventilation, despite it being December. You’d have thought this girl hadn’t had a dance for decades. Obliging her, he was out of puff and much in need of a drink by the time the Cygnford Swing Orchestra finally dismantled itself. He thought some of the players, whom he knew from drama productions, were watching him and laughing. Odette, tapping her feet as she hummed the last tune, looked at him and laughed too.
‘Some girls might’ve flaked out after all that. You’re fit as a fiddle, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Yes, oh yes! We dance more?’
‘Later. Let’s see what else is on. Another drink now, da?’
‘Hal.’ Chris’s sand-coloured hair and red-framed glasses appeared; he was fighting his way upstream against the torrent of departing dancers. ‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘Chris, say hello to Odette. Odette, this is Chris, my housemate. He’s a musician and he’s playing the piano later. He fixed us the ticket – for which thanks upon more thanks, mate!’
‘So you’re the amazing Odette.’ Chris looked approvingly down through his spectacles.
She smiled back. Why did they need a ticket to go to a ball? They used to be by invitation.
‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Chris was saying.
‘Things good?’ Odette beamed.
‘Er, just a bit. You’re Russian? Ochin priatna!’
Odette, delighted, echoed the greeting.
‘When are you on?’ Harry asked.
‘Over breakfast. So we’ve got the whole night to not get pissed, just great… And I’m doing my solo at midnight – Gershwin, Porter and stuff, plus some bits and pieces of my own.’
‘We’ll be there. Where’ve they put you?’
‘Quiet, boring room where no one goes. See ya later.’ Chris vanished among the milling guests in the corridor. Just then, Harry saw Odette’s expression take on an even more puzzled look and as he was about to turn to see why, his vision was blotted out.
‘Guess who!’
A pair of female hands had clamped over his eyes.
‘Mademoiselle Olivia! I didn’t know you were coming!’
‘Oh, Daddy bought tickets for us all.’
The red-haired actress-student Caroline, who was to play Olivia in Twelfth Night, was dressed in a brief, sea-green, silky number that showed more flesh than it hid. Now she was interposing these bared limbs in all their sparkle-lotioned glory between him and Odette. Harry liked redheads. His gaze snapped onto her cleavage, familiar after a few occasions in the past year when they’d had a few drinks together and got a little too close.
‘Thought I told you Olivia wasn’t quite the part, darling.’ He rubbed her bare back and smacked a large kiss on her cheek. ‘For Olivia you need to be a little, well… less, um, is more. This is my girlfriend, Odette – she’s Russian. Odette, say hi to Caroline.’
‘How lovely to meet you.’ Caroline forced the corners of her mouth upwards. ‘Darling, I must fly, I’ve left Roddy to the tender mercies of some unspeakable harridan…’ And she whirled away as fast as she’d appeared.
Odette glared after her. Harry put an arm around her and felt her tense, presumably with anger. ‘What’s up?’
‘Who is she?’
‘We act together. She’s in Twelfth Night. Performing Arts student, third year… Odette, what is it? D’you seriously mean you don’t like me talking to other girls at all if I’m out with you?’
‘But – is not talking. Is—’ She searched for words and resorted to gesturing the stroking of an unclad back, and kissing.
‘The English word is flirting, darling. Caroline’s just my pal. Don’t you ever – I guess you don’t…’
‘You love her?’
‘Love her? I love everyone.’
‘What you mean?’
‘Odette, it’s midnight. Let’s go and hear Chris.’
Odette followed him along the corridor back towards the jazz room, where Chris was hauling a protective cover off a baby grand piano. A few couples in small groups were sitting around the low tables, many drinking coffee in tiny white cups. By some miracle, the window seat was still free. Chris waved to them as they settled down there; then he fidgeted with the piano stool’s height before striking up some quiet Gershwin. Odette shifted around to make herself comfortable against the cushions. Her movements reminded Harry irrationally of a bird settling into its nest. Leaning back, he studied her face, her body language – and a new stillness. Her eyes were fixed on Chris.
‘Piano,’ she breathed.
‘Didn’t you see it earlier?’
‘No. Oh, Harry, I not see piano for so long. And this music, so beautiful!’
Chris played through several songs with piano improvisations to match; Odette shifted forward to the edge of the seat, humming along whenever she picked up the tune. When he’d finished Gershwin’s ‘Someone To Watch Over Me’ she could contain herself no longer. She jumped to her feet and bounded across to him.
‘Chris, please, please, may I play? I play piano not for many years, I not even see piano so long.’
Chris peered up at her in astonishment. ‘Well – I don’t know – the thing is, I’m under contract to play, and if you haven’t played for years—’
‘But I play very, very well, truly. I cannot bear to see piano and not touch! I love so much.’
‘If it really means that much to you, then,’ Chris faltered. ‘But just for a minute, OK?’
‘Thank you, thank you!’ She slipped round the piano and sat down on the stool. Chris, standing beside her, and Harry, from the window, watched in surprise as she adjusted the seat, then brushed one fingertip along the top of the keys.
‘I love so much,’ she whispered. She found a chord; soon, hesitantly, a soft Chopin prelude, the one in E minor, began to emerge from the piano’s innards, its slow, pulsing chords shifting note by note under a long, languid melody. Her playing was so heartfelt that Harry caught his breath and felt an uncomfortable pricking sensation behind his eyes. As the piece finished, he saw that tears were clinging to Odette’s cheeks as well.
‘That’s incredible
.’ Chris stared, bemused, at Odette’s transfigured face. ‘Harry didn’t tell me you were a pianist. Did you study somewhere?’
‘I have some lessons from Hungarian pianist who visit my country,’ Odette told him, her eyes damp and dreamy. ‘He very beautiful man, very famous musician, his name Franz Liszt. I have only a few lessons – I travel all the way to Kiev to meet him and study – but I think he teach me everything.’
‘Franz Liszt? That’s a good one! Seriously, Odette, who did you study with?’
‘With Monsieur Liszt,’ Odette reiterated.
‘Hey, Odette,’ said Chris, ‘Liszt died in 1880-something. Come on, be sensible.’
‘Is – true! Why you not listen to me? I travel for three weeks from my home to Kiev to meet this man!’ Several heads turned among the couples around them.
‘Listen – Odette – you have a beautiful speaking voice. Do you sing too?’ Chris switched the subject, fast.
‘Sing? But yes, I sing, I love to sing. At my father’s parties, I always sang for the guests…’ Relief spread across her face. She had forgotten her need for discretion.
‘Know any Gershwin?’
‘Any who?’
‘The music I was playing before, d’you know any of that?’
‘I never hear before, but I like very much.’
‘Can you sing at sight?’ When she nodded, Chris tipped her off the piano stool and thrust some pages of music into her hand. ‘Let’s try this one. “The Man I Love.” One of Gershwin’s best – you’ll like it. Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome my special guest star – all the way from Russia, let’s have a big hand for the lovely Odette!’
Polite applause dotted through the room. Odette, finding herself the centre of attention, stood professionally beside the piano, her back straight, the music held in one extended hand. Harry watched, astonished, his arms folded. Odette could have been singing operatic arias, so precise and pure was her soprano, so assured its vibrato. At first she hesitated over the ‘blue’ notes in the melody, but as soon as she grasped the tune and realised what the words were about, her heart took over. Harry felt almost sorry for her as she sang, with immense longing and an impossible Russian accent, about what the man she loved would be like and when she might meet him.
‘I won’t ask who you studied with.’ Chris winked at her as they finished, perfectly together. ‘But you’re a great singer. You were really listening. Your style’s a bit classical, but if we worked together I could help you get the feel of jazz, help you relax into it. What do you say?’
‘Oh, I love,’ sighed Odette. And Harry wondered why her eyes were so sad.
‘Cool. I’ll get your number from Harry and we can meet up and go through some stuff. You’ll need to project more if you’re going to do gigs with the band, but that’ll come.’
Odette stroked the piano’s wood as if it were a living animal. Harry, crossing the room to her, thought he could still see a tear lingering on one cheek.
‘Darrlink.’ He slipped an arm round her waist. ‘You want to dance more? There’s a big jive band next. I reckon you’ll like them.’
They walked along the corridor to the hall, which under its vaulted wooden ceiling was teeming with laughing, inebriated couples; a 1950s session was about to begin. The lead singer was wearing a sequinned white suit.
Harry let out a snort. ‘Oh God. It’s an Elvis tribute band.’
‘He look funny with hair that way,’ Odette remarked.
‘You never heard of Elvis?’
‘Who?’
‘Heck. Franz Liszt indeed… I can almost believe it. Don’t take this wrong, but you’re at least a hundred years behind the times!’
‘That is cruel. I cannot help that things are strange to me. Is hurtful to laugh…’
‘OK, OK, I’m sorry. Let’s dance, that’ll cheer you up. Now—’ as the band launched themselves into ‘Rock Around The Clock’, ‘just follow me and try and do what everyone else is doing.’
A few minutes later, Odette was breathless, dizzy and confused.
‘This is taking enough skill for you?’ Harry teased her.
‘Is too fast! It is not elegant to dance so fast.’
‘Elegant? Forget “elegant”. Just have fun!’
There was a roll on the drum and ‘Elvis’ took centre stage.
‘Now then, everybody, we’ve got one of your fave slow numbers comin’ right up,’ he announced, a Yorkshire accent lurking under the phoney Deep South twang. ‘But there’s a-somethin’ I’d like y’all to do for me, all you lovin’ couples. We’re gonna pretend we’re real well joined together.’
A collective hoot went up from the dance floor. Elvis waved an accusing finger.
‘Uh-uh, not that way. I want y’all to pretend that your partner is part of you. Part of you, yourself. Get it? Y’all cuddle up and yer know that lovely guy or gal ain’t nothin’ but some other part of yourself. An’ I think you’ll find your dancin’ won’ never be the same again. Ready?’
‘Fucking hell,’ said Harry. ‘A Yorkshire mystic dressed up as Elvis Presley?’
‘Oh, but I like.’ Odette held up her arms. ‘I think it is beautiful idea. We try, da?’
‘Gotta play the game…’
The lights lowered and the band began a slow waltz in which the singer told his girl that he couldn’t help falling in love with her. Harry put both arms around Odette and held her close; their feet moved in unison, and as they concentrated, their steps seemed to blend into one movement that sank into the melody and merged with the rhythm that was holding all the dancers together in one vast, hypnotic ritual. A peculiar, unfamiliar and unfathomable ache seemed to rise in his heart.
‘So what part of you am I?’ he whispered to the Russian girl, warm and fragile against him. Her hair smelled of fresh shampoo and some strange, exotic flower he didn’t know.
‘You are part of me that I miss.’ Odette swayed from foot to foot. ‘Part has not been there, but I seek it, now I find it. You are man I seek, man who really living and in world. You understand? I not speak very well.’
‘You’re amazing.’ He pulled her closer, stricken. Now to feel her cool, bare arm beneath his fingers was almost too much. Could he take her home? Might she let him pull that crazy dress off her? He lowered his face and pressed her cheek with his own, feeling her catch her breath.
‘Mmm,’ she muttered into his shoulder. ‘Feels like wonderful thing in drink.’
Harry held on to her, puzzled. He was aware that not only was he not sure how to read her signals, but she didn’t know how to read his, which were considerably clearer.
‘What part of you I am?’ She was moving her feet in perfect time with the music. He forced his own into harmony with hers, lost in her warmth.
‘You know… there’s a part of me I want to reach and hold, but it always gets away. Every time I think I have it, it’s gone. I sometimes feel this on stage, but… It’s something better than me, so much better than me. And that’s you. Do you understand?’
‘But I am here!’
‘And now I’ve caught you and I can keep you. Can’t I? Come on, give me a kiss.’
He bent and pressed his mouth against hers. She wobbled, as he’d hoped. To his shock, he was starting to tremble too.
‘Harry,’ she whispered as Yorkshire Elvis warbled about joining hands and lives. ‘You will love me forever, perhaps?’
‘Of course… I told you, I love everyone.’
‘But me?’
‘I’m crazy about you!’ Harry wrapped her hand in his. ‘How about this: I won’t let go of you again for the rest of the night. Promise. Do you promise too?’
‘I promise!’ Odette seemed to be laughing against his chest. ‘Harry, we keep playing this game? Everyone is stopping, but I think is wonderful.’
‘We’ll keep going as long as you like.’
They danced on; later, they drank coffee and sat together in the bar without talking. As the last couple in the ball still playing th
e peculiar game of being part of each other, there was oddly little to say. It was an adventure of subtler feeling than either of them had imagined. Hours drifted. The crowds thinned as couples wilted and departed. In tiredness, the lights seemed brighter, the music louder. They wandered about the ball, hand in hand, watching, reeling, floating, imagining themselves mystically united. At last they found their way back to the window seat in the jazz room, where Harry enveloped Odette in his jacket, sweaty though it was, and began to kiss her again, feeling her lips soft and open and pleading for more. He didn’t care if the whole ball saw them snogging. He’d scarcely glanced away from her. He’d scarcely looked at the clocks. He no longer believed in time.
A gong sounded and one of Harry’s acting colleagues from the Shakespeare Players, dressed as a town crier, began to process from room to room, calling: ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, breakfast is served.’
Odette extricated herself from his embrace. ‘Morning?’ she whispered.
‘It’ll be getting light soon.’
Her eyes turned to the great window behind them, patchwork sheets of small glass panes, beyond which the sky was already turning from black to grey.
‘Come. We go, quickly.’
‘Go? Where? Why?’
‘Outside. The garden.’
‘What? It’s freezing out there! Come home with me.’
‘Outside.’ She pulled at his hand.
‘Don’t you want your coat? It’s cold…’ But she had already gone.
At the door to the gardens she rushed ahead, a lithe figure, white-clad, ghostlike in the approaching dawn. Befuddled, following her, chilled by the icy air on his neck after the overheated ball, Harry stumbled over a molehill in the grass. A thrumming filled his temples and inner ears and his calf muscles were seizing up as if he’d been running all night long. Her black hair blowing about in chilly gusts of wind, Odette turned on the frosty lawn and waited for him.
‘Harry, game now finished. I must go!’
He caught her and reached for her hands. ‘Game over? Really? No, please, just come home with me…’
‘I see you soon,’ she said, through her laughter. As she reached up to kiss him, a cloud blew away from the horizon and revealed, pale and clear, the first sunlight of a new winter’s day. She turned towards it and it rebounded off her pale skin, her radiant features, her shining smile. Harry felt a current of air seize his limbs, making his hair stand on end. The light on the girl’s face grew brighter and more intense, ultraviolet, until he couldn’t look at her. The ground was rushing up sideways to meet him.
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