Odette

by Jessica Duchen

  ‘How’s my Russian girlfriend?’ He shoved past a group of students and slung an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘I sing here?’ Odette wondered what Monsieur Liszt would say if he could see her now. Harry’s arm was producing a sensation in her back that was part warmth, part ache, part comfort; she wanted it to melt around the rest of her.

  ‘Yes indeedy,’ he said, ‘my lovely ochi chornye.’

  ‘Have you used a microphone before?’ asked Chris.

  Odette shook her head. ‘It makes voice louder?’

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ Harry said, before Chris could utter a word. ‘Odette, everyone will want to know about you, so why don’t you get used to the mic by talking into it? Say a few words about yourself and how you come from Russia and you love singing, yeah? You’ll feel better and you’ll adjust to the way your voice sounds. Let me get you a drink – what’ll you have?’

  Odette stood stock still in the middle of the pub. The regulars milled about, a few students here and there, but mainly townsfolk downing pints of lager. Some stared at her, sneering, she thought, because it was so clear she was a stranger out of her depth.

  Chris lifted a tentative hand and touched her shoulder, as if afraid it might retaliate. ‘I have to set up. Stay with Harry, or come over and lurk with us.’

  Harry, who’d managed to sidle through to the bar, handed Odette a half-pint of lemonade shandy, then led her towards a corner table while Chris opened up the piano, Stuart plugged in and tested the microphones and a long-haired boy she’d never seen before, whose name was Paul, picked up a bizarre brass instrument with a turned-up bell at the end.

  ‘How was the audition?’ Chris asked Harry, over the piano.

  ‘Useless,’ Harry grunted.

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘About a thousand, give or take a couple of hundred. I wasn’t counting. Another fortnight’s preparation down the bloody drain…’

  Odette’s heart was accelerating, her throat parched. She escaped to the toilets, her skin prickling with fear, her nostrils full of the sour smells of too many people in too small a space. The crowd alarmed her: anyone could accidentally crash into her and crush her. Everybody in this modern world seemed taller and heavier than she was.

  She locked herself in a cubicle and breathed. She couldn’t cry if she had to sing. The insanity of it all struck her in the gullet: she’d accidentally flown all the way to England, she’d met Mitzi and fallen in love with Harry, and now it ended with her locking herself in a toilet in a Cygnford pub because it was too much to handle? Would she really prefer to be back in Siberia in her log hut, alone, with nothing to do except watch the constellations in the night sky and fend off the bears?

  While Odette was gone, Chris rounded on Harry, who was leaning on the piano close to him.

  ‘Where were you? I was waiting for you to come to Mitzi’s.’

  ‘I did try,’ Harry protested. ‘The trains are up the spout.’

  ‘The trains are always up the spout. I thought she was your girlfriend. I had to help her choose what to wear and everything.’

  ‘And you did well – she looks great.’

  ‘Tell me about her. What’s the story?’

  ‘I get the impression she’s from somewhere pretty remote, and Mitzi says she’s arrived with, like, nothing – but I suspect chances are the family’s filthy rich.’

  ‘Hope so, for your sake. They’re not dodgy, are they?’

  ‘Mafia? Fucking hell, she wouldn’t last two minutes in that kind of situation. She’s a real…’ He paused, trying to find the right words. ‘I dunno. It’s like she’s from another world altogether.’

  ‘She’s really got to you, hasn’t she?’

  Harry drummed his fingers on the piano lid. ‘You could say that.’

  Chris noticed the dreamy, lost look in Harry’s eyes as he spotted the tiny figure of Odette sliding back through the crowd like a bird on a rough sea. For his housemate, it was most uncharacteristic. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he turned back to the keyboard, beckoning her over: it was nearly time to begin.

  Odette remembered asking Monsieur Liszt how he performed if he felt scared. He’d waved one beautiful hand and said, ‘If you have to perform, you have to perform. You are not important. How you feel is not important. It is your duty and you must give everything, even if you are dying.’ At least, she thought that was what he’d said. It was hard to think straight in the noise. Chris, sitting at the piano, was flipping over the pages of music in front of him.

  ‘Let’s do “The Man I Love” to get everyone drawn in,’ he said, ‘then “Night and Day” and then we’ll see how you feel. I’ve written you out a crib sheet, but try not to look like you’re reading from it? OK, let’s go!’

  From Stuart’s corner came a clatter of drums and a crash on the cymbals. Chris took the microphone; people stepped back to make way. Odette hovered. She thought she could see some of the audience laughing at her.

  ‘It’s good to be back again, ladies and gentlemen,’ Chris announced. ‘We’re the Cygnford Culture Vultures and tonight we have a very special guest singer – please meet, all the way from darkest Siberia, the lovely and talented Ode-e-e-e-tte!’

  Stuart gave a drum roll; Odette cleared her throat and stepped forward. Never mind the strangeness, never mind the fright; it was time to perform. She positioned herself by the black bulb.

  ‘Good evening, everybody,’ she ventured, her amplified voice booming back at her. ‘I am called Odette and—’ She stared around the room, wondering how to continue. The sound wasn’t so difficult to accommodate, though, and Harry winked at her, which helped. ‘And – and – I come from deep forests of Russia. This is first time I have been in Cygnford. I love this city, I am very happy. And I love to sing. For me, to sing is like – to fly.’

  Now everyone seemed to be listening, despite Chris’s words earlier warning her that they might not.

  ‘First song is “Man I Love” by Mister George Gershwin, very talented composer from United States of America.’

  For some reason this drew a laugh, though a friendly one. Chris rang out the first notes; with the piano’s ripple there came a slow, regular, gentle beat from the drums and, from Paul’s brass instrument, an astonishing deep, dark, husky sound, like a voice, like chocolate. She was so taken by it that she nearly forgot to sing. But when she began, her voice was true-toned and pure, and her nerves began to dispel. Nobody talked; at the end, some of them cheered. They went straight on to ‘Night and Day’, which had seemed difficult when she first saw it, but was now easy, and this time the applause was almost louder than the music had been. She glanced at Chris; he stared back over the piano. ‘What next?’

  Odette had an idea that seemed crazy but wouldn’t go away. She reached for the microphone. ‘Thank you very much. Spasiba bolshoy! I would like to sing for you folk song from my homeland, which I will sing alone.’

  Silence fell. The song was her favourite, about the gathered harvest, the end of summer and a dying love, the melody enshrining all her memories, the words part of her childhood. As she sang, the lake haunted her, the trees and forests she loved, their castle, now deserted; and, with intense clarity, the face of her father, so kind and wise, raddled with sorrow since her enchantment. She imagined him at the window, searching the skies for the swan that was his daughter. She never knew her mother, who died giving birth to her. Odette was all he had. His hair turned white overnight when she was bewitched. As the song ended, tears shone in her eyes. Soon the only sound was a church bell striking ten.

  A bomb of noise by the door shattered the rapt atmosphere. A group of new pub-goers pushed their way in, joking together, jolting Odette out of her reverie. The group, three boys and two girls, pulled up short in the silence. Several pairs of curious eyes stared straight at her in astonishment. Then one of the girls let out a guffaw.

  ‘Fuck!’ shouted the tallest boy, ‘More foreign crap. What’s it this time? Immigrant shite? Fucking Poles?
You’re going home soon, just you wait.’ He marched up to the bar. ‘Pints for five, mate.’

  Odette, crumbling, longed for her wings to grow back so that she could fly away. Chris reached out a hand to her, but she was staring at the floor, lost in humiliation, wondering what a ‘Pole’ might be and why it was bad and why she was thought to be one, when she was an enchanted Russian princess musician.

  At the bar, the publican froze, glasses in hand.

  ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Find somewhere else.’

  The entire pub seemed to have frozen with him. Seconds ticked by like hours, with icy gazes deepening the winter. And Odette knew she had seen the intruders before, over the centuries, from a distance: hunters with rifles, oblivious to the nature they would kill, or looters of villages, or the ones who set fire to the little towns where the Jews lived, or to the encampments of the Roma, or of the Buryat Mongols, who were always so kind when she asked them for food. The faces were always the same; eyes looking with no sight, hearts beating with no feeling, minds working with no thought. And they were here in Cygnford, too, celebrating Christmas along with everyone else?

  ‘You’re joking, mate,’ said one of them.

  ‘Hop it,’ said the publican. ‘You can’t just come in here and wreck my jazz night. People have paid good money for good music, so go and find your fun somewhere else.’

  Odette saw Harry’s hands clenching around his glass – was he preparing to get up and fight them? Surely not? She couldn’t breathe for fear. And then, in a swift rush of air and a stream of expletives, the intruders turned tail and vanished the way they’d come in. A shimmer of clapping and some quiet cheers went up around the pub.

  It was Paul who finally moved. He waved a signal to Stuart on the drums and the two of them played something that sounded to Odette like a lurid fanfare, flourishing and then setting up a rhythm. Stuart kept the beat steady, and over the top Paul began to improvise.

  Odette had watched Monsieur Liszt improvise in that music room in Kiev. Paul bizarrely reminded her of him – not Liszt’s figure or his charisma, which were unmatchable, but his concentration. Chris joined in; they started a duet above the drums, throwing phrases between them, playing with the tune as if it were a ball, conversing with musical ideas as if they were words. They challenged each other to do better and better, faster and faster, until Stuart, who wanted more beer, signalled the end with a hiss of cymbals. A roar of approval went up around them.

  ‘We’ll take a break now,’ Paul announced. ‘Back soon.’

  Harry bounded up to Odette and hugged her. ‘You’re a star! You were brilliant. Really fantastic, and I’m not just saying it.’

  ‘And those?’ Odette pointed at the door, after the intruders.

  ‘Hey – you’re not worried about that? It was all about them, not about you. These things always are. Let me get you a drink. You OK?’ His blue eyes came up close to Odette’s face, intense with concern. She flushed. She could smell sweat, beer and something behind it that unsettled her, yet made her lean closer for more of it.

  ‘Come on, Odette, you’re a big hit,’ Chris said. ‘These things happen in pubs. They didn’t mean what they said – they’re just wasted and they don’t know anything about good music.’

  ‘I understand.’ She took a sip of the beer Harry had brought over; and soon, refreshed, was smiling up into his attentive gaze.

  When their second set was done, the final applause had ended and last orders had been called, the band began to pack up. The wires coiled down and vanished into backpacks, the cymbals were zipped into heavy cloth bags and the microphones came apart in sections; Stuart was placing them in big black cases.

  ‘Right, chaps, we’re off,’ Harry told the musicians, gallantly helping Odette into her outsized red coat. ‘Laters.’

  Stuart pulled a face at the envious Chris while Harry, arm clamped round Odette’s waist, ushered her towards the door. ‘Win some, lose some.’

  ‘Shut it,’ said Chris.

  Odette, so elated that she felt she might fly without wings, was enjoying the feel of Harry’s arm, pleasurable and troubling at the same time, like his scent. She wanted to savour her night of humanity and success, and was longing for it to progress – and as soon as possible, please – but now she knew enough to blame the beer, the excitement, the nerves, the music.

  ‘So, gorgeous, we’ve got our date tomorrow,’ Harry said. ‘Shall we have dinner, just the two of us?’

  ‘That will be very nice.’ Odette smiled, trying to suppress a hiccup.

  ‘Methinks the fair Odette hath drunk muchly of beer! Come here, you.’ Harry stopped in his tracks and began to kiss her.

  How soft his lips were, and how welcoming, how much a part of herself that she missed – but she couldn’t dare to hope. Nothing had been said that could help her. Not yet.

  Harry thought it restrained and worthy of him to leave Odette at Mitzi’s gate, watching like a gentleman to make sure she had gone safely inside. There was no point taking her home – Chris, Stuart and Paul would be there, unwinding post-gig. They’d drink, talk and smoke all night. And he retained uncharacteristic scruples, which he couldn’t quite explain, about trying to jump on Odette in his sister’s flat. He’d bide his time – at least until tomorrow.

  Odette hurried upstairs, let herself in and called out to Mitzi, ‘Hello! It was good! It was wonderful! You were not there?’

  No response: the flat was empty.

  18

  Mitzi, half asleep, was vaguely aware that a thudding sound had woken her. She opened her eyes and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, the noise pounding in her eardrums. Beside her, Rob was asleep, one arm trailing across her body. The thumping was unbearable – surely a rarity here in the woods? As her consciousness strengthened, she identified it. It was her heart.

  Oh no. Not again. I meet someone, Mitzi thought, I like him, we end up in bed and then I can see so well that I shouldn’t have. We had a wonderful day together, and a marvellous dinner in front of the fire. Why couldn’t I have had the good sense to go home?

  It was her fault. She had definitely, without a doubt, wanted to sleep with him. And it had been better than she’d imagined; better than anything since Pete. Better than Pete.

  Last night had been intense, full of expression, especially from him – but he was her landlord, for goodness’ sake, and she couldn’t have someone getting hung up on her, let alone him, however much she was falling under his spell. And if he felt something for her, she didn’t deserve it… She turned and soaked in the sight of him sleeping, a pale, bulky curve of shoulder, a muscular arm across her waist, the gentle, regular rise and fall of breath. How could she ever be good enough for such a kind, thoughtful, wonderful, enchanting man? Perhaps she should be the one to leave, while she still could. Her bicycle was by the front door and it was, she realised, past ten o’clock. Admittedly they hadn’t slept until nearly four.

  She tried to slide out from under his protective arm. She didn’t want to be protected. She stood, her head heavy with hangover, casting about for her clothes.

  ‘Hmm?’ Rob mumbled. Mitzi pulled on her knickers, which had fallen beside the bed, then found they were back to front and inside out.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ He sat bolt upright. ‘Mitzi? What’s the time? You haven’t got to work today?’

  ‘Not exactly… ‘ She cursed her clumsiness.

  ‘Come back?’ He held out his arms, his face open and adoring. Nothing in him doubted her. Yet she stood paralysed.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong?’

  ‘Rob, look, I – I should get going.’

  ‘Was I that awful?’ A mocking glint in his eyes – he knew how much she’d enjoyed their night. ‘How about thirds?’

  Before she knew it, she was back in the bed, she didn’t know how. Pulled by that bizarre hypnosis that seemed to be Rob’s speciality. Somehow she couldn’t make herself stand up again even if she wanted to. At the side of the curtains she could see brilliant sunshi
ne outside, decking the garden in diamonds of frost.

  ‘Mitzi? You feel panicky.’

  Mitzi stroked the hollow under his neck, fighting back the lump in her throat.

  ‘Shh.’ He pulled the blankets back over her and held her warm and still. She couldn’t bear the tenderness; it made her want to cry. ‘I thought you liked me.’

  ‘Of course I like you… I just…’

  ‘Mitzi, I don’t like you. I love you.’

  ‘Don’t say that. Please don’t.’

  ‘I don’t mind if you don’t love me back.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t love you back. But I don’t want to lose it all again… find out it’s not true after all…’

  She was back where she’d started, lying flat, with Rob’s arm across her, holding her there.

  ‘Why, Mitzi? Tell me. Tell me everything. From the beginning.’

  ‘I don’t know what the beginning was. I don’t know if there was one.’

  He seemed peaceful beside her. ‘Then just tell me whatever comes into your mind.’

  Slowly she began to explain. Her father’s death. Pete. ‘I went to bits.’

  ‘That’s natural.’

  ‘Maybe I was asking too much of him. He dumped me for someone else a few weeks after Dad died. Actually,’ she added with a nervous laugh, ‘I was so upset I nearly went for him with a bread knife. But… there’d been so much feeling and it was as if it just disappeared, overnight.’

  ‘You must have been close to your father?’ Rob fortunately ignored her remark about the bread knife.

  Mitzi pictured their outings to the Dorset sand dunes. ‘When we went for family walks there’d always be me and Dad ahead and then Harry and Mum behind. That was when we were very little. Later Harry decided he was too old to be a Momma’s boy, and then there were fights… It’s such a long time ago.’

  ‘Pete’s a bastard,’ Rob remarked. ‘Dumping you at a time like that. Was it really so great with him? It’s easy to idealise. I did that when I was married… and then I found the house. A hidey-hole where no one would see this miserable git who couldn’t hold on to the one person who meant something to him… Look, it’s too easy just to stick to your notions of what should be happening and close yourself up to other possibilities. You could be fighting off something wonderful, just because you didn’t expect it. Do you see?’