Odette

by Jessica Duchen

  ‘I don’t want to fight, but I can’t help it.’

  ‘But what is there to fight?’

  Mitzi looked into his eyes, three inches from hers, and saw nothing that needed to be battled except her own reflected anxieties.

  ‘Mitzi, give yourself a chance. Give me a chance. Let’s try. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, and you’re free. But why throw away something this special because you’re too scared to let yourself have what you just said you wanted? It’s a leap of faith, but if you don’t try, you’ll never know. There’s joy to find, not only sorrow. Happiness, Mitzi – real happiness.’

  Shortly after midday, Mitzi took a shower, then dried her hair in front of the fire while Rob put on the radio and pottered about, tidying the kitchen. It seemed natural to be there, to know inwardly that she had taken the leap, but was still standing in a country cottage on a patchwork rug, listening to Any Questions. No thunderbolt had yet struck her down for daring to be happy.

  ‘I should think about heading off – I’ve got a deadline,’ she told him, unable to explain that she was concerned about what was happening to Odette in her absence.

  ‘Let’s put your bike on the car roof rack and I’ll run you home,’ he suggested.

  In the Mini, Mitzi found she was twisting her hands together as Odette did when she was anxious. The traffic built up towards Cygnford. She tried not to tempt herself with visions of living with Rob in the peace of the cottage in the woods instead of the traffic-plagued flat. Summer would bring fragrance to the garden and the herbs in the window box. It was too idyllic; something had to be wrong.

  In Richardson Road he pulled up opposite the flat and gave her a quick kiss. ‘I’ve got some work to do too, so I should probably head back. Tomorrow evening I have to teach one class, but how about we meet after I’ve finished? Shall I come over and get you?’

  Mitzi put her arms around him. Was he, too, over-idyllic?

  ‘We’ll never know if we don’t try,’ he reminded her, as if reading her thoughts.

  The swan was fast asleep in its box, a white mound of wings, feathers and long neck. The flat was its usual self, letting in slanting rays of light upon the books, warming the radiators, admitting the sounds of passing traffic as if nothing had changed. Outside, Mitzi heard Rob’s engine fade into the distance.

  She checked the answering machine. Chris’s voice asked for Odette, telling her she’d been brilliant. Then the pub manager wanted to talk to Odette about a regular booking. Next, Harry said, ‘Mits? Me,’ and demanded to speak to her flatmate. And there was a message from a studenty voice wanting to know if Odette could join a university jazz tour of the States.

  She glanced at the swan. Supposing Odette had been the girl she met by the music shop? Or supposing she had been not a transforming creature under a 166-year-old spell, but a refugee from a war zone, Africa or the Middle East, and she had been exactly the same person, with the same love of life, the same warmth, wisdom and talent, but Mitzi had never had a chance to find out and Odette had never been able to reveal her true self to anybody in this icy, insular town? She slipped off her shoes, made for the bedroom and sank into a deep sleep.

  The swan stared at the pale December sun, remembering the music – Chris, his friends and her own voice rising above them. She’d heard the phone messages, but of course she couldn’t pick up the handset and laugh with Chris over their success, or say ‘See you this evening’ to Harry, or even tell the touring group with regret that though she’d love to go with them to America, she couldn’t. America! She wondered whether it was safe there. Last time she’d overheard talk of this country, a civil war had been in progress.

  And she remembered Harry’s kiss, and ached beyond aching for her human body so that she could experience it again. She wanted to ask questions. Where was Mitzi last night? What had taken place in that distant bedroom? Was this the fulfilment of love? As a young girl she had had the information drummed into her, by her father and her governesses alike, that such things must never be so much as contemplated without a marriage ceremony first. Today, in Cygnford, this did not appear to be true. Did that mean the mysterious process could itself amount to a real pledge, an everlasting commitment – just as it was for swans? And if so, was the breaking of her spell within her grasp after all?

  The doorbell shattered Mitzi’s dreams; in an instant she was on her feet, pulling on her jeans, her hands shaking with fright. She peered out of the living room window, from a safe distance. By the gate, a car had pulled up, with a flashing blue light on its roof. On the front step stood two people who could only be plain-clothed police offers, having a joke – of sorts – with Professor Maggie. ‘She’s there,’ Mitzi heard her insistent voice, ‘obviously.’

  Mitzi scooped up the swan and the box, shoved them into the study and locked the door. Then she gave her hair a cursory brush and sauntered down, trying to look relaxed and weekendishly content.

  ‘Here we are!’ said Professor Maggie, triumphant. ‘This is Mitzi Fairweather.’

  ‘Miss Fairweather?’ The young policewoman spoke first. ‘DC Rayfield, from Cygnford Police Station. This is DC Wakeham. May we ask you a few questions?’

  ‘Of course. What’s it about? One of the newspaper reports?’ Mitzi said.

  ‘Er, not exactly… can we come in? Thank you, Professor,’ she added to Maggie, who gave a cheery wave and vanished behind her own door.

  Mitzi had no choice but to show them up the stairs. What was there in the lounge that might betray Odette? ‘Would you like some tea?’ she offered. ‘I have some lovely lime-blossom stuff, quite unusual.’

  A few minutes later, both police officers were equipped with mugs and were sniffing the tea’s honeyed fragrance with interest.

  ‘So,’ said DC Rayfield, ‘we understand you have a friend from Russia who was working in the corner shop on Garden Drive for Uma Verjee, is that right? We know her as Odette. We don’t know her surname.’

  ‘I think she only ever did a two-hour try-out, if that.’ Mitzi gave her brightest smile. ‘I heard it wasn’t a success.’

  ‘Do you know where we can find her? We believe she may need some help, you see.’

  So Uma hadn’t said she was living with Mitzi? Oh, thank goodness…

  ‘I’m not sure. I haven’t actually seen her since then…’

  ‘Are you likely to see her?’ said DC Wakeham.

  ‘I’ve told her to keep in touch and let me know how she is,’ Mitzi bluffed. ‘But so far she hasn’t.’ A rustle in the locked study caught her ear and she held her breath, watching her visitors’ faces for any sign that they’d heard it too. But sign came there none. DC Wakeham, sipping the tea, seemed more interested in its flavour than in any peculiar noises nearby.

  ‘If she does, will you call us?’ DC Rayfield, draining the mug, handed her a business card. ‘The thing was, your neighbour thought she had heard someone else in here besides yourself. “Obviously”, she said.’

  ‘That must have been my boyfriend, Rob,’ said Mitzi, for the first time ever, surprised at how good it sounded and felt. ‘Odette isn’t in trouble, is she?’

  ‘Not exactly, but according to Mrs Verjee, she has no papers, not even a passport, and she’s going to need some. She absolutely shouldn’t be trying to work without them. There’s a crackdown on the black economy at the moment. What is her surname?’

  ‘Actually,’ Mitzi said, smiling. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. But I’ll give you a call if I hear from her.’

  After she’d watched the police car pull away, Mitzi let the swan out of the study, then quickly trawled the living room, too late, for giveaway signs. They could have spotted her sketchpad and picked it up; there they would find drawings of Odette, Rob, and the swan itself in all sorts of avian poses. They could have examined her tablet and the lighted screen would have shown them War and Peace in Russian. They could have looked at the draining board and seen that two of everything sat drying upon it. But as far as she could tell, th
ey weren’t looking at all. Or were they? How could she be sure?

  19

  At sundown, Odette shook out her feathers and made her way to the bathroom. Mitzi, who had retreated to the sofa, held Rob’s book of fairy tales on her lap. Her blue eyes, deeply shadowed, turned towards the window.

  ‘Mitzi, you love Rob?’ Odette asked, the moment she was on her human feet and back in the living room.

  ‘I hope so… I don’t know yet. I’m so afraid, Odette – but I’m so happy! It’s weird to be afraid to be happy, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you are happy, I am happy too,’ Odette declared. Her words twisted Mitzi’s heartstrings. Would any of her Cygnford friends ever express such a thing, with such innocent sincerity and, essentially, such truth? Had anybody she knew ever done so?

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ she said softly.

  ‘Those people. The police. They look for me?’

  Mitzi nodded.

  ‘But they did not find. So is all right?’

  ‘I hope so, Odette,’ Mitzi said, with a deep sigh. ‘But you must be really careful…’

  ‘Good.’ Odette seemed to consider the matter closed. ‘Mitzi? May I ask something?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mitzi was startled, half expecting Odette to demand whether after last night Mitzi must be pregnant, or if she could help her acquire a passport by some peculiar means, or…

  ‘Please,’ said Odette, ‘may I have bath? I have never had bath in house as human, not since before.’

  Odette poured out some exquisite-smelling potion that mingled with the water into milky foam. Cautiously she removed her white shift and lowered herself in. The heat diffused like oxygen into every bone. Bubbles tickled her skin. Her hair spread out around her while she closed her eyes and breathed in scented steam. Most of the time water was a necessity; this, though, was pure luxury. Baths in the castle had been functional, involving pitchers of water heated over giant fires in the kitchen, then hauled up through an elaborate pulley system, while icy draughts from the stone corridors blasted against one’s bare skin. To the swan, water was home, unfelt and without a hint of sensual effect. As for Mitzi’s power shower, she had found that excellent and cleansing, but nothing compared to this… She breathed and dreamed, willing the scent to encourage Harry. If he broke her spell, she could have a bath every day.

  The buzz of the doorbell brought her back. Now she had to make it happen.

  ‘Odette!’ came Mitzi’s voice. ‘Harry’s here. Do you want the red jersey?’

  ‘Yes, please!’ Odette wrapped herself in a towel, a treat in itself, and prepared to dress.

  ‘So you’re seeing him again tomorrow, eh?’ Harry was asking Mitzi when Odette came in.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Mitzi.

  Harry turned, saw Odette, sleek in jeans and red cashmere, and his mouth fell open. Strands of her hair, still slightly damp, curled in a frame around her face. ‘Ochi chornye! My Russian beauty, you are a vision to behold! Hungry?’

  ‘Da!’ Odette beamed, bounding across to him. ‘Mitzi, please may I borrow coat again?’

  Mitzi couldn’t help grinning, so vivid and hopeful was the expression in her guest’s dark eyes as Harry held the scarlet sleeves ready for her arms. Nor had she ever before seen Harry behave in such a gentlemanly manner.

  ‘Now, let me get that door for you, madam.’ He swung it open and Odette swept grandly forward and out.

  From the window Mitzi watched them go. No police car lingered outside. Professor Maggie’s light was off. And in the tree there was no—

  Yes, there was. She couldn’t see the owl, but its call came to her, low and unearthly. She heard the hoot of a night bird, but Odette would hear the same sound in quite another way. A bewitched and bewitching captor. A summons.

  ‘I’d like to take you somewhere posh, but I can’t afford it,’ Harry admitted while they walked. He knew Odette would respond best to directness. ‘You like pizza, don’t you? Like Mitzi made for us?’

  ‘I like everything.’ Odette gave a giggle that she stifled at once.

  Weird girl, thought Harry proudly, caught off guard yet again by her gleam. Since the ball, he’d somehow become used to thinking of her as some elusive part of himself. Her hand slid into his and stayed there all the way to town.

  The pizza place seemed mundane as a destination for someone so exotic, but once they were installed at a small marble table in the window, lit by a candle in a blue glass lantern, her magic began to work on the surroundings. He watched her studying the menu. Around her there seemed to hover a slight but definite glow. She was changing the texture of his world. When he looked at her slender wrists, her small breasts, the swan-like curve of her neck beneath the cascading hair, his stomach began to churn. He’d never experienced any sensation as bewildering as being near her. Almost afraid – and he hadn’t been afraid of a woman since his first girlfriend – he took her hand in both of his.

  ‘You – are – incredible,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me things, Harry? We dance at ball, and we play pretending game, I sing in pub, but we never just talk.’

  The restaurant was spinning around his head. He smiled, afraid she’d think him an idiot. ‘You know I’m an actor. I don’t know what else to tell you. It’s always been my life.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe it’s like your music. It’s the feeling of being up there on stage with an audience watching you and becoming someone and something else. The adrenaline takes you over, you become – you are – what you’re doing. There’s no character and no play and no you – you lose yourself in it. And when you have that feeling, you’ve done a good show. You know why you’re alive and why you have to do this crazy thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Odette breathed. ‘I understand exactly.’

  She stopped herself saying that this was how she felt when she flew. There is no me; no bird, no woman, nothing but flight itself. Her music was the same. It was when the Baron heard her play the piano that he chose her fate: to fly.

  A waitress came to take their order; Harry chose a vegetarian pizza for Odette, spicy beef for himself, and a bottle of house red.

  ‘How did you end up living with my sister?’ he asked when the wine arrived. ‘No one’s bothered to tell me.’

  ‘It was accident,’ Odette hedged. ‘She find me. I was in… some trouble, and she help me, you not know how much. One day I tell you, perhaps.’

  ‘So it’s not Airbnb and it’s not some funny arrangement that… sorry to keep asking, Odi, but it’s so strange. Mitzi won’t tell and neither will you? And what happened to you the other night? You left your dress and your shoes! What am I to think?’

  ‘You may think anything,’ Odette said, with a smile, ‘and maybe you think right!’

  ‘OK.’ Harry sat back. ‘I’ll tell you what I think. My guess is: you’re the daughter of some mega-rich Russian man. Am I right?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Odette gave a wry grin. ‘What else?’

  ‘I think you’re trying to escape something by setting up in Cygnford, apparently with nothing. Maybe it’s so you can do your music, when possibly people didn’t want you to. Right again?’

  ‘Partly…’

  He wondered why she was laughing. ‘I think you’ve been a dancer. You’re way too thin, but you’ve got fantastic muscles and your feet turn out like a duck’s. And I think you don’t eat enough. Do you mind me saying?’

  ‘I am not dancer, but is true that I do not eat much for long time… And my feet are definitely not duck!’

  ‘I think, also, that you’ve been on your own for a bit and you’re looking for the right man.’

  Odette dissolved into laughter so wild that it rendered her unable to speak. Harry poured the wine, puzzled by her hilarity, then stared into her eyes as they clinked glasses. ‘Odi, Odi – come on, calm down… I’m sure you’ll tell me the truth when you want to – yes?’

  Odette curved her neck in graceful assent. Harry took her hand.

  ‘Let’s talk about
now,’ he said. ‘I’m in Twelfth Night in the summer and we’re taking it to the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Edinburgh is a beautiful town in Scotland, a long way north of here. Each year there’s a massive arts festival, the best in the country, and in the Fringe loads of young theatre groups go up with their shows and people come along from all over the world to see what’s new and exciting. It’s an incredible atmosphere and we’re going for two weeks. Why don’t you come with us?’

  Odette’s eyes widened.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked. I thought it might be nice for you: see the city, see the festival, be with friends, play music, have fun. It’d be cool.’

  ‘Harry, you are so kind, but – I not think—’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Damn; he’d jumped the gun. ‘I understand if you don’t want to.’

  ‘I do want to. But I cannot.’ Odette lowered her gaze – beyond his reach, absorbed in an abrupt melancholy, a sphere where there was no place for him. When she swam back from that other world, her gaze made him feel transparent. ‘I wish I could tell you…’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Come home with me later and tell me then.’

  Odette followed Harry into the house, where he rapidly steered her past the piano and towards the kitchen. He couldn’t lose his Russian beauty to the lure of Chris’s rickety upright.

  ‘I like it here,’ she remarked, placing her coat over the banister with all the others.

  ‘You do? Sorry about the mess… You’re not one of these obsessively tidy women, are you, the sort that goes berserk if there’s a crumb on the tablecloth?’ He watched her slight figure in her jeans and red jumper as she accepted a glass of orange juice, her face with its contrasts of jet-black against snow-white, her huge eyes that showed not a hint of tiredness.