by Annabel Abbs
“He’s more of an Irish jigger,” I explained. “Don’t assume you can’t dance, Mr Beckett. Anyone who can respond to music can dance. Do you like music?”
“I love music.” Mr Beckett cleared his throat and lowered his voice a fraction. “Please call me Sam.”
“Oh we’re very formal in the Joyce household. Very Irish, I suppose. My father insists on it. But perhaps in private?”
Mr Beckett, Sam, stared at me. Was he startled by my suggestion of being alone with him or by my parents’ old-fashioned insistence on using a person’s title?
“That’s an idea.” Nodding slowly, he pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and I noticed that his cheeks had pinked again.
“Were you expecting my father to be more modern? Are you wondering why the Great Author can break the rules of fiction but not of etiquette, Mr Beckett?” I dropped my voice and added, as an afterthought, “Sam.” And the word sounded so delicious I repeated it silently in my head. Sam. Sam. Sam.
“I suppose I was,” he said and his gaze slid from me back to my parents who were now weaving their way towards us, their arms still linked. It struck me then that, despite the shy intensity of his gaze, it also had a restless quality that was nothing to do with nerves.
“Oh, most people in Paris are very bohemian,” I said breezily. “I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories. But my parents can’t shake off their Irish upbringing.” I didn’t tell Mr Beckett that they liked me to be home by nine o’clock and that Mama never let me go to funerals. I assumed these were Irish practices that he would be familiar with.
“How old are you, Miss Joyce, if you don’t mind me asking?” Mr Beckett’s face was so close I felt his breath on my cheek, warm and dry like smoke.
“I’m twenty-one. And you?”
“Twenty-two,” he replied. And his gaze sharpened – as if I had translucent skin and he was looking straight through to the blood skating in my veins.
Mama and Babbo appeared with an escort of waiters pulling out chairs, proffering menus, flourishing napkins, removing stray hats and scarves and gloves. No sooner had Babbo sat down than he turned to Mr Beckett with a volley of questions about Dublin.
“Oh here we go,” Mama quipped. “Just don’t get started on naming every wretched shop and bar on O’Connell Street. I can’t be hearing all that again.” She craned her head to see who had entered the restaurant. “Oh look, Lucia, ’tis that famous actress. Mother o’ God! Whatever is she wearing? Did you ever see anything so dowdy?”
I felt her elbow jabbing into my ribs but I didn’t want to turn away from Mr Beckett. I had no interest in the famous actress or what she was wearing. Mama’s voice hissed in my ear, drowning Mr Beckett’s entirely. “Did you see her hat, Lucia? Some people have no idea how to dress. Peacock feathers … with her colouring … dear, oh dear.” I strained to hear Mr Beckett’s voice. He and Babbo were huddled together on the banquette but the babble of other voices and the gossipy tongue of Mama in my ear blotted out their words.
I shrank in my chair, knowing exactly how the evening would go. So predictable. Babbo and his Irish compatriots reminiscing, drinking, reciting Irish poems and, finally, singing Irish ballads or perhaps dancing an Irish jig. I felt exiled already. But I wasn’t going to give up so easily. Not this time.
“I haven’t been to Ireland for years,” I interjected loudly. “I’d love to go back.”
“It’s not changed so much.” Mr Beckett fixed his eyes on mine and I felt as though I was being pulled into those blue-green eyes, spinning and falling.
I returned with a jolt, hearing the sharp voice of my mother. “Don’t be daft, Lucia. Ireland is a bog and a cess pit. Leave the blarney to your father. He can do that for the both of us.”
“Come, Nora,” Babbo chided. “It may be a land of barbarians with crucifixes, but it’s no cess pit.”
“A bunch of bigots and beggars!” Mama tossed her head. “Sure there’s no going back now. You’d be arrested, Jim, and well you know it.”
Babbo nodded glumly and Mr Beckett shifted uncomfortably on the banquette. I tried to think of something to lighten the mood. But then Mama spotted another actress and began wheedling in my ear again and Babbo duly started reciting the name of every bar on O’Connell Street. I watched Mr Beckett from beneath my lashes, observing the earnest look in his eyes and the solemn nodding of his head. And then his eyes strayed from Babbo’s and met mine in a brief but uncompromising stare. And the air between us seemed to come alive – crackling, bristling, straining with tension. My fingers started to steal, unbidden, across the linen table cloth. They crept towards Mr Beckett, as if pulled by some invisible force.
“What about The Brazen Head, Mr Beckett? Has that changed much?” Babbo’s words sliced through the air, defusing the tension and breaking the peculiar magnetic charge that had taken control of my hands.
I flicked my fingers in the air, as if flicking away my father’s question. “Tell us about your family, Mr Beckett. We want to know all about you … if that’s not too impertinent?”
Only later did I remember Emile. For a second I struggled to picture his face. And when I had it clearly before me I felt so cruel and guilty I had to push it away. Far, far away.
* * *
It was the following evening that I learned of Babbo’s intentions for Mr Beckett. I was sitting in the kitchen while Mama bandaged my blistered feet. Another six hours of dancing had left them oozing a thick yellow pus and the insides of my dancing shoes were stained with blood.
Babbo appeared, a thin film of moisture on his spectacles and his tie crooked. “I can’t go on like this,” he announced plaintively.
“What is it now, Jim?” Mama gave the bandage a sharp tug.
“Ouch! Not too tight or I won’t be able to get my pumps on tomorrow,” I wailed.
“Mother o’ God! You and your feet, your father and his eyes! I don’t know if I’m coming or going. Where’s Giorgio got to?” She looked up as if expecting Giorgio to walk through the door, but Giorgio hadn’t been in all day. Or all night. I didn’t tell Mama. I knew she wouldn’t like it.
“I’ve spent the entire day on the telephone to lawyers. Pirated copies of Ulysses are being sold in England and America for £40 a copy.” Babbo ran his hands distractedly through his hair.
“Well, we could do with the money, Jim. That’s a lot o’ money.”
“But that’s the point. We don’t get a penny! Not a single penny. And they’re riddled with errors. There’s a man in America making a fortune from my work – my mutilated work.” A note of petulance crept into Babbo’s tone. He took off his glasses and wiped them with his silk handkerchief. His pink-veined eyes in their grey sockets suddenly looked tired and forlorn. “I’m a writer, not a lawyer. All this is making me feel vanquished in spirit. And now Mr McAlmon says he’s returning to America.” Babbo put his glasses back on and sighed heavily. “Who will help me with my work, Nora?”
“Can’t Mrs Fancy Pants Fleischman help you? Or did she spend too much time gazing at you instead o’ typing your work?” Mama gave the bandage another sharp tug and then started tying the ends into a knot.
“That’s too tight,” I protested. “I’ll never get it off. I’ll have swaddled feet for life.”
“If you didn’t do all this dancing we wouldn’t be needing so much money. So stop your moaning, will you?” Mama stood up and started winding up the unused bandage in angry little jerks. I felt a stab of indignation. She never spoke to Giorgio like this and his singing lessons were far more expensive than my dance classes.
“No sense o’ decency, that Mrs Fancy Pants Fleischman with her Jewish brass and all.” Mama snorted and lapsed into silence.
“Mrs Fleischman has her uses,” Babbo said. “She knows all the right people and is delighted, and wealthy enough, to work without remuneration.”
“She’s getting divorced, Jim. For goodness sake … ’tis a disgrace!”
“I can help you.” I tentatively st
retched out a bandaged foot. I didn’t want Mrs Fleischman back. There was something about her that unsettled me. The way she’d swanned into our home, sable coat over her shoulders, snakeskin bag on her wrist, a well-practised smile on her crimson lips, pouting and purring and feigning an intelligence she didn’t possess.
“You already do enough, Lucia, what with writing my letters and to-ing and fro-ing from the lending library. Perhaps if you did less dancing on stage. Perhaps if you just danced at home …” Babbo’s voice tailed off.
“God save us! I can’t have her under me feet all day. The pair of you, driving me plunging mad to be sure, with all your blather about omens and rainbow girls.”
“You could do book-binding, Lucia.” Babbo leaned against the door frame and stared into the space above my head, his thin fingers toying with his bow tie.
For a minute I thought he was joking. I waited for the little silvery chortle inviting me to join him in his mirth. Mama was busy filling up the kettle and laying out cups and saucers. No one spoke.
“Book-binding?” I stood up and tried walking on my bound feet, hobbling up and down the kitchen. His words made no sense. Babbo loved my dancing. My dancing inspired him – everyone knew that. But would he prefer it if I was a book binder? Earning my own keep … Was that it? Or was it so that I could bind his books? I turned angrily towards him, my mouth choked with bitter words of accusation. But then it struck me. How stupid I’d been! He didn’t want me to dance for anyone else. That’s why he wanted me to dance at home and not on stage. He wanted me all for himself.
“Book-binding is the perfect profession for a young lady. For a young lady determined to have a profession, that is.” He coughed, a sort of punctuating cough as if to say that particular discussion was at an end. “No, Nora, I need the help of someone who will understand my work. McGreevy doesn’t have enough time. He’s always teaching now.”
“’Tis a shame, to be sure. Mr McGreevy’s always so considerate. What about that Mr Beckett? Can’t he help?”
I felt my breath catch in my chest. In an instant my alarm at the prospect of book-binding faded. I sat down and gripped the arms of the chair. Mr Beckett at Robiac Square. Mr Beckett working with Babbo. Was this another sign? The fates were surely throwing us together.
“Ah, yes, Mr Beckett. The thought had crossed my mind. His work on Proust would have to be put to one side. And I can’t pay him, of course.” Babbo lit a cigarette and in the flare of the match his face was brighter, his eyes clearer. “Yes, Mr Beckett. Certainly able enough. Well-read. Erudite. Thoughtful. What did you think of him, Nora?”
“He didn’t speak much, did he? Too busy hanging on your every word, like the rest of them.” Mama pushed a cup of tea towards me. “What’s the matter, Lucia? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Have yourself some tea; it’s good and strong.”
“I liked Mr Beckett,” I said, trying to sound casual. “He’s very clever isn’t he?”
“He didn’t smile much. Very serious, to be sure,” Mama continued. “Mr McGreevy makes me laugh. He has a powerful sense of humour, does Mr McGreevy, and such good manners. He always notices when I’ve had me hair done or got meself a new hat.”
“I shall ask young Mr Beckett. Indeed, I shall. Most would consider it a great honour, a great privilege, to help me with my work.” Babbo’s lips twitched as if he was suppressing a smile. “And if Lucia likes him, I’m sure we all will. Even if he lacks the charm and manners of our good friend, Mr McGreevy.”
“Speaking o’ charm, your composer friend was here today, looking for you, Lucia. All flustered he was, but I told him you were too busy dancing to be bothering about anyone else.” Mama looked pointedly at me.
“Emile? Mr Fernandez?” I waited for the tingle of excitement that usually accompanied Emile’s name. But there was nothing. His gentle smiling face swam briefly before me and I heard the opening bars of his last composition, the one I had danced so euphorically to. But then they disappeared as quickly as they had come. I felt a prick of guilt but a second later my thoughts swung back to Mr Beckett. Mr Sam Beckett at Robiac Square, every day. My fate, my destiny – how fast everything was moving!
“Sure, Mr Fernandez. That’s him. Smartly dressed he was too, in a suit o’ Donegal tweed. These Jews have so much money to throw around.” She got up heavily and moved to the sink with a long sigh. “When will you be asking Mr Beckett to start work, Jim?”
“I’ll walk to his rooms this instant. You’ll need to come with me, Nora. My eyes are so bad today I can barely see a yard in front of me.” He stood up and adjusted his waistcoat. “Will you join us, Lucia?”
I looked ruefully at my swollen feet in their layers of bandage.
“Don’t be foolish, Jim. The girl can’t walk! Put your feet up tonight, Lucia. You need to rest those feet o’ yours or you’ll no be dancing again. What about your tea, Jim?”
“No time. I must hire Mr Beckett now. Strike while the iron is hot, Nora. I need Mr Beckett at my beck and call. Will you find my hat and cane? Hurry, Nora. Hurry!” With his arms outstretched in front of him, Babbo lurched towards the door.
“Mother o’ God! Can’t I finish me tea?” Mama threw up her hands in exasperation. “Tell Giorgio there’s a nice bit o’ steak in the pantry, Lucia. And you’re to fry it for him. With some onions and potatoes.”
I listened to their departing steps, then limped to the stove and put the kettle back on. My brain was full of flip-flopping thoughts: excitement at the possibility of Mr Beckett coming to work at Robiac Square; confusion at the thought of Emile and a dull anger at Babbo’s suggestion of book-binding. Just so I couldn’t dance for anyone else! What was it that made Mama and Babbo so uncomfortable when I performed in public? They loved the idea of Giorgio singing to an audience. But why didn’t they feel the same way about me?
I had a sudden urge to dance. My feet were bound too thickly to contemplate any footwork so I dropped to the ground and did some jazz floor work, my torso rolling and twisting, my legs scissoring through the air above me. By the time the kettle began its shrill whistle, I felt calmer. And as I measured out the tea leaves and filled the pot with boiling water, I could think of nothing but Mr Beckett … Please God, let Mr Beckett come to Robiac Square. Please God …
4
November 1928
Paris
Kitten was the first person I confided in. We had just finished a two-hour rehearsal for the dance duet we were performing in Jean Renoir’s new film. We collapsed onto a bench in the tiny changing room behind the dance studio and I began examining my raw feet.
Kitten peeled off her stockings with one hand while holding her nose with the other. The familiar smells of shoe glue and face grease and stale eau-de-cologne carried an undertow of something sharp and metallic. “These must be the smelliest dressing rooms in all of Paris. What is that disgusting smell?” I sniffed at the air. The odour of urine caught in my throat and I felt an involuntary spike of bile rise inside me. “I think it’s the smell of piss … male piss.” I cast around for a window that could be opened. Why did dressing rooms never have windows?
“Oh that’s too disgusting.” Kitten kept her hand pegged to her nose.
“It reminds me of some of the places we lived in Trieste.” I felt a shudder run through me and stopped abruptly. “Do you mind if we change in the studio? Everyone’s gone and I’ve got something to tell you.”
“I knew it!” Kitten looked triumphantly at me. “You’re not the only clairvoyant one round here. I noticed it when you arrived with your stockings all rolled down like that. And late too. Not like you to arrive late, darling. Let’s go back to the studio and you can tell me everything.”
“Oh Kitten, I was just waiting for the right time to tell you.” We lugged our bags and coats back to the studio and squatted down beside the stove. I pressed my shoulder against hers, unable to keep my secret any longer. “I think I’m in love. I can’t think about anything else. I had to walk in the Jardin du Luxembourg to
calm myself, round and round the Medici Fountain. Did I dance very badly?”
“You danced with so much energy and radiance, I knew something simply marvellous must have happened to you. It’s Emile Fernandez isn’t it?” Kitten tilted her face and regarded me for a long second. I shook my head, lips clamped tightly together to stop my secret from spilling out too fast and ruining the drama of the moment.
“Oh, you dark horse! How could you keep such a big secret from me?”
“I just met him, Kitten. Two nights ago. His name’s Samuel Beckett. He likes to be called Sam but we call him Mr Beckett. And he’s wonderful!” I closed my eyes, dropped my head onto Kitten’s shoulder and sighed as I remembered the sharpness of his gaze, how it had enthralled and excited me.
“Fast work, darling! I forgive you for not telling me. But who is he?”
“It’s faster than you think.” I lifted my head and turned to face her. “I think we’ll get married. Not right away, of course. But eventually.”
Kitten gaped. “He’s proposed? Already?”
“No, of course not. He has to fall in love with me first, but I have a funny feeling he will.” I slid my foot up my thigh and pulled off a dancing shoe.
“You’ve had one of your clairvoyant experiences, I can tell.” Kitten rubbed my back slowly, as if trying to cajole more information from me, and I suddenly saw how ridiculous it all sounded. I knew Babbo would understand. I could see it now: the fervent look in his eyes, his spidery fingers reaching determinedly for a crayon, his voice dropping in deference as he gently questioned me. But I had no intention of telling him. This was not something I wanted to read about, however cryptic or obscure, in his book.
“He was the man staring at me through Michaud’s window, the night we celebrated my review in the Paris Times.” I licked my finger and dabbed at a blood stain on the heel of my dancing shoe. “Now he’s working for Babbo. And when I think of him my feet stop hurting. But last night I dreamed …” My voice faltered and I rubbed harder at the blood stain.