The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  “Yes?” Kitten gave my shoulder a little shake.

  “I dreamed we were intimate, like man and wife, covered in sunlight.” I didn’t tell her how I woke up throbbing and aching at the thought. Nor did I tell her that I’d had to dance round my room for half an hour just to calm myself. Instead, I said, “I’ve never felt this sort of closeness to someone I barely know.”

  She gave a stagey gasp, as though what I’d told her was too fantastical to absorb. “But who is he? Where’s he from?”

  “He’s Irish. He’s got these mesmerising eyes, the colour of sea water but really bright and piercing.”

  “He sounds terribly exotic. What’s he doing here?”

  “Teaching English. But he only has one pupil at the moment. He’s frightfully clever and he wants to be a great scholar. My mother’s arranged for him to meet Giorgio tonight at the Café du Dôme for aperitifs. Can you come?” My heart beat had quickened and already I could feel my body crackling and fizzling at the prospect of seeing Sam again.

  “Right now? But I need to wash – and I haven’t got anything to wear. And I need to rouge my cheeks. Can’t I go home first?”

  I looked at the clock on the wall. It was already six o’clock. I stood up, ran my fingers through my newly bobbed hair and smoothed down my dress. “No time. Come on, I’ll tell you about him on the way.”

  “What about your stockings? Aren’t you rolling them down again?”

  “Giorgio might tell Mama and then I wouldn’t hear the end of it. I was only trying it out.” I gave a small shiver as I scooped up my bag and headed for the door.

  “But they looked so daring,” said Kitten in a disappointed voice. “I guess it is a bit cold now.”

  As we stepped out of the studio, we felt the snap of winter, a brittleness and sharpness in the air that made us pull our coats tightly round our bodies and tug our hats down over our ears. The boulevard Montparnasse was rousing itself for another night of revelry. The flower carts were heavy with thick bunches of red-berried holly and winter-flowering jasmine and the smell of charred chestnut skins was everywhere. The sorrowful voices of street singers mingled with the cries of newspaper vendors and hawkers from the tobacco carts. The balloon sellers and the sheet-music vendors and the puppeteers were packing up and calling out to each other. The old women who sold shoe laces from up-ended umbrellas were stretching their limbs and yawning. The sword swallowers and fire breathers and jugglers were preparing for their evening acts. And everywhere people were spilling out of the bars as they ambled from one to another, looking for mislaid friends or somewhere cheaper to drink.

  “I can’t believe you’re making me see Giorgio, dressed like this.” Kitten pointed down at her feet. Instead of her usual elegantly heeled shoes with their buckles and buttons, she was wearing her sensible brown Oxfords that she always walked home in after dance classes.

  “He won’t mind. You won’t tell him about me and Mr Beckett, will you?” I stopped to drop a few coins into the tin mug of a beggar crouching on the pavement, his wooden crutches lying across his knees. “Giorgio and Mama are a bit funny about Babbo calling me ‘his Cassandra’. It is odd, though. I see him through a window staring at me, then he turns up at our house. And he’s Irish and speaks fluent Italian, like us. And now he’s coming to work for Babbo and he’ll be at our house every day.”

  I looped my arm through Kitten’s and drew her towards me. Ahead of us the warm lights of the Dôme streamed onto the boulevard. My pulse quickened and I took a deep breath of cold air.

  “But do all your predictions come true? I mean every single one of them?” Kitten persisted.

  I hesitated, unsure how to explain Babbo’s certitude, his conviction about my clairvoyance. “They’re not so much predictions as – as intuitions. Last Friday I woke up thinking about an old friend of ours from Zurich. We’d heard nothing from her for three years, but an hour later the post-boy brought a letter from her saying she was coming to Paris.” I chewed on my nail, thinking back to that morning. I’d woken with an odd tingling at the base of my spine and an image of Jeanne Wertenberg (who I hadn’t thought of for at least a year) lodged inexplicably in my head. When her letter came, I told Babbo and was duly quizzed: How had she looked? What was she doing? Had she spoken? What was in the letter? How long did my spine tingle for? And then he’d closed his eyes and muttered about the mysterious workings of the somnolent mind.

  “Sometimes they come as dreams.” I stopped at the flower cart we were passing and buried my nose in the spears of yellow jasmine standing in enamel buckets.

  “I know your dream about me came true. That was uncanny. Even Pa said so, and he’s so cynical about most things.” Kitten paused, as if recalling the experience. “D’you remember, Lucia? You dreamed I danced the lead role in La Création du Monde in Saint-Paul-de-Vence? And then I got the part.”

  “It’s the vivid ones that come true, where I remember every detail, every smell and sound, and the colours are so bright it hurts my eyes. When I dreamt of me and Mr Beckett naked, I could feel the heat of the sun on me, all golden, and the angles of his bones beneath me. And a strange ticking noise in the background, like a clock. You won’t breathe a word will you, Kitten?”

  “Of course not, darling.” Kitten turned and smiled at me. “But if you dream about me again, you will tell me won’t you? Even if it’s horrible. Even if I’m in a coffin.”

  I unlinked my arm from hers and turned a few pirouettes as we passed the oyster-sellers with their baskets and knives squatting on the terrace of the Dôme.

  “I’m only a prophet of happiness, Kitten.” But my words were drowned out by the laughter and cries surging from the cafe as we pushed open the doors.

  We spotted Giorgio and Mr Beckett immediately. They were standing at the bar, blowing out long columns of cigarette smoke.

  “Hello flappers!” Giorgio pulled me to him and smacked a kiss on each of my cheeks. “I’ve been telling Mr Beckett about the best jazz haunts in Paris, but turns out he’s more of an instrumental man. Isn’t that right, Mr Beckett?” Giorgio paused to kiss Kitten and compliment her on her glowing complexion. Mr Beckett stood shifting nervously from one foot to the other, puffing rapidly on his cigarette.

  “We all kiss in Paris, Mr Beckett,” I said, feeling a warm flush rise up my throat. I stretched up and kissed him on each cheek, letting his stubble graze my lips and the smoke from his cigarette coil round my face. As I stepped back, I dipped my head, hoping Mr Beckett wouldn’t see my burning cheeks.

  “Oh yes, it’s the Paris way. I’m Kitten.” She leant across me and offered her cheek to Mr Beckett. “It’s one of the things I love about Paris,” she added as she peeled off her gloves. “All the kissing! And if it’s music you’re after, Giorgio sings like an angel.”

  “Thank you, Kitten. These two do nothing but dance.” Giorgio turned to Mr Beckett, and as he gestured at us with his cigarette I noticed the glimmer of its gold filter. These weren’t his usual hand-rolled cigarettes and I wondered if he’d been paid for something. But before I could ask, he began talking again. “Day and night. Dancing, dancing, dancing. It drives Mother and Father mad.”

  “O body swayed to music, o brightening glance, how can we know the dancer from the dance?” Mr Beckett’s eyes were on me and I promptly forgot about Giorgio’s good fortune.

  I arched my brows. “Did you write that, Mr Beckett?”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s an Irish poem I’ve been reading. Do you like poetry, Miss Joyce?”

  “Of course. I’m just choreographing a new dance inspired by a Keats poem you might know.” I hesitated then saw the light spike encouragingly in his eyes and was about to continue when Giorgio interrupted.

  “Tell him about Paris, Lucia. Tell him about the parties and the night clubs. He needs more friends. He only knows us and Thomas McGreevy, and McGreevy’s more mouse than man.” Giorgio punched out his gold-tipped cigarette and called to the waiter for another round of Martinis.

&
nbsp; I turned to Mr Beckett. “I’m so glad you accepted Babbo’s job offer. He’s been very unwell. Some days he can’t see anything. He has to write with huge crayons and wear two pairs of glasses, one on top of the other. Light hurts his eyes, so you have to remember to keep the curtains closed.”

  “How will I read to him?” Mr Beckett frowned.

  “You have to sit by the window and open the curtains just a crack, so the light falls only on your book. That’s what I do.”

  “It’s a great honour to work for your father,” he said gravely.

  “I expect you’ll be wanting to visit the salons. Babbo’s been a couple of times, to Miss Stein’s salon and to Miss Barney’s. All the great artists go there. I can get you an invitation if you want?”

  “They’re all lesbians! Why on earth would he want to go there? Unless he wants to observe wealthy Americans at play.” Giorgio flipped open his lighter then snapped it shut. And I thought how bitter he sounded. But I said nothing. Bit my tongue. Rolled my eyes at Kitten, who suddenly looked tired and sad. And that was when I glanced down and noticed Giorgio’s shoes. They had been polished so vigorously they seemed to radiate light.

  “Who’s been polishing your shoes, Giorgio?” I asked. Even Mama, in her maternal devotion to him, would never expend that much effort on his shoes.

  He gave a child-like grin. “Never you mind, Lucia!” He turned to Mr Beckett. “I’ll show you the jazz clubs. Lucia can show you the bal-musettes and the dance theatres and my father will show you the opera and the Seine. Did he mention his daily walks by the Seine? No, I thought not. He has to be accompanied – you’ll get used to it.”

  “I’m not completely friendless.” Mr Beckett gave a tentative smile. “I’ve joined the university rugby team. As a scrum half.”

  “Oh well done, Mr Beckett!” Kitten clapped her hands together. “Are you keen on sports?”

  Mr Beckett nodded. “I played a lot of cricket back in Dublin. And tennis and golf. I even tried my hand at motorcycle racing and roller-skating.” He gave an embarrassed cough as though he’d said too much.

  Giorgio looked Mr Beckett up and down. “Wouldn’t have thought you’ve the right build for rugby.”

  I felt my heart miss a beat. What if Mr Beckett – Sam – was injured or squashed to death in a rugby scrum? I looked anxiously at his thin body, noting the blades of his bones just visible beneath his suit.

  “My lungs aren’t great, it’s true,” he said at last, patting his chest and nodding pensively. He gave a rattling cough as if to prove the point.

  “That’ll be the Irish weather,” said Giorgio, offering Mr Beckett one of his gold-tipped cigarettes. “Your lungs will be fine here. When we were last in Ireland it rained every day. D’you remember, Lucia? Rain. And people trying to shoot us. And boiled potatoes full of black eyes. Damned awful place!”

  I nodded, remembering the sounds of gunfire as Giorgio, Mama and I sat on a train trying to escape the fighting that had broken out. Mama and I had thrown ourselves to the floor of the carriage but Giorgio had stayed bravely in his seat, saying he’d take the bullets for us.

  “The countryside is beautiful though.” Mr Beckett inhaled deeply on his cigarette, scooping out his cheeks. “They have these pink and green sunsets I’ve never seen anywhere else.”

  I tried to remember an Irish sunset but Kitten changed the subject with such haste, I blushingly forgot all about Ireland.

  “Lucia is an amazing gymnast, aren’t you, Lucia?” She nudged me in the back as if I was an actress who’d forgotten my lines and needed prompting. “In fact she was a gymnast before she became a dancer. And she sings and plays the piano and she paints too, don’t you, Lucia?”

  “Lucia has so many talents, why she chose dancing is a mystery to us all.” Giorgio looked at me and smiled like a proud parent, his chest all puffed up.

  Mr Beckett turned and stared at me, the light in his eyes brightening again. I flushed and shook my head awkwardly.

  “And everyone knows she’s Mr Joyce’s muse, don’t they, Giorgio?” Kitten turned to Giorgio, nodding her head in an exaggerated manner. But Giorgio was waving to someone across the bar and didn’t answer.

  “I imagine you make a splendid muse,” Mr Beckett murmured, his eyes fastened on me, as though I was an exotic butterfly he’d caught quite unexpectedly and didn’t know what to do with.

  “Time for me to show you the joys of Montmartre, Mr Beckett. You flappers run along home. Tell Mother I’ll be late, Lucia.” Giorgio dropped his cigarette butt to the floor, and stamped it out with the heel of his gleaming shoe.

  “Can’t we come with you?” I felt my stomach churn, cold and sour. Giorgio had never dismissed me like this before. It struck me then, quite suddenly, that our age-old bond was stretching and tearing at the edges, like a piece of fraying fabric. Had I been too caught up in my dancing to notice what was happening to Giorgio?

  “Mother and Father wouldn’t approve.” He threw a stack of five-franc notes carelessly onto the bar and something in the way he did it, the ease and nonchalance of it, made my stomach churn a second time. How different from all those times when the two of us had combed each other’s pockets for coins, counting and shining each one, hurrying out to avoid the waiters’ scowls because we couldn’t leave a tip.

  But then Mr Beckett leaned towards me and kissed me on each cheek. And when I pulled back, he was grinning like a boy, so proud and triumphant I forgot about Giorgio.

  “Gee, Mr Beckett.” Kitten stepped in front of me and raised her cheek expectantly. “Just like a Parisian gentleman now. I bet they don’t do that in Ireland.”

  As he kissed Kitten’s cheeks, Mr Beckett kept his eyes on mine, until my heart was thumping so hard against my ribs I had to pull my gaze away for fear he would see the thumping reflected in my eyes.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lucia,” he said quietly, as Kitten and I pulled on our coats and hats. “Perhaps you’ll tell me more about that dance you’re choreographing? Take into the air my quiet breath …”

  “Oh,” I said, flustered. “Yes, Keats. See you tomorrow.”

  As we made our way, arm-in-arm, to the tram stop, Kitten could talk of nothing but how Mr Beckett had stared and stared at me. “Why didn’t you tell him how marvellous you are, darling? You were far too modest!” She shook her head in a helpless gesture.

  “Don’t you think he’s handsome?”

  “Too bony and skinny for me. I like my men a little more filled out.” She laughed. “D’you know who he reminded me of though?”

  “A Roman God? Lord Byron?” I gave a little skip as I thought of Mr Beckett’s hard, sinewy body, his face that looked as though it had been hewn from marble, his slicked-back hair still carrying the trails of his comb.

  “He looked like your Pa. If he changed his glasses and grew a little beard and got some more stylish clothes, he could be mistaken for your brother.” Kitten giggled and then a shadow crossed her face. “Giorgio was odd tonight.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, remembering the shine of Giorgio’s shoes, the unusually thick twist of notes he’d left on the bar, his expensive cigarettes, his easy dismissal of me. But then Kitten’s tram appeared, rattling and swaying down the boulevard Montparnasse, and saving me from any further discussion of Giorgio.

  * * *

  The following morning I was leaving for my dance class, when Giorgio appeared in the kitchen yawning and wiping the sleep from his dark circled eyes. “Off already?” He asked blearily.

  “Yes, I’m late. How was Montmartre?” I pushed my dance shoes into my bag and skittered towards the door. I wanted to ask him a hundred questions but there wasn’t time.

  “It was good.” Giorgio stretched and yawned again. “Beckett warms up after a few drinks. He’s got quite a sense of humour when he’s had a drop. And that reminds me, Lucia.” He paused, plunged his hands into his pockets and fumbled for his cigarettes. “You have an admirer.”

  I turned back from the door, my heart pump
ing like a piston. “Who?”

  “That is something I cannot possibly divulge.” He jammed a cigarette between his lips and began groping for his lighter. “God damn it! I left my lighter in that bloody bar!”

  “Who?” I asked again.

  “An admirer. That’s all I’m saying.” He staggered towards me and gave me a gentle shove. “You’re going to be late, Lucia. You couldn’t do a detour and pick up my lighter from Montmartre, could you?”

  But I was gone, giddy and light-headed, skipping down the five flights of steps on the balls of my feet. And out into the clean shining light of a day so bright with promise I whirled and spun all the way to my dance class.

  September 1934

  Küsnacht, Zurich

  “A new fur coat, Miss Joyce?” Doctor Jung stands behind his polished desk, looking me up and down with his lizard eyes.

  “Babbo bought it. I lost the other one.” A tear squeezes at the corner of my eye. How could I have been so stupid! Babbo has enough to do without having to buy me replacement coats. If his great work is never completed, it will be my fault, all my fault … I lift the collar of my fox fur and bury my chin deep into its soft folds.

  “No need to suffocate yourself, Miss Joyce. It’s unlikely to blow away in here.” The doctor crosses the room and closes the window, as if he thinks a gust of wind might rip the coat from my body.

  “It didn’t blow away!” I say indignantly. “I left it at the zoo. I was watching the bears, with that woman you’re paying to spy on me, and I left it on a bench.” I stop and look out of the window, across the flat glassy expanse of Lake Zurich. I can hear the shrill cry of the gulls and the faint chugging of the ferry coming towards the jetty.

  “And how are you getting on with Madame Baynes?” Doctor Jung goes back to his desk and picks up the first chapters of my memoir.

  “I know she’s your spy. And I refuse to tell her my dreams. Anyway, what did you think of my story? Did you like it?” I fiddle nervously with the buttons on my coat, pushing them into their button holes and then tugging them out, one by one.