by Annabel Abbs
I stumbled to the door, slamming it behind me. Once in my room I fell onto the bed, choking back my bitter sobs. For I knew that Giorgio had gone. That whatever it was that had stitched us so tightly together had gone. Mrs Fleischman was to blame, of course. She had persuaded Giorgio to lie to me, to deceive Mama and Babbo. The air around me was no longer heavy with beeswax and perfume. Now it seemed thin and white and tarnished. But as my sobs subsided, it struck me I was wrong – and that it wasn’t necessarily Mrs Fleischman who had seduced Giorgio. What if Giorgio had seduced Mrs Fleischman? A shiver of anxiety ran through me. Had I got everything wrong? Was he, coldly and deliberately, using her for his own ends? His words of the previous month, when I turned down Emile, surfaced reluctantly in my memory. He had accused me of being mad and selfish. Was I? Was this my fault? No! I shook my head so hard my eyes popped. This, I told myself, was Mrs Fleischman’s fault. Anything else was unthinkable ….
October 1934
Küsnacht, Zurich
“I’m not interested in your brother.” Doctor Jung bats at the air with his hand, as if flicking away a fly. “It’s your father who is the problem.”
“Babbo’s not a problem. He’s the only one who understands me, the only person who has stuck with me through this – this crise de nerfs.” I try to move my chair away but it’s too heavy. Doctor Jung has seated himself in the adjacent armchair and pulled it so close to mine I can smell the sourness of his breath.
“And why is that, Miss Joyce? Why is that?” He edges his chair closer and I try again to move my chair away. When it doesn’t move, I shrink into the back of the chair until I’m sure I must be about to disappear into the upholstery.
“Because only he loves me now!”
Doctor Jung gets up angrily from his chair and begins pacing round the room, sighing and scowling at me. “We need transference. Your father needs to leave Zurich; he needs to leave you. Until you can transfer your feelings for him to me, I cannot help you. And him hanging around in Zurich, watching over you, is not helping.”
“He has left,” I say, stroking my fur coat, wishing the doctor would stop shouting at me, stop pecking and plucking at my secrets.
“No he hasn’t!” Doctor Jung walks to his desk and picks up my manuscript. “This,” he says, giving it a derisory shake, “is pointless unless your father stops interfering with your treatment.”
I flinch. I have spent hours and hours, days and days, writing the story of my life and now the great Doctor Jung tells me it’s ‘pointless’.
“So Madame Baynes has been spying on me again, has she?”
“She is not a spy.” The doctor sighs heavily and eases his large thighs into his swivel chair. “She is helping you. She is helping me. Everyone has seen your father in Zurich. He is well known, Miss Joyce.” He writes something laboriously in his notebook and then slaps it closed and gets up again.
I stare out of the window at the silvery winter sky and the looming hills. How did it come to this? How is it that Giorgio is in New York, about to sing on the wireless? That he has a chauffeur and a wife and a son? How is it that I, who had so much more talent, who worked so diligently, am sitting here being hectored by a fat Swiss man with a pocket watch … being spied on … friendless and hopeless … incarcerated. How did this come to be?
Doctor Jung follows the direction of my gaze. “You like the hills, Miss Joyce? What do they make you think of? Your father?”
I frown. “My father? Is that all you can think of?”
“I shall insist he leaves Zurich. I have no choice now.” He spins slowly in his swivel chair, keeping his eyes fixed on me.
I shrug. “You can do what you like. I don’t care anymore.”
“Miss Joyce,” the doctor hesitates and drums his fingers menacingly on his notebook. “I think this is a way of getting your father’s attention. By pretending to be in need of psychiatric help, you are forcing him to pay attention to you.”
I pause to think about his words. Does he mean that I am pretending to feel the way I do? That the empty spaces inside my head, that the fear and hopelessness that so often grip me now … are feigned? Just to get Babbo’s attention?
His voice softens. “The sort of attention he paid you when you shared a bedroom perhaps?”
I stare at him, speechless, my fingers frozen against my fur coat.
“I see I have dumbfounded you, Miss Joyce. Well, if you’d rather talk about your brother, I suppose it won’t do any harm. Why were you so upset about his dalliance with Mrs Fleischman?” Doctor Jung prods my manuscript with a fat forefinger.
I blink hard, blinking away his stupid theories. Then I close my eyes and imagine Giorgio. And he struggles slowly into focus, like a person coming up from the ocean. His body as thin as a strap, his long gangly legs, his swept back hair and owlish spectacles – the very image of Babbo, everyone said that. I begin stroking my fur coat again, keeping the pressure of my fingertips firm and even. “Because something had changed. We’d been so inseparable, the best of friends. For twenty years we’d done everything together, looked after each other at every new school, played together when we had no friends. Even Babbo said the love between us was an out-of-the-ordinary love.” I pause and look at Doctor Jung.
“Go on, Miss Joyce.”
“I thought I’d let him down – not marrying Emile. I thought he was trying to save the family finances by becoming Mrs Fleischman’s lover and getting her money and her connections.”
“Exactly as you were supposed to do with Emile Fernandez?”
“Yes.” I nod miserably. Dear, kind Emile … always cheerful and smiling. Why hadn’t I married him? Why had I got everything so very wrong?”
Doctor Jung gets up and begins pacing again, his large hands swinging loosely at his side. “I never get any exercise so I’m very glad to walk up and down. I apologise if you find it distracting, Miss Joyce. But back to Giorgio. Was he jealous of your feelings for Mr Beckett? Was Mrs Fleischman his revenge?”
I close my eyes briefly, summoning back those memories that only last week had been as sharp and clear as glass. “He didn’t know at that stage. Only Kitten knew about me and Mr Beckett.”
Doctor Jung circles me, his hands now pushed deep into his pockets.
“It was all about money,” I continue. “I noticed – in Paris and Zurich and Trieste – that rich people are different. They move differently, more upright, more graceful. Mrs Fleischman had a certain poise that neither I nor Mama had. Giorgio saw this too.”
“None of your problems are anything to do with money,” the doctor says bluntly. “Stop buggering around and blaming other things. Your father didn’t let a lack of money stop him, did he?”
I wince at his words. This isn’t the first time Doctor Jung has become aggressive and rude to me. “They even talk differently, rich people. Their voices are fuller and rounder and louder. Have you noticed that, Doctor?”
But he isn’t looking at me. He’s peering down at the floor, by my feet, at my lower calves. “Are you wearing anything under that fur coat, Miss Joyce?”
“Of course!” I draw myself up to my full height and lift my chin. Who does he think he is? I don’t tell him that I’m naked beneath my coat. Naked but for my French knickers. I feel the furry hem of my coat brush against the skin of my bare legs. How good it feels! How free! Is this the only freedom left me now? A picture of Mama’s blurred face floats before me. How angry she would be – how shamed – if she could see me now. Not properly attired. A strumpet!
“Excuse me a minute, Miss Joyce.” The doctor moves towards the door and opens it. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
The instant Doctor Jung leaves the room I go to his desk. His leather-bound notebook is lying there, whispering to me, calling to me, begging me to open it. He could be back any second. And if he catches me, there’s no knowing what he might do. Send me back to the lunatic asylum? Put me in a straitjacket? Bind me to Madame Baynes?
I open the notebook, gingerly
at first, my eyes flickering from the book to the door, ready to spring back into my chair. I rifle through until I come to the final page. It bears one word. A single word in the doctor’s scrappy shredded handwriting, the nib pushed so hard against the paper it’s almost broken through. Big scratchy letters, right across the centre. What does it say?
I hear his footsteps, soft on the scrubbed flagstones of the hall. He’s at the door. I see the handle turn. Quickly I close the notebook and skitter to my chair.
In that fleeting glimpse I saw a word but it makes no sense. I need more time. I need to see it again. But the doctor’s striding to his desk, his eyes bright with purpose. He picks up his notebook, locks it in the drawer of his mahogany desk and slips the key into his pocket.
The word I saw, was it ‘insect’? Does he think I’m an insect? Spineless? Not enough backbone to leave home. Is that it? I perch on the edge of my chair, baffled and bewildered. Insect? Am I nothing but an insect now?
8
February 1929
Paris
“They’re arguing about money,” I whispered, stepping closer to Mr Beckett in the dim hallway. The angry voices of Babbo and Giorgio drifted through Babbo’s open study door and down the hall to where Mr Beckett and I hovered.
“Should I go?” Mr Beckett took a step back towards the front door.
“He thinks, because he’s a genius, that other people should pay for everything. But it never seems to be quite enough. I’ve suggested not dining out every night but Mama won’t hear of it – even though I’ve offered to do all the shopping and cooking. And I’m sure we could spend less on clothes. The lady who pays for all this lives like a puritan.” I looked conspicuously at my new shoes with their rows of mother-of-pearl buttons and their carved heels.
“All the great artists had patrons.” Mr Beckett’s voice was barely audible.
But Giorgio’s voice had risen almost to a shout. “So why did you give four collectors’ copies of Ulysses to Mother’s doctors? Four of them! The leather-bound ones! How will they become collectors’ books if you hand them out willy nilly?”
“Those doctors looked after your mother exceptionally well.” Babbo’s tone was clipped and dry.
“And they were well paid for that. The American Hospital is twice the price of the local hospital.”
We heard Babbo sigh wearily in response. Mr Beckett’s eyes darted to the front door, but I put my hand calmly on his arm and said, “They’ve nearly finished. Just give them a minute and then I’ll take you through.”
“Or leave them in the family – that’s the alternative.” Giorgio’s voice was strident.
“Ah, your inheritance. Is that what this is all about, Giorgio?”
“Of course not!” snapped Giorgio. “I’m just thinking of you and Mama. You need to be less generous and you need to charge more. Do you know what Picasso is charging for his little pictures these days? You’re his equivalent but you’re paid a pittance. And look how hard you work, every day from morning ’til night. For what?”
“So tell me, Giorgio, what is Monsieur Picasso selling his paintings for?” Babbo couldn’t conceal his eager curiosity.
“Apparently he sold some small picture of his current mistress to Gertrude Stein for $500 last week.” Giorgio paused.
I eyed Mr Beckett from beneath my lashes. The air was thick with his discomfort and I wondered if I should release him. But something prevented me. It was as if I wanted him to see us as we were, the famous Joyces stripped back to the bone. And greedy Giorgio fighting for the only thing he seemed to care about now.
Giorgio started again, his voice swelling with indignation. “But since then he’s been boasting that it only took him four hours to paint. Four hours! You work ten times as hard for a fraction of the money. Surely you’re as great – no, greater than Pablo Picasso? Everyone says you’re a genius. So why aren’t you decently paid? Your words will last forever in the minds of millions. They’ll change lives. But Picasso’s pictures will sit on someone’s wall and be appreciated by … by … Gertrude Stein!” He spat out her name as though it was a fly that had flown into his mouth.
“I have no intention of pandering to Miss Stein but I accept your point about my value. How does one put a price on that?”
“I think we should start with the chapters of Work in Progress the Black Sun Press is publishing. What have they offered you?”
“$1,000. Not much to Picasso I imagine.”
“That would be eight hours of Picasso’s time. Eight hours! And how long have you slaved over those words, Father?” Giorgio’s voice had risen again, shot with barely stifled outrage.
“It’s my life’s work, Giorgio. My whole life is in there. I have nothing left.”
“Quite. You must insist on double or treble what they’ve offered you. You should never take someone’s first offer. Never!”
“But they’ve been so kind to me. Did I tell you about the giant light bulb they had specially made so I could see the text? And they still magnified it so I didn’t have to strain my eyes with the editing. When you’ve had your books rejected by as many publishers as I have, you appreciate these little touches of kindness.”
“That was the past, Father. Before your talents were recognised. Now you must model yourself on Picasso. He clearly has no inhibitions about demanding what is rightfully his. You must ask for what is rightfully yours. Get a pen and I’ll write to the Black Sun Press asking for $2,000. And when they try and negotiate – which they will – we are not going to budge. Understand, Father?”
“I think I should go.” Mr Beckett was edging up the hall, towards the front door.
“Oh no, Sam, Babbo will be ready for you now. I’ll show you in.” I grabbed his hand, his thin bony hand, and pulled him towards Babbo’s study, calling out “Babbo! Mr Beckett is here!”
“Come in, Mr Beckett.” Babbo’s head appeared round the study door, his eye patch clamped to his head beneath his spectacles. “Giorgio is just writing a letter for me. Come out of that dim hall and into the light. Close the curtains, would you, Lucia.” In the silence I heard the scratching of Giorgio’s nib and Mr Beckett clearing his throat.
“Dim,” said Babbo, thoughtfully. “Dim. Dumb. Done. Damn.”
Mr Beckett cleared his throat again, a little louder this time.
“Lucia, are you done with holding dumb-founded Mr Beckett’s damn hand?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I dropped Mr Beckett’s hand in a flustered way, and moved towards the curtains. I pulled them together, leaving just enough space for light to fall on whatever book Mr Beckett would read that evening.
“I think …” Babbo paused and straightened his eye patch. “It’s time to drop the ‘Mr’. Don’t you agree, Lucia?”
I turned back into the room, a vertiginous joy rushing through me. “Oh yes, Babbo. Mr Beckett is almost family now!”
“From this day on, you are to be Beckett in this house. Just Beckett.” Babbo got up from his chair and offered his outstretched hand to Mr Beckett.
“That’s a great honour, Sir.” Mr Beckett stood there, smiling, his eyes shining in the gloom. Then he thrust his hand out and shook Babbo’s hand and I did a little pirouette, carefully avoiding the towers of books and maps and newspapers that lay across the floor.
Babbo sat down again, nodding and fiddling with the bow tie that sat at his throat like an impaled butterfly. “Shut the door behind you, Lucia … From swerve of shore to bend of bay. What do you think of that, Beckett?”
My mouth curled into a smile as I closed the door. Babbo had never called anyone by anything but Mr or Mrs, except immediate family. Even his favourite flatterers were ‘Mr This’ and ‘Miss That’. And now Mr Beckett was to be Beckett – plain Beckett. Was this another omen? Another sign that we were meant to be together? A presage of my future as Mrs Beckett?
9
April 1929
Paris
For all of March and April I did nothing but dance and stitch. I was blis
tered all over. My feet ached from dancing all day and my fingers were red and raw from sewing all night. There were only two weeks to go before the International Festival of Dance, at the Bal Bullier in Montparnasse, and I was starting to tingle with anticipation.
I’d thought long and hard about my performance. Babbo had wanted me to do a dance of the River Liffey. I knew the Liffey was an important part of Work in Progress, but for some reason I didn’t want it to be the central theme of my choreography. Eventually I’d decided to dance as a mermaid, appeasing Babbo by suggesting I came from the watery depths of his beloved Dublin Bay.
I designed and made a costume of blue, green and silver sequinned moiré that would transform me from Lucia, daughter of James Joyce, into Lucia, dancing fish and writhing mermaid. I would have scales and fins and gills but also long braids of seaweedy hair tumbling to my waist. I made the fins from pigeon feathers I’d collected in the Jardin du Luxembourg and dyed a luminous briny blue. On my head would be a skull cap of scales into which I could tuck my hair.
Whenever I pricked my finger or accidentally tugged the thread so it cut into my skin, I closed my eyes and imagined myself on stage, glittering and sparkling as I dived and leapt and twisted and turned. I imagined the enthralled shouts and cries of an ecstatic audience. I imagined the eyes of Beckett upon me, wild and thrilling. I imagined Monsieur Borlin waving his fan and shouting, ‘My most talented pupil!’ And Babbo, standing, his hands sore from clapping, his throat parched from cheering.
Mama was still recuperating after her surgery and so we spent most evenings sitting together in companionable silence, listening to the rasping of Babbo’s pen and the rising and falling of Giorgio’s voice as he practised. Giorgio was to make his singing debut, his first solo recital, the week before my performance. Mama and Babbo were so enthused about Giorgio’s concert, so anxious that nothing should affect his voice, that I was left to dance and sew in peace. If only Mama knew about Mrs Fleischman, I thought. But I had no intention of revealing his secret.