The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  When we got to the front door, Beckett touched my arm gently and said, “I’m looking forward to our dancing lesson. Goodnight, dancing mermaid.” And once again I was lost, completely lost.

  * * *

  The next morning I woke late, my head woolly from the previous night’s champagne. Almost immediately the sound of applause and the cries of the heckling crowds came back to me and I smiled as I stretched out under my blanket. I recalled the conversation with Beckett over dinner, the feel of his hand on mine, his admiring glances that seemed to take in my whole body, his attempt to kiss me, his parting words – affectionate and intimate. I remembered Madika’s words, her proposal to train me for the next International Festival of Dance. And then I remembered her question about whether I had been classically trained and it was as if a small dark cloud had appeared in a bright summer sky.

  A few minutes later the cloud cleared, and my future was suddenly obvious. Of course! Why hadn’t I realised this? Hadn’t she said I was like a building with shaky foundations? Well, perhaps not quite. But that was clearly what she had implied. The foundations were not in place. And without foundations I would be nothing. I would be little more than a rootless tree blowing in the wind.

  And as the image of a rootless tree appeared in my mind’s eye, a recent dream flashed before me. A chestnut tree under a restless sky. Its boughs dragging in the air. Its gnarled roots creeping over a single nameless grave. I clutched at the memory. Was this an omen? A sign that I needed deeper roots? I’d ignored the dream at the time. Such a sliver of a dream it had been. So flimsy and indecipherable and without the vividness and bright colours I associated with my clairvoyant dreams. But now I realised this snatch of a dream was telling me something. Was it telling me that without well-grounded roots I might die? Was that it? Was this eerie image a sign that my spirit might die if I didn’t anchor my dancing in classical ballet?

  I leapt out of bed, threw on my dance tunic, tugged a brush through my hair and ran through the apartment, down the five flights of stairs, out into Robiac Square and down the rue de Grenelle. Past the concierges scrubbing doorsteps on their knees, past the butchers and bakers winding down their awnings, past the fat fishmonger heaving slippery eels from wooden crates, past the white-aproned waiters laying out rows of chairs on the sidewalk, past the musty shop where I bought my first dancing shoes. I ran all the way to the Seine. Cyclists rang their bells at me, horns beeped, motor cars swerved, a caped gendarme blew his whistle, flocks of pigeons rose into the air. But on I ran. Along the edge of the Seine, past the booksellers setting up their stalls, past the flower carts where the air was thick and heavy with the scent of hyacinths, past the caged birds where the immured parrots flapped and shrieked.

  I ran until I got to the rue de Sèvres, where I stopped to smooth down my dress and wipe the sweat from my face. I knew where her academy was and, although it was too early for classes, I knew enough of Madame Egorova to guess she’d be there, preparing for her pupils, tidying the studio, dabbing at the mirrors with a handkerchief. I pushed open the door, climbed several flights of stairs and there at the top was her studio. This was it! The best place to train as a ballerina in all of France. And there she was, Madame Egorova, standing in front of a mirror and pulling her hair into a knot.

  * * *

  “You’re doing what?” Kitten could barely hide her incredulity.

  “Training as a ballerina,” I repeated, pushing a cup of tea towards her.

  “So you won’t be training with Madika?”

  “No. I have to master the principles first. It was Madika who made me see that.” It seemed very clear to me and I couldn’t understand why Kitten was being so stupid.

  “But that’s what Zelda Fitzgerald’s doing. You must have heard what people are saying about her. You don’t think you’re too old?” Kitten dropped a cube of sugar into her tea and stirred it, watching me from beneath her lashes.

  “Of course I’m not too old! I’m much younger than Mrs Fitzgerald. Madame Egorova danced with the Ballets Russes and Diaghilev and Nijinsky – she knows what she’s doing.”

  “Yes, I know that.” Kitten’s voice was a trifle sharp. “She knows what she’s doing but do you? Everyone says you have a gift for dancing, but for rhythmic dancing, for modern dance. It’s completely different.” Kitten pulled her lips into a thin line and shook her head as if I was an idiot.

  I explained to Kitten that I was like a wonderful building without foundations. And then I pointed out of the window towards the Eiffel Tower as if to make my point.

  “Tosh!” Kitten tossed her head. “Do you know how terribly hard she’ll make you work? Do you have any idea of the hours and hours she’ll expect you to practise?”

  I was taken aback by the vehemence of Kitten’s views. She was still stirring her tea, scraping the spoon round and round the bottom of her cup, as though she might find something there that would confirm her words. “What do your parents say?”

  “Oh they don’t care. Their minds are on other things at the moment. Babbo has a book of essays coming out and Mama’s planning some big trip for him or else she’s waiting hand and foot on Giorgio. I think they’re pleased I’m going to be out of their way. Anyway it’s too late now – I’ve already told Madika I won’t train with her this year. And she thinks it’s a good idea. She’s offered to have me back after I’ve done a year of ballet.”

  “Have you had one of your Cassandra moments? Is that why you’re so determined this is the right course?”

  “No,” I said, toying with my necklace. I didn’t want to share my strange dream of a tree and a grave with Kitten when she was in such a hostile mood. She’d probably interpret it in an entirely different way. She might even say it was a sign of impending death if I did take up ballet.

  “Well, I think it’s a mistake. I’m sorry, but I do.” Kitten took the teaspoon out of her tea and laid it carefully in the saucer. After a few minutes of jagged silence, she continued, “But I’m your friend so I’ll support you whatever you do. What about the dance troupe – will you carry on dancing with us?”

  “I will if I can but I can’t make any promises. Madame Egorova made it very clear what she expects from me.” My voice trailed off as I recalled the meeting with Madame, her dark glittering eyes like polished pebbles, her hair pulled back so tightly I could see the stretched line of her scalp. Madame had demanded ‘no less than six hours a day, every day, here in my studio’. I hadn’t balked. I had been dancing for six years, often for hours and hours every day. Her pebble eyes flashing, Madame had talked of ‘the need to subdue the body’ and said I must prepare ‘to push my body beyond its physical limits’. She had mentioned the word ‘discipline’ at least five times. I decided not to repeat any of this to Kitten.

  “Did you see Zelda Fitzgerald there?” asked Kitten. “Do you know her?” Mrs Fitzgerald was notorious for her American glamour and her tempestuous marriage to an American writer. There was always something in her life to gossip about, and Kitten, being a fellow American, always had the latest gossip.

  “Madame said Mrs Fitzgerald was training with her.” I hesitated, trying to recall what I knew of the Fitzgeralds. “I think my parents had dinner with them once. Yes, Mr Fitzgerald wanted to throw himself out of a window. I think they must be a bit crazy. Are they crazy? I’ve not read any of his books – no time for reading! Too much dancing to do. Anyway she’s much older than me but Madame didn’t seem to think that was a problem.” I took a long mouthful of tea, steeling myself for another round of Kitten’s condemnation.

  “Apparently she’s dancing for eight hours a day and she’s become completely obsessed. Ma says she was an awfully good child ballerina back in Alabama.” Kitten looked pointedly at me. “Did you ever do ballet?”

  “You know I didn’t,” I said. “You just said you’d support me, whatever I did.”

  “I just think you’re more of a gymnast, an acrobat. I’m sorry, darling.” Kitten pulled me towards her and hugged me.
“I know you’ll be wonderful at whatever you set your mind to. I’m just not as brave as you, not as adventurous.” She heaved a sigh and then added, “Speaking of such, how is your adventure in love going?”

  “Oh Kitten,” I grabbed her hands in mine. “It’s Beckett that’s given me the confidence to do this.”

  “He thinks you should train as a ballerina?” Kitten’s eyebrows shot up into her fringe.

  “No, silly! But my love for him and his love for me. I feel as though I could take anything on. Knowing he’s there for me, that someone really cares for me. I can’t explain it. You need to fall in love, Kitten.” I pressed her hands in mine and wished I was more articulate, wished I could explain how the prospect of imminent liberation was impelling me forward, urging me on, giving me courage and audacity.

  “You’re so lucky.” Kitten turned to gaze wistfully out of the parlour window. “You have a world-famous writer as a Pa, a tall, handsome man in love with you, and now Madika wants to turn you into a celebrated dancer.”

  “It’s not all wonderful.” I paused and swallowed. “Giorgio has taken up with a married woman who’s old enough to be his mother. No one knows. But I thought you should. I’m so sorry, Kitten.”

  “I knew he wasn’t interested in me. A girl knows these things.” She squeezed my hand. “But you’re still as close as you were?”

  “No,” I said, biting my lip. “I don’t think he’s forgiven me for not marrying Emile. And I don’t like the woman he’s having an affair with.” I lowered my voice. “She tried to have an affair with Babbo while she was working for him. Right here, under Mama’s nose.”

  “Your Pa would never do that! He can’t live without your Ma. What’s she like, Giorgio’s new flame?”

  “Old. Her face looks like an over-baked apple. But she’s very, very rich. Her father made millions selling pots and pans in America and now she’s spending it on Giorgio. It’ll kill Mama.” I shook my head dejectedly. “She hates divorced women and she’s always been besotted with Giorgio.”

  “Well, don’t worry about me. I’ve got a few men wanting to take me out.” She stood up and shook out her skirt, before adding, “It’s you I’m worried about. I don’t want you to dance yourself into an early grave, as my Ma would say.”

  “My mind is made up.” I pushed myself up onto the balls of my feet and pirouetted, arms outstretched. “I want proper foundations.”

  10

  June 1929

  Paris

  The coach was thick with cigarette smoke and babble. Everyone who wasn’t inhaling on a cigarette was talking. The sun sloped through the windows, adding to the sense of excitement.

  “Madame Egorova’s going to go mad when I don’t turn up,” I hissed to Mama, who was sitting beside me, inspecting her nails and complaining about the lack of air. “I shouldn’t be here. I should be dancing.” I paused and listened to the conversation from the seats behind me. But Beckett still hadn’t spoken. All I could hear was Mr McGreevy talking and talking.

  “Sure Lucia, we’ve been through this. ’Tis Jim’s big day and he wants his family with him. One day off from the dancing won’t hurt you.” Mama turned away and looked out of the window.

  “Dancers don’t take days off. Don’t you understand that?” I ground my teeth with exasperation. “Where exactly are we going? Will I be able to practise there?”

  “’Tis Miss Beach’s idea, you know that, Lucia. So stop blaming me. Your father says she’s found us a place we can eat, near Versailles, and it’s called Hotel Bloom or Hotel Leopold or something like that. God only knows how long she spent looking for it. ’Tis lucky it’s only in Versailles, not Timbuctoo.”

  Yes, good old Miss Beach! Where would we be without Miss Beach? Without her bookshop and her lending library and her endless free credit – and her devotion to Babbo. It was Miss Beach’s idea to celebrate the French publication of Ulysses on the day Ulysses is set. She organised the coach and the invites. She made sure all the French translators of Ulysses were there and that all of Babbo’s Flatterers were invited to her so-called Déjeuner Ulysse. Annoyingly, this included Mrs Fleischman, whose garrulous voice I could hear as she ingratiated herself with the other acolytes on the coach.

  As Mama turned back to the window, I took the opportunity to lean round and check on Beckett. I had been so busy at my classes I’d barely seen him since my dance competition. And when I wasn’t dancing I was planning our Charleston lesson – choosing the music, working on my instructional tone, trying to fathom out how to get Mama and Babbo out of the house for an entire afternoon.

  There he sat, as beautiful and taciturn as ever, smoking and nodding while Mr McGreevy held forth. Would he try and kiss me again today? Could I find a way for us to be alone? Away from the watchful eyes of Mama and Babbo, away from the prying eyes of the Flatterers, away from the snoopings of Giorgio and Mrs Fleischman. If I had to miss a dance class with Madame, there could only be one good reason – progress with Beckett.

  At Hotel Leopold we had a long table reserved in the restaurant. I was determined to sit next to Beckett so I let him take his seat first. Then I elbowed my way round the table in pursuit, jostling Mr McGreevy aside and pushing Miss Beach so hard, her straw hat fell across her face. But I was too late. Helen Fleischman slid quietly into the seat next to Beckett and put her gold beaded handbag on the adjacent empty seat. She was looking round for someone, in that imperious chin-lifted way rich people have. I saw her catch Giorgio’s eye. She gave a small fluttering wave that made her diamond rings flash in the light, and beckoned him over.

  I spent all of lunch trapped between two of Babbo’s Flatterers. They talked across me most of the time, only including me when they started guessing the real title of Work in Progress. Predictably, they wanted to know if I had any inkling of what it might be.

  “No!” I shouted. Several people looked up from their soup. Mama shot me a warning glance. I gripped my spoon and took a deep breath. I had sacrificed a day with Madame Egorova to sit on a coach with my mother, to be ignored by two amphibious ageing men, and to be muscled out by Helen Fleischman. Every time I looked down the table, to the seat I was supposed to occupy, I saw Mrs Fleischman simpering and pouting at Giorgio or laughing hysterically at something Beckett had said. I was surprised because Beckett didn’t say much normally. Even Babbo described him as ‘a man of few words’. But on this day he was clearly cracking joke after joke judging by Mrs Fleischman’s endless cackling. I had to get to him. I had to rescue him from her scheming ways, before he was blinded by the flaring of her diamonds.

  After lunch we all lined up for a photograph. Babbo was obviously the centrepiece with Miss Beach behind him. I was just positioning myself behind Mama when Mrs Fleischman barged in front of me and leaned heavily on a tall male Flatterer, almost obliterating me from view. Furious, I raised my hand and yanked a piece of her hair that had become uncoiled from her chignon. I was so shocked at my own temerity that when she turned round and saw my expression, she didn’t believe it was me.

  Instead she said, “Did you see that, Lucia? Someone pulled my hair!”

  “Shocking,” I agreed and looked pointedly at the famous poet standing next to me. The photographer started shouting at us, telling us to stand still and face the camera. I looked round anxiously for Beckett, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Eventually we headed back to the coach for the return trip to Paris and I noticed Beckett was still missing. “Babbo,” I said, tugging on his jacket. “Beckett’s not here. We can’t go without him.”

  Babbo squinted at the queue of Flatterers lining up by the coach. Mrs Fleischman stood at the front, her lips pulled back to flaunt her buffed pink gums and china-white teeth. Giorgio lounged beside her, complacently blowing smoke rings over her head.

  “Mr McGreevy is missing too,” Babbo said. “Go and extricate them from the bar. Tell them if they don’t come now they will be ingloriously abandoned.”

  “The bar?” I looked blankly at him.


  “You will find them at the bar.” A knowing smile drifted across his face. “They are Irish, Lucia. They are fond of a drop.”

  The hotel bar was empty. The waiter suggested I try the café round the corner, the one in the square with red and white checked table cloths. He indicated the direction and I hurried off, wondering whether this would be my chance for an amorous encounter with Beckett. Already I could feel my heart beating a little faster in expectation.

  The café was empty. There was a bar at the end where the proprietor, in a dirty white apron, was pouring brandy into balloon glasses. I heard Beckett and Mr McGreevy before I saw them. They were singing an Irish song, loudly and out of time. I turned the corner of the café (which was an odd L-shape) and there they both were, slumped onto a table, singing into the table cloth. Disappointment shivered through me.

  Beckett stopped singing and raised his head from the table. “When can we dance, lovely Lucia? Lucia … Lovely Lucia!”

  “Garçon! Où sont les cognacs?” demanded Mr McGreevy.

  “The coach is leaving,” I said, petulantly. I hadn’t seen Beckett drunk before and I wasn’t sure what to do. Of course Babbo often used to reel home drunk in the fickle hours of early morning. I’d waken to the sound of crashing furniture as he fell over tables and chairs. I’d hear his metal-tipped cane flailing against the wooden floor. And I’d hear him singing Irish ballads – always Irish ballads. And my mother puffing with labour and vexation as she steered him into the bedroom.

  “Are you coming?” I stood by their table, my arms crossed on my chest like Mama when Babbo had been drinking.

  “Not until you kiss me, lovely Lucia. Not until you show me how to Charleston. You promised.” Beckett dropped his head back onto the table but quickly lifted it when the proprietor brought over the two glasses of brandy.