The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  I released my grip on his notebook. He hurriedly pushed it under the sofa, presumably with the rest of his work and the huge dusty bundles of letters he kept there. But my appetite had been whetted.

  “What were the ticks for?”

  “I tick a phrase when I’ve used it. So I don’t use it twice.”

  “I liked ‘the rising spinning soundlessness’. I could dance to that.” I could see the words snaking through the air between us like something living and breathing. Something voluptuous, sinuous. It struck me then that perhaps our destiny was to work together. And nothing to do with marriage. Would I choreograph dances from his stories and poems? Would he compose words for me in the way Emile had composed music for me? Were we being propelled together for the sake of art rather than love? But then I remembered my dream of us naked and I recalled all those little moments of physical intimacy. And I remembered how disinterested, almost repelled, I’d felt by Emile’s gropings in the Bois – and how different I felt with Beckett.

  “Could you now?”

  “Yes, I think so. Can I see the story you’ve had accepted? Perhaps I could turn it into a dance.”

  “I’ll show you when it’s published.” He thrust the plate of madeleines at me with one hand while his other hand wiped at the sheen on his pink face. “I don’t much like talking about myself. Or my work. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  “I’m exhausted.” I lay back against the sofa and closed my eyes. “Giorgio’s out so much I’m having to do everything for Mama and Babbo. Yesterday I danced for six hours, then I had to dine out with them when all I wanted to do was take a bath and go to bed. And then, when we got home, I had to write to Babbo’s eye surgeon for him, even though I could hardly keep my own eyes open.”

  “Can’t your mother help?” The shimmer and colour faded from Beckett’s face as he visibly relaxed now the tussle over his notebook was finished. He draped his long body across the sofa and turned his head towards me. In this respect he’s entirely unlike Babbo, I thought with relief. My father loved to talk about his own work and was most at ease when he did so, preferably with an audience of Flatterers. Thank goodness I wouldn’t have to compete with an army of sycophants for Beckett.

  “She’s virtually illiterate.” I nearly told him about Mama’s list of Things to Do I’d spotted the other day – how beneath ‘get apples’ she’d written ‘colleckt ulisses’. But a sudden stab of embarrassment stopped me. “She had no education,” I explained.

  “Is that so? None at all?” Beckett passed me the plate of madeleines and nodded sympathetically.

  “My parents don’t understand what a privilege it is to be a pupil of Madame Egorova.” I took a madeleine and examined it. There was something about the shape of it, the deep grooves through its yellow crumb, that made me think of dancing again. I put it on my saucer, frowning. This was becoming ridiculous. I was seeing movement in everything. Even in cake. Was there something wrong with me? Did Kitten look at a pork chop and see a potential dance?

  “Madame Egorova?” prompted Beckett.

  “Oh yes. All the Ballets Russes dancers still come to her for lessons. She hardly takes any new pupils unless she thinks they have real talent.”

  “She danced with Nijinksy, you said?” Beckett reached for his packet of cigarettes and put one carefully between his lips.

  “Yes, before he went mad and got locked up.” There was silence while I sipped at my lime tisane and Beckett lit his cigarette. “Babbo keeps saying I can take up book-binding if it gets too much. I thought they’d prefer me doing ballet. I assumed it was more acceptable in Ireland than modern dance. But now I think they just don’t like me dancing in public. I think it shames them in some way. Babbo enjoyed my success at first but I get the feeling that’s changing. It’s crossed my mind that ballet doesn’t intrigue him in the way that rhythmic dancing does. And that’s why he’s losing interest – in me, in my dancing.”

  “It’s certainly not as expressive. Or … or … as sensual.” Beckett gave an embarrassed cough.

  “Don’t women dance in Ireland?”

  “Oh they jig – you know, country dancing. The odd waltz perhaps. But Isadora Duncan would never have danced in Dublin. And Josephine Baker would be locked up.” His words came out with wraiths of smoke that screened his face. He batted them away and added, “Your father and I have a very strong sense of Ireland within us but we both despise the ethos of the place. And the Irish can be very cruel.”

  I nodded. I wanted to ask him if it was true, what Mama had said, that only strumpets danced in Ireland. But I couldn’t work out how to phrase it so I said nothing.

  “Your father … what does he think of me?” Beckett faltered as a tube of ash fell from his cigarette onto his shirt. He brushed it off but kept his eyes lowered.

  I paused, surprised. “Babbo thinks of you as a son,” I said eventually, in what I hoped was a reassuring tone.

  “Mr Joyce told me he loved no one except his family. Is that true?” Beckett took a long inhale and then let the smoke drift out through his nostrils.

  I nodded. “He’s only ever friends with someone for a reason. He told me that. He doesn’t really have friends, only Flatterers. That’s what I call all the people who fawn over him.” I picked up my madeleine and nibbled at the edge. What an odd conversation, I thought. Why is Beckett so concerned about my father? Always asking me about him, always so anxious to know his views. And now I find his writing is just like Babbo’s too. I looked sideways at him. He was lying back against the sofa, blowing smoke rings slowly into the air. He seemed brooding and slightly morose and I wondered what I could say to bring back the earlier mood of cheerfulness.

  “We’re off to England for the summer,” I said, changing the subject. And then I remembered that I hadn’t told Madame Egorova yet. How was I going to tell Madame Egorova? “Madame’s going to kill me! Perhaps I should refuse to go.”

  “Oh no – you have to go.” Beckett looked at me from under his brows. “Your father needs you. He really is the genius everyone says he is.”

  I chewed absently on my thumbnail. “Have you seen me in his book, Sam?”

  “I assumed Anna Livia Plurabelle was based partly on you. And Issy, of course. He’s been working on some lines about dancing rainbow girls too. And he refers to dancing all the way through.”

  “And because of that I have to do what he wants? Go where he wants?”

  “Oh no,” said Beckett quickly. “I only meant, in my inept way, that you’re integral to his work. I didn’t mean you should be … sacrificed.” He took the cigarette from his mouth and carefully placed it in the ashtray where it sat, sending its coils of smoke into the room.

  I was about to give a nonchalant shrug, a what-can-you-do sort of gesture, when it finally happened. Without warning Beckett lurched across the sofa and pressed his face against mine, his lips against my lips. I felt the contours of his body against me and the taste of cigarette smoke in my mouth. I tried to free my arms so that I could wrap them around him, show him that my desire was as great as his – but my hands were pinioned beneath him. And some odd sense of impending disaster stopped me from pulling them free. Instead I writhed as though I was trying to escape. Beckett drew back.

  “Oh God – I’m so sorry, Lucia.” He jumped up from the sofa, grabbed his still-smoking cigarette butt from the ashtray and took a deep drag.

  “No, it’s fine,” I spluttered, unsure what to do next. Oh, why wasn’t I more accomplished at this sort of thing? Why was I such a schoolgirl? Why didn’t I just reach out, throw my arms round his neck and pull him to me? What was it that made me so awkward, so resistant to his touch?

  “I’ll walk you home.” Beckett moved towards the door, blushing ferociously.

  I was about to interject, to tell him I felt the same way, that our destinies were to be together, when there was a sharp knock on the door and Mr McGreevy’s head appeared.

  “Ah, good afternoon, Miss Joyce. Are you off? I’ll
join you, I’m walking your way. Precisely your way – I’m dining with your parents tonight. I’ll see her home, Beckett. You can get on with Proust. Oh, and I have these for you.” Mr McGreevy fumbled in his pocket. “These were the very reason I was knocking. The concierge couldn’t find you earlier so I said I’d deliver them personally.”

  While Mr McGreevy searched his pockets, I patted my hair and straightened my dress and tried to calm my nerves. Beckett’s face was still pink and his spectacles were awry as he stood twitching by the door.

  Mr McGreevy pulled a narrow sheaf of letters from his inside pocket. “More letters from your aunt in Germany. She has beautiful handwriting.” He presented them to Beckett with a small theatrical bow. “Come, Miss Joyce, let us go then, you and I.”

  As I left, Beckett leaned in stiffly to kiss me on the cheek, as he always did now. Mr McGreevy was already walking down the corridor, so I took the opportunity to swiftly turn my face so that Beckett’s lips brushed mine. He coloured and apologised and moved his lips back to my cheek – as though he’d made the mistake, not me. Oh how I wanted to be held and kissed by him again!

  “I think I’ve found a time for our dancing lesson, before we leave for England,” I whispered. I could hear Mr McGreevy calling me from the corridor.

  Beckett looked at the letters in his hand. “When were you thinking of?”

  “Next week. Tuesday afternoon.” I knew my parents were going to a matinee then and Giorgio had choir practice, so the house would be empty. “Can you come?” I had to see him before we left. I had to have him in my arms before we left. If not, I would stay in Paris, refuse to accompany Mama and Babbo to England. I would stay here, in Paris, with Beckett and Madame Egorova. At least until Beckett left for Germany.

  “McGreevy’s calling.” Beckett jerked his head in the direction of the corridor. “I’ll see you next Tuesday.”

  As I walked home I closed my ears to Mr McGreevy’s prattlings and thought only of Sam. My awkwardness had spoiled the moment – again. I had to find a way to show him how I felt. I had to conquer my nerves and overcome his shyness. Together, we had to throw off our Irish inhibitions. I slid one leg forward, twirled and then pushed up into an impromptu fan kick. Mr McGreevy looked at me, startled, but I took no notice. How good it felt to move and stretch and spin after being folded up on Beckett’s sagging sofa for hours. And then it struck me. It struck me so forcibly I felt like a moth blinded by sudden brightness. Our dancing lesson! If we danced, we could be different beings – free, spontaneous, abandoned, shameless.

  I thought of my dream, remembered the patina of his golden-white skin, the feel of it against me, the heat of him, the way his hands had run across my breasts and thighs, the light that had fallen over our tangled naked bodies. Yes, I would make it happen. By hook or by crook, I would make it happen.

  11

  July 1929

  Paris

  Beckett and I stood in the parlour surveying the room. Everyone was out and the house, liberated from Mama’s heavy-boned movements and Babbo’s aggrieved sighing, had acquired a lightness, an airiness, that made it perfect for our first dancing lesson.

  “I prefer it like this.” Beckett nodded stiffly at my morning’s work: the over-stuffed furniture pushed to the sides of the room, the gaudy Chinese rug twisted up and shoved under the sofa, the potted ferns hidden behind the door, the piano rolled back against the wall, the chintz curtains fully opened. I’d pushed the shutters flat against the outside wall and a fragile blue sky was just visible, its light falling in a rectangular block across the wooden floor.

  “You don’t like my mother’s parlour?” I spoke with mock indignation, wondering if he’d seen inside some of Paris’s more fashionable apartments. Stella had a zebra skin rug and whimsical painted lampshades in her rooms and Mrs Fleischman was re-decorating her apartment in the latest art deco style with black walls and mirrors everywhere.

  “I like light.” Beckett stared at the window and then added, “And emptiness.”

  I thought of his austere rooms and his alphabetically ordered book shelves. “So you prefer a room naked?” I looked directly, brazenly, at him and saw a blush rise up his throat. He’d pushed his hands into his trouser pockets but I could see his knuckles twitching through the fabric.

  “I like things tidy and ordered.” He looked down at the floor and his feet gave an odd little shuffle. Then his gaze slid back to me. “Is this what you wear in your dance classes?”

  I nodded and wondered if I should make a joke about the big dance knickers he’d glimpsed me wearing in Monsieur Borlin’s studio. Instead I lifted the short diaphanous skirt to show how freely my legs could move in my dance tunic. “Monsieur Borlin likes to be able to see our bodies clearly. So he can prod our muscles if they’re not straining enough. But I wouldn’t normally wear stockings – they’re for the sake of my modesty.” But Beckett wasn’t listening. He was staring at my legs, his face pink.

  “Are you ready to Charleston then? I can’t believe it’s taken us so long. I don’t know how you’ve survived in Paris without being able to dance.” I hoped my chatter would put him at ease. “I told Babbo I was teaching you to dance and he’s so looking forward to seeing you Charleston. He’s a good dancer but he never managed to get the hang of it. Not that it’s difficult. Anyone can do it. I’ve taught all his Flatterers, although most of them had no rhythm at all. And you need energy – lots of energy.” I paused and looked thoughtfully at Beckett. He had moved to the wall and was leaning against it. I couldn’t tell if this was his recovery position after viewing my legs or his usual state of torpor. His insomnia often made him lethargic – he’d told me that himself. And although I loved the languor of his movements, it occurred to me I’d chosen entirely the wrong dance for him. “We could do something slower if you’d prefer? A waltz?”

  “Oh no,” he said quickly. “I’m a bit nervous, I’ll admit. But I want to Charleston.”

  I offered him Babbo’s silver cigarette case, thinking a smoke would help him relax. I had to get him dancing, but how was I to do it if he was too awkward and shy to learn a few basic steps? I snatched a look at him – he was grappling with the cigarette case, his cheeks still flared with colour. I decided to put a record on the gramophone. Everyone relaxed to music.

  I wound up the gramophone and put the needle carefully on the rim of the record. The air filled with crackling and a second later the beating and rippling of drums and pianos erupted into the room. Immediately my body began swaying, my feet tapping, my arms swinging. Who wouldn’t want to dance to music like this? But when I turned round Beckett looked more stricken than ever, puffing agitatedly on his cigarette. I glanced at his feet. They were sure to be tapping out the rhythm on the floor. But no, they weren’t. Not a patter.

  And then I had an idea, a brainwave. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

  “I’ll be back in a minute, Sam. Try and let the music move through you. Get a feel for the rhythm.” I scurried towards the door, turning back to add “The Charleston’s very fast.” Which was a stupid thing to say because everyone knows the Charleston’s a fast dance. But his nervousness had affected me. It had crept under my skin and made me edgy.

  I went into Babbo’s study and scanned his bookshelves. Which book would he have chosen this week? I thought back to what I’d heard and seen him reading. Yes – he’d been browsing through a Norwegian dictionary. I remembered it clearly because he’d muttered about the sparseness of the Nordic vocabularies and asked if I knew any Norwegians in Paris.

  I found the shelf where he kept his collection of reference books. The Norwegian dictionary was tellingly protruding from its slot. I pulled the book out. And there it was – Babbo’s beloved bottle of Irish whiskey.

  “I think this might help.” I sauntered back into the parlour flourishing the bottle. Beckett was standing exactly where I’d left him, tatters of cigarette smoke coming from his mouth. I don’t think his feet had moved an inch, in spite of the music bouncin
g round the room. But when he saw the bottle he smiled. Not his usual half-smile but a smile that swept up everything inside him and made his eyes spin with relief.

  “I’ll replace it later.” I took an emboldening swig straight from the bottle, coughed as it caught in my throat, and then offered it to him.

  His face sank. “I can’t drink your father’s best whiskey.” He made a crab-like retreat towards the door.

  “Oh no, it’s not Babbo’s. It’s Giorgio’s. He won’t be back for days. It’ll relax you, Sam.”

  “Well, if it’s Giorgio’s … and if you let me buy him another one …” He took the bottle and tipped it down his throat. He wiped the neck clean with his ink-smudged fingers and passed it back to me. I put it on the piano, hoping he wouldn’t be too tight to dance now. I remembered how we’d had to drag him from the café at Babbo’s book launch, the heavy feeling of his head between my breasts. I didn’t want him inebriated, just sufficiently relaxed to dance.

  “Shall we start then? Use the music to get a feel for the rhythm.” I put a hand on each of his arms, manoeuvring him into position. He felt like wood beneath my touch. So I retrieved the bottle of whiskey and thrust it at him. “Finish it, Sam. You need to be really loose for this dance.”

  His eyes widened. “All of it?”

  “I’ll have some and then you finish it.” I gulped encouragingly from the bottle until the room, in all its unfamiliar bareness, staggered around me. I could feel the alcohol catch in my throat like burning coals. I tried to muffle my choking cough with my hand. I didn’t want him to think I’d never had whiskey before.

  Beckett saved the last few mouthfuls for me. This time he didn’t wipe the mouth of the bottle. I felt the damp warmth where his lips had been and then put the tip of my tongue to the rim. But all I could taste was the sharp heat of the whiskey.

  Everything changed after that. The liquor flooded my brain as I tried to dredge up all the instructional words I’d rehearsed for so long. But the words didn’t come. They crawled around my larynx, lurking at the base of my throat, silently forming and re-forming. I could feel them scraping at my vocal chords … ‘Anyone can Charleston, Sam’… ‘Start with your feet shoulder-width apart, Sam’… I could see the words in my mind’s eye. But my tongue was paralysed.