The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  “Look at this, Lucia! Just look at this.” She thrust the roses at me. “Here – hold these! You gotta see this. You really gotta see this.” She slipped off her embroidered pumps, unpeeled a stocking from one leg and waved her foot at me. Her toenails were so infected with nail fungus they looked like miniature oyster shells, ridged and discoloured. And on her little toe was a septic corn, red and angry, leaking thick blond pus. “I dance for eight hours a day. Eight hours, Lucia. Other dancers in my classes are dancing until the blood pours out of their ballet shoes.”

  Mrs Fitzgerald saw me recoil. It wasn’t that I was squeamish – a weeping corn and nail fungus were nothing I hadn’t seen before. Rather it was her manner. As though she was trying to frighten me in some way. She put her stocking and shoe back on, then snatched the roses from me.

  “Madame demands total dedication,” she continued, her American drawl lifting and dipping as she spoke. “You can’t be a ballerina without it. I do nothing but dance and sleep now. If you really want to dance that’s the sacrifice you gotta make.” She looked round the stairwell constantly as she spoke, as though she was checking to make sure no one was listening. And then she lowered her voice and beckoned me to her until I was so close all I could smell were the yellow roses.

  “But I’m not too old – don’t let anyone tell you that. I’ve been invited to join the San Carlo Opera Ballet Company in Naples. With a solo role in Aida as my debut! What d’you think?” There was an exultant light in her eyes, making them shine almost unnaturally through the roses.

  “Will you go?”

  She shook her head. “Oh no! Scott has forbidden it. He says it’s out of the question.” She paused, her face wistful for a second. “I’ll wait for a role with the Ballets Russes. My dream is to dance with the Ballets Russes. They had their talent scouts here last week.” Her feverish eyes flickered round the stairwell again. “I think they spotted me, Lucia! I must go. Madame will be waiting.” And she was gone, skittering up the stairs, clutching her beautiful yellow roses.

  As I walked home I kept thinking about her infected corn. And the implicit meaning of her words – about her husband forbidding her to take the job of ballerina with the prestigious San Carlo Opera Ballet Company. I should have been inspired by Mrs Fitzgerald’s success. But I barely thought of this. I thought only of Mr Fitzgerald’s insistence that she turn down the chance to dance in Aida. I thought of her acquiescence and it filled me with foreboding. Perhaps married women were no more liberated than unmarried women. Perhaps my marriage plan was not as foolproof as I thought …

  * * *

  Two weeks after my meeting with Mrs Fitzgerald, a letter arrived, throwing me into disarray and shattering my equilibrium once again.

  Mama, Babbo and I were having breakfast, Babbo crunching noisily on his toast while Mama scraped out the bottom of the jam jar with a pickle spoon. I carefully prised open the envelope with a paperknife, assuming it was from one of my childhood friends. A letter fell out, on paper as thin as silk, and written in an unfamiliar hand. I read it quickly and at first I couldn’t believe it. So I read it again and then again, until my fingers were shaking with excitement. It was from Isadora Duncan’s sister, Elizabeth Duncan, whose dancing school I attended every summer.

  “Who’s that letter from?” Mama demanded. “You’ve been reading it long enough.”

  Babbo glanced up, muttering, “A letters to a king about a treasure from a cat.”

  Mama rolled her eyes. “Who’s it from, Lucia?”

  I didn’t tell her it was from Elizabeth Duncan offering me a job as a professional dance teacher at her school in Darmstadt, teaching German girls modern dance and movement. All I could think was that I, who was treated as a child by so many, was being offered a real job – with payment.

  “I can choose my own clothes,” I shouted. My first teaching job. My first proper job offer!

  “What in God’s name are you talking about now, Lucia? Is that from one o’ your Zurich friends?” Mama leaned towards me, as if to snatch the letter from my hand. I drew back, pressing it against my chest.

  “You need some new clothes, Lucia. That nightgown is torn at the hem and you know we don’t like you having breakfast in your nightwear. Sure you’re letting yourself go. Why haven’t you brushed your hair yet?”

  “It’s a job offer!” I shouted, jubilantly waving the letter in front of Babbo and ignoring Mama. “Mrs Duncan wants me to teach at her dance school in Germany. She’s offering me a salary.”

  Babbo looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. Mama put her slice of toast down and stared at me.

  “She wants me to start in four weeks. I’ll live in the dance school with her and the other teachers and I can come back for Christmas.” My voice petered out. Mama’s face was black. Babbo’s eyes, magnified by his thick lenses, were numb. His mouth twisted as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

  “Show me that letter,” demanded Mama, reaching out for it again.

  I passed it to her. She read it silently and then offered it to Babbo.

  “I can’t possibly read this, Nora,” he said in a very quiet voice, putting the letter back on the table.

  “’Tis out o’ the question.” Mama’s lips were pursed, her arms tightly folded across her chest. “Your father is almost a blind man. He needs you here. Giorgio’s no use – he’s always off with Mrs Fancy Pants Fleischman. If you go, it’ll kill your father, that it will.”

  “What about your ballet?” Babbo’s voice was distant, as though he was speaking from the end of a long tunnel. The purple crescents beneath his eyes darkened.

  “This offer means I’m a good dancer, I’m good enough to teach. I can always come back to Paris afterwards.”

  “But you won’t be a ballet dancer?” Babbo took his spectacles off, rubbed his rheumy eyes, pressed his eyelids closed.

  “I … I suppose I can’t do both. But I can pick up the ballet again – I’m not too old.”

  “Sure this is ridiculous.” Mama pushed back her chair noisily. “The whole dance thing is ridiculous. It’s what rich girls do so they can walk with airs and graces, as your father knows only too well. So let’s be putting a stop to this job talk – right now. You’re not Anna Pavlova and you never will be.” She stood up and started stacking the plates with such anger I could barely hear Babbo over the crashing of crockery and the clanging of cutlery.

  “It would be very hard for us, Lucia. Darmstadt is a long way.” Babbo passed the letter back to me, his hand trembling.

  “’Tis bloody selfish. How can your father finish his book without you here? He’s been working on it for seven years. Seven years! Our job is to help him, not to waltz off without a care in the world.”

  “If it’s more money you want, we’ll give you more. If you want to choose your own clothes, I’m sure your mother will let you, won’t you, Nora?”

  Mama tossed her head with contempt but said nothing. She was screwing the lids back onto the jam pots with such vehemence I put a hand protectively to my throat. “This isn’t about clothes or money,” I whispered, shrinking beneath the full force of Mama’s outrage and Babbo’s hurt.

  “Well, and what is it about then?” Mama put her hands on her hips and glared at me.

  “It’s about me – my life. My … my … independence. I want to dance.”

  “Yes, yes, it’s always about you, Lucia. You’ll get your independence soon enough, when we both keel over dead from your selfish ways. Talk some sense into her, Jim.” Mama walked out, slamming the door behind her with such vigour the teacups rattled in their saucers.

  Babbo and I sat silently staring at the curling toast in the silver toast rack. The very silence seemed to resonate with Babbo’s fear and anxiety.

  “You can see how distressed your mother is, Lucia. It would be insufferable for her to be alone with me for months on end. And here in Paris you can come to the theatre with us and watch all the best dance and ballet.”

  “I d
on’t want to watch it – I want to do it. I’m a dancer. A good dancer!”

  “Your mother thinks dancing on stage makes you nervous.” Babbo paused and ran his hands over his hair. “You might find book-binding more calming, more suited to your disposition.”

  “Oh yes! Book-binding!” I gave a hollow laugh. Why did it always come back to book-binding? Why could they not see the value of dance?

  “Or … or drawing. You could illustrate my work.” There was a peculiar light in Babbo’s pink-veined eyes as though this idea had just come to him, an epiphany that would solve everything. He leaned across the table and took my hand. “Can you imagine that, mia bella bambina? You and me working together? I’ll hire you a drawing teacher. I know just the man.” He smiled broadly as though our conversation about my job offer had never happened.

  I looked at him blankly, speechless. I couldn’t understand how, in such a short time, we had moved from discussing my prospects as a dance teacher to arranging drawing lessons. I was so stunned I couldn’t find words to answer him.

  He stood up and cleared his throat. “I’ll telephone Alexander … Mr … Calder today. And I’ll ask Miss Steyn to show you round the art galleries. Your mother thinks it would be good for you to have friends who aren’t dancers.” Babbo nodded his head energetically as he left the room. At the door, he suddenly turned back and added “And, of course, Beckett is here in Paris. I doubt he could endure Darmstadt.” I heard his study door open and close. Then I heard the front door shut as my mother went out. Silence.

  I found a sheet of paper and a pen. I wrote and posted my reply to Elizabeth Duncan that very morning.

  * * *

  I couldn’t sleep that night. It wasn’t just the storm raging outside, but the litany of questions that taunted me and nagged at me. Questions about my own fortitude, my determination, my inability to ‘be strong with my family’ as Madame Egorova had put it. I thought too of Mrs Fitzgerald’s dedication to ballet in the face of Mr Fitzgerald’s opposition. And then more questions – about Giorgio and Mrs Fleischman, about Babbo’s book and my role as his muse, about Mama’s hostility and, of course, about Beckett. By deciding not to go to Darmstadt at least I had more time with Beckett. Surely my parents couldn’t stop me marrying him? And when we married, would he also try and stop my dancing? Would I be able to stand up to my beloved Beckett? These questions plagued me, tormented me, until finally the wind died down and I fell into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning, as I was stretching at the barre after my ballet class, Madame Egorova beckoned me over to the corner of the studio. She was sitting on the piano stool, her small hands folded neatly in her lap and her hair pulled back so severely her eyes had acquired an oriental slant. The pianist had just left and the other dancers were untying their ballet shoes, shaking out their hair and ambling towards the dressing room.

  “Lucia, this is your third month here, yes?”

  I nodded, warily. “Yes, Madame.” No doubt she’d noticed the stiffness of my body at the barre. The anxious thoughts of last night had exhausted me, interfering with my sense of rhythm and depleting my energy. I lifted my chin and tried to inject a little lightness into my body.

  “You are not working hard enough.” She tapped her foot impatiently on the floor. “I have been watching you. I know you did not practise on your holidays.”

  “I’m sorry, Madame. I had to look after my parents. My father fell over a wall.” My voice trailed into stunned silence.

  “You did not have energy today, Lucia. You were … flagging. Yes, flagging.” She screwed up her glittering black eyes and stared at me.

  “I didn’t sleep well, last night. I know I’m still catching up from the summer but I want to carry on. I’m committed to ballet, Madame.” I looked down at my feet still in their ballet shoes, the ribbons lying in limp pools beside them.

  “Did you think about what I said before you left, Lucia?”

  “Y … yes, Madame,” I stuttered. “I want to prove I can do it. I’m just tired today and my muscles are very sore. I’m sorry, Madame.”

  “You have fallen behind, Lucia. Ballerinas do not have holidays. They dance until they are this far from death.” She held up her thumb and index finger to reveal a sliver of light between them. “You must go down a class. You will dance with the children.”

  I felt the blood draining from my face. My legs started quaking.

  “Did you hear what I said, Lucia?” Madame was looking at me with concern. “You are not feeling well?”

  I shook my head dumbly. The studio seemed to be tilting and my lungs felt drained of air. I heard her telling me to lie on the floor. I felt her hands on my arms, gently pushing me down.

  “And breathe deeply, Lucia. Lie still and breathe.”

  The room was spinning as I felt my body crumple and slip to the floor. When I came round, Madame was leaning over me, distorted and huge, as though reflected in a fish-eye mirror.

  “You fainted,” she said. I sat up slowly. How weakened I was. How frail. For a second I didn’t know where I was. But then everything swam back into focus. I was in an empty dance studio with a wall of mirrors and a barre and windows that looked out on tree tops. Curling yellowed leaves were floating down and hitting the grime-streaked glass. Above the trees a weak autumnal sun struggled behind a blanket of dirty grey cloud. The sounds of traffic rose from the street below – bleating motor car horns, squealing tyres, the clatter of horse hooves and cart wheels, bicycle bells and the piercing note of a gendarme’s whistle.

  “Are you eating? You dancers never eat.” Madame fished some violet creams out of a bag and gave them to me. “A gift from Mrs Fitzgerald. Now I have to teach. You must stay here until you are strong enough to go home.”

  Dazed, I nodded and closed my eyes again. Her words reverberated round the studio, skidding off the mirrors, slurring across the floorboards, slinking along the barre – “You must go down a class …You will dance with the children.” She has seen the truth about me, I thought. She has found me out. That I cannot dance, that I have no discipline, that my body is all wrong for ballet, that I am a child and should be taught with children. I’m not a dancer – I’m a fraud. And Madame has found me out. How stupid and arrogant I’d been. To think I could master ballet. To think I had any talent at all. Had I ever been able to dance? Had I ever possessed a single speck of talent? Babbo too had seen the truth. That was why he wanted me to take up book-binding. I imagined myself dancing with the little girls, their curious stares stalking me round the studio. No – not dancing but lumbering, large and ungainly. I heard them whispering about my squint. I saw them pointing at my over-grown breasts, my too-big hips, my legs that won’t turn out properly, my over-sized feet with their callouses and corns. All of me monstrous and grotesque.

  Slowly I stood up. Said goodbye to the studio. Walked down the hall. Down the seven flights of stairs. Into the tiny lobby. I found a sheet of paper and a pen and wrote a short letter to Madame Egorova, thanking her for all she had done. Put it in an envelope. Wrote her name on the front. Marked it ‘Private’. Left it on the side table, propped against a vase of wilting chrysanthemums.

  It was only when I reached the Jardin du Luxembourg that tears started to trickle down my face and the enormity of my decision hit me, like a blast of icy air. I stumbled home and spent the next fortnight crying in my room. Mama left trays of food outside my door. Babbo called through the keyhole, begging to know what was wrong. Eventually I answered him, my voice smothered in its own sobs.

  “I don’t have the physique to be a ballet dancer. I’ve wasted my talent. And now I can’t go back. I’ve thrown away years and years of hard work. My life’s over. And no one understands. That’s why I’m crying. Now leave me alone!”

  October 1934

  Küsnacht, Zurich

  “This may be the last day of the year when I can get out in my little sail boat, Miss Joyce.” Doctor Jung has watched me walk down the long tree-lined path to the door of his hous
e and is now ushering me through the garden towards the small boat house on the edge of the lake. “I only take out my favourite patients.” He pauses and smiles at me. “The ones I can trust not to throw themselves overboard.”

  “What makes you think I won’t do that?” I take his hand and step into the sail boat, relieved I’m not wearing evening dress today.

  “We will sail out onto the lake and then continue our conversation. I have your memoir right here.” He taps the pocket of his jacket.

  “How different everything looks from the water.” I look back at the green shutters and the iron trellis work on the windows of his large square house. The trees on the bank are in full autumn colour now – copper and bronze and gold. On the lake boats and ferries cut white foaming furrows through the water while black-headed gulls wheel and turn above us.

  “Yes, you see things quite differently from here.” The doctor pulls out my manuscript and puts it on the bench beside him where I watch the wind lick at it. “Don’t worry, Miss Joyce, it won’t blow away.” He fiddles with the sails and then puts a large stone on my memoir.

  “Where would you like to start today? Doctor Naegeli perhaps?” He pulls a rope towards him and then loosens it as the boat starts to turn. I look up towards Zurich, lying like a scab at the end of the lake.

  “I told Babbo any syphilis was my fault – only my fault. For things I’d done. Bad things.”

  “And what did your father say?”

  “He said it was all his fault. But I don’t believe him. He’s so good, so pure.”

  Doctor Jung frowned. “Tell me about all the illnesses your father’s had. And about his eyes. He’s almost blind you say?”

  “He gets recurrent attacks of iritis. His irises swell up. Doctors wanted him to take arsenic, but that can kill you and he knew someone who went into a coma after taking it. But he also gets conjunctivitus and glaucoma and something called episcleritus and something else called blep … blep.” I put my hand to my temple. Why can’t I remember the name?