The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  “What did he say?”

  “He refused. Point blank. Said his work was already fast enough. And his ideas on colour … wow! He only uses black and white and sometimes red. That’s how his studio was, everything white, a black vase and a red gramophone. No green or pink or purple. He thinks all those colours just confuse and muddle.”

  “So does he just dress in white too? Has he dyed his hair a primary colour?” My question was serious but Sandy didn’t hear me. I wondered if he was talking to me at all, or whether he’d notice if I quietly left the room.

  “He kept talking about ‘The How’. His work is all about the how of position, the how of dimension, the how of colour. Damned inspiring!” Sandy was almost bouncing on the soles of his feet now. I glanced nervously at the open window. What if he were to accidentally propel himself out? Surely he would die?

  “What about my drawing lesson?” I asked, reaching again for his arm, wishing he would come away from the open window.

  Sandy looked cursorily at his pocket watch. “No time. I need to get back to my studio. I want to make a start this afternoon. Shall we meet at the Coupole later?”

  I nodded and hoped I could think of some intelligent questions on space and volume before I got there.

  “How’s my brooch? And my earrings?” I called out. “And my surprise!” But there was no answer from Sandy, just the sound of his feet clattering down the stairs.

  * * *

  The Coupole was busier than usual that night. Theatr-egoers, tourists and artists stood in packs at the bar. And at the tables flamboyantly dressed diners gossiped and argued and flirted, all through a thick blue haze of cigarette smoke. I quickly spotted Sandy and some of his ‘gang’ as he called them – Waldo Peirce surrounded by young girls with freshly shingled hair, Ivy Trautman (Waldo’s placid pretty wife) and Joan Miró. I was glad I’d brought Stella for support. Sandy’s friends intimidated me with their brash, self-assured ways.

  Sandy bought us each a gin fizz and Waldo started hectoring me, wanting to know when I could give him a private dance class. The girls hanging around him found this very funny and simpered and giggled but Ivy told me to take no notice. She wore an extraordinary dress of beaded orange silk with a black velvet cape slung over her shoulders. She smoked through an orange cigarette holder, knocking the ash on the floor as though she hadn’t seen the ashtray right in front of her. I thoughtfully pushed the ashtray a little nearer, so it sat immediately beside her glass of champagne, but she carried on flicking the ash to the floor.

  Sandy could talk of nothing except Piet Mondrian’s studio. He repeated what he’d told me earlier, about Mondrian’s painted white tulip and painted red gramophone, to anyone who’d listen. Waldo and Miró, both artists, found it interesting the first time round. Even Stella was intrigued by Mondrian’s home decoration skills. Funnily, no one asked why Mondrian didn’t buy a white tulip and I didn’t have the bravado to ask again, in case everyone thought I was stupid. When Sandy had told his friends twice about his day with Mondrian, they refused to listen any more. So he started approaching perfect strangers at the bar and telling them about the white studio. When they got bored and moved away, he began regaling Gaston, the kindly head barman. Waldo ordered more gin fizzes and then champagne and then more champagne.

  When Stella said she wanted to go home, I told her, confidingly, that Sandy had made me a brooch and was now making me matching earrings that would dance as I walked. I said I’d wear them for her next week. And then I told her he was making me a surprise and I fluttered my left hand in front of her face. She looked at me askance, as if I’d just confessed to murder.

  “Guess! What piece of jewellery will Sandy make me next?” My words were slurred and I could feel the warm fug of the bar folding itself around me, tucking me into its smoke and clamour.

  “What on earth are you talking about, Lucia?”

  “First a brooch. Then earrings. And now he wants to make me something for my left hand. Isn’t it obvious, Stella? Haven’t you got eyes in your head?” I chortled to myself. Some people were so slow!

  “He’s your drawing instructor,” said Stella in a voice spiny with disapproval.

  “Not just my drawing instructor.” I turned to look at Sandy. He was leaning on the bar, his hair in messy spires and his fingers rubbing distractedly at the cleft in his chin. Something about the spread of his shoulders made me want to go over and touch him, run my hands down his back. But then everything started to swerve and blur. And I saw Stella glaring at me. She took the glass from my hand and yanked me from the banquette where I’d been comfortably slouched.

  “We’re going home. Now,” she hissed. “You’ve had far too much to drink.” She tugged me towards the door and before I had time to protest we were standing on the pavement, the chill autumnal wind in our hair.

  “He’s kissed me for hours and hours and he’s going to make me a ring and we’re going to make love before we marry, the modern way,” I said, trying to keep my balance.

  “We need someone to see us home,” said Stella curtly. “Wait here. I’ll ask Waldo.”

  “No, get Sandy.” I could feel myself gently swaying and the lids of my eyes getting heavier and heavier. But Stella came back with Waldo, a cigar clamped between his mustachio’d lips. We each took an arm and reeled down the boulevard Montparnasse, Waldo doing his infamous impression of a braying donkey, Stella stony-faced and silent.

  * * *

  At my next drawing lesson, Sandy told me how cross he was that Stella and I had ‘scuttled home with Waldo’. He asked me why I hadn’t waited for him and then, before I could reply, he told me how much he’d been looking forward to kissing me on the way home. He grinned and laughed as he spoke, so I knew he wasn’t really cross.

  He didn’t mention Mondrian’s studio but he did say Mondrian had been to his circus the day before and loved it. Sandy’s circus had become quite famous with artists travelling from far and wide to see it. Whenever Sandy told me about the celebrated people in the audience, I felt a deep swell of pride and started imagining myself as his circus assistant, crouched on the floor overseeing the gramophone or collecting tickets on the door. But then Sandy said something that made me freeze.

  “Le Grand Cirque Calder has probably gotten to the end of its life. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to run it.”

  “No!” I shouted. Sandy looked at me, startled.

  “You can’t,” I said, trying to sound calm and firm, trying to hide the panic in my voice. “What would Paris be without your circus?”

  “Oh Paris would be Paris, but I love your enthusiasm, Lucia.” Sandy leaned over as if to look at my drawing but then, suddenly and without warning, he cupped my face in his large paint-stained hands and pulled my face towards his, kissing me on the lips, his tongue lapping my mouth, circling my tongue, vigorously prodding and nudging at my teeth and gums. I dropped my sketch pad and reached my arms round his neck to pull him tighter into me but, unexpectedly, he pulled back and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “The thing is, Lucia, I’ve gotten some fantastic ideas from Mondrian. The circus takes up so much time I can’t do the things I really want to do. I want to push the boundaries of sculpture. I want to work on a much bigger scale. The circus has been great but I need to move on.”

  The thought of relinquishing Mrs Alexander Calder, circus assistant, left me feeling slightly dislocated. Having spent the last few nights imagining myself putting up posters, selling tickets, mending his figurines, it took me a few seconds to recalibrate. What would I do in a white house with painted tulips and floating blocks of colour? Sandy must have detected my apprehension because he looked oddly at me, then backed away frowning so that his eyebrows met in a single line.

  “What about making the circus bigger? Bigger figures, bigger props, bigger everything. You love the motors and the mechanics of it. Why can’t you do that?”

  “Because I want to do something else now. I don’t really know what, but if I
don’t make time to explore it, I’ll never know.” Sandy sucked his index finger thoughtfully and then turned and looked out of the window.

  As Sandy’s words sunk in I felt a sense of dread, as if something dark and vinegary was crawling and turning inside me. I tried to follow his gaze, out over the slated rooftops and crooked chimney pots to the Eiffel Tower. But everything was distorted and obscured. “Will you still teach me?”

  “Of course I will. You’re my favourite pupil, you know that. D’you think I kiss my other students?” Sandy bellowed with laughter and instantly my mood changed. I took a deep gulp of air, feeling the lurch of anxiety subsiding. There would, I told myself, be a role for Mrs Alexander Calder with or without the circus. And then a flash of inspiration struck.

  “Couldn’t someone run the circus without you? It could still be your circus, of course, but you wouldn’t have to be there.”

  Sandy looked at me curiously. “D’you have someone in mind?”

  “I might do,” I said. Then I turned to my sketch pad and concentrated on my drawing, sucking my lips in to cover up my smile. Inside my head I wrote a small piece for the newspapers: ‘Mrs Alexander Calder has taken over the running of Paris’s legendary Grand Cirque Calder, relieving her husband to focus on the next chapter in his career as France’s foremost sculptor. Asked his thoughts on this, Mr Calder said such devotion from a wife was rare and he thanked her from the bottom of his heart.’

  “That sketch is great, Lucia.” Sandy looked over my shoulder, stooped, pressed his lips to my neck, ran his tongue up to my ear. I leaned into him and smiled quietly to myself.

  * * *

  Later on, as I was showing Kitten the dance moves I’d been learning at Miss Morris’s dance school, I mentioned my idea.

  “I thought you wanted to get back to full-time dancing? If you end up running his circus, how will you have time to dance?” Kitten stood poised on one leg, her arms crossed above her head.

  “I can do both.” I adjusted her arms, prodded her hands. “Spread your fingers more.”

  “Anyway, I think it’d be very difficult for anyone other than Sandy to run the circus. His personality is such a big part of it. All those animal noises he makes, and blowing that tin whistle.” Kitten rose up on the ball of her foot. Looked down on me. “Would you really want to be doing that?”

  There was a tinge of disapproval in Kitten’s expression as if she didn’t think I should be squeaking like a monkey or roaring like a lion in public. Certainly, this wouldn’t show me at my most elegant or my most alluring. And what she said was true. I didn’t have Sandy’s huge personality, his lack of inhibitions, whatever it was that made his circus a success. I’d be anxious, unsteady, flustered. Why had I not realised this before? Whatever made me think I could step into Sandy’s shoes? But surely I could still marry him? I could still be Mrs Alexander Calder, but perhaps I’d have to let Le Grand Cirque Calder go. After all, I’d need to support him in any way he saw fit. He would, inevitably, need me to help with his painting and sculpture. And of course, there would be our children, our brood of little Calders.

  “Now, lift your other leg. Slowly. Hold it there.” I stepped back and checked her position, smiling at the thought of a posse of baby Calders.

  “Are you sure he’s the marrying type?” Kitten asked, no doubt recalling what happened with me and Beckett and the stories I’d told her about Sandy’s orange bicycle and his gang of crazy friends. “I mean he does live a very bohemian sort of life, doesn’t he? Why are you smiling, Lucia?”

  “Lots of people in Paris live like that. I know we don’t but lots do. He’s not going to ask me to ride an orange bicycle is he?”

  Kitten laughed, wobbled, regained her balance. “I hope not, darling! I guess you know Stella’s convinced he’s engaged to someone else?”

  “Oh I know. She probably wants him for herself, like she did with Beckett.” I felt my upper lip curling scornfully, of its own accord. “But this is different. He kisses me all the time and he’s given me a brooch and he’s making me earrings and I think he’s making me an engagement ring.”

  “An engagement ring? Are you sure?”

  I told Kitten how Sandy had assessed my left hand and then promised me a surprise. “I saw him looking at my wedding finger so it can’t be a bracelet, can it? Now, drop your leg … arms back in port-de-bras …. lovely.”

  Kitten lowered her arms and took a deep breath making her flat stomach bulge just a fraction. “How romantic he is. Can I see the brooch?”

  “You’ll be the first to see it, dearest Kitten. But he’s re-building it so that it moves when I walk. It’s going to be beautiful.” I sighed contentedly. “Take another deep breath. Miss Morris believes the lungs, abdomen and feet are the most important parts of the body.”

  Kitten frowned. “How can a brooch move?”

  “He’s putting a spring on the back. He’s obsessed with movement. Everything has to move and rotate and turn upside down.”

  Kitten shook out her legs and arms and laughed. “Oh darling, why can’t you choose a normal man to fall in love with? A regular beau who works behind a desk and saves up for an automobile.”

  “That sounds like your new boyfriend.” I side-stepped to the sofa, twirled once and sat down. Kitten’s boyfriend worked in the finance office at the Michelin Tyre factory and was always buying her red roses and chocolates.

  Kitten rolled her shoulders, smiling. “Richard’s been promoted so many times, I’ve lost track.”

  “Babbo would never accept someone like that as his son-in-law. How would they make conversation? Babbo can’t talk about tyres.”

  “But he’d be marrying you, not your father. So would it matter if they couldn’t converse?” Kitten lifted each pale foot and shook it out.

  I looked at her despairingly. How could I explain my life as the daughter of a genius? How could I tell her of Babbo’s disappointment if I were to marry a suited-and-booted clerk? I shook my head and said nothing. I didn’t want to hurt Kitten’s feelings. She was the only friend I had left. I didn’t count snake-eyed Stella any more.

  “Have you had any more of your psychic dreams or intuitions, Lucia?”

  I gave a short sardonic laugh. “Well, they weren’t exactly accurate with Beckett, were they? It’s more of a physical thing with Sandy.”

  “Perhaps the force of your emotions crowded out your psychic powers. I’ve heard that mediums can only work in certain conditions, like when it’s quiet or they’re very calm inside.”

  “Well, if that’s the case Sandy’s definitely drowned them out. When he’s around it’s as if the air’s vibrating with his presence.” Even as I spoke, I felt a sharp twist of desire in the base of my stomach.

  Kitten came over to the sofa, sat down beside me and took my hand in hers. “I think you should be dancing more, Lucia. You were so happy when you were dancing all day. Why don’t you get back in touch with Madika? She was desperate to teach you.”

  “I can’t. I’m too ashamed after my failure at ballet. And my parents made it quite clear that dancing on stage isn’t an appropriate career for the daughter of a literary genius.”

  “Well, perhaps we can do something together? Audition for the talkies as a pair. Or set up another dance troupe. It’s the right time for me too. Will you think about it?”

  “I’m too busy at the moment,” I said. “I’m just about to qualify as a fully-fledged Margaret Morris dance teacher and I’ve got my drawing lessons and I have to help Mama and Babbo all the time and Giorgio’s wedding’s coming up.” My voice trailed off at the thought of Giorgio’s wedding. Mama was still not talking to Mrs Fleischman and so perhaps I wouldn’t even be invited to the wedding.

  “I’m just not sure teaching movement is enough for you. I don’t mean to sound disparaging but it’s not like the dancing we used to do, is it?”

  “No, I’m not performing,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “But it’s very helpful to lots of people.” I hesitated, un
sure how to articulate my thoughts. “And Miss Morris is very inspiring. Her method helps pregnant ladies and invalids and children and sports people. It’s useful. And I want a useful life, Kitten.”

  “But you will think about my suggestion, won’t you? To do something with me, either something creative or something where we’re in control of our own lives. Promise me you’ll think about it?” Kitten coaxed.

  “Oh Kitten, I promise.” I liked her idea and I knew Sandy wouldn’t object. He loved to see me dancing. Once or twice I’d caught him sketching me on a napkin at the Coupole as I tried out new steps or jumps. But was I ready to go back on stage? Was I ready to face Mama’s wrath? Of course, if I married first … If I was Mrs Alexander Calder ….

  I squeezed Kitten’s hand. “Let me finish my Margaret Morris training and get through Giorgio’s wedding. My life is going to be very different soon – you’ll see.”

  * * *

  Babbo had a new slave. Paul Leon, a refugee from Bolshevik Russia, was the brother-in-law of Babbo’s Russian tutor, Alex Ponisovsky. After Beckett was banned from Robiac Square, Mr Leon started appearing and inveigling himself into our home. Just like all the others.

  Babbo liked him because his middle name was Leopold (like the main character in Ulysses) and his wife’s name was Lucie, rather like mine. Mama was impressed by Mrs Lucie Leon because she gave fashion tours to American tourists. Mr Leon would do anything for Babbo and he treated Robiac Square as his own personal shrine. Mr Leon was probably the most slavish slave Babbo had ever had. He was often at Robiac Square all day, typing and reading and translating and running Babbo’s errands. Recently, Mr Leon had arrived clutching huge leather-bound tomes on the laws of Italy, France and England. The elevator was invariably broken so when he arrived, lanky and stooped, he panted like a dog, under the weight of several enormous volumes.

  I didn’t think anything of Babbo’s new reading material. He read obscure books all the time. The previous week he’d made Mr Leon scour Paris for books of English nursery rhymes. When we were in Torquay Babbo had become obsessed with English schoolgirl magazines and made one of the Flatterers order him back issues of Poppy’s Paper and Schoolgirl’s Own.