The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  I heard the dread in Alex’s voice as he waved his flowers under my nose. But he seemed such a long way away, and his voice was like that of a ghost. Even through my torpor, I noticed he didn’t try and kiss me. As if he was frightened I had some sort of contagious sickness. No one except Mama touched me. She came to me and put her hand on my cheek and her eyes were like silvery fish. The numbness lifted then, just for a few seconds. I felt her touch and wanted her hand to stay on my cheek forever. But when she moved back and turned her head away, the emptiness rose up in me again. And I no longer cared. At times I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep, dead or alive. I wondered if it was all a dream. Or was I in Heaven? No matter. I couldn’t respond. I could only watch. And wait.

  After four days, I felt my body open up again. My muscles began to ache and twitch. When I asked Lucie what happened to me, she said she went to the library, looked up my symptoms and diagnosed me with temporary catatonia. Nothing to worry about, she said. Just nerves due to the impending wedding. Very common. Everything would be better when I was married. When I was Mrs Ponisovsky.

  * * *

  Several days later, at dinner, Helen told us about a little party she and Giorgio had been to the previous night. She told us Hazel Guggenheim had been there, how beautifully Hazel Guggenheim had sung. I saw Alex’s head turn sharply, involuntarily. I saw a light come into his eyes. Our eyes briefly locked. And he knew that I had seen. And that I knew.

  * * *

  An April wind slapped at our cheeks, bringing a fresh pink hue to our faces. Alex and I were walking in the Jardin du Luxembourg, admiring the blaze of daffodils that stretched across the grass. Ahead of us was the tree that once inspired me to choreograph a dance about a plane tree and a sapling that struggled to survive in its shadow. I remembered telling Beckett about it. I remembered wondering if Zelda Fitzgerald would dance it with me. How long ago that all seemed. So long ago …

  The memory of Beckett brought me out of my reminiscing. For it was he I wanted to discuss with Alex. Oh, and Hazel Guggenheim, of course. I told Alex, as kindly as I could, that I loved him, of course, but that I was in love with Sam Beckett. I told him that it was unrequited love, that Beckett broke my heart and that, truth to tell, my heart had not yet mended.

  Alex didn’t speak. He just looked straight ahead, his lips drawn and thin. But when I turned my head I saw his eyes were wet with tears. I pressed on, like a surgeon who needs to complete his butchery as quickly as possible. I told him I was aware of his feelings for Hazel Guggenheim, that I was no fool, that I’d been honest with him and I wanted him to be honest with me.

  Alex took a deep breath and then told me about Hazel, about the affair they had for three years. I could tell from the tone of his voice that he still loved her. He said she was already on her third husband, that she was expecting yet another baby, that she was still having affairs with other men. He told me about her two children who fell off the roof of a New York apartment block and died. He told me about her father who drowned on the Titanic. She was not, he said, the sort of woman he would ever want as a wife.

  * * *

  Our honesty and our respective grief brought a new intimacy to our relationship. For two weeks we talked daily, often for hours on the telephone, sometimes walking the streets and parks of Paris, or over dinner in unfashionable restaurants where we wouldn’t be recognised or overheard. We talked about love and sex. We mulled over the pros and cons of arranged marriages, for we were under no illusions now. Ours was an arranged marriage. We talked of what we both wanted – children, a calm home with a telephone, a dog with long ears. I told him I’d always wanted a garden with drifts of yellow daffodils that burst forth in spring. And he smiled. Yes, he said, he’d like that too.

  I talked to everyone I knew about what I now termed ‘the holy trinity’: love and sex and marriage. Was it necessary to marry? Was it essential to love your husband? How important was sex? Could you love two people at once? Could you love one person but be in love with another? Was it wrong to marry someone if you weren’t in love with them? Could you sleep with someone but not love them? The questions came spilling out, to the Leons’ maid, to Helen, to Kitten. I didn’t say a word to my parents. Alex said they were best kept out of our ruminations.

  And when I told him I wanted to dance again, perhaps open a dance school with Kitten, he said “Of course.” He said he would never stop his wife dancing. Not like Mr Fitzgerald …

  * * *

  “Your father is on the telephone, Lucia.” Mrs Leon gestured to the hall, where the mahogany and brass telephone sat upon its own marble plinth. I put down my paint brush, pushed the hair back from my face and nodded.

  “Hello, Babbo. Is everything all right?”

  “You need to pack, Lucia. We need you to accompany us to London. We have to spend a little time in Campden Grove to guarantee our British residency, which also guarantees your legitimacy.” Babbo’s voice floated into my ear, then settled somewhere deep in my head. London? Campden Grove? I didn’t even know we still had Campden Grove. That squalid apartment with the underground rattling beneath it and the odour of stewed cabbage and mould in the lobby and the coils of dog shit that lay all over the pavements. I was silent.

  “Now you’re on the verge of marriage and may even become a mother yourself, nothing must cast aspersions on your legitimacy. I’m sure you can understand that, Lucia.”

  “Why doesn’t Giorgio have to go?” I asked suspiciously.

  “We’d like you to accompany us, mia bella bambina. It’s not a legal requirement for our offspring to be in residence with us, but it might strengthen our case.”

  “So I could stay here? Or with Helen and Giorgio?” I looked at the telephone wires and thought how easy it would be to cut them, to snip them in two and forget about Babbo, forget about this conversation.

  “The Leons need your room for a visitor, and Helen and Giorgio no longer have a spare room. I believe the nurse sleeps in it. It won’t be for long”

  It crossed my mind then that I was being offered a choice, albeit a skewed one. I could accompany them for a few days or I could stay in Paris, but not at the Leons’. My heart sank as I considered packing and moving again. “I don’t have anywhere to stay in Paris, Babbo. Will you give me some money for a hotel?”

  “I have no spare money, Lucia. We’re really not going for long. We’d like you with us and I’ll make you a wee art studio in the parlour.”

  “Very well,” I said with a small sigh. “I’ll pack a valise. How long shall I tell Alex we’ll be away?”

  “Oh, just a very short time. Not long at all.” Babbo sounded relieved, as though he’d just crossed a tight rope and discovered himself on the other side, intact and triumphant. “London in the spring will be an unexpected pleasure, Lucia. We shall have a joyce-ful time, I am sure.”

  * * *

  It was only when we got to the Gare du Nord and I saw the huge number of trunks and suitcases and hat boxes sent on ahead by my parents that I felt a horrible sense of déja vu. Two porters were hauling a series of trunks clearly marked ‘Joyce’ onto the train. Rivulets of sweat poured from their shining faces as they strained and gasped. I watched, open-mouthed. And I felt a darkness within me, rising and rolling like a wave, and the she-beast rattling at the bars of her cage, angry and accusatory.

  “Have you given notice on the apartment, Babbo?” I asked, contriving to keep my voice as measured as possible.

  “You know we have,” snapped my mother, struggling to re-fasten a hat box that had come undone.

  “We have no Paris home now?” I asked, breathing deeply.

  “We do not. We have a home in London and that’s where we’re going. Just for a few months. We can’t afford two houses. Now pick up that hat box and take it with you.”

  As I looked at Babbo for confirmation, I saw him tip fifty francs to one of the porters, nodding ostentatiously as he did so. He blinked when he saw me watching him. Then he pushed his wallet back into his
pocket and said “Are we all ready to board?”

  I stared at him, aghast. My breath was coming in stabs now, making rasping noises from deep within my throat. And suddenly the she-beast burst from her cage and I started howling like a wild animal. I threw my head back and howled so loudly people everywhere stopped and stared. I felt my eyes rolling in their sockets like the eyes of a startled horse, white and panicked. I didn’t want to go to London. I didn’t want to be with my parents. I didn’t want to leave Paris. I didn’t want to leave Alex … Alex, my husband-to-be.

  After twenty minutes or so (I was told this later – I had no idea of time or space in the midst of my second crise de nerfs), my howling subsided and I started to weep copiously. Babbo stood helplessly in front of me, clutching his cane, his eyes lowered to avoid the stares of passers-by. My mother, her face a scolded pink, instructed the porters to remove the luggage from the train. She watched as each trunk was pitched from the train and stacked on the platform.

  When every trunk and every suitcase and every hat box had been retrieved, I started to feel more myself. As if the she-beast was creeping back to her cage, spent and subdued. My body stopped shuddering, my shoulders stopped heaving, the tears slowed and I was finally able to dry my eyes and survey the scene. My parents were huddled together behind the trunks. When they re-appeared, Babbo took my elbow and steered me towards the exit. He told me we were all going out for lunch and then we’d check into a hotel. My mother’s face was black. She loved London and I knew she was furious our plans had been thwarted. When no one could see me, I permitted myself just the very smallest of smiles.

  * * *

  That night, in our plush hotel on the rue de Bassano, I dreamed of Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor. Not the melody or the libretto, for my dream was entirely soundless. No, I dreamed of Lucia, my namesake, betrayed by her brother, forced to marry someone she didn’t love, descending into madness, stabbing her unwanted husband. I held the knife high above my head and brought it down, repeatedly, into the heart of a faceless body. Over and over again, the knife came down and was plunged deep into the body. But still it twitched and jerked. Still the body wouldn’t die. And then I woke, cold and damp and frightened.

  * * *

  We – my mother, Babbo and I – went back to the gloomy apartment in Passy. Luckily, the landlord hadn’t had sufficient time to find a new tenant and so the apartment was still available. Unluckily, there was still no room for me at the Leons’. My mother’s witterings drove me mad and, after losing my temper three times in four weeks, I decided to move in with some Irish Flattering friends of my parents.

  Alex came to see me one evening. I cooked dinner for everyone and afterwards he asked if I’d like to go to the theatre with him. I said yes and put on my hat and coat. We were about to leave when the Flattering friends appeared and forbade me to go out. Alex and I looked at them, stunned. I told them I was going out, with my fiancé, whether they liked it or not.

  “I’ve promised not to let you out,” said Mr Flatterer sternly.

  “Have I left my father’s house to be ordered about by you?” I pulled my belt tightly round my waist and reached out for the door handle. How dare he presume to control me!

  “You can’t go out!” repeated Mr Flatterer, raising his arms to reveal salty rings of sweat.

  Alex stood in the hall, looking embarrassed and awkward. “Perhaps we should just stay here?” he said quietly. “We could play cards.”

  “I will go out! Alone if I have to!” I opened the front door and started walking decisively down the stairs. And then I heard Mr Flatterer behind me, commanding me. “I can’t let you out, Lucia. I won’t let you out!”

  I felt his hand on my shoulder. The she-beast stirred in her cage. I waited. Mr Flatterer’s fingers gripped harder and tighter. The she-beast gave a low moan deep inside me. I waited for the now-familiar spasm of fury. But nothing came. Nothing but a small, strangled sob of humiliation

  “You win,” I said. I had no will to fight any more. As the energy leeched from my body I thought of Lucia di Lammermoor, and wondered if I was doomed to the same fate.

  I walked slowly upstairs, my heart heavy, my spirit crushed. Mr Flatterer stalked behind me, apologising in his brisk determined voice. I ignored him. When we got back to the apartment there was no sign of Alex or Mrs Flatterer. The smell of casserole loitered in the air, but the temperature had fallen as though a cool breeze had blown through the place, and when I looked at my arms they were covered in goose bumps. I sat down at the dining table and waited for Alex. I could hear Mrs Flatterer closing a window and then the banging of a door. He must be coming out of the bathroom, I thought. I had a sudden longing to feel his arms around me, to lay my head in the hollow of his shoulder, to hear the steady beat of his heart. Everything would be better when we were married, when I could finally be free, when I could dance again.

  Mrs Flatterer appeared, looking flustered and officious at the same time. I wondered if she’d been looking for a pack of playing cards so Alex and I could play rummy.

  “Where’s Alex?” I asked, summoning up the energy to turn towards her.

  “He’s gone,” she said, as she collected up the glasses from the table.

  “What?” I frowned. The apartment only had one exit and that was through the front door, where I’d just come from with Mr Flatterer.

  “I found the window in the bathroom open,” she said. “I think he must have climbed out.” She put the glasses down and moved towards me but I sprang past her, out of the dining room, shoving past Mr Flatterer as he stood winding his watch in the hall. Along the corridor to the bathroom where the caged parakeet opened one sleepy eye and watched me from its perch. I pushed open the bathroom window and scoured the slate roofs. I saw a flash of Alex’s pale linen suit disappearing down a fire escape. I opened my mouth to call out, but the bells of Saint-Sulpice started their relentless pealing and from below came the mangled shrieks of cats fighting in the gutter. And Alex was gone.

  I felt my blood rising through me in a huge wave of crimson. And then Mr and Mrs Flatterer were beside me, holding me down, stroking my hair. And the she-beast bared her teeth and bit down on the bars of her cage in such a burst of hatred I knew I could no longer control her.

  I never saw Alex Ponisovsky again.

  * * *

  Three days later Giorgio came to the Flatterers’ apartment. He told me there was a taxi outside to take us to lunch with Mama and Babbo. I got my hat and coat and followed him down the stairs.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  He hesitated and then said we were going to Pruniers, one of his favourite restaurants. Fifteen minutes later, I realised the taxi driver had taken a wrong turning. I pointed this out to Giorgio who was looking stonily out of the window. He shook his head as if a wrong turning was really nothing to worry about. So I carried on looking at the view, admiring the waxy tulips in window boxes and the purple lilac hanging in heavy blooms.

  After a while I noticed we were heading towards the outskirts of Paris. I looked suspiciously at Giorgio.

  “We’re nowhere near Pruniers. We’ve just passed the Parc Montsouris. Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise. We’re going for lunch as I said.” He kept his eyes on the window but his fingers strayed to the starched collar of his shirt.

  “But Mama and Babbo will be there?” I persisted.

  “It’s a surprise,” he repeated, his breath clouding the glass.

  “I don’t trust you.” My eyes narrowed. I shouted to the taxi driver to stop but he took no notice. Indeed, I felt the engine accelerating. I lunged for the door, but Giorgio was prepared. He pulled me towards him and held me clamped against the bones of his chest.

  “You should never have been taken out of the Maison de Santé,” he said in a voice stripped bare of all kindness, all feeling. “Tantrums in train stations … not speaking for four days after your so-called engagement party … half the time you’re in bed refusing to
talk … the rest of the time you’re wilful and out of control. I know you slapped Mother last week, as if throwing a chair at her wasn’t enough! Even Alex thinks you’re not right in the head. Why else would he jump out of a window to get away from you?” He paused and dug his fingers deeper into my wrists. “Unlike Father, I do not believe lunacy is curable. And I will not have you going mad in front of my friends and my family. I will not have you sullying my name, Mother’s name, Father’s name. I won’t have it!” He turned back to the window, still gripping my arms. I looked at my brother, now my jailer, and felt something cold and sour creep up the curve of my spine. And in the darkest crevice of my memory something chopped and clawed.

  Outside, everything was rushing past – trees, houses, lamp-posts, ladies with perambulators, men with dogs, troughs of tulips. And it was as though all the colour and brightness had been sucked from everything, and all the light sucked from the sky. I felt the energy seeping out of me. I couldn’t fight any more. There was nothing left of me but dregs. Even the she-beast had left me now. I was empty and exhausted. They had taken everything from me.

  I felt a tear of defeat prickling at my eyelid. “You win,” I whispered. “You win.”

  * * *

  Giorgio took me to L’Haye-les-Roses, an institution for the mentally ill. There I was prescribed solitary confinement. He committed me, which meant I lost all status as an adult with full legal rights. From that day I became the legal ward of a doctor. From that day only a doctor could determine my future. From that day on, I was watched, guarded or locked up.

  December 1934

  Küsnacht, Zurich