Golden Earrings (41 page)

After my visit, I went up to our apartment. Mamie had asked me to bring a few of her things to the hospital. I walked into her bedroom and realised that I hadn’t been in there since Avi had passed away. While my room was austere, with white walls and curtains, Mamie’s room resembled a 1930s film star’s dressing room, with a mirrored dressing table and a Swarovski crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling. I could smell her signature lily-of-the-valley perfume. I sat on the quilted satin bedspread and imagined Avi as a nightclub musician and Mamie as a glamorous socialite. They’d lost those parts of their pasts but somehow kept a remnant of them alive in their bedroom.

I went to Mamie’s armoire and took out a bathrobe for her. Then I saw the oriental silk dressing gown next to it and swapped them. Why shouldn’t Mamie be glamorous in hospital?
I found a headband and a cosmetics bag in the dresser drawer. I looked for something to put everything in, and noticed a travel case on the top shelf of the armoire. I stood on tiptoes and tugged it out. Something sharp fell on my head and thumped to the floor. I looked down to see a large journal lying open near the bed. I picked it up to put it back and the words on the open page jumped out at me:

The entry was unfinished. My eyes flew to the top of the page:
Dearest Margarida
.

I sat down on the bed and flipped through the journal. There were dozens of entries addressed to Margarida. I looked up at the shelf and saw more journals stacked there. They had been hidden by the travel case. I stepped up on the ottoman and took them down. The entries dated back to 1939 and detailed every significant event in Mamie’s life since that time, including Mama’s marriage and my birth. Mamie must have copied into her journal all the letters she had sent to Margarida. So Margarida was alive! But where was she?

I flipped through the journals and found several references to Australia. I searched the armoire for Margarida’s replies to Mamie but couldn’t find any. I felt as if I knew everything and nothing at all. What did Mamie mean when she wrote that I sometimes missed the obvious? What had I missed in her story? Something about her? About Xavier? Or about la Rusa?

When I went to visit Mamie that evening, I was in two minds whether I should ask her about Margarida. Her sister would want to know about Mamie’s condition, but if I brought up the
journals — which were obviously private — Mamie might get angry with me again. I didn’t want to risk anything that might cause further strain on her heart.

In any case, Mamie was in the television room when I arrived, so there was no chance to speak to her privately.

I sat down next to her and held her hand. She still looked frail. I realised I could never ask her about Margarida without the fear of making her ill again. I guess I’ll never know, I thought, and sighed inwardly.

A week after my discovery of the journals, I saw my second ghost. He was waiting for me in the hospital foyer as I was leaving after visiting Mamie. The night receptionist had gone on an errand and the lights in the foyer had been dimmed. The ghost rose from a chair in the waiting area. He had Mamie’s honey-coloured eyes and fine features: Xavier! My heart missed a beat and my blood turned cold. I stood frozen as he walked towards me.

The night receptionist returned to her desk and nodded to the apparition. I realised then that he wasn’t a ghost at all. It was Feliu! Mamie had said that he was the spitting image of his father. Now that I knew about Xavier, I could see it.

‘Paloma?’ he asked, reaching out to shake my hand. His flesh was warm and firm: he was real. ‘You’ve grown up,’ he said. ‘You were only fourteen or fifteen when I saw you last. How is tia Evelina? I got into Paris just now: too late for visiting hours unfortunately. But the nurse said you were with her.’

Now I understood who Feliu was, I found myself staring at him. The skin on his hands was rough and freckled. There was nothing about him to suggest that he had once been the son of the debonair heir to one of the richest families in Barcelona. There was a sadness in his eyes too. It was a terrible thing for an only son to be estranged from his mother, especially as she was getting older. But how could I judge Feliu? He must have
had his reasons. After all, I was an only child too and I was also estranged from my only remaining parent.

‘Would you like to have dinner with me?’ I asked him.

Instantly, that twitchiness that reminded me of a sparrow returned to Feliu. I sensed that he was uncomfortable around anyone from his family, even me.

‘I have to go,’ he said, turning towards the exit. ‘I have an early morning start.’

I knew I had only a few seconds to ask anything that might help resolve the questions I had about Mamie’s story.

‘Excuse me,’ I said in a pleading voice. ‘I found copies of letters Mamie wrote to her sister, Margarida. They go back to 1939, and the latest was dated just last week. It appears she is living in Australia. I’d like to write and tell her about Mamie. Do you know where she is now?’

Feliu winced. ‘Tia Margarida?’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe the letters are a way of helping tia Evelina cope. They were very close.’

My stomach turned. ‘Cope?’ I repeated. ‘So Margarida is dead?’ I swallowed. Please let her have died peacefully, I prayed, but I sensed something dreadful coming. ‘What happened to her?’

It looked for a moment as though Feliu was going to cry, but his voice remained steady. ‘I only know what oncle Gaspar told me.’ He hesitated and looked at his hands. ‘Tia Margarida drove a group of Republican refugees to the border in January 1939. When she reached Figueres, she learned that we had been arrested. She returned to Barcelona to try to orchestrate our release, but she was caught and arrested herself.’

My legs went numb. I had to take a seat.

‘What you have to understand,’ said Feliu, moving a step towards me, ‘is that Franco’s army was full of right-wing extremists. Women like tia Margarida, who played a part in public life, who cut their hair short and wore modern clothes,
were abhorrent to them. They had a special way of dealing with women like that: they shaved their heads, raped them and paraded them through the streets before killing them.’

I felt as if my intestines were twisting inside me. ‘Is that what happened to Margarida?’

Feliu nodded.

‘And Mamie knows that?’

‘Oncle Gaspar found tia Margarida’s body while he was waiting — hoping — for our release from the prison,’ said Feliu. ‘They had hanged her in the music room of our house. He cut her down and placed her body in the Montella crypt. Oncle Gaspar never wanted Mamie to know, but some other Spanish refugees told her. That’s probably why she started writing in 1939. It must have been her way of dealing with what had been done to tia Margarida — to convince herself it had never happened, and that tia Margarida was alive and well in Australia.’

I could barely breathe. Mamie must have known too that Margarida’s body was tossed in the mass grave along with those of her grandparents and father. I thought of Mamie’s story about finding Xavier and Margarida standing before the paupers’ pit on the Feast of All Souls and pitying the nameless who were buried there. I had to lean towards my knees until the lightness in my head disappeared. I hadn’t thought Mamie’s story could have got any more tragic, but it had. Poor Mamie, writing to a sister she had loved and would never see again.

I looked up to ask Feliu about la Rusa, but he was already gone.

I
t was a strange Christmas season without Mamie, who was still in the hospital, but at least I spent it with Jaime’s family. And we all visited Mamie together before going to Christmas Mass, taking her a chickpea and spinach stew that Vicenta and Carmen had cooked for her.

‘We can’t let your grandmother eat that tasteless hospital food on Christmas Eve,’ Vicenta said.

‘Look, Evelina,’ said Carmen, after I had introduced everyone. ‘we’ve made you a delicious stew.’ She lifted the lid off the casserole dish and sent the smell of cumin and paprika wafting around the ward. She glanced at Mamie’s nurse. ‘It’s not spicy, honestly.’

Mamie barely managed to fit a word in as Vicenta and Carmen talked to her about every topic under the sun: the decreasing quality of the goods at the Christmas markets; the increasing number of tourists coming to Paris in winter; how Jaime had broken his arm as a child and everyone thought he’d never be able to play guitar.

‘Our children and grandchildren are much stronger than we ever give them credit for,’ Vicenta said.

When it was time to leave, Mamie called me back as the others were heading out the door. She looked deeply into my eyes and I sensed there was something she wanted to tell me. But the nurse
came in with Mamie’s medications and noisily tugged the bed curtain around us, indicating that I should go.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I said to Mamie, kissing her forehead.

When I arrived the next morning, I hoped that Mamie would tell me whatever had been on her mind the day before. Instead, she gave me the news that the specialist had come to see her and thought she would be well enough to return home in early January. I sat with her while she ate breakfast, but the only other thing she talked about was how much she liked Jaime and his family.

The new year came and went. I didn’t go to my father’s fiftieth birthday party, and I wasn’t surprised that there were no more pleas from Audrey to attend. True to his word, my father arranged a nurse to care and cook for Mamie when she came out of hospital, and he had the bills sent to his address.

The new teacher, Jeannette, was popular with the students and Mamie decided that she would keep her permanently. ‘It’s probably time I retired,’ she told me, ‘and let someone younger take over.’

I didn’t ask Mamie any more about Spain and she didn’t bring the subject up either. I had come to believe that what she had written in her journal about me missing the obvious was in reference to Margarida. Every time I thought of what Margarida must have suffered at the hands of the Nationalists, I wanted to cry. But I didn’t let it destroy me, as Mamie had feared. Instead I drew on the pride I felt in being part of a family of strong women. I gave everything I had to my training, but I no longer felt that the Paris Opera Ballet was the only company in the world worth joining. I was more motivated by the idea of developing myself fully as a dancer — and of showing Arielle Marineau that she hadn’t broken me.

Once I was confident that Mamie was on the mend, I could throw myself entirely into my preparation. The months flew by
and it was summer before I knew it. I slept well the night before my examination, not like the previous year when I had tossed and turned all night, going over every step of my variations in my mind. I’d had to put on extra make-up the following morning to hide the circles under my eyes. I hadn’t let Mamie drive me to the audition either; I’d insisted on going alone. But this time, as I double-checked my bag and pointe shoes to make sure I had everything, I was glad Carmen and Jaime were taking me to the Paris Opera House.

I heard Carmen’s Fiat as soon as she turned into the street: Hot Chocolate’s ‘You Sexy Thing’ was blaring from its radio.

‘Are you ready?’ asked Mamie, poking her head in the door. ‘It sounds like they are here.’

I stood up and embraced her. ‘You can come this year,’ I told her. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m the one who would be tense,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You go and do your best. You will be great.’

Carmen and Jaime were waiting for me in the car. Jaime got out and kissed me before climbing into the back seat. ‘I don’t want you to get a cramp in your legs sitting here,’ he said with a grin.

When we arrived at the Opera House, I smiled at the golden statues and rose marble columns. The building was an old friend. Carmen parked the car and we all got out. She and Jaime were going to wait in a nearby café while I did the examination.

‘You all right?’ Jaime asked.

‘Surprisingly, yes.’

‘Good,’ he said, kissing me passionately on the lips even though his aunt was standing right next to us.

Carmen cleared her throat and we stepped apart. ‘When we next see you, Paloma,’ she said, ‘you will be a member of the
corps de ballet
.’

I crossed the street and turned to wave to them. So much had changed, I thought. Jaime and I had spoken about what me joining the
corps de ballet
might mean for our relationship.

‘There will be long hours of rehearsals and performances and less time to spend together,’ I’d told him. ‘Are you worried?’

He’d shaken his head in response.

‘No?’

He smiled. ‘You never know what’s going to happen in the future … but right now I know this is something that you have to do and I’m proud. It feels right to be with you … I’m sure we will work out the minor details as we go along.’

It feels right to be with you too, I thought now, and waved to Jaime and Carmen one more time.

After changing into my tights and leotard in the dressing room, I went to the classroom that had been assigned for warm-up exercises. The other students greeted me with nervous smiles or blank stares. I didn’t know them well because they were in the year below me. I was competition they hadn’t been expecting. Even under their make-up, their faces were pale with tension and everyone was sweating. I felt for them, understanding exactly what they were going through: the dry mouth; the urge to get started before your nerves got the better of you; the feeling of dread that after all your work and sacrifice you may not make the cut. I was a year older but I felt ten years wiser. This day would decide whether or not I was accepted into the Paris Opera Ballet, but it wouldn’t decide whether I would be happy or not. Only I could decide that.

When we were directed to enter the Salle Bailleau, I thought with excitement rather than trepidation: This is it! I was prepared. All should go well for me.

The judging panel was sitting at a table at the front of the room. As well as the director of l’Opéra national de Paris and two independent judges, there was Raymond Franchetti, a much-admired former dancer and the current director of dance, Claude Bessy, the director of the Ballet school … and Arielle Marineau, the company’s ballet mistress. I did my best to avoid eye contact with her.

We were given our places to commence the adagio part of the examination, which we would do together as a group to demonstrate form and strength. The Opera’s beautiful auditorium was directly below the examination room, and I imagined that I had been given a place right above the crystal chandelier. Mademoiselle Louvet had trained me to give two hundred per cent to all my exercises ‘because on the day of the examination, your nerves will cut you down to one hundred per cent’. That had been true the first time I had taken the examination, when my limbs had felt heavier than usual, but not this time. My
développés
,
arabesques
and
fondus
were beautiful and fluid. I felt as relaxed as if I were dancing for Mademoiselle Louvet alone. Even when we had to hold the poses for a long time, I did not lose my form.

The first solo piece I had to perform was Aurora’s variation from Act III of
The Sleeping Beauty
. It was probably the purest of the classical ballets and was usually the first full evening role a ballerina performed. It was also a part that involved incredible stamina and Mademoiselle Louvet had chosen it to show the judges that I could bear the load of a professional dancer. ‘Make sure you stay present with every step,’ she had advised me. ‘Don’t be in a hurry to rush to the next one. Keep everything clean.’

As soon as Monsieur Clary began to play and I took my first step, I knew that things would go well. ‘Think of a rose when you dance this part,’ Mademoiselle Louvet had said. My balance was perfect. Because of Mamie’s stories about Spain, I understood Aurora’s journey from innocence to womanhood; she’d had to accept that not all in the world was good.

I finished and waited for the panel to write down their comments. Then I was allowed to go and dry off before my next piece, which was the Kitri variation from
Don Quixote
, Act III. I was looking forward to it because I thought I could give the part a distinctly Spanish flavour. Just as I was about to begin,
the lights in the room started to blink and several of them went out. The judges looked up.

‘How quickly can we get that fixed?’ asked Monsieur Franchetti.

‘I’ll call the attendant,’ said Mademoiselle Bessy, rising from her seat.

‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Batton,’ said Monsieur Franchetti. ‘This is most infuriating during an examination, but we must take a break.’

I went to the water fountain outside the room to take a drink.

‘You were beautiful,’ said Mademoiselle Louvet, touching my shoulder. She directed me away from the other students, who were gathering around the fountain. ‘Don’t let their energy distract your concentration,’ she said, leading me to a curtained-off area with a sink and a chair. ‘Wait here a moment. I’ll come and get you when they are ready.’

I sat in the chair and took a few deep breaths, keeping my mind focused on my performance and hoping it wouldn’t take too long for the lights to be fixed. I leaned my head against the wall. The coolness of it was soothing. Then I realised I could hear voices speaking inside the Salle Bailleau.

‘She is delicate and lyrical,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘But she’s limited. The ballet is full of sweet dancers with good technique. Her mother was a
bravura
dancer — strong, powerful, exceptional in every way. From start to finish you could not take your eyes off Julieta Olivero. As her daughter, Paloma Batton is always going to be compared unfavourably to her, and that is not going to be good for her or for the ballet.’

It was Arielle Marineau speaking about me to another judge. A nauseous feeling rose in my stomach. Suddenly all the self-doubt that I’d managed to push away came rushing back. While I no longer believed that the Paris Opera Ballet was the only company worth dancing for, I still dreamed of being an
étoile
.
What was Marineau saying? That I was not an outstanding dancer? That I never would be? What more could I possibly give?

Relax, I told myself, she’s just a woman who is bitter about your father dumping her! But the more I tried to calm my nerves, the worse they became. I did a pirouette to get my mind back on my next variation, but almost fell.
I had never fallen in my practice, not once!
I tried again. I lost my balance again. My limbs began to tremble as blind panic ran through me. I thought of Madame Genet, whose nerves had cracked the opening night of
Swan Lake
. Would I end up like her — creeping around the corridors of a ballet school, embittered and dreaming of what could have been?

‘They are ready for you,’ said Mademoiselle Louvet outside the curtain.

‘I’m coming,’ I told her.

I bent over to get the blood back to my head.
I’m never going to be a première danseuse. I’m always going to be in the
corps de ballet. Suddenly, chills ran through my body, as though I was coming down with influenza. I straightened, closing my eyes to get rid of the white dots in my vision. When I opened my eyes, la Rusa was standing in front of me, staring at me with her dark, hypnotic gaze. My blood turned cold. Oh God, I thought. Not now!

‘What do you want?’ I hissed at her.

‘
Duende
,’ she whispered. ‘Let your demon help you.’

I remembered the conversation I’d had with Jaime:
duende
was the ‘demon’ that possessed a flamenco dancer and transformed her performance into an extraordinary spiritual experience.

La Rusa vanished, and at the same time so did my fear. A sense of calm washed over me. I held my head up. It no longer mattered how the panel judged me. All that mattered was that I danced from the core of my being.

I returned to the examination room and took my place on the floor. Never had I been so poised, so in control of myself. I imagined myself the way Mamie had described la Rusa standing before her audience at the Samovar Club: majestic, dignified, captivating.

When the music commenced, I
became
Kitri: vital and mischievous. I stabbed my pointes, my
pas de chats
were tight, every movement of my body was precise. I jumped with energy and performed the rapid turns with a spirit I had never possessed before. When I finished, I held my head high, haughty and sure of myself, not the delicate rose of the previous variation.

When the examination was over, all the entrants curtseyed to the panel and to Monsieur Clary, then we ran outside to collapse in the corridor, breathless and panting. When the secretary came out half an hour later to post the names of the successful candidates on the announcements board, I knew mine wouldn’t be there so I didn’t bother to rush forwards with the others. I no longer cared about failing. I thought about la Rusa and the spirit that had taken over my performance. I knew that I wanted to feel that way every time I danced.

Mademoiselle Louvet came out of the examination room. ‘The judges want to see you,’ she said.

That didn’t sound like good news. I was sure they were going to tell me that I had danced well but not well enough to make it into the company, so I should stop trying. But when I stepped into the room after Mademoiselle Louvet, the judges turned around and applauded.

‘Bravo, Mademoiselle Batton!’ said the director of l’Opéra national de Paris. ‘You are not only highly polished, you have incredible charisma. And that’s not something anyone can teach, although we compliment Mademoiselle Louvet on what she has done with you.’