Wild Lavender (18 page)

‘I did not!’

Monsieur Etienne raised his eyebrows and gestured for me to take a chair. ‘What is going on, Mademoiselle Fleurier?’ he asked, folding his arms. ‘You didn’t go to your audition at the Café des Singes last night after I had talked about you to the manageress. She rang me this morning to ask why you hadn’t showed up.’

‘But I was there,’ I insisted.

I described my audition, including the stools and how we were to be paid only in tips. Monsieur Etienne’s face blanched when I told him about the blade in my ribs.

‘I’ve never heard of such a thing,’ he said, looking at me as if he were trying to ascertain if I was mad. ‘I would never send a client of mine to a place like that.’

He was cut off by the sound of a key in the door. Mademoiselle Franck sauntered into the room with a stack of mail clutched under her arm. She was even more chic than the first time I had seen her, wearing a georgette dress and crocodile-skin shoes.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, looking from Monsieur Etienne to me.

Monsieur Etienne repeated what I had told him about the previous night’s audition and her mouth dropped open. ‘But, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ she said, waving her hand and sending the fragrance of orange blossom floating through the air, ‘the place you describe sounds nothing like the Café des Singes. Monsieur Etienne and I have known the manageress for years. She runs a classy bar. That is why we thought, with your voice, you would do well there.’

‘Manageress?’ I repeated. ‘The nightclub I was in last night had a manager and a piano player. Unless of course you are referring to Deirdre?’

‘Deirdre?’ Mademoiselle Franck knotted her brow and turned to Monsieur Etienne. ‘The manageress’s name is Madame Baquet.’

I reached into my bag and pulled out the schedule. ‘Look, this is where I was last night at ten o’clock. The manager there was a man. His name was René.’

Mademoiselle Franck took the paper from me. ‘Number twelve?’ she muttered, hurrying to her desk and flipping through a card file. She found what she was looking for and gave a cry, her cheeks flushing crimson.
‘Mais non!’
she said, holding up the card. ‘The street number of the Café des Singes is twenty-one. The numerals are switched. A typing error!’

‘Number twenty-one is over the other side of Boulevard du Clichy,’ Monsieur Etienne said, running his hand over his forehead. ‘It sounds as if the place you were in was a café-concert.’

We stood in the reception room looking at each other. Mademoiselle Franck’s face turned a darker shade of red; even the backs of her hands were blushing. I thought of the ghostly pianist, of Deirdre calling herself ‘a star’, the appalling clientele and the frenzied eyes of the psychopath pressing the blade into my skin. I hadn’t been where I was supposed to be at all. I must have auditioned in place of a performer who had never turned up. The coincidence was so horrible it was funny: I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. For a moment, my anxieties about money and the cold became absurd. I tried to say something, but Monsieur Etienne had such a bemused look on his face that I doubled over with more laughter.

‘Ah,’ puffed Monsieur Etienne, straightening his jacket and attempting to re-establish decorum. ‘Mademoiselle Fleurier, if only everybody could take a mistake like that as good-naturedly as you have.’ A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘I have no idea what to say or how to apologise for it. Perhaps my niece and I could make it up to you by inviting you to lunch?’

Monsieur Etienne and Mademoiselle Franck lived in an apartment two buildings down on the Rue Saint Dominique. Their maid greeted us at the door.

‘We have a guest for lunch, Lucie,’ Monsieur Etienne told her. ‘I hope that’s not any trouble?’

The maid shook her head and reached out to take our coats and scarves. She was young, perhaps only nineteen, but had the lumpy elbows and rotund stomach of a matron.

Like the reception room of his office, Monsieur Etienne’s apartment was elegant but compact. We took turns washing our hands in a bathroom the size of a closet, with mauve fittings and wallpaper in the pattern of blue hyacinths. Afterwards we passed through a drawing room, where I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and
despaired at the mop the weather had made of my hair, and then to a dining room, where curtains softened a view of a wall scarred by drainpipes.

‘It is hot in here,’ said Monsieur Etienne, cracking open the window. With the heaters and the fireplace, and the steaming food Lucie was laying on the table, the room was hot, but I liked it that way. It was the first time I had been properly warm in days.

Monsieur Etienne indicated for us to sit down while Lucie served us soup from a tureen. There was a painting behind Monsieur Etienne that caught my attention because it was at odds with the formal decor of the apartment. It depicted a group of patrons spilling out of the Moulin Rouge. The lines weren’t straight, the faces were exaggerated and the colours weren’t realistic. I didn’t know enough about painting then to understand much about dimension or perspective, but the patrons appeared to be moving. I could almost hear them chatting about the show. Monsieur Etienne noticed where I was looking.

‘That is one of Odette’s,’ he said, indicating Mademoiselle Franck. ‘Her parents live in Saint Germain en Laye which is too far away for her to commute to her art classes, so she stays with me and helps out at the office.’

‘I like it,’ I said.

‘I have told Odette to speak to an art dealer acquaintance of mine,’ said Monsieur Etienne. ‘She has talent.’

Mademoiselle Franck swallowed a spoonful of soup. ‘I don’t care if my pictures are hung in galleries,’ she said. ‘I just enjoy painting.’

‘My niece’s ambition is to get married,’ said Monsieur Etienne with a sigh.

‘And my uncle’s is to avoid it,’ Mademoiselle Franck retorted.

They laughed good-naturedly at each other.

The main meal was roast chicken. The amber sweetness of the butter sauce melted on my tongue. It was my first real meal in Paris.

‘What happened with the Folies Bergère?’ Monsieur Etienne asked me when Lucie had cleared away the dishes. ‘I know you didn’t get a part, but how was the audition?’

I told him about Monsieur Derval saying that I wasn’t beautiful enough for the Folies Bergère.

Monsieur Etienne lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. ‘No,’ he said, after a few moments’ thought. ‘You’re a good-looking girl with a nice figure. Monsieur Derval isn’t keen on types and you’ve got the exotic looks he usually likes to scatter amongst his blondes and redheads. I think this time around his decision had to do with the show featuring English chorus girls with a particular look. We will send you for the auditions for the next show and see what happens. Meanwhile, we have to find you a job, yes?’

‘I think the Café des Singes will be just right for you,’ said Mademoiselle Franck, passing the cream for my coffee. ‘You will like Madame Baquet. Everyone does.’

‘She is looking for someone to sing the two o’clock morning session a couple of times a week,’ said Monsieur Etienne. ‘That will pay your rent and you can keep it up even if you get something in the music hall. A lot of girls do that and make good money. Unfortunately, they spend it just as quickly.’

Mademoiselle Franck rolled her eyes. ‘Uncle is always telling his clients to save a third of everything they earn. He does the same thing to me. Only I don’t even get to see my third before he deposits it in a bank in Switzerland.’

Monsieur Etienne shrugged. ‘If you are wise you will do the same thing, Mademoiselle Fleurier. Youth, beauty and popularity do not last. I have seen too many good women, used up by men and by life, ending their days in cheap hotels.’

I remembered the first time I had seen Monsieur Etienne in my dressing room in Marseilles. I had been intimidated by him then, but now I saw that the opinion I had formed about him was wrong. Sitting in his dining room he wasn’t commanding or arrogant. He was everything a good uncle
should be: worldly, level-headed and kind. Mademoiselle Franck was lucky to have him.

‘What have you got to sing for your audition?’ Monsieur Etienne asked.

I told him about the ballads from ‘Scheherazade’ and he shook his head. ‘That is too music hall for Madame Baquet. She will want something more personal. What else have you got?’

I explained to him that I didn’t have any music. He asked me how I had got the part of Scheherazade and when I told him the story of Zephora he opened his eyes in astonishment. ‘I didn’t realise that you had no experience with auditions. Odette and I will come to see you audition at the Café des Singes when that is reorganised. Meanwhile, she can take you to buy some sheet music. Don’t worry about the money. You can fix that up later when you start working.’

I understood that Monsieur Etienne did not make friends of all his clients; he was too professional for that. And yet, when he smiled and shook my hand before Mademoiselle Franck and I headed out the door, I sensed that he had made friends with me.

Mademoiselle Franck took me to a music store on Rue d’Odéon. We bought two popular songs at three francs each, a couple of club standards and one from the discount bin at the back of the shop. I flicked through the yellowing pages. The song was titled ‘It’s Him I Love’.

‘You can arrange it differently and make it your signature song,’ Mademoiselle Franck said, handing the music sheets to the sales clerk and opening her purse.

I glanced at the words.

It’s him I love

Though he’s far away

It’s him I love

But I should live for today.

The frothy numbers of ‘Scheherazade’ had come easily to me, but I wondered if I was going to be able to sing convincingly about a broken heart when I had never fallen in, or out, of love.

‘How fast do you think you can learn them?’ Mademoiselle Franck asked when we stepped out onto the street.

‘I can learn the words today,’ I said, ‘but how will I learn the tunes? I can’t read music.’

‘Most of our singers can’t read music,’ said Mademoiselle Franck, adjusting her scarf and pulling on her gloves. ‘There is a piano teacher in the apartment below us. We don’t complain about the noise his students make and in turn he gives our clients a discount on practice sessions. I’ll set up an appointment with him tomorrow morning if you like.’

Mademoiselle Franck suggested that we have a hot chocolate in the café next to the music store. The space was crammed with people and we had to squeeze our way past legs and elbows to reach a table near the counter. I noticed the way men looked at Mademoiselle Franck—not in the lustful way they looked at Camille, but with admiration. She was lovely to look at, her walk was lovely, her voice was lovely; being with her made me want to be lovely too.

The café was unpretentious, with white walls and polished floors. The only decorative pieces were the engraved glass domes that covered the cakes, and two brass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

‘They have different patterns etched in the glass,’ observed Mademoiselle Franck, squinting at the frosted globes of the chandeliers. ‘The one above us is patterned with olive trees and the other one with wreaths.’

‘You’re right,’ I agreed, impressed by her eye for detail. I wouldn’t have noticed the difference if she hadn’t pointed it out.

I thought about the song we had bought.
It’s him I love, though he’s far away; It’s him I love but I should live for
today.
‘Have you ever been in love, Mademoiselle Franck?’ I asked.

Her face flushed. ‘I am in love now,’ she said, pressing her palms against her cheeks to cool them. ‘His name is Joseph. He works in a fine furniture store. Antiques, rare woods, that sort of thing.’

I thought of the telephone conversation I had overheard on my first day at the office and grinned. ‘So he has an artistic flair, like you?’

She lowered her eyes, a smile tickling the corners of her mouth. ‘We both like beautiful things, although Joseph doesn’t have any money. He says that we must wait until he opens his own business before we can marry.’ She looked up, a worried frown breaking across her forehead. ‘That is why you must promise not to tell Uncle, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ she said, grasping my hand. ‘Joseph is a good Jewish boy and there is no reason not to approve of him. But sometimes my uncle is an intellectual snob, and Joseph is no intellectual. We have to wait until the time is right, otherwise he will put my parents offside.’

That must be real love, I thought: when you see someone’s shortcomings but love them just the same. I squeezed her hand back. ‘I won’t mention it until you do,’ I promised.

The waiter took our order and a few minutes later our hot chocolates arrived. I breathed in the aroma of almonds floating up through the cream and sipped the velvety fluid with as much pleasure as a cat lapping a saucer of milk.

‘I’m sure you will do well at the Café des Singes,’ said Mademoiselle Franck, stirring her chocolate. ‘My uncle is a good judge of star potential. I swear he does it by intuition rather than by logic, although he argues otherwise. He says it doesn’t matter how vibrant someone appears to be on the surface or how good their voice is, at their core they must be hardworking and serious. That is how he summed you up, anyway.’

I smiled. I had never been described as ‘hardworking and serious’ when I lived on the farm. Perhaps I had found my
métier
.

‘The audience at the Café des Singes is sophisticated,’ Mademoiselle Franck continued. ‘Some French and a lot of foreigners. But not tourists. Mainly American writers, German photographers and Russian painters. They will expect a lot from you but they will support you in return.’

I explained to her that I had known only two types of audience: the rowdy Marseilles working class and the audience I had experienced last night. ‘I’m not sure I am refined enough for the Café des Singes,’ I confessed.

‘Oh, but you are,’ exclaimed Mademoiselle Franck, putting down her glass. ‘Much more than you think. But I would like to make a suggestion, if you don’t mind.’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ I assured her.