Petite Mort (3 page)

‘And what are you here to do?’ Agathe asked, turning to look at me for the first time.

‘I am going to look for an acting role, in the moving pictures,’ I told her proudly.

Agathe’s cigarette end glowed orange in the shadows.

‘And how are you proposing to do that?’ she asked.

The afternoon after my arrival at rue Boissonnade, I smoothed my best dress down in front of the rust-spotted mirror, stepped out into the waiting city and took the Metro to the 19th arrondissement.

At first I thought I had the wrong address: the north end of rue des Alouettes was a street like any other, with apartment blocks rising high on either side, cafés, even a greengrocer’s. But as I walked along the buildings gradually gave way to tall grey walls, constructed in the modern style with cement brickwork. If I stood on tiptoe it was just possible to see the roof of a glass structure, like an enormous greenhouse – that must be the studio Père Simon had told me about – and next to it a factory chimney, puffing smoke into the crisp morning air.

If it was not what I had expected, then I supposed that every river had its source; I walked confidently along the edge of the wall until an opening presented itself – a wrought-iron gate flanked by what seemed to be one-storey cottages.

In my mind’s eye, there had been bustle and buzz. This place seemed deserted. Moving closer, I noticed a sign fixed to the door of the left-hand cottage that read CONCIERGERIE. I marched up to the door and rapped on it.

A slip of a man in a stained shirt and pince-nez opened it. Through the half-open door I saw a cluster of desks with men and women sitting at them; a woman pecked at an odd
sort of machine with her fingertips, and the men lolled about, smoking and chatting.

I told him I had come to see M. Feuillade.

The man put his hand out, palm up. ‘Is he expecting you?’

I shook my head – perhaps I hadn’t been clear – and told him I had come to ask M. Feuillade for a part in whatever film they were making.

The man pinched the blood from the bridge of his nose. ‘Perhaps you can explain this to me, Mademoiselle: how is it men and women train for years at the Conservatoire to become actors, and yet everyone who’s seen a two-reel at the funfair thinks she’s the next Bernhardt?’

In the room behind him, one of the men had lowered his newspaper and was staring at me over the top of it.

‘I’ve practised,’ I said quickly, ‘memorised the roles of Célimène and Phèdre and I am working on Lady Macbeth de M. Shakespeare—’

‘
Bravo
,’ he said, and made to shut the door. It closed, and closed some more; his beady eyes still wide and staring at me as the gap tightened – I put the toe of my boot between the door and the frame.

I said: ‘You don’t know what I can do.’

His face was startled; he chewed his lip. Suddenly the air fell out of him. ‘Mademoiselle, this isn’t the line of work for you.’ The mocking light had gone from his eyes; they were sad.

I pulled my toe back; drew myself up. ‘I want to see someone in charge,’ I said. ‘I want Feuillade.’

‘You’re talking to him.’ He slammed the door before I could do my trick with the toe again.

I waited for a moment; leant my knuckles against the door, rapped on it, a continuous hammering like a woodpecker’s.

‘Do you know where I can find the right people to help me?’ I shouted. Inside the room, there was just the sound of the woman typing, drowning me out.

Who could I ask for help? Père Simon? I couldn’t bear it. His poor, eager face, reading my letter of bad news.

To buy thinking-time, I walked along the quai de la Tournelle. It was early evening: barges were gliding downriver towards the dark struts of the cathedral, their captains perched on their roofs, still as the boats themselves. I crossed the bridge and wandered towards the Boulevard St Michel. The booksellers were closing the green doors of their boxes; I caught a flash as I passed of a series of postcards of Max Linder’s grinning face, along with other stars. As I lingered, the bookseller caught my eye. ‘Beautiful shot of Max?’ he asked, and when I shook my head, he plucked a newspaper from his rack and rattled it at me, ‘Max Linder, Mademoiselle! His new film is reviewed today in
Le Temps
! Two for one, let’s make that pretty face smile…’

I shook my head and walked smartly past: but at the next corner kiosk, I bought a copy of
Le Temps
, then ink, envelopes and stamps from the stationer on the Boulevard Montparnasse; hurried to my room, ignoring Mathilde’s piping voice offering a little restorative, and began to turn the pages. The articles about film were hidden at the back underneath the theatre reviews.

So that, in the early days, was my routine. Every morning I went out to buy
Le Temps
, and every afternoon, I directed a volley of enquiring letters to cinema stars, care of the relevant studio, congratulating them on their recent success and enquiring about roles in their next film; I planted a kiss on the back of each envelope and pushed it into the postbox on the corner of rue Boissonnade. At night, I lay awake, listening to the bored cries from Agathe’s bedroom and the heavy tread of gentlemen’s boots.

Two weeks passed and not a single reply. My anxiety grew: please let me not have to confront another studio face-to-face. The postman’s pitter-patter steps passed our apartment every
morning; jealously, I heard him ring the buzzer of Madame Moreau’s apartment across the corridor.

The third week came and went. Over tea, I told Mathilde that I would pay her double-rent the following week. Though I tried to sound nonchalant, my cheeks coloured, giving me away.

Mathilde tilted her head to one side and looked at me brightly. Then she dropped her embroidery in her lap, put her hand onto my shoulder and squeezed it. Her grip was firm – quite unlike her usual quavering hands. I shrank back; surely she was measuring the flesh on my bones.

The day came when my fifth week’s rent was due, and still there had been no response to my missives. At four o’clock in the afternoon, I leapt out of bed, convinced I had heard the postman’s step on the stairs. I ran into the hall just in time to see that I had made a mistake: what I had heard was the door just shutting, and beyond it I caught a glimpse of Agathe’s bulk, her empty string bag whisking round the corner. Her heavy steps plodded down the stairwell. She must have got up early to go shopping.

I stood in the hall for a moment, willing a letter to appear. As I turned, disconsolate, I noticed that Agathe’s bedroom door had been left ajar.

A mere push with the tips of my fingers and it creaked wide open.

The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Cracks of light filtered through the shutters and laddered the chenille cover on a double bed. This was so vast it almost filled the room, leaving only enough space for me to stand at its foot. Beside my feet was an ancient blanket-box. I placed my fingers experimentally on the bed cover and pushed the springs, which protested. Then nothing: just the silence and the smoky smell. There was an ashtray on the bedside table, spilling over with old cigarette ends and fine grey dust.

I stroked the ceramic of the ashtray, but it was the bed that drew my attention back. I patted the pillow, then slid my hand underneath it and felt stiff fabric; drew out an enormous brassiere. Old sweat caked the material around the armpits; flaring my nostrils, I dropped it and slid my hand down underneath the pillow again.

Letters – a bundle of them, tied up with a faded red ribbon; but carefully, bound together twice over. I sank to my haunches and listened; hearing nobody, I slipped the knot and bent over the topmost sheet of paper.

It was just a few lines. The handwriting was ill-formed and masculine: all scratch marks and ink blobs.
Darling
, it began,
do not be downhearted. When you’ve made your name, and you have finished treading the boards of the Comédie Française, the wedding bells will sound in Domrémy again. Remember the little house behind the orchard?

The date was from five years ago.

I thought how her slippers cut into her puffy ankles as she walked around the apartment.

A movement in the doorway: Mathilde stood watching me. She took in the letters, me.

‘You mustn’t think of it as a failure,’ she said. ‘We don’t all have the talents we’d like.’

She stood there, the silence stretching around her—

She opened her mouth: her lips hovered around a smile. ‘It isn’t such a bad life, dear. Food on the table, good friends all around. We are all friends at rue Boissonnade, aren’t we?’

The slap of an envelope onto the parquet in the hall.

Mathilde blinked, turned to look and was herself again. ‘Oh,’ she bleated, ‘we so rarely get any post—’

This morning, over breakfast, there is no way to tell whether Mathilde has told Agathe about my searching through her room yesterday or not. Agathe is concentrating on her share of
the baguette, which she breaks into tiny pieces and eats. There are particles of leftover sleep around her eyes.

‘Here,’ I say, ‘take mine.’

She accepts it without even looking at me.

In my pocket is the letter that must take me away from all of this. This morning I could fly away, stepping off the windowsill and lifting, stretching my arms out to love the whole of Paris.

Something of this must show in my face, because Agathe leans in over the table. ‘Will you be going out to look for work this morning,’ she asks, ‘or do you have a scrapbook to fill?’

‘Actually, I have an appointment,’ I say, trying to keep my voice light.

Mathilde drops her spoon and leans over towards me, her lips stretching into a smile, and takes my wrist. ‘I have a feeling,’ she confides, ‘I have a feeling, Adèle, that this is going to be a very special day.’

Her touch makes my own fingers curl; I tug away, slip one hand into my pocket and feel the letter crackle reassuringly.

‘Well, good day,’ I say, rising from the table. As I walk towards the front door, I feel Mathilde’s gaze on my back, taking in my smart dress, the sway of my hips.

I pelt down the stairs three at a time. Monsieur Z lies in his usual tangled heap at the bottom of the stairwell, filthy rags concealing clinking, empty bottles. He raises his head and shouts his familiar greeting – ‘Trollop! Whore!’ – as I vault over him – and then, as usual, he cringes, a vision of terrified penitence. His cries fade siren-like behind me as I rush into the street:
sorry, sorry, sorry.

THE COLOURS FLICKED ON
:
sunshine flared through the grubby windows, and the train surfaced at Vincennes, hissing as it came to a halt. I stepped down onto the platform and was immediately caught in a group of other passengers. All were women, and all dressed the same: dark skirts, dark hat, dark gloves. ‘Come on, Louise, it’s five to nine, you can walk, can’t you?’ tutted one, as another bent to tie her shoelaces. Chastened, Louise straightened up and the group hurried on.

Guessing who they were, I followed in their slipstream. After the station exit, they marched straight ahead with an uncanny single purpose, geese strutting across a lawn, down the broad avenue; and as we swept past an omnibus stop, more women stepped off and swelled the group, all wearing the same uniform of dark clothes. They exchanged a few demure greetings and then the flock moved forward again: the sound of a hundred heels rapping smartly on the pavement.

Suddenly the women swung to the left, and there was the Pathé factory.

My first impression was of unfriendliness. It looked like the barracks I had once passed by at home: a collection of buildings running continuously the length of a block, but with no windows at ground-floor level, at least not on the outside; they only began on the second floor and stretched upwards to the height of a city block. It was as though nobody could be allowed to peer in, only to peer out. The buildings were faced with white stone of a startling cleanliness: a palace ruled by
some fastidious, self-regarding creature.

Then there was the smell, already seeping into me: shoe polish and fireworks. I pressed my handkerchief to my watering eyes. None of the others seemed to notice it: bored, they moved on. An entrance to the mystical kingdom came into view up ahead: a gleaming pair of tall, spike-topped gates stood, swung open, with a crowd before it waiting to shuffle through: ‘Hélène! Late again!’ called one of the women suddenly to a girl standing near the back of the crowd. The girl grinned back, then rolled her eyes as the crush of bodies began to push her forward.

None of the women made any comment as I was carried along with them into a wide courtyard. A shadow fell across our faces – directly in front of me were three towering industrial chimneys, belching steam upwards, and on the central stack was a giant clock, fat and white above the crowd. As I watched, the huge second hand tocked heavily to one minute to nine and a siren started somewhere very close by; I jumped, the hairs lifting on my arm, but the workers around me only murmured their irritation and began to hurry. With a creaking sound, the gates swung shut behind us, pushing us into a crush as the workers bunched together.