Wild Lavender (6 page)

‘That’s what happens when you don’t eat,’ the girl next to her said. Her accent was stilted, and although she had elegant features she spoke ‘washerwoman’ French.

‘I can’t eat,’ replied the first girl, looking over her shoulder at the redhead who was banging on the door again. ‘The rent’s due tomorrow.’

‘
Mon Dieu!
The heat!’ complained a dark-haired girl, dabbing at her florid face with a handkerchief. ‘I’m wilting like a flower.’

‘It’s died down a bit,’ said the hungry girl. ‘It was worse this afternoon. I was dripping greasepaint. They won’t turn on the fans for rehearsals.’

The redheaded girl turned around. ‘Marcel dropped me during the Arabian dance.’

‘I saw!’ exclaimed another girl. ‘You fell right into the puddle of sweat at his feet.’

‘Lucky I didn’t drown!’ the redhead roared.

The other girls giggled.

The latch clicked and they sprang up into a line, as if by force of habit. The door swung open. ‘
Bonsoir
, Albert!’ they sang out one by one before disappearing into the darkness.

Bonbon wriggled and licked my fingers. I was about to stand up when I heard more footsteps on the cobblestones and ducked down again. I peeped between the piles of rubbish to see a matronly woman heading towards us with a stack of hatboxes in her arms. The boxes were so high that she had to peer around them to see where she was going. Two swarthy-looking men with instrument cases tucked under their arms followed not far behind. The threesome came to a stop at the door and one of the men knocked. As with the girls, they waited a few minutes for it to open before disappearing inside. Although my calves and feet were aching, and Bonbon was squirming in my arms, I was mesmerised by the parade of people passing by. Compared to my life of drudgery, they possessed mystery.

The door opened and I jumped. A man stepped out and cast an eye over the street. I was sure that he would see me, but his gaze stopped short of my hiding place. Despite the heat he was wearing an overcoat that reached to his heels and the collar of his shirt was turned up. The man propped the door open with a brick and leaned on the railing for a moment before reaching into his pocket and assembling a cigarette. My right ankle was burning from crouching and I shifted my foot to ease the cramp. My shoe knocked a wine bottle and sent it rolling into the gutter where it came to a stop with a
clink
. The man wheeled around and our eyes met. My breath caught in my throat. ‘Well, hello there,’ he said, scratching the stubble on his chin.

‘Hello,’ I replied, standing up and straightening my dress. Then, unable to think of a reason to be hiding in the rubbish, I said, ‘Good evening’ and ran off down the alley.

Intrigued by what I had seen, and having no other entertainment, I returned to the theatre the following night. But when I reached the alleyway it was deserted. I thought that perhaps Le Chat Espiègle didn’t have a show on Saturday nights and raced around to the cashier, who assured me that they did and pointed to the ticket prices. I returned to the alley. There were strains of a violin warming up and I was reassured that I would be entertained again by the arriving performers. I found an empty crate amongst the rubbish and set it under the awning of the junk shop opposite the stage door. I sat down on the box with Bonbon in my lap, clasped my arms around my knees and stared expectantly at the corner. I didn’t have to wait long before the chorus girls showed up, giggling and parading like a line of ducklings on their way to the pond. The redheaded girl spotted me first.
‘Bonsoir!’
she called out, not in the least surprised to see a girl sitting on a box with a dog on her knee. The other girls nodded or smiled as they passed. They knocked on the door, it opened and they disappeared into the darkness.

A while later, three men and two women appeared from around the corner. I was struck by the way they marched rather than walked, their broad shoulders pushed back and their chins pointing skyward. The men’s arms were as thick as tree trunks while the women’s limbs were sinewy and their faces taut. Two of the men carried a trunk between them. When they were closer I could see the words ‘The Zo-Zo Family’ painted on the side along with a picture of six trapeze artists balanced on a tightrope. The rope was strung over a river of crocodiles and in the background I could see mountains and prehistoric-looking trees. There were six acrobats in the picture and five people in the group. I wondered what had happened to the sixth performer.

One of the women knocked on the door. It opened and this time I could see the figure of the doorman lurking in the shadows. After the acrobats had entered, he stepped out on the landing.

‘I thought it was you,’ he said. ‘You’re early. Usually we don’t let fans in until after the performance. And then only if they’ve paid to see the show.’

My heart pounded. I had a terrible feeling that he was going to send me away. I stammered that I only wanted to see the performers arriving, and that I didn’t have money to see the show itself, but that if I did have the money I would certainly pay to enter his fine establishment. The doorman’s eyes twinkled and the corner of his mouth twitched.

A man wearing a battered suit with worn knees and a white shirt with a grey tinge to it walked towards us. His eyes were fixed on a crumpled piece of paper he was holding. His other hand was jammed into his pocket.

‘
Bonsoir
, Georges,’ the doorman called out. The man stopped for a moment and glanced up but didn’t return the greeting. He mumbled something to himself and climbed the stairs. The doorman raised his voice and repeated, ‘
Bonsoir
, Georges.’ When the other man still didn’t respond, the doorman blocked the passageway with his body and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘It’s bad manners enough to not greet me,’ he said. ‘But can’t you at least say “
Bonsoir
” to the young lady and her dog over there? They’ve been waiting to see you.’

The man lifted his eyes to the doorman, then turned around and threw me a fearsome glance. Bonbon recoiled and yapped.

The man’s brow wrinkled as if he had just woken from a dream. ‘
Bonsoir
,’ he nodded sternly at us before slipping past the doorman into the darkness. His pock-marked complexion and hollow eyes made a macabre impression on me. I wondered if he was one of those black magicians I had read about, the ones who cut pretty girls in half with a saw.

The doorman watched the man disappear. ‘That’s the comic,’ he grinned.

The sound of heels echoed on the cobblestones.
Tap! Click! Tap! Click!
All three of us looked up. Camille was
walking down the alley, her legs stockingless because of the heat. She was wearing a red dress and her hair was swept to the side with a comb. Perched behind one ear was an orchid. She picked grapes from the bunch she carried in her hand and slipped them into her mouth one by one, chewing each globe thoughtfully while staring into the distance. Heavier footsteps followed behind her. I saw a man in top hat and tails turn the corner, a bunch of roses tucked under his arm. I was wondering what his line of entertainment was when he let out a moan of pain: ‘Caaamiiille!’

I shivered with the sound of it. But if he was hoping for a reaction from Camille, he didn’t get one. She strolled on with her eyes fixed on the stage door, not even seeing me. The man’s face reddened and he bit his lip. He was about thirty years old but his puffy cheeks and weak chin made him look like a baby.

‘Camille,’ he pleaded, running up behind her.

Her brow pinched and she turned to face her pursuer. ‘Can’t you leave me alone for even a minute?’ she snarled.

The man paused and swallowed, then took a step forward. ‘But you promised.’

‘You’re boring me. Go away,’ she said, her voice rising. The man stiffened. He shot a glance at the doorman who returned the look with an expression of sympathy.

‘You’ll meet me after the show, won’t you?’

‘What for?’ Camille shrugged. ‘So you can give me another dog? I gave the first one away.’

Bonbon pricked up her ears. I assumed that the man must be Monsieur Gosling, the admirer who had given Bonbon to Camille after she received five curtain calls. He looked out of place in the surroundings.

‘Listen to me,’ said Camille, jabbing her finger into his chest. ‘I don’t let people treat me like a toy. I don’t have time for anyone who’s not serious.’

She pushed him out of her way and was halfway up the stairs when Monsieur Gosling let out another groan and dipped at the knees. I thought he was either going to faint or crawl after her. He pulled out the roses, which he
had been holding under his arm. I was sure that it was the wrong time to make the gesture to Camille. Her mouth formed into a cruel smile. She looked as though she was about to spit out a scalding remark, when she paused and stared at the flowers. Something she saw in them made her change her mind. Her face softened like a bud opening to the rain.

‘Monsieur Gosling,’ she purred, brushing her fingers over her neck before sinking her hand into the petals and pulling something out. It glinted in the sunlight. A diamond bracelet.

Monsieur Gosling’s confidence lifted when he saw the delight on Camille’s face. Her voice turned from cool to husky when she said, ‘That’s better,’ and kissed him on the cheek. He was like a puppy who had pleased his mistress by peeing in the right place.

‘After the show…?’ he said, trying to sound manly and demanding, but it was still a question.

‘After the show,’ replied Camille, before slinking past the doorman and into the darkness. The doorman rolled his eyes. Monsieur Gosling skipped down the stairs but started when he saw me or, more precisely, Bonbon.

‘Is that…? I must ask…Is that…?’ he stammered, edging towards me.

‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘This is the puppy you gave to Mademoiselle Casal. I walk her every day.’

His eyes opened and he started to laugh, showing his crooked teeth. I would have run away if the doorman hadn’t been standing there. Monsieur Gosling slapped his hands together and turned his face to heaven, his mouth breaking into a beaming smile. ‘She loves me after all!’ he shouted, loud enough for the whole of Marseilles to hear. ‘She loves me!’

I missed going to the theatre the following night. I had Bonbon at the door, ready to go, when Aunt Augustine
called down the stairs to say she had an urgent note for me to take to her lawyer. ‘You can combine the two trips,’ she said. Not really, I thought, knowing that I couldn’t walk all the way to her lawyer on Rue Paradis and go to the theatre.

The next day, as I was fitting Bonbon’s lead for our walk, Aunt Augustine called out that she had a letter she wanted me to deliver to the pharmacist. I hoped that she wasn’t going to make a habit of these combined errand/dog walks. After dropping the letter into the pharmacy, I ran all the way to Le Chat Espiègle. When I reached the alley, my heart leapt with joy to see that my crate had been set up for me, along with a jar of water for Bonbon. I took my seat and poured some water into my palm, which Bonbon lapped up. But after waiting a quarter of an hour still no one had arrived. I leaned back against the wall, trying to contain my disappointment. I was half an hour later than I had been the first couple of nights and had missed them all. I was about to get up and leave when the stage door swung open and a familiar voice called out, ‘I thought you weren’t going to show up.’

I looked up and saw the doorman smiling at me.

‘Have I missed them?’

He nodded and my heart sank.

‘That being the case, Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘I suggest that you come inside and watch from the wings.’

I jumped up, scarcely able to believe my ears. My legs trembled so much I could barely move.

‘Come on,’ the doorman laughed.

I needed no further encouragement. I ran up the stairs and plunged through the doorway where I had seen the others pass before me. At first I was dazed from the contrast of the sunshine outside and the darkness within, but after a few seconds my eyes adjusted and I saw that we were standing in a stairwell crowded with stuffed armchairs and panels painted with scenes of a Turkish bath.

‘My name is Albert,’ said the doorman. ‘And you are…?’

‘Simone. And this is Bonbon,’ I said, holding her up to him.

‘I’m pleased to meet you both,’ he said, gesturing for me to follow him up the stairs then down a narrow hallway. ‘Now, Simone and Bonbon, it’s very important that you be quiet otherwise the management will not be impressed.’

He pulled aside a curtain and pointed to a stool sitting under some stairs. I edged my way past more panels of scenery, a chandelier lying on a broken sofa and a bucket of sand, then eased myself into the space and perched Bonbon in my lap. My nose itched from the smell of dust and paint but I didn’t care. Albert pressed his finger to his lips and I nodded my promise to be quiet. He smiled and disappeared.

I peered through a crack in the curtain and squinted at the bright lights that shone like four suns towards me. I discovered that I was in the wing closest to the backdrop, which was a painting of buffaloes stampeding across a plain. In the distance a wagon train was weaving its way alongside a river. I had a view down the stage into the orchestra pit and beyond to the first three rows of seats. In the middle of the stage was a towering wooden pole with primitive faces carved into its sides. The band was warming up and a man with spindly legs and a moustache with the ends waxed into curlicues darted about, yelling at someone in the front wings to close the curtains.

‘We’re about to let the audience in,’ he shouted, running his fingers through his slicked-down hair. ‘What do you mean the cord is tangled?’

He was answered by several grunts and a scraping sound. The curtains jerked from the wings but came to an abrupt halt a metre from each other. Further grunts sounded from the front wing, followed by a string of curses.

The tall man stared at a spot on the backdrop for a moment before sighing. ‘What do you mean they won’t close any further? I told you to check them at rehearsal. It’s too late to oil the runners now.’

There was a bang and the scenery wobbled. Bonbon yelped but luckily the sound had been so loud that its echo
drowned her out. I rubbed her back and squinted through the crack. The totem pole was lying on its side. Two men in overalls with hammers in their back pockets rushed onto the stage and righted it, fixing a support at its base. The curlicue man’s eyes bulged and his hands clenched into fists by his sides. He seemed to be on the verge of exploding, but after the totem pole had been secured and the two stagehands returned to the wings, he let out a slow, whistling breath, threw his arms in the air and shouted, ‘On with the show!’