Love of Seven Dolls (3 page)

“You were in excellent voice tonight, my dear Reynardo.”

“Permit me to compliment you likewise, friend Duclos.”

To Mouche, Reynardo remarked, “You know, I could make something out of you, Baby . . .” and Dr. Duclos added importantly, “Your sol-fege is not at all bad, my child. I say of course that everything is diaphragm control . . .”

From somewhere in the depths of the booth a bell rang. Mr. Reynardo let out a yelp. “Oops! Supper! Sorry. Nice to have met you, kid. Come on, Doc.”

The fox and the penguin disappeared beneath the stage. Golo regarded Mouche for a moment with the sad creamy eyes of an old negro who had seen much. He said, “Who are you, Miss?”

Mouche replied, “Nobody.”

“You brought us good luck.”

“Did I? I’m glad.”

“Where you go now?”

“I don’t know.”

His question had restored the chill to the night and the feel of the hard-packed earth beneath her feet. The fairy tale was over then. Yet the echoes still lingered and her heart felt strangely light.

Golo nodded. To have no place to go was familiar to him. He said, “You excuse me, Miss. I better get things ready to move.”

He went to the car and unstrapped the big theatrical trunk from the rear. Someone at Mouche’s elbow went “Pssst!” Another half-doll occupied the stage, an elderly woman with a pronounced moustache and indignant eyebrows. She was wearing a coverall and mob cap and carried a dustcloth with which she took an occasional wipe at the counter. When Mouche turned to her she first peered furtively to both sides and then addressed her in a hoarse whisper. “Don’t trust them.”

Instantly Mouche was swept back to this other world. “Don’t trust whom?” she asked.

“Don’t trust
anyone.
I am a woman, and believe me, I know what I am talking about.”

“But they were all so kind . . .” Mouche protested.

“Hah! That’s just how they do it. I am Madame Muscat, the concierge here. I know everything that goes on. You look as though you might be a respectable girl. The things I could tell you . . . They’re all a bad lot and if you take my advice you won’t have anything to do with them.”

Mouche was not one to listen to gossip and Madame Muscat was exactly like all the concierges she had ever known. Nevertheless she felt a pang at her heart, the kind one experiences when ill is spoken of dear friends. She cried, “Oh surely that can’t be so . . .”

Golo went by carrying the trunk on his shoulders. He paused and said reprovingly: “You oughtn’t to say things like that, Madame Muscat. They ain’t really so bad. They just young and a little wild.” To Mouche he said reassuringly, “Don’t you pay her any attention, Miss. Wait until I put her in this trunk again. That will keep her quiet.”

Madame Muscat gave a little shriek at the threat and ducked quickly beneath the counter as Golo continued on behind the booth.

In her place there appeared then finally one more puppet, an old gentleman who wore square steel-rimmed spectacles, a stocking cap and leather apron. The expression painted on his face contrived sometimes to be quizzical and friendly, at others, when he moved his head, searching and benign, For a moment he appeared to look right through Mouche. Then in a gentle voice he spoke to her saying, “Good evening to you. My name is Monsieur Nicholas. I am a maker and mender of toys. My child, I can see you are in trouble. Behind your eyes are many more tears than you have shed.”

Mouche’s hand flew to her throat because of the ache that had come to lodge there. It had been so long since anyone had called her “child”.

Monsieur Nicholas said, “Perhaps you would care to tell me about it.”

Golo appeared again. He said, “You tell
him,
Miss. He is a good man. Everybody who has troubles tells them to Monsieur Nicholas.”

Now the tears came swiftly to Mouche’s eyes and with their flow something loosened inside her so that standing there in the garish light before the shabby puppet booth and the single animated wooden doll listening so attentively to her, the story of her trials and failures poured from her in moving innocence, for she could not have confessed it thus to any human.

When she had reached the end of her unhappy tale, Monsieur Nicholas concluded for her, “. . . And so you were going to throw yourself into the Seine tonight.”

Mouche stared, marvelling. “How did you know?”

“It was not hard to tell. There is nothing to seek for one as young as you at the bottom of the river.”

“But, Monsieur Nicholas—what shall I do? Where shall I go?”

The puppet bowed his head as he reflected gravely for a moment, a tiny hand held to his brow. Then he tilted his head to one side and asked, “Would you care to come with us?”

“Come with you? Oh, could I? Do you suppose I could?” It was as though suddenly a vista of Heaven had opened for Mouche. For she loved them already, all of these queer, compelling little individuals who each in a few brief moments had captured her imagination or tugged at her heartstrings. To make-believe for ever—or as the day was long, to escape from reality into this unique world of fantasy . . . She held out her arms in supplication and cried, “Oh, Monsieur Nicholas! Would you really take me with you?”

The puppet contemplated silently for a moment and then said, “You must ask Poil du Carot. Officially, he manages the show. Goodbye.”

The stage remained empty for an appreciable time. Then an insouciant whistling was heard and Poil du Carot appeared bouncing jauntily along the counter, looking nowhere in particular. As though surprised he said, “Oh, hello, Mouche, you still here?”

The girl was uncertain how to approach him. He was mercurial. His mood now seemed to be quite different. She ventured: “Monsieur Nicholas said . . .”

Carrot Top nodded. “Oh yes. I heard about it.”

“May I come please, dear Carrot Top?”

The doll with the worried expression looked her over. “When you ask so prettily it is hard to refuse . . . After all, it was I who discovered you, wasn’t it? However, if you come with us you wouldn’t always be telling me what to do, would you? You know I have a lot of responsibility with this show.”

“Oh no . . .”

“But you’d look after us, wouldn’t you?”

“If you’d let me . . .”

“Sew on buttons and things?”

“Darn socks . . .”

“We have no feet,” Carrot Top said severely. “That’s the first thing you’ll have to learn.”

“Then I’d knit you mittens.”

Carrot Top nodded. “That would be nice. We’ve never had mittens. There’d be no money, you know . . .”

“I wouldn’t care . . .”

“Very well then . . . In that case you can come . . .”

“Oh, Carrot Top!”

“Mouche!”

Mouche never knew exactly how it happened, but suddenly she was close to the booth, weeping with joy, and Carrot Top had both his arms around her neck and was patting her cheek with one of his little wooden hands. He wailed, “Mouche, don’t cry. I always meant you to come. I only had to pretend because I’m the manager . . . Welcome to Poil du Carot and the family of Capitaine Coq.”

From below there sounded the sardonic yapping of the fox and the shrill voice of Gigi, “Why does she have to come with us? There isn’t enough for everybody now.” Madame Muscat whisked across the stage once croaking, “Remember, I warned you.” Ali arose and rumbled: “Gee, I’m glad. I need looking after because I’m so stupid. Scratch my head . . .”

Carrot Top suddenly became efficient. “Not now, Ali. We’ve got to get cracking. Golo . . . Golo, where are you?”

“Right here, little boss.” The Senegalese appeared from behind the booth.

“Mouche is coming with us. Find her a place in the car . . .”

The negro shouted “Bravo. That’s mighty good luck for us. I find her a place in the car.”

“Then come back and strike the set, Golo.”

“Yes, sir, little boss. Strike the set. I’ll do that. You come along with me, Miss, and I fix you right up.” He picked up Mouche’s valise and went with her to the Citroën where he stowed it in the luggage boot in the rear. Then he looked into the back seat of the car which was buried beneath pieces of old clothing, newspapers, maps, bits of costumes for the puppets and props, packages, a bottle of beer, a half-eaten loaf of bread, tools and a spare tin of petrol along with other masculine litter.

Golo began a futile rummaging. “Don’t look like they’s much room, but . . .”

Mouche took over. “Never mind, Golo. I promised Carrot Top I’d look after things. I’ll have it tidied up in no time.”

As she worked, Mouche sang, “Va t’en, va t’en, va t’en . . .” humming the melody happily to herself. But through her head were running new words to the old song, “Go away, death! You are not my lover any longer. I have found a new one called life. It is to him I shall always be faithful . . .”

She cleared a small space for herself on the seat, folded the clothing and the maps, wrapped the bread and a piece of sausage she found, stowed the costumes carefully where they would not get dirty, and while she was at it, gave a good brushing and cleaning to the old car which in a sense was to be her future home, one that she would share with Carrot Top, Reynardo, Ali, Mme. Muscat and Gigi, Golo and all the rest.

So bemused and enchanted was she that not once did she give a thought to that other who would also be there, the unseen puppeteer who animated the seven dolls.

When she had finished it was only the spare tin of petrol which had defeated her and she emerged from the car searching for Golo to ask his advice.

Yet when Mouche discovered him nearby she found herself unable to call, or even speak, so strange and ominous was the sight that met her eyes.

For the booth with all its endearing occupants had vanished from the spot it had occupied and now lay flat, a compact pile of board, canvas, oil-cloth and painted papier mâché, tarpaulined and roped by Golo who was finishing the job with the sure movements of long practice. None of the puppets were in sight and reposed presumably in the trunk that stood nearby.

But the pole with the flaming gasoline torch was still there and against it leaned a man Mouche had not seen before. He was clad in corduroy trousers, rough shoes and was wearing a roll-neck sweater under some kind of old army fatigue-jacket. A stocking cap was pulled down on one side of his head and a cigarette hung from his lips.

In the wavering light it was not possible to judge his age, but his attitude and the expression on his face and mouth was cold, cynical and mocking. His eyes were fixed on Mouche and she could see their glitter reflecting the torchlight.

It was like a chill hand laid upon her heart, for there was no warmth or kindliness in the figure lounging against the pole, his fists pressed deeply into the pockets of his jacket. The shine of his eyes was hostile and the droop of the cigarette from his lips contemptuous.

Mouche, in her marrow, knew that this was the puppet-master, the man who had animated the little creatures that had laid such an enchantment upon her, yet she was filled with dread. For a moment even she hoped that somehow this was not he, the master of the dolls, but some other, a pitch-man, a labourer, or lounger from a neighbouring concession.

Golo, straightening up from his task, looked from one to the other, the silent man, the frightened girl, and presented them to one another elaborately, as though they had never met before, as though the man had not been able to look through his one-way curtain behind which he sat as he gave life and voice to his puppets, and study each curve and hollow of the girl’s face, and every line of her thin body.

“Miss Mouche, this is Capitaine Coq,” Golo explained and then turned to the man who had not stirred. “Capitaine, this here is Miss Mouche. Carrot Top, he find her walking along in the dark by herself, crying, and he stop her and have a talk with her. Then Mr. Reynardo he find out she a pretty damn good singer, and Monsieur Nicholas he come up and ask maybe she like to come along with us, after that old gossip Madame Muscat she try to make trouble. Then Carrot Top he say okay she can come come along with the show. I think that very good luck for everybody.” He paused satisfied. Golo was convinced that the little creatures thought and acted as individuals and that the puppeteer was not privy to what they said and did, or what transpired between them.

Mouche, too, had been under the same spell, and the presence of the man confused and alarmed her and increased the turmoil of her emotions.

The man introduced as Capitaine Coq moved his eyes slightly so as to take in Golo and rasped, “Well, what do you expect me to do about it? What did Carrot Top tell you to do?”

“To get the gear on the car, Monsieur le Capitaine . . .”

“Well then, get on with it. And you drive. I want to get some sleep.”

“Get the gear onto the car. Okay, sir . . .” Golo picked up the heavy bundle, but was slow in moving. The Capitaine barked, “Allez!” at him and helped him with a kick.

Golo did not exclaim or protest. Mouche thought she would die of shame and sadness because of the manner in which the negro scuttled under the impetus of the blow, like an animal—or a human who has well learned the futility of protest against cruelty.

Reality as cold as the night engulfed Mouche. The man’s personality and harshness was as acrid as the stench from the smoking flare above his head. Now he turned his calculating stare upon Mouche and for the first time spoke directly to her. He did not remove the cigarette from his lips and it hung there remaining horrifying motionless when he talked, for he had the professional ventriloquist’s trick of speaking without moving his lips, when he wished.

“You, Mouche! Come here.”

She felt herself hypnotised. She was unable to resist moving slowly towards him. When she stood in front of him he looked her up and down.

‘‘You needn’t waste any sympathy on Golo,” he said, again having read her. “He has a better life than he would have elsewhere. Now you listen to me . . .” He paused and the cigarette end glowed momentarily. Mouche felt herself trembling. “You can stay with us as long as you behave yourself and help with the act. If you don’t, I’ll kick you out, no matter what Carrot Top says. Carrot Top likes you. Rey and Dr. Duclos seem to think you can sing. That baby bleat of yours makes me sick, but it pulled in the francs from that crowd tonight and that’s all I care. Now get into the back of that car. You may have some bread and sausage if you’re hungry. But not a sound out of you. March!”