No Light (2 page)

I felt nervous standing at the entrance to L’Opera Comique.
Camille’s name and face appeared to be everywhere. I stepped inside and was almost overcome by the grandness of the place. The marble floor covered with mosaics sweeping around the central staircase and the inspirational frescos covering the walls could not fail to infuse me with a deep sense of musical harmony.

I bought a ticket for the Circle. Row G, Seat 6. The following four days seemed endless. I told my father of my plans the night before the performance and immediately regretted it. Although he seemed genuinely interested he could not resist lecturing me on the virtues of music.

“Music affects our whole being and demands our attention as human beings Paul. It was given to us by God as a means of enhancing our lives. This is what our soul desires the most and we must always respond to that...”

My soul only desired to see Camille and hear her voice. I conceived a plan to meet her after the performance. I would wait at the stage door and ask for her autograph.

The next morning I began thinking of how I should dress for the evening ahead. I had to impress her. I wanted to look like an artist so I created a costume consisting of a dark green single-breasted velvet jacket, a white shirt with a purple cravat, dark grey trousers, black laced boots and a navy beret.

After walking my father to the synagogue I continued to the shop and set up my easel and canvas in the back room. I wished to paint Camille but was acutely aware I would be doing so from my recollection of the photographs at the theatre. I began by outlining her face roughly in pencil before progressing to draw her left eye in detail. I remembered that eye being most prominent in the photograph. Her right eye was only partially visible because of the angle the photographer had used to capture her portrait. I worked on the eyes for almost an hour before moving to create her mouth although by now I was straining to recall her face. By lunchtime I had finished. I pushed the chair back and studied my work. It looked nothing like her.

I returned home. The day was now pleasantly warm so I decided to sit in the square for a while. I took my sketching pad in case I saw something that might interest me and went to sit on a bench under one of the large beech trees. It was early afternoon and the square was almost deserted. A few people were about; a woman pushed a pram and stopped regularly to check her baby, Mme Guillard moved in and out of her flower shop, a man wearing a straw hat cycled by on a very red bicycle and appeared to be in a hurry somewhere, maybe to visit his lover.

I began to dose and was awakened sometime later by the giggling of two young lovers sitting on the bench next to me. I became self conscious of their canoodling and began to sketch the fountain at the centre of the square. However, my attention kept being drawn back to them so I decided to walk to the shop across the road and buy something. I had no idea what I wanted so when I entered the shop I just stood there and looked around. Then I left. I stood outside the shop for a moment contemplating whether or not to return to my bench but a man dressed in a business suit came and sat on it so I returned to the apartment.

I shaved twice that day once in the morning and again in the evening after dinner. I applied some cologne, put the ticket in my breast pocket and checked I had money for a programme. My father had just returned from the synagogue after Kiddush and I asked him how I looked. He merely said, “Do I really have to tell you?” I didn’t understand what he meant by that and left the apartment. I was half-way down the stairs when I remembered I had forgotten to take a pen. I rushed back upstairs and rummaged through my bedroom, failed to find one and checked the living room. My father was listening to a Friday evening programme on the radio that was discussing events in Germany and how threatening Adolf Hitler’s speeches were becoming regarding Jews. He sat shaking his head and rapping the floor with his walking stick.

“Why are the German people listening to this idiot? What he says is absolute nonsense. Have you forgotten something?”

“I need a pen.”

“A pen?”

“Yes, I might want to take notes during the performance.”

“Now that is a very good idea! I would be interested in hearing your opinion. Carmen isn’t it? It is a wonderful opera! I remember once…”

He stared into space. His eyes filled with tears. His hands gripped the handle of stick. I coughed loudly!

“The pen?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” He laughed. “Sorry, I noticed something in the pattern in the carpet. Just there!” he pointed with his stick. “It looks like a smiling face, a smiling dancing face almost singing with delight.”

He moved to rise from the chair.

“Don’t bother! Just tell me where it is!” I replied impatiently.

He froze for a second before relaxing back into his seat.

“Try my jacket.”

I looked around and noticed his jacket hanging on the back of the door. The pen was in the breast pocket, a beautiful black and silver Lalex. I screwed the top off and checked for ink by writing Camille’s name on the back of my hand. Her name appeared in vibrant blue. I replaced the top and clipped the pen to my inside pocket.

“I’ll be back around ten-thirty.”

He ignored me; his eyes were again fixated on the imaginary face. A faint smile caressed his lips.

It was a warm evening and I immediately regretted wearing my jacket. I contemplated returning it to the apartment but to be honest I didn’t want to have to speak to my father again. By the time I left the square I was beginning to sweat so I removed the jacket and draped it over my arm. This cooled me a little though I was aware that my underarms were now beginning to dampen my shirt. I continued along the narrow streets filled with Friday night revellers, all laughing and scurrying off to meet friends, family or lovers. Fifteen minutes later I arrived at L’Opera Comique, put on my jacket and walked inside to join the throng of fashionable Parisians dressed in stunning evening dresses and well-tailored suits. A pretty young usher approached me.

“May I help, Monsieur?”

I fumbled for my ticket.

“Ah, Le Cercle, follow me.”

She walked off quickly and stopped at the foot of the stairs.

“Go to the second floor Monsieur. Keep to the right.”

My feet sank into the thick carpet as I walked up the stairs. I continued to the second floor where I bought a programme before being guided to Row G of the circle. I almost gasped with delight when I saw the theatre for the first time, marvelling at how the seats swept down towards the stage still hidden behind red velvet curtains and surrounded with impressive carvings of naked figures. I squeezed past the first five people in my row and settled into my seat. I looked to either side. On my left was a bald fat man dressed in an evening suit complete with red bow-tie and an unlit cigar in his mouth. His head shone in a blue light. To my right sat a woman dressed in a pink satin evening dress and wearing a hat that I thought was much too large. Her perfume, a light mixture of peach and jasmine was pleasant enough but every time she moved, the brim of her hat threatened to blind me.

I opened the programme and smiled with anticipation as I read Camille’s name. She played Micaela, betrothed to Jose, who fails in her attempt to rescue him from the clutches of the seductive Carmen. There was also a short biography describing how she came from Limoux to study music at the Conservatoire de Paris and how this was her first credited role with L’Opera Comique.

Applause filled the auditorium and I looked up to see the orchestra entering. Everyone around me shuffled with excitement. The applause became more rapturous as the conductor took his position. He turned and acknowledged the reception before extending his arms. The lights dimmed! Then the first note sounded of what must be the most rousing overture in Opera. The clapping began immediately; the bald man bounced recklessly on his seat while the lady with the hat almost decapitated me. I didn’t care! I was lost in the music, clapping feverishly and stamping my feet! Slowly, the curtain opened to reveal the square in Seville. A group of young soldiers relaxed and waited for the changing of the guard. I caught my breath as Micaela entered and enquired about Jose. Her vulnerability was evident as the soldiers invited her to wait with them. She declined saying she would return later. The factory bell rang and the stage filled with cigarette girls exchanging banter with the young men. Then Carmen entered to sing
Habanera.
She was provocative and irresistible.

L’amour est un oiseau rebelle
Que nul ne peut apprivoiser,
Et c’est bien in vain qu’on l’appelle
S’il lui convient de refuser.

My heart proclaimed her words,

Love is a rebellious bird that cannot be tamed.

At length, Camille returned to the stage. Her small, perfectly formed body crept slowly towards her lover. She handed him a letter from his mother and slowly and deliberately planted a kiss on his cheek. She sang
Parle-moi de ma mere
and her soft voice filled the theatre. I resisted tears as she clasped her hands to her breasts and pleaded with him to return. Her song filled me with beauty.

O memories of long ago 
memories of the country! 
Fill his heart 
with strength and courage 
O cherished memories!

Three hours later I stood on the steps of the theatre, clutching my programme. I was overwhelmed. My eyes stung, my heart ached and my mind was saturated with music. People filed past me showing their enjoyment. I didn’t quite know what to do. It had been my intention to meet Camille but now I felt completely inadequate and unworthy of her attention. I noticed some people running down the side of the theatre to the Stage Door. For a moment, I contemplated returning home but decided instead to follow them.

I had to wait for twenty minutes to see her. Carmen emerged first and the crowd became ecstatic, “bravo, bravo”
,
they shouted! She was much older than her photograph suggested yet she was still beautiful and she obviously adored the adulation. She wore a long black velvet coat with a red scarf hanging loosely around her neck. Her thick black hair bounced lightly on her shoulders as she laughed and gave her autograph. I did not approach her. I was looking behind to where Camille stood almost completely ignored. She wore a pale yellow coat with a white fur collar trim. Her long blonde hair cascaded around her face. I pushed my way through the crowd and thrust my programme towards her.

“Mademoiselle, if you please!” She looked surprised. I quickly pulled the pen from my pocket and offered it to her.

“Merci, Monsieur. What is your name?”

“Paul! Paul Politzer.”

She scribbled something, returned the programme and began examining my pen.

“What a beautiful Lalex. My mother had one!”

“Merci, Mademoiselle.”

She smiled and almost reluctantly returned it to me. I read what she had written.

To Paul, with much appreciation, Camille Berman.

She had written it clearly in perfectly formed letters. I savoured her words blissfully unaware that her group was moving off towards the main street. When I finally realised they were no longer with me I was at a loss as what to do. Then quite unexpectedly Camille ran back towards me.

“We are going to
La Coupole
.
You are welcome to join us.”

I tried to smile but could only manage a ludicrous grin.

“Well? Are you coming?”

She waited for me to join her.

“What do you do?” she enquired.

“I am a humble artist”, I replied.

She laughed and ran to Jose linking his arm. I became nervous and feared my interest in her would soon be thwarted. We continued walking. Carmen was telling everyone what she thought of the production and the theatre. At one point she began mimicking the director as he rehearsed with her.

“Frau Hartmaan, I need more passion; more of your hands and your beautiful black hair!”

“We all know how good you are with your hands Cecilia”, quipped Jose.

“Oh Alex, now we all know how bad you are at keeping secrets”, Cecilia retorted.

We came to La Coupole. I knew this was the place of Hemmingway, Joyce, Picasso, Sartre and de Beauvoir. As I walked through the door I noticed a large plaque on the wall and paused to read it.

La Coupole is a temple of Art Deco with a simplicity and faithfulness to French tradition, boasting a taste for straight lines and geometric interpretations of shapes from nature typified by an audacious colour palette and a mix of the most diverse materials including concrete, wood, ceramic, earthenware, iron, porcelain, cloth and glass. The pillars covered in imitation marble, the Cubist-inspired mosaics and the lemonwood trim, the Perzel chandeliers all collaborate to create a bohemian palace of immense beauty.

Applause filled the restaurant and Cecilia dutifully smiled and blew kisses. She removed her coat and scarf to reveal a stunning pink double-breasted silk gown with puffed sleeves. The other women were dressed less flamboyantly. Camille removed her coat and I was instantly enchanted by her simple blue calf length dress.