No Light (3 page)

A small band in a corner began playing
She Shall have Music
. Cecilia grabbed Alex and began dancing,

She shall have music wherever she goes
with plenty of rhythm to tickle her toes.
Wherever she goes, she shall have music …

Her entrance complete, Cecilia led us to our table. I began to notice more detail on the walls and pillars; a portrait of dancer Josephine Baker surrounded by ostrich feathers and another of writer Georges Duhamel playing the flute. I was seated between two young chorus members who introduced themselves as Bertrand and Sabine. Camille sat three seats to my right. Wine was served and Bertrand and Sabine told me that this was their first production at L’Opera Comique and how they were enjoying the experience. They heaped praise on Cecilia and Alex telling me how friendly and helpful they were. I doubted that. I kept glancing furtively at Camille who occasionally caught my eye. I so desperately wanted to speak to her, to sense her sitting beside me.

I noticed Cecilia looking at me. She was smoking a cigarette precariously perched at the end of a long red cigarette holder.

“So, introduce yourself stranger”, she commanded. Bertrand and Sabine moved slightly away from me, and I became isolated in the spotlight of Cecilia’s gaze. She brushed her hair back from her forehead and I was instantly attracted to her green eyes.

“I am Paul Politzer from Le Marais and I am pleased to be in your company”.

“And what are you doing here, Paul Politzer from Le Marais?”

“I was kindly invited by Mademoiselle Berman.”

“You have an admirer Camille?”

“I attended the performance and afterwards asked her for her autograph.”

“He is an artist, a painter”, Camille interjected.

The others oohed and aahed sarcastically.

“A painter!” Cecilia exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Are you famous?”

“Maybe someday I will be. I have a small shop in Rue des Rosiers. Please, feel free to visit.”

“Thank you, maybe someday I will!”

She inhaled a long draught of her cigarette and allowed the smoke to curl from her lips and caress her face as it wandered slowly towards the ceiling.

“I think we may have embarrassed Monsieur Politzer.”

“Not at all!”

“Are you an aficionado of opera?” Cecilia enquired.

“I would not describe myself as one.”

“How would you describe yourself?”

“I know little of opera. I work with colour, yet the music tonight inspired me.”

“Well I have to say you appear very colourful. I particularly admire your purple cravat and navy beret. Are you considering wearing the beret all evening?”

She gulped some wine and quickly turned away to speak to Alex. Bertrand leaned over and whispered.

“Don’t worry, she does that with everybody. It’s a kind of initiation.”

My hands were shaking and I had to concentrate hard on lifting my glass to drink some wine.

“So tell me Paul, what is your opinion of Monsieur Hitler and his new Germany?”

It was Alex. He was also smoking, though I thought it odd that he held his cigarette between his little and third finger.

“I don’t really have an opinion. To my shame, I have not been keeping abreast with news from Germany.”

“He’s a dangerous fascist”, Sabine exclaimed much too loudly!

“Do you know anything about him?” Alex continued.

“I believe him to be quite intense in his beliefs.”

“Intense he certainly is! He is also excessive and severe and what is certain is that he is a danger to Europe, to France and all of us sitting here. Mark my words; it won’t be long before German soldiers are marching through the streets of Paris.”

“Oh Alex, you are so passionate! I love that about you”, Cecilia responded, squeezing his arm.

A roar from the crowd! Someone had entered the cafe. We all turned to see who it was. Whispers filled the air.

“It’s Mistinguett, its Mistinguett!”

I vaguely recognised her. It was rumoured her legs were insured for half a million francs. Everyone stood and applauded. The band played
Ca c’est Paris
. She went to the microphone and began to sing. Cecilia leapt to her feet. The others followed suit. I felt awkward and attempted to join the celebrations. When Mistinguett finished Cecilia and Alex ran to the stage and kissed her profusely, raising her arms high in the air. It seemed they never missed a chance to promote themselves. The crowd responded keenly. Finally Mistinguett returned to the microphone.

“Merci, merci, you are so kind! Now we have a treat. My dear friend Maurice Chevalier is here with me and I’m sure we can persuade him to sing for us. Welcome Maurice!”

The audience obliged and Maurice stepped forward. After a quick word with the band he approached the microphone. The band began playing. I saw my opportunity and moved next to Camille.

“What is the song called?” I asked

“
Ma Pomme
!” She replied. “His latest song.”

I listened intently but to be honest, I wasn’t that impressed. The song was a trivial love tune almost comical in nature. Half way through I sat down. I was becoming more and more frustrated with how the evening was going. Cecilia and Alex infuriated me with their constant attention seeking and I was beginning to despise the group for pandering to such vulgarity.

“Are you sad?”

Camille sat beside me. Her deep blue eyes widened as she smiled. I returned her smile but had no answer. I only wanted to be alone with her.

“I would like to walk you home”, I replied.

She quickly glanced towards Alex. The song had finished and he was attempting to compete with Cecilia for a little of the reflected adulation now being heaped upon Chevalier.

“I am with my friends Paul. It would be rude of me to leave them.”

I lowered my head.

“You are upset?”

“A little! I only want to know you better.”

She placed her hand on my arm.

“Tell me more about your little shop in Rue des Rosiers.”

I gave her a brief synopsis of how I came to own it. She seemed genuinely interested and this encouraged me to speak honestly about my art, the difficulty I had with it, my obsession with painting faces and the influence of my mother and her miniatures.

“What is art?” she asked.

Her question surprised me. I had never really thought about it.

“I suppose art is a means of communicating in painting, music, writing and movement how we experience the world.”

“That’s the text book answer. I want to know what you think it is.”

I had to think about that. As so often is the case I never really considered why I did things other than they seemed like good ideas at the time. What did I think art was? I don’t think I knew.

“I am compelled to do it. My parents told me I was always creative, always drawing and painting as a child. That may be true except my first memory of drawing was when I was eight or nine. I’m not sure. One sunny summer’s day I went outside and drew the square. I spent all day doing it, took ages sketching the buildings and the trees trying to include the smallest details. Then I painted the drawing but I didn’t know how to paint properly so I completely ruined it. I was so upset and ran crying to my mother. She said what I’d done was good but that didn’t satisfy me.”

“Is art what you say it is or what others tell you it is?”

“What others tell you or more precisely when they recognise and appreciate what you have done.”

“When they can see the beauty in your work?”

“Not necessarily. Art is not about beauty or aesthetics it is more about communication and a truthful interaction between human beings. The greatest artists have always achieved this, the Mona Lisa’s tenuous smile; Van Gogh’s tormented brush strokes. They engage the viewer in something more mysterious, more meaningful than beauty”

“Do men and women view art differently?”

She raised her eyebrows. I wondered for a moment if she was baiting me. Her questions were so direct.

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

She smiled and lowered her eyes.

“I knew you would ask me that. Did my question threaten you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why don’t you answer?”

“I was interested in what you might think.”

“No you weren’t.”

“I was. I’ve been doing all the talking. I wanted to hear your opinion...”

“...of my own question?”

I nodded tentatively.

“I think it is a good question.”

“Now you are being sarcastic.”

“Am I?”

“You knew what I meant.”

“Did I? How do you know that?”

“Why did you ask me that question?”

“I was interested in hearing what you might have to say. You talked about art being truthful and meaningful and I wondered what you meant by that with regard to men and women. Let’s leave it for now. We can talk again another time. Tell me more about your shop.”

I was reluctant to continue. I felt ruffled. She reached forward and took my hand. “Please.”

I told her about the Toulouse-Lautrec sketches and the portrait of my mother.

“You painted your mother? How wonderful! I would like to see it.”

“You would? I think I could have painted it better.”

“I’m sure it is very good. Is your shop open every day?”

“Most days.”

“I have some free time in a few days. The director promised my understudy some performances. I will call to see you then.”

I was tempted to ask her to be more specific, which day, what time!

“You will?”

“Of course I will.” She squeezed my hand.

“What is this?” she asked.

I was confused.

“My name, you have it written on the back of your hand.”

I blushed. She smiled and tilted her head slightly.

Cecilia and Alex had returned and even though I knew I would miss Camille, I had no desire to continue this charade with the others.

“I think I will leave now, thank you for inviting me to join you.”

“Thank you for asking for my autograph. I hope the evening wasn’t too painful.”

“No, not at all; this place is extraordinary...”

“...and created for excess.”

“Well, if Alex is correct, then Monsieur Hitler will love it!”

Camille laughed loudly.

“He would love to be proven correct.”

She leaned over and kissed me gently on the cheek.

“Goodnight Paul Politzer, humble painter from Le Marais.”

“My pleasure Camille Berman.”

I bid my goodbyes. Bertrand and Sabine shook my hand. The others waved. Cecilia ignored me and Alex merely nodded before turning his attention back to Cecilia. I left quickly and once outside, I missed her; her words, her smile, her hand on my arm and her kiss, were all I could think about as I walked home.

When I arrived my father was asleep in his chair by the radio. The room was lit with candles. It was now Saturday, Shabbat! He woke as soon as I entered the room.

“Is that you Paul?”He checked his watch. “It’s after midnight!”

“Yes, I went out
with some of the cast after the performance.”

“You know these people?”

I sat down and told him about the evening, careful to avoid any sentiment regarding Camille.

“
La Coupole
is a palace of hedonism son. You should avoid it. So, tell me about Carmen?”

“I’ll tell you in the morning. It is late! You should go to bed.” I took the programme from my jacket pocket and set it on the table. “Have a look!”

“Did you make any notes?”

“I was so enraptured by the performance, I forgot to.”

“Do you have my pen?”

I pulled the Lalex from my pocket and handed it to him. He hesitated before taking it. Then he unscrewed the top and examined the nib closely. When he was satisfied I hadn’t completely destroyed it, he carefully placed the pen on the table next to the radio.

“Who is Camille?”

“Camille?”

“The name written on the back of your hand!”

I looked at her name scrawled on my skin and began to rub the ink with my thumb.

“Oh, that! Merely one of the performers! She gave me her name and I didn’t want to forget.”

“I see! She must be important. Right, I must go to bed now. Shabbat!”

I helped him from his chair and watched him slowly and painfully leave the room.

“Goodnight son!” he whispered quietly

At that moment, my heart was filled with great affection and love for him. Ordinarily our conversations were functional, the stuff of day to day life; communication designed to make living together pleasant and bearable but there were other, briefer times when our natural bond transcended the ordinary. These moments were almost metaphysical, seconds existing out of time, when our souls became entwined. No language could express the truthfulness of it and the truth was I didn’t want him to die. I knew how much he missed my mother. Some nights he would sit at her piano, flinching each time he pressed a particular key, remembering something of their life together, maybe a moment of intimacy or maybe something he had forgotten to say. I too had my own private memories of her: playing
Shake that Thing
, my father laughing and saying, “I don’t think you could shake much with that tempo, Anna”, my mother playing faster until finally leaping to her feet, grabbing him round the waist and dancing wildly around the room singing...