Wild Lavender (24 page)

I patted Olly, Bonbon and Chocolat in turn. Bonbon looked up at me with guilty eyes; perhaps she sensed that I was lonely in Paris. But Chocolat had adopted her, and my mother adored her, and there was no way I would separate them. I rubbed Bonbon’s ears so she would know that I
understood. ‘You are just like Bernard,’ I told her. ‘You have fallen in love with the countryside.’

Bernard started up the truck. ‘Come on, Simone,’ he said, ‘this is your curtain call.’

I laughed and kissed my mother. She grabbed my hands in hers and squeezed them. There was soil ingrained in the lines around her knuckles and her skin was rough; they were honest hands, hardened by honest work. The sight of them filled me with love.

When I arrived back in Paris, Madame Lombard handed me a letter which threw my plans into chaos. My act in the new season’s show at the Casino de Paris had been scrapped. Not because it wasn’t good enough, Monsieur Volterra’s assistant tactfully wrote, but because the show was running overtime and Monsieur Volterra couldn’t cut any of the material belonging to the comedian star, Jacques Noir.

I collapsed onto my bed. What would I do now? After my spending spree on gifts for my family, I had only two hundred francs left and my rent was due the following week. And I no longer had a slot with the Café des Singes to fall back on.

The situation was ironic, given the resolution I had made in Pays de Sault. Instead of getting more than I already had, I was about to lose the little I had got. My dreams of becoming a star were further out of reach than ever.

The next afternoon, Madame Lombard asked me to come downstairs to take a telephone call. It was Monsieur Etienne on the line. He told me to go to the Casino de Paris immediately.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked, keeping my voice low because Madame Lombard was hovering in the reception
area, arranging a vase of tulips and fluffing the sofa cushions.

‘Miguel Rivarola’s wife walked out on him last night. They have to find another tango partner for him today or he has threatened to return to Buenos Aires.’

I twisted the telephone cord around my wrist then let it spiral out again. The tango had been popular in Paris ever since Rudolph Valentino had danced it in the film
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
, and I had seen it performed in cafés and at
bals musettes
. But there was a huge difference between how couples danced in cafés and at afternoon teas to how Rivarola and his wife performed the tango for an audience. I had seen them dance at the Scala once and been mesmerised by the sensuality of their movements and the power in their limbs. They were two flames burning up the stage.

‘Isn’t Rivarola more concerned about finding his wife right now?’ I asked.

‘No,’ laughed Monsieur Etienne. ‘He is a professional artist. No matter what, he gets on with the show. Don’t forget that it opens in three weeks.’

Who could match Maria? I thought, smoothing down my collar. The depth of feeling required for tango wasn’t something you could learn in a day. The fact that the Casino was asking me to try was a sign of how desperate Monsieur Volterra was.

Madame Lombard brushed by me and sat down at the desk, sorting through the day’s mail. I told Monsieur Etienne I would be at the Casino in less than half an hour. I wasn’t going to argue if Monsieur Volterra offered the part to me; I needed the money.

When I arrived at the Casino de Paris I was piqued to discover that Monsieur Volterra was not only trying me out for the role of Rivarola’s dance partner but the entire chorus line and some other minor female acts as well. The first three rows were filled with women in loose dresses and dancing shoes. Sophie, the lead chorus girl, was sitting next to Monsieur Volterra, a rose clutched between her teeth. I was
about to turn around and walk out again when Monsieur Volterra caught sight of me and waved. I smiled back and took a seat. For the sake of smooth relations in the future it would be wiser to stay.

Rivarola was on stage, trying out a tango figure with one of the chorus girls. He manoeuvred like a stalking cat, painstakingly and deliberately. Suddenly he pounced. ‘No, no, no,’ he muttered, pulling away from his partner and addressing Volterra. ‘
Esta chirusa no me sigue!
’

As Rivarola didn’t speak much French and Volterra spoke no Spanish, the remark was translated by the lighting technician who was from Madrid. ‘He says that she doesn’t follow his lead,’ the boy explained.

‘But she is lovely,’ protested Monsieur Volterra, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and patting his forehead. ‘Surely that is something she’ll learn if he teaches her. It’s not as if we can just pull another Argentine tango dancer out of a hat for him. And, after all, we do have a contract.’

There was a moment’s delay while the technician translated for Rivarola. The dancer folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. ‘
Esta mina salta como un conejo
,’ he growled, shaking his fist towards the flies. ‘
Yo quiero una piba que sepa deslizarse como un cisne
.’

The lighting technician shifted from foot to foot and picked at a loose wire around one of the footlights, obviously avoiding translating the last comment.

Seeing there was no use pursuing that line of argument, Monsieur Volterra sent the chorus girl back to her seat and called up another one, who stepped gingerly onto the stage like a virgin to a sacrifice. ‘No wonder his wife left him,’ one of the chorus girls near me whispered to another. ‘He is too difficult to please.’

Although I had resigned myself to the fact that the audition was going to be a waste of time, I was intrigued by Rivarola’s method for trying out potential partners. He started by demonstrating a tango figure for the girl to follow. Once he was sure that she knew the pattern, he would turn and nod to a stagehand waiting in the front
wing. The man would lower the gramophone’s needle onto a record and tango music wafted up into the air. Rivarola would then step forward and clasp the girl with his hand tucked into the small of her back and his torso pressed against hers. The embrace was suggestive but there was not a trace of intimacy in Rivarola’s stony face. He stood in that position, not blinking his eyes or twitching a muscle for at least a minute. If the girl squirmed, giggled or shifted her feet, she was dismissed.

I leaned forward and studied Rivarola. He was in his late forties at least; even though his body was as lithe as that of a boy, his age showed in his face. There were puffy bags under his eyes, and his neck, while firm under the chin, was goose-fleshed. Yet somehow those faults were surpassed by the flicker of his hooded eyes and the curve of his pursed lips. Every turn of his head and bend of his legs oozed sensuality. I began to suspect that his tight embrace was to test whether his partner would be burned by the flame smouldering under his skin or whether she would fuse with it. After what Camille had said about me being so obviously virtuous, I knew I would not be chosen. Yet I was curious to see who would be.

If his potential partner passed the embrace test, Rivarola performed the tango figure with her, propelling the girl around the stage and frequently changing direction. I noticed that dancers were not discarded for muddling their footwork; Rivarola didn’t seem to be looking for perfection. I was intrigued by the way he guided his various partners—hovering over them, occasionally flinching from them or sniffing the tops of their heads—as if he were choosing flowers at a market by their perfume. But after more than an hour of try-outs, none of the girls pleased him.

‘
Esto es como bailar con troncos!
’ Rivarola spat out just before Monsieur Volterra called me up on stage. I had no idea what he had said but knew from the tone that it wasn’t good. His insults were unjustified: he’d had the choice of some of Paris’s best chorus girls, many of whom were
trained in ballet. I took my place opposite him and braced myself for the test by imagining the chocolate éclair I intended to devour as soon as it was over.

Rivarola stared at my ankles then bent over and stroked them like a man choosing a racehorse. He seemed intrigued by the shape of them although no one had made any comment about my feet before. He brushed his hands over the bridges then slipped his fingers under my arches. I fought the tickle that irritated my windpipe; I was determined not to laugh. I wanted to make it at least as far as the second test before Rivarola declared me unsuitable. I was curious to discover how he made his decisions.

The stagehand dropped the gramophone needle and Rivarola clenched me to his chest. I stifled a cry. Something like a lightning strike jumped from his chest into mine. I shook with the force of it but didn’t budge from my position. Rivarola stared into my eyes. Somehow I managed to hold his gaze. This is what it must feel like to be seduced by a gypsy, I thought, although of course Rivarola was no gypsy. He was a full-blooded Argentine.

Rivarola guided me backwards but the power that sparked from his legs gave the sensation that I was being shoved back into a wall of air. It took me by surprise and I didn’t resist. Then the force of gravity around my body seemed to dissipate; my legs fluttered as if they were floating. It was not what I had expected from the tango, which I had imagined to be weighted down with drama and despair. Maria had always danced with her arms draped around Rivarola’s neck, like a shipwreck victim clinging to a piece of wood. Now I wondered if she had been trying to stop herself being swept away. Rivarola dwelt on each step as if he were testing bathwater with the tip of his toe. And yet everything he did was smooth. The music separated into layers and Rivarola danced to each one. Sometimes we followed the melody of the piano, then the nostalgic voice of the singer, then the violins. I had never paid such careful attention to the details of music when dancing, only its overall beat and rhythm. I had seen
music as the accompaniment to my dancing, but with Rivarola it was the core.

He suddenly stopped and thrust me away. I realised that in thinking about the music I had lost my concentration on the movements. Rivarola’s face contorted and he rushed towards Monsieur Volterra so swiftly that I thought he was going to punch him in the face. The impresario must have thought the same thing because he threw himself back in his seat.

‘
Esta piba acaricia la música como una diosa bailando sobre las nubes!
’ Rivarola shouted.

Monsieur Volterra gaped from Rivarola to the lighting technician. The boy’s face blanched and he wobbled on his feet. The needle slid off the record and the room turned deathly silent. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the technician to interpret what Rivarola had said. The boy crept to the front of the stage.

‘Rivarola says she is perfect,’ he told Monsieur Volterra, who had turned as white as a sheet. ‘He says that she caresses the music like a goddess dancing on the clouds.’

Within a day, I went from being unemployed to being part of a duo with the world’s most renowned tango artist. Rivarola and I even had a billing, because we danced in several scenes and our act was the subplot to the show’s theme of forbidden love. It was the first time I had seen my name in lights since Marseilles, and this time it was at the Casino de Paris! But I worked for every letter of it. With only three weeks to the opening, the rehearsal schedule was punishing: three hours of tango lessons each morning and a rehearsal proper from two to six o’clock every afternoon.

‘
Necesitas mas disciplina pa’ ser una bailarina seria que pa’ ser una cantante de comedia!
’ Rivarola would shout at me at least three or four times each session. ‘To be a serious dancer takes more discipline than to be a singing comedian.’

Having picked up English phrases by working at the Café des Singes, I was now becoming proficient in Spanish too—a necessity when spending several hours a day with an Argentine who refused to speak French—and I understood what Rivarola meant better than he ever gave me credit for. It was easy to hide behind cute lines; much harder to bring out what was deep inside for all to see. I knew that if I wanted to leave the childish songs and unglamorous costumes behind for good, then I had to make a success of the act. Monsieur Volterra was even having our portrait painted for the wall opposite the poster of Camille and Jacques Noir!

‘
Che, prestame mas atención. No bailes pa’ la gente!
’ The lighting technician, who acted as interpreter during rehearsals, had written that one out for me and I had posted it on my dressing room mirror. ‘Stay focused on Rivarola. Do not play to the audience.’ The instruction went against everything I had ever been taught as a singer, but it was the only way for a dancing duo to captivate a crowd. The people who saw us perform had to believe they were observing a real-life romance between a man and a woman.

Whether Rivarola knew how seriously I followed his instructions, I couldn’t tell. I never took my dancing shoes off until I reached my room at the hotel, and when I did I had to peel the inners away from my bruised and blistered feet. With a scream of relief I would plunge them into a bowl of cold water. Often, after rehearsal, I examined my face in the mirror. Under Rivarola’s constant shouting, my eyes were growing haughty and my mouth was developing a rebellious curve. My cheekbones and chin were sharper than they had been when I first came to Paris. It was as if Rivarola was transferring something of himself into me. We usually danced cheek to cheek, but sometimes when we practised he would press his forehead against mine. ‘
Asi podemos leer la mente del otro
,’ he said. ‘So we can read each other’s thoughts.’

I cringed the first time Rivarola pressed me so tightly to his chest that my breasts felt like they were being crushed
into his ribs, but I didn’t protest. Nor did I say anything when during some of the patterns he rubbed his leg between mine when he was leading me backwards. Perhaps I saw it as the best way to rid myself of my virginity and still remain true to my art. To lose my innocence on stage was infinitely preferable than to surrender it for money to men like François. Purity did not suit the style of tango. If I was to be true to it, I had to convey at least a hint of lust and carnal desire, and it was in that, as much as the dance, that Rivarola was instructing me.