Wild Lavender (29 page)

The image of a fish struggling to breathe startled me. I laughed and the atmosphere between us relaxed.

‘Listen, you will be my apprenticeship in enterprise and I don’t expect any more from you than that,’ André said. ‘This is my plan: I will take you out of Paris and together we will work on creating a new style for you. Then, when you have a unique angle to offer, we will come back here.’

His firm tone assured and disappointed me at the same time. Did I want a
purely
professional relationship? I should probably have asked more questions—after all, it was my life he was discussing—but I was intrigued by André Blanchard and flattered by his interest in my career.
When he mentioned that Mademoiselle Canier would come too, I resigned myself to the fact that perhaps he truly was only looking for something adventurous in which to invest his entrepreneurial skills.

‘Where do you propose we go?’ I asked.

‘Berlin,’ he said, as if there were only one answer to the question.

I stared at him. Berlin? When I thought of Germany, I thought of Anke screeching her distorted songs and the country whose army had almost blown my father to pieces.

‘We will go to all the cabarets and music shows. You will work hard and you will learn,’ André said. His shining eyes appealed to my sense of adventure. Was that the bond between us? That we were two people who loved a challenge?

‘I don’t speak German,’ I said.

‘Not even “
Guten Abend meine Damen und Herren
”?’ André asked.

‘No.’

‘Not even “
Wir haben heute sehr schönes Wetter
”?’

‘No.’

‘Not even “
Sie sind sehr hübsch und ich würde Sie gerne küssen
”?’

I shook my head.

André’s face broke into a grin. ‘Is there anything else that worries you about going to Berlin, Mademoiselle Fleurier?’

‘No…I mean, yes,’ I said, taking a gulp of champagne. ‘Can my cat come too?’

I explained to Monsieur Etienne that I was going to Berlin for a while to develop my talents, and wrote to my family with the same news. Then, a week later, André and I left Paris. We arrived at Potsdammer Station just after dusk. While André took a taxi ticket from the policeman at the exit, I slipped Kira into her wicker cage. She blinked at the people rushing by and at the porter pushing our trolley of
suitcases. She wasn’t even perturbed when a man walked past us with an Alsatian straining on a lead; she merely yawned, rolled herself into a ball and fell asleep.

André showed the taxi driver the ticket and the porter packed our suitcases into the boot. I gazed out the taxi window, lost in a dream. Along the boulevard, garlands of electric bulbs adorned the doorways of theatres, restaurants and cabarets with names like Kabarett der Komiker and Die Weisse Maus. The terrace cafés were crowded with men and women sipping glasses of beer. So this is Berlin, I thought. Apart from the signs in Gothic German print, the city did not look so different to Paris. And yet, somehow, it was. I realised it would take further observation to be able to see exactly where those differences lay.

The taxi stopped outside a building with stone columns on either side of the doorway and a bronze plaque that read
Hotel Adlon
.

André paid the driver. ‘This is where we are staying,’ he said to me, slipping his wallet back into his jacket pocket.

We had two days alone before Mademoiselle Canier joined us. We had taken breakfast with her before departing Paris and the most I had been able to draw out of her was ‘
Oui
’ or ‘
Non
’. For someone who had everything—including André—she appeared discontented with life. She had looked around the elegant restaurant with the intention of finding something displeasing, whether it be the consistency of the butter or the buttons on the waiter’s shirt. Every so often I sneaked a glance at André, wondering if he was really attracted to her. To my vexation, André gazed at Mademoiselle Canier as if he could not believe what he was seeing, and constantly patted her hand or stroked her arm. She was beautiful, but how could a man of his vitality and intelligence spend his time with such a sourpuss? For her part, Mademoiselle Canier accepted his attentions with a wan smile. The real insult, however, was her nonchalant attitude towards me: although I was going to be alone in Berlin with her male companion, Mademoiselle Canier did not even perceive me as a threat.

A bellboy with hair so short that he could have been a young military officer took our bags from the taxi. I thought it strange that we should be staying at the Adlon when André had told me that his father owned the Ambassadeur and had shares in the Central.

‘Why are we staying here if it is not one of your father’s hotels?’ I whispered, my heels sinking into the reception area’s plush carpet.

‘To compare,’ he answered. ‘The Adlon is considered the best hotel in Berlin. But I think with a few changes at the Ambassadeur we can outdo it.’

While André organised our rooms, I studied the marble foyer and gilt chandeliers. I turned to look at a bronze statue and caught the eye of a man standing by the elevator. He ran his fingers through the slashes of grey hair around his temples and smoothed his moustache. His expression was half-stern and half-amused.

After André had registered, the bellboy led us to the elevators where the man was waiting. His eyes narrowed on André. ‘Good evening, Monsieur Blanchard,’ he said, in French. ‘It is always a pleasure to have a man of your high standards come to stay with us.’

‘Good evening to you too, Herr Adlon,’ replied André, a wry smile on his lips. ‘May I introduce Mademoiselle Fleurier?’

‘
Enchanté
,’ said Herr Adlon, leaning forward to kiss my hand. ‘I trust that you will enjoy Berlin and your stay at the Hotel Adlon.’

Once inside the elevator, André stared up at the ceiling, trying not to laugh. As soon as the doors opened and the bellboy walked ahead to show us the way to our rooms, André whispered to me, ‘There was a time when Herr Adlon would have thrown the son of one of his competitors out of his hotel. But with the war and the German economy the way it is, he has to accept anyone who can pay.’

‘Perhaps he takes it as a compliment,’ I said. ‘Most performers think that if another star turns up at their show.’

I had thought that the glamour of the stage had no equivalent in real life, but I changed my mind as soon as the bellboy opened the door to my room, switched on the lights and gestured for me and André to go on ahead of him. My eyes followed the line of the French pilasters up to the high ceiling then down again to the marble fireplace and the two onyx candelabras on either side of it. There was a bowl of plums and a vase of long-stemmed roses on the side table. The air in the room was a mixture of their heady scents combined with the smell of fresh linen. If Mademoiselle Chanel could have bottled the amalgamation she would have discovered a perfume more profitable than Chanel No 5. The bellboy opened a set of double doors to reveal a bed so sumptuously dressed in Rudolf Herzog linen that I felt like sinking into it as soon as possible. I set down Kira’s cage next to the sofa.

André stepped to the window and peeped through the curtains. ‘You can see the Unter den Linden and the Brandenburg Gate from here.’

‘The Unter den Linden is the most famous boulevard in Berlin,’ the bellboy explained in precise French. ‘It is named after the lime trees on its strip.’

He placed my suitcases near an armoire. Kira stretched her paw between the bars of her cage and tapped my shoe. I undid the latch and she sprang out and scampered across the carpet. She sniffed at the Constantinople rug and the gilt skirting boards, inhaled the scent of the table legs and twitched her whiskers around the sofa. Suddenly her tail and ears pricked up. For one terrifying moment I thought she was going to claw it but she bolted past me and through André’s legs in a burst of kittenish energy. She did three whirlwind turns of the room before jumping onto the sofa and settling down there. I wagged my finger at her and she looked at me as if to say, ‘This is much better. This is what I had been expecting all along.’

After the bellboy had showed me how the bathroom taps worked and where the light switches were, he wished me a pleasant stay and headed towards the door. André followed
him. ‘I’ll let you settle in,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Let’s eat in the hotel restaurant and get an early night. We can start on Berlin tomorrow.’

The Adlon’s dining room was a Venetian palace with a mural on the ceiling and bronze candelabras on the walls. André ran his palms along the arms of his chair. ‘Did you know these are jarrah-mahogany? From Australia?’

Australia? I wasn’t sure where that was. Somewhere near South America?

André’s eyes scanned the room, taking in the details. ‘Did you notice that there are no bells anywhere? They use flashing lights to summon the chambermaids so as not to disturb the other guests.’

I had never stayed in a hotel that used bells let alone flashing lights. When Madame Lombard wanted to summon me she would stand at the foot of the elevator and bellow, regardless of the other residents.

I glanced at my menu. I had been curious to try German food but the dishes were French or English: truffled capons; fish in caviar sauce; roast beef; woodcock. I peeked at André’s sable eyes, which looked even more brilliant in the soft light. No, I told myself, if you want to be a star then you must be professional. You must focus. But why was it that when I was with André, my mind said one thing and my heart another?

‘They have one of the most efficient kitchens in the business,’ André said, nodding towards the kitchen doors. ‘The chef’s secretary is a genius. They serve the finest dishes but there are never any leftovers, never any waste. She and the larder steward run the storeroom with military precision.’

I stared at André, not sure of his point, but I didn’t have to wait long for an explanation.

‘A hotel makes as much from its banquets and restaurants as it does from its guests, so it is important to
be efficient. Many a brilliant hotel has gone down because of losses in the kitchen.’

I turned back to my menu, wondering if the analysis of the hotel’s features and its administration was going to be the theme of our entire conversation. André’s enthusiasm reminded me how young we both were. Compared to the dignified guests sitting around us, we looked like two children who had escaped from their parents and were playing at being grown-ups for the day.

After we had ordered our food, the wine steward arrived and conferred with André about what to drink with our meal. When he left, André turned to me and said, ‘Their wine cellar is worth millions. If one of the chefs orders wine for the ingredients of a meal, the steward puts salt in it, to make sure the kitchen staff don’t drink it.’

I knew I had to humour André because he was doing so much to help me, but I was in a new city and I wanted to talk about Berlin, about the stage, about what we were going to do and see. I wasn’t interested in the industrious operating procedures of the Hotel Adlon. But then André surprised me. He pointed to the glasses the steward was setting down before us. I was readying myself for another fact regarding the Adlon’s wine cellar or the quality of the crystal, when he said, ‘I have ordered the best vintage champagne, and claret that used to belong to the Kaiser’s cellar. We are going to celebrate our first night in Berlin, our partnership and the beginning of your new career!’

I awoke the next morning as daylight was breaking across the sky. The maids had drawn the nightshades and curtains when they had turned down the bed the previous evening, but I had been unable to sleep and had opened them again to watch the car headlights streaming down the boulevard. I propped myself up on the pillows and stretched my arm behind my head, catching a whiff of almonds. I sniffed my
wrist. The scent of the hotel’s luxury soap still lingered on my skin.

Kira was crouched on the windowsill, her eyes darting to and fro. I wondered what she was looking at and untangled my legs from the sheets. ‘You silly kitty,’ I said, looking over the boulevard, which was empty apart from a few bread trucks and bicycles. ‘There’s nothing there.’

I ran my fingers through her fur and let out a yawn. The excitement of being in Berlin was playing havoc with my body clock. This was the time of day I would normally be arriving home, not waking up. I lay down on the bed and rested my cheek against the cool silk of the coverlet. The hotel was quiet. No taps being turned on and off, no noisy footsteps on the stairs, no chamber pots being emptied into the latrines. It wasn’t at all like my hotel in the Latin Quarter. But I was too awake now to go back to sleep and, even though André and I had dined well, I was voraciously hungry.

I sat up again and flipped through the room service menu. I can eat something now and eat again with André later, I thought. I picked up the telephone receiver but before I could say anything a gentleman speaking French with a German accent wished me good morning by name and asked me what I would like for breakfast.

‘
Guten Morgen
,’ I said, keen to use at least one of the phrases André had taught me on the train. I ordered some rolls with honey and jam. Kira jumped from the windowsill into my lap. ‘And some herrings and a saucer of milk,’ I added.

I was drying my hair when the waiter arrived at the door with a trolley. While he set the breakfast table, Kira lifted her nose to the air then manoeuvred herself as close as possible to the table by sliding her bottom along the windowsill. When she was parallel to the table, she crouched, her tail swishing. I caught her as she leapt.

‘
Danke schön
,’ I said to the waiter, bouncing Kira in my arms.

‘You are welcome, Mademoiselle,’ he said, eyeing the thwarted kitten. ‘Have a pleasant meal.’

I ate the rolls then glanced at my watch. It was only seven o’clock. I opened the door to my room and looked down the hall. André’s shoes had been polished and placed outside his door. There was no light coming through the jamb and I assumed that he was still asleep. I returned to my room and slipped on my shoes. Kira had finished eating her herrings and lay on the sofa, licking her paws.