David Bret - Chanson by David Bret

Author:David Bret [Bret, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHEZ DORIANE’S façade was grey and grimy, wedged between two

buildings not far from the Moulin Rouge, in the heart of Pigalle’s redlight district. Before the war, it had rivaled Levalle’s as one of the city’s classiest nightclubs. The Parisian haute société had flocked to it in droves, and its billboards had boasted some of the biggest names in French show business. Times had changed, however. Though the walls of the foyer were lined with posters of some of the stars who had appeared there—many of them now big names—Marcel assumed not one of them would have been seen dead in the place today.

Christophe Doriane had been to see him at La Vie Parisienne, and offered him a two-week series of engagements on the spot—at half the fee Marcel had earned at Levalle’s.

“He’s a tough man to please,” Suzy Solidor had told him. “If he wants you at his place, it means he has faith in you and knows you won’t let him down. The big risk will be the audiences in that part of town. Doriane’s prices are the lowest in the area, and he tends to let anyone in.”

Marcel had been taking risks his whole adult life, and in his opinion no future ordeal could be worse than the one he was going through right now—losing Jürgen. He had moved out of the bed-sit and was renting a room in a tawdry hotel on the rue Amsterdam, and eating out was expensive. Connie had offered to help out when he had called her that morning. The gesture had been much appreciated, but he had told her no—at least for the time being. He had always survived on his wits and would not be a charity case now.

Marcel had asked Connie about her husband, and she had sounded reticent. “That’s something we’ll have to discuss when I see you, love. I won’t be able to make the premiere, but I will be there tomorrow.”

Marcel had left it at that. He had not seen Connie since the morning he had been chased through the streets by the three German officers, and the last time he had called her—the morning after the bust-up with Jürgen—her husband had answered the phone.

Now, minutes before his performance, he was shaking like a leaf. He had always suffered from stage fright—a good thing, Gérard had said, because being too complacent was an open invitation to everything going wrong. Even at Levalle’s, those few seconds waiting for the curtains to swing open had sometimes felt like martyrdom. This place was worse. There were no curtains, the communal dressing room was upstairs, and to get to the stage one had to cross the entire length of the auditorium.

“You go on at nine, straight after the juggler,” Doriane had told him. “Four songs. And if the audience wants more, it’s still four songs.”

Christophe Doriane was a greasy-looking, plump man in his midforties, and from the moment Marcel clapped eyes on him he loathed him. The pianist was equally odious,

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