The Joyce Girl by Annabel Abbs

Author:Annabel Abbs [Abbs, Annabel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Travel, Historical, Cultural, France
ISBN: 9781907605888
Google: dDPotQEACAAJ
Amazon: B01FTAFW0I
Publisher: Impress Books
Published: 2016-06-15T23:00:00+00:00

I noticed the heavy perfume of the roses first, and then their colour, yellow like marzipan. Only when I was close enough to touch them, did I see Mrs Fitzgerald peering out from behind, her eyes wheeling up and down the stairs. I was just leaving Madame Egorova’s studio and Mrs Fitzgerald was arriving, holding her huge bouquet like a shield in front of her face.

“What beautiful roses,” I exclaimed.

“Oh these are for Madame. I bring her a gift every day. Usually flowers but not always.” Mrs Fitzgerald’s voice was gushing and breathless. “I can’t bear to think of the great Madame Lubov Egorova living in poverty. I just can’t bear it! She’s the Princess Troubetsky, don’t you know?”

I nodded, nonplussed.

“And now she lives in poverty. Have you been to her tiny house? She has no bathroom! I just can’t bear to think of her like that!” Mrs Fitzgerald was blinking hard behind her roses, as though she were fighting back tears.

“How are your classes going, Mrs Fitzgerald?”

“Look at this, Lucia! Just look at this.” She thrust the roses at me. “Here – hold these! You gotta see this. You really gotta see this.” She slipped off her embroidered pumps, unpeeled a stocking from one leg and waved her foot at me. Her toenails were so infected with nail fungus they looked like miniature oyster shells, ridged and discoloured. And on her little toe was a septic corn, red and angry, leaking thick blond pus. “I dance for eight hours a day. Eight hours, Lucia. Other dancers in my classes are dancing until the blood pours out of their ballet shoes.”

Mrs Fitzgerald saw me recoil. It wasn’t that I was squeamish – a weeping corn and nail fungus were nothing I hadn’t seen before. Rather it was her manner. As though she was trying to frighten me in some way. She put her stocking and shoe back on, then snatched the roses from me.

“Madame demands total dedication,” she continued, her American drawl lifting and dipping as she spoke. “You can’t be a ballerina without it. I do nothing but dance and sleep now. If you really want to dance that’s the sacrifice you gotta make.” She looked round the stairwell constantly as she spoke, as though she was checking to make sure no one was listening. And then she lowered her voice and beckoned me to her until I was so close all I could smell were the yellow roses.

“But I’m not too old – don’t let anyone tell you that. I’ve been invited to join the San Carlo Opera Ballet Company in Naples. With a solo role in Aida as my debut! What d’you think?” There was an exultant light in her eyes, making them shine almost unnaturally through the roses.

“Will you go?”

She shook her head. “Oh no! Scott has forbidden it. He says it’s out of the question.” She paused, her face wistful for a second. “I’ll wait for a role with the Ballets Russes. My dream is to dance with the Ballets Russes.

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