shouted. ‘What next?’
I dared to look out at the audience. Two men in the front row were watching me with interest. I smiled at them and shimmied. The audience went wild. I didn’t dance with any finesse, but the more the audience cheered and clapped, the more my body relaxed and the more wildly I jiggled. My self-consciousness vanished and I moved easily and gaily, bowing my legs and batting my eyelids, letting my armsand legs do whatever the music told them to. A thrill ran over my skin. Every face in the audience was looking at me.
We had been in such chaos before the number that no one had told me how to end the dance. I gyrated in a circle and when I faced the front again the chorus girls had left the stage. I threw my arms up in the air and posed like a statue, incongruous with the performance but a gesture of Camille’s from her Egyptian number that had impressed me. The curtain came down and a tidal wave of applause burst from the audience. I ran off the stage, barely able to breathe.
Monsieur Dargent, Madame Tarasova, Albert and the others were waiting for me in the wing. Albert lifted me up, sat me on his shoulder and paraded me around. Monsieur Dargent was grinning from ear to ear. Madame Tarasova rushed forward and grabbed my cheeks. ‘You know what you did is what every performer wishes for. You got them, Belle-Joie! You got them! ’
F IVE
A t my first dance rehearsal with Le Chat Espiègle I felt like an imposter. As part of my contract, I was to practise with the chorus girls each afternoon at two o’clock in the basement beneath the stage, except for Thursdays and Sundays when there was a matinée to perform. The room was kept locked and I sat on the dust-flecked stairs along with the other girls until Madame Baroux, the ballet mistress, arrived with Madame Dauphin, the accompanist. When she did, the girls scrambled from their slouched positions and I followed them. Only Claire and Ginette dragged themselves up with the listlessness of participants in a funeral procession, but if Madame Baroux noticed she didn’t show it.
‘ Bonjour , ladies,’ she sang out, leaning on her walking stick. She tugged a key on a piece of string from around her neck and pushed it into the locked door.
‘ Bonjour , Madame Baroux,’ the girls answered, their voices ringing out like students in a convent.
Madame Baroux’s eyes turned to me and she nodded. I assumed that Monsieur Dargent had explained who I was. The chorus girls were required to train every day to keep themselves supple, but that wasn’t Monsieur Dargent’s intention for me. He wanted me to understand what the girls were doing so I could mimic them on stage. Also, he wanted me to gain elementary dance training in case I was required for the next show or to fill in for someone who was sick. I had to earn my pay.
After several shoves, courtesy of Madame Dauphin’sshoulder, the door creaked open and we trailed into the room after Madame Baroux. Madame Dauphin sat down at the piano and lifted the battered lid. She warmed her fingers on the keys with a tune that made me think of butterflies skimming over long grass. Her unkempt curls and floral dress were the antithesis of Madame Baroux, who wore her hair swept up with combs and kept any individuality tucked away beneath the crisp white blouse and crocheted shawl of an elderly Frenchwoman.
‘Stretch!’ Madame Baroux commanded, banging her stick on the parquet floor.
The girls threw themselves to the floor, transforming into a sea of sprawling limbs, their twisted figures doubled in mass on account of the mirrors that lined the basement walls. I dropped down too. The grit on the boards stuck to my palms and I brushed my hands down the sides of my tunic before studying what the girl in front of me, Jeanne, was doing.
‘Like this,’ Jeanne whispered, stretching out her leg and bending her chest towards her knee. Her mouth twisted and her cheeks turned red. I followed her example and, to my
I dared to look out at the audience. Two men in the front row were watching me with interest. I smiled at them and shimmied. The audience went wild. I didn’t dance with any finesse, but the more the audience cheered and clapped, the more my body relaxed and the more wildly I jiggled. My self-consciousness vanished and I moved easily and gaily, bowing my legs and batting my eyelids, letting my armsand legs do whatever the music told them to. A thrill ran over my skin. Every face in the audience was looking at me.
We had been in such chaos before the number that no one had told me how to end the dance. I gyrated in a circle and when I faced the front again the chorus girls had left the stage. I threw my arms up in the air and posed like a statue, incongruous with the performance but a gesture of Camille’s from her Egyptian number that had impressed me. The curtain came down and a tidal wave of applause burst from the audience. I ran off the stage, barely able to breathe.
Monsieur Dargent, Madame Tarasova, Albert and the others were waiting for me in the wing. Albert lifted me up, sat me on his shoulder and paraded me around. Monsieur Dargent was grinning from ear to ear. Madame Tarasova rushed forward and grabbed my cheeks. ‘You know what you did is what every performer wishes for. You got them, Belle-Joie! You got them! ’
F IVE
A t my first dance rehearsal with Le Chat Espiègle I felt like an imposter. As part of my contract, I was to practise with the chorus girls each afternoon at two o’clock in the basement beneath the stage, except for Thursdays and Sundays when there was a matinée to perform. The room was kept locked and I sat on the dust-flecked stairs along with the other girls until Madame Baroux, the ballet mistress, arrived with Madame Dauphin, the accompanist. When she did, the girls scrambled from their slouched positions and I followed them. Only Claire and Ginette dragged themselves up with the listlessness of participants in a funeral procession, but if Madame Baroux noticed she didn’t show it.
‘ Bonjour , ladies,’ she sang out, leaning on her walking stick. She tugged a key on a piece of string from around her neck and pushed it into the locked door.
‘ Bonjour , Madame Baroux,’ the girls answered, their voices ringing out like students in a convent.
Madame Baroux’s eyes turned to me and she nodded. I assumed that Monsieur Dargent had explained who I was. The chorus girls were required to train every day to keep themselves supple, but that wasn’t Monsieur Dargent’s intention for me. He wanted me to understand what the girls were doing so I could mimic them on stage. Also, he wanted me to gain elementary dance training in case I was required for the next show or to fill in for someone who was sick. I had to earn my pay.
After several shoves, courtesy of Madame Dauphin’sshoulder, the door creaked open and we trailed into the room after Madame Baroux. Madame Dauphin sat down at the piano and lifted the battered lid. She warmed her fingers on the keys with a tune that made me think of butterflies skimming over long grass. Her unkempt curls and floral dress were the antithesis of Madame Baroux, who wore her hair swept up with combs and kept any individuality tucked away beneath the crisp white blouse and crocheted shawl of an elderly Frenchwoman.
‘Stretch!’ Madame Baroux commanded, banging her stick on the parquet floor.
The girls threw themselves to the floor, transforming into a sea of sprawling limbs, their twisted figures doubled in mass on account of the mirrors that lined the basement walls. I dropped down too. The grit on the boards stuck to my palms and I brushed my hands down the sides of my tunic before studying what the girl in front of me, Jeanne, was doing.
‘Like this,’ Jeanne whispered, stretching out her leg and bending her chest towards her knee. Her mouth twisted and her cheeks turned red. I followed her example and, to my
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