‘Of course, yes, of course,’ Aunt Raissa repeated, lost in thought and secret calculations. ‘If it were a matter of his own daughter, I could make Israel see reason . . .’
Suddenly, the two women lowered their voices and Ada couldn’t hear anything more. They whispered for a long time, then Madame Mimi exclaimed, ‘It’s very true that the child is gifted . . . And she has a unique character, very endearing . . .’
‘Yes, she could study in Paris, yes, that’s for sure . . .’
Ada sat up in bed, her heart pounding. Was it possible, was it even conceivable that they were talking about her?
‘He adores his daughter,’ Aunt Raissa was saying. ‘He would make any sacrifice for her. He would be so happy to help her become an artist. Ah, if only my poor Lilla still had a father! . . . But that’s life. You have to take what it gives you.’
‘You could find a place to live near me.’
‘Do you know many people there, Madame Mimi?’
‘I used to know a lot of people,’ said the old woman.
She paused for a moment, then continued in a voice that was artificially light and gay, the voice you use to forget your sorrows, the way you sing when you want to boost your courage.
‘I knew everyone in Paris, in the past. I was called . . . Don’t tell anyone now, it was my nickname, my nom de guerre . . . Yes, I was part of a very élite clique, very talented, where everyone had a little nickname . . . I was called “Wild Card” because I loved to play . . . All that was a very long time ago, but I’ve kept . . . I surely must have kept some loyal, influential friends . . .’
She fell silent. All Ada heard for a while was the sound of teaspoons stirring cups of tea.
What images were conjured up in Aunt Raissa’s mind? It was quite possible that she was confusing Lilla with herself when she was young, confusing Lilla’s destiny with her own . . . Never had she loved her daughter so deeply. She even had a bit of tenderness left over for other people.
‘It would be such a shame not to try to cultivate my niece’s gifts,’ she said warmly, speaking of Ada. ‘She could become a great artist. I’ll speak to her father about it first thing tomorrow.’
12
It is characteristic of the Jewish way of thinking that if it had been a question of sending Lilla and Ada away to be educated in order that they might end up in a safe, ordinary profession, as a seamstress or an accountant, Israel would have hesitated for a long time and, in the end, would not have agreed to let the children go. Their leaving would turn his world upside down and increase his expenses. And, of course, he would lose his daughter. Paris was far away, travel was expensive, he couldn’t even hope to see her again for two or three years . . . But this was not a matter of a safe, ordinary profession. It was not a question of logic, but of a dream. Leaving was a leap into the unknown. They would either lose everything or make a fabulous fortune. Ada might become a famous painter and Lilla a great actress. Who could know what God had in store for them? It would be extremely expensive, of course, but what wouldn’t he have done for his daughter, his own flesh and blood? He felt vaguely guilty where Ada was concerned: she could have been happier . . . It wasn’t his fault, poor man, that her mother had died so young; he wasn’t responsible for Aunt Raissa’s temperament, or Ben’s devilishness . . . But, in spite of himself, he always wanted to ask Ada’s forgiveness for bringing her into the world. It wasn’t a very nice gift . . . He could at least let her try her luck, give her a chance of happiness . . .
He agreed to allow Aunt Raissa and the three children to leave. In Russia, without the watchful eye of his mother, Ben would come to no good, and Russia was not the ideal country for a little Jewish boy . . . Soon they would have to deal with the problem of choosing a career for him, of military service (that endless nightmare), of getting him into university . . . It was better for Ben to leave as well.
One spring morning, Israel watched them climb on to the train, loaded down with trunks, food and even some furniture.
It was May 1914.
For the first two years of the war, Israel regularly sent them money to live on. They had rented an apartment in Paris with Madame Mimi and shared the cost. It wasn’t exactly what Madame Mimi had led them to expect . . . The elderly lady had not been able to contact many of her old friends; she didn’t know why. Some had died, others moved away. Some of them didn’t seem to remember her. Besides, it was wartime . . .
For two years, the life of the Sinners and Madame Mimi was calm, mediocre, melancholy. Then the Revolution swept through Russia, dragging along everything in its wake and then destroying it all, including, with a great deal of other debris, the life, the destiny and even the memory of Israel Sinner.
With no further rent payments coming from Russia, their State Bonds now worthless, Aunt Raissa revealed what she herself had always known: she was no ordinary soul. With the little money she had managed to save, she bought some cloth patterns and two tailor’s dummies; she taught her daughter and her niece how to cut fabric, and, by stealth and by force, wrenched from Madame Mimi the few valuables she had left – some jewellery, gifts from the Prince and mementos from happier times – and she became a seamstress.
If there was anything presumptuous about a poor Jewess from an isolated province in the Ukraine selling dresses to Parisian ladies, she dismissed the thought.
They sublet Madame Mimi’s apartment and found a small three-bedroom flat in the Ternes area, where the bourgeoisie and the upper classes crossed paths and often merged, like two tributaries of the same river.
Their furnished apartment smelled of dust and that unique odour found only on the premises of inexpensive dressmakers: cooking, wool and the cheap, strong perfume the clients wore. The windows were rarely opened: both Aunt Raissa and Madame Mimi feared fresh air. Lilla got a job at a music hall, Ben delivered the dresses to the clients, while Ada was used by her aunt for all sorts of jobs: sewing, collecting up the pins, measuring the ladies, copying the patterns that they secretly stole. She was given food and lodging, and showered with abuse. Aunt Raissa had never spared Ada her criticism, but it became more and more bitter with each passing day. Not only because Ada was now her financial responsibility, but because, without realising it, she was a constant reminder to the elderly woman of how Lilla had come down in the world; her Lilla, in whom she had placed so much hope and who was now only just good enough to parade naked on a music hall stage, Lilla, who was letting herself lose her youth, her beauty, and who couldn’t even manage to find a rich lover! Men all fell in love with Lilla, but through a kind of mocking twist of fate, she only met the poor ones: married, petit-bourgeois men, cautious and mean with money, or second-rate opportunists.
When Ada was fifteen and had become pretty, her aunt felt a deep loathing for her. Ada responded by being insolent: since childhood, this had been her most powerful weapon. It was a strange fact that the old woman’s anger only cooled when Ada replied with the most insolent, witty retort she could think of. Aunt Raissa wouldn’t let it rest, however. She’d always had a sharp tongue and she was grateful to her niece for giving her a chance to use it, just as a professional duellist enjoys facing a worthy opponent on the field of battle. Unfortunately, she had one fault that was common in women: she loved winning. She caused endless scenes and, endowed with an implacable memory, she never let go of former grudges when new ones arose, thus tirelessly repeating and embellishing the same issues, varying her arguments in a fashion that was truly creative. She was like a wasp who sinks its sting into you, but then continues to buzz around you.
Her niece stood up to her, but increasingly Ada took refuge within herself; her imagination was so fertile and strange that nothing could really offend or hurt her. When Aunt Raissa began swearing at her, Ada managed, through sheer force of will, to look at her aunt’s harsh, intelligent, bitter face, not as an ill-treated young girl would, but with the eye of a painter. Afterwards, she would take a page from her sketchbook and reproduce the features etched in
her memory.
Sometimes, she would intentionally annoy her aunt in order to get another look at the little wrinkle at the corner of her mouth that only appeared when she was extremely angry. That cruel, sardonic expression fascinated her: it surfaced and disappeared like a serpent’s tail twitching in the grass; it was impossible to catch. It both terrified and thrilled her in a unique way. The outside world was full of shapes and colours that were impossible to remember for ever, constantly lost, but seeking them out, pursuing them, was the most precious thing on earth.
‘You live in a dream-world,’ said Lilla. ‘You’re nearly sixteen years old and you act as if you’re twelve. You draw and nothing else matters; you’re wasting the best years of your life,’ she added.
They were leaning against the narrow window ledge in the attic, up above the street. It was a hot evening, too oppressive for the beginning of spring. The sound of crying children was heard on every floor. Ada thought she would try to paint this wide avenue, the way the evening shadows were interspersed by flashes of light, the stormy sky that seemed to crackle with sparks, the flower seller with her red hair tied up in a bun, and that woman dressed in mourning clothes walking beneath the street lamps who looked up now and again, as if she were suffocating and needed air; her distraught face seemed made of white lead beneath the light.
Lilla stretched languidly. ‘Haven’t you ever met a man you found attractive?’ she asked.
What? What was Lilla saying? Hadn’t she, Ada, ever met . . .? No. No. She shook her head, proud and defiant. She was destined for an existence that was different from Lilla’s; she was destined for other pleasures, emotions that no one could understand or share. And yet . . . for a fifteen-year-old girl, certain words spoken in her presence (a man, attractive . . .) are like refrains from within, murmured by a voice inside her, calling up a muffled, almost threatening echo.
Madame Mimi was in the room. Her hair was white, but she still stood tall on her delicate legs; her hands were knotted and deformed by rheumatism, but she still had a keen eye.
‘Ada is still thinking about that little Harry Sinner,’ she said.
‘No, Madame Mimi!’ cried Ada.
Lilla laughed. Aunt Raissa sniggered.
‘That’s her all over,’ Ben groaned with scorn.
‘You still think about him, Ada. You’ll never forget him,’ Madame Mimi said once more, her voice low and mocking. It was the voice of an elderly seer, the tone she used when speaking of love, as if only then some chord vibrated within her, one musical note still alive amongst all the others that time had all but destroyed.
‘You know that we’re neighbours, don’t you?’ Lilla whispered in her ear.
‘Neighbours?’
‘I mean, they live quite near us, on the other side of l’Étoile, on the Rue des Belles-Feuilles, number 40. I happened to notice it in the telephone directory.’
Instinctively, Ada leaned out of the window and looked at the avenue that led to the Place de l’Étoile. It was strange to think that he was closer to her here in Paris than in their home-town, where they had been separated by the lower town, the long boulevard lined with poplar trees, and the hills.
They were all laughing, and she was ashamed at feeling her former passion rise within her.
‘It’s not my fault,’ she thought. ‘It’s because I just can’t forget certain faces once I’ve seen them, or certain houses, or certain sights. They’re indifferent or fickle because they remember nothing. But I can’t forget, I can’t. It’s a unique curse that makes me recall every feature, every word, every moment of joy or pain once they have struck me. One day, I’ll go and see the house where he lives.’
Months went by, however, and still she couldn’t bring herself to go. What good would it do? It was so childish . . . Most importantly, she mustn’t find more ways to feed a dream that was gradually becoming less damaging, only half real, half imagination. As she grew up, she had become more and more distanced from it, just as you forget a book you read and loved passionately when you were a child. You may still love it, but back then, you believed in it. Now you realise that it was nothing but poetry, fiction, an illusion, less than nothing . . . Nevertheless, she had to avoid recalling anything from behind the door she had closed for ever, be careful not to remember any concrete details – the shape of a face, a voice, a look that might suddenly recreate the dream, give it the depth, the force, the taste of reality. And so, nearly two years passed.
13
One day, Ada went to the Rue des Belles-Feuilles to deliver a dress. As she was coming back, she walked slowly, hesitantly, towards number 40, only a few steps away. Good Lord, why not? It was an innocent pleasure, and she had very few pleasures at all. Since chance had brought her so close to the one she had loved throughout her childhood (she realised now the absurd and unwavering nature of her feelings, which really were similar to love), why not get closer, look at the house, risk catching a glimpse of Harry? She walked slowly on, her heart pounding. Then she saw a grand house; it was not particularly large and had a stone balcony that ran beneath three high French windows. She vaguely remembered a painting from the French School in which windows like these opened out on to gardens in which women in pale-pink crinoline dresses danced in a pavilion with black and white paving stones.
And then, as if to complete the analogy, some young men and women came out on to the balcony and stood beneath the beautiful, leafy June trees that framed the house; she could hear an orchestra playing in the background, the joyous, soft sounds of a party. It was the time of year when balls and afternoon dances were held. Yes, they were dancing, having fun: she could see couples through the open windows, others leaning against the balcony. Here was an entire world of pleasure and refinement that was foreign to her, a world she had never even dreamed of because it was so distant from her, so strange. How happy those young women were! It was getting late, nearly seven o’clock, and the light was particularly soft and pale, melting into the clear, warm dusk. Which one of the boys was Harry? Impossible to recognise him. She looked for the most handsome, the one with the best physique, and called him Harry in her heart.
One of the young girls leaned out over the balcony, dangling streamers over the edge. Ada was fascinated by the colour of her dress: green and silver. It was hot; Ada was thirsty and her mouth burned from the dust; she’d been walking for a long time. That colour – greenish water beneath a carpet of young leaves drenched in rain – quenched her thirst. She admired the beauty and happiness of those young women, but she didn’t envy them any more than she might envy the figures in a painting. Quite the contrary: she was grateful to them for giving her a little taste of the party, the music, the smiles, the luminosity of their fair hair in the June light.
‘I’d like to paint this,’ she thought. ‘It’s not exactly my style . . . I prefer darker, more squalid scenes, but perhaps just once . . . those dresses the colour of flowers, dusk in summer, and the clear light, so pale against the trees . . . It’s all so beautiful!’
From her bag she took out the sketchbook and worn-down pencil she always had with her and quickly drew the pose of the young woman with the ribbons leaning over the balustrade. Behind her stood a young man, watching her. Was it Harry? Could it perhaps really be Harry? Near to Ada stood a group of chauffeurs who were also watching the dancers. They seemed only vaguely interested and looked slightly disapproving, the way that servants look upon their masters’ follies. She turned towards them and asked quickly, ‘Excuse me, does this house belong to the Sinners?’
Her heart was pounding. She wasn’t mistaken. This was Harry’s parents’ house.
‘Isn’t their son called Harry?’ she said.
‘That one?’ one of them replied, pointing to the young man on the balcony. ‘Yes, that’s him, that’s their son.’
She drank him in with her eyes, studied him with the deep, piercing gaze of a painter. He had dark hair, a finely chiselled face, alive and mocking, a thin nose and long neck. She was str
uck once again by his resemblance to Ben.
‘The classic Jewish man,’ she thought, ‘slight, intelligent and sad. Did these rosy-skinned, blonde girls find him attractive? Alas! That wasn’t the question; the question was whom he might find attractive . . .’
Suddenly, she closed her eyes, in the grip of a kind of dream, a fantasy, as she called it, in which scenes created in her mind became as clear and real as life itself.
She could see herself as a child, the day she went to Harry’s house. She imagined a different Ada, a more courageous one; she should have walked up to him and taken his hand. She didn’t know why, but she was certain he would have gone with her . . . And as for all those women jabbering around him . . . so what! Who cared about them? He would have gone with her.
‘I’ll never love anyone but you,’ she thought with a feeling of despair, the feeling you get when you realise you’re destined for poverty and unhappiness. ‘Even if I spend my whole life in Aunt Raissa’s workshop, become an old woman without ever saying a single word to you, or even end up marrying someone else, I’ll never forget you. I’ll never stop loving you, never. I’m more sure of that than of my life itself!’
She looked down at her dusty shoes with their misshapen heels, at her hands covered in pin pricks, and the bitter irony of her situation washed over her.
‘Dante and Beatrice,’ she thought. ‘How people would laugh if they knew! But surely everyone carries such mad dreams deep within themselves . . . Or perhaps only the Jews are like that? We are such a hungry race, starving for so long that reality is not enough to satisfy us. We must have the impossible. And what about Harry? What does he desire? Something better than what he has, without a doubt, just as I do now? Something so vast, such an abundance of happiness that nothing can possibly satisfy him.’ She suddenly thought: ‘Oh! It’s so late. Aunt Raissa will make a fuss. But it’s so difficult to leave. They’re dancing again, so graceful, so carefree . . . Some servants are carrying platters . . . I bet they’re having ice cream . . . How wonderful to eat an ice cream on a hot evening like tonight . . . But I have to go. Adieu, Harry . . .’