At once, I said. I would have run to your side. No letter at all. And I would have asked you to tell me it was madness. Where did you hear this? I asked.
In the press! She called out for her maid to bring her the day’s paper and then showed me a column by an opera reviewer who said he had heard I was rejecting roles out of the fear that my voice was cursed. His column in Le Figaro was mockingly referred to as Mon Vieux because all of his sources for gossip were simply called mon vieux. I have this on good word from my old friend, who says he believes she may not really be cursed but is, in fact, leaving the stage to marry, and he suspects it is, at last, her longtime costar, a tenor of the Paris Opera.
Absurd, I said. Even ridiculous. Not a word of this is true.
And who could marry you? Euphrosyne said. It would be like trying to marry the wind.
You’ll forgive me if I cannot stay, I said. Of course, I knew exactly what was meant by the rumor, though I couldn’t say so—to do so would be to spread it again even, or perhaps especially, to Euphrosyne.
You cannot let this rumor of your marriage put you into hiding, Euphrosyne said, grabbing my hand and holding me, laughing. It’s not as if it’s a shameful thing to marry . . . and she became distracted for a moment by her own thoughts. Her eyes lit and she looked around the music room. Come, she said, and she walked me to her garden.
I cannot stay, love. I must go home and write to him at once, I said.
I will throw a ball in your honor, she said, and you will sing and publicly denounce the rumor at the evening’s end. Including the curse. Or is the curse real?
No, it’s too much, I said. I will simply take Mon Vieux up on one of his many offers to dine with him, I said. And correct him in person.
I will. I will, she said, not listening to me at all. I could never stop her.
I was thinking the ball should be in honor of your appearance in Faust and your return to Paris—I have missed you! In fact, the Cave of Queens and Courtesans will be our theme, the fifth act ballet, which I adore. I will be Eugénie, you can be the Queen of the Night. And you can perform her song, “The Vengeance of Hell Boils in My Heart,” she said. She looked ecstatic. I was about to explain to her that Astarte in Faust was not the Queen of the Night, but I hesitated—I knew the news would disappoint her. And yet, the Queen of the Night, this was not in my Fach.
The curse is not real, my dear, yes? This is also a rumor?
Of course, I said. And, of course, the ball will be perfect. You are too good to me. Thank you. Here, a present for you.
I had almost forgotten my little mission. I handed her the book wrapped in paper. She giggled as she held it aloft. How wonderful, she said, as she unwrapped it. I do not know it! Her eyes showed real surprise, real delight. She was innocent.
I kissed her on her cheeks, and then she held my hand as we walked toward the door. I will make excuses for you, she said, gesturing to the room. It will be incredible. Worth will make all of our costumes, she said. Incredible.
I rushed home.
I was sure I could still undo what I had done.
The newspaper column told me a story of the last few days. I was chagrined to think of Verdi and his wife dining with Mon Vieux and telling tales while I had been lost in my fears and memories. I wrote a note to the Verdis.
Please excuse me a moment’s foolishness at dinner. I am too superstitious. I have found a saint’s bone charm and will defy my curse, and am happy to make room in my schedule for I Masnadieri.
A moment’s foolishness, but I knew only too well what that foolishness could cost me.
The opera world pardoned a soprano’s excesses so often that she could imagine all would be pardoned, but once she did, she would find herself lost. Not all could be or would be forgiven, at least not by opera house managers and composers, much less audiences. I feared the news of the curse would render me a pariah, and all my work would vanish.
All I had wanted was the time to consider this offer, and if I rejected it, a way to find some peace with it, and so I had made my little lie. Perhaps you can imagine the despair I felt then, to find this lie of mine racing on ahead of me, and my arriving just after it had moved on, undoing the latches of my life.
§
We had an old oath, Euphrosyne and I. Sworn to each other in the first days of our friendship, solemn as a betrothal. She was the closest thing I’d had to a husband.
I met her fifteen years previous, as we waited together for the omnibus. I had seen her a few times at this stop but had never found a way to speak to her despite my fascination. I remember this day was like all the other nights and days I’d seen her except it was even darker, and as there was only a little light from a street lamp, I was glad I was not alone.
She looked spent, her eyes shadowy, sooty, and so still that at first I thought she was asleep, perhaps from too much drink. When she did move her eyes, it startled me, and her glance made me look at whatever drew her attention.
Her skin was slightly sallow, and she was not pretty, but she exerted a nearly violent need for your attention. Her cloud of hair was like smoke. She was wearing an enormous cancan skirt, the biggest I’d ever seen, filling the seats to either side of her on the bench as she slumped rakishly, her half-lidded eyes watching something directly ahead of her, something only she could see.
Euphrosyne’s skirts were hiked up over her knees—she was cooling herself in the night air after a night of dancing. I took in her shoes, the dark leather and bright red laces, the toes of the shoes like smirks and the high heels like stems or talons. They were cancan shoes. I’d never seen them before and so I stared at them. I’d never seen anything for women before that looked so beautiful and dangerous and ordinary at the same time, and so I wanted them immediately.
I tried to think of how to speak with her, how to ask her about her shoes.
The police are so lazy, she said then, surprising me.
Are they? I asked.
Yes, she said. Here they are. They do nothing. I don’t know what they do. The Berlin police, now, they are not so lazy.
This seemed very sophisticated. Your shoes, I said, now that I had my opening.
She laughed and extended a leg out, pointing her toe. Yes, I love them.
They’re so strange, I said. Are they for something?
She laughed again and shook her head. Child, she said. These are for dancing. You mean to tell me you don’t know about dancing? Cancan?
She held out her hand to me. Euphrosyne Courrèges, she said. At the Bal Mabille you know me only as La Frénésie. She twirled her other hand in the air as she said it. She let go of my hand and then, smiling, got to her feet and stomped her shoes on the stones, holding up her skirt as she did and looking down on them as if to be sure they did their work. Then she looked at me, a wild grin on her face.
We will get you some, child. And then I will show you what they are for. And with that, she stomped them again against the stones.
Are you a registered girl? she asked. She said it fille en carte, drawing each of the words out mockingly. Which house do you work for?
I did not know what this meant yet and struggled with the idea. No, I said finally. I’m . . . I’m an equestrienne. I ride horses at Cirque Napoléon, a hippodrome rider.
She struck her forehead theatrically and pressed my hand again. Fantastique! she yelled. That is the only thing better than dancing. I laughed. She exuded the tough confidence of the young soldiers who came to my shows and smoked in the front, yelling compliments that felt like insults.
I don’t know what this is, I said, fille en carte, though I could guess.