Free Petite Mort by Beatrice Hitchman Page A

a decent salary and given workshops on Edison’s lot. By and large he was left to his own devices, to tinker in whatever way he chose. And for almost two years Edison’s policy bore fruit.
    Nevertheless, by the summer of 1899, André’s erratic ideas could no longer be ignored. All spring, the guards had come running to Edison with reports of men in fur coats drawing up to André’s offices late at night; peering through the window, the guards saw the room lit up by zoetropes in action, by mirrors laid out in odd formations on the floor. They saw André’s pensive face as he poured hard liquor for the men, listening to them give away their fairground secrets one by one.
    Was this some kind of fad? Edison told himself that he was angry because André was inviting dubious characters onto the site, and called André to his office.
    The young man stood before his desk. Edison made him wait a full minute before looking up from the papers he was signing.
    ‘What is this I hear about inviting trick-film merchants in?’ he asked.
    André had known it was only a matter of time.
    ‘The mechanisms are ingenious—’ he began, but Edison held up a palm.
    ‘Charlatans and misfits: it must stop.’ He didn’t want reasoning; he wanted contrition. Why didn’t the boy make it easy for himself?
    André knew he could not convince Edison to see the world the way he did. Edison looked down at his papers, dismissing him. ‘Don’t be careless with your future,’ he said, more sternly than he felt; his faith in his electric metaphor was undimmed. André might fizz and crackle, but he would eventually find his way home.
    André packed the same night. He bore Edison no personal grudge; his decision was calculated on the basis purely of profit and loss. Nobody saw him slip out of the compound. He stayed the night in a hotel by the docks, and boarded a ship the following morning.

9. juillet 1913
    ALL THAT MORNING , the studio talked of nothing else. The vase had been crystal, and had lodged in shining splinters in the assistant’s face. The assistant had found a lawyer; the assistant had been paid off handsomely.
    ‘It’s the Absinthe Fairy producers I feel sorry for,’ Georgette piped. ‘Having to replace Terpsichore at the last moment.’
    The others shook their heads. I stared at her, dazed by a new idea. Unsettled, Georgette gave her shoulders a mutinous little shake and said, ‘Poor M. Durand. All his film in tatters, and his wife too.’
    There was general assent, and gradually the subject died away. But I was listening only to myself. I was overdue this, wasn’t I? With Terpsichore gone, who would replace her in the role, if not me? Somewhere in the building across the courtyard, André would be persuading the casting directors.
Let’s give the Roux girl a chance
, he was saying. And one by one the others would be slowly nodding:
Let’s
.
    There was no sign of him in the early afternoon; three o’clock and four o’clock came and went. By the end of the day I was cross, taking it out on the others with needling little asides; Annick flushed once or twice and bit her lip; I had almost made her cry.
    It was only at ten to five that a runner came to the door. ‘Message for Mlle Roux,’ he said, ‘M. Durand wants to see you in his offices immediately.’
    Elodie looked up, surprised.
    I beamed as I rose, smoothing the cloth of my skirt.
    ‘This way,’ the runner said, and I followed him up to the second floor of the building, where the upper echelons of staff had their offices.
    There was a corridor with just one door at the end of it. The runner knocked, and André’s voice called out: ‘Come in!’
    I opened the door to a long, low-ceilinged room. At one end was a green baize desk. Two of the walls were lined with bookshelves, and stuck to the third was a mass of paper – sketches and geometric drawings.
    Where was André? I heard a clock ticking – no, not a clock – and there, making its waddling way towards