Free Wild Lavender by Belinda Alexandra Page B

the program, and once I saw the Sunday matinée when Aunt Augustine was down with a migraine and told me not to disturb her or make any noise around the house. In this way, I had a chance to see the other performers. The artists and the impresario, Monsieur Dargent, discovered me from time to time but said nothing. Even Camille turned a blind eye to my presence, remaining aloof but not giving me away to Aunt Augustine and continuing to pay me to walk Bonbon.
    The mime’s name was Gerard Chalou. Although I only saw his back during his performance, I often stumbled across him backstage, practising a shoulder stand against a wall or lying flat on his back, contracting and relaxing his stomach muscles. He would sometimes warm up in the wing where I sat, and often spent four or five minutes just rolling his eyes.
    ‘They convey everything,’ he replied to my puzzled expression. ‘They must be limbered up too.’
    During the interval Chalou gave me and Albert a performance of his sketch about a poodle who would not behave. To emphasise the comedy he froze in some of his positions. I scrutinised his lips and chest, searching for some telltale sign of breathing, but couldn’t find any. Madeleine and Rosalie, two chorus girls who appeared nude in the show except for jewel-studded cache-sexes , begged Gerard to teach them his special ‘immobilisation’ technique.
    ‘Practise by running around,’ he said. ‘Then stop in a pose. You must not move a muscle. But you must not look dead either. Your eyes should convey inner life.’
    Madeleine and Rosalie pranced around like ponies. When Gerard shouted ‘Freeze!’ they came to a stop, doing their best not to teeter on their high heels and holding their feather boas out behind them like wings. But for all their earnestness, each time they tried something would give them away. An earring would rattle against a headdress; a bracelet would slip down an arm; or their breasts would continue to bounce. For women who were supposed to be nude, their ‘costumes’ were often heavier than those of the chorus girls who appeared clothed.
    Monsieur Dargent, passing by, watched their attempts with interest. ‘It will never do even if they manage to freeze,’ he said. ‘Not with all that running around.’
    Albert explained to me that, according to the law, nude showgirls could appear in the program as long as they only paraded and posed. If they danced or moved too much, they would be considered strippers and the police could close down the production.
    Claude Contet, the magician, was dazzling. He had the luminous skin and pale eyes of a mystical conjurer. When he paraded across the stage, his cape glittered and sparked with electricity. I watched him sweep his wand over the bird cage three times and tug away the purple scarf. The canary was nowhere to be seen. The audience clapped. Claude held out his palms to their enthralled faces. ‘You see, my hands are empty.’
    When the Zo-Zo Family appeared everyone backstage came out to watch, their painted faces, and my unpainted one, turned towards the spotlights while Alfredo, Enrico, Peppino, Vincenzo, Violetta and Luisa dusted their hands in chalk and scaled the rope ladder to take their positions on the platforms.
    ‘Oh my! Oh my!’ Madame Tarasova, the wardrobe mistress, would mutter into her handkerchief.
    Violetta and Luisa leapt for their swings and swept over us like spangled birds, moving back and forth to gather momentum. The Zo-Zos performed their act without a net and the groan of the trapeze under their weight added to the tension. Often there were gasps and the occasional scream from the audience. Sometimes when the strain was too much, I’d have to look down at the musicians in the pit. There was no music for the act: the wrong beat could be fatal. The conductor would have his eyes squeezed shut. The violinists sat with their heads bowed, like monks at prayer. Only the brass section was brave enough to keep watching. I’d