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  I returned home. The day was now pleasantly warm so I decided to sit in the square for a while. I took my sketching pad in case I saw something that might interest me and went to sit on a bench under one of the large beech trees. It was early afternoon and the square was almost deserted. A few people were about; a woman pushed a pram and stopped regularly to check her baby, Mme Guillard moved in and out of her flower shop, a man wearing a straw hat cycled by on a very red bicycle and appeared to be in a hurry somewhere, maybe to visit his lover.

  I began to dose and was awakened sometime later by the giggling of two young lovers sitting on the bench next to me. I became self conscious of their canoodling and began to sketch the fountain at the centre of the square. However, my attention kept being drawn back to them so I decided to walk to the shop across the road and buy something. I had no idea what I wanted so when I entered the shop I just stood there and looked around. Then I left. I stood outside the shop for a moment contemplating whether or not to return to my bench but a man dressed in a business suit came and sat on it so I returned to the apartment.

  I shaved twice that day once in the morning and again in the evening after dinner. I applied some cologne, put the ticket in my breast pocket and checked I had money for a programme. My father had just returned from the synagogue after Kiddush and I asked him how I looked. He merely said, “Do I really have to tell you?” I didn’t understand what he meant by that and left the apartment. I was half-way down the stairs when I remembered I had forgotten to take a pen. I rushed back upstairs and rummaged through my bedroom, failed to find one and checked the living room. My father was listening to a Friday evening programme on the radio that was discussing events in Germany and how threatening Adolf Hitler’s speeches were becoming regarding Jews. He sat shaking his head and rapping the floor with his walking stick.

  “Why are the German people listening to this idiot? What he says is absolute nonsense. Have you forgotten something?”

  “I need a pen.”

  “A pen?”

  “Yes, I might want to take notes during the performance.”

  “Now that is a very good idea! I would be interested in hearing your opinion. Carmen isn’t it? It is a wonderful opera! I remember once…”

  He stared into space. His eyes filled with tears. His hands gripped the handle of stick. I coughed loudly!

  “The pen?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” He laughed. “Sorry, I noticed something in the pattern in the carpet. Just there!” he pointed with his stick. “It looks like a smiling face, a smiling dancing face almost singing with delight.”

  He moved to rise from the chair.

  “Don’t bother! Just tell me where it is!” I replied impatiently.

  He froze for a second before relaxing back into his seat.

  “Try my jacket.”

  I looked around and noticed his jacket hanging on the back of the door. The pen was in the breast pocket, a beautiful black and silver Lalex. I screwed the top off and checked for ink by writing Camille’s name on the back of my hand. Her name appeared in vibrant blue. I replaced the top and clipped the pen to my inside pocket.

  “I’ll be back around ten-thirty.”

  He ignored me; his eyes were again fixated on the imaginary face. A faint smile caressed his lips.

  It was a warm evening and I immediately regretted wearing my jacket. I contemplated returning it to the apartment but to be honest I didn’t want to have to speak to my father again. By the time I left the square I was beginning to sweat so I removed the jacket and draped it over my arm. This cooled me a little though I was aware that my underarms were now beginning to dampen my shirt. I continued along the narrow streets filled with Friday night revellers, all laughing and scurrying off to meet friends, family or lovers. Fifteen minutes later I arrived at L’Opera Comique, put on my jacket and walked inside to join the throng of fashionable Parisians dressed in stunning evening dresses and well-tailored suits. A pretty young usher approached me.

  “May I help, Monsieur?”

  I fumbled for my ticket.

  “Ah, Le Cercle, follow me.”

  She walked off quickly and stopped at the foot of the stairs.

  “Go to the second floor Monsieur. Keep to the right.”

  My feet sank into the thick carpet as I walked up the stairs. I continued to the second floor where I bought a programme before being guided to Row G of the circle. I almost gasped with delight when I saw the theatre for the first time, marvelling at how the seats swept down towards the stage still hidden behind red velvet curtains and surrounded with impressive carvings of naked figures. I squeezed past the first five people in my row and settled into my seat. I looked to either side. On my left was a bald fat man dressed in an evening suit complete with red bow-tie and an unlit cigar in his mouth. His head shone in a blue light. To my right sat a woman dressed in a pink satin evening dress and wearing a hat that I thought was much too large. Her perfume, a light mixture of peach and jasmine was pleasant enough but every time she moved, the brim of her hat threatened to blind me.

  I opened the programme and smiled with anticipation as I read Camille’s name. She played Micaela, betrothed to Jose, who fails in her attempt to rescue him from the clutches of the seductive Carmen. There was also a short biography describing how she came from Limoux to study music at the Conservatoire de Paris and how this was her first credited role with L’Opera Comique.

  Applause filled the auditorium and I looked up to see the orchestra entering. Everyone around me shuffled with excitement. The applause became more rapturous as the conductor took his position. He turned and acknowledged the reception before extending his arms. The lights dimmed! Then the first note sounded of what must be the most rousing overture in Opera. The clapping began immediately; the bald man bounced recklessly on his seat while the lady with the hat almost decapitated me. I didn’t care! I was lost in the music, clapping feverishly and stamping my feet! Slowly, the curtain opened to reveal the square in Seville. A group of young soldiers relaxed and waited for the changing of the guard. I caught my breath as Micaela entered and enquired about Jose. Her vulnerability was evident as the soldiers invited her to wait with them. She declined saying she would return later. The factory bell rang and the stage filled with cigarette girls exchanging banter with the young men. Then Carmen entered to sing Habanera. She was provocative and irresistible.

  L’amour est un oiseau rebelle

  Que nul ne peut apprivoiser,

  Et c’est bien in vain qu’on l’appelle

  S’il lui convient de refuser.

  My heart proclaimed her words,

  Love is a rebellious bird that cannot be tamed.

  At length, Camille returned to the stage. Her small, perfectly formed body crept slowly towards her lover. She handed him a letter from his mother and slowly and deliberately planted a kiss on his cheek. She sang Parle-moi de ma mere and her soft voice filled the theatre. I resisted tears as she clasped her hands to her breasts and pleaded with him to return. Her song filled me with beauty.

  O memories of long ago

  memories of the country!

  Fill his heart

  with strength and courage

  O cherished memories!

  Three hours later I stood on the steps of the theatre, clutching my programme. I was overwhelmed. My eyes stung, my heart ached and my mind was saturated with music. People filed past me showing their enjoyment. I didn’t quite know what to do. It had been my intention to meet Camille but now I felt completely inadequate and unworthy of her attention. I noticed some people running down the side of the theatre to the Stage Door. For a moment, I contemplated returning home but decided instead to follow them.

  I had to wait for twenty minutes to see her. Carmen emerged first and the crowd became ecstatic, “bravo, bravo”, they shouted! She was much older than her photograph suggested yet she was still beautiful and she obviously adored the adulation. She wore a long black velvet coat with a red scarf hangin
g loosely around her neck. Her thick black hair bounced lightly on her shoulders as she laughed and gave her autograph. I did not approach her. I was looking behind to where Camille stood almost completely ignored. She wore a pale yellow coat with a white fur collar trim. Her long blonde hair cascaded around her face. I pushed my way through the crowd and thrust my programme towards her.

  “Mademoiselle, if you please!” She looked surprised. I quickly pulled the pen from my pocket and offered it to her.

  “Merci, Monsieur. What is your name?”

  “Paul! Paul Politzer.”

  She scribbled something, returned the programme and began examining my pen.

  “What a beautiful Lalex. My mother had one!”

  “Merci, Mademoiselle.”

  She smiled and almost reluctantly returned it to me. I read what she had written.

  To Paul, with much appreciation, Camille Berman.

  She had written it clearly in perfectly formed letters. I savoured her words blissfully unaware that her group was moving off towards the main street. When I finally realised they were no longer with me I was at a loss as what to do. Then quite unexpectedly Camille ran back towards me.

  “We are going to La Coupole. You are welcome to join us.”

  I tried to smile but could only manage a ludicrous grin.

  “Well? Are you coming?”

  She waited for me to join her.

  “What do you do?” she enquired.

  “I am a humble artist”, I replied.

  She laughed and ran to Jose linking his arm. I became nervous and feared my interest in her would soon be thwarted. We continued walking. Carmen was telling everyone what she thought of the production and the theatre. At one point she began mimicking the director as he rehearsed with her.

  “Frau Hartmaan, I need more passion; more of your hands and your beautiful black hair!”

  “We all know how good you are with your hands Cecilia”, quipped Jose.

  “Oh Alex, now we all know how bad you are at keeping secrets”, Cecilia retorted.

  We came to La Coupole. I knew this was the place of Hemmingway, Joyce, Picasso, Sartre and de Beauvoir. As I walked through the door I noticed a large plaque on the wall and paused to read it.

  La Coupole is a temple of Art Deco with a simplicity and faithfulness to French tradition, boasting a taste for straight lines and geometric interpretations of shapes from nature typified by an audacious colour palette and a mix of the most diverse materials including concrete, wood, ceramic, earthenware, iron, porcelain, cloth and glass. The pillars covered in imitation marble, the Cubist-inspired mosaics and the lemonwood trim, the Perzel chandeliers all collaborate to create a bohemian palace of immense beauty.

  Applause filled the restaurant and Cecilia dutifully smiled and blew kisses. She removed her coat and scarf to reveal a stunning pink double-breasted silk gown with puffed sleeves. The other women were dressed less flamboyantly. Camille removed her coat and I was instantly enchanted by her simple blue calf length dress.

  A small band in a corner began playing She Shall have Music. Cecilia grabbed Alex and began dancing,

  She shall have music wherever she goes

  with plenty of rhythm to tickle her toes.

  Wherever she goes, she shall have music …

  Her entrance complete, Cecilia led us to our table. I began to notice more detail on the walls and pillars; a portrait of dancer Josephine Baker surrounded by ostrich feathers and another of writer Georges Duhamel playing the flute. I was seated between two young chorus members who introduced themselves as Bertrand and Sabine. Camille sat three seats to my right. Wine was served and Bertrand and Sabine told me that this was their first production at L’Opera Comique and how they were enjoying the experience. They heaped praise on Cecilia and Alex telling me how friendly and helpful they were. I doubted that. I kept glancing furtively at Camille who occasionally caught my eye. I so desperately wanted to speak to her, to sense her sitting beside me.

  I noticed Cecilia looking at me. She was smoking a cigarette precariously perched at the end of a long red cigarette holder.

  “So, introduce yourself stranger”, she commanded. Bertrand and Sabine moved slightly away from me, and I became isolated in the spotlight of Cecilia’s gaze. She brushed her hair back from her forehead and I was instantly attracted to her green eyes.

  “I am Paul Politzer from Le Marais and I am pleased to be in your company”.

  “And what are you doing here, Paul Politzer from Le Marais?”

  “I was kindly invited by Mademoiselle Berman.”

  “You have an admirer Camille?”

  “I attended the performance and afterwards asked her for her autograph.”

  “He is an artist, a painter”, Camille interjected.

  The others oohed and aahed sarcastically.

  “A painter!” Cecilia exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Are you famous?”

  “Maybe someday I will be. I have a small shop in Rue des Rosiers. Please, feel free to visit.”

  “Thank you, maybe someday I will!”

  She inhaled a long draught of her cigarette and allowed the smoke to curl from her lips and caress her face as it wandered slowly towards the ceiling.

  “I think we may have embarrassed Monsieur Politzer.”

  “Not at all!”

  “Are you an aficionado of opera?” Cecilia enquired.

  “I would not describe myself as one.”

  “How would you describe yourself?”

  “I know little of opera. I work with colour, yet the music tonight inspired me.”

  “Well I have to say you appear very colourful. I particularly admire your purple cravat and navy beret. Are you considering wearing the beret all evening?”

  She gulped some wine and quickly turned away to speak to Alex. Bertrand leaned over and whispered.

  “Don’t worry, she does that with everybody. It’s a kind of initiation.”

  My hands were shaking and I had to concentrate hard on lifting my glass to drink some wine.

  “So tell me Paul, what is your opinion of Monsieur Hitler and his new Germany?”

  It was Alex. He was also smoking, though I thought it odd that he held his cigarette between his little and third finger.

  “I don’t really have an opinion. To my shame, I have not been keeping abreast with news from Germany.”

  “He’s a dangerous fascist”, Sabine exclaimed much too loudly!

  “Do you know anything about him?” Alex continued.

  “I believe him to be quite intense in his beliefs.”

  “Intense he certainly is! He is also excessive and severe and what is certain is that he is a danger to Europe, to France and all of us sitting here. Mark my words; it won’t be long before German soldiers are marching through the streets of Paris.”

  “Oh Alex, you are so passionate! I love that about you”, Cecilia responded, squeezing his arm.

  A roar from the crowd! Someone had entered the cafe. We all turned to see who it was. Whispers filled the air.

  “It’s Mistinguett, its Mistinguett!”

  I vaguely recognised her. It was rumoured her legs were insured for half a million francs. Everyone stood and applauded. The band played Ca c’est Paris. She went to the microphone and began to sing. Cecilia leapt to her feet. The others followed suit. I felt awkward and attempted to join the celebrations. When Mistinguett finished Cecilia and Alex ran to the stage and kissed her profusely, raising her arms high in the air. It seemed they never missed a chance to promote themselves. The crowd responded keenly. Finally Mistinguett returned to the microphone.

  “Merci, merci, you are so kind! Now we have a treat. My dear friend Maurice Chevalier is here with me and I’m sure we can persuade him to sing for us. Welcome Maurice!”

  The audience obliged and Maurice stepped forward. After a quick word with the band he approached the microphone. The band began playing. I saw my opportunity and moved next to Camille.

  “What is th
e song called?” I asked

  “Ma Pomme!” She replied. “His latest song.”

  I listened intently but to be honest, I wasn’t that impressed. The song was a trivial love tune almost comical in nature. Half way through I sat down. I was becoming more and more frustrated with how the evening was going. Cecilia and Alex infuriated me with their constant attention seeking and I was beginning to despise the group for pandering to such vulgarity.

  “Are you sad?”

  Camille sat beside me. Her deep blue eyes widened as she smiled. I returned her smile but had no answer. I only wanted to be alone with her.

  “I would like to walk you home”, I replied.

  She quickly glanced towards Alex. The song had finished and he was attempting to compete with Cecilia for a little of the reflected adulation now being heaped upon Chevalier.

  “I am with my friends Paul. It would be rude of me to leave them.”

  I lowered my head.

  “You are upset?”

  “A little! I only want to know you better.”

  She placed her hand on my arm.

  “Tell me more about your little shop in Rue des Rosiers.”

  I gave her a brief synopsis of how I came to own it. She seemed genuinely interested and this encouraged me to speak honestly about my art, the difficulty I had with it, my obsession with painting faces and the influence of my mother and her miniatures.

  “What is art?” she asked.

  Her question surprised me. I had never really thought about it.

  “I suppose art is a means of communicating in painting, music, writing and movement how we experience the world.”

  “That’s the text book answer. I want to know what you think it is.”

  I had to think about that. As so often is the case I never really considered why I did things other than they seemed like good ideas at the time. What did I think art was? I don’t think I knew.