‘But you must go.’
‘I must go. Though not just yet. We still have some time.’
He is leading her towards his bed. And she is not stopping him.
He places a hand on her mouth. For now there will be no more words. She is a marionette without strings as he gently moves aside or slips off all the flimsy pieces of fabric that come between him and what he must see and touch and smell and taste. Her own hands move beneath his shirt until they are almost joined together on the damp warm skin of his back. Then she forgets everything except her own longing and there is a desperation in her responses and the way she holds on to him that takes him by surprise. She must feel his weight, breathe in his scent of cologne and sweat and tobacco.
How long they stay like this she cannot tell. Time has ceased to matter. His breathing has slowed. She wonders if he has fallen asleep, but then he raises himself up and moves away from her on the narrow bed, reaching for his slim silver case. He buttons himself up and lights a cigarette. She is fascinated by the angles of his face in the weak yellow light. He is like a carving chiselled from wood. She runs her fingers up through his hair.
‘Ah,’ he says, and stiffens under her touch. She withdraws her hand, only then noticing dark smudges on her fingertips.
‘I must put some colour in my hair,’ he explains, reaching into a pocket of his trousers and withdrawing a starched white handkerchief, which he hands to her. ‘Forgive an old man’s vanity.’
His expression is mournful. She wipes her fingers, soiling the pristine fabric. When she offers to return it he shakes his head.
‘You may need it again,’ he says.
She folds the handkerchief into her handbag next to her husband’s last note, the one beginning ‘My Darling One and Only …’
‘This is strange for me,’ she says, speaking into his chest. ‘I have never—’
‘Signora Beatrice, all artists cultivate little gardens in order to delude themselves that they are not old and finished and torn by strife. But the truth is that I feel alone in this world, and that is why I am always sad.’
‘Always?’
‘To make music I must be sad. Can you think of any music that moves you that is joyful?’
He is breathing in the scent of her hair. His hands have moved to her shoulders, lightly stroking her collar-bones. She should leave now. She knows this. But for now her husband is hidden away, like his note in her bag next to a stained handkerchief.
She should leave now.
But she stays.
42
EARLY on Thursday morning, while Bess and Puccini are still sleeping, F.H Jones and Fred Custance arrive in the paddock at Bolivar, outside Adelaide.
Jones drives himself. Custance makes the journey on a motor-cycle.
Conditions are absolutely still and the air is slightly moist.
Perfect.
It is not quite daylight when the propeller is turned to start the engine.
The time is right for a test-flight of the Bleriot.
But there is no photographer present.
43
NOW she is alone. Her husband is with his flying machine; the composer is shut away, working, trying to put on paper the music that, until now, has existed only within his head. After five weeks of languor, five weeks passing as slowly as pedestrians in the streets outside, it seems to Bess that things are happening in a rush. Events are converging like trains from different destinations that pull into a station at the same time. Tomorrow, the day of his final performance at the Opera House, her husband will attempt to set a flying record at Diggers Rest. He is so confident of success he has insisted that Bess should be there.
She woke in Puccini’s room when a soft pale light seeped through the curtains. Hurried down the quiet hotel corridors to her room, trying to step as softly as possible. Mayer Samuel was as she had left him, but she didn’t dare meet his sightless gaze. Then she slipped into her own bed. This, somehow, made everything less complicated. As if she hadn’t been away.
Now she should try to sleep. She has promised her husband she will watch him set the record that means so much to him. It will mean a dreadfully early start, three or four o’clock the following morning. Her husband manages to get by with only a bare minimum of rest, but she has never been able to do so. He has told her she can doze in the back seat of Jordan’s motor car, but she is not confident she will manage it. So she should rest. With only a sheet covering her, she lies quite still and closes her eyes. But her mind is like the screen for the cinematograph pictures her husband uses. Flickering images appear one after another. Tarot cards side by side.
She sees her husband, wearing an incongruous stiff collar and necktie, depicted as the Magician. Above his head is the symbol for eternity – the numeral eight laid on its side. Something about these numbers tantalises her: ‘1’ and ‘8’. Of course! Tomorrow, the day he will make his attempt on the flying record, is Friday 18 March. Clearly an auspicious date. The next card she sees is the Chariot: a figure inside a wheeled vehicle, like a flying machine without wings. This card symbolises recognition and reward for hard work. Her husband would be delighted to hear this, perhaps even relieved, though he has previously scoffed at her faith in the cards.
Another card: the High Priestess. The face, shrouded in an elaborate head-dress is turned away. Now the face is revealed. Her own face. Calm, tranquil, counselling herself to look within and pay attention to her own desires. The front of her gown is awry. A single breast can be seen.
Now the Wheel of Fortune – an apparatus with cogs and a handle, resembling one of her husband’s stage devices. Then the card anyone needing good luck hopes to see turned up: the Star, something brilliant in the constellations. Or might it represent a comet? She cannot tell, for another card is laid upon it – the Lovers. A strange image because there are three figures depicted, not two. The first is herself. The second, reaching towards her naked form with one long thin hand, is the composer. Yet his face is bearded and contemplative like the Hermit – the symbol of solitude and withdrawal from the world. Hovering just behind and above the lovers is a third figure. Is it her husband she sees? No, it is the face of a child. Mayer Samuel, calling out a warning or a cry of despair on seeing his mother with a bearded man. But she cannot hear any sound he makes, nor can she reassure him that everything will be alright, that he still has a mother and father who love him as well as each other.
Her pillow is damp when Bess opens her eyes. She expects to find cards scattered everywhere. No. She will have another of her refreshing baths a little later. Soak in water in which she will sprinkle a few drops of her favourite gardenia perfume. That will calm her.
She tries to slow her mind by lying still, trying to identify each noise she hears: muffled clattering from the hotel kitchen; the snorting of a horse outside; water gushing in a pipe within one of the walls. After her bath, she will play her phonograph, in which her husband has shown little interest, apart from wondering if he should try to record his introductions to his most famous stage routines. She likes to study the apparatus when Melba sings the duet’s final note, marvelling that the horn or spinning disc or the arm with its pointed finger are not shattered by the intensity of the sound.
Bess is more relaxed now she knows how her day will unfold. She will rest; she will bathe; she will play her Champion. She checks the bedside table. There is no new note. For a moment she feels like a mother whose child has neglected to kiss her goodbye before rushing off. But she knows her husband will return later in the day, well before his penultimate evening show in Melbourne. And when he departs early in the morning she will accompany him. Mayer Samuel, too. His father would want him there.
Bess regards flying as one more tricky routine for her husband. The Voisin is another type of apparatus, bigger and more complicated than most. The conscientious Brassac, whom she has not seen since they left the Malwa, will have it ready tomorrow, just as Kukol and Vickery ensure all props are ready for the Opera House shows. She wonders if, for the composer, the performance of one of his operas is a different kind of flight – all those notes, scratched onto ink-spattered paper, liberated into the air. She must ask him. But when? Tomorrow she will be in the paddock in Diggers Rest. She will be there when her husband scans the encircling faces in his moment of success, looking for her. And if he fails? No, he will not fail. She knows the preparation that goes into everything he does: the more difficult a routine, the more meticulous his planning. Flying is another stunt, for which he is well rehearsed. A magician in his chariot.
She kicks off the sheet and places her left forearm over her eyes, to block out the light, and this time she sleeps without dreams and when she wakes, parched and limp, it is past two in the afternoon. Despite the hour she is still not hungry. She lingers in her fragrant bath, then pats herself dry and applies sweet-smelling lotions to her pale skin before deciding on a lightweight calico dress with a pattern of pale-blue daisies.
BESS has opened the curtains and seated herself before the dressing-table to work on her hair when there is insistent knocking on the door. A delivery boy with a message, she thinks, getting up. It is too early for her husband. The composer? Surely not, yet still her steps quicken. She is glad she has had the bath, and her hair is presentable. The knocking continues as she opens the door, ready to smile. And there is Harry Rickards, pink-faced and perspiring, walking past her without even waiting to be invited inside.
