A thunder of voices rose up in a flash. I drank my whiskey in one go and headed home. I was so astounded by this woman and her voice that I intended to come back to the bar the next day and find out more about her. While vainly trying to fall asleep, I decided to paint her. Yet, I was worried that the painting could manifest her appearance but never her voice. It was the first time in my life when I realized that art had its limits.
The next evening I sat at the same table. I was drinking my third glass of whiskey and the woman still did not appear on stage. My head was dancing and reeling from scotch. Grabbing hold of every shoulder and table corner I inched my way through the crowded room to the counter. The barkeeper glanced at me and said with a smirk:
“Oh boy, did you have a tough day, huh?”
“No, I’ve just lost count. Listen, I wanted to ask you something. When will this woman from yesterday sing again?”
“Lady Frisson? Well, not today. She performs only once a week. As much as I tried to persuade her to come here more often, she wouldn’t listen.”
“Yes, it is a pity. Why is she called Lady Frisson? It is quite an unusual name, I should say.”
The man chuckled and poured a few glasses of brandy to a group of grizzled gentlemen at the other side of the counter. He pulled a hand towel off his shoulder and started to dry tumblers.
“The audience gave her this name. One day, when she appeared here for the first time, nobody knew what to expect. But after she started singing, like you heard yesterday, it made everyone’s skin crawl. Her voice was so passionate, so strong, so desperate that it produced a frisson of nostalgia, disquiet, terror, surprise, anticipation, hope, all at once. It was unbelievable, I tell you. So we called her Lady Frisson. As simple as that.”
“What are you two talking about?,” the young raven-haired waitress asked inquisitively.
The barkeeper repeated briefly the gist of our conversation. I had one more question at the tip of my tongue but the young woman anticipated my curiosity.
“I am sure, you want to know about her blindness. I do not know the entire story, though. I simply listened to what people were saying and tried to connect the dots.”
She switched over to whisper and looked at me conspiratorially.
“I know from reliable sources that she used to live in the South of France and moved to Paris with her husband a couple of years ago. Then the war broke out and he was called up for military service. One day, she received a letter from some general who informed her that her husband had been killed in operation. It was such a great shock to her. She was devastated. They say she cried her eyes out. Poor thing! Every time I look at her when she sings, my heart breaks. It is a miracle she keeps coming up on stage. Maybe she finds solace in music.”
“I noticed yesterday how she tilted her head up to the ceiling while singing. If she cannot see, as you say, why is she doing it?”
“I guess, she sings to her late husband who rests in heaven.”
The stars shone brightly that night. I splashed my way home across the puddles, my mind revolving around the story of Lady Frisson. After entering my room, I approached the canvas on which I had drawn her silhouette sitting on the high chair, with a shadow of the piano behind. I spent the whole night drawing what I had seen. I remember her red hair on a dark background as if a shiny russet oak leaf fell into a muddy puddle. The sun was reaching out through the window and splashed my picture with yellow. I put the pencil on the easel, lay down and fell instantly asleep.
Every week I went to watch her perform. I wanted to capture every detail of her dress, her face, her posture so I brought my sketchbook along. After a few weeks the picture was almost ready. I worked on a play of light and shadow and contrast of colours. Still, something was missing. Her hands. It was hardly possible to see their position from the back corner which I usually occupied. Did she put them on her knees? Did she tug her shawl more closely around her shoulders? I could not see it.
One evening I came earlier and took a place close to the stage. The pianist played improvisations as people slowly filled the room, their voices like ocean waves rushing in and out. I was on tenterhooks, covering the paper with scribbles of circles and curls. After a while, guests put out their cigarettes and fell silent. There she was again, led by a man to her chair. I took a closer look at her face. She was still a young woman but time and grief made her skin dry and pale. She had little wrinkles around her pouty mouth and a mole on her chin. She started singing and looked up to the ceiling, as usual. As soon as I thought that I would have to come away none the wiser, her shawl slightly slipped off her shoulders, revealing her hands. There was a silver chain around her neck with a locket which she pressed to her heart. As the last chord was being played, she readjusted the wrap and for an instant let go of a locket. I looked at it and saw that it was nothing else but a wedding ring. The same man came on stage to lead her away. He helped her to get up and gently pulled her elbow. For a minute she stood there frozen to the spot and seemed to look right into my eyes. I might have found the missing detail for my picture but she… Would she ever find peace?
“Sir? Excuse me, sir? Sorry, we are closing soon. Would you like some more whiskey?”
I look around and find myself in the bar “Tristesse.”
“What? Oh… No, thank you. I am leaving already.”
The crying woman as well as those three gentlemen had long gone. I get up, take my suitcase and go to the exit. The lantern throws a sickly yellowish light on the wet pavement. I turn left and walk down the street humming Parisian jazz.
1 Comment
A nostalgic and sad story, well done. Thank you.