{"id":324,"date":"2015-10-04T05:36:26","date_gmt":"2015-10-04T05:36:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/staging\/?p=324"},"modified":"2026-05-28T23:04:09","modified_gmt":"2026-05-28T23:04:09","slug":"natalya-polyakova","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/natalya-polyakova\/","title":{"rendered":"Natalya Polyakova"},"content":{"rendered":"

Lady Frisson<\/strong><\/h2>\n

Today, Marseille is as unwelcoming as never before. My hometown used to encounter me as an old friend always pleased to see me, ready to listen and help. After my getting off the train, it used to embrace me with the familiar scent of roasted chestnut, the smiles of news vendors and the laughter of children snaking their way through the crowd. I would go to the next caf\u00e9, drink two shots of espresso and chat with Giovanni, an Italian barista with a hoary head of hair who, despite his age and portly constitution, would constantly waltz behind the counter and whistle every song playing on the radio. The whole town used to be my sanctuary.<\/p>\n

Yet, everything feels different on this November evening. As soon as I step out of the train, I see people with somber countenances rushing back and forth. The drizzle slaps into my face as if blaming me for being the worst of traitors –  someone who gave up his own hometown for the capital city, exchanged familiarity for uncertainty. I stand on the railway platform and watch the train leave back to Paris. Its silhouette moves slowly away from me until it disappears in yellow lights. I have spent nearly a third of my life there. These years were spectacular, remarkable, reckless, yet arduous, hopeless and desperate. I know that I must bear the burden of the decision I had made, even if it was the right thing to do, even if regret might eventually suffocate me. As I bid farewell to the city, tears blur my eyes. The unexpected gush of wind draws me out of my recollections and I head off towards my old apartment. The salty sea air fills my lungs. The autumn cold creeps under my clothes. I put up the collar of my tailor-made coat with my right hand, carrying the suitcase in the left one. I walk along the broad street lit by a solitary lantern. Having turned around the corner, I see a flickering dark-blue sign of a bar – “Tristesse.” I decide to go inside and have a drink. Whether alcohol will wash away my sadness or double it is of no concern to me today.<\/p>\n

I push the steel door open and see a dozen square tables scattered across a half-empty room. Three elderly men in olive-green, working-class clothing discuss some matter of seeming great importance near the bar counter. Their vigorous exclamations and heehaws fill the air. They swing their foggy mugs of beer, spilling the white foam on the floor. I try to meet the eye of the barkeeper who is busy wiping dust from the bottles on the shelf and half-listening to the loud ravings of the guests. When I meekly clear my throat for the third time, he turns around with a bored expression on his stubbled face. I order a glass of scotch whiskey and take a seat at the table in the corner.<\/p>\n

The surface of the ash-sprinkled table is sticky with spilt alcohol. There is no music playing here, unlike in many bars in Paris. Apart from the husky voices of the inebriated trio I hear someone gently sobbing. I look around and see a middle-aged woman on my right. A purple bowler hat conceals her eyes full of heart-breaking tears. Her chubby cheeks melt down into the collar of her orchid raincoat. She holds a letter in her hands. I can see her grief, I can feel her heart bleeding, as if every sentence were a dagger, every full-stop were a stone, every comma a hooked whip. She puts the letter on the table, her trembling hands reach for a pack of cigarettes. After failing to light her cigarette, match-stick after match-stick, she picks up a candle from the table and holds it up to her face. The woman reads the letter over and over again, puffing smoke into the paper. As our tables are no more than a meter apart, I find myself engulfed in a cloud of fumes. My memories drift into the past. This woman’s grief reminds me of someone I met in a smoke-filled bar. Her name was Lady Frisson.<\/p>\n

It was my second month in Paris. I had explored every corner of my neighbourhood and made it a habit to walk down from Montmartre to the Latin Quarter in search for an idea for the next picture. My sketchbook was filled with rough drawings that eagerly  awaited animation on the canvas. All I would need  were a few careful strokes of the brush. On that day I started to work on the painting of the Jardin des Plantes and noticed that I had run out of a green colour. Without looking out of the window to see if the weather had changed since the day before, I stepped out into the September afternoon. I spent a good hour in the shop and was looked forward to returning to work. To my utmost astonishment and especially after an unusually dry summer, the clouds burst open. I took shelter from the rainstorm under the roof of a building. Apart from the deafening pounding of the rain, I thought I heard the sound of a piano coming from somewhere behind me. I turned around and saw a beveled glass door. After slowly pressing down a handle, I stepped inside and found myself in a bar.<\/p>\n

The room was submerged in cigarette smoke so that I could barely see anyone. Judging by the decibel of raised voices, it was undoubtedly a well attended place. Elbowing my way forward, I noticed a free table in the back corner. As soon as I raised my hand, a young black-haired waitress with the gracefulness and swiftness of a panther came up to me and took my order. In a few minutes she brought me a glass of scotch whiskey. I took a sip and started to look around. There were people of different appearance and occupation. Resembling a flock of pigeons fluttering around a single breadcrumb, a group of young women in silken dresses and veiled hats gathered around a suited gentleman with pencil moustache. He was telling jokes and proudly thrust out his chest whenever the ladies laughed or exchanged approving glances with each other. Two elderly women with cigarette holders, who were seating in front of me, were looking towards the group and shaking their heads reproachfully. The smoke made my eyes prickle as if a thousand needles were stuck inside. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the sounds around me. Through loud chatter I could distinguish again the sound which enticed me here. The piano. The soft swirling of jazz tunes above a black-and-white keyboard, the measured rhythm of its joyous movements and smooth modulations filled my heart with serenity.<\/p>\n

The choir of voices reached a crescendo. Yet, gradually the occasional laughter turned to a murmur and then died down completely. I opened my eyes and saw each and everyone stand facing the half-circle stage raised on a platform. At the back of it, the pianist was seated at the diagonally placed instrument with his hands on his knees. At no more than two arms-lengths apart, a woman was sitting on a high chair with her head low, a microphone stand in front of her. I instantly noted her autumn-coloured hair hanging in waves to her waist. She was wearing a black ankle-length dress, with a matching shawl gently wrapped around her shoulders. For an instant I could swear it was her. It was Patrice. I felt the urge to come closer and greet her when she lifted up her head and broke into a song. Her pale face formed a contrast to dark-red lips, her eyes hidden behind the sunglasses. It was, however, another woman. Her deep slightly raspy voice echoed across the room. After the pianist played the first minor chord and duplicated it an octave higher, he changed to arpeggios. The melancholy melody drifted softly among the audience. The quality of the singer’s voice was mesmerizing. I noticed that she kept singing with her head turned up to the ceiling as if she was singing her heart out to the stars. How mistaken I had always been in thinking that only a piano could most accurately reflect one’s feelings of sorrow and despair. As it turned out, it was the voice of a bereaved woman that was capable of reaching every fiber of your being.  I was still shaking like a leaf when she finished her performance and was led off the stage to generous applause. A man with a towel on his shoulder, apparently the barkeeper, took the microphone and said:<\/p>\n

“Ladies and gentlemen! Please some more applause for Lady Frisson! Thank you. And we continue our evening with Big Charles at the piano. Enjoy your drinks!”
\n<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

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:<\/p>\n

“Oh boy, did you have a tough day, huh?”<\/p>\n

“No, I’ve just lost count. Listen, I wanted to ask you something. When will this woman from yesterday sing again?”<\/p>\n

“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.”<\/p>\n

“Yes, it is a pity. Why is she called Lady Frisson? It is quite an unusual name, I should say.”<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

“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.”<\/p>\n

“What are you two talking about?,” the young raven-haired waitress asked inquisitively.<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

“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.”<\/p>\n

She switched over to whisper and looked at me conspiratorially.<\/p>\n

“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.”<\/p>\n

“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?”<\/p>\n

“I guess, she sings to her late husband who rests in heaven.”<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

 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.<\/p>\n

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\u2026 Would she ever find peace?<\/p>\n

“Sir? Excuse me, sir? Sorry, we are closing soon. Would you like some more whiskey?”<\/p>\n

I look around and find myself in the bar “Tristesse.”<\/p>\n

“What? Oh… No, thank you. I am leaving already.”<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

 <\/h2>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Lady Frisson<\/strong>
\nToday, Marseille is unwelcoming as never before. My hometown used to encounter me as an old friend, always pleased to see me, ready to listen and help. After my getting off the train, it used to embrace me with familiar scents of roasted chestnuts, smiles of newsvendors, laughter of children, snaking their way through the crowd. I would go to the next caf\u00e9, drink two shots of espresso and chat with Giovanni, an Italian barista with hoary head who, despite his age and portly constitution, would constantly waltz behind the counter and whistle every song playing on the radio. The whole town used to be my sanctuary.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2127,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-324","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/324","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=324"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/324\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2128,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/324\/revisions\/2128"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2127"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=324"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=324"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue22\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=324"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}