His eyes were sincere, I noted, as I began.
The faith you have in my abilities is wonderful, I said. And the origination of a role is the one honor that has eluded me thus far. Thank you. I do admit to being intrigued. I am committed for now to Faust this season, and then Verdi’s Un Ballo in Maschera next, in London, but I will look into my schedule to see what room there could be in the year ahead. Do you know how far the music has come or what schedule you intend?
Forgive me my earlier impudence, he said, gesturing back inside. I . . . Thank you! You honor me. I do not have these answers. We have neither music nor schedule as yet. Perhaps you will come and meet my new friend? I believe he’s arriving with the Dumas set. When we pass through to dinner, I can bring you to him.
I can see them by the light of their cigars. There, he said. Do you see them, on the balcony above? Come, let’s see if we can find our way.
He gestured to a crowd of gentlemen shadowed by the gaslights of the courtyard, who waved back.
I waved as well.
I return to this moment frequently, for it was when everything that came next in my life was decided. Meeting the composer in this dress was out of the question, though I could not say this. I was eager, also, to leave, or at least be alone, even for a moment, for this offer no longer felt like fate but something disguised as fate, a dangerous ruse meant to draw me into a trap.
The fit of a dress determines the stride of a woman—whether she can bend at the waist, sit, or ride—and so for a woman to change her dress was to change even the way she walked and the speed at which she ran to her fate.
If I had stayed in the terrible dress, or if a better dress had been made and sent over, if I had gone up the stairs, had dinner with the writer and composer, all would have been different.
But I did not stay.
He extended his arm and made to lead me back in through the crowd.
He saw I had not accepted the invitation to walk in and let his arm drop again with a questioning smile.
Yes, I said. How incredible. The gods indeed.
It’s no use, we’ll never make it through the crowd right now, he said, looking at the stairs. We shall wait a moment. But what a pleasure it is to hear you express interest.
Thank you, I said.
I can see it right now, he said. If I can ever find a store willing to stock the book between their piles of Zola and Daudet, I think it will be quite a success. But an opera with you in it, well, Ceci tuera cela, he said.
This will kill that.
I know this, I said of his quote. What is it from?
It’s Hugo, the writer said.
Of course, I said.
I now remembered what I knew of him. I had even heard him at a salon at least once, carrying on about this very quote. He was very mortal after all, then, known for writing novels based almost entirely on the scandals of his friends. While he typically hid their identities, his most recent subjects could be guessed at by whoever dropped him for the season following his most recent book. He knew everyone, though, and was otherwise everywhere.
He nodded, pleased. It’s the complaint from a priest character of his, that the written word would destroy cathedrals. The novel would separate us from God. He smiled as he said this.
I should warn you, he said.
I waited as he tried to think of what he would say. My novels . . . it would seem they have a way of coming true. He looked away as he said this, as if ashamed.
It came to me this was perhaps how he explained the way he stole from his friends’ lives. Not theft then, but magic.
So if I accept, I said, then . . . for you have not told me of the ending.
She rejoins her circus. You would become an equestrienne in a circus, in love with an angel. He would give up his wings for you, and you . . . well, your voice.
So be it, I said.
He laughed, surprised. Very well then, he said. Caveat cantante.
He presented his card, and there, indeed, was the address. I had not seen it in years.
I set his card in the wallet at my wrist and made the excuse of feeling too poorly to stay for dinner, but I promised to read the novel and await the music.
Oh, but you really must at least meet the composer . . . He gestured at the balcony.
Perhaps we will set an appointment, I said. I would like very much to see the brooch.
His face brightened at this. Yes! You must come; I will show you everything.
I offered my hand to say good night and watched his back vanish into the crowd.