Being Isadora

Suzanna Clarke

School of Creative Writing and Cultural Studies Faculty of Creative Industries Queensland University of Technology

This thesis is presented as part of the requirements for the award of the Degree of Master of Arts (Research) November, 2003 1

Keywords

Craig, Edward Gordon; dance; Douglas, Lord Alfred; Duse, Eleonora; Duncan, Anna; Duncan, Isadora; Isadorables; film; Golden Dawn, The; Greece; New York; Paris; Russia; Singer, Paris.

Abstract

Being Isadora is a story of possession. Isadora Duncan, the founder of modern dance, was an intensely creative, free-spirited woman. Her life experiences early last century were as fascinating and tragic as her achievements.

In New York in 1985, Isadora’s last surviving pupil and adopted daughter, ninety-year old Anna Duncan, is searching for a way to fulfill a long held promise. Isadora wished to control the way she was remembered and had made Anna promise that any remaining film of her dancing would be destroyed. But one film survives and Anna is running out of time to find it.

A young Australian journalist, Tamsin Doyle, attends a dance class at the Isadora Duncan Studio and meets Anna, unknowingly becoming part of the quest.

Initially the stories of Isadora and Tamsin run parallel, then as Tamsin gets to know Anna, she becomes immersed in a dream world of dramatic incidents from Isadora’s life. The dreams become waking experiences and she fears her will is gradually being taken over. She ends up in places – in fact other countries – that she had no intention of being, pursuing an agenda that is not her own.

In the second part of the book, she finds herself in Russia, where Isadora lived after the Revolution. She meets and falls in love with Vladimir, the grandson of Isadora’s former dance collaborator. Unable to prevent herself being possessed while visiting the school Isadora founded, Tamsin is arrested by the authorities. A Russian KGB officer has his own plans and abducts her, keeping her prisoner in a dacha outside Moscow. He shows her a film of herself dancing and then the surviving film of Isadora. The two are almost identical and a dramatic climax ensues.

Themes in the book explore the nature of memory and how it is influenced by photographic and filmic record, love and loss and the way patterns repeat in people’s lives in an attempt to change outcomes.

Table of Contents

Keywords...... ii Abstract...... iii Table of Contents...... iv Statement of Original Authorship...... v Acknowledgments...... vi Part One Prologue, New York. July 15, 1985...... 1 Chapter One. New York. June 18, 1985...... 3 Chapter Two. New York. June 18, 1895...... 8 Chapter Three. New York. June 23, 1895...... 28 Chapter Four. London. April 23, 1899...... 41 Chapter Five...... 54 Chapter Six...... 68 Chapter Seven...... 101 Chapter Eight...... 126 Chapter Nine...... 146 Part Two Chapter Ten...... 158 Chapter Eleven...... 177 Chapter Twelve...... 189 Chapter Thirteen...... 232 Chapter Fourteen...... 246 Chapter Fifteen...... 261 Chapter Sixteen...... 276 Works Cited...... 288 Bibliography...... 289

The work contained in this thesis has not been previously submitted for a degree or diploma at any other higher education institution. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made.

Signed:

Date:

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my supervisor, Donna Lee Brien for her valuable feedback and immense patience; my husband, Sandy McCutcheon, for his encouragement; Anna Sweeney for giving me an insight into Isadora’s dance technique through her Jose Clara etchings ; dancers and artists everywhere for enriching our lives immeasurably.

Without risks, life is nothing – a dream empty of dreams.1

When in doubt, always go to the best hotel.2

Isadora Duncan 1878-1927

Part One

Prologue New York. July 15, 1985

Anna woke to find herself sitting bolt upright in bed. The bedside light was on, although she recalled clicking it off before she went to sleep. She looked down at her fingers clasping the coverlet. Through the milky cataract cloud, her gnarled fingers appeared young and graceful. One arm moved, unbidden, to throw back the blanket. She attempted to resist, but could feel her will being overcome and gave a deep sigh. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, voice hoarse with disuse, although it may as well have remained a thought. ‘Anna. You and I need to have a talk.’ The words were in her head, and she knew where they came from. ‘Why now?’ ‘It’s time.’ ‘It’s the middle of the night.’ She thought she heard a shimmer of laughter. ‘I know, but sleep is a foreign country to me now.’ Her feet touched the threadbare rug reluctantly and she stepped forward with a jerky motion, before the movement took hold and she glided to the mirror in a way she had not done for many years. ‘Look, look closely,’ said the woman’s voice inside her head. Her vision seemed to clear and Anna could see the loose skin of her face hanging like a curtain through which she imagined her younger, real self to be hiding. She shifted her attention to the pale smear hovering over her left shoulder. It was another face, round and beautiful with deep, sorrowful

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eyes. Liquid eyes. The air around the halo of auburn hair seemed to fizzle and crackle with a fierce intensity. Her breath caught in her throat with fear and wonder. Looking back to the mirror, she saw that her face was no longer her own. It had altered to become that of the woman who had appeared behind her. She struggled to retain her composure and reminded herself it was just a clever illusion. One that she had seen before. ‘Why are you using Mr Crowley’s tricks again? You know I never liked him,’ Anna said. ‘Don’t sound so petulant Anna. I didn’t either. But Aleister had one or two useful things to teach. It is a pity you never chose to learn them.’ ‘What you had was enough for me. I remember you told us, “The only thing that matters is beauty: the pursuit of beauty to make all of life beautiful.” ’ ‘You are right. You are the last of my priestesses and you know how important it is to protect the memory of what we created. Have you done what I asked, all those years ago?’ The old woman dropped her head, unable to meet the eyes looking straight at her from the reflection. ‘You know that I haven’t. I couldn’t bring myself to.’ ‘Then it is time.’ ‘You have come to tell me I’m going to die now?’ Her regret was tinged with relief. ‘No, not yet. You will join me soon, but for now I have to leave you. There are still things to be attended to. I need you to do one last task for me.’ Anna sighed again. ‘What is it?’ ‘You remember that girl in the dance class? The one we saw the other day?’ ‘The new one?’ ‘Yes, of course. Invite her over. I will do the rest.’ ‘You are going to work through her instead of me?’ ‘Yes.’

‘Why her?’ ‘You saw her dance. She has the gift and is young, curious and feisty. Besides, she knows no-one here. She will not be missed.’

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CHAPTER ONE

New York. June 18, 1985

‘Ms Doyle, we’re not taking on any more journalists at present.

Budget restrictions.’

‘What?’ A high note of desperation was creeping into my voice.

‘But I’ve come all the way from Australia. I quit my job to come here.’

‘I wish I could help out.’ Gail Jenkins from Personnel was a middle- aged, efficient looking woman, wearing a suit with power shoulders that made her look like a junior grid-iron player. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’ She held up her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

‘I don’t believe you,’ I said, growing angry. ‘I’m sure you can do something. This arrangement was made in writing with your Features editor, Nick Wharton. Wait a moment.’ I rifled through my bag and opened the letter folded in my diary. I held it up and stabbed at the New York Post letterhead triumphantly, then shoved it in her direction. Glancing at it with the sort of enthusiasm you’d reserve for a bunch of dead flowers, she handed it straight back.

‘Mr Wharton no longer works here,’ she said. ‘And even when he did, he was never authorised to offer you a job on behalf of this paper.

Anyway, this is a casual position you were offered, with no guarantee of permanent employment.’

‘This is a contractual obligation.’

‘What are you going to do? Sue us?’ She gave me a withering look and I realised I had lost. Swivelling on the heel of her sensible pumps, she threw over her shoulder, ‘If anything comes up, we’ll let you know.’

Yeah, sure. Not bloody likely.

‘So I’m just supposed to hang around my overpriced hotel room until that happens?’ I said loudly.

The receptionist looked up sharply. Gail Jenkins’ reply was little more than a piercing whisper. ‘Ms Doyle, I sympathise, but I’m not in a position to do anything. Go. Now. Before I ask security to help you out.’

‘I demand to see the Editor.’

‘You can make an appointment with reception.’ She flashed a pass across a sensor at the side of a glass door and disappeared into the newsroom beyond.

This wasn’t part of the plan. I was supposed to be going through there with her, or rather, with Nick Wharton. I had played the scene through numerous times in my head. I would be introduced to everyone, before being shown to my desk and my computer. A few frantic journalists would give me a cursory glance, but the gazes of one or two would linger, assessing the new recruit. I might even be asked out for a drink or a meal and inducted into the mysteries of how to find an apartment, get tickets for the best Broadway shows and how to avoid being mugged. Now it looked like my experience of the inner sanctum could be limited to my imagination.

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I stalked over to the desk. The receptionist was busy answering a flurry of calls and was in no hurry to get to me. In the split second between her hanging up on one and answering another, I leapt in. ‘I need to see the

Editor. Right away.’

‘New York Post. Hold please,’ she said to the next caller, then addressed me. ‘You’ll have to make an appointment through his secretary, but they’re both away at a conference today. You can leave a message if you like, or call back tomorrow.’

Anger fuelled me until I was spat out of the rotating doors onto the street. I stood still, at a loss. Just a short while before the street had hummed with excitement and possibility. Now the cacophony of horns and distant shouts was jarring. The bitter taste of bile rose in my throat and I fought to keep it down. A corpulent man with the florid face of a future heart attack candidate barged straight into me, pushing me off balance.

‘Fucking watch where you’re standing,’ he snarled. I steeled myself to throw back a retort, but he was already gone, head bobbing like a piece of brown flotsam in the surging tide of pedestrians.

I trailed despondently down the sidewalk oblivious to where I was going; caught up in the pace of passers-by. A confusing montage of shop window displays, vulnerable looking necks, bald spots on the backs of heads and the closed, suspicious faces of pedestrians moving the opposite way merged into a blur. It had been all too easy, too good to be true. Now what the hell was I going to do?

Pushing open the heavy glass door of a café on a street corner, I joined the queue to the counter. My hands were shaking as I tried to discern the value of the limp green notes in my wallet to pay for the cappuccino.

There were no chairs so I stood at a high counter with my bag between my feet, sipping watery coffee out of a thick china cup. Should I ring home? I had no idea whom to call. Helen? I felt too embarrassed to speak to my friend and fellow journalist. My other former colleagues at the newspaper in Brisbane had barely concealed their jealousy about my New York Post job and would now gloat at my downfall. I thought about phoning Jacob, my boyfriend until very recently, but what could I say to him? I’m sorry Jacob,

I stuffed up, made a serious mistake, please take me back. I shuddered. No.

I wasn’t going that far backwards. Not for anything.

It was hard to believe my going away party had only been last

Friday. Full of alcohol-induced hubris, I had been as high as if I had climbed Everest without oxygen. I had paid my dues as a journalist, now I was about to reach the pinnacle of my profession. New York. Just those two words held a kind of magic. When I had got the letter from the Features editor, in response to my bombarding him with numerous faxes and then doing a phone interview, I had walked around chanting the words to myself for days like an incantation. New York, New York, NEW YORK. I was on my way to interview extraordinary people; be sent to exotic overseas locations on adrenaline charged assignments. Even the most mundane story would seem fascinating with a New York backdrop. I was so sure I could

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impress my new editors with my initiative, diligence and the quality of my writing, I had even indulged in a fantasy which ended up with me winning a

Pulitzer.

My face flushed hot with the memory and I took a sip of my now cold coffee. I thought about chocolate therapy in the form of a large piece of mud cake, but a quick glance at the queue to the counter dissuaded me.

A window washer had started to clean the glass outside and I watched as the sidewalk was repeatedly obscured then revealed behind the blur of suds.

No, now that I was here I wasn’t about to run home whimpering. It was more than ambition that had made me so keen to leave. Since I was a small child, I was aware of a yearning that had nothing in common with what my friends seemed to want. As older teenagers, when they’d talked about children and husbands and homes, I could only imagine a kind of trap that was waiting to swallow me whole if I wasn’t careful. Life, real life, seemed to exist far from the place that I had grown up. I knew it was there somewhere, tantalising me. Just out of reach. I was determined to hunt it down.

I hadn’t given much thought to how my departure would affect

Jacob. He was an architect, good-looking and serious, and we had only been going out casually for a couple of months. A few days before I left, we met after work at our favourite Thai restaurant. When I finished perusing the menu, I looked up to find him examining me over the top of his glasses.

‘What? What is it?’ I asked.

He reached for my hand across the table, and I noticed that a small package had appeared beside his plate. At first I had thought it a going away present, but when it turned out to be an engagement ring, the script had gone seriously awry.

‘I’m sorry. No,’ I said.

He put his head in his hands and didn’t speak for a minute or two.

‘Why not?’ he asked, looking up. ‘You seemed so...caring. I thought you felt about me as I do about you. We could have a great time together.’

‘I do care about you. I think you are a fabulous, wonderful, creative person but...’

‘You’re not in love with me.’

‘Jacob, to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love with anyone. I’m not sure if I completely understand what people mean when they say it. Most marriages I’ve seen are about compromise and I don’t want to do that,’ I said.

‘I don’t think marriage is about compromise,’ he retorted. ‘It’s about partnership, support, being there for each other. Why don’t you think about it while you’re in New York? I could come over and visit in a couple of months for a holiday, before you come home.’

‘To see if I’ve changed my mind? Jacob, no. I won’t be coming back for ages and I don’t want you to wait for me.’

‘I’ll wait.’

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‘Please don’t. I don’t know if I’m ever coming back.’

The level of noise in the café was growing. More people had pressed in the door and the place was packed. A fresh wave of anger welled up inside me. Bloody Features editor. Why hadn’t he rung me last week before I got on the plane? Would it have been so hard? At least I could have worked out some options.

Now what? Try and get hold of the Post’s Editor-in-Chief? I hadn’t been exactly polite to the pig-headed woman from Personnel. She would probably pass my comments on. Still, I had to keep trying. Having brought me here under false pretences, they owed me a job. But I couldn’t hold my breath in the hope that they would suddenly change their minds.

Back on the street I bought The New York Times from a vendor and retreated to my Gramercy Park Hotel room. Laying the paper out on the bed, pen in hand, I scanned the situations vacant column. There were thousands of jobs but only three for journalists. They were for positions on trade journals and newsletters, not newspapers, and all required someone with medical knowledge or technical experience of some sort. Perhaps other papers didn’t advertise their positions, but surely they must have a constant turn over. I had not brought much in the way of a portfolio, but what I had would have to do.

CHAPTER TWO

New York. June 18, 1895

With every step I took, I could feel the pain of another blister developing on back of my heel. I was uncomfortably aware of the dust creeping through the soles of my shoes, through the holes in leather. That morning I had stuffed them with layers of stiff card and newspaper, but they were already wearing through. I wished I had a few spare cents to take an omnibus.

There was a large pothole in my path, filled to the brim with waste water and I looked up and down the street for carriages and pony traps before walking past at a rapid pace. I could not afford to get my one decent dress soiled. What employer would consider me then?

At the corner of the road a young urchin with scruffy red hair, no shoes and a grimy face stood holding his upturned checked cap. He stared at me pleadingly with sea-green eyes that were hard to ignore.

‘Please Ma’am,’ he said with an Irish lilt. But I had nothing to give him and was near to fainting with hunger myself.

The employment bureau was up three flights of stairs in a tall narrow building. I joined the other supplicants waiting in line – a man with a sad, closed face, a primly dressed older woman who pursed her lips in disapproval, whether at me or the reduction of her circumstances in general

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I did not know, and a young lad, nervously turning his hat round and round in his small hands. It was some time before the lady who stood behind the counter addressed me, crisp as a starched collar.

‘What are your skills?’ she asked.

‘I can do everything and anything,’ I replied, trying to sound as if I believed it to be so.

She looked me up and down. ‘You look too young and thin to be able to be of much use at all. What is your training?’

‘Theatrical. I can act, I can dance...and I can recite poetry .’

Her eyebrows retreated to her hairline. ‘That is hardly a profession or a trade.’

‘Well, I can do anything else that is required.’

‘Can you cook? Can you sew? Can you scrub floors?’

‘Yes, naturally.’

‘What positions have you held?’

‘None...as yet.’

‘Then, I cannot assist you. Next,’ she said, turning to a man wearing his Sunday best.

The sun was broiling as I hobbled back to the Lower East Side and our rented room in an overcrowded tenement. Mother was sitting on the double bed, the only piece of furniture in the windowless room beyond a broken chair. Her face was drawn with despair, though she forced a brighter expression when she saw me.

‘How did you fare?’

‘If the truth be told, very badly. I’m sorry Mother. When the agency found out I had no experience, they would not take me. I was so certain when we came here I would get an engagement at once and now I wish we had not left San Francisco. I have tried every theatre – some of them twice.’

‘We are here now, so must make the best of it. How are your feet?’

I took off my shoes and she gently put some salve on my blisters.

There was a rap on the door and our landlady entered before either of us could get up.

‘I’ve been very patient with your situation, but you must give me the rent or begone from the premises,’ she said.

‘As I have told you,’ Mother replied, ‘We don’t have any money.

My daughter went to see an employment agency and there is the prospect of work, but she does not have it yet. If we could stay for one or two more days...’

‘I have already given you a weeks’ credit and that is my limit, so you will vacate this room at once and leave your baggage in lieu of payment.’

‘But we have nowhere else to go.’

‘That is not my concern. There are others who want to rent it, so you must be gone this instant.’

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And so we found ourselves on the street with only the clothes we were wearing. I much regretted the loss of the few favourite books I had carried with me.

‘What shall we do?’ Mother said, sinking onto the stoop, defeated.

I thought for a minute. What did I have to sell? Neither of us had jewellery left, that had been the first to go. I had only one remaining item that might hold some value. ‘Mother, I think we need to find you a place to rest in the shade and I will go and get us some money and a room for the night. I can sell this,’ I said, pointing to the lace collar around my neck. It was genuine Irish, sent by relatives as a gift. She didn’t protest.

‘I will give you three dollars for it,’ The portly man in the pawn shop said, holding the collar and examining it with a monocle.

‘But it is worth at least fifteen,’ I said.

‘No.’ He held it out to me. ‘That’s my final offer.’

I snatched it back and slammed the door after me. At other shops I tried not to let my exhaustion and desperation show, knowing that people would take advantage of it, but everywhere I was offered only paltry sums.

The sun was making long shadows of the buildings when I trudged up a flight of stairs to a dressmaking workshop. The whirr of sewing machines filled the air and there were at least twenty women and children sitting in rows making ladies dresses. The head seamstress, a harried

looking woman with pins in her apron and a tape measure around her neck, glanced up at me. I laid out the collar on her cutting table.

‘How much would you give me for this?’ I asked, without much hope. But then I caught the glint in her eye and knew I had her interest.

‘That would suit a dress we are making right now,’ she said. ‘I will give you ten dollars for it and not a cent more.’

‘I will take it,’ I said, suppressing my joy. I already knew which boarding house I intended to try if I raised sufficient funds. It was in a side street off Sixth Avenue and of a better quality than the one we had vacated.

The room was clean, had a window and, if my memory served me, there was even an indoor latrine down the hallway.

‘That will be eight dollars for the week’s rent in advance,’ the man behind the desk told me and I handed over the money that had barely had time to become comfortable in my pocket.

I returned to find Mother looking dazed, as if our foodless state had caused her to break bonds with the earth. I installed her in our new room, and then went out again to look for something for us to eat.

The first fruit and vegetable cart I arrived at, the vendor was closing the sides up for the day and transferring the goods to a cart. A blinkered horse stood patiently by. I noticed a case of tomatoes and on enquiring the vendor told me I could have it for two dollars. I made the purchase and carried my acquisition back to Mother.

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I think she was beyond caring, but we ate several red, juicy tomatoes which, though lacking even salt, tasted like ambrosia, the most delicious food that had ever passed my lips. We agreed that we now felt a great deal better.

New York. June 19, 1985

Next morning, before I dressed, I rang the switchboard at The New

York Post.

‘Can I speak to the Editor please?’

‘Transferring you to his secretary.’

Buzz. Buzz. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes. I would like to make an appointment to see Mr Cole please.’

‘On what matter?’

‘I’m Tamsin Doyle, a journalist from Australia. It’s been arranged for me to work at the Post, but there seems to have been a mix-up. I’m sure it’s easily sorted out, but I do need to speak to him.’

‘Mr Cole is out of the office until the end of the week. You could try ringing back next week, or you could speak to someone else.’

I was put back to the switchboard and asked to be transferred to the

Chief-of-Staff. I waited several minutes while Frankie Goes to Hollywood played irritatingly in my ear.

‘Maher here,’ he spat, rapid as gun fire.

I could hear the hubbub of the newsroom in the background.

‘Mr Maher, this is Tamsin Doyle from Australia. I was supposed to start work with you on the Features desk yesterday, but there’s been a mix- up. I would be very grateful if you’d sort it out.’

‘Hang on.’

There was a mumbled conversation for a minute or two. I caught the words ‘shooting’ and ‘Upper West Side’.

He came back on the line. ‘Who are you?’

‘Tamsin Doyle.’

‘Who arranged this? ‘

‘The Features editor, Nick Wharton. I have a letter...’

‘Nick’s not here any more. No one told me. Can’t help you.’

‘But...’

‘Gotta go.’ He hung up.

I stared at the receiver in disbelief, then lay down under the covers and curled up into a foetal position. Don’t take it personally, I told myself.

Eventually I got up and made a cup of coffee and thought about what to do next. It was probably better to turn up in person at the New York

Times. As I didn’t know any names, I would probably just get the same

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brush-off if I tried to make an appointment over the phone. I hadn’t had to do a cold-call in years but didn’t know what alternative I had. I dressed with care. With lipstick, I scrubbed up alright. A little overweight, I thought as I eyed myself critically in the mirror. Act confidently, even if you don’t feel it, I muttered. There’s nothing more depressing than a loser. I grimaced at myself and rubbed some lipstick off my teeth.

As I entered the foyer of the Times building on The Avenue of the

Americas I was nervous as any first year cadet. It was enormous – all chrome, marble and glass – designed to inspire awe and in my case, it succeeded. There was a desk with security personnel and a bank of lifts.

When I explained what I wanted to one of the lackeys, I was given a form to fill out.

‘You’ll be notified if you’re offered an interview,’ a woman with cat’s-eye glasses and a nasal twang told me dismissively.

Sitting on my hotel room bed that afternoon, I took stock of my circumstances. I had a few hundred dollars in savings I had been going to use as a bond and advance rent on an apartment. Without a job it wasn’t going to last long. I thought about trying other newspapers upstate or in

Massachusetts, Connecticut or Vermont but the whole idea had been to live in New York City. If I couldn’t find a job in journalism immediately, I

would just have to get some part-time work to keep myself going until I could land one.

On the way out of the Times, I had bought a copy of the latest edition. Scanning the work columns I discovered Mt Sinai was looking for a journalist with at least five years copy writing experience doing brochures.

It wasn’t me. Besides, medical terminology and bio-technology wasn’t exactly my speciality. What about other types of work? There was every imaginable position and many I had never even thought of. Thousands and thousands of vacancies, all waiting for the right applicant. There was only one minor problem. I didn’t have experience in any of them. I had done a short stint as a waitress when I was at university, but had managed to confuse some major orders and been sacked without a reference. It hadn’t seemed important at the time. I had also worked for a while in a record shop, but I hadn’t bothered getting a reference from there either, as it hadn’t seemed like the sort of thing I was likely to do again. Anyway, I told myself, I’m a journalist.

Perhaps I could work as a copywriter. I went through the phone book calling PR companies and advertising agencies. Everybody I spoke to was devastatingly practised at giving me the brush-off in a way that sounded as if they were my new best friend, reluctantly passing on unpleasant news.

‘You sound just great. We might have something coming up in a while that would suit you, but the industry is tight right now. We’ll give you a call.’ Yeah, right. They were probably baulking at my accent and

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secretly thinking I could just go and rot in a subway vent. It was okay for them – they already had a job.

After spending most of the morning on the telephone, without even the hint of a position to show for it, let alone an interview, I quit and went to get some lunch. The udon at Teriyaki Boy was quick, nutritious and most importantly, cheap. I looked at the people around me eating. Presumably they had jobs. None of them appeared any brighter or better looking than I was. It couldn’t be that hard.

After four more days of phone calls and leaving messages that were not returned, it dawned on me that it could be very hard. I fronted at a several addresses. A job as a waitress for an Italian restaurant had twelve applicants queuing before I even arrived. I took one look at the line and walked out, even though it had taken me more than forty-five minutes to get there.

As the days went by, my expectations nose-dived and I started to peruse shop windows for ‘Help Wanted’ notices. Getting creative, I wrote up a few fake references using different styles of fonts and papers on a computer rented for a couple of hours at a secretarial service. At least my writing skills came in useful for something. And who was going to bother ringing to check them in Australia? But even that didn’t get me far –

everyone wanted young eager kids to work for shit wages, not a twenty- eight year old woman with an attitude. The ultimate humiliation was to be turned down for a casual job flipping hamburgers. As if I wanted that bloody job anyway.

One evening, after another fruitless day job hunting, I meandered down a street in Chelsea checking out the shops. Most were barred and bolted against the evening, but I approached a trail of yellow light spilling out of a window, drawn like a moth. I pushed between overflowing rubbish bins to see a tall Art Deco display mannequin, with jutting hips and linear face. Dressed in a cream-silk bias-cut evening gown, with diamantes for decoration, a single peacock feather sprouting from a turban on its head – it was the epitome of 1920's elegance. All that was missing was the long cigarette holder. I peered into the depths of the shop – a riot of colour and sparkle. I was entranced.

Feathers and Fings read the sign above the doorway. A buzzer sounded in the distance as I crossed the threshold. Running my fingers over the clothes on the racks, I savoured the exquisite sensations of silk, velvet and fur. No rough surprises here. Strange how the cast-off shells have far more durability than their one-time owners. I sneezed as odours of camphor and Chanel wafted up in waves.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they dear,’ said a voice close by. I turned to see a deeply lined face framed by impossibly red hair. There were bright pink

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spots of rouge high on the woman’s wrinkled cheeks and glittery baubles hanging from her ears. She was wearing a kimono-like jacket with a harlequin diamond pattern of blue and green, stretched and distorted over her rotund figure – a ball hanging off a Christmas tree.

I nodded, smiled and gave a non-committal ‘Hmm’, but the woman was already continuing.

‘I buy most of these from actresses, when they have to go into rest homes. Or from their families when they pass on. There used to be so many of them with the studios,’ she mused. ‘And they all had to be properly dressed to go out to a night at the theatre and to big parties. Part of their contract.’

While speaking she had pulled a blue evening gown in a 1940's style from the rack. ‘Now you would look lovely in this.’

She guided me to a mirror and held the dress in front of my body. I was transfixed by the unusual vision of myself, imagining my shoulder length reddish-brown hair swept up into a chignon and my arms bare, except for long elegant gloves.

‘Rita Hayworth, eat your heart out,’ she said.

I thought of the movie Gilda and smiled. Another part of me watched, mocking at how easily I had been seduced. ‘How much is it?’ I asked, with no intention of buying.

‘It belonged to Joan Crawford. Two-hundred and fifty dollars.’

‘I’m sure it looked lovely on her,’ I said, taking the dress as she passed it to me and having a last look before replacing it.

A young man’s face appeared above the racks, like a wraith.

‘Maud,’ he said, ignoring me. ‘I’ve finished those, what would you like me to do next?’

Maud bustled away and returned shortly, carrying a pile of garments.

I followed her along the musty corridors of clothes. In a small space at the back of the shop, the young man had set up a makeshift studio with a couple of photographic lights on stands. Maud carefully arranged a cream halter- neck dress with a pleated skirt on a square of black velvet on the floor.

‘It’s the one Marilyn wore,’ she said with reverence.

I eyed it doubtfully. It looked identical to the one in the legendary hot-air-over-the-grate scene, but I couldn’t believe that some enterprising entrepreneur hadn’t produced a whole bevy of knock-offs shortly after.

While the photographer was occupied taking shots, I turned to

Maud. ‘I’m actually looking for a job. Do you know of any going?’ I aimed to make my tone casual. I expected her face to close down, a polite but steely refusal to be given. I could almost hear the latch clicking into place, shutting me out.

She peered at me closely, as if really seeing me for the first time.

‘Can you sew?’

‘Yes. I used to make my own clothes.’

‘You know how to type?’

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‘Sure. A hundred a minute.’

‘And to keep books?’

‘No problem.’ It couldn’t be that tricky.

‘I am looking for someone. But they would have to be reliable. My sister is sick and I need to know there’s someone I can trust if I have to be away. Are you reliable?’

I gulped. ‘Yes, I’ve got references.’

‘Pah! I never take notice of them. I’ll try you out tomorrow and if you seem okay, you got yourself a job.’

Grinning broadly, I held out my hand. ‘You’ve got a deal. My name’s Tamsin Doyle.’

‘Maud Molyneaux,’ she said, shaking my hand firmly. ‘Well,

Molyneaux was my stage name, but I’ve been that for so long now, I hardly remember what my other one was.’ She chuckled. ‘Anyway, just Maud or

Maudie will do fine.’

I thought I should leave before she changed her mind. ‘So what time tomorrow would you like me here?’

‘Eight thirty, dear. See you then.’

I made my way back through the rows of clothes, feeling a great deal lighter than when I walked in.

My next stop was a bookshop. I found the shelf on accounting and spent the best part of an hour reading up on bookkeeping for small business, until I felt I understood it well enough to pass muster.

When I arrived the next morning, Maud was just opening the shop.

She seemed pleased to see me.

‘I didn’t know if you’d change your mind,’ she said, letting me in.

She had no idea of the sense of desperation I felt every time I had to open my wallet and how heartily sick I was of eating fast food three times a day.

To start with, my tasks were pretty simple. Sort through the clothes that had come in the day before into piles of varying quality and make any necessary repairs. Some garments Maud didn’t even bother with.

‘Oh no, far too déclassé for us, dear,’ she said, clicking her tongue as

I held up a lime green 1960's catsuit. ‘This is schmutter. I must have been looking the other way when they slipped it in.’

I kept the clothes and the racks straight and tidy. Maud dealt with the mostly female customers. She appeared at their side as if by magic, a plump fairy god mother offering to transform them. With an encyclopaedic knowledge of film stars, she would compare the hapless woman to someone outdated enough that most people wouldn’t have an intimate knowledge of their appearance. I heard her tell three women in succession they looked just like Veronica Lake. Two of them bought something. The garments

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received similar treatment. They were always something Gloria Swanson,

Lauren Bacall, Katherine Hepburn or any one of numerous others had passed on. Who knows, they might have been, but if any of them came into the shop, I never recognised them. We did receive some parcels with LA postmarks – usually dropped off by young delivery men in vans or even on bikes, who thought it part of their job to leer at me as they passed the package over.

Opening the parcels was my favourite moment. As I ripped back the paper or plastic, the smell of moth balls came rushing out. Sometimes they contained real treasures. A heavily embroidered silk Spanish shawl from the 1920s; exquisite lingerie, heavy with hand made lace; a white beaded ball gown that must have taken months of work; boned corsets and fancy court shoes. And the hats – fedoras and trilbies; cloches and panamas and extraordinarily decorated ones, with feathers from extinct exotic birds.

Feathers and Fings was a clearing house of culture.

There was a rush of customers one late afternoon. It was often the way. The shop would be empty for hours and then several people would come in almost simultaneously. While Maud was serving other customers, a woman approached the counter. She was a little older than me, with wisps of long wavy hair escaping a ponytail.

‘Do you mind if I put this on your notice board?’ she asked, showing me a couple of pieces of paper, one printed and one handwritten.

‘I’m sure it will be. Just wait and check with Maud.’ I nodded my head in her direction.

Replacing some clothes on racks just before closing, I glanced at the two new notices on the board. One was for a rental, the other for some sort of dance class. I was spending far more than I was earning. My need to find a place cheaper than the hotel was becoming urgent. I thought about moving to a back-packer’s hostel, but that could only be a temporary solution. I needed a place of my own.

‘Maud, is East Village a good place to live?’

She bit the stub of pencil she was doing some sums with thoughtfully, then slipped it behind her ear. ‘I dunno about good. You’d have to be wary of the crack addicts. They’ve got real bad these days.

Thing was, in the late 1960s the Village used to be the place to go. Lots of teenagers, students, artists and poetry readings. Not any more.’

‘There is a walk-up advertised here for $400. I guess that’s per month. Is it a good price?’

‘Dirt cheap, although I wouldn’t expect much for that. Apartments are very hard to come by though, so go and check it out.’

‘Okay, I will, before work tomorrow. Also, there’s a dance class at the Isadora Duncan Studio. The name sounds kind of familiar. Who was she?’

‘A flibbertigibbet who didn’t pay enough attention to what she was doing.’

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‘What?’

‘A dancer. Died in the 1920s. She was in a sports car on the French

Riviera when her scarf got caught around the wheel and strangled her.’

Maud held up her clenched hand, like she was holding a rope and lolled her head to one side, sticking her tongue out. I couldn’t help laughing.

‘Yuck, Maud. That’s gross.’

I turned back to the flier. In stark contrast to Maud’s description, there was a picture of a woman dancing gracefully, with some text below.

Have you always wanted to dance? Come and try a class. I peered closely at the face and realised it was the same woman who had come into the shop earlier. Her arms made strong lines in the air, the rest of her body flowed in the same direction – as if about to fly off completely, unbound by ordinary concerns. It was evocative of how I felt when sufficiently fuelled by booze or high spirits to do a few explorative turns and leaps around the furniture.

I had never been to a dance class, apart from a disastrous attempt at a ballet lesson when I was seven. In Brisbane, the gym had been my usual form of exercise and I was overdue for another session. New city, new habits. Perhaps I would give dancing a go for a change.

The next morning before work, I found myself standing on East 11th street, East Village outside ‘Andreas’s Books’, as the sign on the window declared in gold copperplate. On the adjoining vacant lot, large patches of dirt were broken up by a few struggling weeds. An old shopping trolley

filled with bottles and wet plastic bags sat forlornly to one side, while a row of broken chairs facing the road waited for an audience to take their seats. A couple of teenagers were leaning up against the wall, eying me speculatively. As I stood there, one of them strolled over. He was wearing a

T-shirt that read ‘Kill ‘em all and let God sort it out’. I clutched my bag more tightly.

‘Hey, got a light?’ he asked, in a surprisingly gentle tone.

‘No, sorry,’ I said and to my relief he shrugged and kept walking.

The shop on the other side was for rent, but must have been a

Laundromat in its previous life judging from the paint flaking on the facade.

All the shops in this row had roller doors, up during the day or thick grills of metal covering their front windows. There were Italian bakeries and Jewish delicatessens, pawn shops and car mechanics.

I stepped around the bargain bin just outside the bookshop, filled with a mix of tattered books and comics, noting the mesh and padlock that covered them, and stood in the doorway looking for the proprietor.

‘Hello?’ I called.

There wasn’t any sound for a few moments, then a thump at the rear of the shop and an answering, ‘Yeah?’

Down the main aisle, lined floor to ceiling with books, an elderly man with a grey beard shuffled towards me. He wore tartan carpet slippers and was patting down the sides of a droopy grey cardigan. From the

37 38

stretched pocket he extracted a pair of wire rimmed spectacles and put them on, peering at me with narrowed eyes.

‘What can I do for you?’ His accent sounded eastern European.

‘Are you Andreas?’

He nodded.

‘I’m Tamsin. I believe you’ve got a place to rent?’

‘Ah, the apartment, upstairs. I’m afraid it’s not a good day today.’

He waved his hand vaguely at the window, which could have meant anything from he was expecting a delivery to he didn’t trust the youths outside. ‘Perhaps you should come again tomorrow.’

He started to turn away, but I said quickly, ‘Please. I really need somewhere to stay. Couldn’t you show me? It won’t take long. Or you could just give me the key.’

Turning back, he eyed me without enthusiasm. ‘You’ll have to wait while I lock up the shop.’

‘Sure.’ I couldn’t see that there was much of value to steal, just rows of dull looking books with dusty covers.

With a shaky hand knotted with veins, Andreas shot the bolts and put a closed sign on the door. He fumbled for set of keys in a tiny office at the back, then unlocked a door at the side of the shop, leading to a narrow passageway that had another exit leading to the street. The light was dim, a single naked bulb hanging from a black wire at the top of a set of wooden stairs. The threadbare strip of Persian carpet running up them had a damp,

musty smell. He took his time going up the stairs, breath rasping in the back of his throat with the effort.

On the first landing opposite a door, he paused to catch his breath. I waited for him to open it, but after a moment he continued climbing. I had forgotten to ask if the apartment was furnished.

I tried not to get too enthusiastic, but even so, was shocked when he opened the door, flicked a light switch and I followed him through. I was standing in a tiny galley kitchen, barely big enough for one. To the right of the sink was a makeshift plastic shower stall, obviously not part of the original design. It had been sprayed a sickly green – probably the creative efforts of a previous inmate, I thought. Through a door on the left was a tiny cubicle with a toilet. The kitchen sink doubled for the hand basin.

Railway carriage style, the kitchen graduated into another small room that served as a minute dining room, almost completely taken up by a wobbly laminex table and single chair, then to a room that was both living room and bedroom. At the end, a grimy paned window opened onto a fire escape.

There were china cats on the window sill and a faded photograph of a forest on the wall. In the corner was a dusty, dark dresser. I slid open the top drawer to find it stuffed full of clothing or rags, as though someone had just stepped out for a while and would shortly show up, demanding to know what I was doing rifling through their things.

‘Andreas, why is someone else’s stuff still here?’

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‘The last tenant left in a hurry. She still owed me rent. I’m going to sell everything.’

‘I could make use of the table and the bed though.’ I paused. What was I saying? I had no intention of taking the place. It was awful. The wallpaper had a cubist ‘50's pattern and was peeling in a couple of places.

A nasty stain oozed down one wall. But to my astonishment, I found myself saying. ‘I’ll take it. Four hundred a month?’

‘Plus utilities. And a deposit.’

‘How much do you want?’

‘Eight hundred and the first month’s rent in advance.’

‘I’ll get it for you. I want to move in right away – after I finish work today. I’ll give you the stuff I can’t use.’

‘Furnishings will be two hundred dollars extra,’ he said.

I fixed him with a steely gaze. ‘They’re not worth that much. Tell you what, I won’t charge you for cleaning the place and then we’ll be square.’

Making a whistling sound as he sucked on his false teeth, he considered it. ‘You seem in kind of a rush, lady.’

‘Yeah, I am. I’m staying in a hotel and it’s killing me.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I close at five o’clock. If you come back after that, you can ring the bell. It’s the one at the bottom. Now I gotta get back to my shop.’

Shuffling down the stairs, he left me to look around in bemusement at the place I had just arranged to live in. Even when I’d shared places as a student, I had never come across anywhere so Dickensian. An impoverished turn-of-the-century Irish family would have felt right at home.

It was dirty and there were droppings in the sink from an animal definitely larger than a mouse. Why had I agreed to it?

‘How did it go?’ Maud asked when I arrived at work.

‘Okay, I guess,’ I said. ‘The apartment’s...um....very small.’

Maud laughed. ‘You’ll soon get used to Manhattan. People would rent a broom closet if it had a toilet. You could have been searching for months, but you managed to find one first go. It must have been meant to happen.’ She patted me on the arm in a motherly sort of way. ‘Do you have some linen, dear?’

‘Linen?’

‘Sheets and things.’

‘I hadn’t got that far.’

‘Just a minute.’ She came back carrying a pile – two sets of white sheets with beautifully embroidered borders, some pillow slips and a blue satin quilt. Setting them down on the counter where I was busy sorting through some clothes that had just come in, she said,

‘Take these.’

‘Oh Maud, thank you, but I couldn’t.’

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‘Of course you could. Consider it a loan. When you leave, you can give them back to me.’

I gave her a hug, so she couldn’t see I was blinking away tears. It’s strange how you can hold yourself together when things are tough, but an unexpected kindness makes you lose it.

After work I went back to the Gramercy Park Hotel and collected my luggage. I hadn’t been at all impressed with my room when I arrived, but it was considerably more luxurious than my destination. With the big plastic bag full of the bedding I was weighed down, but least the apartment was only about five hundred metres from the subway stop. I looked around nervously as I rang Andreas’s bell, but no-one on the street seemed to be taking any notice of me.

It took a while before I heard the sound of multiple locks being unfastened and Andreas’s head appeared through a crack in the door. When he saw it was me, he shut it again for a moment and fiddled with the chain.

After it clicked behind us, I handed him the deposit money and the first month’s rent. His spidery fingers, sticking out of fingerless gloves, fastened onto the money as if it were a luckless fly. He moistened them with spittle, counting the greenbacks as efficiently as any card shark before stuffing the wad into his cardigan.

‘Wait,’ he wheezed. After fetching the key, he disappeared into the back of the shop without another word. There was a muffled staccato sound

as his television laughed to itself. I sighed and heaved my suitcase up the stairs. I had not expected a welcoming committee, but would have appreciated a friendly hello, hope you find everything comfortable. As the stairway was so narrow, I had to go back down for the bedding. I did not know how they had ever got the bed or the table up there in the first place.

When I opened the door and switched on the light, the tiny rooms – apartment seemed too grand a word – looked even more dismal than I remembered.

In the kitchen cupboard I found a few pieces of mis-matching porcelain crockery, pots and a bent fork. A single gas ring was the only means of cooking and the packet of matches was empty. That would have to wait until tomorrow. The tiny bar fridge still contained cheese, butter and takeaway Chinese that didn’t look more than a few days old. In the other drawers of the dresser was more woman’s clothing, including underwear. A towel hung on a hook outside the tiny shower. It seemed strange the previous tenant had left so many personal things. Why she had been in such a hurry to leave? I felt uncomfortable and hoped she wouldn’t mind me being here. At least I had stopped him selling her stuff.

I went through to the living room and made it feel more homely by making up the sofa bed. The bleached sheets Maud had leant me looked startlingly clean in the brown-toned room and when I put the quilt on, it looked almost inviting.

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Down at East 7th Street, I got some takeaway from an Indian restaurant and brought it back. I ate sitting on the bed and thinking about all the cleaning I needed to do. The window was open and the night was mild.

A hint of homesickness wafted in, like a scent of summer jasmine, as I thought about my old veranda and the way my friend Helen and I would sit chatting after work over a glass of wine. I wished I could phone her, but the handset was not connected. I drifted to sleep watching the pattern of shadows on the ceiling and pretending I was home.

In the middle of the night I jolted awake. There was a noise in the kitchen. My heart hammered. I strained to listen. I was sure I had bolted the door. Then came scrabbling and a couple of squeaks. It was only rats, not burglars. My relief was short-lived as a noise by the dresser made me realise how close one was. I shuddered with revulsion and dived under the bed clothes. The squeaking got closer as they got bolder. Horror stories from my childhood came back to haunt me, including one about starving rats bitting off people’s noses and ears. I had just had a gruesome thought about rats eating the face of a baby, when I felt one run over me. I couldn’t help but scream. ‘Enough,’ I said and sat up, turning on the light. They had retreated at the sound and I glimpsed a long dark tail snaking its way through the door. I dozed fitfully for the rest of the night.

By morning I was pale and exhausted. It was Friday. I fiddled with the taps of the shower until they grudgingly gave a trickle of water, stood

with my head underneath it until the hot water ran out, then rushed to get dressed and to work on time.

Over coffee at the shop, I told Maud about my horror night.

‘New York rats are very respectable,’ she said. ‘They even voted for the Mayor.’

I laughed. But she did recommend a brand of rat poison and blocking up all their holes.

As I was about to leave that afternoon, Maud gave me my week’s wages and on my way home I bought a few things I needed – the poison, cleaning things and some food for dinner. I was earning much less than I would as a journalist, but I didn’t care. If I was careful I could get by and manage to keep the rest of my savings. For the first time in years I was without the pressure of a daily deadline. I had been so used to the constant stress of having to chase people and think of stories, my new job felt like a holiday. I was able to just watch and enjoy, without having to ruthlessly analyse every scrap of information that came my way. I decided to leave it a week or two before trying for other journalism jobs.

Arriving back at the apartment building, I poked my head into the bookstore. ‘The rats are driving me crazy Andreas. Do you mind if I put some poison down?’ I asked.

‘If you do, they’ll die in the walls and smell us out of house and home. Let Golem deal with them.’

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‘Who’s Golem?’

‘Follow me,’ he said.

I imagined some male relative of his doing a Pied Piper impersonation. He led me to the back of the shop and opened the door to his apartment, making soft clucking noises. A monster of a tortoiseshell cat appeared and wound its way around his legs, staring up at me with yellow eyes.

‘Golem, this young lady is having a problem with rats,’ Andreas said, as though the cat was fully capable of understanding.

The cat came over and sniffed my hand.

‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ I said, stroking him.

‘He’s very good at his job. You can have him for tonight – and his litter tray,’ Andreas said.

I almost asked how much he would charge me to rent him, but bit back the comment.

‘Thanks Andreas. I’ll return for the tray.’

I lifted the cat in my arms and balancing my shopping, began to carry him upstairs. ‘God, Golem. You weigh a tonne.’

Halfway up, there was the click of a door, then a shuffling noise and

Golem clawed out of my arms. I pressed against the wall as a someone pushed past me down the stairs. I thought it was an elderly woman, but in the dim light it was hard to tell.

‘Hello,’ I said cheerfully, but there was no reply. The cat had started to follow her, so I put down my bags and clattered after him. As she opened the front door, he crouched ready to bolt and I reached to grab him. Her dark shape was silhouetted in the doorway. I couldn’t see the face, except for large, pale eyes staring at me. She pulled the door shut after her without a word.

‘Nice neighbour,’ I said to Golem, as I carried him up. He seemed even larger in my tiny kitchen, like an escaped circus animal. He started to sniff around the cupboards, so I left him to it and went back downstairs to collect his litter tray.

‘I just saw a weird old lady on the stairs,’ I said to Andreas, when he responded to my knock. ‘Does she live in the apartment on the first floor?’

He ignored me and went to get the tray. When he came back, I added, ‘She doesn’t seem very friendly. Who is she?’

His jaw tensed and he gave me a hard look over the top of his spectacles. ‘She used to be somebody once, but she doesn’t stick her nose into other people’s business,’ he said pointedly.

I didn’t say another word, but took the proffered tray and can of cat food and retreated upstairs.

After dinner, tiredness overwhelmed me and I turned the lights out and went to bed. The cat sat very still, yellow eyes glowing in the darkness, as though he had been transformed into one of the china cats on the dresser.

I had just started to fall asleep when there was a crash and a squeal,

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terminating abruptly. I turned the light on to see Golem dragging a rat carcass across the floor, leaving a bloody trail on the lino. I watched in horrified fascination as he retreated under the window with the corpse.

Saliva foamed from a corner of his mouth as he devoured it with the enthusiasm of a gourmand in a Michelin star restaurant. He noticed me looking at him and growled warningly. The sound of crunching bones was too much, so I fetched some toilet paper, stuffed it in my ears and tried to get to sleep.

Several times in the night I was woken by scuffling and an occasional high pitched scream as a rat succumbed to efficient feline jaws.

Around dawn I woke feeling as though my legs had been trussed up. The heavy cat was lying on them, purring like a lawn mower on a Sunday in the suburbs. I drifted back to sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

New York. June 23, 1895

A line of powdered and ringleted young ladies stretched out into the alley from the stage door of a dance hall in the Tenderloin district. The alley stank of tom cats and unattended refuse. Clutching my sheets of music to my chest, I shuffled forward with the others, feeling like a colt mistakenly placed amidst a herd of jersey cows, about to enter the show ring for judging.

Dancing in a music hall was far from the picture I had painted in my imagination, but it was better than starving. As we had eaten nothing but tomatoes for the past few days, Mother was feeling very weak and had taken to her bed.

As unsuccessful applicants departed, some in tears, a spotty young lad hustled the next five of us up the stairs and into a change room. In cases they had brought with them, several girls had big skirts with colourful frills underneath, but I was wearing an Empire dress with a blue sash and a large straw hat that a lady in the boarding house had kindly lent me. As the skirt was likely to be an impediment, I tied another piece of ribbon around my waist and lifted the hem higher.

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Bringing music had been unnecessary, as we lined up on the stage and the pianist began to play a fast jig. The others started to kick their legs in the air and I tried to keep up. After a minute or two, although it seemed much longer, the jangling music ceased.

‘The second from the left, who do you think you are?’ a man’s voice roared from the darkness. With a shock I understood he meant me. ‘Bo

Peep?’ he said. ‘Put some pep into it.’

The music started again and this time I kicked my legs higher than any in the row, for it seemed this was the only requirement.

‘The girl on the far right, you can stay and you too, Bo Peep.’

‘Me?’ I mouthed in astonishment and waited as the others exited with downcast eyes.

A man, I will not say gentleman, who was obviously fond of his food, came up a set of steps at the side of the stage. Unashamedly he eyed me and the other young lady up and down. I would not have been surprised had he squeezed us to test our plumpness, like chickens destined for the dinner table.

‘Can you sing?’ he asked me. I shook my head, hope sinking.

‘Pity. You’re graceful and pretty, but I need my girls to be able to hold a tune.’

‘Sir, if you will permit me, I will show you the style of dance I can do very well. It will add a new aspect to your show. I have brought some music.’

‘What music?’

‘Mendelssohn’s Spring Song.’

His laughter was explosive and trailed mockingly after me as I ran out of the dance hall.

I could not bear to face Mother’s disappointment at once, so I walked the streets, finding myself in front of the many steps of the

Metropolitan Museum. I entered the cool halls and gracious high ceilinged rooms, staying for a long time in the Greek and Roman section to calm myself, before walking back to the boarding house.

The kindly lady who lent me the dress had given us some bread and so by evening, Mother was feeling better. We strolled up to Longacre

Square, trying to avoid the piles of manure. Many of the horse traders and blacksmiths were still in operation despite the lateness of the hour. We made no special attempt to skirt around the Thieves Lair – in our case pickpockets would be disappointed.

Wandering to the newly opened Olympia Theatre, we briefly joined the throng of elegant people arriving in their carriages. Except for the accident of birth and their grand clothes, I did not see they were any better than us.

Mother squeezed my arm and said, ‘We may not have money, but we are rich in spirit.’

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I imagined how it would be when it was my name on the playbill.

Mother would sweep up in her new velvet evening cloak, accompanied by my sister Elizabeth and my brothers Augustin and Raymond. They would all be coming to see me dance. Afterwards I would take them to a grand supper. I would spare no expense. And any poor urchin who begged from me could have all the money from my purse.

New York. July 11, 1985

After work one evening, I made my way to the dance class. The

Isadora Duncan Studio was only a few streets away and I found the building easily. Glass doors opened to a small utilitarian foyer. As the lift doors opened on the third floor, I thought for a moment I must have pushed the wrong button and arrived in someone’s private apartment. White roses in a silver vase glowed on a wooden hall stand, next to a comfortable leather couch. Framed black and white photographs of dancers on the pale yellow walls were the only clue that I was in the right place.

Following the sound of a classical piano down the hallway, I stopped at the doorway of a large room with a wooden floor and a large mirror on one side. A woman was dancing on her own – the same one who had come into the shop. She was exquisitely graceful and I was instantly captivated.

Sensing she wasn’t alone, she glanced over and saw me.

‘Are you here for the class?’ she called, walking over to turn down the music.

‘Yes. You came into the shop where I work the other day –

Feathers and Fings – and put a notice up. I thought I would come along and give it a go.’

‘That’s great. I’m Stella. I’ll be teaching. What’s your name?’

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‘Tamsin.’

‘I like your accent Tamsin. Where are you from?’

‘Australia.’

‘Welcome. Have you danced before?’

‘Um...no. Not really.’

‘That’s okay. There will be other beginners tonight. Just do as much of the class as you can.’

‘The thing is, I don’t know what I need to wear. I don’t have any proper dance clothes. I only arrived here a couple of weeks ago.’

‘No problem,’ said Stella. ‘Come with me.’ She crossed to a cupboard and reached in, pulling out a square of fabric. She shook it out and I could see that it was a simple tunic, made of white silk, with a tie for the waist.

‘Thanks,’ I said, taking it from her.

‘There’s a bathroom at the end of the corridor. You can get changed in there.’

The bathroom was filled with personal bits and pieces – herbal shampoo and conditioner in a rack hooked onto the shower nozzle, a pair of purple exfoliating gloves nestling between. Anais-Anais perfume on the white porcelain washstand. The studio had to be part of her apartment. I couldn’t resist a peek in the cabinet. Pretty much what you’d expect in the way of headache and period pain tablets and a mixture of make-up, including a number of strongly coloured lipsticks. Quite a collection of

hair-ties. Long wavy hairs nestled in among the bristles of the hairbrush.

No sign of male occupation. Through the door I could hear the sound of other women arriving, and occasional laughter.

Quickly stripping off my everyday jeans and T-shirt, I slipped the cool white sheath over my head and tied the waistband. I felt like my first day at high school, having to walk out in front of everybody while wearing an old fashioned gym outfit. My long legs were bare and I checked out the fine emergent hairs. They’d just have to pass.

The strains of Pachelbel’s Canon echoed down the hallway. The pine floorboards felt cool under my feet and I realised it was months since

I’d had the chance to walk barefoot. When I reached the studio, it seemed for a moment the room was full of people, but the five women standing were mirrored by their reflections. There was also an elderly woman seated in the corner wearing an old fashioned hat and bottle-lens glasses, a walking stick propped against her chair.

Two of the women glanced at me with friendly curiosity and continued their stretching. The other three were absorbed in their warm up routine. All wore lycra tights and leotards that had seen better days. Stella had disappeared. I hung around on the edge of the space, not knowing what to do.

A small blonde woman approached me.

‘Hi, I’m Diana.’ She had a turned up nose and her smile revealed teeth so perfect they resembled the picture on a brand of toothpaste. I

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resisted the ridiculous urge to put my hands behind my back and swing from side to side like a six year old.

‘I’m Tamsin.’

‘Your first time, Tamsin?’

‘Yes. I’m practically a dance virgin, I’m afraid.’

She laughed and I felt more relaxed.

‘I’m glad you could make it,’ she said.

‘Me too’ I lied.

Stella walked past us and stood with her back to the mirror.

‘Hi everybody. We’ve got a couple of new people here tonight.

Tamsin.’ She pointed me out and everyone smiled or nodded in my direction. ‘...and Nicole.’ They turned towards a small, dark woman, with the compact, muscular body of a gym junkie. ‘... And of course, we are honoured to have Anna Duncan here tonight.’ The elderly lady in the corner inclined her head regally. I wondered if she was a relative of the unfortunate Isadora.

‘As most of you know,’ Stella continued, ‘... the style that I teach originated with Isadora Duncan. She invented what we know as modern dance, expressing her feelings and ideas through movement. Early this century, that was a radical concept. She was someone born before her time in a lot of ways. She lived as she danced – as a free spirit and a revolutionary. My teacher was Madelaine Faught, who was taught by Anna

Duncan.’ She nodded towards the figure in the corner. ‘Let’s start by doing some breathing and stretches.’

I moved to the back row and copied Stella as she began reaching up, taking a deep breath, then exhaling and swinging down over bent knees.

The two women either side of her were young and fit looking, probably in their early twenties and seemed to know exactly what they were doing. I felt awkward and uncoordinated in comparison.

‘Breathe deeply and let your arms rise as you inhale. As they come back down just allow your torso to twist and turn.’ She demonstrated. ‘It’s like your body is blown in the wind. Just let it go where it wants.’

I stopped watching the others and focussed instead on the rhythm of my breath and the flow of the movements.

Stella’s eyes rested on me. I had a moment’s discomfort, thinking of my one and only classical ballet lesson. The white fairy-like tutu and pointe shoes had promised to magically transform me from a gangly kid, all scabbed elbows and knees, into a svelte grown-up, who would evoke gasps of envy from my class mates. That was until the actual lesson. The teacher had been an uptight woman with a foreign accent and hair pulled back so tightly it seemed to cut into her scalp.

‘One two, one two. First position, second position, third position.

Keep up. Fourth, en croix. Plié. Straight backs. Your turnout is terrible

Tamsin. Do it again. And again.’

I had decided if that was ‘real’ dancing, then it wasn’t for me.

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The relaxed way we were moving now felt more like running loops around the backyard as a kid, doing cartwheels and leaping around because I had a body and needed to move; like a young horse that suddenly tears around a paddock for no reason.

The mood of the music changed to be more serious.

‘This is about going from being very heavy, to lighter than air.’

Stella demonstrated. ‘Can you try it?’

With a bent back, arms clasped behind, we took slow, heavy steps across the floor, as if dragging a great burden. Gradually, the weight was lifted and our steps became light and quick as we sped up to run across the room.

‘Tamsin, will you show us what you’ve just done?’ Stella asked.

I was taken by surprise and stood still, looking at her. She nodded encouragingly at me.

I crossed back to the corner where we’d started. My face felt hot with embarrassment, so I took a deep breath and concentrated. I imagined dragging a cart, filled with a few possessions salvaged from my life. My steps dragged along the ground, back bowed. As the burden was lifted from me, I gradually stood upright ran forward, throwing my arms in the air, about to take off.

‘Look how convincing she is,’ said Stella. ‘You could even see the strain on her face at the beginning. Can you all try that one more time?’

Several times during the rest of the class Stella asked me to show everyone else my version of the exercise they had just done. I couldn’t tell what I was doing differently from the others.

At the end of the lesson, she got us to do a warm down, and then I changed back quickly into my street clothes. The others were saying their goodbyes as I stood looking at the pictures on the walls until Stella was free.

One black and white photograph showed a group of young women dressed in the same tunics as the one I had just worn, dancing in front of a row of white female statues. It appeared to have been taken a long time ago.

Stella smiled up at me. ‘I thought you said you haven’t danced before?’

‘I haven’t. Or rather I went to a ballet class as a kid, but was hopeless.’

She raised her eyebrows as if she didn’t quite believe me. ‘That’s interesting.’

‘By the way, was that elderly lady Isadora’s daughter?’ I asked as I handed her the money for the lesson.

‘Not exactly,’ Stella said. ‘Anna is the only surviving member of

Isadora’s six original pupils. They all took the Duncan surname. They were known as the Isadorables.’

‘The Isadorables?’ I raised my eyebrows, then grinned.

Stella nodded.

‘But she must be very old,’ I said.

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‘Ninety.’

‘Wow. She seems in pretty good shape for that age.’

‘Yes,’ said Stella. ‘She is much slower now than she used to be and her eyes aren’t the best, but Anna is still very sharp. She often comes to see we are on the right track.’

‘Does she still do any teaching?’

‘Not anymore, but she guides us. She insists that everyone who’s going to perform the dances understands them properly. Our company has spent lot of time studying poses on Greek vases and Tanagra figures in books and museums.’

It sounded like an unusual approach to dance technique.

‘Oh, so you have a company?’ I asked.

‘Yes. There are only six of us. We give performances a few times a year.’

‘I’d love to see more of your dancing. You looked great when I arrived.’

‘Well, thank you. If we have something coming up, I’ll let you know.’

‘Thanks.’ I smiled at her and left.

New York. July 11, 1895

I was dancing alone on a vast stage and the auditorium was pitch black; a line of bright footlights preventing me from seeing the audience.

At last, I was the fairy queen in Midsummer Night’s Dream and, despite the glittering wings and the ridiculous ballet slippers I had been forced to wear, was determined to show what I could do. My movements were as light and airy as a fairy’s should be. As I twirled and leapt in front of the papier- mâché trees, the audience began to applaud delightedly. There was even a shout of, ‘Bravo!’ I was very pleased by their approbation and continued on with my dance, although I knew my time was up. The orchestra, not knowing what to do, played some additional bars of Mendelssohn.

‘Isadora,’ hissed a voice from the wings. ‘Come off at once.’

Then the lights began to dim and I realised they were trying to force me off. Regretfully, I blew a kiss to the audience and exited as Titania and

Oberon entered. The audience cheered and I knew it was me they were honouring.

Back in the ladies’ dressing room, the impresario stormed in without knocking, the tails of his cutaway flapping behind him.

‘This is A Midsummer Night’s Dream I’m putting on, not the Folies

Bergere,’ he shouted, so loudly the audience must surely have heard. ‘I did not let you go out there to make a spectacle of yourself.’

‘But they liked me. I was a hit,’ I protested.

‘You are part of a cast, not the only one in it. No members of my company should stand out above the others.’

I longed to tweak his handle-bar moustache, but thought the better of it. I could not afford to lose this job.

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‘Yes, Mr Daly,’ I said meekly, looking at the floor.

‘In future the lights in your scene shall be dimmed.’

That was too much. ‘So the only thing they can see will be something fluttering in the dark?’ I said. ‘I thought you wanted a fairy, not a moth.’ There was a titter from some of the other cast members who were taking their make up off in the dressing room.

Without another word, he left, slamming the door.

A few mornings later Stella came into the shop again. I was involved in a discussion with a very chatty film stylist about sourcing some props she needed, so she nodded at me and wandered around the racks browsing. After the other woman left, Stella came over to me, a red silk blouse on her arm.

‘Did you enjoy the dance class the other day?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thanks. It was...different.’ I took the blouse from her and began to wrap it.

‘I said I would tell you if we had something coming up. We’ve got a rehearsal at the studio next Tuesday. You’re welcome to come along,’ she said, smiling, as she passed me the money.

‘What’s it a rehearsal for?’

‘We’ve got a performance week coming up soon at the City Centre of Music and Dance – a mix of some of Isadora’s work and some that I’ve choreographed.’

‘I might. What time?’

‘We start at seven,’ she said.

‘Okay, I won’t promise, but I’ll try.’ I handed her the blouse, wrapped in tissue paper, in a paper bag.

When I arrived at the studio on Tuesday evening, Stella seemed surprised, as if she hadn’t really expected me to show. There were several other women in the room, wearing tunics of various colours. Stella’s tunic was longer than the others, in white. As she was showing me to a chair, a telephone shrilled insistently in the hallway and she hurried off to answer it.

I sat and watched the other women. They were moving through a routine which involved running, jumping and numerous turns. The coloured silk outlined their lithe bodies and made patterns in the air as they danced.

They were fluid, never stopping to pose.

‘That was Ruth,’ Stella announced to the room at large. ‘She can’t make it, because Max has a temperature.’ The other women paused in their dance, their faces showing varying degrees of dismay and annoyance.

‘That’s a pity,’ Diana said.

Stella glanced at me on her way to the front of the room.

‘Tamsin, do you want to do the warm up? You can grab a tunic if you like.’

I was taken aback. I had really only come to watch, but I went and fetched a tunic, a yellow one, out of the cupboard. This time I didn’t bother

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going to the bathroom to change. The others were all occupied anyway, so I stripped off down to my underpants in the corner, slipped the tunic quickly over my head and found a spot on the floor.

The pace of the warm up was much faster and this time Stella didn’t bother to correct people. I concentrated on following the woman next to me and became absorbed in the ebb and flow of the movements.

‘Hello, Anna,’ Stella said loudly, startling me out of my reverie. I turned to see the frail figure walking into the room with the aid of a wooden stick. Her emaciated frame was as fine and withered as a baby bird’s, but she had an air of dignity. Every step slow and deliberate; back held straight like a garden stake, as if keeping herself erect through a sheer effort of will.

Tonight she wasn’t wearing a hat and I could see her red hennaed hair was cropped into a short bob. A sense of deja vu crept up on me. I’d had this moment before. Don’t be ridiculous, I thought. But the feeling of familiarity persisted. I knew that walk.

‘My dears. How delightful to see you all.’ The voice was cultured, with the trace of a European accent.

Diana guided her to a chair and she lowered herself down with a grimace, which quickly changed to a smile as she looked around. She showed no sign of recognition as her pale blue eyes briefly rested on me. In an instant I had it, this was the elderly woman who had passed me on the stairs the other day when I was carrying the cat.

‘What are you going to dance for me tonight?’ Anna asked.

‘We were going to work on Orpheus but Ruth can’t come, so I guess we’ll have to do something else instead,’ Stella said.

Anna frowned. ‘Oh, the Gluck was one of my favourites. I would like to have seen it.’ She took a pair of thick glasses out of a case, perched them on her nose and peered around, ‘But there seem to be enough of you.’

‘Tamsin’s only just started to dance.’ Stella nodded towards me.

‘She doesn’t know it.’

‘You can explain.’

‘It’s a complex piece,’ Stella protested.

‘Lose one of the demons and get her to be one of the spirits.’ Anna’s firm expression said the argument was settled.

Stella looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Do you want to give it a go, Tamsin?’

All eyes were focussed on me, expectant. I hesitated. ‘Okay.’

Stella grinned at me then turned to the others. ‘Everyone, get changed while I go through this with Tamsin.’

Coming to stand next to me, she said, ‘Orpheus is about love overcoming death. The dancers are like the Greek chorus, showing the spirit of the music. The first piece, The Dance of the Furies, shows the tormented souls and demons who are stuck in the underworld. After

Orpheus arrives, then comes The Dance of the Blessed Spirits. You are one of them and two of the others will join you. Have you ever seen Botticelli’s

Three Graces?’

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‘Sure.’

‘Think of them while you are dancing. Don’t worry too much about individual steps; it’s about the quality of energy you give it. Caroline and

Christy over there,’ she pointed, ‘...will show you some of the key movements. You can improvise the rest.’

Nodding with more confidence than I felt, I went over to the corner where Caroline and Christy were. They demonstrated a few of the steps and

I tried to think of what I would do in between them. I had no idea.

All the other dancers had swapped their colourful tunics for gray rough ones. I stayed where I was as the music started and two of them began to move. It was as if they were lifting incredibly heavy rocks and putting them on their backs. The others pulled and clawed at them with increasing fury, expressions agonised and despairing, until it seemed they were at the centre of a maelstrom of violent energy. When Stella as Orpheus, entered, they fell to the ground, mouths open in silent screams and began throwing their heads around, beating their hair as if smashing their skulls on the floor.

I was so engrossed that it was only when Caroline and Christy were at my side dressed in their colourful tunics again, I remembered I was required to do anything. The music changed to become lyrical and beautiful as we lifted our arms and joined hands, moving in a circle and then breaking away to do our own interpretation. I kept my movements light and joyful, imagining being crowned by flowers dancing in a field of ripe wheat with the sun on me; as if I were part of some pagan Spring rite.

The others were much fitter than I and by the time we were finished my heart was pounding and my chest heaving for breath. I put my hands on my hips and took great gulps of air. There was a chair free near Anna and as

I sat, she rose to her feet.

‘You did well, girls. But you over there.’ She pointed to Christy.

‘You need to stop throwing your arms around so much. Keep the movements very clear and defined.’ She swept her arm upwards in a precise arc and I caught a glimpse of the skill she must have once had.

‘Isadora always yelled at us if we added extra movements that destroyed the simplicity. It’s about rhythm and feeling, not embellishment.’

She turned to where I was sitting. ‘You knew what was going on. Well done.’

The few words were enough to make me flush with embarrassment.

She was wrong. I hadn’t known what was ‘going on’ at all. I had just let the music flow through me and moved accordingly.

As they began their next piece, Anna leaned over to me. ‘You did very well.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Tamsin, Tamsin Doyle. Actually I live upstairs from you, above

Andreas’s shop.’

Her face came so close to mine I could see through the glasses that the pupils of her eyes were veiled by cataracts.

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‘You’ve got Golem.’

‘What?’ I was taken aback. ‘Oh yes. The cat. I borrowed him to get rid of some rats the other night.’

‘You just moved in a few days ago?’

‘Last Wednesday.’

‘You must come and have coffee with me.’ It sounded like an command.

‘Alright. When would suit you?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Anytime. Just knock on my door. If

I’m busy, I’ll tell you to go away.’

On the subway I became aware that my muscles were stiffening, unused to the work out. They’d felt like this the first lesson I had done, but it was a good pain – as though they had been well used. Back in my apartment I fantasised about a long, hot bath and stood under the shower for a long time, pretending. As soon as I dried myself and slid under the covers, I fell deeply asleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

London. April 23, 1899

It was a chilly grey dawn. I was sitting on a bench in a park with

Mother, my brother Raymond and sister Elizabeth. We were damp with dew and huddled together for warmth.

‘That really was most unkind of her to throw us out.’ Raymond shook his head.

‘Well you can’t blame her,’ said Mother, blowing her nose. ‘We were two weeks in arrears. She needs to eat too.’

‘Speaking of eating, I don’t care if I never see another penny bun. I would rather starve,’ he added.

‘I thought London would be different,’ I interjected. ‘I felt certain they would be ready to see my type of dance.’

‘They are, we just haven’t found the right circle yet,’ said Elizabeth, patting my hand.

‘We are hardly likely to find them here, sitting like a bunch of ninnies in Green Park,’ I sniffed.

‘So what are we going to do? We can go to The British Museum when it opens, but I don’t want to stay here another night and all the hotels

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will require payment in advance, or at least some evidence of luggage,’

Raymond said.

‘I’ve got an idea.’ I stood and addressed them. ‘Come with me, but you must all keep your mouths firmly closed.’

As I marched into the elegant foyer of the Mayfair Hotel, the others trailed in my wake. The night porter was sitting behind his desk snoring loudly. I leant over and rang the bell, he jumped and woke with a start. I tilted my chin a little higher.

‘We’ve just come on the night train from Liverpool. Our luggage will be arriving shortly. Please send it up to our rooms when it does. In the meantime have breakfast sent up,’ I said.

By this time he was fully awake and produced a book for me to sign, which I did, with an indecipherable squiggle.

‘How many rooms, Ma’am?’ he asked.

‘We shall have three. One with two beds. For breakfast we would like coffee, pancakes with maple syrup and bacon, poached eggs and a side order of toast.’

The bell boy showed us up to three well appointed rooms on the first floor. I hoped he would forgive the absence of a tip. As I shut the door behind us, we looked at one another with wide eyes. Elizabeth and I had to

put our hands over our mouths to keep from giggling until we were sure he was out of earshot. Then we ran to Mother’s room.

‘Do you believe it?’ I said, gesturing to encompass the antique furniture, marble fireplace and paintings in gilt frames.

‘I cannot be happy about it, but I am too tired to care,’ she said, lying on the satin bedcover.

A short time later Raymond appeared, followed by a discreet knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I called. A trolley, bearing a large number of dishes with round silver covers, was presented and I thanked the waiter and signed the form. Once he was gone we fell on the food and consumed it ravenously.

After breakfast, I went back to Elizabeth’s and my room and drew a long, luxurious bath, washing my undergarments and hanging them to dry over the towel rail. All I wanted to do was go to sleep in one of the delightful four poster beds, but before I did I thought I should reinforce our status. I picked up the bedside telephone and asked to be put through to the porter. It was a different one this time.

‘Has our luggage arrived yet? No? How terribly inconvenient.

Please ring my room as soon as it does, thank you.’

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With that, I fell asleep and did not wake up until evening. When I came to, I was delightfully refreshed. The others were awake and we assembled in Mother’s room once more.

‘We can’t go out to eat. What are we going to do?’ she asked.

‘Don’t worry. Watch and see.’ I picked up her telephone. ‘Is that the desk? No-one has telephoned about our luggage. What is going on? It’s appalling. What type of service is there in this country? We can’t possibly go out to eat as we have no evening clothes. Please have our meals sent up.

Roast vegetables and gravy will be fine. Bread, yes, and a bottle of wine.

Oh I don’t know what sort, something red and French. A Beaujolais. And blancmange, if you have it. Thank you.’

The meal duly arrived and we ate it sitting on the couch.

‘Prince Edward couldn’t live any better,’ said Raymond, leaning back contentedly.

‘We’re going to have a lot more of this after I become famous,’ I said.

‘I’ve no doubt that you will,’ he said. ‘It’s just a question of when.

Because this ruse isn’t going to work for long. We will have to decide what to do next.’

‘Something will come up, it always does,’ I said.

The next morning we awoke very early and tiptoed down the stairs, out through the foyer past the snoring night porter with out so much as a one of his whiskers twitching in our direction.

Feeling refreshed and invigorated, we strolled past rows and rows of identical brown terrace houses, with nothing to differentiate them apart from their names. Without a firm plan, we stopped in the graveyard of an old church and entertained ourselves by making up imaginary lives for those interred beneath the headstones. Delivery carts rattled past – the city had begun to stir. A breeze sprang up and a piece of newspaper blowing around the graveyard wrapped itself around my ankles. I leaned down to pick it up and glanced at it. On one side was a picture of Lily Langtree, and on the other the social column.

‘Look, Mrs Patrick Campbell is back from her trip in America. I remember being introduced to her when I danced at Mrs Astor’s garden party. It says she’s entertaining at Kensington Square. I think I should pay her a visit. Why don’t you all wait here and I’ll be back shortly.’

Full of enthusiasm, I ran off. Kensington Square was rows of aristocratic looking houses around a central park, which was fenced and locked. I wandered around and asked a well dressed lady where Mrs Patrick

Campbell lived. The terrace I was directed to had roses twining along the front fence and piano music spilling through the window – a Bach cantata.

Taking this to be a good omen, I knocked boldly at the door. A uniformed maid answered and returned a moment later to lead me into the drawing

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room. The walls were covered with pictures of young ladies staring moodily into the distance. I recognised at least one by Rossetti and others by Burne-Jones and William Morris.

‘Isadora, my dear. How delightful to see you.’ She rose from the piano and gave me a peck on the cheek in a most un-English way. I had applied Mother’s cologne liberally as I had been wearing the same dress for some days, but she did not seem to notice anything amiss.

She was a very lovely woman, with dark intelligent eyes and long black hair, tied back with a silver clasp. Her skin was fair and she was tall and slender, not unlike one of her paintings.

‘I read in the newspaper you were here,’ I said. ‘I wanted to let you know I am doing drawing room engagements at present.’

‘How delightful. Actually I’m having a gathering here on Friday. It might be just the thing to have you do some of your wonderful interpretations. Are you available?’

‘Friday? I believe so. At what time?’

‘High tea,’ she said.

‘I think I could fit it in, but in order to ensure the engagement, it would be necessary...’ I hesitated.

‘You’d like an advance?’ she asked.

I nodded.

A smile played around the corners of her mouth. ‘Why certainly.’

And so I exited, clutching a cheque for ten pounds.

On the street fronting the graveyard, a small crowd was gathered.

Raymond was standing on one of the tombs, giving a passionate lecture on the Platonic ideal of love.

‘So, when a man loves the beautiful, what is it that he desires?’

‘A well built woman, sir,’ a heckler rejoined. There were titters of laughter.

‘Yes, but is it the object of desire or beauty itself?’ queried

Raymond.

‘Raymond,’ I hissed. ‘That’s enough. I’ve got something important to tell you.’

‘My friends,’ he said, ‘Filial duty calls.’ He bowed deeply. A few in the crowd clapped and they all melted away.

‘I’ve done it. Look what I’ve got.’

Mother and Elizabeth gathered around as well and I presented the cheque to Mother with due ceremony, as if awarding a prize. Raymond and

I took one another’s hands and jumped up and down between the tombstones in elation.

‘Forget boarding houses and those awful landladies. We must find a proper studio and pay several weeks’ in advance,’ he puffed.

‘You are absolutely right’.

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New York. July 28, 1985

I passed Anna’s door many times in the next few days. Often I could hear music playing – usually Beethoven in pastorale mode or the strident notes of Wagner. Once I had stood on the landing listening, my hand raised to knock, but it sounded like she was having an argument with someone. I could hear the muffled rise and fall of her voice, but not the reply. I withdrew my hand and decided to leave visiting for another time.

Now through the door I could hear the muffled strains of an unfamiliar classical piece. The brass knocker boomed loudly as it hit the wood. The door opened a crack, bound by a chain, and an eye peered through.

‘Oh good, it’s you,’ said a voice. The door shut for a moment before opening again. Anna gestured me in and closed the door. The room I found myself in was crowded with furniture. The layout was a different from mine – it was wider, as it included the space taken up by a storeroom on my floor and there were no walls between the dining and lounge rooms. Piled on every available surface were books, photographs and papers. The heavy curtains were drawn and it was just as dim as it had been on the stairs. I wondered why, when her sight was deteriorating. Anna motioned me towards the only clear space, an oversize wing-backed sofa covered in worn maroon velvet.

After moving some papers, Anna took a wooden chair opposite me.

In the subdued light she looked at least ten years younger than she had the other day. Her neck was long and elegant and, in the way she held herself as she sat, there was a hint of the dancer she had once been. She was wearing a long purple dress with wide sleeves.

‘How kind of you to come by,’ she said. ‘I don’t have people here very often. As you can see, I am not set up for visitors.’

I felt like a child on best behaviour visiting an ancient aunt I didn’t know at all well. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

Despite the untidiness, the room smelt pleasantly of fresh coffee, chocolates and an indefinable but sophisticated scent.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked. ‘I’m just making some.’

‘Thanks. That would be great.’

Walking slowly across to the small kitchenette, Anna lit the flame of a double gas burner beneath an espresso pot. I took the opportunity to look around. Along the same wall as the stove was a side board with rounded Art

Deco corners. Over my shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a single bed with a white coverlet and next to it, a large dark wardrobe. The top of the wardrobe was piled high with boxes, including one the shape of an old fashioned hat box. I assumed the door leading off the kitchen was the bathroom.

Anna came back and put one of a small nest of tables in front of me, serving coffee with frothy milk on the top.

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‘Thank you. How lovely to have strong coffee for a change. It seems hard to find in America,’ I remarked.

‘I’m not an American, although I’ve lived here for most of my life.’

‘I didn’t think you were. Where are you from originally?’

‘A small village in Switzerland. I haven’t been there for many years though. I expect I wouldn’t recognise it now. Are you from the

Antipodes?’

It was such an old-fashioned word, it took me a moment to work out what she meant. ‘Yes. Australia.’

‘Ah, lots of Irish settlers.’

‘Mostly convicts. Though these days, claiming one as an ancestor is a bit like saying your relatives came over on the Mayflower.’

‘So do you have a convict in your past?’

I laughed. ‘Honestly, I don’t know. Probably not. I think my lot came over much later.’

‘What brings you to New York? It was Tamsin, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. I came over to work on a newspaper, but the job fell through.

So now I’m working in a shop until I find a job at another paper.’

‘How are you finding the shop?’ she asked.

‘I’m enjoying it. It’s a new experience.’

‘I used to work in one once, a bookshop called Brentano’s. So you are a journalist?’

‘Yes,’ I said, reaching for my coffee.

‘...and you’re a dancer too.’

‘No, I haven’t done much at all.’

‘That’s hard to believe.’

Anna sat still for a moment, with her head cocked on one side, if listening to an imperceptible sound.

‘I would like to show you something.’ She got up and crossed to the sideboard. On her way she pulled the curtains to allow more light, then opened a drawer and extracted a pile of photographs. When she returned to the sofa, she pushed away a pile of papers and sat next to me, picking up her glasses and putting them on. I could see the pattern of fine wrinkled skin that hung over her cheek bones and smell her cologne, tinged with citrus.

Her skin was translucent as if, over time, she was becoming less solid. It crossed my mind that eventually she would disappear altogether.

Anna shuffled through the pile of pictures, many cracking with age and stained with brown blotches, then she stopped at one of the larger ones.

I put down my coffee as she passed it to me. A young girl lay on the ground with her eyes shut, head resting on a couple of cushions. The face was clear, open and relaxed. Beautiful. Her arms were bent, the fingers softly curled. A swathe of fabric fell softly around her in the shape of a loose dress, with ties across the breast and waist. She lay at the base of a headless statue that was forever frozen in the action of walking forward, garments rippling behind. It was as though the statue had come to life in the form of the young woman lying at its base. It reminded me strongly of the Maxfield

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Parrish painting, Daybreak, where a beautiful blonde woman in a tunic lies between a set of columns; a naked young boy standing above her. Given that it was painted in the 1920's, I wondered if he’d ever seen this photograph. I flipped it over to see if it was dated. There on the back, written in pencil, was April 12, 1914. There was also a photographer’s stamp; Arnold Genthe.

I turned the photograph over again and examined the young woman’s face.‘That’s me,’ Anna said, quietly.

I searched her face and saw the same distinctive bone structure.

‘You were lovely.’

‘Yes. But I didn’t know then.’

‘What?’

‘Everything. The war. It changed it all.’

‘Of course, it started that August, didn’t it?’

‘Yes. We were in Paris. Even there it seemed like some far away conflict and at first we ignored it and went on with our own lives. We felt as if we were living in a different world and it couldn’t touch us. But not for long.’

Anna passed me another photograph. As she did so, her fingers touched mine for a fraction of a second. I felt a tingle, as if static electricity had been discharged. In the image, a white female face stood out starkly, the dark hair almost lost against a deep black background.

‘Who is it?’ I asked, although I already suspected.

‘That’s Isadora.’

The chin was slightly tilted, so she gazed down at the viewer. It was her eyes that drew me in. They were soulful and intelligent, with a quiet intensity, and yet there was an air of melancholy.

‘She looks sad.’

‘She had a lot to be sad about.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about her, apart from the fact she was an extraordinary dancer – and the way she died.’

Anna grimaced. ‘Not many people are interested in her these days.’

‘So, she was your teacher?’

‘She was more than that. Much more. She was my mother, my sister, my best friend and...’

I waited for her to go on. She didn’t.

‘What was she like?’

‘I have never met anyone who even comes close to her. She is truly remarkable. It’s hard to imagine the impact she had then, the way she touched people’s lives. What she means to my life...’ Her voice was strained with emotion.

I turned away from her to pick up my coffee cup, then tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Tell me about how she danced.’

‘Watching Isadora dance was like taking a breath of pure ocean air after being locked up in a stuffy room for a long time. When she first started performing, ballet was the only respectable form of dance and it was

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stagnant, full of stiff poses that were empty of emotion. Isadora was the opposite – she danced very freely. She had the ability to create whatever she wanted.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘She always used a very simple stage set, yet if she danced being in a forest, the audience said afterwards they could see the trees. If she was leaping through waves, then they were there. One time she threw herself at a massive, imaginary door, falling back again and again. Finally she broke through and stepped over the threshold. She said later that this was the story of her life. While she was dancing, everyone was convinced there really was a door on the stage.’

I tried to imagine what Anna meant. Then I remembered the dress rehearsal at the studio the other night and the way the dancers had evoked the demons. It stood to reason that Isadora, the originator, would have been far more adept at this.

Anna had closed her eyes, absorbed in memories I couldn’t share.

The silence in the room gained in intensity. I could hear the ticking of a clock and the distant sound of car horns.

‘Listen to the music with your soul, she said to us, not once, but many times,’ she continued. ‘Now, while you are listening, don’t you feel an inner strength awakening deep inside you? Through this strength your head is lifted, your arms are raised, you are walking towards the light. This is the first step in dancing.’

It sounded more like a spiritual movement than a dance technique.

‘She must have been considered very...unusual,’ I said. ‘How did the general public react?’

Her blue eyes, behind bottle-lens glasses, fluttered open and looked straight at me. ‘They adored her,’ she said. ‘She danced to full houses night after night, all over Europe and America. In the early days, in Munich, every time she performed the students unharnessed the horses from her carriage and pulled her home themselves.’

‘That sounds pretty...amazing.’ Extreme. Like the type of adulation reserved for rock stars these days. An idea started to form in my mind.

Perhaps I could interview Anna and do a story about her and her memories of Isadora for a magazine or journal. There must be American dance magazines that would be interested.

‘With that sort of attention, did she ever behave like a prima donna?’

At first I thought I had offended Anna, because she was quiet and I immediately regretted the question. I took a deep breath. I would have to resist the temptation of behaving like a tabloid newspaper hack – trying to extract the ‘real story’ while celebrity minders ran interference.

‘Isadora was very honest and responded as she felt,’ Anna said.

‘Sometimes she was too open for her own good. She cared about others a great deal. She often got hurt.’

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I looked at the next picture in the pile. Two women were reading books, sitting in what looked, judging by the glass display cases full of vases and jars, like a museum. In a sprawling hand, slanted urgently forward, was written, ‘In Athens. Isadora Duncan’. The women were both wearing ankle length Greek tunics. Thrown around Isadora’s shoulders was a woollen shawl. There were sandals on her feet and she had a broad- brimmed hat hanging down her back.

I was surprised. ‘When was this taken?’

‘Around the turn of the century.’

‘It’s very different from how most women dressed then.’

Anna smiled. ‘Oh yes. In those days it was commonly thought women should suffer to be beautiful, by wearing stays and little tight high- heeled boots. Isadora didn’t believe in any of that. She thought that women who were comfortable and happy were naturally beautiful.’

‘Did you dress like this, too?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

The next image was so light, the figure had almost faded away. It was split, with a darker double reflected below. I realised it was Isadora, blurred slightly by the slow shutter speed, dancing on wet sand. She wore a white tunic and was caught in the middle of doing a circular movement with her arms; feet just touching the ground. Everything about her was alive and expressive; so very different from the posed, sullen portraits usual to the age. I had an eerie feeling the figure would start to move the moment I

turned away. A small shiver ran up my spine. Anna flipped it over and peered closely at the scrawled pencil script.

‘Lido, Venice, 1903.’ She looked up. ‘Raymond took it. He was quite an artist himself.’ Pre-empting my question, she got to her feet and hobbled over to a pile of papers on another chair and shuffled through them.

She returned with a yellowed newspaper clipping. An article in French accompanied a photograph of an old man walking next to a river, probably the Seine. He was dressed in a similar style to Isadora in the earlier photo; full length woollen tunic, sandals on his feet and a headband around his long stringy grey hair. I checked the date at the top of the page, 12 October

1963, and looked at Anna enquiringly.

‘Raymond, was my...’ She paused in confusion. ‘... her elder brother. For many years he lived in Paris teaching weaving and ancient

Greek dance.’

‘They sound like an unusual family,’ I said. Like hippies before hippies were invented. ‘Is he still alive?’

She shook her head sadly.

I wanted to ask exactly when Isadora had died, but thought it might be tactless. I could easily find out, anyway.

‘Forgive me, but I’m rather tired,’ she said. ‘I wonder if we might continue this another day?’

‘Sure. It must take it out of you to talk about all this stuff.’

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‘All this stuff? They were my only real family. You can’t imagine how it feels not to be able to talk to them anymore. To see the rubbish that is written about them. That film!’ She spat. ‘It was a parody. I know. I lived part of that extraordinary life with her.’

I nodded slowly, astonished by her sudden vehemence, and tried to

Distract her. ‘Is there any film of her I can see, maybe one of her dancing?’

‘No. She never allowed anyone to take any.’

‘What a pity. Why?’

Anna shrugged and I felt her impatience for me to be gone. I thought of asking if she’d mind me interviewing her, but decided to leave it for later. She had been remarkably lucid for someone of ninety, despite a slip or two.

I almost went to a library after work to try and find a book on

Isadora – background research, so I knew which questions to ask Anna. But

I had a strange reluctance to do so. I realised I wanted to hear the story in her own words. Otherwise it would be like reading the end of the novel before finishing the beginning. I wanted to be surprised.

Later that evening, before falling asleep, I found myself going over the morning’s conversation. That was when the dreams began. A glimpse through a crack of a doorway into a world I knew nothing about.

CHAPTER FIVE

A large oak tree cast dappled light on the ground below, causing a shift of light and shade to play over the face of the woman beneath. She was reclining against a bolster on a day bed with a verdigris base and turned ends that were shaped like ancient lyres. On a table by her side rested a vase of overblown blooms, petals scattered on the surface of the table and the ground around. There was a whisper of subtle perfume. A half full crystal champagne glass stood beside the vase, bubbles rising lazily to the surface.

I thought the woman to be in her mid-forties. Her heavy figure was swathed in white satin, the fabric spilling down onto the grass. The shoulder length hair was auburn and the eyes closed. As I moved closer to her they suddenly flew open, causing me to start backwards.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said, in a smooth, pleasant voice, as if to settle a child or a skittish animal. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

Looking into her eyes, I found a darkness and depth that reflected no light. They were mesmeric – I could not turn my gaze away. For a moment

I struggled but I felt myself being drawn closer and closer, as if being sucked irresistibly into a vortex. There was a brief instant when the darkness was all consuming, and then, overlaid and increasing in luminosity, came another image. I looked down...

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My sandalled feet kept appearing and disappearing beneath a hem of white, roughly woven fabric. I had to tread carefully on the uneven, pale stones, their centres worn shiny smooth with the passage of many feet. The arid earth beside the path was baked hard by a relentless sun, but the air on my face felt fresh with the cool of morning. A slight breeze began to stir, ruffling the small dark, dry bushes that struggled to thrive among the boulders on the slope of the hill. I leaned down, snapped off a twig and crushed the leaves between my fingers to inhale the tangy, pungently herbal scent.

Pausing to allow Raymond and Elizabeth to catch up, I turned to gaze over Athens, enfolded in hills. Elizabeth, finding the steep ascent difficult with her bad leg, was panting with the exertion. As we progressed the path became a series of marble steps, until we were in a propylaea, among a group of columns that stood to attention like sentinels at a gate.

Framed before us was a vast open space, dazzling in its brightness, contrasting with an intensely blue sky. Above and to our right was an age old temple – the white, delicately fluted columns of the Parthenon, like icing squeezed between the tiers of a wedding cake.

‘It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,’ I said, overcome.

The others were still and silent.

We made our way through a jumble of white marble that lay scattered on the ground. Many of the broken stones still echoed the shapes of their former selves – the remnants of columns, pedestals, altars and walls,

resting where they had fallen eons ago. Their rough edges accentuated the smooth, straight lines of the massive structure ahead of us.

Like ancient Greeks in our tunics, heads garlanded with rosemary, we approached the temple of the goddess Athena. The immensity of the structure was overwhelming, making me feel as insignificant as the small lizards scurrying to hide, as our shadows blocked the sun.

We reached steps at the base of the columns and I tilted my head back, marvelling at the way they tapered elegantly upwards. Ascending, I felt far more in awe than I ever had entering a cathedral. My fingers reached out to touch the smooth ridges of a column, where the stone had been shaped by other hands, long ago. I examined one of many rough pockmarks, created by the bullet or shell of some forgotten war. It was hard to imagine why anyone would attempt to destroy such a sublime structure.

My feet made a soft whisper on the marble floor as I walked into the centre of the temple. Here, exposed to the sky, enveloped by the symmetrical lines of columns, I stood still and closed my eyes, visualising it whole and dedicated to its original purpose. I knew my whole life had led me to this moment, to this place.

I was standing where the original statue of the goddess had once been and I imagined I could smell the sweet scent of burning spices.

Raymond, nearby, began to quote Pausanias ‘The statue of Athena is upright, with a tunic reaching to the feet and on her breast the head of

Medusa is worked in ivory. She holds a statue of Victory about four cubits

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high, and in the other hand a spear; at her feet lies a shield and near the spear is a serpent.’

As I opened my eyes, a bird flew above me, trilling loudly. I reached my arms upwards to the sky and then brought them down, turning in a circle to encompass the whole space. Goddess of wisdom, help me to be wise. Help me spread the knowledge of beauty in the world.

Raymond, Elizabeth and I stood eyes closed, hands clasped, drinking in the atmosphere and the power of the place. After a while I parted from them and wandered to the top step of the temple, facing south. Through the columns at the end I could see the smaller Erechtheum, with the figures of the six marble caryatids in flowing robes, holding up the roof of the portico; their hair pulled back, loose tresses escaping and tumbling over their shoulders. Their arms had long since vanished, but they stood patiently, impassively returning my gaze.

I was a mirror image of them, standing as I was with one leg bent. I dropped my shawl to the ground. Looking into the eyes of the figure facing me some distance away, I could see an expression of kindness and compassion. I imagined she was breathing in time with me, breasts rising and falling, the folds of her skirt undulating in the breeze.

As I stepped back into the temple I felt a ripple run through my body. I began to dance for them. I wasn’t consciously aware of moving, but felt a sense of boundless joy as every gesture expressed the energy I could feel running upwards from my feet, like an electric current through

water, causing me to sway and turn and jump. It flowed down the soft lines of my arms, out through the tips of my fingers. I was fluid and ephemeral, yet universal and immutable. No longer separate, but part of the spirit of the place, as it was a part of me. This was where I belonged – my dance an offering, an expression of the highest conceivable beauty.

New York, July 29, 1985

The images flowed over and past me. I knew I was dreaming but the body was real. A woman, leaning, her dress silhouetted against a column.

Was it the facade of Colonnade Row or inside the Cooper Union Building?

Switching, moving, the dream skipped to a hand, arced and in slow motion dunking a ball into a hoop, graceful as a swan moving through silken air. A ripple as the woman’s skirt flowed again – still silken, but now a river of movement that carried me in a gentle current, swirling me...into and out of sleep. A dream that, having evaporated with the dawn, reappeared as I walked to work. A scarf, flowing over a shoulder. A head turning and the merging of reality and remembered dream caused me to shiver. I was standing for a moment (real this time) in front of Colonnade Row and the columns rose in front of me like trunks of stone trees, yet ephemeral as the silken dress. I had woken, rushed a cup of coffee, squeezed into my tiny

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shower and yet still the dream followed me – a phantom stalker on the real streets.

‘Are you okay?’

I turned and found that Maud was looking at me. The expression on her face one of gentle bemusement.

‘Me?’ I looked down and saw that I was running a white scarf through my fingers.

‘You’ll wear it out,’ She laughed and took it from me. ‘Off with the pixies, Tamsin. Don’t worry, I have days like that.’

And so, it seemed, did I.

Maud had gone out and I was just hanging some garments on a rack in the shop when a male voice close by made me start.

‘Do you have any headdresses?’

I turned to see a tall man in about his mid-thirties, with close cropped brown hair, chinos and a white T-shirt that showed off well muscled arms.

‘Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?’

‘I’m looking for a headdress. You know, the type of thing they wear in the Carnvale in Rio.’

‘Sort of Carmen Miranda?’

‘Yes, but maybe with feathers.’

‘We’ve got a couple of tiaras. I don’t think we’ve got any headdresses, but I can have a look in the store room.’

‘That would be great.’

It left me in a bit of a dilemma. I was alone in the shop and could hardly leave it unattended while I went out the back. He could be using the request as an excuse to help himself and walk out the door. But then, on the other hand, if I locked the door, I would have to do so with him inside. I looked at him closely. He was attractive, in a clean-cut American way and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Brooks Brothers ad. I decided on the second option.

‘You’ll have to wait a moment while I lock up the shop. I can’t be in two places at once.’

It sounded so unfriendly and suspicious, but he just replied, ‘That’s okay.’ I turned around the Back in 5 Minutes sign on the door and asked him to wait.

Maud had shown me the storeroom on the first day I worked there.

It was a small room at the very back of the shop, densely packed with stuff that looked as though it hadn’t been touched in years, judging from the layer of dust and cobwebs. There were probably some real finds in amongst the junk, I mused, pulling out a moth-eaten feather boa that wasn’t one of them.

I moved back some clothes on a rack, looking for a step ladder to get to the top shelf and jumped as a face loomed out of the darkness. I stifled a

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giggle. It was a 1950's dress shop dummy, bound in a torturous looking corset.

I couldn’t find a step ladder, so piled a couple of sturdy boxes on top of one another, clambering onto them and steadying myself on the top shelf.

There were lots of hat boxes and packages. None of them looked big enough to hold any type of head dress. The dust I raised from moving things made me cough. I decided it was futile.

‘I’m afraid I can’t find any,’ I said, returning to the counter. The man was perusing the locked cabinet where the costume jewellery was kept.

‘Never mind, I’ll take that instead,’ he said, pointing to a tiara covered in diamantes.

I didn’t ask him how he was going to use it. He didn’t look particularly gay, but then you never could tell.

After work, I paid Anna another visit.

‘Do come in Tamsin,’ she said.

I sensed she was distant today, more preoccupied.

I waited until she made the coffee and we were seated before saying:

‘Anna, I’m very interested in your story. Has anyone done an article on you?’

She looked wary. ‘Not for a long time.’

‘I guess Stella’s spoken a lot to you.’

She nodded. ‘Stella and I have mostly talked about the dances and how important it is to preserve them. She’s doing a project trying to get them down in lab notation. It’s a slow process.’

‘Could I tape an interview with you?’

She fiddled with the fringe on a cushion cover. ‘And what would you do with such a tape?’

‘Write a story about you and your memories of Isadora for a dance magazine, or some other journal.’

She was quiet for a moment, before saying, ‘An article would take things I said out of context. My feelings about Isadora and that time are complicated. I can’t explain it.’

Why, I wondered. But they were her stories and hers alone, for she was the last one left to tell them.

Back in my own room cooking some pasta, I remembered a scrap of film I had seen recently of the very last Thylacine, a Tasmanian tiger, that died in the 1930s. It was pacing its zoo cage, desperate get out and be reunited with its own kind. Yet they no longer existed, except in its memory. There was something unutterably sad about the aloneness of the creature.

I mixed some pesto through the pasta and just as I sat down to eat, there was a tap – so faint at first I wasn’t sure where it was coming from, but it was repeated, more loudly this time. I put down my fork and went to

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answer the door. Anna stood on the threshold. My first thought was that she needed something practical. Matches, sugar; help of some sort.

‘Hi’ I said.

She hesitated.

‘Come in, come in.’ I stepped back towards the dining room, as there wasn’t enough space in the minute kitchen.

‘No, I won’t. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve changed my mind.

You can interview me if you wish.’

I smiled. ‘Thank you Anna. Shall I come and see you tomorrow, after I finish work?’

‘I will look forward to it.’

The next day the curtains were drawn back, letting in the late afternoon light. Whorls of dust spiralled and floated down onto the piles of books and papers. I supposed she couldn’t see the filmy layer that covered everything, or was so used to it she no longer realised how it appeared.

After we’d had coffee and some pieces of the apple tea cake I had brought with me, I found the tape recorder in my bag and set it going on the table near her.

We turned our attention to the pile of photographs. Folded in among them was a theatre program. I opened it out between us. At the top was written a series of dates for November ‘at the Booth Theatre’ with prices ranging from 75 cents to $2.50. The cover photo showed seven women

dressed in the now familiar tunics. Isadora was in the centre, sitting on a raised dais, holding a crystal ball in her cupped hands as if gazing into the future. The other younger women were gathered around, looking at the ball. The caption read: ‘Isadora Duncan Dancers and

George Copeland, pianist.’ There was a young girl sitting on the right of the dais, her body turned towards the viewer and the profile of her face towards

Isadora. Her tunic was very short and the bare legs looked vulnerable. It was Anna.

‘How was it, performing with Isadora Duncan and the others?’ I asked.

Anna was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I felt as if anything were possible. When we were on the stage, I didn’t feel like just me, Anna, anymore. I was a part of something much larger. I was uplifted, taken over.

Isadora opened my eyes to the things that were beautiful and special. To the possibilities of life.’ Anna was looking away now, her eyes focussed somewhere outside of the confines of the small, crowded room. As she spoke, I could see the similarity with the girl in the photograph, the long slender neck, the graceful way she moved her arms.

‘When I was a child, we danced in many of Europe’s grandest theatres. After a performance we were often invited to tremendous feasts at the castles, palaces and grand houses of the very rich. It sounds strange to say it now, but in a way I took it all for granted. It seemed natural that we

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should be appreciated like that. We knew that we were doing something special in the world.’

I looked back at the image and saw it as a gathering of young acolytes around a high priestess. But surely they must have had squabbles and fallen out, as any people who spend a great deal of time together do.

‘The thing was, we were taken seriously, as artists, at a time when women had very few options outside the home. We mixed with many other artists and writers,’ said Anna.

‘Do you remember who any of them were?’

‘Of course.’ She held up her fingers as though ticking them off.

‘There was Auguste Rodin, Sarah Bernhardt, Marcel Duchamp, Eleanora

Duse, Gabriele D’Annunzio, Jean Mounet-Sully, Ruth St Denis, Ellen Terry and many more whose names I’ve forgotten...’ Her voice trailed off.

Only some of the names were familiar to me.

‘So how did you meet Isadora?’ I asked.

‘When I was six – it must have been about 1905 – my father read one day in a Viennese newspaper about this amazing woman, a dancer called Isadora Duncan, who was living and performing in Berlin. They called her the barefoot dancer and it was said she had a new way of dancing.

There was a picture of her, drawn by an artist, and my father was very taken by it. He said it reminded him of me when I was dancing – playing really – by the lake. The article also said she was starting a school at Grunewald in

Germany and would take pupils free of charge, to teach them dance, music

and drama. My father asked me if I would like to go, and I said yes. He wrote to the school and got a reply, inviting me for an audition.’

‘So this was from Switzerland?’ I interrupted.

‘Yes. We were living in a village on the shores of Lake Zurich, although I had been born in Mourdon.’

‘And your father took you to Germany to meet Isadora?’

‘Yes. It’s quite remarkable when I look back on it. I was an only child and it must have been very hard for my parents to imagine sending me so far away from them, but my father took me. We went on a train – the first one I can remember travelling on. The benches were very hard and wooden. We travelled third class, as my parents didn’t have much money.

It took a long time, a day and a half, to get there. I was so excited I spent most of the time with my head out the window, watching the world rush by.

Eventually I got soot, from the engine, in my eyes and they became very sore and itchy. We arrived at Grunewald early in the morning and went straight to the school.’

I imagined a small exhausted six year old with red, swollen eyes, trailing along the platform of a railway station, holding the hand of a man in a dark suit, her dress soiled with train smoke and dirty from two days of wearing.

‘...The audition that morning was in a very big room. There seemed to be hundreds of other little girls. A nice lady in a white dress asked us to follow her in a few simple movements. Then she would ask some girls to

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step aside, while she continued with the others. I remember feeling very disappointed when I was told to step out.’

‘So you weren’t chosen,’ I said.

‘No, not at first. It was a lovely place and I went to play in the garden. I had been cooped up in the carriage for a long time and it felt very good to run about. I was having such a good time when a man and the nice lady called me over. “What’s your name,” he asked me. “Anna Denzler,” I replied. He turned to the lady and said “Take her. She has the look”.’

‘And so you stayed? You were so young. How did your father feel about that?’

‘He told me years later it was the hardest thing for him. Poor Papa.

When he came to say goodbye to me, I was so engrossed with playing, I barely acknowledged him.’

‘He must have seen it as a good chance for you, though.’

‘My parents could never have afforded that style of education and I enjoyed it so much, I really didn’t think of it as learning.’

I could see she was starting to flag. ‘Could I make you a cup of coffee this time?’ I asked her.

‘Thank you. That would be very nice. Tell me if there is anything you can’t find.’

The coffee plunger was a bit scungy, so I took a few moments to wash it thoroughly while the kettle boiled. She was almost out of coffee and milk. I made a mental note to bring some next time I came by.

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‘What was the school like?’ I asked, when I had brought the fresh coffee over to where we were sitting and put the last of the tea cake on the little table.

Anna sorted through the pile of photographs and passed one to me.

It showed a group of young girls dressed in tunics in a park-like setting, caught mid-air in a leap. Their faces were fresh and youthful. They made me feel old and frumpy.

‘The school was like a sort of fairyland. Instead of being told all the time to be ‘lady-like’ and to sit still and keep our clothes clean, we were encouraged to run around and play in the garden.’

‘And how many of you were there?’

‘About twenty of us had been chosen that day. The dance classes were wonderful. We were encouraged to create our own dances, so we thought it was a big game. We were also taught singing and painting, and there were many excursions to museums and art galleries. Isadora was away a lot on tour, so she didn’t teach us very often, but it was a special occasion when she did and we all tried very hard to out-do one another to get her attention. On most days, Isadora’s sister Elizabeth taught. She didn’t dance and walked with the aid of a stick. She told us what to do. When I and some of the others were older, we taught the little ones.’

‘You mentioned earlier, you used to do performances as a child?’ I said, passing her some more cake. She took a piece, but held it, engrossed in the story.

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‘Yes, mostly in Germany, Holland and England. The performance I remember the best was when we danced at Mannheim. The stage was a temporary platform, floating over a glowing fountain, in the lake in the central park. Isadora was rowed across the lake in a gondola, by properly dressed oarsmen and we followed later, in another gondola.’

It must have looked magical. I could almost see it.

‘There were roses around the stage, Chinese lanterns and balloons everywhere.’ Anna continued. ‘ An orchestra on the other side of the lake played as Isadora sailed to the platform, then a concealed choir sang as she started to dance. We were all wearing white and, as we joined her in the dance, searchlights kept playing across us.’

I imagined how spectacular it would have appeared from the shore.

‘Was it a big audience?’ I asked.

‘Tens of thousands of people! she cried. ‘Everywhere. As far as the eye could see – even sitting in trees and standing on the rooves of houses. You should have heard the applause at the end. They kept shouting

‘Long live Isadora!’

Anna was smiling into the distance. As she came back to the present, she looked about her and a pensive expression flitted across her face.

‘Here I don’t even have the room to manage a simple fling of the arm, let alone the rest of my body!’

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She was silent for a while. It must be hard for her to be in these reduced circumstances, but that was nothing compared with being too old to dance.

‘So what happened to the school?’ I asked, checking to see the tape was still running.

‘It was disbanded after a few years. Isadora had run out of money.

There had been some sponsorship up until the birth of her daughter Deirdre.

In those days, of course, to have a child without being married was considered extremely shameful and unmarried mothers were social outcasts.

But Isadora couldn’t understand why the society matrons who supported her school should be upset about it. She went and gave them a lecture about the importance of the independence of women and their right to bear children as a result of love rather than a property arrangement.’

‘That must have startled them.’

‘Isadora stated her ideas as if they were the most logical, sensible notions in the world, but I think most of the ladies would have found them threatening and downright shocking, so they refused to support the school anymore,’ Anna laughed. ‘It would have really galled them a few years later when she had another child, Patrick.’

‘With the same man?’

‘No. She found it hard to sustain relationships. She was too independent and although men admired her, I think they felt threatened by her. Isadora didn’t believe in marriage, though she did eventually marry

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another man, but that was only because she couldn’t take him out of Russia otherwise.’

‘Where did you go after the school closed? Where is Grunewald , by the way?’ I asked.

‘Near a forest, south-west of Berlin. It’s probably turned into an inner suburb these days. After it closed, many of the pupils went back to their parents, but a core group of us stayed with Elizabeth in Darmstadt. A year afterwards, six of us went to Paris to be with Isadora and that was when we became known the Isadorables.

The father of her son Patrick, Paris Singer, who was an heir to the

Singer Sewing Machine fortune, gave her an enormous old hotel in

Bellevue. She turned it into a school and we helped to teach and give performances. I’ve got a photograph of it somewhere.’

She hunted through the photographs until she located a dark sepia picture of an older Isadora, leaning against a large urn with a ram’s head sprouting from the crown. Isadora had a dreamy expression on her face. In the background was an impressive white three storey building, with colonnades running the length of the ground floor.

‘What an extraordinary building.’ It was a magnificent. I couldn’t help contrasting it with the unimaginative red brick box of a school I had attended. There was no way that could have been described as architecturally significant.

‘She called it Dionysian,’ said Anna. ‘I loved it there. We all did.’

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I was aware Anna’s voice was slowing down, the level getting fainter, like a portable record player with the batteries slowly running out. I leaned over and switched off the tape recorder.

‘Thank you, Anna. That was great. It sounds idyllic. I envy you your childhood.’

She leaned back against the seat, resting. I reached over and touched her hand. ‘See you another day, soon?’

‘Yes. Thank you for coming. Can you let yourself out?’

‘No problem. I really enjoyed it.’

‘So did I,’ she whispered.

Later on, preparing a small dinner for myself, I thought about my own ordinary suburban childhood. I remembered loathing being made to sit at a desk for hours every day from the age of six. It was such an unnatural thing to do to a child. Not for the first time, I wondered if the idea that society kept progressing was an illusion. But then Anna’s experience was unusual, whereas mine had been shared by thousands of other children. The only thing that distinguished me was Dad disappearing when I was four.

I tried to picture him in my mind, but failed. I could remember dancing on his feet and laughing with him. Once I had put on the hat he wore to go flying and swung on a swing, higher and higher. Thinking his ability to fly would be magically transferred to me, I had let go at the

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highest point. I had woken up in bed a while later, my mother’s anxious face hovering above me.

As I drifted to sleep, lines of girls in Greek tunics leapt across the surface of my consciousness, a lithe and graceful Arcadian vision. I was one of them, running and playing on an endless lawn, bounding through trees, girls heads popping out from behind tree trunks like wood sprites. Echoes of teasing laughter. In the distance an eerie, plaintive note sounded, high and long, calling me. I left the others and followed it, running along a faint track, swerving this way and that as the notes drew me closer, yet seemed to recede as I approached. The light through the trees was intensifying and I walked towards it.

I paused at the edge of a glade. Across the soft green lawn was an ancient oak tree with a familiar appearance. Beneath its spreading branches was the day bed and the woman I had seen in my earlier dream.

‘Ah...you’re back,’ she said. I realised that her lips had not moved, yet there was no doubt it was she who had spoken.

‘Come and sit beside me.’

I moved the few steps and sat down.

‘There is something else I would like you to see.’

I was mute, unable to respond.

‘It must have been in 1903...’ she continued. Looking straight at her, as before I felt myself drawn into her eyes. This time I did not struggle. It was as though the world had suddenly reversed and the next moment I was

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looking outwards across the glade as though I had become her, then I let my eyes close.

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CHAPTER SIX

A thin, haunting cry disturbed my sleep. I awoke and leaned on my elbow, looking out over the valley from my rock ledge on the mountain.

Then the sound came again; a series of long, melodious yet mournful notes from a pipe. Somewhere down below me I could hear the jangle of bells. I looked and saw a figure touched by the fire of the rising sun – bare shoulders and arms reflecting bronze. A young goatherd, reed pipe to his lips, was leading a flock of goats. As he came closer I saw that his clothes were tattered, his hair, black and tangled by the wind. He broke off playing the pipe and, possessed of a wild animal grace, quick-footed and sure, he leapt and jumped between the rocks, like light bouncing off water. Skilfully he headed off the goats as they strayed further up the thyme covered slopes of Mt Hymettus.

He seemed to sense my gaze, for he looked about him and then, catching sight of me, blew a single, penetrating note on the pipe before turning and racing down the slope, his herd close on his heels.

Seeing the Pan-like boy was a good omen, for today we were laying the cornerstone of our temple. The morning was so clear that as I stood and stretched, I could easily see across Athens to the Acropolis and the temple of Athena.

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From the moment Raymond and I had climbed this hill and seen we were at the same height as the Acropolis, we had been determined to buy this land. When we’d shown it to Elizabeth and mother, they had become equally as enthused. The five families who owned it had only ever used it for grazing their goats and sheep and I’m sure they thought us quite mad for wanting to buy it. But when they saw we were serious the land suddenly became extremely valuable. After much haggling we had settled on a price.

I changed and folded up the rug I had been sleeping with, putting it behind a rock with the stick and tin can. These were a necessary part of our security as we only had one revolver between us. We had devised a plan that if anyone heard anything suspicious during the night, we would bang our tin and Raymond would fire the revolver to scare off potential intruders.

Soon the others were up and milling about. My older brother,

Augustin and his wife Sarah had joined us the afternoon before, bringing with them their young daughter Temple. Sitting at a table under one of the few trees, we breakfasted, spreading thyme honey and curd on the bread

Sarah had brought. Raymond brewed some coffee on a small fire.

‘I would like to go back to the Hotel Angleterre tonight. I need a proper wash,’ Mother said, and we all agreed.

‘Lack of water is the one drawback of this place,’ Elizabeth commented.

‘ Never mind, we’ll dig a well soon and find some,’ I said.

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‘So show me the plans for the temple,’ Gus said, as we finished eating.

Raymond went to fetch them, while Mother and I cleared the plates so he could lay them out. When Raymond returned he unrolled the plans on the table.

‘I found the plans of the palace of Agamemnon at Mycenae in one of the museums, so I had them copied.’

‘We’ve engaged eight stone masons and half a dozen workmen. We should get it up pretty quickly,’ I said.

Gus looked over the sheet of drawings. ‘Agamemnon had a big structure and being king had the means to do it. But how are you planning to pay for it?’

‘We’re going to start with the middle section. I’ve still got some money left and when I run out I’ll have to go on tour again. But I don’t want to think about that at the moment.’

The workmen started to gather, some arriving on foot, carrying their tools, some by donkey or horse. They were dressed in their Sunday best in honour of the occasion – dark suits with waistcoats, high collars and tight ties. Some of the women from the nearby village had come also. They stared at us curiously in our tunics, sandals and headbands – except for

Sarah and mother, who were more conventionally dressed.

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A little later, the Greek Orthodox priest arrived to bless the foundation stone. He was short and bespectacled, but in his robes with the tall black hat, flaps hanging down either side, he looked suitably impressive.

‘Don’t you feel it’s a little odd?’ asked Gus, as an aside to me, raising his eyebrows.

‘What?’

‘To have a Christian priest presiding.’

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Lots of ancient traditions have been incorporated into the Greek church. They still sing hymns to Zeus, although they’ve renamed him.’

When everyone was assembled, Raymond and I danced on the ground where the foundations were to be set; marking them out. I remembered the natural way the goatherd had run and leapt up the slope and included some of his movements as I danced. When the dance was over I passed a spade to little Temple, who struggled to dig the hard ground, but she eventually managed a tiny handful of dirt.

‘This temple will be called Kopanos,’ I said. ‘And dedicated to dance and music.’

Then the workmen dug the hole deeper and lifted the cornerstone.

The priest blessed the site, walking around it, chanting loudly in his best pulpit voice. Out of a sack he produced a black cockerel, which screeched with alarm and flapped its wings. And well it might, for holding it upside down, the priest slit it’s throat over the cornerstone. The screeching

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suddenly stopped and bright red blood ran out, spilling onto the dry earth.

Everybody cheered and clapped.

I looked up at the ceiling, then down at the floor, puzzled that the stain of blood had gone. But of course, I was enclosed in my apartment, not in the open on a Greek hillside. But the tastes and impressions of the dream lingered. The flavour of thyme honey, the rough texture of the stones beneath my feet. I closed my eyes again for a moment, seeing the assembled people, the layout of the foundations, the large piles of red stone nearby, about to be transformed into a temple. It seemed like an interesting project, if curiously archaic. A siren sounded in the distance and I opened my eyes and stretched. I felt like going to Greece today, not to work. Why didn’t I travel more for myself, instead of always going somewhere to write a story?

I put my hands behind my head and thought about Anna. I remembered our conversation yesterday. How would it be to be her age and to be looking back on my life? Would I be pleased with the course of it? In the past few years, I had been so constantly occupied every waking minute of the day, there had been little time for reflection.

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For the first time, I wondered why I had become a journalist. ‘You must have such an interesting job’ people would say to me. Yes, it was true.

I had been very privileged to have experiences and travel to places most wouldn’t, yet as a professional observer, I remained an outsider from necessity – getting a superficial glimpse into other’s lives and preoccupations and packaging it pre-cooked into the fast food container of the printed page.

You never knew when a sub-editor was going to mess with your copy and the benevolent view you held could end up in a negative light.

More than once I had angry calls from someone who felt misrepresented and I hadn’t been able to do more to apologise and sympathise. A couple of times I had received threats of defamation, but fortunately each time the injured parties realised the expense involved and how deep the pockets of the paper were, they’d backed off.

‘You don’t understand,’ an angry woman had told me once, after her more than casual association with a prominent politician had come to light.

‘These are people’s lives you’re dealing with. This is my life and his family’s life – not just some juicy little titbit for the public to have a giggle about over breakfast. Why did you have to stick your nose in? What gives you the right?’

I couldn’t remember what I had replied. Public interest? Maybe. I had always felt it was, at best, a spurious argument.

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There were times when I felt I had made a difference, where my words had reached out and touched people and they had responded with offers of money or help to those that needed it. But there had rarely been time for satisfaction, because I was already onto the next story. Yet, at times, a twinge of yearning deep inside me vibrated like a single string plucked on a guitar and I wished I was involved on more than a superficial level. The train of thought ran out of energy and I smiled at my own naivety.

I wished I was involved with what? I didn’t have a profound belief in anything much. Besides, I reminded myself, getting involved meant taking risks, losing control.

At work that day I felt distant, detached, as if part of me had gone on holiday to an unknown destination. When the shop was empty I went and browsed through the racks, holding a series of floor length gowns up to myself in the mirror, fantasizing about how I would look with the right make-up and shoes. There was a blue satin 1950's one with a circular skirt I particularly liked.

‘That looks good. You should buy it,’ said a voice behind me. It was Stella.

I grinned and put it back quickly, embarrassed that I had been caught.

‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘Good. How did you go at Anna’s?’

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‘Okay, I think. It was nice of her to invite me, but she seems pretty lonely.’

‘When you get to that age and most of the people you knew are dead, I guess you start to see yourself as a survivor,’ said Stella.

‘Yes.’ I remembered I was supposed to be working. ‘Were you looking to buy something?’

‘Actually, I came in to see you. I thought I might go to Nell’s on

Saturday night. They have good music and a dance floor. Would you like to come?’

‘Sure, that sounds great.’ I knew that Nell’s was the place to go in

New York. Nell Campbell was a flamboyant red haired Australian who had managed to, as someone had put it, ‘out New York the natives’, by running a very successful nightclub.

‘I should warn you, there’s no guarantee we’ll get in, but if we dress the part, the chances are higher,’ said Stella.

‘Perhaps I will have to buy something then.’

‘Come to my place around nine o’clock on Saturday.’

‘Maud, would you mind if I took part of my wages as a dress this week?’ I asked when she came back.

‘Of course not. I’ve always thought you’d look good dressed up.

Which one do you like?’

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‘I’m not sure yet. It’s between these two,’ I said, fetching the blue satin one and another, white and long, with ‘primitive’ pleating running down to ankle length.

‘Try them on,’ Maud insisted.

The blue satin was lined with silk and the skirt swirled out. I came out of the change room and did a turn between the racks, looking into the full length mirror. It was pretty, but I felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland.

All that was missing was the hair band.

‘That’s nice,’ said Maud, over the shoulder of a customer.

He turned and I saw it was the man who’d come into the shop the other day looking for the headdress. He raised an eyebrow. I disappeared back into the change room and took off the dress, hanging it up and wriggling into the white low cut sheath, that clung to my breasts and hips.

Although close, the primitive-pleating made it very comfortable and easy to move in. I pulled back the curtain and took a few steps for Maud’s appraisal. The man at the counter was standing with his arms folded and gave a long, low whistle. I ignored him.

‘That one,’ said Maud. ‘It’s perfect. Wait a minute.’ She unlocked the glass jewellery counter and picked up a necklace with blue stones, coming over to me and putting it around my neck. It finished off the dress beautifully. I looked so elegant, I hardly recognised myself. ‘Take the necklace with you and bring it back on Monday,’ she said.

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‘Thanks Maud, and I’ll buy the dress.’

‘Let me buy it for you,’ the man interjected.

I stared at him. ‘No thanks,’ I said, with a hint of disdain. He shrugged and when I came back out of the change room, he had gone.

When I arrived at Stella’s apartment adjoining the studio on

Saturday night, she gave me a peck on the cheek and looked me up and down. ‘Wow. You look fabulous.’

‘With a bit of help from Maud,’ I smiled.

‘It’s an amazing shop, isn’t it? I’ve been going there for years. I don’t know where she finds all that stuff. Tell me, is it really all from the actresses?’

I shrugged. ‘Search me. It could be for all I know.’ I felt loyal towards Maud.

Stella was wearing a black dress, with a deep red shawl around her shoulders. With her black hair, it made her look Spanish. ‘You remind me of a flamenco dancer,’ I said.

She lifted one hand above her and clicked her fingers, like castanets and did a turn. ‘Olé’ she said. ‘Shall we go? Is it raining outside?’

‘It has just started to drizzle.’

She grabbed an umbrella from the corner of the hall as we left.

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We caught a yellow cab downtown. I was surprised to see a long line of people stretching from the doorway of an older building. We joined the queue at the velvet ropes and stood patiently, brolly over our heads. A long, low limousine pulled up to the curb and disgorged an expensively dressed couple. She had fluffed up blonde hair, a pink sheath dress and sparkled with diamonds. He was all tan and tuxedo. They ignored the queue, walking straight past us to the top of the stairs, where the liveried doorman let them in at once.

‘Hey,’ I objected. ‘That’s not fair.’ I was surprised by the passivity of the rest of the people in line. In Australia, they would have been jeered and heckled for queue jumping.

‘That’s Donald Berman, the property developer and his wife. They live in the Dakota building,’ Stella explained.

‘Where’s that?’

‘It overlooks Central Park. Lots of famous people like Judy Garland and John Lennon used to live there.’

‘So why did they let them in?’

Stella stared at me as if I was being particularly dense.

‘That’s the fame game.’

Gradually the queue inched forward as people were either admitted or turned away. Some gave up and wandered off.

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‘So we might get to the head of this queue and still not get in?’ I was getting tired of waiting.

‘That’s right.’

‘What determines it?’

‘Well, if you’re not recognisably famous, you at least need to be decorative. I think we qualify,’ she said.

I didn’t like being categorised as decorative and I was becoming less enamoured with the concept of Nell’s by the minute. Another car drew up, a black one this time, and the driver came around to the back passenger side to open the door. A tall scrawny man with messy long black hair got out, wearing dark glasses that must have reduced his night sight considerably.

‘Do you know who that is?’ Stella whispered. I looked closely. The lanky figure did seem kind of familiar.

‘Christ, it’s Mick Jagger.’

A woman with a swathe of long blonde hair joined him, and they bounced up the stairs without a sideways glance at us.

We were still some distance from the door and I hadn’t seen the doorman look at us even once.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ I said. ‘Come with me.’

‘Are you mad?’ asked Stella. ‘It’s taken ages to get to here.’

‘If we do make it inside, it won’t be for another hour or more.

Please, just come with me. I’m going to try and get us in straight away, but

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first we’re going to walk back up the street.’ I remembered that we had passed a large hotel about a block away.

‘What are we doing?’ she asked on the way, a mixture of amusement and annoyance flitting across her face.

‘I want to try something. If it doesn’t work, I promise I’ll buy you dinner.’

‘Okay.’

There was rank of cabs in the driveway of the hotel and two limousines parked off to one side. I tapped on the window of one and the black chauffeur rolled it down.

‘Excuse me, are you waiting for someone in particular or are you for hire?’ I asked.

‘I’m supposed to be waiting for hotel guests.’

‘Would you take us around the block for twenty-five dollars? You’ll be back here in two minutes.’

‘Okay lady, you’ve got a deal. Hop in.’

We slid into the back and I passed him the money.

‘Can you take us to Nell’s and open the door for us when we get there?’

‘Sure. Anything you say, ma’am.’ He grinned, tipping his cap.

We pulled up to the curb and waited until he had opened the door for us. I got out and headed straight up the stairs, ignoring the queue, Stella

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following. When I got to the top the doorman peered at me, narrowing his eyes.

‘Ma’am?’

I raised my chin. ‘We’re school friend’s of Nell’s,’ I said in my broadest Australian accent. ‘We’ve come to surprise her. Please be a possum and open the door.’

He snapped to and swung the heavy wooden door open.

‘Tamsin!’ said Stella, giggling as it closed behind us.

I looked around at the wood panelling and potted palms. There was a coat room and a large velvet sofa where a smartly dressed couple were sitting with their drinks, engrossed in conversation. The atmosphere reminded me of a large English country house, except that we could hear disco music rising from a set of stairs leading down to our left.

Stella checked her brolly into the cloak room and then said. ‘Shall we get a drink? I owe you one.’

I followed her into a large room, with lots of sofas, chaise longues and large, colourful paintings. There were vases of yellow flowers and uniformed waiters hurrying with trays of food through the mass of people.

The lighting was subdued and the room hazy with smoke. I could smell the sweetness of marijuana. In the corner a pianist was playing a baby grand.

We pushed our way through to the bar and Stella ordered a bottle of champagne. Taking the bottle and a couple of flutes, we found ourselves comfortable chairs in a corner that had just been vacated.

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Looking around at the other patrons, I spotted a group of people that included the property developer and his wife. He was standing talking to an attractive brunette, who was looking up at him adoringly, her hand on his arm. His wife stood on the side-lines, smile fixed and artificial.

‘That marriage is not going to last long,’ I commented to Stella.

‘Most don’t,’ she said.

‘Have you ever thought about it?’ I asked.

‘Not really. I go out with a lot of people, but I think being married would cramp my style too much. How about you?’

‘I was asked recently and ran a mile. Well, over to here that is.’

‘Poor man.’

‘Yeah.’ I grinned wryly. ‘Can you see Mick?’ I asked, changing the subject.

‘No, he’s probably downstairs dancing. I can see Jack Nicholson though.’

‘Where?’

‘On the other side of the room.’ She pointed discretely.

‘God! It is too.’ He must have been telling a funny story, because the cluster of people around him, mostly women, were laughing loudly.

I sipped my champagne. If you judged the world on the contents of this room, you would think most people were white, affluent and either attractive or famous. Or both. There was a shine about them, a veneer of health and vitality that made it fun to be part of such a scene, no matter how

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temporarily. The thing I liked about it was the easy affluence and the low key luxury; the atmosphere of comfort and the feeling once we’d passed the test, we were all on the same level.

‘Shall we go down and dance?’ said Stella.

‘Sure. I might just go to the ladies first though. Where is it?’ Stella pointed and I followed her direction.

The bathroom was large, with a wall of mirrors surrounded by lights, like a stage dressing room. When I came out of the cubicle a wafer thin, very beautiful young woman with impossibly high stilettoes was leaning over the vanity. I wondered if she was ill, but as I washed my hands I realised she was sniffing a line of coke through a rolled up bill. She glanced up and gave me a dazzling smile.

‘Like some?’

I hesitated. I hadn’t tried cocaine before, but suddenly thought, why the hell not?

‘Thanks. That would be great.’

She cut a line for me with a gold Amex card and handed me the rolled up $50 note.

As I sniffed, holding my other nostril, a burning sensation invaded my nose and hit the back of my throat. I immediately felt a rush to my head and a high buzz. I thanked her again and went back to Stella, energised and feeling very much alive.

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Downstairs the music was throbbing to a Latin beat. We joined the crowd and began to dance, jostling in the seething mass of bodies. There was a primal quality to the rhythm and the unavoidable contact with strangers. High and happy, I abandoned myself to the music. I was conscious of people around me looking at me as I danced and it felt good.

The beat changed to something up tempo and the rhythm became more frantic, hips bumping, upper bodies touching. I was slick with sweat and as the song finished, decided to get some fresh air. I had completely lost sight of Stella, but found the exit and wandered down a corridor.

At the end of the hallway was an open window and I stood by it, inhaling the blast of fresh air with gratitude. I blinked. The sky was lightening as though it was morning, yet it was close to midnight. I felt suddenly disoriented. A rush of air touched my cheek and I looked up to see a grey bird flying along the corridor. It circled, brushing against the glass, and I realised it was trying to get out. The window wasn’t open wide enough and I leaned to push it further. I was startled by a dark shape on the periphery of my vision. The bird gave a cry that sounded like, ‘Come, come,’ as it flew past me. I teetered momentarily on the sill, before losing my balance. The next sensation was of falling helplessly, the concrete zooming up to meet me, but before I crashed to the ground, I felt myself floating. An exhilarated relief filled me and I glided, following the grey bird between tall buildings, rising over the brown slick of a river with small

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boats and their apostrophes of white wake, past a small island and out to a hazy sea.

Then shimmering in the air, the attenuated notes of a classical melody. I blinked again and found myself standing in a formal lounge room, just behind a grand piano. There was a large, ornate striped couch to my left and a small table. I wondered how I came to be here and looked down at my hands, which seemed reassuringly familiar, except the silver ring I usually wore was gone and loose white sleeves covered my wrists.

Soft light emanated from a lamp covered by a shawl and on the other side of the room I could see two small groups of people in conversation. The murmur of talk was punctuated by laughter.

A large, bearded man detached himself from the closest group and walked towards me. I was sure I had seen him before. The name Augustin popped into my head; Gus.

‘Dora, are you alright? You look rather pale,’ he said, taking my arm.

‘Yes,’ I said, gasping at the touch, which felt real enough. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Well, come over here and meet our guest,’ he said as he guided me firmly toward the group.

A tall, slender man with an unruly mop of shoulder length golden hair turned to look at me. A lock of hair fell into his eyes and he flicked it

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back with impatience. I noticed his white shirt collar, cravat and waistcoat.

He squinted slightly, as if to see me better.

‘Mr Craig, please meet my sister, Isadora,’ said Gus.

‘Oh.’ The tall man laughed. ‘So you’re Isadora. I’m afraid I mistook your sister Elizabeth for you earlier,’ he said, gesturing to a small, plump woman with ankle length dark skirts and a walking stick in the other group. He leaned close to my ear, ‘I don’t see very well without my glasses.’

I felt myself relax into the strange situation. A door opened in my mind and memory came flooding back. Like putting on a coat. I was

Isadora, here in Berlin with my family.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Craig,’ I said.

‘Please, call me Ted. All my friends do.’

Gus addressed me, ‘Ted has been doing some new set designs for

Venice Preserved. Quite revolutionary I believe.’

‘Yes, I’ve been working on them for several months. It’s very hard though, to make Otto see that they’ll be perfect. I’m afraid we’ve come to rather an impasse.’

‘Who’s Otto?’

‘Otto Brahm, the director of The German Theatre Company.’

‘Genius is seldom appreciated immediately,’ Gus interceded. ‘Just look at the mixed reviews that Isadora has been getting in the newspapers and journals. Have you seen Isadora dance yet?’

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‘No, I haven’t had that privilege,’ Ted said, smiling at me. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Perhaps he thought he was bound to find the spectacle of a young American woman prancing around on stage barefoot, as he had no doubt heard, ridiculous.

‘Oh, but you must,’ said Gus, his large, expressive face glowing with pride.

‘Dora, we’ll arrange a ticket to tomorrow night’s performance.’

Elizabeth called his name and he walked off.

Ted held his hand up. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I will have the time. I’ve got a very strict schedule to complete my work. My exhibition opens shortly.’

If he had as little time as all that, then he should not be here tonight – obviously it depended on what he considered important. I thought him rude and looked at him sceptically. Changing the subject, I asked, ‘How long have you been in Berlin, Mr Craig?’

He had moved closer, ignoring my question, ‘I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere before. But not here in Berlin.’

I was perfectly sure he hadn’t. People frequently remarked that they thought they had met me previously, an occurrence I attributed to them having seen my picture in a journal or newspaper. He was looking at me as a man looks at a woman he has only just noticed is attractive. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I glanced in a mirror on the wall. My hair was coiled at the nape of my neck and I wore no jewellery, unlike the other women in

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the room. My dress was the simple tunic I had adopted as my own, of creamy fine spun wool, with a concession to the climate of long sleeves and a shawl. It was infinitely more comfortable than the fashions dictated. But then, I had never been one to follow fashion. His eyes ran over my body in a way that made me sure he could see I wasn’t wearing a corset. I smiled, and repeated my question. ‘ How long have you been in Berlin?’

‘About two months.’

‘I’m sure we haven’t met. It does seem strange that we haven’t been introduced before this.’

‘I haven’t been out much. I’ve been stuck in my studio working on my art. Elise only brought me over tonight, because she said I needed some air. She said I was getting stuffy, locked away.’

‘Ah yes, I know that one. I spend hours in my studio with whomever is playing the piano. Sometimes we start in the morning and then when we come out it’s dark, and the day has simply vanished without us even realising we’ve missed lunch or dinner.’

Our eyes held, gazing intently. Despite my earlier reservations, a current was beginning to flow, words bubbling along on the surface.

Remembering something I had heard, I said ‘I believe you’re the son of

Ellen Terry.’

‘Yes, I am.’

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‘How wonderful. She’s one of the best actresses I’ve ever seen. I saw her perform in London two years ago. In Tristan and Isolde. She became Isolde. I wept at the end.’

‘Yes, she’s an extraordinary woman. And generous to a fault. But sometimes one feels rather...weighed down by so much talent . Mother finds it hard to stop acting, which can make things at home a touch difficile.’ He paused and smiled. ‘I don’t normally talk about her like this. My usual response is just to agree with people.’

‘I know what you mean.’ Someone offered me a glass of champagne. I took it and turned back to Mr Craig. ‘So you grew up with the theatre?’

‘Yes. When I started to draw it seemed like a natural progression to do theatre sets.’

‘I have heard of your work. I saw a review of The Mask of Love. It said that you had done away with all the frippery and reduced the set to its essence. I really liked that, because it’s what I try to do when I dance. The ancient Greeks managed to achieve it, but most artists appear to have forgotten how to do that these days.’

‘I don’t know if it’s a matter of forgetting, or it being covered up by so many other interpretations that the arts are drowning in them. I heard about your speech at the Berlin Press Club last year. I believe you caused quite a sensation.’

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I smiled. ‘The Dance of the Future. Why did they behave as if what

I propose is such a revolutionary idea, to get back to basics, in touch with the elemental? The Greeks were doing it thousands of years ago.’

He nodded sagely and I continued. ‘I found this lovely book about

Greek theatre. I must show you. I’ll go and get it,’ I said, suddenly feeling giddy. Perhaps it was the wine.

‘Are you okay?’ a man’s voice was saying.

‘What?’

‘I said, are you okay?’

I turned, feeling disorientated. I was back in the corridor by the open window of the nightclub and a handsome man with dark hair and a white silk shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, was standing close to me. He looked familiar.

‘Um... yes. I’m sorry. I was deep in thought. Why? Did I look strange?’

‘I just hoped you weren’t planning to jump,’ he said, indicating the window. ‘At least not before we had a chance to meet properly. My name’s

Steve.’

I extended my hand. He looked amused by the formality, but shook it. His grasp was firm and dry. ‘I’m Tamsin. Haven’t I met you somewhere?’

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‘You don’t remember? I’m mortified,’ he said, not looking mortified at all. ‘I’ve been in your shop a couple of times. I even offered to buy that fabulous dress for you.’

‘Oh my god. It’s you. Of course. I’m so sorry.’

‘Shall we find a place to sit? Can I get you a drink?’

‘That would be excellent.’

‘What would you like? No, let me guess. Either a vodka and orange or a martini.’

‘A martini would be fine, thanks.’

‘Promise you won’t run away while I’m gone.’

I planted myself on the empty sofa nearby and smiled up at him sweetly. ‘I wasn’t planning on it.’

As he walked away to get the drinks I stared at the wall with the curious sensation of not being able to tell how far away it was. It went in and out of focus and then sharpened to become a set of stairs, leading up. I rose and began climbing them.

The first door I came to on the next floor was ajar. Inside there was a small fire in the grate, which cast a dim, unsteady light. The room was elegantly, but simply furnished with a high single bed, a tall dark wardrobe and red velvet curtains closed against the night. Between the curtains and the bed was a marble topped dressing table on which rested a large white porcelain bowl and jug. The jug was full of water and I splashed some into

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the bowl to wet my face. The coldness on my skin was invigorating.

Patting my face dry with a small embroidered handtowel, I looked over to the bed and saw a book lying on the coverlet. I knew that this was what I had come for.

When I came back into the lounge room, Ted, as I had now resolved to call him, was standing alone by the window. I walked across the Persian carpet to join him and we looked out into the snow covered street below.

We didn’t say anything, simply observed the same view. The gas lamps cast long shadows on the powdery snow. A carriage was passing, the coachman heavily rugged up. The window was slightly ajar, as Gus and a couple of others were smoking, and we could just hear the tinkle of bells and the coachman swearing at the horses in guttural German. As the carriage passed beneath the lamp, we could see the cloud of steam from their nostrils. I was aware of the warmth of Ted’s body next to mine.

After a few moments he turned his face toward me.

‘You have a real air of calmness about you. I find it hard to imagine you getting upset about anything. You’re so different from the theatre people I usually deal with.’

I smiled, liking him. He glowed back at me, full of vitality and intelligence.

‘Would you like to view my designs?’ he asked.

I sensed he was sincere. ‘Yes, I would love to, if you’ll come and see my performance.’

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‘Of course I will,’ he replied.

The chaise was unoccupied, so we sat with our heads close together as I turned the pages of the book. The pictures were of Greek gods, dancing figures and on-stage impressions of the work of Socrates and

Aristophanes.

‘Look at this line...and this,’ Ted said, pointing to a Greek set.

‘Designers strive so hard to make their work look complex, thinking that somehow it makes it better. If it’s difficult to comprehend, then they are considered clever by those who understand even less. They had it right in ancient theatre. What I see in these is authenticity and purity.’

‘Absolutely. When I dance, I try to let myself go back to that purity

– to touch the source and let it be expressed through the way I move.’

‘Yes. Over time, many artists have become lazy. Usually they emulate – dress up the work of someone else – rather than be original, because it’s easier.’

‘Which of course dilutes what the artist originally intended with the work.’

‘Exactly. Because it’s not about...’

‘No,’ I exclaimed, excited. ‘It’s about feeling that is produced on the deepest level. We have to go back to the wellspring. I don’t repeat dances exactly the same twice, because it’s more important to capture that original inspiration.’

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‘Where the force of creation comes from. Elaboration is the enemy of art.’

‘And Art is life. Not separated from it, a neat little hobby you can play at when you are not doing other things. You must live your expressions fully, in the moment.’

‘And express them without fear.’

‘Of judgement.’

Sometimes my arm would brush his as I turned the page of the book to another illustration, or when he was enthusiastically making a point, Ted would touch mine with his long fingers. I enjoyed the closeness of him and his musky natural scent. It was extraordinary to meet someone who held such similar ideas to my own. I felt myself almost swooning with pleasure.

But the ground was shifting.

‘Here you are. Just what the lady ordered.’ Steve did a mock bow and handed me my martini, before sitting down next to me. I was thrown. I felt as though we should be continuing the conversation I had just been having in my head, but was sane enough to realise he’d find that peculiar.

‘Thanks,’ I said, gulping at my drink.

‘So I detect an accent. Are you English?’

‘No I’m actually a Jamaican princess. I’ve just escaped an abduction attempt by Arabs.’

‘What? Oh I get it,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘You’re Australian.’

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‘Bingo.’

‘I like your chutzpah.’

‘Thank you. Yours isn’t bad either. What do you do?’

‘I’m a photographer,’ said Steve.

‘What type of photography?’

‘Fashion and advertising. I mostly freelance for magazines.’

‘That must be a tough game.’

‘Sometimes. Well, not really when you’ve got to my level. They mostly come to me now.’

‘So you source your own props? I did wonder what the tiara was for.’

He grinned. ‘Yeah. Maud carries some pretty unusual stuff – not to mention her offsider. Have you always worked in retail?’

‘Christ no. I’m a journalist,’ I replied. ‘Or rather, I was until recently. I’m giving it a break for a while.’

‘That’s brave. Won’t it be hard to get back in?’

‘I don’t know yet. I haven’t tried, but I’m not too worried.’ I realised that was true.

While I was talking, my mind kept drifting back to where I had just been in my head and I fought to keep myself in the present. I couldn’t vague out on this guy, he was too sharp.

I finished my drink and put down my glass.

‘Shall we dance?’ I said.

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‘Why, sure,’ he said, looking surprised. He must have been imagining a cosy tête a tête for a while.

I led the way back into the throbbing, pulsing room. I spotted Stella, who appeared to have teamed up with a tall black man. We waved and smiled. Steve and I found ourselves a space and began to move to the beat.

He wasn’t a bad dancer, with a lean but muscular body and a natural sense of rhythm. We had been dancing for a while when the room began to become fainter, less substantial, as though I was looking at a projected image and I thought I was about to pass out.

I was standing in the wings, looking onto a stage. My blue curtains, the ones that I took with me everywhere I danced, were hung between simple Greek columns a couple of metres high, creating a semi-circle. They were softly lit. In the far left corner was a grand piano. On the opposite side, the pianist, a small man with an oversize moustache, appeared on the stage. Acknowledging the applause with a bow, he took his seat with his back to the audience and started to play a Chopin prelude. I moved backstage to where the curtains overlapped and waited until he had finished before entering.

In a few steps I was standing by the piano. I did nothing, simply stood, with my head tilted slightly, listening intently, looking into the middle distance without focussing. I was wearing a white knee-length tunic, sleeveless and gathered at the shoulders, with a tie at my waist and another

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criss-crossing my breasts. My legs and feet were bare, hair tied back softly, with tendrils escaping. Another prelude began and still I remained motionless. Then a ripple ran through me, my hands began to move and I took a step sideways. My whole body flowed gently but articulately in response to the notes. I made no grand gestures or dramatic turns as a ballerina might, but simply walked across the stage. Picking up pace, I began to run, opening and extending my arms, spreading my fingers, in a continuous stream of fluid movement; becoming a part of the space, as it became part of me. Then I was floating, borne by the music; describing the shape of the notes in the air as they fell.

Each piece I did, I let myself go completely, pouring out energy, beyond the boundaries of my vision, to the audience that lay hidden in the darkness. As the strains of the piano finally died, I ran from the stage, the notes trailing after me.

I came to and panicked. Music still surrounded me, throbbing and hammering, beating me like a piece of metal on an anvil. My head hurt.

The lights were flashing warnings and the people around me were too close, pressing in. I had to get out. I pushed through the mass of bodies to the edge and ran into the corridor, gasping. Steve was right behind me.

‘Tamsin, what’s wrong?’

‘I’m sorry. I just suddenly felt faint. I got very disorientated.’ I forced myself to take slow deep breaths and started to feel a little better.

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‘Can I take you home?’ he asked.

‘Yes, alright. Thanks. I just need to sit for a minute.’

He helped me to the sofa and I closed my eyes.

I could hear a set of footsteps walking briskly up a wooden corridor.

They paused by my door and I heard an uncertain tap.

‘Entreé,’ I called.

Ted entered, softly closing the door behind him. He came over to my chair and squatted down, taking my hands in his. At first he didn’t say anything, just looked into my eyes. He didn’t need to speak. I felt we understood each other. Far away, in the distance, the rumble of applause could still be heard, continuing on and on.

After a while he reached up and stroked my cheek. ‘It’s as if you are speaking your own language when you dance. You and the music, inseparable, one, telling us the very things we long to hear. I have never seen anything so beautiful.’

I felt exhausted, but exhilarated. I was immensely happy that he’d understood. ‘Let’s go before anyone comes,’ I said.

‘What did you say?’ a voice said.

I opened my eyes and saw Steve. This was getting too strange. I wished I hadn’t had the coke on top of the champagne and then the martini to top it off.

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‘Let’s go.’

‘So you’re feeling better?’

‘Yes. I’ll probably be alright if I have something to eat.’

‘I could make you an omelette or something.’

‘Okay.’

He took my arm and helped me up like I was an invalid.

‘Wait a second,’ I said, regaining some strength. ‘I must just say goodbye to my friend.’

We put our heads in the disco, but I didn’t see Stella and couldn’t face going all the way back in. ‘Let’s leave it,’ I said in his ear. ‘She knows

I’m with you. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.’

He escorted me up the stairs and out the front door.

The drizzle had stopped and there was still a queue of people at the velvet ropes, who followed us enviously with their eyes. We stepped onto the pavement and Steve gave a piercing two finger whistle to a passing cab, which swung around to pick us up. We settled in the back seat and a wave of dizziness hit me. I leant over, head between my knees.

I did the straps up on a pair of shoes and stood, as Ted took my heavy dark cape from a hook on the back of the door, putting it carefully over my shoulders. We made our way through the maze of corridors to the stage door and down an alleyway, away from the front of the theatre where the audience would be streaming out. There had been a fresh fall of snow

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while we were inside, rendering the pavement soft underfoot and making a squeaking sound as we walked. The cold air revived me a little. The shops were still lit, many with Christmas trees in the windows. There was a group of carol singers on a street corner, singing Stille Nacht, their noses and cheeks glowing red. We paused for a moment to listen to them, and I dug into my purse and found a few coins to put into their hat.

‘Where would you like to go?’ Ted asked.

‘Let’s go back to my place for dinner. My family will be expecting me and there will be some friends.’

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t come.’

‘Of course you should. I would like you to.’

Ted whistled a passing hansome cab, and the horses came trotting towards us, bells tinkling on their harnesses. We rode the journey in companionable silence, the snow muffling the hooves of the horses.

‘Tamsin, wake up,’ Steve was saying.

I nodded my head vigorously, trying to shake it free of the other reality. ‘Thanks. I’m alright.’

The cab had stopped by an apartment building, the front covered by a red awning. Steve paid off the cab and helped me out. He pushed a security code, the automatic doors opened and we walked through a plush foyer to a set of lifts. He stepped to one side to let me in ahead of him, then pushed the button for the seventh floor.

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The lifted opened opposite his door. Unlocking it, he turned on some lights before ushering me inside. His apartment was open plan and about ten times the size of mine. It had the ambience of one in an architectural magazine – a complete absence of colour, or clutter. There was a black leather and chrome couch, a clear glass coffee table and a desk and dining table in stark white. No cheerful mess of magazines or books.

In fact, I couldn’t see anything personal, unless you counted a couple of photographic lights on stands and several oversize black and white photographs of gorgeous young women framed on the walls.

‘Can I get you a juice to start with, while I make you something to eat?’ Steve asked.

‘Thank you. I’m sorry to be so much trouble. I don’t know what’s come over me.’

‘Don’t worry. Just relax.’ He threw over his shoulder as he walked towards the kitchen.

I shook my head to try and clear it. I was determined to stay in the present and decided not to risk sitting down yet. It was more like a gallery than a living room, I decided, as I walked around, hands clasped behind me.

I moved to have a closer look at the photographs of the women. They were quite a collection and most of them were wearing very few clothes.

Then, before I could do anything the wall blurred to become stairs.

The familiar feeling of slipping was beginning.

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No, I thought, no... but even as I fought against it, the black and white photographs started to become starker and devolved to reveal black lines on white paper.

There were thirty-one drawings of theatre scenes and costume designs, and the others were woodcuts of bucolic English landscapes. Ted stood in the centre of the room, one hand covering his mouth and chin, watching me like a falcon watches a vole. I could see he was nervous. I enjoyed the moment, our positions reversed. I had no intention of telling him that I thought many of his designs excellent. Brilliant even. They were strong, simple and clean lined. I didn’t much care for the landscapes, but then I preferred the real thing.

‘I can’t work out if you are interested or bored,’ he said.

I half turned towards him, with what I hoped was an enigmatic smile.

‘Usually people look at my designs and say a lot of words. Most of them empty,’ he continued.

I walked towards the door, slowly and deliberately, opened it and stepped through. I still didn’t say a word. Turning, our eyes caught and held. I stood outside and looked straight at him until the door came between us and I heard the metallic click of the latch. Then I hurried down the stairs and ran laughing all the way back to my house. My friend, the actress

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Eleanora Duse, had told me , ‘If you care for a man, don’t show it too readily at first. They won’t value it. Make them work for it.’

That afternoon I received a note, slipped through the letter slot in the door by hand. The single word Isadora was scrawled across the envelope. I tore it open with impatience.

There was no greeting.

I must write a line – just to speak – not because I have anything to say.3 I am just amazed by you. You were such a slim streak of whiteness in front of my drawings which are so black. I must know what you think. I will call on you this afternoon. Please tell me everything. I’ll see you very soon! Ted.

A voice brought me back. It dragged me unwillingly through an instant of nausea. I gulped in mouthfuls of air and steadied myself against the wall.

‘So what do you think?’ called Steve from the kitchen.

I had no idea was happening to me and the sense of being out of control was terrifying. I dared not let Steve realise. I ran back over the evening and wondered if he had slipped some sort of drug into my drink.

LSD maybe? I had never heard of cocaine having this effect.

‘Tamsin?’

Get a grip, I told myself. Don’t let him see how affected you are.

‘Umm...Are they all yours?’

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‘Yup.’

‘They’re amazing,’ I lied. I was feeling too sick to care either way, but I forced myself to examine them again. The photographs looked as though he had controlled each element to an obsessive degree. Right down to every strand and lock of hair. To me, the artifice worked against the beauty of the women, draining them of spontaneity, making them appear empty of personality, like dolls, or poodles on show.

‘I was hoping I might photograph you,’ he said, returning with a freshly squeezed orange juice.

‘Me?’ I said, taking the glass. I took a sip. It was fresh and tangy.

‘Well you are beautiful. Your eyes especially. I can just imagine you...’ he said, looking me up and down in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.

‘These women must all be models,’ I said, gesturing at the photos.

‘I’m not.’

‘Wait and see what a bit of make-up and the right lighting can do.’

‘Can I think about it?’

‘Sure,’ he said, shrugging. ‘You’re a strange one. Magazines and model agencies pay me thousands to photograph their girls, and when I offer you a session for free, you say you’ll think about it.’ He laughed. He was beginning to annoy me.

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‘I did tell you I’m not feeling good tonight. It seems like too much to think about at the moment.’ I cast my eyes down to the floor, like an ingénue.

‘Would you still like something to eat?’

‘Thanks Steve, that would be good.’ I didn’t feel like eating, but I wanted to have him occupied so I could think about what to do next. I thought of calling a cab, but another wave of nausea overcame me and I headed for the sofa.

‘I’ll make you that omelette and I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better.’ He made for the kitchen.

As I lay down I thought it was unlikely that a man about to assault me would make me food first. In any case, he’d had the opportunity that first day in the shop. Why wait until now? Anxiety swirled around in my mind and I tried to relax. I closed my eyes and to my relief I didn’t feel the sickening shift that had accompanied the previous episodes. I allowed myself to sink into the sofa.

‘Are you awake?’

I nodded groggily.

‘Ready to eat?’ he asked.

I struggled into a sitting position. I felt about a hundred years old.

My eyes were gritty and my teeth coated with fur. Steve put a tray down on the coffee table and I started to eat automatically. The cheesy omelette was light and fluffy. More like a soufflé.

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‘This is superb,’ I said, between bites, feeling hungry after all. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

‘Not at all. Happy to help.’

‘You’re not eating?’

‘Nope. I had a big meal earlier.’

I ran out of words. I couldn’t think of a thing to ask him, not even polite small talk. I wanted to eat my food and get out of here. I knew he was expecting more and would think me incredibly rude. I ate in silence.

‘You seem very distracted,’ he said as he took my plate.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not myself tonight. Just give me a few moments.’

‘Sure.’ He gathered up the tray. ‘You take it easy while I clean up.’

I nodded. I was going to say something but my mind was drifting slowly away; a leaf on an internal river. I tried to get up, but felt myself pulled back, sinking through a curtain of shadows.

I heard the distinct sound of a rap on the door.

The maid entered. ‘Mr Federn is here, Fraulein Duncan.’

‘Thank you, Martha. Show him in.’ I glanced over at Ted, wondering if he felt as annoyed by the interruption as I did. Even though

Mother was upstairs taking a nap and Raymond and Elizabeth were bound to return from their walk any minute, I had valued this short time alone with him. I felt he had been on the verge of telling me something important.

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Karl entered, carrying a bulky case and what looked like three sticks of wood. I greeted him warmly, as if delighted to see him. After all, it was hardly his fault he had chosen an inconvenient moment to arrive.

‘I wanted to show you my new contraption,’ he said, putting his burden down. ‘Good that you are here, too,’ he nodded at Ted.

He set up the wooden sticks and I saw they were a tripod. Opening the leather case, I saw it was a set of bellows that opened out from a box.

He assembled it carefully, screwing the box onto the tripod and slipping in a lens board, before mounting a lens. He pulled the curtains wider.

‘Can you and Mr Craig sit closer together?’ he asked.

This was no hardship. Then Karl suspended a long black cloth over the camera and disappeared underneath for some minutes. Ted and I returned to our conversation.

‘Isadora,’ Karl called, voice muffled through cloth. I looked up and heard a click.

‘You took it. We weren’t ready!’ I said, laughing.

‘No matter. You both looked fine.’

‘Will you stay for tea?’ I asked him when he reappeared.

‘Thank you, but I can’t. I just came to try the camera out. I’ll give you a print if it works.’

‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘It looks very complicated and impressive.’

After Karl had gone, the others returned and we ate tea together.

Raymond and Elizabeth were very talkative, which made up for Ted and

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me, as we were feeling unusually quiet. There was also Mary Desti, an

American friend of mine, at the table and she chatted away happily.

The others made their excuses and disappeared into various rooms. I think they realised something was up and wanted to leave Ted and me alone. We returned to the lounge and resumed our favourite seat on the couch.

‘Tell me a story,’ Ted asked like a little boy.

‘Alright. Would you like the story of Psyche? Have you heard it before?’

‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve never heard you tell it.’ He leaned against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

I cleared my throat. ‘Psyche was a princess, a mortal being so beautiful and graceful that the goddess Aphrodite grew jealous of her. One day she ordered her son Eros, the god of love, to make Psyche fall in love with the ugliest man in the world. Now Eros was tired of doing every one else’s bidding. He’d even got bored with making mischief, getting one person to fall in love with another who didn’t care for them.

‘Instead, Eros fell in love with Psyche and he spirited her away to a secluded palace. It was high on a mountain top, overlooking the sea.

Fearful she might realise he was a god and not a man, he visited her only at night so she wouldn’t recognise him. He told her that if she ever looked on his face, then something terrible would happen. But she couldn’t resist.

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After all, there is no surer way of getting someone to do something than to tell them they mustn’t do it.

‘One night while he was asleep beside her, she lit a lamp and looked at him. He was the most exquisite being she had ever seen.’

At this point my gaze lingered on Ted’s beautiful, almost feminine face. His eyes were still closed and he was breathing deeply. I could see the resemblance to his famous mother, Ellen Terry. I wondered if he’d gone to sleep.

‘Go on,’ he said softly.

‘She felt such immense love for him she hadn’t known it was possible. But at that moment, Eros awoke and cried, What have you done?

And he leapt up and left the palace. Psyche searched everywhere for him, but he wasn’t to be found. She wandered the world for many years alone, miserable, the light gone out of her life. Eros could look down and see her from above. ‘She’ll recover from it.’ all the other gods said, but eventually he couldn’t bear to see her suffer any more. He asked for the help of Jupiter, who made her immortal. So they could stay together forever.’

Ted’s eyes stayed closed, but his hand moved to cover mine on my lap. He squeezed it gently. Then he took it and caressed the fingers. It felt strange to have him actually touch me. There had been such a build up of electricity between us and now my hand became the most alive part of my body. His fingers were strong and broad- tipped, the palms with simian

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square thumbs. They were the most masculine thing about him. ‘You could do a lot of damage with these thumbs,’ I said.

‘Didn’t I tell you? I have a second career as a murderer,’ he said, putting his hands gently around my throat. I laughed.

The dining room door opened and Mary came in. She noticed our peculiar pose and raised her eyebrows but, ‘Goodbye, you two, see you tomorrow,’ was the only thing she said. She blew us a kiss and turned to go out the front door. Ted and I looked at each other, both thinking of escape.

We got up from the couch and grabbed our coats and my bag off the hooks.

Ted held the front door open. Just then, Gus came down the other stairs from the bedrooms.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Out,’ I said.

‘Isadora, it’s not a good idea.’

I ignored him and Ted and I flew out the door and clattered down the stairs.

Outside we joined hands and ran down the cobble-stoned street, jumping over puddles of melting snow, giggling like naughty children.

‘Mother will be so angry,’ I said.

It was very dark, except for the candescence of the gas lanterns. We walked into the centre of town looking for a carriage, but there was none to be found.

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‘We can’t go to my place. My landlady is a dragon. We could go to my studio.’ Ted suggested. But I wasn’t ready for that. We were on an adventure. I wanted to go somewhere, anywhere, away from here. Away from the confines of family and who I was supposed to be.

‘Let’s go to Potsdam,’ I said.

Outside one of the big hotels we found a hansome cab, the driver smoking a pipe.

‘My wife and I would like to go to Potsdam,’ Ted told him, in

German.

‘Your wife!’ I hissed.

‘He won’t take us otherwise, you know that,’ Ted said in a low voice.

We reclined back on padded seats, in the private cocoon scented of leather and wood.

‘Did you get my letter?’ Ted asked.

‘Yes of course I did.’

‘I had to come and see you. I couldn’t do any work.’

The confession was disarming. His original intention, to find out my opinion of his drawings, seemed to have been forgotten. We hadn’t even mentioned them.

He put his arm around my shoulders and I pressed against him with the sway of the carriage. I kissed his neck and he caressed my face, taking my chin in his large hand and returning the kiss full on my lips. His lips

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were very soft. I parted mine and his tongue started to explore my mouth.

He tasted sweet and warm. Delicious sensations were running up and down my body. I wanted to be as close as possible to this amazing man, to meld into him.

‘You are my Psyche,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s not go to Potsdam after all. Be with me.’

‘Yes.’

Ted slid down the window and called to the driver, who manoeuvred the horses around and we drove back into Berlin. The cab dropped us in front of his studio. He helped me down and paid off the cab driver.

What am I doing here? I thought, as I followed him up the stairs... but there was no going back.

‘Wait a moment,’ Ted said, as the door swung open. The room was a dark cave. A match flared and he appeared carrying a candle, the light beneath his face making him appear other worldly. ‘Come in,’ he said.

The flame threw shadows off the walls and made strange shapes move in his drawings. The highly polished black waxed floor was as deep as a lake, with red rose petals floating on the surface. Small boats of bright colour. The draft shutting the door caused them to flutter and settle afresh.

I stooped to pick one up and rubbing between my thumb and forefinger, realised it was made from silk.

‘How lovely.’

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Ted was walking around the room, lighting more candles from the one he was already holding. I looked around for somewhere for us to sit, but there was no furniture apart from a small Japanese cabinet, an easel with a half finished drawing on it and a wooden stool, resting on a small Turkish carpet. It was cold in the room and I was grateful for my fur coat. Ted took the last few steps, then leaned down to put the candle near our feet. He stood up and we looked at one another. The pupils of his short-sighted eyes were enormous in the dim light. I held the lapels of my coat open wide and he came into my arms. We stood like that, just sensing one another, listening to the rhythm of the other breathing. My own heart was loud in my ears.

‘Wait.’ He crossed to the cabinet. ‘I have a rest sometimes in the afternoon and I have a few things in here.’ He pulled out a couple of blankets, a sheet and a pillow. ‘This is it, I’m afraid. I’m sorry it’s so cold.

I ran out of money for the gas and they switched it off.’

We made up a bed in the middle of the black lake of the floor, with a

Turkish carpet on the bottom, the blankets and sheet and then my coat on the top, scrunching up his coat into a pillow. I placed my shoes neatly by the cabinet. Now the moment was actually here I was nervous, delaying.

‘What is it?’ He asked, as we sat on the nest we had made. ‘You’re trembling from more than just the cold.’

I shook my head. I had only had one lover before and I had been badly hurt by his rejection. Ted was different, but I was still fearful. He

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lifted my hand to his lips and began to kiss the tips of the fingers, taking them one by one into the soft, warm wetness of his mouth. It was the most intimate gesture and it echoed all the way through me, seeking out my own moist, secret places.

We got into the bed. His hands were cold as they slid under my clothes, but now I felt impatient to get rid of everything that separated us.

We helped each other emerge from our chrysalises. His body was lithe, white and gleaming, a being in spirit form, but the hardness as he slid into me was very real. As in dance, my body took over and I couldn’t think anymore, only feel, in wave after wave of pure sensation.

‘Where do I end and you begin?’ I murmured.

‘We were born to be together like this. We are twin souls,’ he whispered.

I opened myself completely, free-falling straight into the depths of him – everything known and unknown. The wave of ecstasy, when it came, was irresistible, overwhelming and I could not but cry out.

Then, as if caught in a rip tide, I felt myself being dragged away from the place I most wanted to be.

I focussed on the face inches from mine and gasped with fright.

Instead of Ted it was Steve kneeling on the floor beside me, staring into my eyes, stroking my hair.

Oh Jesus. How did we get to here?

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‘Shall we lie down Tamsin? In the bedroom?’

‘Steve, I really appreciate the omelette, but I don’t...’

‘Shush...’ he murmured, putting a finger to my lips and leaning forward to kiss me.

‘No,’ I said firmly. Astonishment crossed his face and he pulled back as sharply as if I had slapped him.

‘What do you mean, no? You give me the biggest come on and then push me away? What kind of joke is this?’ he snapped.

‘I’ve really got to go.’ I grabbed my purse and stood up.

‘You bitch.’

‘Steve...’

‘Don’t Steve me. Get out of here,’ he said, in a voice that would freeze mercury.

I walked hurriedly to the door and opened it. ‘Sorry. Thanks for the fabulous omelette,’ I said and slammed it behind me.

I walked along the wet street for a long way. I passed only a couple of other people and, at this late hour, felt conspicuous and vulnerable in my glamorous dress. Finally I managed to hale a passing cab and got home.

Stripping off my shoes and dress, I crawled into bed without even cleaning my teeth, shaking from more than just tiredness. I stared into the darkness, aware of the rise and fall of another person breathing beside me.

A sense of calm flooded through me.

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I heard a voice.

‘Isadora, I have to tell you something.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m getting married in four months.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry. I should have said so before, except it didn’t seem important.’

I paused and breathed deeply. ‘It’s not. I don’t believe in marriage anyway.’ I said. ‘Any intelligent woman who reads the marriage contract and then goes into it, deserves all the consequences.4 It didn’t save my mother.’

‘I’m glad you feel like that about it. It needn’t affect us.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Elena Meo. She lives in London, but her background is Italian.’

‘Is she artistic?’

‘She’s a violinist.’

I felt a vicious stab of jealousy. Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself.

Our love should be above that. He reached out for me and we began to kiss again.

I was drifting, I could feel the gentleness of his hands on my body and inhale his musky scent. I couldn’t get enough of him. But he was becoming transparent and vanishing, until my hands were grasping at air.

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‘No,’ I said, and woke up.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

I turned my head to scan the room. Reality check. I was in my tiny flat in New York. It was 7.25 on a Sunday morning and light was streaming in the window. What the hell had happened last night? I vaguely remembered a confused miasma of a club and dancing to disco music, then being on stage. Looking at drawings or was it photographs? Making delicious love and then not wanting to. No, I hadn’t or...I felt the wetness between my legs, before bringing my fingers up to my nose. There was no scent of sperm, thank Christ. What was going on?

Last night, the experience of being Isadora had felt as real as the present did now. I shivered. Dreams belonged at night, relegated to the comfortable world of sleep and quickly dismissed or forgotten. I, on the other hand, had been hallucinating out of control.

I ran through the chronology of events. I could see Steve passing me the martini, with the olive on the side. Had he slipped some drug in it? But the tripping – there was no other word for it – had begun before I met up with him. I remembered the girl with lines of coke laid out neatly in the bathroom. That was the most likely explanation. I had never heard of it being hallucinogenic, but then I had never tried it before. Perhaps it reacted that way with alcohol. I certainly wasn’t going to do that again. It was way too scary.

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I hoped Stella’s night had been less strange than mine. I wanted to give her a call, to reassure myself of normal life. It was a bit early though.

She could still be shooting a few hoops with the guy who’d looked like a professional basketball player.

Whom could I call? I wasn’t ready to admit to my friend Helen that

I wasn’t working at the The New York Post. I would ring my mother. We didn’t talk very often. I dialled the number and waited. I imagined it ringing in her suburban lounge room.

‘Hello. Christine Riley speaking.’ Her best clipped telephone voice almost drowned by the undignified barking of a Labrador.

‘Hi Mum, it’s me.’

‘Tamsin! Wait. Rupert, be quiet. How are you? Where are you darling?’

‘I’m fine. I’m still in New York.’

She’d turned away from the phone, muffling it. ‘Paul, it’s Tamsin.’

I heard a grunt then more barking. ‘Rupert!’ Either her new husband – I refused to call him my step-father – had just come in or he was already turning deaf.

‘How are you Mum?’

‘We’re just watching Bleak House on television. It’s very good.’

‘Oh. Sorry to interrupt.’

‘No darling, it’s nice to hear from you. You might have written.’

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‘Yes, I’m sorry about that.’ Two “sorrys” in the first minute. I was already sorry I had rung. That made three.

‘Jessica rang from Hong Kong this morning. The bank has just given her another promotion.’

‘That’s great. Say ‘hi’ to her from me when she calls again.’ I hadn’t spoken to my sister for two years. It wasn’t that we actively disliked one another, we simply had nothing in common except our shared upbringing. Even then, she’d been eight years older and I had been the annoying little sister.

‘She and Marcus are buying another investment property.’

‘Oh yes.’ I couldn’t be less interested.

‘So what time is it there?’

‘It’s early in the morning. Mum I...’ But I could feel her attention was distracted. Either by the television or Paul. It was hopeless.

‘How is the job going?’ she asked. ‘Have you had any trips yet?’

‘The job is fine. Yes, I’ve had a couple of interesting trips.’

I waited for her to ask for details.

‘Well, that’s good,’ she said.

‘Got to go Mum. Take care of yourself.’

‘Alright darling. You take care too. Don’t walk on the streets by yourself at night, will you? I hear it’s not safe in New York.’

‘No Mum. ’Bye.’

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Why couldn’t I have a real conversation with my mother? It followed the same pattern as every other conversation I’d had with her.

Could I have said, ‘Mum, I really need to talk. Ring me back when you’ve got some time?’ But what did I want to talk about? Strange dreams?

Taking drugs? Hallucinations? They were so far out of the realm of her experience she would probably want me to ‘see someone’.

I didn’t feel like going out. But I didn’t want to sit staring at the walls, either. After last night, I was apprehensive about being by myself.

Perhaps I could visit Anna.

I pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt, had a bowl of cornflakes, then went down to knock on her door. At first I thought she wasn’t there, and started to go back up the stairs, but there was a shuffling sound. I heard her fiddling with the bolts and then the door swung open a crack.

‘Who is it?’ she called.

‘Anna, it’s Tamsin. I’m sorry to disturb you. I can come back if it’s not a good time.’

She opened the door wider. I was shocked by her appearance and the change from the cultured, contained woman of a few days earlier. She had on a house dress that had stains down the front and her hair wasn’t done.

‘I’m not very well,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing catching. I would like to see you, if you can bear the mess. Things have got a bit out of hand.’

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I followed her into her room. ‘Out of hand’ was an understatement.

It was even more disorganised and chaotic than it had been the other day. It looked as if she had been attempting to sort out some papers into piles, but got dispirited and dumped them everywhere.

‘Can I make you some coffee?’ she asked. Her wanting to play hostess had a touch of irony. The sink was full of dishes and there were a couple of half finished meals on the little table, among yet more papers and old photos.

‘That would be good,’ I said. ‘Anna, tell me if I’m interfering.

People sometimes say I’m too blunt, but would you like some help?’ I asked. ‘I could straighten up this place a bit. It wouldn’t take very long and it might make it easier for you to find things.’

At first I thought I had gone too far and offended her, because it was a while before she said anything.

‘Thank you. I would really appreciate that.’ Her voice sounded unnaturally thick, as though trying to hold back emotion.

‘Okay. Perhaps I could have that coffee when I’ve finished. Do you mind if I pull the curtains back?’

I went into organising mode. It was a relief to be busy doing something that made me feel capable and in control. Anna sat and told me where to put things. It took more than an hour of moving the piles around, washing the dishes and sweeping, before her place looked comfortable and liveable again.

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‘Have you eaten this morning?’ I asked. She shook her head. ‘I’m starving. I’ll just go and get us something.’

I ran downstairs and along the street to the Seven-Eleven and picked up bread, smoked salmon, cream cheese and capers, lettuce, another packet of coffee and even a bunch of cheerful daises. I was pleased to find that my early morning apprehension had dissipated with the day.

When I returned, Anna had put on another dress, brushed her hair and was looking much better. While I made the sandwiches and a simple salad, Anna set the table and found a vase for the flowers. I brought the plates over and saw she had laid out beautiful lace place mats and old silver knives and forks. The daisies brightened the table. As we ate I had a satisfying look around. The room had been transformed and was comfortable and liveable again.

After lunch, we sat in armchairs sipping coffee.

‘Something strange happened to me last night,’ I said.

‘What was it?’

I told her about being at Nell’s and my strange, involuntary visions, as though I had slipped in and out of episodes in a continuing story. As I told her, it came back to me in vivid detail. I left out sniffing the coke and just said I had had several glasses of alcohol and wondered if one of them had been spiked. She was quiet while I talked, but I knew I had her complete attention.

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When I had finished, she said, ‘So you knew this was Berlin, a long time ago.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you were Isadora.’

I nodded.

‘Tell me more about this young man.’

‘Ted? He was beautiful. Probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. It was more than just his appearance. He seemed to understand me completely.’ I had skimmed over the sex earlier.

‘Ted,’ she murmured. ‘Edward Gordon Craig.’

‘Who?’

‘That was his name. Ted is short for Edward.’

She rose with difficulty, and crossed to the sideboard, sorting through the pile of papers I had put there. She was scattering them again, but I bit my tongue. She peered closely at several photos before she found the one she wanted and passed it over. There were two people sitting side by side on a sofa. One was Isadora, who had her hands clasped together, smiling at the unseen photographer as if her happiness was spilling over, unable to be contained. Sitting close to her was a tall, very attractive man with glasses, who was brushing the hair out of his eyes in a familiar gesture.

I felt as though I had just put a knife in a toaster. My hand started to tremble. I knew this shot – intimately. Karl took it the afternoon Ted came to see me. I stared at it in stunned disbelief. My heart was thumping. I

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glanced down at my sweaty palms. I realised I was hyperventilating as the panic rose, threatening to cut off my air supply with thin fingers of fear.

‘Are you alright?’ said Anna, putting a hand on my arm.

I forced myself to breath slowly, deeply.

‘It’s him. This is the man I saw last night.’

‘I must have shown you this photograph the other day,’ said Anna.

It was a lifeline and, true or not, I grasped it. Relief flooded through me. ‘Yes, you must have and somehow I made up a whole story around it when I was...drunk last night.’ I knew there had to be a rational reason.

‘So how did it go?’ asked Stella when I rang her later.

‘It didn’t,’ I replied. ‘I went to the guy’s place but he turned weird when we got there and I decided I didn’t like him, so I left.’ I didn’t want to mention the strange episodes. It was too much to explain. ‘How about you?

It looked like you were having fun.’

‘Yeah,’ she said. There was a hint of coyness in her voice.

‘Yeah, what?’ It dawned on me. ‘Is he still there?’

‘Yes, indeedy.’

‘Way to go girl. Have a good time.’

‘We are.’

‘Catch up with you later.’ I said.

‘Are you coming to class this week?’

‘I’ll try.’

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After I hung up I found myself wishing I could ring Ted. Just call him for a chat. I frowned at the absurdity of it. What was wrong with me? I had never actually met him and he’d be about a hundred in the unlikely event he was still alive. I didn’t like to think of him old and frail. He’d been so alive and vital. I recalled the way he had touched me and my body responded with a rush of heat between the thighs. There was a corresponding flutter in my solar plexus. Stop it, I thought. Don’t be ridiculous.

When I came home from Feathers and Fings the next afternoon,

Andreas was standing in the doorway of his shop.

‘Miss Tamsin,’ he said formally, ‘Anna asked me to tell you what has happened.’

‘Why, what has happened?’ I asked, suddenly concerned.

‘She had to go.’

‘Go where? Out?’ Why would she let me know if she was going out for the evening? I wasn’t her keeper.

‘They took her.’

Andreas seemed to relish being obtuse.

‘Who took her?’

‘The home came. They rang this morning and said there was a place, but she must take it immediately.’

‘What home?’

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‘The Jewish Home for the Aging Blind,’ he said, as if it was obvious.

‘...Home for the Aging Blind,’ I repeated. ‘Oh, no.’

‘It was for the best. She has been waiting for a place for five years.

She wasn’t well.’

‘But she lived here. This was her home.’

‘I know, I know, but it happens to us all. Look at me, soon I won’t be able to get up the steps and what will happen then? Huh? Or some young punk who thinks I should pay for his next hit will knock me down.

Then where will I be?’

It was unanswerable, but right now I was more concerned about

Anna. I had known her only such a short time but already I felt attached to her.

‘Can I go and see her?’

‘Yes, of course, she left the address.’

‘She can’t have taken everything, what will happen to her stuff?’

Thinking of the wealth of memories contained in the multitude of letters, clippings and photos.

‘Stella will come and sort it out. I think she has some arrangement with a library.’

‘Thanks for waiting to tell me Andreas.’

‘It’s okay. I will miss her too, even that bad temper of hers.’

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I hadn’t seen much evidence of that, except for brief eruptions of impatience.

‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight Miss Tamsin. Those rats still bothering you?’

‘No, Golem did a good job.’

Anna’s door looked as it normally did. I stood for a moment on the landing and thought I would never come down the stairs again and just be able to knock and go and see her. Somehow just knowing she was there had made me feel less lonely.

My pokey little apartment seemed more dismal than ever when I opened the door. For the first time since I had been here I thought about going back to Australia. What was I doing here anyway, so far from my friends and my culture? Perhaps I could go back and say that the job didn’t work out and try and get my old job back. Working in the shop had been interesting initially, but was now becoming routine. How much intelligence did it take to keep the shelves organised and deal with customers? I’d had a bit of free time to look around New York and now even the buzz of being in such a large city was starting to wear off. Perhaps I would give it another week or so, try a couple more papers and if I couldn’t land a job in journalism, then seriously look at going back to Australia.

That night I dreamed I was walking through the glade again. On the table next to the day bed, the flowers in the vase had changed to blue

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delphiniums. The woman was there, as I knew she would be. She was writing something and as I approached, looked up. On seeing me, she gave a smile, as if I was the one person in the world she most wanted to meet.

There was a small seed of anger inside me though, and I tried to speak; to say she had no right to interfere in my waking life as she had, but I found I could not. She wordlessly stretched out her hand. I found myself taking it, looking into her eyes and completely forgetting what it was I had wanted to say. My anger withered away, suddenly irrelevant, and I sat. I remember thinking that the seat had been green and now was maroon.

There was a lurch and I had to steady myself to keep my balance.

My ears were filled with a roaring sound. I was in the belly of a great metal beast, rushing on through the night, one that would let nothing impede it.

Opening the door between carriages, the rush of cold, sharp air made me gasp. One hand gripped the wooden frame while my other fought to keep down my billowing white tunic as the wind surged to fill it like a sail.

Glancing down at the iron fretwork overlaid on the blur of ground beneath, I paused, then jumped across the void.

A fug of warmth embraced me as I stepped into the next carriage.

Further down the corridor a tall gentleman in a black overcoat and top hat brushed past, murmuring, ‘Pardon’, as the swaying of the train forced him to lean against me. I slid the glass door of my compartment closed. The blinds were drawn and it was a relief there was no-one else to contend with.

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The small space, glowing softly yellow in the gas light, was invitingly cosy.

The maroon of the leather seats was outlined with dark wood and the brass racks overhead stacked with luggage.

Leaning against the headrest of smooth leather, I closed my eyes.

More than half my life seemed to be spent in such confined spaces. I much preferred the open, but the steady rhythm of the wheels on the tracks was comforting, like breathing; in out, in out.

I had always considered the Russians staunch followers of ballet and wondered what reception awaited me. After all, Anna Pavlova was their most famous export. Would they be able to watch me with open eyes or would they dismiss what I had to offer as too strange and different?

After a few moments, as I leaned forward to pull the blind, the spring caught and it rolled up with a rattle. It was almost dark now and past my own pale reflection in the window I could see a continual shower of golden sparks from the locomotive as it rattled around a bend. In order to see better, I reached up and lowered the light. Vast fields of whiteness stretched out to the horizon, occasionally interrupted by a village or the silhouette of huddled trees, softened by a mantle of snow. A monochrome world. A sliver of moon rose above a landscape clean as a blank page.

As the train slowed at a station, I caught a glimpse through a cottage window: a tableau of people playing cards, the lamp on the table casting a rich glow on their faces. I felt a surge of envy. Ordinary people, living their lives with the familiar, bound to each other by the habits of

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domesticity, not having to leave people they loved and race through the night to a strange city.

The train started to move again and the rhythm changed, becoming higher in pitch as we crossed a bridge. After a few miles the dark ribbon of water turned to join us and we rode along beside it. A flash of bright pin points, of stars, reflected from the black abyss. Standing, I turned up the lantern and reached to lift my carpet bag from the overhead rack.

Retrieving my leather bound correspondence kit, I settled once more, pulling the small wooden table up from below the window and clipping it in place.

My fountain pen flowed rapidly over thick, smooth sheets of creamy paper as I wrote:

Berlin -St Petersburg. December 23, 1904

Dear – I am passing a river. I don’t know the name but the waters are quite black & the banks covered with snow make the most amazing contrast

– stretching off in great desolate fields with here & there a forest patch – It might be the River Styx – & my poor soul ready to cross to the land of shadows. Dear, you would like to see it – what a picture for you. I’m being borne away away away – the clouds are flying past. Am I transformed into a great bird flying always North? I think so – or am I just –

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Your Isadora who loves you. Yes you.5

On Saturday afternoon I went to see Anna at Brooklyn. The Jewish

Home for the Aging Blind was straight from last century. It looked terribly institutional. Definitely a case of function over form. Perhaps there were some advantages to failing vision, I thought bitterly.

I was directed to a room at the end of a long corridor by a gum chewing young receptionist. My shoes squeaked on the linoleum. The hallway was lined by elderly people seated or in wheelchairs, one of whom plaintively called after me ‘Sister, can you help me?

I found room number thirty-six and paused at the door. There was the faint sound of music from behind it. Beethoven’s Pastorale. I knocked sharply and was rewarded with a familiar voice calling ‘Come in.’

The room was tiny and bare. The sheets and Anna’s lacy nightgown were both white, as were the walls. The only hint of colour was a faint pattern of green leaves on the open curtains. The window faced a brick wall only a couple of feet away, with a fire escape ladder leading from it. Her life was closing down. Even her apartment had seemed spacious in comparison.

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Anna was sitting up in a small single bed, her face profiled against the window. As she heard me enter, she turned her head towards me; her neck, long and graceful, the hair wavy with a faint tinge of red henna. The

Beethoven concerto reached a crescendo and I waited until the sound died away before I spoke.

‘Hello Anna. It’s Tamsin.’

‘Tamsin,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘I knew you’d come.’

‘You left very suddenly. We were just getting to know each other.’

‘I think we already do, quite well.’

I smiled.

‘Can I sit?’ I asked.

‘Of course, my dear. I was forgetting myself. I’m so pleased you came.’

Perching on a plastic chair a few inches away from the bed, I searched her face. The high cheek bones, strong nose and closed deep set eyes had become more accentuated, but her skin was looser, more papery and delicate than I remembered.

‘Have you come to help me?’ she asked.

‘If I can. I would like to finish interviewing you, so I can do the article.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘What would you like me to do?’

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‘I need you to find something for me. I’ve been meaning to do it myself for years, but I know now I’m past being able to. I trust you. It’s not that I don’t trust Stella, but I would rather you did it.’

‘Something at your place?’ I asked.

‘No, I want to you to go to Connecticut.’

‘Connecticut?’ That was unexpected. I felt a stab of annoyance.

Perhaps having cleaned her place made her think she could impose on me.

No, I castigated myself, that thought was unkind.

‘Yes, there’s a house there. I stayed there several times with the others. It’s a large house and many years ago I put a package in the vault for safekeeping. I need you to go and retrieve it for me.’

It seemed like a big ask. I knew Connecticut was the next state, but without a car it could take me some time and expense to find the place. If it still existed.

I hedged, without saying I would do it. ‘What’s in the package?’

‘It’s a film.’

‘Film? What sort? One you were in?’

‘No. I’ll tell you that when you bring it back here to me.’

My liking for Anna and my annoyance engaged in a brief tussle.

The liking won.

‘Alright. I could go up there next weekend.’ I said. ‘Where exactly is it?’

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‘Thank you. It’s at a place called the Benson Estate, near Greenwich in Fairfield.’

‘Do you have a street address?’

‘It’s on Waterson Avenue, a very big house, the one on the corner.’

Anna’s tiny, liver spotted hand reached for mine. Her touch was warm and firm, but dry. We sat like that for a long time, not saying anything, feeling one another’s presence. The window was open and a slight breeze ruffled the curtains, the wave of warm air circulating the scent of perfume in the room. Something expensive and French, evoking a different life.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ she said, getting up from the bed. She bent down from the hips, keeping her legs straight, still flexible despite her walking difficulties. Rummaging under the bed, she pulled out a paper bag folded over and sealed with sticky-tape.

‘Don’t open it until you get home,’ she said, passing it to me.

It was my day for mysterious packages.

‘Okay. Thanks.’ I got up to leave. I still hadn’t told Anna I was thinking of returning to Australia, but it didn’t feel like the right time to do so. That could wait until I saw her again.

‘Would you like me to leave you my tape recorder?’ I asked. ‘Then you could talk as you remembered things, instead of waiting for me to be here.’

‘Yes, alright. Is it difficult to work?’

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‘Not at all, it’s just Stop, Go, and Record,’ I said, putting it in her hands and guiding her fingers to the buttons. Her close vision had deteriorated even in the short time I had known her.

She opened the door for me and stood there as I walked down the corridor. I turned, but she was silhouetted against the light and I didn’t know if she could see my wave.

I couldn’t wait until I got home to know what was in the package, so

I sat on a bench in a small park not far from the hospice, pulled off the tape, impatiently unfolded the bag and peered into it. There was something soft and white. I shook it out carefully. It was a cotton tunic, slightly yellowed, with the ties of white ribbon sewn on the sides. It looked like the one Anna had worn in the photograph where she was asleep on the ground. I was touched but puzzled. Why did she want me to have it?

At the bottom of the bag was an envelope, containing three photographs and a smaller envelope. There was a photograph of the six

Isadorables, one of two children standing on some steps and one of an older

Isadora. I opened the smaller envelope then looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching, but the only person nearby was a middle aged man walking his dog, who paid me no attention. The envelope was stuffed with money – fifty dollar notes. Anna was by no means rich. Why would she have given me this? In return for me getting a film? I felt instantly guilty

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for having thought it an imposition. I would have done it for nothing, I reassured myself. What was on the film that it was so important anyway?

Back in my apartment that evening I counted the money out. There was almost two thousand dollars, so I decided I would pay for a hire car and return the balance to her next week when I took her the film.

I laid the photographs out on the laminex table and studied them closely – a portal into the past. The group of six young women were close together, four sitting and two standing behind. They leaned on one another with the easy comfort of physical familiarity. Their names were signed on the picture in faded sepia writing. Gretel was pretty and delicate, Irma large eyed and intense, Theresa looked attractive and sensible, Lisa had Lillian

Gish ringlets and a heart shaped face, Erika gazed into the distance looking detached and Anna sat to one side, a little away from the others. Now she was the only one left alive.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the circumstances of the photograph. The women’s preoccupations and distractions, talk and laughter, the photographer’s directions then the moment of stillness. Click.

The fraction of a second captured. There would have been several changes of pose, subsequently rejected because they didn’t look right, someone was blurred or had closed their eyes. Then the young women getting up, continuing on with their day and the day after that and on into the future until their bodies failed them and they ceased to exist. The only evidence of

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their existence now contained in fragments of light and shadow like the one

I was holding, or in ephemeral memories.

Remembering Anna’s hand, I stretched out my own and examined the back of it, taut skin covering supple muscle and bones. I tried to picture how it would appear when I was Anna’s age.

I turned my attention to the next photograph. There were two children standing on a set of steps in front of a large wooden door. They were probably about three and six years of age and wrapped up against the cold in white woollen overcoats and hats. The older child’s coat was trimmed with a decorative band, woven in a Greek Key pattern. The younger one’s looked hand-knitted and his blonde hair was spilling out of a close fitting hat. Isadora’s children? There was nothing written on the back, except 1913. Anna hadn’t mentioned what happened to Isadora’s offspring.

Were they still out there somewhere in the world, with vague memories of their eccentric and wonderful mother, telling stories of her to their grandchildren?

The final photograph Anna had shown me before. Isadora was leaning against a large urn with a ram’s head adorning the crown. In the background was a large Palladian style building. Isadora was wearing a long version of her famous tunic and was staring up and away into the distance. I imagined she was remembering other times and places, but I could be reading something into the image that wasn’t there. Perhaps she

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was only thinking about what to have for tea or reminding herself to have her cloak fetched from the cleaners.

The odd thing about photographs was that although they were simply a thin sliver of time, they isolated that moment and elevated it in importance. What about all the other moments that were not preserved and consequently vanished into obscurity?

I suddenly felt desperately alone. I strained to hear a noise, but the night was unusually quiet. The course of a life...What was I doing with my own? Just a couple of months ago it had all seemed to make sense. I had a path, a direction. I had been able to see it stretching out in front of me as bright and shiny as a steel train track. Now my plans had run off the rails. I wished I could talk to my friends in Australia. I should have rung Helen weeks ago for a chat and asked her not to say anything to my work colleagues. Surely she could be trusted not to tell people. She usually had a sensible view of things. What time was it there? Some unearthly hour of the morning. I fetched a notepad and a pen and sat chewing the end of it while I thought about what to write to her.

August 10, 1906

Dear Eleanora ,

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I have got myself into a real mess this time. I would be very grateful if you could take some time out of your busy schedule to come and visit me.

I’m staying at a little house called Villa Maria, at Noordwijk on the North

Sea and have been here for weeks. I’m so lonely. There is no-one to talk to and I think I must be going a bit mad, but I cannot leave here for reasons that will become apparent. Please come. I need you.

With love,

Isadora

It was a strange little house. Like someone had wished a dwelling, complete with French doors, chimney pots and a Dutch roof, to appear in among the dunes and grasses. And one day it did, plonked down in a secluded spot that looked over the sea and yet was private from the prying eyes of the villagers.

I was sitting out the back of the house, as I normally did, in a cane chair in the morning sun, the pad with the letter I had written to Eleanora in my lap, wondering if I should post it. I knew she would come immediately, whatever her other commitments were, but I did not know if this was a fair thing to ask of her. I thought about asking my other friend, Mary, and then dismissed it. Oh, the baby just moved inside me. A kick, no less. He or she

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was making their feelings known. Yes, I would ask Eleanora to come. I was so afraid, I could not bear it.

The bright circle of light made by the desk lamp illuminated the scattered photographs and the pad I had written the letter on. But it was addressed to Eleanora , whoever she was, not to Helen at all. How weird. It was happening again, but I hadn’t taken any drugs or had anything to drink beyond a glass of wine. I could hear my heart thumping, as though I had run up a flight of stairs. I had been awake, yet not awake – seeing through the eyes of another and unaware of myself in the present while I did so. It was uncanny. I knew she – I – had felt desperately unhappy and afraid. It made my own unhappiness pale into colourless insignificance. Really, what did I have to be unhappy about? I hadn’t attained the status of a Master of the

Universe? How very Bonfire of the Vanities.

My thoughts turned back to how it had felt, sitting there, heavily pregnant, not knowing what to do. I longed to know what happened, to resolve it in some way. I tried to concentrate on the rhythm of my breath, without thinking of anything.

My eyes were closed. I could feel the warmth on my arms, as though sunlight was soaking into me.

‘Does your mother know, Tesoro? Eleanora asked, in her usual direct fashion.

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I shook my head. She put her arms around me, stretching awkwardly over my growing bulk.

‘Poor Isadora,’ she murmured. ‘Poor baby. Does Ted know?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Then why is he not here?’ She swept her arm encompassing the dunes.

I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. I had been writing him cheerful, contented letters for weeks in the hope he might visit me. I knew there was nothing more sure to drive a man away than the first sign of neediness or dependency.

‘He’s busy with his work. You know how that is.’

‘Isadora, I think you are very brave. When you look back on this you will probably say you chose to do this, but I know how frightened you must be. It would be fine if the world were made of people like you and I, but it is not. They can judge you harshly.’

‘When the sponsors of Grunewald found out, they cancelled the school’s funding.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I told them what I thought, of course. That as women they should understand that children should be born out of love, not be part of some property deal. But they are so close-minded. I think it went right over their heads.’

‘So what will you do about the school?’

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‘Struggle along as best we can. Elizabeth is still running it.’

‘She’s very reliable, your sister.’

‘Yes, she’s good. She stood by me, although she and Ted don’t get on very well.’

‘You said in one of your letters that your mother also has problems with him?’

‘I think they were jealous of the amount of time I was spending with him...well, until a few months ago. They thought it was taking me away from my work and the family. Mother will be mortified when she finds out about Baby.’

Eleanora smiled. ‘She’ll come around when she sees the little creature. Grandmothers always do. How are you supporting yourself?

What about your funds?’

‘I can manage. I made enough on the last tour to see me through, at least until after September when the baby comes.’

‘But your mother and Ted?’

‘I make sure mother gets an allowance every month. And Ted and I have a joint account.’

‘Does he also put money into it?’ she asked archly.

‘Not yet. He needs time to get on his feet.’ I ignored Eleanora ’s one eyebrow, raised like a question mark, and added quickly, ‘Anyway, money is the least important thing. We’ll manage. I feel so happy when he is around. I know my dance is much better.’

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‘And he doesn’t resent it when you need to go away to perform so much? I find that is always the problem with men.’

‘Sometimes, but most of the time he has come with me.’

There was a polite cough and the maid poked her head out from the back door of the house. ‘Excuse me, Miss Isadora, there is a gentleman at the door requesting an audience with you.’

I was startled. ‘Who is he? I’m not expecting anyone.’

‘He says he is a writer, from Paris.’

‘A journalist?’

‘I think so. He said Le Figaro.’ She pronounced the word with difficulty.

‘Tell him to go away. I won’t see him.’

She left to do so.

‘God, how did he track me down?’ I said to Eleanora . ‘If he knows

I’m here and can confirm my condition, then it is just a matter of time until the rest of the papers do. We will be besieged.’ I got to my feet in a panic.

‘We will just make sure we do not go out until he leaves. If he does not know for certain that you are pregnant, then he cannot print it.’

We hurried inside and I stood in the shadows while Eleanora locked the back door and closed the curtains. She put her eye to the crack between them and peered around.

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‘There he is. Merda!. He is walking towards that big dune. Now he has stopped and is holding something to his face. What is it? Wait, it’s a spyglass. Bastardo! He is spying on us.’

‘Let’s hope he loses interest soon. Shall we have a siesta in the meantime?’

When I peeked out of my top floor bedroom window two hours later, the journalist was perched on top of the dune overlooking the house. I knocked softly on Eleanora ’s door.

‘Eleanora , are you awake?’

‘Yes, Tesoro. Come in.’

I pushed open the door. She was lying on the bed and closed her book as I entered.

‘I’ve just had a look – the reporter is still there. That man is as pesky as a gadfly. What if he stays for days?’ Dejected, I sat on the side of her bed. ‘This is intolerable. I won’t be kept a prisoner in my own home. I must get out. Maybe I should do it and to hell with the consequences.

Everyone is going to know sometime.’ Eleanora took my hand in hers and squeezed it reassuringly.

‘But this is the time when you need your privacy, to rest and look after your health. Later, after the baby is born, you will be more able to cope. Imagine what will happen if you go out now. All sorts of men will come, knocking on your door day and night, demanding to know your

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business...’ She paused and slowly her mouth formed into a broad grin. ‘

No, I have an idea. Can I borrow some of your clothes?’

‘Yes, surely. But what are you going to do?’

Too impatient to sew or knit, I rocked myself backwards and forwards in the chair, awaiting her return. There was a tap on the door and the maid brought in the post. It was a welcome distraction. I flicked through the official letters and felt a surge of joy as I came to an envelope with very distinctive rounded handwriting.

Before I could open it, there was a banging on the back door. I got up awkwardly to and unlatched it. Eleanora almost fell in and I shut and bolted it quickly after her.

She threw my white shawl back from her face. Her black eyes were shining and her cheeks red with exhilaration.

‘Oh, that was so much fun.’ She gave a burst of laughter and collapsed back on the sofa, kicking her feet in the air like an over-excited child.

‘Tell me, quickly. What happened?’

‘Well you saw me go out the front door. I set off, pretending not to see him and turned towards the sea.’

‘You both disappeared around the next dune. Then what?’

‘I skipped down to the beach and then I danced along it. Like this.’

She got up and twirled around with her arms out, imitating me.

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‘Did he try to catch up with you?’

‘Yes, but I never let him get close. I would run and then do a little dance and he would think he had me and then I would take off again. He was not very fit.’ She exaggerated the actions – being me, dancing about, then suddenly startled to realise I was being followed. Then she mimed the eager reporter, in pursuit of his quarry, struggling to keep up. La Duse was such an excellent actress, I could easily visualise the two of them.

We started to laugh and both subsided into giggles. I found it hard to stop and when I did, found that I was crying.

‘I received a letter,’ I told her, through my sobs. She looked concerned, as if someone had written to tell me Mother had died or some other dreadful news.

‘From Ted,’ I explained. ‘I haven’t opened it yet.’ I ripped open the envelope and scanned through it. ‘Oh my goodness, he’s coming here, tomorrow.’

‘Hallelujah! The god descends from the heavens,’ Eleanora said and then saw the look on my face. ‘Caramissima, don’t be anxious.

Everything will work out. Even if not how you think it should.’

‘I know,’ I said, trying to gather myself and keep from more weeping, like a virginal schoolgirl. ‘I am just so relieved.’

I had come out of it. I was still sitting at the desk. I looked at the hands of my watch. Only about twenty minutes had passed, yet I had

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experienced hours in my mind. I had been able to touch and feel and smell things as vividly as if it had been the present. The surprising thing was that now the sensations were pleasant, even seductive. I no longer experienced nausea and instead of a sense of panic, I simply felt cheated. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I wanted to go back. I yearned to see Ted. In my mind I visualised how the lounge room had looked, with the anti-macassars on the backs of the comfortable chairs, the white linen table cloth covering the dining table and the paintings on the walls. Their forms began to assume a three dimensional solidity. There was an older woman standing before me, wearing a large straw hat, leaning over the table writing something. There was a basket at her feet.

‘Instead of milk, can you get some good wine for the table – Chianti if they have it – and make sure we have at least two sorts of meat and vegetables. Oh, perhaps for tomorrow lunch you can get some lobster.

Don’t forget some Limburg cheese and croissants for the morning,’ I instructed the cook, who was making a shopping list. ‘And good coffee,’ I called to her departing back.

‘No, not that one, that one,’ I pointed out to the maid, who was moving the pictures around. I knew Ted would hate the copies of Dutch masters and say they were not real art, so I was having them put in the spare room until he’d gone. He probably wouldn’t mind the landscapes, so I had her hang them more prominently. The room appeared more shabby than it

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had an hour ago and I felt anxious that he should like everything, including me.

I climbed the stairs with difficulty and looked at myself in the mirror on my wardrobe. My hair had developed a mind of its own and wasn’t interested in staying in the confines of a bun. I was enormous. I stood and looked at my profile critically, running my hand down over my dress to better see the shape. ‘You are going to be a very big baby,’ I said. I wondered if Ted would find my bulk repulsive. He told me he’d been attracted to my lightness, my quickness. ‘You move like you belong to the air,’ he said to me once. Now I was large and lumbering, like a beast of burden laden for a journey, solid and far too grounded to take flight.

That evening was too warm to need a fire and Eleanora and I sat in the lounge room and talked for hours. She brushed my hair, reminding me of my mother when I was a little girl. I realised I missed Mother very much.

In the morning when I woke, I felt ecstatic. High and dizzy. I was at last going to see Ted again. I got up and took a long bath, with some scented oil in the hot water and enjoying the relief from my unaccustomed bulk. Water was such an elemental force; supporting, nurturing.

My choice of wardrobe was severely limited these days. I had sewn dozens of little outfits for the baby, but for myself was down to a choice of three tunics. I picked the cleanest one, brushed back my hair and tied it with a ribbon.

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I was sitting sewing when Ted arrived, having walked from the train station. The house was a picture of domestic tranquillity, a pot of soup broadcasting delicious smells. Eleanora had gone out for the day, saying she had some things to buy in the nearest town, but I knew she wanted to give me time alone with him.

‘Hello, Topsy,’ he said, as he came in. His pet name for me. I saw the surprised look in his eyes as I rose, as though he hadn’t really understood until this moment that my condition was irreversible.

We kissed and he stood behind me and enclosed me in his arms. It was such a relief to have him here at last. Now everything would be alright.

I tried to block out the ever present question of how long this might be for.

‘I missed you so much,’ I said.

‘I missed you, too.’ He dropped his neck forward and we leaned our heads together.

We went to my room and lay on the bed and he cuddled me and kissed the back of my neck. It was delightful to be with him again. He wanted to make love, but I was too afraid for the baby so I pleasured him with my hand and he was soon asleep; a contented look upon his face.

Ted was still asleep when I heard the cook come in downstairs. I tiptoed from the room and went down to see what she had bought. There were two very large, very live lobsters – trussed up, poor things. I felt sorry for them.

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‘Release them into a pail in the pantry, with some water dribbling into it,’ I said. The cook looked at me as though I was a half-wit, but nevertheless followed my instructions.

Later, after Eleanora returned, we had a pleasant dinner of hare and potatoes. She and Ted were very amusing company and, not surprisingly, we talked a lot about the theatre.

I woke in the middle of the night to hear horrific noises downstairs – crashing and banging. I thought for a moment that a band of vagabonds must have gained entry and be engaged in smashing the place up. Ted awoke and immediately went downstairs, with me following at a slower pace behind. The entire household was assembled, Eleanora , looking like a

Pre-Raphaelite beauty with her hair out, cook with her long grey plaits, holding a lamp up high and the maid in her plain nightdress and bonnet.

The sound was coming from the pantry. Ted armed himself with a stout walking stick and cautiously pushed open the door. I was so full of admiration at his courage that I felt bewildered when I heard his laughter.

He beckoned us forward and we crowded into the pantry, only to find the culprits were not vagabonds but our very own lobsters. They had succeeded in upsetting their pail and were now making their escape along the shelves, leaving a trail of destruction behind them. Shards of shattered crockery lay amidst the scattered cooking pots on the stone floor. At the relief of the tension, we all burst into hysterical laughter.

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I reached out to steady myself on the shelf and found myself grasping at air, still laughing. This time I was disappointed to find myself in the present. I wanted to go back upstairs and snuggle up with Ted again.

To have him spooned behind me, stroking my back, and both of us giggling over our fright. I tried for several minutes to return, but couldn’t. I gave up and turned the lights off before undressing, putting on a silky nightdress and slipping into bed.

‘But you know I have to go,’ Ted said. We were sitting on my bed, the sky outside the window still dark.

‘I don’t understand why you are leaving in the morning. Can’t you stay a few days longer? You’ve only just arrived.’ I knew I sounded petulant, but I could not help myself.

‘I’ve got work to attend to in London. You know how important my work is.’

‘And mine is not? I have always put aside my work for you when you wanted me to. Or like now,’ I said, placing my hand on my swollen belly.

‘There are other things as well.’

‘What things?’ I promised myself we’d never have this conversation, that I wouldn’t nag, but it felt so unfair.

‘Just normal day to day things,’ he said, vaguely.

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‘You mean Elena Meo. What is between you two? You say you love me, but then you go running back to her. Every time we are together.’

‘Isadora, I told you when we first met that I was getting married.

You knew that and you accepted it.’

‘But there’s more to it, isn’t there. I’ve always felt it. Tell me.’

He ran his hand through his hair, and I noticed it was starting to grey at the temples. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said, suddenly fearful.

‘Elena and I have a daughter. Well, we did have two, but one died.

Elena’s about to have another child. Possibly next week. Which is why I must return to London.’

I was speechless. He had never...never...told me about other children. I turned my back on him and put my face in my hands.

‘Go,’ I hissed. ‘Just go.’

‘Isadora.’

‘Get out. Don’t say another word or I’ll scream the place down.’

The stair treads creaked as his feet descended and I heard the front door latch click. I listened, waiting for the door to open again, and the sound of his returning steps. The wind whistled around the house and time was suspended into one long moment of yearning. The pain in my gut became overwhelming. I hauled myself down the stairs, grasping the banister, went into the kitchen and retched my heart out in the sink. I could not bear it that

I was such a complete fool. I had never tried to hold him or imposed any

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demands. I had catered to his every wish. Yet he’d lied to me. Not lied

exactly, but not told me the whole truth. It was finished.

I opened the front door. There was a bright moon and the ruts in the

empty road looked like welts – gashes on the earth. I walked carefully to

the back of the house and lowered myself onto the cane chair, rocking

backwards and forwards.

It was all too hard, too painful. What was there for me in the future?

I was so tired of everything. There was nothing ahead except constant

struggle.

In front of me was the sea, metallic and magnetic. I could hear the

soft swish of waves and found myself walking down the path towards it.

For a long time I stood on the beach. The darkness stretching out to infinity seemed irresistibly inviting. A few steps and I would be relieved of my burden. I would float away in the sea, free of pain and suffering. I started to walk towards the ocean, conscious of how I was placing my feet on the wet sand, one foot in front of the other, leaning backward to compensate for my additional weight, balanced as if I was walking a tightrope. The sand made soft sucking sounds as my feet pulled free. The cold of the water through my shoes was a shock, but I kept moving forward.

When the water was at my ankles my dress clung close and as I reached waist depth it swirled and tugged as if to say, ‘come Isadora, come’. The

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tide was going out and the water so shallow that it felt as if my goal was receding. Yet I kept walking, holding my hands above my head, feeling the cold seep into my bones the point where the water came to my neck. I stood still. I never realised that death would be so icy.

‘Isadora, Isadora,’ a voice called. I ignored it.

There was a splashing sound behind me. It seemed unimportant.

But the splashing and calling persisted and I turned; half floating, half frozen. I could make out a dark shape of Eleanora , some distance away, running through the shallow water towards me. I waited. She came closer and I held out my hands.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ I said when she reached me. ‘It was too cold.’

‘You silly, silly, girl,’ she said softly and led me out of the water.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

The iciness was coming from inside, seeping through me. I looked down at the puddle of water accumulating persistently around my feet. How did I get here? I was standing in the middle of my kitchen in the darkness, dripping wet and so cold I was shaking, my teeth chattering. I could hear the sound of running water. I reached for the light switch and as it flashed on, caught a glimpse of my face, shocked and white in the little mirror beside the sink. For a horrible moment I thought someone else must be in the shower – it was going full bore. I forced myself to walk over and pull back the curtain and sagged with relief that it was empty. The respite was short-lived. Jesus,

I thought, I must have turned on the cold tap and then climbed in while still wearing my nightdress. This was too bizarre. I had heard of sleep walking, but sleep showering?

The soggy cotton clung to me and with some difficulty I stripped it off, turned on the hot tap and stepped into the delicious warmth. The shower was never powerful at the best of times, but it was a fabulous feeling – standing under there until the hot water tank ran dry.

I towelled myself thoroughly dry and put the kettle on to boil while I found a tracksuit. I wished I had a radio for company. I longed for the

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normal sound of inane late night chatter, or familiar tunes. Sitting back in bed, nursing a hot cup of tea, I thought over what had happened.

There was a knot of fear in my stomach and I tried, without success, to unclench it. The waking dreams took over my mind in a way that was frightening – like epilepsy or some peculiar psychosis. There was certainly no way I could think of to control them.

The more I thought about it, the more concerned I became. While in the beginning the dreams had been beautiful, even seductive, they were certainly harmless enough. But then they had become increasingly anxiety ridden and it worried me that I might end up doing myself some permanent harm. If the Isadora I ‘became’ was capable of anything, including attempted suicide, what if I found myself, in a ‘waking dream’, emulating her? I felt scared, vulnerable and... I searched for the word but the only one that occurred to me was ‘invaded’. Yes, that was right, I thought, it’s not as though I have been hunting out this dead woman’s story or developed an unhealthy obsession with her life.

I realised I was following a train of thought that was verging on neurosis, but I couldn’t let it go. I sipped my tea and even though I knew it was irrational, I looked around me for some physical explanation of my unease. But there was no intruder and nothing from the horror movies, no ectoplasm and no blood stains on the walls. I shook my head at the absurdity of the notions. Yet ridicule didn’t banish them and I found myself wondering if it really was the place. Not just my crummy flat, but New

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York. And, as if on cue, there was a sudden yowling of cats from the street below. Stop it! I told myself, but knew that once the fear had lodged in my mind, it was no easy task to evict it.

I made more tea. I tried to read. I stayed awake as long as I could, too afraid to go back to sleep. Finally I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew I was waking late, feeling groggy and awful.

I phoned Maud to say I had overslept and would be in a bit later, then waited for almost half an hour in a telephone queue to United Airlines.

‘I want to book a seat on the earliest available flight to Brisbane, please. One way.’

‘The earliest we have is three weeks from now, unless you want to fly First Class.’

‘No, that will have to do. Please make the reservation. The name is

Doyle, Tamsin. Yes, I’ll hold.’

Having now committed myself to leaving, I expected to feel much better. Yet the image of Isadora walking into the ocean and the sight of myself in the mirror, wet and freezing, still haunted me and several times during the day I found myself shivering, as though the cold remained deep inside me.

That evening, in an attempt at distraction and to lighten my mood, I took myself off to the movies. It wasn’t a bad decision for I ended up watching the Woody Allen comedy, Sleepers, being about a man who wakes

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up in the future, and it was funny. The future was fine by me. It was the past I was having trouble with.

I’m not sure if the episodes stopped of their own accord or the fact that I had my escape route planned, but whatever it was I got through the next few nights without problems. If I had dreams I certainly awoke with no recollections of them. The week passed quickly. We were getting a lot of tourists in the shop this month and they lapped up every word of Maud’s spiel. I shook my head at her as a French mother and daughter left, convinced they had just purchased the last surviving remnants of Greta

Garbo and Marlene Dietrich’s respective wardrobes.

‘Maud, you must have been a great actress,’ I said.

‘Ah, but how do you know I was acting?’ she asked, sharply and then conceded with a smile. ‘I was good, huh?’

I had bought a small short-wave radio and was listening to the BBC

World Service one evening when the phone rang. I felt irritated by the interruption and almost didn’t pick it up. When I did, it was Stella.

‘When are you coming back to class, Tamsin? We miss you,’ she said.

That was sweet, but could hardly be true, as I had only been to a couple. I changed the subject. ‘You heard what’s happened to Anna?’

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‘Yes, she’s gone to the blind people’s hospice. She rang me the other day. Sad, hey? But it was time. She wasn’t coping very well on her own. I went to see her on Sunday and organised to sort her stuff out into boxes, so it can go to the New York Public Library. Would you like to give me a hand?’

I hesitated, having deliberately avoided anything to do with Isadora since the water episode, as I now thought of it. But to refuse sounded churlish. ‘Sure. It will have to be soon though, because I’m planning to go back to Australia in a couple of weeks.’

‘You’re not.’ She sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘I was thinking about asking you to join the dance group to do some performances. You’ve got an amazing natural talent for it. You even look a bit like Isadora, you know.’

I blanched. ‘I’m flattered, thank you very much, but I need to go home.’

‘Anna said she was keen to see you next week. She was quite excited that you were fetching a package for her.’ Stella must have sensed my reluctance, because she added, ‘Did you get it?’

She made it sound like Anna had asked me to collect something as mundane as piece of dry cleaning.

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to see if I can squeeze it in.’ Like I had masses of other things to do.

‘Are you okay, Tamsin? You sound a bit down.’

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‘Probably pre-menstrual. Sorry. I’ll give you a ring next week sometime.’

‘Okay. Take care. Talk to you soon.’

The conversation left me feeling resentful and put upon. But then none of them knew what I had been going through. I was being too harsh on everyone, including myself. And I had been feeling out of sorts. For a moment, I considered ringing the hospice and leaving a message for Anna that I couldn’t go to Connecticut. But the thought made me feel mean spirited. Damn it, I thought, do it and get it out of the way. I would be gone soon and I knew I would regret not doing it if it meant so much to Anna. It wasn’t her fault my psyche had chosen to go haywire. I wasn’t going to let fear run my life.

The idea of driving in Manhattan was more than a little scary, so the following Saturday, I rented a car from the other side of the bridge. I caught the train over and walked the few blocks to pick up the small red Honda

Accord. The hire company had lent me a map and given lots of helpful information. Even so, it took me a while to get used to the controls being on the opposite side of the car and driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road. That and finding my way to the freeway took all my concentration. But once I was on the open road I began to relax. From there on, the directions were pretty straight forward.

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My dark mood had lifted with the sunshine and by early afternoon, as I drove up the long avenue in Connecticut, I even caught myself humming an Abba song. The area was a real contrast to New York. Here there was more space and, it felt, more air, and I found real pleasure in the light flickering through the foliage of the oak trees planted either side. And I was in a familiar role. Chasing information and elusive clues had always been my favourite part of journalism. It didn’t feel any different now I was on the scent.

The house was still there on the corner, as Anna had described it, set well back from the road through a set of massive gates that were, fortunately, open. As I drove up the long drive I muttered a ‘wow’ to myself. The grand scale spoke of graciousness and old money. The front door was wide open, displaying a vast foyer and a substantial carved wooden staircase. Lifting the heavy brass knocker, I let it go and it reverberated hollowly through the house. There was no response.

‘Hello,’ I called out. Perhaps there was someone through the back who couldn’t hear me. I called again and waited a few moments, before stepping into the hall. Peering through the doorway on the left, I saw a room that was like something out of a magazine spread on a Scottish estate.

Parquet floor, enormous marble mantelpiece, overstuffed sofas and antique tables. On the walls were gloomy ancestral portraits and numerous hunting trophies: the mounted heads of stags with enormous antlers, zebras and even

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a tiger. The animal’s eyes looked permanently startled by their unexpected demise. A bear snarled, forever frozen in the face of death.

‘Hello,’ I called again. No reply. The house felt empty. I began to walk tentatively down the cavernous hallway to the side of the staircase.

Another corridor intersected the first and I took a few steps down it and then hesitated, uncertain whether to go on. I knew I had no right to have come inside. In a distant room there was a booming sound, as if something large had fallen to the ground.

‘Hello?’ My voice echoed. The place gave me the creeps. I turned and began to briskly retrace my steps to the front door. As I went around the corner, I collided with someone coming the other way. I cried out in fright.

As we regained our balance, we stared at each other in shock. The man was large; paint splattered overalls; unruly, glowering eyebrows. He reached out and grabbed my wrist.

‘What are you doing here?’ he snarled into my face.

‘Let me go.’ I shouted, wrenching my arm free and rubbing the wrist where he had squeezed. I took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘I called out, but no-one answered.’

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘I’m looking for the Bensons.’

You can’t just go wandering through folk’s places. You could of got yourself shot.’

‘I said, I’m looking for Mr Benson.’

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He eyed me suspiciously, then unexpectedly, laughed.

‘Then you gonna have a hard time finding him.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s been dead twenty years.’

‘Oh shit.’ I felt my heart drop. ‘Is Mrs Benson still around?’ I waited as the internal struggle over whether to be helpful flitted across his face.

‘Might be.’

I decided to take the initiative. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Marvin,’ he said grudgingly.

‘Well Marvin, is there anyone who can help me?’

‘Marilou...’

‘Where can I find her?’

‘Next door.’ He nodded the direction.

‘Thanks,’ I said coolly and headed for the door.

I drove up the next door driveway and parked. The blinds of the house flicked as I approached. Marilou’s house was much smaller than her neighbour’s – a bizarre take on French Normandy style. The roof was shingled and a half a stone tower inset into the front, complete with crenellations. A black maid answered the door and two yappy little bichon frise dogs leapt up and down behind her as if they were on strings. I assumed what I hoped was a pleasant expression.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

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‘My name is Tamsin Doyle. Is Marilou at home?’

‘Miss Mapleton...’ Her tone was reproving. ‘...is expecting people for Bridge.’

‘I won’t keep her long.’

The maid went away and returned a moment later to lead me into a drawing room. Inherited money I guessed, as I cast my eye over the French antiques and cabinets featuring porcelain shepherdesses. Sitting at the card table was a woman in her seventies, silver hair rinsed a faint tinge of rose to match an alarming pink jacket. She had the air of someone who had spent life going to luncheons, cocktails and playing Bridge with the girls. Her skin was pulled unnaturally tight over high cheekbones and her expression was wary, as if she thought I was going to try and convert her or beg for a donation.

‘Miss Mapleton?’

‘Yes,’ she said cautiously.

‘Marvin next door said you might be able to help me. I’m a writer from Australia. I’ve come here because I’ve been doing some research on someone who used to stay at the Benson Estate many years ago. She told me she left a package there for safekeeping.’

‘Oh, my. What was your name?’

‘Tamsin Doyle.’

‘Well Miss Doyle, it hasn’t been called the Benson Estate for many years. It’s The Oaks now. Mr Truro owns it. Frank Truro,’ she emphasised

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the latter as if she expected me to know who he was. ‘The Benson family sold out in ...let me see...it must have been the mid-sixties.’

‘My friend – the woman I interviewed – said she left the package in the vault. It could be very important to my research.’

‘You are from Austria you said?’

‘Australia.’

‘Well, I’m sorry you’ve come all this way, but there ain’t nothing there now but wine. Mr Truro turned that vault into a cellar. He’s got the biggest collection in the county.’

‘What happened to the things that were in it?’

She shook her head. ‘Mrs Benson is the only one that might know.’

I felt a twinge of excitement. ‘So she’s still alive?’

‘You could say that. Who sent you?’

‘Anna Duncan.’

‘I haven’t heard that name for many years. How’s she doing?’

‘Pretty good for her age. She’s ninety and her vision is going, but she’s still as sharp as a tack. You used to know her?’ I asked.

‘Those girls were my heroines.’

‘The Isadorables?’

She nodded. ‘All sorts of artistes used to come and entertain in the summer. Mr Benson was a phil...an...thro...pist,’ she said, drawing the word out to about twice its usual length. ‘There were parties on the lawn with a dozen French waiters and ladies in the smartest dresses.’ She smiled at the

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memory. ‘The Bensons were good to me, letting me come over and all. I would get dressed up like a princess. Sometimes I even had champagne, although I didn’t like the fizz.’

‘So you remember the dancers,’ I remarked, trying to steer her back to the original point.

‘Oh my, yes. They were so beautiful. The gentlemen watched them like hawks waiting to swoop and the ladies? My! Would they get jealous.

My mother used to claim she could dance just as well, given a few yards of chiffon, but she was kidding herself. I thought those girls were magic. Just like angels. They moved as though they had no bones in their bodies...and there was a glow about them. After they’d gone, I would pretend I was one of them, dressing up in a sheet and dancing on the lawn.’ She stopped reminiscing and looked at me. ‘What a surprise to hear of them after all these years.’

‘The package I am searching for is a film Anna Duncan left in the vault. I must find it. Where is Mrs Benson living now?’

‘When I last heard, couple of years since, she was at the Fairfield

Manor Nursing Home.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Over the other side of town.’

‘Do you have I phone book, so I can find the address?’

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‘Oh you don’t need that. You go down Highway 136, then take the turnpike to Highway 7, get off at West Avenue and go left at Prospect Street.

It’s about mid-way along on the left.’

‘Wow. You’d make a great cab driver.’ Not the right thing to say, I realised as I saw her lips tighten. ‘I mean, you know your way around,’ I said lamely. Not surprisingly, as she’d lived here all her life. ‘I’ll just jot that down.’ I got her to repeat it.

‘But I’ve come a long way,’ I told the prim and proper nursing sister.

‘I can’t let you see Mrs Benson out of visiting hours,’ she repeated.

‘It’s a special case. My friend is dying. She’s made a last request to me that I find something that belonged to her that she left with Mrs Benson a long time ago. I’ve come all the way from Australia. Please let me try.’ I pleaded.

She looked at me sternly, then her face softened just a tad. ‘Well perhaps this once, but I don’t know that you’ll get anywhere.’

She led the way up in the lift and down the polished wooden corridor of the two storey mansion. Through open doorways I caught glimpses of large, comfortable rooms with Persian carpets on the floors, vases of flowers and individual call buzzers. A world apart from the hospice Anna was in.

The nursing sister knocked on a door at the end of the hallway and then entered without waiting for a reply. Someone was seated, a dark outline

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against the bright window. As I came closer, I saw an elderly woman in a wheelchair looking out towards the garden.

‘How are we today, Mrs Benson?’ the nurse asked.

The elderly woman didn’t reply. I didn’t blame her as the nurse had used a tone more appropriate for addressing a child.

The nurse leant over the chair, swivelling it slightly, so Mrs Benson was forced to shift her gaze. Her face was a mask of genteel civility, with a beatific smile and large vacant blue eyes.

‘Have you come to take me home?’ she asked the nurse, in a high little-girl voice.

‘No dear, this is your home. This nice young lady has come to ask you some questions.’

I bent down. ‘Mrs Benson, I’m Tamsin. In your house, there used to be a vault. Do you remember it?’

She drew her brows together, as if I was asking her to complete a complex mathematical equation. ‘A vault,’ she repeated.

‘Yes. What happened to the things in it?’

Silence. Then she peered at me closely, as if really looking into me.

A hiss escaped between thin lips. ‘You’ve come from her.’ Her voice was suddenly harsh.

‘Who?’ I was surprised. ‘Anna Duncan?’

‘No, the other one,’ she spat.

‘Which other one?’

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‘It won’t work you know.’ Her voice was high pitched; tight as a

wire.

‘It’s alright, Mrs Benson,’ the nurse said, but the woman ignored her, her eyes locked on mine.

‘It won’t work.’

She was shouting now, shaking her fist at me. I got to my feet and backed away.

‘It’s against nature,’ she screamed.

‘Not one of her good days,’ said the nurse after she closed the door on the still shrieking woman.

I mumbled my thanks, but all I could think of was my astonishment at the intense hatred and loathing coming from such a frail woman.

As I negotiated the freeway back to New York, I wondered whether

Mrs Benson was better off than Anna. While to lose a mind was a terrible thing, it mattered mostly to those around you. Acute awareness must make bodily decline so much more frustrating. I tried and failed to imagine

Isadora old, imperious and unable, but the concept slipped from my grasp, slippery as a fish. It was as hard to imagine as my own decline.

I was watching the lines on the road and they started to blur. I felt a familiar sense come over me, as though I what I could see in front of me was becoming transparent, soluble. ‘No!’ I shouted. I couldn’t go now, it was too dangerous. I desperately hunted for an off ramp and saw one coming up

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on my left. I took it. I didn’t see where it led, but I was frantic to stop the car. The ramp spat me out onto a street in a semi-industrial area. There didn’t seem to be many people. Buildings began to pass by as I fought to stay in the present. I pulled into an unattended car park, ignoring the dire warning signs about being towed. I just had the presence of mind to lock my doors and put my head in my lap before the concrete and graffiti was overlaid with the vividness of acid green grass.

The grass stretched out before me. Above, the sky was a constant, unwavering blue. The surrounding trees gave a sense of enclosure, as if nothing bad could happen in this enchanted place, but my very being was resistant to having been dragged here.

I walked towards the oak tree and looked for the woman, determined this time to make my will known. The lyre-shaped day bed was empty and she was nowhere to be seen. Deflated, I sat down. I had no idea what to do, other than wait until I was released.

Next to me on the small table, was a black and white photograph. I picked it up and examined it. Written below the picture was the year, 1913.

Isadora stared out at me, her arms around two children; a picture of

Madonna-like contentment. On her right was a young girl, smiling across at a small boy with golden curls sitting on her lap. I studied the small boy

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more closely. And it seemed so natural that I should be proud when Patrick slid from my lap and took those tottering, baby steps. I took his hands and gazed down at him. And he looked back with wide-eyed adoration.

‘Maman, you and me – dancing!’ he shouted happily.

‘Yes, my darling. You’re going to be a great dancer. Or maybe a musician. You’ve got a lovely sense of rhythm,’ I said, mostly to myself, as he didn’t understand much of it.

‘That’s such a beautiful picture.’

I looked up and smiled to see Lord Alfred Douglas striding towards us across the lawn.

‘Bosie! What are you doing here?’ I asked, picking up Patrick and balancing him on my hip before leaning over to give Bosie a kiss on the cheek.

‘I’ve just come for a flying visit, my dear,’ he said, tousling Patrick’s

golden curls. ‘Would you mind if I imposed myself tonight and

stayed in your guest room?’

‘Of course not. I’m delighted to see you. What brings you to Paris?’

‘Gathering evidence, unfortunately.’

‘You’re not involved in another court case?’

He nodded and gave a wry grin.

‘What is it about this time?’ I sighed.

‘A fellow called Arthur Ransome has written the most libellous account of my relationship with Wilde. Says I abandoned him in Calais. He

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didn’t speak to me and has no notion of my version of events. It’s frightfully unfair.’

‘Can’t you just ignore it?’

‘No, dearest Isadora. I cannot. Whenever I sit in the house of Lords

I am constantly aware of the snide gossip that goes on behind my back. It’s impossible to ignore.’

‘Never mind. Welcome. I’m delighted to see you. I was just about to ring for some coffee. Would you like some?’

‘Tea for me, thanks.’

‘Of course.’

I called Jeannie, my maid, and shortly we were sitting down at the outside table, sipping refreshments.

Deirdre, her brown-bobbed head bent, sat near me on a blanket, making a chain with the first of the daisy heads that had started to appear on the lawn. Patrick had run back to the middle of the grass and was absorbed in playing a complicated game involving an aeroplane, as he had recently seen one for the first time.

‘I seem to go from one court case to the next. I would make enough money from my writing, if it wasn’t for the legal bills,’ said Bosie.

His boyish face was gathering deepening lines of worry, but he was still beautiful. Large, guileless green eyes and hair of a burnished dark gold.

It was easy to see what had entranced Wilde – and been his downfall. I felt a

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prickle of attraction and imagined touching his skin, but quickly suppressed the impulse as being inappropriate under the circumstances.

Jeannie popped her head out the door. ‘Mr Singer rang. I asked if he wanted to speak to you, but he said to pass the message on that he’ll be back in the city tomorrow and he’d like you and the children have lunch with him.

He’ll call you in the morning.’

‘Thank you Jeannie.’

‘I thought you and Paris Singer weren’t on speaking terms,’ said

Bosie, after she departed.

‘We’ve gone our separate ways, but for the sake of the children, especially Patrick, we see one another occasionally. He’s returned from

Egypt with his new paramour.’

‘Why didn’t you marry him when he asked you? Things would have been much easier for you.’

‘Because he’s got money? Paris thinks that just because he’s wealthy he can control everything and everyone. I wasn’t about to be acquired like a new car or a set of clothes. Besides, any intelligent woman who reads the marriage contract and then goes into it, deserves all the consequences,’ I said, with a smile.

We both laughed.

‘You’re incorrigible. It’s good to see you,’ he said.

‘You, too. Have you seen Ted recently?’

He nodded. ‘I ran into him at the theatre a few weeks ago.’

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‘How is he?’

‘Good, I think. We only had a word fleetingly.’

‘Was he with Elena?’

‘Yes,’ he said, with discomfort.

‘It’s alright. I’m pleased. She’s much more suited to being his wife than I would have been. She always puts him first. I’m too absorbed in my art,’ I said.

‘But I know the charge between you produced something extraordinary,’ he said, rearranging his cravat.

I nodded and gave a smile. ‘I think he understands me better than anybody ever has. I’m extremely grateful to him for his support with my work and for helping me feel a complete range of emotions – from the most profound feelings of love to utter despair.’ I tried to keep the irony out of my voice. ‘It’s really extended my range.’

‘That’s a good way of looking at it, and I suppose you get a pearl through grit, not smoothness.’

‘Artistically, yes. And then there’s Deirdre.’ We turned and watched my little girl, her sweet childish face fully absorbed in her task. I could hear her singing under her breath.

‘Isadora, I don’t know how to phrase this, but I have heard something disturbing about you recently.’

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I gave a carefree laugh. ‘I hope you hear disturbing things about me all the time, Bosie. It means I will never be boring.’ But the frown line between his brows was threatening to become a crevasse.

‘What is it?’

‘I have heard that through your friend Mary Desti, you have become involved with the evil Crowley and those pretentious frauds calling themselves The Golden Dawn.’

Bosie had recently become an ardent convert to Catholicism, so I bit back my first retort and asked, ‘So, what exactly have you heard?’

He hesitated, as if judging how frank to be. ‘That Mary Desti is

Aleister Crowley’s lover. That they do all sorts of strange carnal rituals, encouraging dead things to return to life. It is rumoured Crowley has succeeded on more than one occasion.’

I could not contain my mirth. ‘Oh Bosie, I would that it were true!’

‘Do not say that. Even in jest. It would be a most unnatural practice.’

‘An unnatural practice?’ I said. It was a bit rich, coming from him.

‘Until recently, you would have been the first one to support what Aleister says – Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.’

‘Isadora, I know you believe in all that telepathic and...other nonsense, but it isn’t healthy. It’s a Pandora’s Box.’

‘Well you need not concern yourself. I’m only dabbling.’

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He changed the subject abruptly. ‘Can I come to your performance tonight?’

‘Of course,’ I smiled warmly.

‘Maman, look – for you,’ Deirdre said. I leant down to let her slip the daisy chain over my head.

I came to and jumped to see a face staring at me through the passenger’s side window – a boy with a baseball cap on backwards, holding a skateboard. ‘Beat it,’ I yelled, as loudly as I could. Luckily, he did. I threw my bag under the seat and leaned over my knees again.

I was curled up on the stage, head enclosed in the protective circle of my arms. My knee was across my body and I was making myself as small and protected as I possibly could. Every line contained. Every line defensive. I was Iphigeneia, the most loved and beautiful daughter of

Agamemnon, about to be sacrificed. Then my arms went behind my back and I clasped them together as I leaned forward, as though they had been wrenched, forced up. My neck was extended and exposed, waiting for the sacrificial axe to fall. I waited for the blow that never came, felt my bonds being loosened and Achilles helping me to my feet, then we were running together and I was saved and free. There was no other time, or place. The audience existed as a wave of energy that rushed back at me, carrying me

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aloft as if I were swimming in the currents of the ocean. I was a conduit, a vessel, containing nothing and everything at once.

As the music finished, I ran into the wings and recovered my breath, listening to the clamour grow. I went back on stage and as I took my bow, people were on their feet, cheering. I gestured to include the orchestra and the conductor took his bow. The noise continued. As I held my arms up, flowers fell onto the stage around me, brushing my face and clothes in a gentle rain of colour.

A bouquet of blood red roses fell at my feet and I picked it up, cradling it as if it were a child. I went off the stage again and passed the bouquet to a stage hand, throwing my long blue velvet cloak around my shoulders, intending to leave the theatre. But I paused, looking out into the auditorium. The accolades had not abated. People were still standing, cheering, so I walked back out again and the clapping escalated.

With the house lights up, I looked around the entire theatre – down at the stalls, up to the gods, over at the boxes, soaking up the warmth and adoration that poured over me, washing me with a glorious sense of completeness. I was smiling, the happiest I could ever remember feeling, I reached my hands forward, as if I could touch the audience and everyone in it. Many stretched their arms towards me. I could look into each individual face, and in every one of the hundreds of eyes, I saw affection and love reflected back.

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Bosie was waiting for me at the stage door, already seated in the car.

The chauffeur held the door open and I settled myself next to him on the rear seat.

The back streets of Paris at this time of night took on a completely different atmosphere from during daylight hours. They were mysterious, archways and alleys held a wealth of secrets, of dark stories. Sheltered in a doorway I saw the back of a gentleman in a top hat and tails pushing insistently against a lady of the night. As we drove past, she looked straight through the car window at me and I fancied I could see her wishing for our positions to be reversed. I had no disdain of her, although I had no wish to be her, but we both used our bodies to our advantage. Indeed, if other women would be more free with theirs, making love when the spirit moved them, perhaps she would no longer have any customers.

After complimenting me on my performance, Bosie became thoughtful. ‘The story of Iphigeneia carries so much truth. It is only through knowing death that we understand what it means to be alive.’ I knew he was thinking of Wilde.

‘Yes, you are right. It’s perverse, isn’t it,’ I said, squeezing his hand.

When we arrived back at the house, I told Jeannie to go to bed and we had a nightcap of cognac. But we couldn’t sit for long, our tiredness caught up with us and we both began to yawn. Bosie went up to bed and I stayed down to check the doors on the ground floor.

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As I wound my way up the spiral staircase with my lamp, high above shadows began to undulate. I felt distinctly uneasy. At the top of the stairs I watched them appear to expand and contract.

Three dark shapes broke away from the mass and began to circle, anti-clockwise. As they flew, their outlines became more distinct, wingtip feathers a jagged edge. The forms of three large black birds. Their circling took on a frenzied quality, swooping faster and lower, brushing the walls with their wings.

They were circling down towards me, as if I were a small animal on the ground about to meet my fate. I could feel the rush of air as they flew past and caught the metallic glint of a bird’s eye as it stared down at me.

The blackness grew and their wings blocked out all remaining light. ‘No, no,’ I heard myself screaming, high and long.

Bosie shot out of the guest bedroom seconds later and the children stumbled from their beds. Jeannie came clattering up the stairs.

‘Madam, what is it?’

I saw the wide startled eyes of my little ones, awakened rudely from their sleep. ‘I’m sorry, I thought I saw something, but I was wrong. Jeannie, please can you put the children back to bed?’

‘It’s alright, mes enfants. Go back to bed, darlings.’ I gave them each a kiss as Jeannie took them by the hand to their room.

Bosie was standing waiting, his navy dressing gown thrown hastily over his pyjamas.

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‘Isadora, what is it? What did you see?’

‘I saw three crows, flying in here. Circling. I was afraid.’

‘But the doors and windows were all shut, you can’t have.’

‘Bosie, I know what I saw.’

‘Why were you so scared?’

‘They’re a portent of death.’

‘Isadora, you’re shaking. It’s alright.’ He came and stood close and tentatively touched my arm. ‘I will make it alright.’

He fetched a lamp from his room and walked the length of the corridor, casting light into the shadows.

‘By the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, be gone, bad spirits.

Leave this house for good,’ he chanted. He paused by the door of the children’s room and made the sign of the cross.

‘There,’ he said, when he’d finished. ‘The evil has gone now.’

There were only black faces on the streets of the area I had found myself on in the growing dark. At first this did not worry me, but the looks I got let me know I was in alien territory, worse still, in a showy new car.

Somehow I found my way back to the car hire company before they closed, although I had felt weak and shaken, like a diabetic after an insulin low. My

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usual bravado and sense of assurance had deserted me and I sweated all the way back until I closed the door of my flat.

I was not looking forward to seeing Anna the following week. The only news I had was disappointing, but knew I had to return the rest of the money and say goodbye. I also wanted to tell her of the latest episodes and ask her advice. She was the only one who might have an inkling of what I was talking about.

‘So what was on the film?’ I asked Anna.

She had sunk into moroseness after hearing I hadn’t been able to locate it. When I had tried to return the remainder of the two thousand dollars she’d given me, she’d said irritably, ‘Keep it, you silly girl, you’ll need it. It’s no use to me.’

‘The film belonged to Isadora,’ she said. ‘She didn’t want anyone else to have it, so she gave it to me saying I wasn’t to let anyone see it.’

‘But why? What was on it?’

She sighed. ‘She gave explicit instructions that it was to be destroyed. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, so she asked me.’

‘But I don’t understand, what was on the film that she didn’t want other people to see?’

She ignored me and continued.

‘I always thought could do it later.’

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Now there is no later, I thought. ‘So if I had given you the film, you would have destroyed it, even now?’

She didn’t reply.

‘Well it’s disappeared now, so it doesn’t matter,’ I said.

‘I let her down again,’ Anna said, so quietly I could hardly hear.

I rubbed my face with my hands, pushing my hair from my eyes.

‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ I said.

‘You don’t know what I did.’

‘Anna, it can’t have been that bad.’

‘I betrayed her.’

‘Would you like to tell me about it?’

She closed her eyes. ‘Not now. Some other time,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. Please go.’

I still hadn’t told her I was leaving New York, or asked her advice about the strange episodes. It didn’t seemed like the right time now.

I was becoming afraid to go out of my comfort zone, in case I had another attack. Work seemed to be safe enough. The familiarity of routine and Maud’s cheerful presence seemed to ward them off. I had told her I was leaving. She had been genuinely regretful, but philosophical.

‘I didn’t expect a girl like you to stay long. Far too much going for you. You will keep in touch, won’t you?’

Giving her a hug, I assured her I would.

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I dreaded the nights the most. I tried to stay awake as late as possible. I even bought sleeping tablets in the hope I would be able to sleep without dreaming, but it didn’t always work. So I read the latest comedy novels and started to listen intently to the news, making sure I was up-to-date so when I got back home I would be able to, if not get my old job back, at least seem like a candidate for a new one.

As the time drew nearer, the knowledge that I was going home worked like a tonic. I was feeling cheerful again – almost back to normal. I parcelled things up and posted them home, care of my mother, so I wouldn’t have too much luggage to carry. It made my upcoming departure seem real.

With only a few days to go, I had started to pack my suitcase. I had set it on the bed and was sitting next to it, carefully folding clothes, when I noticed that the fabric in my hands was becoming flimsier and fading to white.

I found myself brushing down the diaphanous folds of the white tunic

I was wearing. It was so peaceful here on the day bed in the glade. Above me the branches of, what I now thought of as ‘my’ oak tree, were sighing in the gentle breeze.

After a time I became impatient that the woman hadn’t appeared and so I walked into the tall stone house and climbed the spiral stairs to the bedroom. I stopped opposite the chest of drawers beneath the gilt-edged mirror. How very odd, I remember thinking as I lay down on the chaise lounge, that the walls should be painted black. I was about to reach down

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for the book that lay face down on the floor beside me when there was a tentative knocking. I looked up as the door was slowly pushed open a few inches. The face of a young girl with short, bobbed brown hair appeared, smiling at me.

‘Maman?’ she queried. ‘Have you finished your rest now?’

Without waiting for a reply, she pushed the door wide open and ran into the room, followed by the boy with long golden curls. There was a moment of disorientation and I wanted to call out and say I’m not ready, I’m not here yet. But then I looked down at Deirdre and Patrick and knew that I was and had only ever been, Isadora.

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CHAPTER NINE

They ran over to me, giggling. Patrick tried to scramble onto my lap.

Reaching out my arms, I helped him up and he tucked in against my body in a natural movement, clinging like a young monkey. Deirdre climbed on the sofa next to me and leaned her head on my shoulder, small arms wrapped around my neck.

I had an arm around both children and as they snuggled against me, I found myself relishing the sheer animal closeness and the fresh, familiar smell of them. It was amazing that my body could have produced these unique creatures, I thought. Waves of love welled up in me as I put my face against Patrick’s golden hair.

There was the sound of footsteps ascending the staircase and Annie, the children’s nurse, entered the room. I had always considered her pretty with that flaming red hair and scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, making her appear younger than her twenty-two years.

‘There you are, children,’ she said, in a heavily accented Scots brogue, ‘ Didn’t I tell you not to disturb your Mama?’

Patrick snuggled his face more closely against my breast and Deirdre poked her tongue out at her nurse.

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‘It’s alright Annie,’ I said. ‘I must do some work now anyway. And the car was coming for you at three. What’s the time now?’

‘It’s almost that, Ma’am. I’ll make sure they both have a nap, so they’re fit company this evening.’

I gently prised the children’s arms loose and set Patrick down from my lap. As I rose from the sofa, the children jumped around me like puppies.

‘But Maman, we don’t want to go. Do we Patrick? We want to stay with yoooooou.’ Deirdre drew the last word out plaintively.

‘Yes, yes,’ cried Patrick.

Putting a hand on each child to quiet them, I crouched down to look in their faces.

‘My darlings, I’ll join you soon, but I really must rehearse, or I won’t be ready for Tuesday. If you go with Annie and have a little nap, when you open your eyes I’ll be there. Then we can have dinner together and I’ll read you some more of the story. We can find out what happens to ....’

‘Oh,’ said Deirdre, breaking away and twirling around the room, her skirt swinging out in a circle. ‘Will you bring us bonbons Maman?’

‘Bonbons,’ echoed Patrick.

I tried to hide my smile. ‘I might, if you’re very good and go with

Annie now.’

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Outside the sky was overcast, threatening a storm, and small droplets of rain made us hurry across the crunchy white gravel towards the waiting yellow Renault. The chauffeur appeared, holding a large black umbrella over us. Deirdre climbed first into the back seat. Patrick’s legs were still too little to climb onto the running board, so I helped him up. Annie had gone around to the other side and was engaged in putting a tartan travelling rug over Deirdre’s legs, as I wrapped Patrick in a rug.

‘Stay warm, sweetheart,’ I said, kissing him. Deirdre extended her face forward and I leaned over to kiss her, too. I brushed the strands of fair hair back from my daughter’s forehead.

‘You’re my big girl. You look after Patrick for me and have a good nap. And behave yourself for Annie.’

Stepping back, I smiled at Annie as the chauffeur closed the door with a snap. He touched his peaked cap and nodded at her, before going to the front of the car to crank the manivel.

I walked to the back of the car and admired the way the oval of the rear window framed the faces of my two beautiful children. Deirdre reached up her hand to touch the glass and from the outside I extended mine, smiling into her clear blue eyes as I did so. For a moment there was an illusion of contact, but then I shivered, uneasy at feeling the cold surface against my warm fingers, and withdrew my hand.

The car rumbled and began to move off. I stayed watching, as two small faces smiled at me, tiny hands waving, until the car turned the corner

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at the end of the long driveway and they were lost from view among the horses, carriages and cars on the cobble-stoned street beyond.

I turned and walked towards the house, glancing with pleasure at the bright yellows and reds of the spring bulbs in the garden beds surrounding the driveway’s turning circle, bringing colour to the grey day. The building was imposing, more than two stories high. Built of smooth grey stone, there were no windows on this side, except for two clover shaped ones just below the eves. As if constructed for giants, a doorway reached three quarters of the way up the wall. I had bought the house from two years ago from a painter who had been given a commission to paint an over-size portrait of the Tsar of Russia and the Tsarina. He’d had the studio purpose built, but then had to sell it when his fee had remained unpaid. His misfortune has been my good fortune, I thought. It has been a perfect place to work.

Opening the smaller door I usually used, I entered my studio. It was a very large room, about twenty by thirty metres. Drapes of blue velvet hung in heavy folds covering the walls and alabaster lights high above cast a subdued glow. I found I could concentrate better when the light was low, as there were no distractions. At the end of the room, at the foot of the wrought iron spiral staircase that wound around eleven times, was a marble statue of

Diana as a huntress, reflected in a large mirror.

Removing my shawl and draping it over a sofa in the corner, I walked to the centre of the room and stood motionless, my hands crossed on my chest. The thick stone walls and their coverings of cloth made this room

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completely quiet, like being in the midst of a pine forest, and the only thing

I could hear was the rise and fall of my own breath. I had no need of music yet.

A feeling of contentment washed over me. I didn’t know a period in my life when I had felt so happy. Really happy, peacefully happy. I had everything I needed. My children and my work.

Even my animosity with Paris, Patrick’s father, seemed to be resolving itself. He had just come back from a trip to Egypt and we’d all had lunch together earlier that day. It had been so lovely to see him again after a long break and he was openly affectionate with the children, teasing them gently, in a way they enjoyed.

Perhaps we could try again to be together as a family, I mused. If only he can accept that I really don’t want to marry him. He’s a dear person, but it’s strange how men have the need to control, to dominate. But I must stop thinking now and concentrate, or I’ll be hopeless on Tuesday if I don’t get some practice done.

I focussed on the feeling in my solar plexus. There was a core of warmth there and I consciously relaxed my body to allow it to spread, arms falling to my sides, waiting patiently for the impulse to begin moving. The moment came and a ripple ran through me. I imagined the boundaries of my body being fluid, indefinable; flowing into the surrounding space. I moved where the impulse took me, rising and falling in successive waves. Reaching

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a crest and coming to rest, sometimes on the floor, where I lay, stranded, before slowly beginning the process again.

When my body felt loose and completely connected, I crossed to the gramophone and put on a Brahms waltz, Opus 39. The scratchy tones gave an impression of how the orchestra would sound, and were more useful for the timing than anything. An idea came to me and I went over the movements until I was satisfied.

I didn’t hear the door open, but in the midst of a turn I caught sight of a figure on the threshold. I stopped, puzzled, and a man staggered forward.

It was Paris. I caught him as he fell to his knees, wordlessly, hiding his head against my skirt, arms around my legs. I could feel shudders going through him and as he raised his face to mine, it was as though his regular features had been replaced with a mask of horror. A pain so great I had not seen before on any human being. I stared at him with disbelief. What had happened to cause this dramatic change to the urbane, amusing man I had seen a few hours ago?

I was standing on the edge of an abyss. I didn’t want to know, and yet I had to. I sank down on the floor beside him and held his face in my hands.

‘What, what? For God’s sake, tell me.’

‘Isadora, the children, the children...’

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He seemed unable to go on. I couldn’t understand him. It was though time had slowed down and I was wading through a morass. What children. My children?

‘The children are dead,’ he croaked.

‘No, they were just here, they are fine.’

He held me tight and said softly into my ear. ‘Isadora, the children drowned, in the Seine.’

I still could not believe it. I stared into his face, struggling to understand.

‘But they were just with me.’

‘There was an accident. Their car swerved to avoid a taxi and stalled. The chauffeur got out to crank the engine and he put the car into reverse, for safety, but he forgot to put the hand brake on. When the car started to move the handle came off in his hand and the car went into the river. It was swept away. A man dived in, but he couldn’t open the doors because of the water pressure. They were all drowned. The babies, Annie.’

He was crying openly now. His handsome, bearded face looked haggard and old as tears streamed down and sobs racked his body.

‘No, no,’ I kept repeating, as if the force of the statement would make it untrue.

We held each other and rocked, backwards and forwards for I didn’t know how long. I didn’t cry. The situation seemed too unreal, but instead I

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comforted him. Paris, the industrialist, my large, bearded lover, had shrunk into this weeping, clinging being.

‘It’s not possible, my darling,’ I told him. ‘There is no death. We are all one.’

The room filled with people, familiar faces, all looking at me with expressions of love and concern. At some point Paris went away and I sat in the corner, wrapped in a rug, continuing to rock backwards and forwards.

Why were all these people here and what did they expect of me? I smiled at them and assured them I was fine. They seemed to be upset, and I felt sorry for them. I tried to tell them everything was alright, but they couldn’t seem to comprehend me. I felt as though I was talking from far away in another language that no-one else shared. I wished they would just go away and leave me alone.

The local priest appeared. ‘Madam, be comforted. They are with

God,’ he said.

I was furious. You pious, patronising bastard, I thought. How dare you deign to tell me how to feel? ‘You can keep your church. The only thing that matters is my love for them, which is infinitely deeper than any of your pious platitudes,’ I told him. He was shocked, as well he might be, and my friend Mary showed him out.

When she returned, she said, ‘Isadora, the bodies have been released from the morgue. They have taken them to the back bedroom. Do you want

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to see them?’ I stared at her blankly, but let her take my hand and lead me.

The children lay on one of the beds. They looked just like they were sleeping close together, holding hands; hair brushed from their foreheads as though damp from their baths. Patrick’s golden curls were spread on the pillow. ‘My angels, my little angels,’ I breathed. It was impossible to believe they would not wake up, I had watched them like this so often before.

Gently dropping to my knees next to the bed, I searched their sweet faces that I loved more than anything for a sign, any sign of life. It was only as I touched Deirdre’s pale lips and felt the unnatural coldness that I was hit with the brutal force of what had happened. The dam wall gave and I heard a high wailing, keening sound I only barely recognised as my own voice.

There are two times a mother cries like this, I knew, at birth and at death.

As Mary supported me from the room I saw the body of Annie in the corner, face covered with a white kerchief. Before Mary could stop me, I pulled it off. Annie’s face was contorted with horror, mouth open in a silent scream; the full knowledge of what was coming written clearly in her eyes. I collapsed, shuddering, onto the floor, all the strength gone from my limbs.

Then I was being raised up. The faces of my dear pupils were before me, Anna, Irma, Gretel, Therese, Erika and Lisa. As they hugged me, I said to them, ‘You must be my children, now.’

We sat together in the studio all night wrapped in one another’s arms.

At dawn, they lay asleep around me, covered with whatever shawls and rugs

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had come to hand. I felt as though we had been in a storm, and these were the survivors washed up on the shore. Standing, I tiptoed quietly through their bodies, so as not to waken them. Opening the heavy door I stood on the threshold, willing myself to see my little ones standing on the steps. Deirdre in her little white hooded coat with the Greek trim and Patrick, kitted out like a miniature arctic explorer, in his oversize hand knitted coat, with the scarf attached at the back so he wouldn’t lose it. I imagined myself saying,

‘Darlings, I’ve changed my mind. Have a rest here, upstairs, and I’ll come back with you later.’

Would it have meant I would have been in the car too as it sank? Or would my being there have somehow prevented it? Even that moment when

I had touched Deirdre’s cold hand through the glass and felt something wrong, I should have trusted my instincts and run quickly to the driver’s side and ordered him to stop. The turning circle was empty, but I could see the car so clearly. Instead of moving, I had stood and watched them going off along the long driveway.

I walked over the stones in the drive, the sharpness on my bare soles bringing me back into the present. In the garden beyond it seemed to have snowed in the night. The garden beds and the lawn were covered in a sea of white. As I approached, the pale drifts separated themselves into the shapes of flowers. White flowers everywhere. Jessamine and magnolias, strung from the trees; jasmine draped over the bushes; sheathes of lilies and roses scattered on the lawn. Delicate perfume scented the air as I stepped among

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them, my silk shawl trailing on the dew wet grass. I stood in the middle of the lawn, as if on a foam strewn seashore. It was completely still and silent.

Even the birds had stopped singing.

A clock was ticking. Rhythm of urgency. I needed to doing something, but what? Surfacing slowly. The phone rang, the shrill demanding call of a child, needing attention now. I groped my hand slowly, not wanting the light to penetrate my eyelids. I found the phone and managed to knock over a glass of water. ‘Shit.’

‘Yes, hello.’

‘Tamsin, it’s Stella. Have I woken you?’

‘No, it’s okay. I just woke up a moment before you rang.’

‘It’s Anna. She’s lapsed into a coma. The hospice rang to tell me they don’t think it will be long before she goes.’

I had a sudden sense of overlapping confusion. My dream had intruded into my life. Anna? Going, where? But I just saw her. Anna had been lying, asleep with her head on the sofa, her long lashes dark against her pale cheek. She had looked endearingly young and vulnerable. There had been a small pimple on her chin. But of course, I reminded myself, Anna was old now.

‘Tamsin, are you there?’

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‘Yes, sorry. So what’s happening?’

‘I’m going down there now. Will you come with me? I can come by in a cab and pick you up.’

‘Yes, sure. Give me half an hour. I’ll be waiting on the sidewalk.’

‘Okay, see you then.’

I looked down to find I was still fully clothed and had fallen asleep on the covers.

At the Jewish Home for the Aging Blind, a cleaner was polishing the floor of the foyer. Stella and I stood waiting for the anorexic, gum-chewing receptionist to get off the phone.

‘Nooo Marcie, he didn’t do that.’ She addressed her friend in a voice of delighted disbelief. The invisible Marcie obviously had a good night out, but we didn’t want to hear about it. I shifted my weight impatiently and moved into the receptionist’s line of vision, staring at her determinedly, until the conversation broke off.

‘We’re here to see Anna Duncan,’ I said, Stella beside me.

‘Nobody except family allowed,’ said the girl with a so there in her voice.

‘We are family,’ Stella said, impatiently. ‘One of your nurses rang me. I think her name was Barbara.’

‘Oh, why didn’t you say so? I’ll just get her.’

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She pressed a buzzer behind a desk and turned away from us, back to her conversation.

For a few moments we stared at the prints on the wall, obviously there for the benefit of visitors, as no patients would see them. Oddly, they were all scenes of bucolic English countryside, mostly small cottages with thatched rooves surrounded by rose bushes. A uniformed nurse appeared.

An older woman with the lined face of a smoker, she looked exhausted at the tail end of her night shift. She made a wan attempt at a smile and led us down the corridor, the doors on either side shut like closed-lidded eyes.

We reached another room, a few doors past the one I knew as

Anna’s, and the nurse opened the door without knocking. There, on a trolley rather than a bed, covered by a pale pink sheet, was Anna. Her body seemed shrunken as a mummy’s, a shroud of another age. But her face was relaxed and open.

‘I’ll leave you for a little while, shall I?’ the nurse asked.

Stella nodded and the door clicked softly.

There were two plastic chairs, so we sat, pulling them closer to the trolley. The dragging noise sounded very loud in the hollow room. I didn’t feel like speaking and neither did Stella.

Anna was breathing lightly, shallowly. Stella reached for Anna’s hand and held it. I wonder what it must be like, to have this link to the past slipping away when Stella had spent most of her working life trying to preserve it.

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A sense of overwhelming loss swept over me. The feeling of standing in the garden. Empty, white. The aliveness of the woman dissipated, vanished into the ether. I felt the wetness of tears on my cheeks.

Anna’s body twitched and we both gasped involuntarily. Her head turned from side to side, as if listening to inaudible music. She began to move, her eyes closed, marking out a dance, reminding herself of the steps. Her body swayed, as if suddenly caught in a breeze. Stella let her hand go and it moved across the coverlet, back and forth, the supple wrist expressing the nuances the rest of the body was no longer capable of, until it was still again.

We sat in silence as her breathing became more irregular and ragged. After a long time the breathing stopped. There was a complicity between us, as neither moved to call the nurse, feeling that any attempt at revival would lessen the dignity of her departure. We still sat, Stella had dropped her head onto the bed and was sobbing quietly. I put my arm around her.

Later, after the cab had fought the vicious swirl around a traffic accident and taken Stella back to give her scheduled class, or to cancel it, she didn’t know which, I wandered aimlessly along Madison Avenue. I tuned in and out of the loud voices and let snatches of conversation wash over me.

‘My mother having a baby at her age makes as little sense as me having one at mine.’

The suited man following: ‘So I said to him, she’s got it all wrong.

She doesn’t realise the implications.’

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Do we ever, do we ever realise the implications of our actions? The ripples panning out from a single moment, a choice. The light was too harsh, the edges of objects too sharply delineated. This place, not my home, felt like the dream world.

I drifted into a bookshop on Fifth Avenue and flicked in a desultory way through the magazine rack. Images assailed me. Snippets of modern life in all its myriad of aspects. Or the snippets that we are supposed to be seduced by. We were supposed to like these images enough to want to take them with us. A small sample of the world in our bags, that we carry around, pore over, envy and ultimately discard. And would I remember any of these people contained in the frame of the photograph? It hardly mattered if I didn’t. What is the nature of memory?

I walked back along the street, through the crowds of people, looking into their faces. All of these people had a shape to their lives, an individual existence, yet we shared this brief moment together. There was hope on the faces of some, boredom on others, pain, and occasional awareness, or predatory sexual invitation. I kept my own face blank, feeling as transparent as a ghost, but looked all the same.

I walked and walked, until finally I came to rest on a park bench. A young man dropped down solidly at the other end. I felt too exhausted and apathetic to care. But I wasn’t surprised when he began speaking.

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‘You okay, lady? You look beat.’ He had dark Hispanic looks, or maybe they were Italian. Normally I would have ignored him, but today a connection, any connection, seemed valuable.

‘I’m okay. My friend died this morning.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

We sat for a few moments until a small girl ran past, chasing a puppy, with her father in hot pursuit. The child was calling, ‘Come back.

Come back.’

Come back. Anna, we didn’t have enough time. There were so many things I wanted to find out. You wanted me to, you sensed you wouldn’t be here much longer, but I went on as though there was all the time in the world. What a waste. And now I will never know. I will never know what the dreams mean.

‘Would you like a coffee?’ he said, startling me.

I turned and looked at him closely. What did he want from me? He was about my own age, dressed in a brown bomber jacket and jeans. His hair was black and flopped across his face in a way that reminded me of Ted.

But of course he was not. I scanned his expression for duplicity and found none apparent, or he was very good at hiding it.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, challenging.

‘My name’s Mario. I’m on my day off and I saw you sitting on the bench and thought you looked sad.’

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‘Well, I am sad Mario. First my children died, then my friend.’

What was I saying, I wondered. I have had no children.

Mario looked chastened. What could he offer in the face of such overwhelming female suffering?

Comfort, of course.

That is what he wanted, like all men who saw you and sensed an opportunity. But instead of being repelled, I was strangely excited. I found I craved contact.

‘Yes, Mario, I will have a cup of coffee.’

Instead of coffee, we sat in a small wine bar together and had two glasses of cabernet sauvignon each, although it was so early in the day. We didn’t talk much, other than about New York. I asked no personal questions and he didn’t either. Afterwards, I led him up the stairs to my room. I could tell he was surprised by my willingness to undress and my eagerness to touch him. Perhaps he was used to women being passive. I stripped him as soon as the door was closed. He had the firm, muscular body of a healthy young man, although his waist was softening slightly. His wife probably fed him too much. I knew he was married. Although he hadn’t said so and had no ring, he had the guilty furtive air of a man to whom reality was more confronting than fantasy.

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He went down on me as we lay on the bed and I found myself drifting, buoyed by exquisite pleasure. The only meaning of being was the point where the tip of his tongue flicked across my clitoris.

‘Mario, come here, come into me,’ I said urgently. He hesitated, seeking the condom in his pocket, I pushed his hand away and pulled his buttocks toward me. He groaned as the length of him slide in. The violence of my response startled me as I writhed underneath him, but I had no control.

There was nothing, other than the point where flesh meets flesh. I raised my legs so I could feel him deeper, and he drove into my centre. ‘Give me a child,’ I heard and realised the voice was my own. In response, Mario fucked me harder and faster, until the rhythm took over completely and oblivion came.

Afterwards I slept deeply, dreamlessly. When I awoke, he was gone.

I rolled over and dived once more into the soft darkness. A sea of black.

And I went willingly, knowing that beneath the surface, Isadora was waiting.

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PART TWO

CHAPTER TEN

A sharp pain pierced my head, as if some amateur surgeon had decided to try a spot of trepanning. I willed the hurt to go away and it gave a last resentful stab, before subsiding to a low dull throb behind the eyes.

Wondering if it was time to get up for work, I strained for the familiar tick of the alarm clock. The room was strangely silent. I knew I should have replaced the battery. I forced my eyes open. The light was dim as the nocturnal house at a zoo. It must still be very early. Searching for the friendly glowing hands of the clock on the beside table, there was only blackness. I groped for the glass of water, gasping in shock as my fingers felt a coldness, like stone, instead of the warmth of wood veneer.

I turned my head slowly, eyes growing used to the gloom. Dark lines crossed the ceiling and I tried to work out what could be casting such shadows. Struggling into sitting position, I saw the window was blocked out with heavy drapes, a thin stream of light spilling from the bottom. But it was in completely the wrong place – to the right of the bed instead of straight ahead. What? I felt dizzy and struggled to comprehend. The room seemed much larger. There was a partially opened doorway near the corner, emitting

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a soft light. The silhouettes of two wingback chairs faced a fire place and further along the same wall was an old fashioned writing desk.

I flicked back the sheet and stood, feet landing on a soft rug. My jeans, shirt and underclothes were piled in a heap at the end of the bed and I hurriedly pulled them on. Treading quietly, I reached the doorway and peered through the gap. An elaborate bathroom lay beyond, with marble tiles and gold taps. Pushing the door wide, I took a couple of steps to the basin and leant on the vanity, breathing as heavily as if I’d run the hundred metres. Below me was a small round soap, wrapped in a tissue package, sealed with a dark blue crest. Where the hell was I? I stood up straight and examined my reflection. I looked dishevelled, with dark rings under my eyes, but otherwise normal. But I had never seen the bathroom before in my life. A bidet in the background caught my eye. It was an odd fixture for an

American bathroom. I felt like I had wandered into some sort of alternate universe. I tried to slow the staccato rhythm in my chest. ‘Don’t panic,’ I muttered, panicking, ‘...at least I’m me.’

There was another door in the bedroom and turning the brass handle,

I pulled it open sharply. I had no idea what to expect. Behind it was a long empty corridor, with dark blue carpet and crystal light fittings. I strained to hear something, but there was only silence. Opposite was a closed door, the number 14 displayed prominently. I was in a hotel.

The last thing I could remember yesterday was going back to sleep, after Mario had gone. Surely I would have woken up if he or someone else

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had tried to take me somewhere? But they must have. But then where was my abductor? The room wasn’t even locked.

I ran over to the window and pulled back the curtains. The light was so bright that at first I was blinded and had to squint. As my eyes adjusted, what I saw made even less sense.

Below was a neatly manicured garden either side of a white stone driveway, leading to an open set of ornate wrought iron gates in an ivy- covered red brick wall. The street outside had the uneven texture of cobblestones and on the opposite side was a very neat park with a large formal fountain in the centre. People were lying on the grass, drinking in the sunshine as if it were a rare event.

To the right and left of where I stood, imposing brick terrace houses ran in a line, turning sharply to form a square. It didn’t resemble anywhere

I’d seen in New York – it looked much neater and older.

Resting on the small writing desk was a leather compendium with an embossed gold crest matching the one on the soap. I opened it. Inside was a writing pad headed Pavillon de la Reine, 28 Place des Vosges, Paris,

Arrondissement 03, France and a telephone number. I read the words over and over, numb with disbelief.

I must get some help, I thought, picking up the telephone on the desk with a shaking hand.

‘Est-ce que je peux vous aider?’ said a female voice.

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Helplessly I put it down on the cradle. What could I say? I’ve woken up and I don’t belong here? Get me the embassy? A doctor?

I didn’t know who I wanted to call. My stomach was churning with fear, forcing itself up my gut. I raced to the bathroom and retched repeatedly into the toilet bowl. There wasn’t much in my stomach to get rid of.

Filling a water glass from the tap, I downed it in a single long draught, trying to flush away the disgustingly bitter taste of bile as I effectively as I had flushed the toilet. Then for several minutes I sat on the toilet lid, head in hands.

When I had recovered slightly, I went back into the bedroom. I hadn’t noticed that my suitcase was resting beside one of the chairs, jacket draped over it. I picked it the jacket and buried my face in the thick fabric, willing myself back in a familiar place. But, when I took it away, I was still in the strange hotel room.

Shutting the door after me, I padded down the hallway and found an elevator. I realised halfway down that my feet were still bare, but really didn’t care. At ground level the doors opened onto a patrician foyer with several sandstone pillars supporting thick oak beams, and antique rugs laid neatly over a stone floor. On a marble-topped side board was a vase of yellow roses exuding a subtle perfume.

The smartly uniformed man on the reception desk stared at me as I crossed the foyer. I struggled to dredge up a few words of high school

French.

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‘Parlez-vous anglais?’

‘Oui, mademoiselle. Yes I do.’

He was a young, attractive man with whom, under other circumstances, I would have been tempted to flirt.

‘I have been...unwell. Can you tell me if I arrived here yesterday?’

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Your name, mademoiselle?’

‘Doyle, Tamsin Doyle.’

Flicking through a card file, he paused and said, ‘Yes, we had no booking for you, but fortunately we had a cancellation.’

‘Um...when I checked in, was I alone?’

He looked nonplussed. ‘I wasn’t on yesterday, mademoiselle, but surely you can remember if you had a friend.’ It was obvious he thought I meant a lover.

‘It’s important. Can you ask the person who was on yesterday whether I did?’

He shrugged. ‘Alright, but I will need to make a call.’

He turned away and pressed the key pad of a telephone, gabbling in rapid French. I caught the word incroyable. Incredible. You and I both agree,

I thought.

Shortly he turned back to me. ‘Non, you were alone when you checked in yesterday. Jacques remembers. He says you seemed distrait and thought you must be very tired.’

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‘Thank you. I appreciate your help. I have one more question. What is the price of this hotel?’

‘Two hundred and seventy five US dollars per night, mademoiselle.’

Fortunately found the remains of Anna’s $2 000 in my wallet and was able to pay the bill.

Walking along the street, I was grateful my long suffering suitcase had wheels. Doing something, anything, gave me the illusion of some control. The concierge had graciously directed me to a smaller hotel nearby,

The Hotel Saint-Louis in the Marais – the rate a third that of the Pavillon de la Reine. He had even rung to be sure they had room for me and given me a small map.

There was an Air France boarding pass in the pocket of my jacket, showing I had flown from JFK airport at 10 am the previous morning – First

Class, landing at Charles de Gaulle airport. My passport was stamped with a

30 day tourist visa, presumably acquired on landing. I had no idea how I had managed to get from the airport to the hotel or how I even knew of its existence.

As I guided my case through the graceful colonnades of the Place des

Vosges, I looked carefully around at the street cafes and casual but stylishly dressed people. Seeing me a waiter, white cloth over one arm, pulled out a chair and gestured for me to sit. I shook my head and kept walking. I had

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never been to Paris before, although I had always wanted to. It was a pity the circumstances were too peculiar to let me enjoy it.

Turning into a small street filled with tiny shops and boutiques, I paused at a window display. The shop was filled with antique cupboards and wardrobes, their doors painted with intricate trompe l’oeil – windows through to fantasy worlds – looking out over orchards full of ripe fruit, fields, castles, farmhouses and mediaeval walled cities. They reminded me of a favourite childhood story – The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe – where a girl called Lucy discovers that if she goes through a wardrobe, she comes to another world. If I remembered correctly, she had regarded it an adventure. It isn’t, I thought. When it’s real it’s terrifying. Perhaps this is how people with Alzheimer’s feel. Anna suddenly came into my head and the rawness of her death made me want to howl. I bit my lip. Anna, what is happening to me?

With a little difficulty I located the Hotel Saint Louis, passing it several times before realising it was through a doorway in the side of a large building, below a sign reading Celestins Convent. The lobby was compact, with a few antiques. Large wooden beams looked as if they’d been there for centuries and were likely to endure a few hundred more. The woman behind the desk spoke good English and showed me downstairs breakfast room with a vaulted ceiling. There was no lift and I immediately I regretted I hadn’t taken up the offer of having my suitcase carried up later. I struggled up the steep stairs.

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After the door of my tiny room clicked shut, I collapsed on the bed, overcome with exhaustion. I must have dozed off for a while. When I awoke, I lay staring at the ceiling, going over what had happened. Propping myself up on my elbow, I studied the room. If I was doing a travel article I would write, ‘Decorated in a cosy French country style, the bedroom was only slightly bigger than the bed, side table and wardrobe it contained. But the overall effect was charming.’ But I was not writing a travel piece.

I looked out through the window. Across a narrow lane at the back of the hotel ran a row of old fashioned flats. There were red and orange flowers in the window boxes and a white Persian cat sitting on a ledge in the sun, washing itself.

I thought again of Anna’s death and remembered the vivid dream I’d had the night before it happened – touching Deirdre’s small fingers against the cold glass before the car set off along the long driveway. The death of the children had felt as real to me as Anna’s had.

Something played on the edge of consciousness. Then I knew. The river that had claimed them had been the Seine. Isadora had been living in

Paris. A confusion of fear and excitement surged through me. I sat on the edge of the bed.

‘Why have you brought me here?’ I addressed her. ‘What do you want of me?’ I half expected something to happen – the glade to appear and her with it, able to give me an explanation. I waited, but the room stayed

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solid and there was nothing to hear beyond the hum of traffic in the distance and the nearby drone of a vacuum cleaner.

I yearned to hear a familiar voice. Finding the number for the dance studio in my diary, I dialled zero and then out.

‘Isadora Duncan Studio, Stella speaking.’ Her tone sounded dull, flat.

‘Hi Stella, it’s Tamsin. How are you?’

‘I’ve been better. How are you doing?’

‘I’m okay, but something very weird has happened. I’m in Paris.’

‘Paris? Why? What’s happened?’

‘I didn’t actually plan to come. I woke up this morning and found myself in a hotel room here. I have no idea how I got here. It was – is – frightening.

‘What? But you must bought a ticket and everything.’

‘I found a boarding pass and my passport in my pocket. I flew here yesterday but I have absolutely no memory of doing so.’

‘None at all?’ She sounded incredulous and I didn’t blame her.

‘Really. None.’

‘That’s bizarre. Must be some kind of amnesia. Since yesterday, I’ve found myself doing the same thing over and over again, without knowing

I’ve done it. But ending up in Paris? That’s extreme. Are you alright now?

Are you safe?’

‘Yeah, I’m okay.’

‘Would you like me to ring your embassy?’

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‘ Thanks, but I’ll be okay.’

‘But what if it happens again? You should see someone.’

‘Like who?’

‘A doctor. A shrink. You need help.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

I had wanted to tell her everything – about Isadora and the strange waking dreams, but they seemed too hard to explain and would only confirm her opinion that I was mentally unstable. It was even harder trying to imagine trying telling some down-to-earth Australian embassy official or matter-of-fact doctor – especially one to whom English was a second language.

‘Are you coming back to New York?’ Stella asked.

My mind was made up in an instant. ‘I’m already a third of the way home, so I think I’ll keep on going. I know it’s asking a lot Stella, but there are a couple of small things I would be grateful if you took care of. I’m sorry I won’t be there to help you, but when you go to sort out Anna’s stuff, please can you go up to my apartment and pick up the bedclothes and return them to Maud? She lent them to me.’

‘Sure.’

‘Thanks. I only washed them a couple of days ago, so they should be alright. Also, there is a nice vase and some plates and mugs that I bought in the dining room. Choose whatever you like and give the others to Maud, with my love. Tell her I’ll call her soon.’

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‘Yeah, no problem. What about Andreas?’

‘I’ve paid him rent until the end of the month. Could you apologise to him for me and let him know I won’t be coming back? He’s pretty deaf and

I’ll have trouble explaining on the phone.’

‘You’ll have trouble explaining?’

I winced. ‘Sorry.’

‘Okay.’

‘Thank you. You’re a good friend. If I can ever do anything for you, let me know. Will you come and visit me sometime in Australia? I’ll show you around.’

‘Thanks, but I think you’ll probably get back to New York before I get there. It’s kinda hard to leave the studio.’

‘Sure, I understand. I’ll be back sometime. There is one more thing.

Do you have the address of the place where Isadora used to live?’

‘What, her house or the school?’

‘Both, if you’ve got them.’

‘Wait a minute.’

In the background I could hear papers being rustled. I reached over for my bag and pulled out my small notepad and a pen. Stella was impressively organised and after a short time she returned.

‘She used to live at 68 Rue de Chauveau, in Neuilly-sur-Seine. The school was somewhere else – in Place de la Lune, somewhere near Rodin’s old house at Meudon.’

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‘Thanks. Have you ever seen them?’

‘Can’t say I have. I always meant to. I guess you can have a look and tell me what you find.’

‘Sure.’

‘I just remembered, you must have left your tape recorder at the hospice,’ Stella said.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘They gave me one with your name on it that was found among

Anna’s things. There’s also an envelope she left for you. Where shall I send it?’

‘Care of my friend Helen in Australia.’ I gave her the address.

‘You’re amazing, Stella. Thanks for being so good to me.’

‘It was easy. I like you. Anna liked you too – a lot.’ There was a catch in her voice.

‘I’m terribly sorry about Anna,’ I said. It sounded woefully inadequate.

‘We’ve been expecting her to go for a while now, but I can’t make myself believe it. It’s like she’s still here.

‘I know what you mean.’

We were quiet for a moment, each with our own thoughts.

‘Tamsin, promise me that you’ll keep dancing. There’s a quality you’ve got..it is hard to define...you are very watchable. It would be a real pity if you didn’t keep it up.’

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‘Thank you, Stella. I will.’

‘And you will go and see a doctor?’

‘Yes, don’t worry. I’m going to book to fly home as soon as I can, so

I’ll see someone when I get back.’

‘Good. I should go now. People have started arriving.’

‘Sure. And I really appreciate you doing that other stuff for me. Take care.’

‘You too.’

I felt better having talked to her. More normal. I suddenly realised I was ravenous and hadn’t eaten for at least twenty-four hours. The woman on the desk directed me to some shops nearby. It was early afternoon and there seemed to be less traffic on the street and some of the shops were shut. It took a while to find a bank to get a cash advance on my credit card. As I walked, I glimpsed attractive shop window displays, intriguing views into courtyards and even a scatter of rose petals on the cobblestones. I wanted to slow down have a proper look, but my stomach was rumbling loudly.

Finally, task accomplished, I found a small café with tables on the street.

When I bit into a roll of French bread packed with ham and cheese, the taste was extraordinary – crunchy on the outside, soft and fresh within.

To top it off, the café latte was rich and frothy. I thought of one of my grandmother’s sayings – hunger makes the best sauce. There were few other people, although a couple of men past working age sat at other tables

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pouring over Le Monde. If it were New York, I mused, they’d be checking out the sports pages. But they could well be and it just looked more intellectual in French.

It took a couple of tries to find a travel agent who spoke English. She got onto United Airlines for me and after a lot of gesturing and raising her voice (I wasn’t sure if it was for my benefit or from force of habit), assured me she had booked the last available seat to Brisbane in two days time. She also managed to cancel the New York – London leg of the return ticket and get me a refund with only a small penalty. I was well pleased and thanked her profusely.

The American bank where I had an account was a lot less helpful.

They did have a branch, which took ages to find, but they told me it would take some time to organise the money transfer I needed. In fact, by the time it arrived I would be gone. As I had the refund from United, I was less fussed but still annoyed. You wouldn’t think this was the age of modern telecommunications.

Paradoxically, the more irritations I dealt with the more grounded I became, my recent disturbing experiences retreating into a persistent white noise of unease. But landing up in another country was terrifying. I wondered if this signalled the onset of some sort of serious mental illness.

How could I tell? Hang on, I thought, what about the photograph of Ted and

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Isadora that Anna showed me after I dreamt of it? But did you really, my mind teased, or had you caught a glimpse of it before? Perhaps Stella was right and I should pay a visit to psychiatrist.

I slept well and dreamlessly that night, and even sang in the shower the following morning. It was a bit tuneless, I’ll admit, but no-one else had to suffer.

Downstairs in the vaulted breakfast room, a beam of sunlight streamed through a high window casting a spotlight onto the floor, bouncing reflections into the faces of the other travellers, making hair glint and faces look fresh scrubbed. Breakfasting on a large bowl of milky coffee and some

French bread, unsalted butter and jam, I studied them. There were several

Germans, an elderly Dutch couple and two Japanese girls who looked absurdly young but were probably in their thirties. Several of the people were examining maps between bites and obviously discussing plans.

This morning the dream episodes, waking or not, had retreated still further into the realm of fantasy. And if my brain were doing some sort of short circuit, surely trying to find evidence of Isadora would only reinforce the problem. Instead I decided to enjoy my last day in Paris like any normal tourist and see a few of the sights.

A mosaic of red, green and blue shards of light played across the face of a teenage girl as she stared up at one of the rose windows in Notre Dame.

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‘Cool,’ she said with a loud Texas twang, chewing gum. ‘Hey Dad, check out the Jesus.’

A woman nearby, who looked like her mother, flowers stretched like stains in the lycra over large haunches, was telling her friend, ‘I bought a darling little charm of No-tray Dayme and then had to go and buy five more for my friends at home.’ The friend didn’t need any more charms – she looked like she had bought out the entire gold chain section of a jewellery franchise.

Outside, in front of the Portal of the Virgin, a pregnant gypsy woman was begging. There was a knowingness in her dark eyes and she looked disdainfully at the tourists as they threw her a dollar, after taking her photo in her picturesque coloured and patterned clothing and head scarf. She was attractive in a vibrant way that many wealthier women spent a small fortune trying to achieve.

Crossing the bridge, I wandered idly down the Quai de Montebello.

The day was overcast, but not cold. I was enjoying the feeling that I was simply on holiday.

There was a row of bookstalls on the Quai – carts with yellowed prints hanging up on the sides and piles of old books on display. I pictured

Andreas and smiled. I hoped he wouldn’t think too badly of me. Turning my attention to the books, I began to leaf through them. There was a pile of books with illustrations. One on Napoleon Bonaparte’s garden at

Malmaison caught my eye. The garden was laid out in a partly formal

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French and partly English naturalistic style, from the little I could understand of the text. Busy man, Napoleon. I came across a portrait of Josephine in a dark and gloomy garden, staring out of the picture pensively. Another showed her kneeling at Napoleon’s feet, letter in hand, looking equally unhappy. Perhaps she had just found out he was having an affair.

Further along the Quai was a stall displaying a large pile of English language books, mostly classics and one time best sellers – many with their pages unevenly hand cut and with faded fabric covers. PG Woodhouse rubbed against Franz Kafka, Arthur Koestler jostled Elizabeth David and

Coleridge communed with Le Carré. There were also philosophers – John

Stuart Mill and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Soren Kierkegaard and

Friedrich Nietzsche, Simone de Beauvoir and Karl Marx. Some of these editions would have been published at the same time the ideas themselves were emerging, when the impact of them would have been stimulating and fresh. I imagined intellectuals sitting in French cafes engaged in passionate debate, but then grinned wryly. I could also remember lectures on these writers where many students, me included, had been nursing massive hangovers and struggling to keep their eyes open.

The inscriptions in the books were miniature time capsules. An 1887 edition of Marx and Engels’ Das Capital was inscribed in copperplate ‘To

J.S. May the pure spirit of the people triumph. L.M.’ He or she would have been disappointed with history, but at least the book had survived. The rough paper, with irregular brown splotches, had a tactile quality lost in the

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smooth uniform whiteness of contemporary books. Placing it back, I picked up Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra and opened it at random. It was a little brown book, well worn, scruffy even. Let that day be considered lost on which we have not danced jumped out at me. I turned to the flyleaf. In dark blue the initials ‘I.D.’ and ‘1902' was sprawled. A clench of the heart, a sudden intake of breath. A coincidence, surely. All the same I asked the elderly bookseller how much he wanted for it. We agreed on a price that was more than I wanted to pay, but he was a good salesman and could see I was already attached to the book.

After shaking my head at the offer of a paper bag and slipping it into my black leather shoulder bag, I walked alongside the Seine until I found a small café. The only patrons were a set of frazzled parents feeding two young children and an elderly man slipping pieces of ham to a small dog perched on the seat beside him. I sat outside and ordered a café. While I was waiting, I pulled the book out. The coffee came and I held the book up with one hand to continue reading. There was flutter, like a leaf falling to the pavement. A small scrap of folded blue notepaper lay on the grey stones. As

I leant down to pick it up, a gust of wind caught and lifted it teasingly from my grasp. It flew along the street, twisting and turning. I jumped to my feet, chair crashing to the ground, and ran after it. Twice I almost had it, but it was snatched away by another gust. The fragment of blue landed centimetres from where the edge of the bank sloped away to the river. Just as it began to

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take off again, I leapt and managed to stand on it. I leant down and picked it up, smoothing it out to read:

Isadora,

There is much to do.

T. 1913

Joy flooded through me – I felt certain it was a message from Ted. I also felt relief. This, surely, proved the whole thing was more than a bizarre invention of my subconscious. But how was it possible? Just as quickly paranoia set in. It had to be some sort of set up. I scanned the street to see if anyone was watching, but the few people walking past paid no attention and back at the café the patrons weren’t even looking my way, preoccupied with their own small dramas. I examined the windows of the surrounding buildings, their curtains open and blank or closed like sleeping faces. Think,

I told myself, how could someone have planted the letter there on the off chance you might pick it up? It was ridiculous. There was no rational explanation. It could not be put off or dismissed. I had to deal with it. But how? I needed to know more.

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A cleaner was clattering dustbins as I disembarked at Neuilly-

Plaisance station, about five miles from the centre of Paris. It was fortunate the Paris train system was so easy to follow.

Neuilly was an obviously affluent suburb, with broad avenues, stylish shops, large trees and plenty of parks. In days gone by it was probably just far enough out of Paris to appeal to the rich wanting to escape the dirt and smells of a city without sanitation.

Standing at the entrance to a creperie was a middle aged woman with a clean white apron, looking dreamily out onto the street. I tried to remember how to ask directions and approached her.

‘Excusez-moi. Où est ...’ I hesitated. Was street masculine or feminine? I hoped she’d understand. ‘Où est le Rue de Chauveau, s’il vous plaît?’ The woman smiled kindly and pointed in the direction of the street.

After a couple more inquiries, I found the Rue de Chauveau street sign on the American Hospital building, on the corner of Boulevard Victor Hugo.

The afternoon sun was struggling to break through a layer of grey as

I hesitated on the corner, suddenly anxious the house would appear exactly as in my dream – further proof that whatever was happening was beyond my control.

I stood, unable to move, when a young boy carrying a school satchel passed me breaking the surface tension and I began to walk down the road.

On either side were grand houses with elaborate gates, landscaped gardens and tennis courts. In a driveway, a man was hosing down a sleek Porsche as

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if it were a prized racehorse. Further along I began to pass a high wall and stopped, staring upwards. The shapes of the grey stones resolved themselves into a familiar pattern, like unfolding a fair isle jumper long hidden in storage. There was the black wrought iron gate, the number 68 on an enamel plate on the wall beside it. It was so bare. Where had all the ivy gone? The vine had covered the wall and most of the tall grey stone house with the three clover shaped windows, making it seem as if the structure had grown out of the ground, solid as an ancient tree. I peered through the closed gates.

At the end of the long drive was a modern structure, all white walls, glass and steel, which clashed with the period character of the street. The house had vanished as if it had never been.

Through the blood drumming in my ears I could hear laughter, like a muffled sound heard through a closed door. It took a few seconds to realise it was mine. I was shaking with laughter, gasping sobs of it bouncing off the wall and the pavement, each spasm setting off a new round, leaving me giggling helplessly. A woman on the opposite side of the road scooped up her small poodle and hurried past, as if shielding it from my lunacy. That seemed even more ridiculous and set me off afresh.

The mirth subsided as quickly as it had started. Sinking down on the curb, I felt hollow and empty. I wondered what I had found so hysterically funny just a few seconds ago. I turned to the gate, trying to imagine the car ferrying the children coming down the driveway toward me, but the brightness of the day and the stark modern house stayed stubbornly the

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same. ‘I know you are there,’ I muttered, ‘What is it you want me to do?’

But there was nothing, not even the call of a bird.

The fingertips of two oversize hands touched delicately, forever frozen in the moment. Behind the sculpture was a paned window, part of the

Rodin museum. For a moment I put aside the reason I had come and let myself be absorbed by the sensitivity and exquisite grace of the gesture, belying the hard white marble it was carved from.

Yesterday I had written, Isadora’s school at Place de la Lune, near

Rodin’s old house – Meudon, during my conversation with Stella. The street map of Paris I had didn’t show Place de la Lune, so the Rodin Museum, near the dome of Invalides, seemed a good place to start.

Wandering into a small backroom, I found several drawings – quick sketches of dancers. Blurred faces – a body here caught in a fury of movement, there in a careful pose. The lines and flowing movements in a couple of the works were unmistakable. I knew immediately that the artist had been watching either Isadora or one of her pupils. Getting warm, I felt like shouting.

In the museum bookshop was a biography in English on Rodin’s life.

I read the building I was in had been called the Hôtel Biron and Rodin had spent the last years of his life here. Jean Cocteau, Henri Matisse and other artists were also residents at various times. Then another phrase – Isadora

Duncan was a frequent visitor. She had actually been here. I looked around

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the large room with the bay window out to the garden. Perhaps this had been where they had cups of tea and talked about art. Or maybe knocked back schnapps and played card games. I unfocused my eyes, trying to see beyond the surface to the same things she would have seen. Nothing.

In my memory, Anna’s bird-like hand passed me a photograph of

Isadora. She was leaning against an urn with ram’s heads sprouting from it – in the background a white building three storeys high, an arched colonnade running the length of the ground floor. Anna had said this was the school she and the other Isadorables had attended in Paris, after they had left Berlin. I struggled to bring back the conversation. What had she called it? Something

Greek. Dionysus? No, Dionysian. That was it. The school, find the school, a faint voice whispered in my head.

There wasn’t another mention of Isadora in the biography, but in the index I found another helpful reference. In 1895 Rodin purchased the Villa des Brilliants at Meudon. That must have been where Stella was talking about.

In little more than half an hour I arrived at the train station close to

Meudon at Bellevue-sur-Seine. Standing outside on the busy street, I was at a loss as to where to start. Such a large and important building might have had a chance of survival. If Place de la Lune no longer featured on maps, perhaps it had been renamed. An older person might recall where it was.

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I saw an elderly woman wearing a head scarf standing at a bus stop, with a large amount of shopping. She looked a little alarmed at my approach, and didn’t seem to understand my halting query in French. She pointed vaguely in the direction of some shops. There was a Poste among them, but when I entered there were only two young people serving behind the counter and a long queue, all of whom looked as if they been born after the last war.

Outside was a uniformed man checking parking meters on the line of parked cars. Curiously, he was wearing white gloves. He spoke a small amount English, enough to suggest I should go to the local Town Hall, and to give me directions. It wasn’t far, so I walked briskly down the main street.

On the way I passed a small open park sheltered by plane trees, the ground covered in white gravel. A group of elderly petanque players stood highlighted by the golden late afternoon. There wasn’t a word as the player lined up his throw. I watched as he threw his silver ball onto the gravel and it rolled and knocked away the ball of an opponent with a sharp clack, to be fractionally closer to the little wooden jack. Tongues clicked and another man with a large moustache whipped out a piece of string to verify the distance.

The player hobbled back from the line and picked up a gnarled walking stick resting against a park bench nearby. He looked surprised at my approach and the rest of the group turned.

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‘ Vous connaissez á Place de la Lune? Il y a un long temps...Isadora

Duncan, le danseur...une école pour des enfants?’ I asked in my appalling

French.

He glanced at another man and a rapid discussion ensued, with lots of hand waving. There seemed to be a disagreement and I waited nervously.

Finally, the man nodded at me.

‘Il est maintenant Place Aristide Briand. Le CNRS. Recherche

Scientifique,’ he said. It sounded unlikely and I wondered if he had understood, but asked,

‘Où se trouve le direction?’

In the white gravel of the path he drew a map for me with his walking stick.

Apparently it was only a couple of streets away.

Place Aristide Briand was easy to find. About halfway along was an uncompromisingly modern building intruding onto the street with a sign saying CNRS. It bore no hint of the elegant structure in the photograph. I felt immensely disappointed. Perhaps it wasn’t the right place after all. I decided to check.

Hunting around in my shoulder bag, I found my International Press pass inside my wallet. I was glad I had updated it before I left Australia. I was dressed more casually than usual for work, but would have to do. The sliding glass entry door stayed firmly shut as I approached. There was no- one in the lobby beyond. I was at a loss. To the side of the door I spotted the blinking red of a sensor for employee’s cards. Above this was a small

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speaker with a button. Out of necessity, more of my school French was returning. I pressed the buzzer and waited.

‘Puis-je vous être utile?’ said a deep voice.

‘Je voudrais Le Directeur,’ I said. On second thoughts, perhaps wanting the director wasn’t quite right. I blundered on. ‘Je suis un journalist pour un journal en l’Australie.’ I hoped my tone was business-like. It was hard to sound professional when I was struggling to find the words.

He asked something that could have been ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Parlez-vous anglais?’ I held my breath and was relieved when he said,

‘Non. Un moment, s’il vous plaît.’

A uniformed man appeared. He must have been watching from a control room somewhere. I flashed my pass at him and smiled as he opened the door. He ushered me politely into the lift and reached around to press the button for the third floor. As the doors slid shut, I was surprised at how easy it had been. For all he knew I could have been a member of the French version of the Red Brigade, about to kidnap the director.

When the lift reached the third floor I stepped out and walked along the corridor.

Behind a glass screen was a vast laboratory, or rather a series of smaller ones joined together. I shivered as I caught sight of a cage of white rats – poor things. People dressed in white coats hurried past and I asked a

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young woman where the director’s office was. She pointed vaguely, but kept up her rapid pace.

At the end of the corridor I found an open doorway. A pockmarked, gangly young man was sitting behind a desk, closed door to the side of him.

He looked up enquiringly as I entered. I held out my press pass for him to inspect and repeated what I’d said downstairs. He raised his eyebrows and replied in passable, but stilted English.

‘An Australian journalist. So why are you here?’

Having reached the limits of my French, I was delighted to be able to talk to him. ‘I’m working on a story about famous people and where they used to live. I understand that on this site there used a hotel that became a school, where the famous dancer Isadora Duncan taught. Do you know if this is true?’

The young man’s face broke into a grin, considerably increasing his attractiveness. Without a word, he got up from behind the desk and threw open the door to the next room. There was a large unoccupied desk, but my eyes flicked over this. In the picture window beyond were framed the elegant Palladian lines of Dionysian. I gasped and rushed to the window.

The exterior of the beautiful building was almost completely intact, apart from arms on the left and right sides connecting to the building I was standing in.

‘C’est magnifique,’ I said, feeling ridiculously happy.

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The young man puffed up visibly. ‘It’s almost closing time and the director’s already gone, would you like to have a closer look?’

‘Yes, please.’

We took the lift to the ground floor and went out through the rear.

Instead of a lawn, as in the photograph I had seen, there was now a car park.

Close to the pale stone building stood a shape I recognised. It was the urn with the ram’s heads, now with yellow flowers spilling from the lip.

I became aware of the faint but insistent sound of humming and stopped still, trying to work out where it was coming from. The buzz increased until the air itself seemed to vibrate and shift, making me feel light-headed. As if watching a time lapse film, the flowers in the urn began to change. The yellow grew transparent and paler, before disappearing altogether. Above the crown of the urn, green stems were appearing – thickening and becoming more substantial until they resolved themselves into a mass of irises with deep blue heads.

The building had disappeared and instead I saw that the urn was in front of my oak tree, in the dappled light of the glade. I glanced down at my body and realised it, too, had altered and grown larger and I was dressed in a flowing gown that reached my ankles. When I looked back up, I was standing in front of the building once more, the urn was there, but the car park had completely disappeared.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

I reached out and grasped the urn, inhaling deeply. The drone of cicadas began, like scratchiness on a gramophone record, underscoring the fluted call of a golden oriole.

Treading heavily on the white gravel, I walked along the front of

Dionysian. Bumble bees buzzed drunkenly through the lavender and butterflies gyrated in the haze of the hot summer afternoon. The weight of the child growing inside me was frequently tiring and the occasional turn around the garden was all I felt up to of late. I glanced at the perfect classical proportions of the building. Graceful arches defined an elegant veranda, shielding French doors. Above were two further storeys with full length windows, both opening onto Juliet balconies. A scatter of young girls raced past, legs bare and hair flying, like a glimpse of life in ancient Sparta. What would the ladies and gentlemen, once strolling sedately through the grounds of the grand Hotel Paillard, have thought of my new school? For a fleeting moment, I imagined the forms of Deirdre and Patrick running ahead, after the girls, and my heart felt as crushed as if a fist had clamped around it. I missed them so much it was a physical ache, as though I’d had a limb amputated but could still feel the place it should occupy. I was always aware of the dark shadow following me, but I would not let myself be consumed by it as I had in the last year. Look forward, not back, I reminded myself. It was

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strange how this magical place, my school, could have sprung from such misery. Paris Singer had been immensely generous with his gift of this disused hotel.

Entering the cool of the high-ceilinged hallway was a relief after the heat of the day. A girl’s laughter rang across the black and white tiles and there was a clatter on the marble stairs as young feet raced up them, hurrying to get ready for the weekly recital.

I swung open the main doors to the salle de dance, which ran the length of the ground floor. In the room that had previously only heard the sounds of murmured conversation, the click of silver cutlery against porcelain and the occasional palm court orchestra, my pupils learned dance and music. There were only a few children here as yet, but in no time it would be filled to capacity. Soon there would be dozens of pupils. The thought lightened my mood.

Along the rear wall were several sets of French doors, opening onto the gardens at the back. Today they were covered by blue velvet curtains, leaving just the arches above to provide a soft light. A few instruments lay abandoned against the walls, after the children’s music lesson this morning. I didn’t mind this sort of untidiness. At the end of the room, on a raised dais, several tables were set for afternoon tea. I ignored the chairs, instead choosing one of the stripped couches in front of the dais. Sinking down, I leant back against the plump cushions and kicked off my sandals, putting my feet up. They were a little swollen from pregnancy. Feeling a kick inside I

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put my hand on my belly. It’s alright, little one, I thought, you’ll be out soon, and then you’ll be able to dance all you like.

The front door opened and voices echoed down the hallway. Irma, one of my eldest pupils entered, followed by Auguste Rodin. A grey beard stretched almost to his waist and he carried a drawing pad under one arm.

Despite the warm weather he had kept his overcoat on. While Irma scurried to get him a chair, he stooped and kissed my hand, eyes alight with mischief.

‘Madame, you look radiant. A queen, no less. I see you have been awaiting your subjects.’

‘On the contrary, sir, whenever you come, it is like a god entering the house of mere mortals.’

He looked amused. We always played this game of trying to out compliment the other.

‘I cannot better that one,’ he sighed and settled himself near me as other people started to arrive.

In a flurry of fabrics and scent, in came my dear friend Eleanora

Duse and she leant down to kiss me. She was dressed in gypsy colours – an orange silk dress and a vibrant shawl, dark hair pinned up and accented by an exotic bloom. Her lover Gabriele D’Annunzio, the Italian poet and soldier of fortune, was with her. He was a short but striking man with his bald head and pencil thin moustache. An inveterate flatterer, he looked deeply into my eyes, as if I was the true object of his affections. But from my talks with Eleanora , I knew the true state of affairs between them. They

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had been staying in Paris this summer and D’Annunzio had been trying hard to convince her to come and live with him at the seductive Villa Cargnacco on Lake Garda. Having fought hard for her independence and reputation,

Eleanora was not about to relinquish it, a fact which only made D’Annunzio more determined.

Eleanora pulled up a chair on the other side of me and took my hand between both of hers. ‘Tesoro, I’ve missed you so much. How are things with you?’

‘This hot weather is making me uncomfortable, but I’m doing quite well. Much better than last summer.’

Eleanora looked sympathetic. After the death of the children, she had encouraged me to talk about them when I felt unable to with anyone else. To do so had been a kind of release and had helped me a great deal.

‘When the baby is born, you will be so busy you will forget about the weather.’

I nodded in agreement. ‘I cannot wait. Nothing can ever replace

...what I lost, but she or he will be some compensation.’ She squeezed my hand.

‘How are preparations for the performance at the Trocadero?’ she asked.

‘They’re coming along nicely, as you’ll see in a moment. I’ve chosen Anna to do the solo. She’s doing so well and she’s a very patient teacher. I’m pleased with her.’

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‘I know people will be disappointed you won’t be dancing, but it will be a very fitting opening for the school’.

‘I’ve heard that the café, La Cigale, has already started a satirical review of us. I shall have to send someone to have a look. I don’t mind a gentle satire, but I’ve heard this one is downright nasty. I may have to take them to court.’

Eleanora ’s brows creased, creating a single dark line. ‘Oh, surely you can ignore them.’

‘I can’t afford to. I need at least another twenty-five pupils and who is going to send their children here if we become the object of common fun?’

‘But you don’t charge for tuition and everyone knows what a haven your school is. Artists have always been the object of ridicule for their different ways of seeing.’

‘I’ll wait until I have a first hand account of the revue and decide what to do. Ah, perhaps Jean will go for me,’ I added, as the actor Jean

Mounet-Sully arrived.

He came across and kissed Eleanora and then me on both cheeks.

Years ago, he had played the role of Oedipus to packed houses and his was still the performance others were measured by. Now he bore a closer resemblance to Oedipus’s overweight grandfather, but still possessed an appealing intensity and a sonorous voice that carried across crowded theatres with ease.

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‘Tu regardez ravishing,’ he boomed. ‘It gladdens my heart to see such beauty.’

I raised my eyebrows. In my present state, I didn’t feel in the least ravishing.

‘Hello Jesus,’ I said. ‘How was Mother Russia?’ He had played the role of Christ in the film The Judas Kiss a few years before and we would not let him forget it.

‘Glorious but exhausting. That trip is like travelling to the ends of the earth. On the way there I always wonder why I am going yet when I am about to return to Paris, I do not know why I am leaving. Those Russians, they really know how to appreciate art. C’est merveilleux. We did several performances in St Petersburg and at the finale they cheered and stamped so loudly I would not have been surprised to see the whole auditorium disappear in a cloud of dust.’

‘Was this at the Imperial?’ asked Eleanora .

‘Oui.’

‘Isn’t it remarkable?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘The new members of Comédie Française couldn’t believe it. Their eyes almost dropped out staring at so much gilt, crystal and velvet. And that staircase...the way the lanterns are held aloft by the statues of maidens...it’s the Chartres of theatres and they treated us as if we were on a Papal tour.’ He turned towards me. ‘You really should go back and do

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some performances. You had such a triumph there. They still speak of you with awe. La légende, the legend of Isadora!’

‘I’ve always meant to,’ I said, smiling, ‘...but I think it will be a few years yet.’ I patted my bulging torso.

‘I have an idea. Why don’t you make a film?’ he asked. ‘After you have recovered, naturallement.’

‘What? Why?’

‘You could send the Russians a film of your dancing. It would be...how do you say...a hit?’

‘You can’t be serious.’

He nodded enthusiastically. ‘My friend Jacques, who made The

Judas Kiss, would be very interested. I will talk with him.’

I held up a hand. ‘Non, wait,’ I laughed. ‘No films.’

‘Pourquoi?’

I shrugged.

‘But many will see you, thousands more.’ He warmed to his theme.

‘Pavlova has done it and Eisler.’

‘Non, Jean. It would not be the same thing at all. The magic would be gone. You, of all people should know – the performance is what is important – when you and the audience and are there together, sharing the same moment.’

‘You cannot be everywhere at once but with a film, you can.’

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‘Sometimes absence is more memorable than a poor quality copy of one’s presence. Anyway, there are my pupils.’

‘Ah, the priestesses.’

I smiled. ‘Talking of priestesses, have you been in touch with La

Bernhardt?’

He gave a nod.

‘So, how is she?’

‘Her usual maddening self. You know what she’s like – Sarah has always blown hot and cold. But I’m trop vieux – too old – to bother.’

Mounet-Sully put his hand on his heart and declaimed, ‘Long ago I ceased to believe in her love. So often affirmed, so rarely proved.’

Eleanora and I laughed as he swept off, with the grandeur of a

Cardinal, to speak to Rodin.

I turned to Eleanora . ‘Speaking of the theatre, how are things going with Ted?’ A look between resignation and a grimace crossed her face.

‘I’m afraid to have to tell you, my dear, they’re not. After many excuses and delays, he finally agreed to work on the production and did three days worth of work on the set drawings. When I explained that they weren’t the right shape for the theatre I was performing in and would need to be modified, he threw the most extraordinary tantrum and said I didn’t understand his Art. Indeed, he shouted that I was too ignorant to be able to do so and he was wasting his time and stormed out. I haven’t heard from him since, although the producer did receive the most outrageous bill last

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week, which he has no intention of paying, as we have had to employ someone else, who is taking a different approach.’

‘Oh no,’ was all I could think of to say. I had encouraged, no engineered, this collaboration. I knew Ted was a genius and Eleanora , too, was brilliant. I had thought working together would benefit them both, but I should have known. When I was younger, and Ted and I were still together, a similar venture had been fraught with such difficulty that I had to mediate.

It worked well as Ted spoke almost no French and Eleanora , at that stage, no English and I had been able to temper their more extreme comments about each other, turning them into flattery. Mind you, my nerves had been in shreds by the end of it.

I should have expected the whole thing to fall to pieces. Ted and I no longer saw one another. The last time I had heard from him had been a brief note around the time of the children’s funeral, telling me there was much to do.

To my relief , Eleanora felt the need for a change of topic.‘Is Paris coming?’

‘Yes, he said he would. He’s still sulking, I’m afraid. I don’t know that he’ll ever forgive me.’

‘But he’s such a sweet man. Any man would resent the idea of a child that’s not his.’

‘Especially by an Italian,’ I said, taking a sly dig at Eleanora .

‘Of course, Italians are not to be trusted. Too passionate,’ she said.

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We laughed.

‘But seriously, you know what I mean,’ she continued. ‘Of course he can’t stand the thought of some young Luigi sweeping you off your feet.’

‘Sweeping is hardly the word. I only saw him the once. I don’t even remember what his name was.’

Eleanora smiled. ‘Isadora, you are outrageous. No wonder the critics spend as much time on your personal life as your performances. They have names for women like you.’ She looked at me sideways, dark eyes glittering mischievously. ‘And me.’

We both laughed.

‘They’re just jealous,’ I said. ‘Stuck with their boring husbands, corseted within an inch of their narrow lives. I think the lack of oxygen in the lungs must have an effect on the brain.’

I glanced towards the corner. My pianist, Hene Skene, had taken his place at the piano and was waiting patiently for a signal to start. I wished

Paris would hurry up. I didn’t want him disrupting the performance by coming halfway through, so I made a small gesture of resignation to Hene then nodded to the uniformed maids, who began making the rounds with large silver tea pots and tiered trays, containing small sandwiches and cakes.

As they finished and people had begun to eat, I heard the front door close.

Paris entered the room a moment later. He looked much more careworn in the past year. The death of the children had affected him greatly. His heart wasn’t strong and he’d spent time in hospital.

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Coming over, he leant down and kissed me on the lips. ‘Ma cherie,’ he murmured.

I had always loved the smell of him – an aroma of tangy barber’s aftershave, of old brandy and musty cigars. The scent of a male sphere where business was discussed and deals were struck – a domain I had absolutely no desire to be a part of. I often teased him about his preoccupation with making money, but secretly admired his tenacity and ability to plan ahead – unlike me who found it hard enough to provide for my family of pupils.

He took a seat beside me. ‘I have just come from the stock exchange.

It’s going mad. War has been declared.’

‘Against whom?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘France and Italy against Germany.’ The furrows in his brow deepened until they were slashes across his face.

‘No,’ I breathed. ‘What does that mean?’ I was aware the conversations around us had ceased and everyone else was listening intently.

‘It means, my dear, that troops will be mobilising – young men will be going off to fight. It means the economy is on a roller-coaster ride.’

I shivered with fear at the thought of young, healthy men and the injuries they would inflict on one another. And for my school, for which

Paris’s money was in no small part responsible.

‘Well surely it can’t last for long, I don’t see what it has to do with us,’ Eleanora interjected.

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He looked around, acknowledging the others with an incline of the head. ‘We can only hope it will all be over in a few weeks,’ he said and then so softly, that only I could catch it, ‘And pray.’

I glanced over toward the pianist, who had his eyes fixed on my troubled face, and nodded to begin. The sounds of Schubert floated through the room and people visibly relaxed in their seats.

Led by Irma, the youngest pupils skipped in, dressed in their little white tunics and wreaths of summer flowers, looking fresh and delightful as they danced their simple repertoire.

Then the Isadorables entered. They were young women now and their beauty and grace filled the room as they formed shapes in the air that seemed to linger after the movement had ceased. I felt proud of how well they had learned what I had to teach. If I were to die tomorrow, I thought, these young women would be my legacy. The reality of war and images of young men with shattered limbs dying bloody deaths drifted surreally through the enchanted space.

Rodin had his sketch pad out, his hand moving rapidly across the creamy page, delineating in a few strokes the movements before him. I loved watching his intense concentration. Monet-Sully was sitting, nodding with pleasure. Eleanora and Gabriele D’Annunzio held hands and leant against one another, in mutual enjoyment. It was so calm and tranquil, bathed in mellow light, it was hard to believe the exigencies of the world existed.

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As Anna began her solo, the baby inside me felt as though he wanted to join in. I sat still, not wanting to do anything to distract from the solitary figure as she moved like liquid, her every gesture expressive. She was light and easy, while my body was weighed down with heaviness.

When she finished and people applauded, she stood with her hands crossing her breasts, eyes downcast and face flushed. Her serene smile made her appear truly angelic and I felt a twinge of jealousy. At that moment there was a shooting pain through my womb and I could not suppress an involuntary cry. I bit my lips. People looked at me with concern and Anna rushed over, kneeling at my feet.

‘Are you alright? Has it started?’

It was as much as I could do to nod, caught in the grip of a powerful contraction.

‘Quickly, send for the doctor’ said Eleanora to the pianist, who had also come over.

Caring hands were upon me, helping to carry me into the hallway and up the wide staircase to my room. The shudders of pain made me feel faint and gave everything a far away quality, as though the pain was happening to someone else, not to me. I heard my voice saying unsteadily to Anna,

‘No, no, it’s too early,’ and her hushing me and telling me it would be alright, as they laid me on my bed. But the shadow was closing in and I knew it wouldn’t be.

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‘Stay with me Anna, I’m afraid,’ I said, reaching out to clutch her fingers, cool and smooth as alabaster.

‘I will always stay with you, I promise,’ she said, stroking my face with her other hand.

I came to in the midst of activity. I was being lifted on a stretcher and carried down some stairs. At first I thought the baby was coming, but then realised who I was and that there was no baby. The high ceiling and the transom of Dionysian were above me and I felt confused and vulnerable.

‘Wait, wait,’ I called, in a voice too weak to be heard.

I had to wait until the two ambulancemen in uniform put me down on the cobblestones outside and a kindly middle-aged face loomed over me, saying something incomprehensible. Of course, he was speaking in French.

I caught a glimpse of the pockmarked young man hovering to one side and asked him anxiously, ‘What’s happening?’

He leant over me on the stretcher. At close distance, his breath smelt foetid. ‘You were behaving most strangely. You wandered around as if you could not see or hear me and after you climbed the stairs, you fainted. I could not wake you, so I called the ambulance.’ He looked worried. No doubt he was regretting his the offer of showing me around, now I had become troublesome.

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‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘The last thing I remember is being in the car park with you, walking towards the building. I don’t know what happened after that.’

I remembered perfectly, but I wasn’t about to tell him, lest he have me certified on the spot. The medics were getting impatient to put me in the ambulance, which had been backed into the courtyard.

‘Please tell them I’m okay and I don’t need them anymore,’ I asked the young man. But flat on my back, strapped to a stretcher wasn’t exactly a good bargaining position.

‘I’m sorry Mademoiselle, I cannot take that responsibility,’ he said with bureaucratic pomposity. Naturally he wanted to be rid of me as quickly as possible. I didn’t say anything more, closing my eyes as they lifted me into the ambulance. I was glad they didn’t put the siren on as they went through the streets, or I would have felt like a fraud.

At the hospital they poked and prodded me, despite my protests.

They presented me with forms to sign in French, which I refused to do. A young female intern came and remonstrated with me. She had sleek dark hair, tied back in a pony tail and managed to look elegant despite her white coat and stethoscope.

‘Mademoiselle, we are trying our best to help you,’ she said, in fluent

American accented English, ‘Why will you not let us?’

‘I’ve been trying to explain, I’m fine, really, I just want to leave.’

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‘But it may be very serious. You could have a brain aneurism. A type of stroke. We need to do tests.’

I shook my head impatiently. ‘No, look. I hadn’t eaten for a while and I get a bit spaced out – delirious – when that happens. I’ll be fine. I know I didn’t have stroke.’

‘Are you hypoglycaemic?’

‘I think I might be, but I haven’t been tested for it. I’ll do that when I get back to Australia.’

‘We can do the test here. You must wait a little while.’

‘I would rather not, thank you. I’ll do it later, and in the meantime

I’ll make sure I eat properly, okay?’

The dark-haired woman gave a peculiarly Gaelic shrug. ‘Pah!,’ she said dismissively. ‘It’s your choice, but first you must sign this. It is a discharge form, saying that you have refused treatment.’

I hurriedly signed the form thrust in front of me, although I had no idea what it contained. School French had not extended to medical and bureaucratic terminology. I also had to pay a hefty bill for the ambulance on my credit card. It was many times the price of a taxi. Honestly, I thought, the ride wasn’t that long.

Back on the street, I felt shaky and decided I did need food, although

I knew that wasn’t the cause of the episode. I walked past a patisserie with a collage of cakes on display. They were all like works of art – exotic Fauvist

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miniatures. I chose one with fresh strawberries and a type of confectioner’s custard layered onto flaky pasty and perched on a park bench to consume it.

The exquisite blend of tart and sweet on my tongue was the only thing I could think of for a few minutes. As the sugar hit my system, I began to feel much better.

I forced myself to go over the afternoon’s events, running through the feelings, the impressions, the people. ‘ How absolutely bloody extraordinary,’ I said aloud, to the surprise of a passing couple. Years ago I had been diving and found myself swimming over a ledge where the continental shelf dropped sharply away and the blue became so dense it was impossible to know what might be lurking in the depths. The mix of fear and fascination was a precursor of what I was feeling now. Part of me had wanted to keep looking; another part wanted to swim away, very fast.

Frustratingly, I could not recall what I had done. Not for the first time, I wished Anna was still alive so I could talk to her.

Finding my way back on the subway to The Marais, I nodded to the woman on the desk and climbed the steep stairs to my hotel room. On the journey back, exorcism had even crossed my mind. I hadn’t been near a church since I was forced to go as a child and the only thing I remembered about the subject was seeing Linda Blair with her head on backwards in The

Exorcist. In my early teens a friend and I had skipped school and pretended to be older to get into the cinema. I had nightmares for months afterwards and been unable to tell my mother why. But I knew whatever I was dealing

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with was more complex than the Christian idea of getting rid of an evil spirit.

Besides, Isadora did not qualify. There was benevolence and beauty in her, offset by a profound grief. Her experiences went way further than any in my short life and gave her a depth of emotional understanding I knew I didn’t possess. But enough was enough. It was time to get my life back.

I rang and confirmed my flight for the next day, Brisbane via

Bangkok at 1100 hours.

‘I’m going home’, I sang in the shower.

As it was my last night in Paris I decided to treat myself and went to an elegant French restaurant, spending the equivalent of two days wages on a meal – canard á l’orange for a main and a tarte tatin for dessert – leaving my stomach and senses satiated. I packed the last of my things before crawling into the comfortable bed and succumbing to oblivion.

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘Only one more journey,’ she is saying to me. But I am refusing to look at her. I shake my head.

‘Only one more,’ she whispers. ‘And you must go. It’s there and so is he.’ I avoid looking at those deep pools into which I have sunk before.

‘They shouldn’t have the film.’ Suddenly there is anger in her voice and I look up, startled and know I have made a mistake for I am staring into

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those dark eyes; being sucked down and down into the shadowy depths; the light a distant rippling speck above me. I flail helplessly towards it, but the more I fight, the deeper I am dragged.

I become aware of muffled voices and an insistent clack-clack, clack- clack that becomes faster and faster. An endless stream of images and sounds rush out of the blackness until all I can see is a vortex of colour and light. I am pressed back and helpless, the weight on me almost unbearable; colour flies past too quick to register and impressions are reduced to black and white – like an old animation made by flicking through the pages of a book.

Gradually the pages slow down and the heaviness on me lessens. I try to concentrate, discern shapes, make sense of what I am seeing. A barcode flicker, could be trees, a forest. Clack-clack, clack-clack.

Knowing eyes are watching me.

‘Have you got your hanky?’ My mother’s insistent voice.

Another, just as familiar.

‘It’s alright, I’ve packed the fur muff.’

Fuck, where am I, what is going on?

In the distance, women in headscarves are threshing and gathering wheat. A scene like a Brugel painting. Chaff is shimmering, blowing away, as two men winnow. A plodding draft horse with a cart. A little girl running alongside, waving, clothes turning into a blue tunic, head surrounded by a halo of summer flowers.

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Eyes fenced in wire frames. A man’s face opposite me. Pale, serious.

Then the back of another, steel-grey and a flash of a white. I am still unable to move. Where the man was sitting is an old woman. It’s Anna.

She smiles at me.

‘Where are we?’ I can hear my voice, thin and whining like a child.

Her mouth opens. ‘We’re going there together. I always meant to make it up to her.’

The shriek of a whistle, high and long, the note going on and on, piercing my head. Entering a tunnel, plunged into darkness. My hand reaches out blindly, touching only air.

‘Stay with me Anna, I’m afraid. I’m so very afraid.’

A change of rhythm; clack-clack-clack; clack-clack-clack. Crossing a bridge. Tiny pin points of bright light. A black river reflecting a swathe of stars.

It grows light again. In the distance are rows of tall boxes – stark modern buildings – standing to attention like soldiers on parade.

‘Look, look what they’ve done. Human beings are not animals to be kept in cages.’ I say to Anna, or is it to myself?

The voice of the other. ‘Flee such ugliness. Go toward beauty and truth. The body is the highest beauty. It contains everything: symmetry, line and shape.’

The buildings dissolve into pillars of temples, perfect in proportion, framing blue sky.

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‘Irma, why did Anna do that to me?’

‘She fell in love, Isadora.’

‘But he was mine.’

‘It is past. We are going to Russia now.’

‘Russia, but I don’t want to go to Russia. I want to go back home.’

‘There, there. Sleep, baby, sleep.’ The sweet sound of singing; a lullaby, sung in French.

‘No. Must keep my head from going under the water.’

The low hum of steel on steel. Clack-clack, clack-clack. Inevitable, relentless.

No stopping.

‘I want to go back.’ The same childish voice.

‘There is no going back. You have gone too far.’

‘I thought I could control it.’

A feminine laugh. ‘Control? Control is an illusion. Nothing will change your destiny. What are you afraid of?’

‘Pain, I’m afraid of the pain.’

‘But you cannot have one without the other. No life without death.

Love without pain.’

‘I feel stripped bare, too raw.’

‘Let go and just live. Follow the line of the spirit. All else is but chaff falling away.’

‘Who are you?’

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‘You know who I am. Part of you.’

Another tunnel, lights flicker on. A face reflected back in the carriage window, but it is not mine. It is Isadora’s. I rub at it, trying to erase the features. Not mine, not mine. It stays the same, so I close my eyes.

I can hear talking, giggling. Three young girls, luscious as ripe peaches ready to pluck, are sitting opposite. There is even peach fuzz on their soft, pretty cheeks. One gets out a vivid lipstick and a mirror and masks her fresh, pink lips.

Beware, I mouth. But I cannot make a sound. Again I close my eyes.

A sunrise over a vast steppe, the horizon stretching out to infinity.

In place of the girls, the pale, serious man with glasses has returned.

‘Good, you’re awake,’ he says.

‘What? Where am I?’

‘We’re nearly there. You’ve been ill with a fever, delirious.’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Oleg. I made sure they left you alone.’

‘Who?’

‘The guards. Your passport – I took care of everything.’

‘Oleg, where are we?’

‘We are just about to arrive in Moscow.’

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It was still light when our train pulled into the cavernous Belorusskiy station. A muscular man in an ill fitting suit, like a paper bag stuffed with walnuts, led us through crowd. Porters had rushed forward to take the luggage and navigated it skilfully down the platform. I noted in a puzzled way that my suitcase was among it.

I didn’t like the way the muscle man elbowed people, creating space around Oleg and I who followed in his wake. Old women were selling things and teenagers hung around without a clear purpose. I noticed the curious way some of the women would glance at the muscle man and then Oleg, quickly averting their eyes, as though he had a disease they were afraid of catching.

Muscle man held a swinging glass door open and Oleg, ahead of me, walked briskly down the steps towards a waiting car. I was unfamiliar with the model. It was long, low and black, with a shiny scalloped grille and tinted windows. The driver held open the rear door and Oleg got in and slid across. The porters bustled past me, one carrying my bag, about to place it in the boot. I paused on the pavement. What was I doing here? Who was this man who had assumed command? Seeing me still standing there, hesitating, Oleg leaned forward.

‘I will take you to a hotel. You won’t get in otherwise. All accommodation in Russia must be pre-booked,’ he said in a firm voice.

I was tired beyond exhaustion. Anything to just stand, or preferably lie, still. I felt like sitting down on the steps of the station and having a sleep.

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Stepping into the car, I glanced up at the imposing entrance to the railway station. There was a semi-circular facade at the front, flanked by two tall towers topped with spires – a grandiose relic of another era.

Muscle man rode shotgun with the driver while we sat in the rear.

The car was going fast and the driver seemed oblivious to red lights. A couple of times he swerved to avoid large pot holes in the road, throwing me against Oleg or the door. There were no seat belts in the rear and nothing to cling on to, although Oleg didn’t seem in the least disconcerted, merely bracing his feet and shifting his position subtly. The boulevard we drove down was vast, quite capable of taking ten or so lanes of traffic. The cars on the road were older models of an unknown parentage. I craned my neck to look at the buildings we were passing; dwarfed by the monumental, monstrous scale of them. I felt overwhelmed by the situation, as if caught in a riptide and carried along helplessly.

The car drew up outside a tall, stark tower block with a sign saying

Intourist. The hard-edged utilitarian shape of it was out of place among the older buildings; like a military uniform among the frilly dresses at an old fashioned garden party. The driver came around and opened my door and then Oleg’s as the hotel porter moved to take the bags from the boot. Oleg said something to him in Russian and he lifted out just mine.

The hotel lobby was seedy and run down, with a surly looking man sitting reading behind the reception desk, as if business were an infrequent affair. Oleg marched over to the desk and produced some sort of card, which

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had an immediate effect. He leapt to his feet and pushed forward a book for him to sign. Rousing myself from my stupor, I found my wallet, but both men ignored me until formalities were complete.

‘Tonight is taken care of. Come and have a drink,’ Oleg said, turning to me. It didn’t sound like a request. I wanted to say good night and go up to my room, but was feeling so drained, I was unable to think clearly. He started to walk towards a bar off the lobby and after a moment, I followed.

Painted a lurid blue with table cloths to match, the bar was empty. Oleg placed himself at a table in the corner where he could survey the room and I perched opposite. He snapped an order at the hovering waiter, who reappeared a moment later with a bottle of Stolichnaya Cristall vodka and two glasses that were closer to small beer glasses than the shot glasses I was used to. Oleg poured. He held up his glass and waited for me to hold up mine, clinking as I did so.

‘Nastrovyia. Welcome to Russia.’

He downed his in a single gulp. I took a sip. Fire water. I wasn’t used to drinking Vodka. My usual request was a gin and tonic, or a glass of white wine.

‘You must drink it in one go, like I do.’

‘If I do, I’ll be on my ear.’

‘What is on my ear? I don’t know this.’

‘Under the table, out of it. Drunk.’

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He smiled for the first time since I had met him, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. There was no warmth to this man. I felt as though he was watching me, assessing my reactions.

‘You are in Russia. You must do as your host bids you. It is very rude not to.’

I shrugged and took another, bigger, sip.

A waiter came appeared a few minutes later with a dish with some nibbles on it – pieces of sausage, pale cheese and pickles. I pecked away hungrily. The food was salty and I took another sip of Vodka to quench my thirst.

‘Can I have some water please?’

‘You shouldn’t drink the water here in Moscow. You might get sick.

Stick to vodka.’

I tried to focus my thoughts. ‘Oleg, what happened? How did I come to be here?’

He looked puzzled. I tried again. ‘You met me on the train, right?’

He nodded. ‘As I told you, you were ill. You had a fever.’

I rustled through my bag and finding my passport, opened it. ‘Oh,’ I said in surprise.

‘What?’

‘There’s a visa.’

‘Of course. Tourist, for one week. Single entry. For some reason you didn’t have one.’

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‘No,’ I said, without elaborating. ‘But aren’t they are difficult to organise?’

‘Not for me.’

‘Why? Who are you?’

‘Let’s just say my job accords me certain...privileges.’

‘Why, what do you do?’

‘I work for the Soviet Government.’

I thought about the men waiting in the car outside. It seemed unlikely he was just a paper pusher. I was about to ask for more detail, but he was speaking again.

‘What do you do, Miss...may I call you Tamsin?’

I nodded, but couldn’t remember having told him my name.

‘My name is Tamsin Doyle, but Tamsin is fine.’

‘So what is your profession?’ he reiterated.

‘I’m a sort of writer.’

‘What sort of writer?’

A warning bell jangled in my head. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention I was a journalist. Even an unemployed one. ‘I’m writing a book.’ I said.

‘What about?’

‘About a dancer who lived a long time ago.’

‘Ah. Anna Pavlova or Diaghilev?

‘Neither. I don’t think you’d know her, she did some early modern stuff.’

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‘Did she come to Russia?’

‘I guess that’s why I’m here,’ I said.

‘Then I might know of her. Who was she?’

‘Isadora Duncan.’

‘Ah...Duncan...wife of one of our famous sons – the poet, Sergei

Esenin.’

Despite my exhaustion, I was impressed that he knew. But was strange to hear her referred to in the context of being someone’s wife. He began to recite, pausing at the beginning of each line:

‘The vistas that were once deep and golden

Have been swallowed by the grim night of life

Yet I swore and raised hell in an effort

To burn bright amidst the turmoil and strife.’

‘Is that Esenin?’

He nodded, slowly, as if far away. ‘A loose translation, I’m afraid, but the best I could do, under the circumstances.’

‘That’s wonderful. What was the name of the poem?’

‘There’s One Joy Left to Me. He was not bad, although his poems went out of fashion for a long time.’

I yawned and covered my hand with my mouth. ‘Oleg, You must excuse me. I’m exhausted. Thank you so much for your help,’ I said, standing up.

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He raised his eyebrows. Perhaps he had expected more in the way of thanks.

‘We will meet again, Miss Tamsin.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘I hope so,’ I said, without meaning it. ‘Thanks for everything,’ I repeated. Oleg nodded and hardly looked at me as I left. He was too busy pouring himself another vodka.

I walked across the lobby and collected my room key from the receptionist who gave it to me as though I was causing him a personal inconvenience. There must have been hundreds of rooms in the hotel. My room number was 656. I couldn’t see my bag, so presumed it had made it to my room long before me. The lift had scuffed carpet and clanked suspiciously, but got me to the right floor.

The room was basic and the furniture mismatching and worn, a world away from where I had found myself in Paris. The wallpaper was truly hideous, a flock brown and gold with fleur-de-lys. The place smelt as if it had been occupied by a succession of die-hard smokers. There was a tiny bathroom, with cracked tiles, no sink plug and a tiny slither of soap and toilet paper thick enough to write a letter on. I fell into my bed with a loud groan.

Through threadbare, at least the sheets were clean and delightfully cool.

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‘I am sorry if you were afraid,’ she said. She was reclining, as she had been the very first time, on the day bed. There was a bunch of red roses in her lap and she was pulling the petals out, one at a time; there were many already scattered over her and the ground below. This time there were two glasses of champagne on the table beside her.

‘Have a drink with me,’ she ordered. ‘You really need to loosen up.

It’s the best – Pommery’s. Oh...I forgot. You can’t.’ But I knew she hadn’t forgotten. I felt like one of the roses in her hand, being slowly dismembered.

I wanted to scream my frustration at the situation she had led me into, but when I opened my mouth, no sound came. ‘Oh, dear!’ she continued. ‘I can see we are not going to get on today. Well, we can forget it for the moment.’

Then, almost as an afterthought she added. ‘Go back to sleep.’

But wasn’t I already asleep?

The door burst open with a crash and I woke, my heart thumping.

‘Sergei, is that you?’ I called into the darkness. Instead of a reply there was the sound of loud, off key singing. A Russian peasant song. A match flared and then the wick of the lamp on the beside table. The face of

Sergei appeared, flushed and dishevelled, topped by a halo of golden hair.

The singing continued. Louder this time.

‘Sergei’ I called, raising my voice, but he ignored me, stumbling to lift his feet to take a shoe off. He grabbed the chair for support and it overbalanced and came crashing to the ground, rending the air like a gun

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shot in the quiet night. The noise made him pause for a moment. I tensed.

There were two ways Sergei could go when he was drunk. Either he became violent and aggressive, or sentimental and maudlin. Sometimes both.

I didn’t have to wait for long.

‘Why?’ he suddenly shouted.

‘Why?’ He started to pull things off the table, and chairs. Books, clothes and papers were thrown in an arc around where he stood. A tea glass shattered against the wall.

‘My love,’ I called, rising from the bed and grabbing a robe to cover myself. ‘Please don’t.’ This just served to make him angrier. Coming very close and pushing his face within a few inches from mine, he yelled, ‘Why are you here?’ In the dim light his handsome features were distorted into a mask of anger and hate. I didn’t see it coming, but felt the sharp sting on the side of my cheek as the palm of his hand struck me. The force of the blow threw me off balance and I reeled across the room and stopped myself from falling by grabbing the mantelpiece.

The voice of the gremlin followed me, closer now; hissing,

‘Why aren’t you with your children? Oh, I forgot, you killed them with your carelessness. All three of them – even your baby son. You wanted to live your own life, so you let your children suffer.’

The words struck me as sharply as being stabbed with a knife. I sank down onto the ground, hugging my knees, curled into a ball to protect myself from their viciousness, but all the time a voice in my head was repeating,

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‘He’s right. It’s what you deserve. You were a bad mother.’ I heard the sound of sobbing and realised it was my own.

Having achieved his aim, my tormenter had righted a chair and was sitting in it, lighting a cigarette, watching me to see what I would do next. I lay on the cold floor, incapable of getting up. All my strength was gone.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please.’

‘S’dora,’ he said pityingly. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

He sounded more sober, now his anger had been expended. He came over to me and tenderly put his arm around me, helping me to rise, he led me to the bed and held me as I wept.

He couldn’t help it. He didn’t know what he was doing or how deeply he hurt me. It was the vodka talking. It was his friends, too. They didn’t like me. They tried to poison him against me, saying I was too old for him. Every time he came back from seeing them he was horrible towards me. But Sergei, the real Sergei, wasn’t cruel. He was my solotaia golova, my golden head. The young man who reminded me of my son Patrick.

He was singing again, softly this time, soothing me. A Russian lullaby. Then he said, ‘S’dora, do you remember yesterday, when we were on the train, the little colt who galloped beside us?’

I nodded, relieved his attention had turned to something else.

‘Do you remember how valiantly he tried to overtake the engine, the living horse trying to pass the steel one, but he couldn’t. The villages are like that. They are becoming extinct. We are being taken over by the

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mechanical. I never thought the revolution would be like this. It’s becoming so rigid and deterministic. Going further away from the humanity of the people who made it happen. It is crushing our dreams.’ He put his head in his hands.

Now it was my turn to comfort him. I rubbed his back.

‘I’m sorry I treat you so badly,’ he said, after a while. ‘It’s just that sometimes you try to mother me and I feel suffocated by you.’ We held each other tenderly.

‘I must remember, in the morning I need some money to pay some bills,’ he said. ‘People are starting to remind me about them.’

It was hard to be a poet on a poet’s wage.

‘Take it, my darling. Whatever’s mine is yours,’ I replied.

He wanted to make love to me. We tried but he was too drunk to be capable. We fell asleep. Me under the covers, him on top. I cradled his golden head in my arms.

The sound of snoring woke me. My fingers were tangled in his hair.

For a moment I lay still, trying to work out where I was. Then I looked at the wallpaper and recalled the events of last night. The figure beside me was turned with his back to me. The hair was brown instead of golden and he

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was heavier. It wasn’t Sergei. Oh Jesus. Oleg. He lay fully clothed on top of the covers, except for one shoe.

What had happened? I had no way of knowing, just that I had to get out of here before Oleg awoke. I got up quietly and retrieving my clothes from the floor, went into the bathroom to dress. I washed and pulled on jeans and top quickly, making as little noise as I could. The somnolent figure was snoring with even greater force when I came out. I zipped up my bag and grabbed my shoulder bag with my travelling pouch in it from where

I had stuffed it last night. I didn’t quite close the door, not wanting the click to wake him. A different receptionist was deep in a book and didn’t even glance up as I left the hotel, wheeling my small suitcase.

The streets were virtually empty of people. It was Sunday, about seven in the morning. I walked, feeling as shell shocked as if I had found myself in the middle of a war zone in a lull between fighting. I found myself at the edge of a vast square, at least half a kilometre long. Here was somewhere I recognised from countless images of Russia. The fanciful spires and domes of the Basilica at one end, at the other a red-brown gingerbread building. On the other side was a wall, running the length of the square. Set away from it was a squat building of massive stone blocks. It looked like it would be the last thing left standing in a nuclear attack.

Lenin’s Tomb. Here were the missing people. Even this early in the morning a long queue stretched across the square. For want of something better to do, I joined them.

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I must have been an odd sight with my suitcase, but no-one even glanced my way. There was a shyness, a lack of eye contact. An apparent absence of curiosity. While I waited, the queue grew even longer.

Goosestepping guards paraded in front, reminding me of old film images of

Hitler’s storm troopers.

Eventually I found myself at the inner sanctum. Lenin appeared like a waxen figure from Madame Tussard’s, but the reverence emanating from the devotees around me was palpable. He was venerated as a religious icon, as powerful as any statue of a bleeding, bearded man hanging from a cross.

Sergei’s words from last night came back to me. About the living colt trying to outrun the steel horse, and how it had finally fallen back, defeated.

After walking for a while, I found a step to sit on. I had to think about what I was going to do. There were no roubles in my wallet and I hadn’t seen any evidence of automatic teller machines. Perhaps I could change some francs at a big hotel and make my way out to the airport.

Before that I needed a coffee. I felt around in my shoulder bag, to check how much cash I had. Strange. I groped again. Where the pouch containing my wallet and passport should be there was nothing. I felt down further and discovered a gaping hole neatly cut through the leather at the bottom of the bag. I had been wrong when I hadn’t perceived any curiosity on the part of the crowd in the queue to the Lenin mausoleum. At least one person had been curious enough to investigate the contents of my bag.

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Panic rose in my throat and I used all the swearwords I could think of. Not that it did any good. What the hell was I going to do? It was

Sunday, the Australian embassy would be shut – even if I could find anyone who spoke enough English to ask where it was. I wandered through the streets in a daze, dragging my suitcase along with me. I couldn’t even find a place to take a piss. The thief hadn’t just taken my wallet and passport, but my life-line. My identity was being progressively stripped from me and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. I had no idea what I was doing here anyway – it wasn’t like I’d chosen to come. I wanted my life back. I had never felt so completely isolated and helpless. My eyes prickled with tears and then the damn wall burst and I was unable to stop crying in great, gulping sobs. My nose was running and I got to the hiccups. I couldn’t find a tissue and wiped my face on my sleeve.

‘Would you like this?’ A voice close by made me jump.

A hand was thrust in front of me, holding a clean ironed and folded handkerchief. A pair of brown eyes in a lean face were frowning down at me with concern. Taking the square of folded fabric gratefully, I rubbed my swollen eyes and blew my nose.

‘Can I help you?’ Although Russian accented, his English came easily.

He stood there waiting for an answer while I pulled myself together.

My first instinct was to say, ‘I’m fine, thank you, please leave me.’ But of

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course I wasn’t. Instead I wordlessly turned my bag upside down so he could see the yawning mouth at the base.

‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘I’m Australian.’

‘When did you arrive?’

‘Last night on the train. A man I had just met broke into my hotel room and I had to leave. Then when I was at Lenin’s tomb, someone stole my passport and money. I can’t go back to the hotel.’

‘Were you...hurt? Do you need a doctor? I could take you to a friend of mine.’

I shook my head. What I was going through no doctor would understand.

‘My name’s Vladimir.’ he said, holding his hand out.

I shook it. It seemed an odd formality after what he’d just seen.

‘I’m Tamsin.’

Vladimir was tall, in his late twenties or early thirties, with an open, honest face. Everything about him seemed elongated, as though his body hadn’t yet caught up enough to fill out side-ways. His hair was light brown and thick and he wore dark trousers with a blue shirt. Too conservative to be fashionable.

‘Would you like...’ he paused, as if thinking of the most appropriate thing to offer,

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‘...a cup of tea?’ I nodded, feeling like a lost child that a kindly adult had taken charge of.

‘Come with me, but I must ask you not to say anything where we’re going, until no-one can hear us.’

I was puzzled, but would have agreed to almost anything.

‘Shall we put your bag in a locker, until you decide what to do? It will be quite safe.’

He took it and I trotted along, trying to keep pace with his long strides, until we reached a metro station. It was unlike any metro station I’d ever seen. The main hall resembled an art gallery, with life size bronze statues of what looked like farmers and workers. In an alcove, Vladimir fed a few coins into the door of a locker, putting in my case and giving me the key. I used the toilet at the train station. A hard faced woman had handed me a few sheets of toilet paper and I gave her the change Vladimir had supplied. As I washed my face, I hoped with an unnerving desperation he’d still be waiting for me. Perhaps he would have thought the better of involving himself with someone who was clearly going to be a burden; but he was standing at the exit and smiled as I approached.

We walked to a type of cafeteria on a street nearby, with a spaghetti tangle of wires overhead. There were no chairs and Vladimir indicated I should wait at a high circular table at the back, while he went and queued.

Inside were only a few older people closer to the counter. I stood looking through a large window facing the street, through Cyrillic lettering painted

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onto the outside. For a large city, there didn’t seem to be a lot of traffic in

Moscow.

‘Where are all the people?’ I asked when he came back, carrying a tray with two open faced sandwiches and glasses of tea. ‘Is the place usually this empty?’

‘It’s the weekend. Most people go out of town to their family’s dacha.’

‘A kind of holiday house?’

‘Yes, most of them are small, with a little bit of land where you can grow vegetables.’

‘Why aren’t you at yours?’

‘We usually go down there. A friend of mine had a birthday party last night, so I stayed in town for that.’

‘Luckily for me. Who’s we? Who do you live with?’ I asked, wanting to find out how free this man might be to help me. I could tell he was taken aback. He looked at me appraisingly, as if deciding whether he could trust me.

‘I must remember that you’re a foreigner,’ he said. ‘You don’t follow the same rules.’

‘I’m sorry. What do you mean?’

‘You don’t ask anyone details about their personal life until you know them for some time. When someone you have just met asks you, you

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want to know why they are asking. You must understand, paranoia is part of the landscape.’

‘So why did you help me?’

‘Because you needed it. Because I was there.’

‘Is it dangerous to be seen with foreigners?’ To my own ears, the question sounded melodramatic. He shrugged.

‘Sometimes. It used to be. We’re told we’ve got perestroika and glasnost now, but I don’t know it these are just words or if things will really be different. A year ago a friend of mine lost her place at the Art Academy because she had an English boyfriend.’

‘So you’re taking a risk, being here with me now.’

‘I do have a choice in the matter. Nothing will change unless people make it happen.’

He looked outside the big window to the street, watching as a bus sped past. ‘I think it’s our own fear that prevents us from being who we want.’

‘You’re right, but then that’s easy for me to say.’

He paused again and studied my face closely. ‘Do you want to come to my place and meet my family? If my mother agrees, you can stay the night and then go to the embassy in the morning.’

This was more than I’d hoped for. I tried not to appear too desperate.

‘Are you sure?’

‘One can never be sure, but you’re welcome to come.’

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‘Vladimir, thank you. It’s very good of you. I would really appreciate that.’

After collecting my bag, we travelled on a bus through strange streets, then walked until I thought I would fall over and entered a crumbling apartment block.

‘The lift doesn’t work,’ said Vladimir. I didn’t ask which floor we were going to, but laboured up ten sets of stairs following my new friend, who carried my bag with ease. The landings were dim and murky and mysterious sounds filtered through closed doorways. He stopped and turned a key in a lock.

Suddenly we were the eye in the midst of a storm of people.

‘Vladimir’s zdes,’ cried a large woman, enveloping him in a bear hug before he had even put down my bag. A small girl clung to his knee as the only part of him she could get to. There were numerous children of various ages milling around, waiting for their turn to greet him. It was a moment before they realised I was there and voluble explanations followed, with lots of gesticulating.

Perhaps there was a problem and she didn’t want me to stay. ‘Please, please’ I muttered under my breath. The effort of finding somewhere else was inconceivable now that I was here. It was a few minutes before he turned to me and said, in a calm voice.

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‘It’s alright, you can stay for a night or two.’ He pointed to sets of house slippers standing in a neat row by the door. ‘You might be more comfortable in these. The ones on that end are for guests.’ I put my bag down, took off my shoes and slipped on a pair.

His mother, who seemed to have made up her mind to be hospitable, shooed another child off a chair next to the kitchen table and gestured for me to sit. I sank gratefully onto the hard wooden chair and looked around. The main room was about the size of an average living room, but the kitchen was in the right hand corner. Near the sink Vladimir and his mother were conversing animatedly. Against the opposite wall there were two day beds, seething with small children. I counted four of them, including the small girl who hugged Vladimir’s leg. There were two boys, of about four and six, and another girl a couple of years older. A pile of pillows and quilts next to the beds suggested this room became a bedroom at night. There was a dark doorway nearby, presumably leading to another bedroom, and two other closed doors.

Vladimir and his mother moved slightly and to my surprise there was a very old man sitting in a chair on the other side of the room. He looked as if he was off in a world of his own, immune from the chaos of the family.

While I was observing him, his unfocused gaze shifted and he looked straight at me. An expression of bemusement developed on his creased face.

I could see his lips moving, as though addressing me, but in the din of voices competing for attention, I could not hear the words.

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There was a trudge of heavy footsteps on the stairs outside the door, the sound of a key turning in the lock. The small children scrambled off the day beds and headed towards the door, at the same time it swung open.

There was a roar from the large, dark figure wearing a hat with flaps around the ears, and squeals of delight as armfuls of children were lifted high into the air and swung in a circle. The middle aged man was bearded and greying; his features unmistakeably those of Vladimir, as if I could glimpse what he would look like in twenty years on a diet of vodka and potatoes.

The face was lined, but mobile and animated. He took his coat off and I could see he was not as big a man as I first thought, although he had a large paunch. Vladimir had been waiting to one side and at last his father spotted him. They enveloped one another in a bear hug and a kiss of cheeks, with an audible smacking of lips. I enjoyed the physicality of the greeting. I couldn’t imagine any of the men I knew being so physically affectionate with their fathers.

After a moment, Vladimir pointed me out to his father, who hadn’t noticed me sitting quietly at the table. He seemed surprised there was a stranger present, but smiled and took my hand in a cross between a shake and a caress. It was clear he didn’t speak any English and must have queried what this strange foreigner was doing in his home, but he was welcoming nonetheless.

A hot cup of black tea was placed in front of me by Mama in a tall glass, with a little dish of jam beside it. I didn’t see any bread, so I couldn’t

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work out why she’d brought me jam, until I saw Vladimir spooning a liberal quantity of it into his glass. He gave me a broad grin, comfortable in his home, before becoming involved in a conversation with his father.

I didn’t feel like an intruder. Strangely, I felt quite comfortable sitting in the kitchen, watching the routines of this family. Browsing in a bookshop one day in New York, I had come across a series of children’s books illustrating cross sections. There was the hidden world inside an ocean liner; another on a mediaeval castle. In this apartment block I could imagine hundreds of similar families, all greeting one another, teasing, exchanging news as though you had cut a cross section through the building.

Yet from the outside these tower blocks seemed cold, without human warmth. Although the apartment was about the size a young couple would have to themselves in the West, the physical proximity of so many people felt natural and easy. But, I thought, it would be hell if people were not getting on.

The young girl detached herself from the other children and came over to stare at me. Her eyes were large and very round. Not shifting her gaze, she reached out and clambered up on my lap. She was surprisingly heavy for a small child. I was momentarily taken aback and then, as she snuggled her head against my shoulder, my arms automatically went around her. The feeling of Deirdre and Patrick nuzzling into me caught in my throat.

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The meal was noisy, riotous, and very communal. Out of the tiny kitchen, Vladimir’s mother had somehow managed to produce a large vegetable stew, consisting mostly of turnips, a potato salad, pickles, and home-made rye bread.

‘Okay?’ Vladimir mouthed above the din and I nodded back. I was overwhelmed by their generosity. They probably lived on a fraction of the wage I had earned, but managed to feed everyone and be hospitable to strangers. I wondered what I would have done if Vladimir hadn’t helped me.

Without a wallet and passport on a Sunday, life would be extremely difficult.

Not to mention the need to pre-book at hotels.

Later, when three of the children were tucked up in their beds,

Vladimir’s mother made up a bed for me from old single sponge mattress out of her bedroom, some sheets and a blanket. Squeezed down beside the kitchen table, I had a modicum of privacy. Then she sat back down in the corner next to his father, to watch a small black and white television with the sound turned low. The small girl was asleep on his knee.

‘Come and meet Grandfather,’ said Vladimir and I followed him into another room.

There was a small single bed and walls covered with overflowing bookcases. Books spilled over onto piles on the floor. At a wooden desk by the window Vladimir’s grandfather was sitting, chess set in front of him.

We had interrupted his solitary game. Vladimir gestured for me to sit on the only other chair and there was a slight squeak of springs as he sank onto the

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bed, but my attention was focussed on the figure in front of me. In the dimness of the room the old man’s eyes were black holes, absorbing all light.

‘Do you recognise me?’ he said in a faltering voice, as though he had got out of the practice of speaking much. There was something, a worm under wet earth, struggling at the periphery of memory. I shook my head slowly, uncertain, and the old man continued.

‘I woke up to hear knocking on my door. I leapt up, thinking something was wrong. You were standing in the drawing room with your back to the window, a silhouette, and you said to me, Do you remember the story of the azure bird? I asked you if you meant The Blue Bird, by

Maeterlinck. No, the azure one you replied.’

When was he speaking of? Perhaps he was using me as a screen to project his memories. I looked at Vladimir, who was watching his grandfather and glanced at me briefly. The hesitancy vanished, and there was a strength in the old man’s words.

‘Once, you told me, there was a very poor peasant. He was told by the local wise woman that if he could catch the azure bird, it would bring him happiness. But it would be difficult to catch because it flew to his fields very early, around five o’clock in the morning, and it did not stay for long.

So, he would rise with the sun and though he did this every morning, he never once saw the azure bird. Because he was in his fields, he started to work much sooner in the day than he had ever done, and after a while the extra crops that he planted began to ripen. He had much of everything, more

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than enough to feed his family and extra to store for winter. So, happiness came to him. You said the azure bird is the dawn. This is what it means to get up early. Because I did not rise early enough, I did not see what was happening around the school.’

The old man lapsed into silence. I could hear the drone of the television in the next room and the sound of shuffling footsteps overhead. I was tired and felt I had been patient, listening politely to the ramblings of an old man.

‘Grandfather only speaks of the past these days.’ Vladimir’s voice was soft. ‘But of course, you do not understand what he is saying. ‘

‘I liked the story though, of the azure bird.’

Vladimir’s eyes widened. ‘But I thought you did not understand

Russian.’

Before I could answer, the old man stirred again.

‘S’dora.’

The word hung in the air, resonating like the single note of a bell.

The air is moving through me. I am a part of it and it is a part of me.

It lifts and carries me, light as feather-down, up and over the moonlit glade.

In the distance lies the sleeping city. The smoke of wood fires swirls upward.

I am the azure bird, swooping and soaring, using my wings to take me higher

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on thermal currents. I can see the glittering spire of Ivan the Great Bell

Tower and those of the Cathedral of the Assumption far below, like unopened onion flowers dipped in gold.

It is dawn and I am coming to rest on the earth now, my feet sinking into the black loamy soil. On the other side of the field is a line of grey figures bound together, struggling to pull a plow, yoked in the traces where horses should be. It is as if I am one of them, as we move in unison across the endless steppe. I must concentrate on where I put my feet, so I do not sink down too deeply into the rich soil. There is a shiver on the air. The long, slow notes of the Czarist anthem sound across the landscape like a funeral march, pronouncing:

‘You will never escape your gruelling poverty. The Czar, your little papa, will never understand or set you free.’

‘No!’ A chorus of voices is raised as one, reverberating and rippling out until slowly, ever so slowly, the weight is lifted from my back and my steps are lighter, freer and I am running, arms lifted high in the air with the jubilation that freedom brings.

I always knew I would come here. Only here, where they are trying to bring out the best in the whole of humanity, will they understand my vision and give me what I want. Thousands of children who will be the first of a new generation to live the beauty I have tried to express all my life. I know many think me naive, or my mission an idea fixé, but I know that such purity is possible. When I show it to people, they marvel and leave uplifted

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– a little bit of enchantment in their soul, to carry back to the mundane of the everyday. Yet I must make do within the confines of a theatre, when where I really want to be is here, dancing on the dew wet grass.

The grass between my toes was wet and so was the edge of my nightdress where it had been trailing, flapping against my calves. I was cold and the light was gray and dull. I did not feel safe here. I was running through dark trees, to a place where I could see an open area. There was someone pounding behind, trying to catch me. I knew I must not let it happen and ran faster and faster until my breath was on fire in my throat, tearing at my chest and I could hear the man behind me gaining. He was calling my name. How did he know it? I felt a hand on my shoulder, whirling me round and I stumbled and lost my balance. The moment of falling stretched immeasurably, before I crashed to the ground with a sickening thud, the wind knocked from me completely.

He stood over me, saying ‘Tamsin, Tamsin, are you alright?’ I gasped and shuddered and he helped me up. The kind, concerned face of

Vladimir was bathed in a glow of sweat.

‘Were you sleep walking, or rather running? What on earth were you dreaming?’

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I couldn’t say anything at all for a little while. He knelt beside me and I clung to him, shaking. He held me and stroked my hair, as if to comfort a child.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ I said at last. ‘I was flying and then I was dancing and then I woke up here.’

‘I followed you. I heard the door latch click in the apartment and thought it was strange, and then you were so quick, I had to be fast. One time you paused on the lawn and did the most beautiful dance, I did not want to wake you. Then you started to run. I called you, many times, but you didn’t seem to hear me.’

As we walked across the grass, he kept an arm around me for support. I felt fragile and precious. What a relief it was to feel the physical strength of another body and I realise how much tension I had been carrying these past few weeks, holding myself together.

‘What happened last night, with Grandfather?’ he asked. ‘He seemed to know you and you knew what he was talking about.’

I had an urge to unburden myself. To tell him everything, even if he thought I was insane. ‘I would like to tell you. Can we find a place to sit?’

It was cool in the grey light of dawn and I wanted to be somewhere with a warm cup of coffee between my chill fingers.

‘If you wait down here, I’ll run up and get some money and your jacket.’ Vladimir said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘If we both go up, we’ll never get away from the kids. Promise me you won’t run away again?’

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I shook my head, wearily. He placed me gently on a concrete block, there for no apparent reason, near the stairs to the apartment. Already there were people appearing on the street. An old woman, a babushka, was sweeping part of the pavement with a broom made of twigs. On the other side of the road, a drunk was staggering homewards, quietly singing to himself.

A few minutes later Vladimir returned with my jacket and shoes. I must have looked an odd sight, in my cream silk nightdress with the lace trim, my purple and black fleecy polar jacket and Doc Marten boots. I dragged my fingers through my hair, which felt like birds had made their nest in it permanently.

We wandered up the street, not speaking. There was a clarity in the cool morning, the edges of objects sharp as a burst of light broke through the clouds and gave the buildings, the cars, even the cracks in the sidewalk a temporary halo. We walked a few blocks in companionable silence.

Vladimir did not seem to want to rush me, and I was content to wait. On a street corner there was a vendor with a burning charcoal brazier selling hot marrons, chestnuts, the first signs of the coming autumn. The vendor had a home-made cone of newspaper to put them in and did it up with a twist.

Beneath the hard brown carapaces, they were sweet, mushy and tasted of the season that was almost here. I stuffed my packet deep in my pocket and took comfort from its warmth.

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We could not find any coffee though, and I didn’t think Vladimir really expected to. There was a bench to sit on in a park. As we approached it I was turning over possible openings in my mind. How to explain what had happened to me in such a way that he would find it acceptable. Should I edit and censor? I decided against doing either. I owed him the truth, at the very least.

I took a deep breath. It was easier if I didn’t look at him. ‘The past few weeks have been a very strange time for me. It’s as though I’m living a life that is not completely my own. I have been having these memories and visions that are not mine. It began in New York...’

I told him the story of visiting the dance class and the strange affinity

I had with the movements. Then meeting Anna and the way I had become involved in her story, looking for the film at her request. All the while the strange dreams and flashbacks seemed to be progressively taking me further into the life of Isadora to the point where I no longer knew where she ended and I began. The trauma of the death of the children, who felt as dear as if they were my own, and then Anna’s death. The only bit I left out was the

Italian man I had a passionate encounter with in New York.

Vladimir did not interrupt. I looked at him to see if he was following and he gave the occasional nod. His attention on me was absolute. His eyes did not wander when a dog ran past us, or flinch as a car horn sounded loudly close by. When I spoke about finding myself in Paris and then on the train to Moscow, his brow creased in concern. I wondered if he was

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gathering evidence of instability, a tally of madness and would do his best to be rid of me when I had finished. I do not go into detail about Oleg, merely saying that a man, someone with a government position, had helped me on the train. When I told him of the drunken scene at the hotel he murmured

‘Esenin’ and I realised he was with me. Vladimir knew. His grandfather must have told him stories of the poet who became Isadora’s husband.

When all the words had poured out and lay around us like a spilt jug of wine, there was only silence, undercut by the increasing drone of the city stirring to life. But I could hear him breathing. Deep, even breaths, that were reassuring in their rhythm and inevitability.

‘It is the most remarkable gift you have been given, to see with the eyes of another, especially someone like Isadora.’ He was gazing at me in such a way that I knew he meant it. I felt he had accepted unequivocally what I had to say. I could see that his eyes were dark brown, with small gold flecks. He had a long, intelligent face – the face of a thinker, with hands to match. His hand span must have covered more than an octave on the piano, if he had the luxury of access to one. His hair was thick, brown with a reddish tint. He was a very easy person to be with, deflecting the attention to others, perhaps through a practised habit of being one of a large family. I felt a warmth of gratitude to him flood through me. For being there and listening. For caring enough to take me to his place when I needed it.

‘Thank you,’ he said, startling me.

‘What for?’

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‘For telling me. I know it must have been a hard secret to share.’

‘You are the only one I’ve been able to tell. I’ve so much wanted to talk to Anna, and have wished her alive many times. I’ve been afraid people would think I had some bizarre personality disorder. Schizophrenia or something. I know it’s not that. But it’s very real to me. Too real sometimes, it frightens me because I have no control. I don’t know what is going to happen.’

‘There must be a reason it is happening to you.’

‘Well, if there is, I haven’t found out what it is yet. I know people make jokes about loonies – mad people – in institutions who think they’re someone important, because their own lives have been disappointing –

Napoleon Bonaparte or Cleopatra or whoever. Believe it or not, I was actually happy with my life the way it was. Why do you believe me? How do you know I’m not making it up?’

‘I saw you last night with Grandfather. I know he recognised you.

And you understood him. Remember when he said ‘S’dora’? Why didn’t you respond?’

‘I was flabbergasted – very surprised. I wasn’t even sure until later that was what he’d really said. Then I wondered if he was Sergei Esenin, but he didn’t look like an older version of the man I saw in my dream. He talked about a school. Did he mean one of Isadora’s schools?’

‘Yes, there was one here in Moscow. He ran it for her for many years

– until after the Second World War. I think he met her the first time she

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came to Russia, at the beginning of the century. Years later, after the revolution, he worked for the press department in Foreign Affairs. He was also fascinated with theatre and dance and taught the history, and I think, aesthetics, at the school of ballet in his spare time. He wrote plays. One very good one about the revolution called ‘The Glittering Crown’. That got him recognised by the committee who were in charge of the Arts, and when

Isadora arrived he was asked to look after her. They became close friends.’

‘What is his name? Is it Martov, the same as yours?’

‘Yes, Illyich Ivanovich Martov.’

‘Doesn’t it seem amazing to you that you found me on the street?’

Vladimir smiled, ‘ I think things happen for a reason. There is no such thing as chance.’

There was a lull while I thought about what he’d said. The sun was bright now, and the grayness of the early morning had dissipated. There was a parade of people taking early morning strolls on the grass. I hadn’t seen any joggers though.

‘How did you get such good English, idioms and everything?’

‘Grandfather taught me at first, except most of his vocabulary had to do with parts of the body. They’re not terribly useful for ordinary conversation.’ Seeing my raised eyebrows, he added, ‘From helping Isadora at the school, although he mostly ran the administration side of things. He used to listen to her teaching. I went to University and took English and

French. My father was determined to send me, because he’d hadn’t gone.

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Fortunately Grandfather still had some connections, or I would never have got in. Studying foreign languages is usually a privilege reserved for the

‘golden youth’.

‘Who are they?’ Shades of the Hitler youth?

‘The children of the nomenklatura.’

He could see the puzzlement written on my face.

‘You really don’t know? Well, why should you? They’re the upper class.’

I feel confused and dismally ignorant.

‘The bureaucrats,’ he expanded. ‘They have special shops and

...special everything really. If I had been one of them, the professors would have made sure I got good grades and then a job with one of the embassies or ministries.’ He didn’t sound bitter about it, but resigned and accepting.

‘What do you do, exactly?’ I had told him my secrets and yet I had no idea how he spent his days. It didn’t seem to matter. I felt I could trust him.

‘I work at the Government publishing office, as a translator. It’s a growing area, now that censorship is not so tight. Just that we get things many years late. Mostly I do academic and technical books, but occasionally

I get to translate a work I really enjoy.’

‘Are you working today?’ I asked, realising I was probably delaying him.

He nodded. ‘Normally yes, but I can stay with you, if you’d like me to.’

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‘I don’t want to stop you working, but is it possible you can take me to the Australian Embassy?’

We walked back briskly to the apartment. It was already past nine o’clock, but the tail end of a lengthy breakfast was happening in the Martov household. The older children were feeding the younger ones, while Mama bustled around fetching things for her husband and the little ones, and wiping messes on the floor. The babies didn’t have highchairs, but were nursed on knees. Trying not to delay Vladimir further, I had a hurried wash without soap, in the very basic bathroom and threw on a more suitable top with my jeans. While he took his turn in the bathroom, I stacked the folded bedclothes neatly, closed my suitcase and put it by the door.

‘Aren’t you coming back tonight?’ said Vladimir, noticing it when he emerged.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked.

‘Of course.’

He said a couple of words to Mama, who nodded vigorously. She indicated we were to sit down and eat before we left, placing hearty bowls of kasha in front of us. Then we walked very fast to the bus stop, me taking one and a half steps to every one of Vladimir’s long legged strides. I was out of breath by the time we got there.

We didn’t have to wait long. Mindful of Vladimir’s comment about

No talking in public, we were both silent on the journey in. I sat next to the window and watched as we drove through the drab Moscow suburbs. It

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wasn’t just the buildings that were dull, but the way people dressed in muted colours, as though trying not to draw attention to themselves. The lack of colour was also because of the lack of advertising, I realised. That wasn’t something I thought I would ever miss.

‘Park Kultury’ Vladimir muttered, standing up. We got off the bus near a bridge crossing the river and walked a block to Kropotkinskiy

Pereulok, where the Australian Embassy was. Getting there was far easier than getting in. The guard on the gate wanted me to show him my

Australian passport before he would open the gate and when Vladimir explained it had been stolen, he behaved as though I was a dissident seeking asylum. Vladimir argued vehemently, but to no avail. Turning to me, he said in a low voice,

‘He wants money. Much more money than I have. Everyone thinks foreigners are rich. I’ve tried to explain to him that you don’t have any, but he says I must have taken it all.’

‘Vladimir, go to work or you’ll be late. I’ll stay here and keep trying and I’ll meet you somewhere later.’ It took some guts for me to say this, because I had no idea where I would go or if I could find him again. What if

I had another attack and ended up in a completely different place? But I couldn’t cling to this man twenty-four hours a day.

‘I can stay. It doesn’t really matter what time I arrive at work, I could just say I was queuing for meat or sugar, but I think you might get on

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better on your own. He may take pity on you.’ I nodded and tried to smile reassuringly.

‘Here, take this,’ he said. He pressed a few roubles into my hand.

He had a pen, but no paper, so took my other hand and turned it palm up, writing his work phone number carefully on my wrist. I had the curious sensation I was being branded. The number scrawled in pen across the green and purple veins of my wrist was a guarantee we would not lose each other.

‘Be patient – it may take some time. I will come and get you later on,’ he said. He pressed his hand to my cheek before turning to go. I felt bereft by the sight of his lanky figure striding away from me up the street.

Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. You didn’t even know this man this time yesterday and if you hadn’t met him, you’d be in exactly the same place.

Fixing the guard with a determined look, I insisted, in what I hoped was an authoritative tone, on seeing the Ambassador. It was clear that the guard didn’t have a word of English, but I persisted for more than half an hour, standing right outside the sentry box, talking at and staring at him. I was trying the theory that if I behaved like a horse fly buzzing around, eventually it would be easier to let me in rather than shoo me away. After a while I had to admit this wasn’t going to work. He simply pretended I wasn’t there. I wondered if I should find a telephone and use the few roubles

I had to try and ring the embassy first and if I’d still have enough to phone

Vladimir afterwards. Getting the number could be a problem. While I was thinking about this, a long low car approached the iron gates and paused to

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let them open. Before the guard realised what was happening, I took a few steps forward and tapped on one of the rear tinted windows. The window rolled down a few inches, enough for a gray haired man to ask ‘Da?’

‘Can you help me? I’m Australian...’ At this point I felt my jacket wrenched from behind. The guard had grabbed me and was pulling me roughly away. The man inside the car called something in Russian and the pressure suddenly stopped. I attempted to straighten my jacket.

‘How can I help you?’ The man in the car said in Russian accented

English.

‘I need to go into the embassy, but he won’t let me in. My passport and money have been stolen.’

A stream of voluble Russian streamed out of the car, and the guard shrank like a balloon with the air being let out. The car surged forward and I followed down the driveway in its wake, this time unimpeded.

The relief of entering the embassy was palpable. There was a Fred

Williams painting hanging in the foyer and the ochre colours and the depiction of the outback landscape aroused a powerful homesickness in me.

It was ironic, because I had lived in the middle of a city and only seen the red centre on a few occasions.

In the main office, the receptionist was speaking on the telephone in

Russian and gestured for me to take a seat. I sank into the soft cream leather sofa, digesting the luxury. After only a day in Russia, the difference in living standards was glaringly obvious. When she was free, I gave a brief

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explanation of what had happened and she asked me to sit down again. I did, this time on the edge of the seat. I could just overhear the receptionist saying to someone on an intercom. ‘Another D.A.’ What did D.A. stand for? I could only think of Dead on Arrival. Then I knew. Distressed Australian.

How demeaning, to have my problem reduced to a category.

Eventually a young woman introduced herself as Amanda and invited me into her office. She wore her neat blonde hair in a chignon and had on a light grey suit and high heels, which made clicking noises as she crossed the polished floor between her desk and the filing cabinet. I felt scruffy in comparison – perhaps D.A wasn’t far off the mark. To my relief, Amanda was friendly and seemed efficient. Speaking fluent Russian she made a phone call to the credit card people, who advised that a replacement card would be ready to pick up the next day at their office downtown. I would need identification though, and this was more tricky to organise. She told me the embassy would send a fax to Canberra, requesting a copy of my passport, so they could compare me with the photograph.

‘You’ll need to come back tomorrow to collect it,’ Amanda said.

‘But I can give you a temporary document in the meantime. You might need it. All Soviet citizens must carry an document with them everywhere to say they are who they are, and where they live.’

After I’d filled out forms in triplicate, swearing that I would repay it before leaving the country, she gave me a handful of roubles. After all the tax I’ve paid, I grumbled to myself, they’re this tight about the equivalent of

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$50. But with an identity document and some money, I felt like a real person again.

I had another request, and for this I was glad I was dealing with a woman.

‘Umm...do you have any tampons?’ I had been uncomfortably aware, since my wash this morning, that there was nothing between me and disaster other than some flimsy sheets of grayish toilet paper.

‘I can give you a few,’ she agreed. ‘They’re like gold here. Most of the time you can’t even buy sanitary pads.’

‘So what do women do?’ I ask. It was hard to imagine living without such a basic commodity.

‘What our grandmothers and great grandmothers did, I suppose, make do with home-made pads that they wash out.’ She laughed as I wrinkled up my nose. ‘Its amazing what they do without. The waiting list to get a washing machine is twelve years long.’

‘Why do people put up with it?’ I asked.

‘They don’t have a choice. Most of them don’t really know there is one. But the whole system would collapse without the black market. If you really need things, you can get them, but you have to be prepared to pay much more.’

I made the most of the scented soap, shampoo and moisturiser in the embassy bathroom, musing on how I normally took them for granted. I was also relieved I wasn’t pregnant. The thought had crossed my mind a couple

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of times and I had had no idea what I would have done if I was. On my way back out, I popped my head into Amanda’s office again. She was doing some paperwork.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I said. ‘But could you tell me a good place to have lunch that is not too outrageously expensive?’

‘I sometimes go to Café Margarita. It’s charming. You’ll need to catch the metro.’

I must have looked blank, for she asked. ‘Don’t you have a map?’

‘Not yet,’ I said, feeling like a dill.

‘Yelena on reception will give you one and explain how to get there.’

‘One more thing – can I make a local call?’

‘Sure, ask Yelena to help you. Tell her I said it was okay. Now I really must get back to my work.’

‘Thanks so much.’

Yelena was helpful. To a point. She gave me a map and the necessary details and directed me to a phone on the other side of the desk.

About to ring Vladimir, it occurred to me that it might not look so good to have a foreigner phone him. I waited until she was between calls.

‘Yelena, can you ask for Vladimir Martov for me? Please?’

Exasperation crossed her face, but she did so, passing me the telephone when he answered.

‘Tamsin.’ He sounded relieved. ‘I wondered who was phoning me.’

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‘I’m still at the Embassy,’ I said. ‘I finally got in, although the guard wasn’t very pleased. Have you got time for some lunch?’

‘Yes. Certainly.’

‘I’m told the Café Margarita is pretty good.’

‘The one near Patriarch’s Pond?’

‘Maybe. Malaya Bronnaya ulitsa 28. Do you know it?’

‘Yes. I’ve heard of it – wait there though. I’ll come and get you.’

I opened my mouth to protest, but realised he was right. I’d travelled extensively on my own, but the thought of coping with the Cyrillic lettering on the Metro wasn’t appealing.

I sat on the front steps of the embassy to wait. When I caught sight of him there was a small flutter in my solar plexus and I ran down as he approached the gate. As we walked off, I turned and waved cheerily to the guard, who ignored me.

Park Kultury Metro reminded me more of a palace than a mere underground train station. The passages were made of marble, with elaborate light fittings and tiled floors in a Greek Key pattern. Niches on the walls held white marble bas relief medallions. Instead of Greek figures, each medallion depicted people in a different leisure activity – playing chess, reading and ice-skating. I pointed wordlessly to one that showed a group of women dancing in tunics, with arms upheld like the Three Graces.

‘I’ve been through this station many times, but I’ve never noticed it,’ said Vladimir in a low voice my ear. I must talk to his grandfather again, I

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thought. I need to find out more about what Isadora was doing. I need to find out why she has brought me here.

We rode to Pushkin Square and strolled to the Café Margarita.

‘It’s named after the heroine of Mikhail Bulgakov’s novel The

Master and Margarita,’ said Vladimir. He indicated the big pond across the road. ‘That’s Patriarch’s Pond, where the novel begins.’

‘I haven’t read it. I can see I have a lot of catching up to do,’ I said, smiling up at him.

‘It’s a classic. I’ll find you an English copy.’

The café was cosy with old-fashioned wood panelling and furnishings. I asked Vladimir order for us both, making it clear that this was my treat. Over cabbage soup and blinis, I told him how I had got into the embassy and what had happened.

‘I have to go back tomorrow for my passport, but they gave me some money. I would like to do something for your family as a thank you for having me to stay. What do you suggest?’

‘You don’t need to do anything. We don’t expect it.’

‘I’d like to. Please let me.’

He smiled. ‘We could take the kids out somewhere.’

‘But wouldn’t your mother and father like to go out to a restaurant or something?’

He shook his head. ‘Tamsin, that’s very sweet, but they don’t go out to restaurants. It’s not a common thing here.’

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‘But isn’t that the point?’

‘They wouldn’t enjoy it. They wouldn’t feel comfortable, because they don’t have the right clothes and they’d feel out of place. I think if we took the kids out tomorrow, then Mama would have the chance to visit her friends and she doesn’t get to do that much.’

I realised, too late, they also might not feel comfortable about being seen in the company of a foreigner. ‘Okay, so where shall we take them?’

‘Ask them. My guess is either the circus or the puppet theatre.’

After lunch we travelled together to GUM, the gargantuan department store, and Vladimir left me there and went back to work. We arranged to meet at the same spot in a few hours. He had offered to stay, but

I was determined not to be ruled by fear. I reminded him he had said something along those lines in our first conversation.

Despite the impressive surroundings with the arched glass roof high above an the pleasant tinkling of the central fountain, the goods on sale at

GUM were invariably disappointing. After spending a while looking around, I came across one small shop that specialised in folk art and handicrafts. Among the wooden painted spoons and carved boxes was a set of Matryoshka dolls, but instead of the usual peasant woman with a red scarf, within an identical peasant woman with another scarf and so on, they were of political leaders. You opened up Gorbachev, with his distinctive birthmark, to find Andropov, inside whom was Breschnev, Krustcheov,

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Stalin and finally Lenin. I appreciated the irony, but had my doubts it was intentional. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Trying to buy the Matryoshka doll took more than ten minutes, even though there were four shop assistants and only two other customers in the shop. They didn’t seem overly eager to sell me anything.

They would have preferred me to go away and not interrupt their chatting to one another. I tried just presenting my money and the doll at the main counter, but that didn’t work. After ignoring me for a while, one of the assistants wrote down the item for me with bad grace and indicated that I needed to line up at another counter to pay. I did this, then had to take the receipt back to the first counter to collect the goods.

At five o’clock I met Vladimir outside and we travelled home together. We found a seat at the back of the bus and talked in low voices that were muffled by the rumble of the engine.

When we reached the apartment, there was the usual assault from flailing small bodies, but this time the little girl, whom I had learned was called Maja, fastened herself limpet-like onto me. I took a few steps with her clinging to my leg and then we played a game with her standing on my feet, while I walked around the room. She found this very amusing. When the noise had abated, Vladimir spoke to his mother. I could tell from the pleased look on her face that he was asking if she’d like us to take the children out after the older ones finished school the next afternoon.

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‘Mama says she would love two or three hours to see her friends,’

Vladimir told me. ‘I’ll ask the kids where they want to go.’ He did and the children all shouted different things simultaneously. ‘The boys want to go to the circus and Natasha to the puppets.’ He waited until they were quiet again and then turned to Maja, asking her.

‘She wants to go to the Cat Theatre,’ he translated to me.

‘What’s that?’

‘There are a whole lot of cats performing tricks.’

I had never heard of such a thing. I didn’t know you could train cats.

Any I had owned considered themselves far too superior – or perhaps I just wasn’t persistent enough.

The cats won out.

Through Vladimir, I offered to help Mama with dinner, but she waved me away.

While Vladimir was playing with the children, I knocked on his

Grandfather’s door.

‘Da.’

The old man was sitting in his chair by the desk. This time some of the chess pieces had been moved.

‘S’dora,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting to talk with you all day.’

It was uncanny how I could understand him and reply, although I didn’t comprehend a word of Russian spoken by anyone else. I had a

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curious awareness of the presence of Isadora, enough to know what was going on, while still being myself in the present.

‘Ilyich, it’s good to see you.’

‘So you do recognise me.’

‘You’re my dear friend, the one who ran my school and supported me for so many years. How did you know it was me yesterday?’

‘I knew. Of course I knew. I always wished you’d come back, I longed for it. When you came in yesterday with Vladimir, at first I couldn’t believe it. He picked you up off the street, eh?’ Ilyich gave a wry smile.

‘You always did have an eye for a handsome young man.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Like Sergei Esenin, I suppose you mean?’

He put his hands together, index fingers over his lips, as if weighing up how much to say. ‘Exactly. That Esenin.’ He could not keep the vehemence out of his voice. ‘You spent so much emotion on him, all those tears. He was never any good for you. We tried to tell you that you didn’t have to marry him.’

‘I wouldn’t have been able to take him to America otherwise.’

‘And look how he repaid you – trashing hotel rooms, making scandals wherever you went. He was like a spoilt child. He couldn’t bear it that people paid you more attention than him.’

‘He was a brilliant poet. The greatest since Pushkin.’

‘Brilliance is no excuse for bad behaviour, my S’dora. You were brilliant, are brilliant, yet you have never been anything but gracious.’

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‘What happened to Sergei?’ I asked softly.

‘You don’t remember?’

‘No, I can’t, or my mind won’t let me.’

‘He killed himself.’

I gasped. Sergei’s face, suffused with anger, was so alive in my mind; then his tenderness. My chest contracted painfully. ‘How?’

Ilyich grimaced. ‘By hanging. At the Hotel Angleterre in Leningrad, a year to the day after you separated.’

‘That was where we went for our first trip together.’

‘Yes, I remember. I was there to see you off at the railway station.

The train was very late and you asked Esenin if he would come too, so he did.’ With a glimmer of insight, long delayed, I realised Ilyich had wanted me to ask him instead.

‘After he died,’ he continued, ‘...the sale of his poems all over Russia made a great deal of money, but you refused to take it even though you were in serious financial trouble. That was so like you. You transferred it to his mother and sister instead, saying they needed it more.’

‘Do people still remember him in the new Russia?’ I asked, trying for safer ground.

‘Oh yes, especially now Futurism is in decline, the Imagist movement is referred to as having a purity, a true understanding of what the revolution was all about.’

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‘From what I’ve seen in the past couple of days, it didn’t turn out the way we hoped.’

‘The signs were there, even in the beginning. Human greed and the desire to look after one’s own interests will always win out.’

‘Did you suffer?’

‘There was a time in the thirties when I thought I might not survive.

They said I was contaminated – your dances were too mystical, they must be anti-Soviet. I was taken to Lubyanka. I don’t know why they let me go, when so many others perished.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It was the times, it wasn’t you. You really thought the revolution was going to work. We all did.’

‘I was convinced of it. I wanted so much for my school to succeed.’

‘It did, my dear, but perhaps not in the way you expected. You should have a look.’

‘You mean it still exists?’

‘There is a school, although the building is different and they don’t call it after you anymore. But what I mean is that your ideas kept going, reaching out into the world...’

‘I went to a dance school in New York where they still teach my style, although inevitably, it’s been changed.’

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‘...and all those modern dancers were influenced by you, without even knowing how.’

We sat in silence for a moment. It was the strangest conversation

I’ve ever had in my life and yet it made perfect sense. I felt the urge to touch him, to assure myself of his physical presence. I stood beside him and put my hand on his cheek and he covered it with one of his own.

‘You know my dear, I love you. I always did,’ he murmured.

‘I know. You were always there for me. I should have chosen you instead of Esenin. That was my biggest mistake. We could have been happy together and perhaps I would have stayed that way. But I was never any good at choosing men, Ilyich. They were always too involved with themselves to really care about me. Somehow I felt it was what I deserved.

But you married well, you have your son and grandchildren.’

‘Yes, we had a good life together, yet before I met her, I loved you.

That was what I always longed to say to you, but never did.’ He paused.

‘Will you be good to my grandson?’

I knelt down beside him and we put our arms around one another.

‘There’s one thing I would like to see before I die,’ he continued.

‘What’s that?’

‘I would like to see you dance again.’

We stayed like that, hugging one another with our heads touching, until dinner was called.

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That night, after the lights had been turned out and I was lying on the single mattress beside the kitchen table, a tall shadowy figure emerged out of the darkness.

‘Tamsin?’ Vladimir whispered. ‘Are you awake?’

In answer, I reached out and touched his hand. He lay down beside me, enfolding me in his arms and I nestled into the shape of his body. He smelt delicious.

‘I was afraid you’d disappear again in the night and this time I wouldn’t be able to catch up with you,’ he whispered.

‘I was a bit afraid of that myself. It’s hard to go to sleep these days, because I don’t know what will happen.’

‘You know you’ve got to let her go.’

‘Isadora? I don’t know that I’ve got any choice in the matter.’

‘You must persuade her to leave you. You’re following all the events through her life, but you know how she died. You don’t want to caught up in that.’

‘So I should avoid open sports cars and long scarves?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘I know you are. You’re right, of course. I just don’t know how to do it.’

‘There has to be a way.’

I put my finger to his lips, then kissed him. A long slow kiss, smoothly textured like milk chocolate, with a flavour just as intense.

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When I woke in the morning, to the sound of children’s voices, he was gone, but I lay with my eyes closed, luxuriating in the memory of the length of his body pressing against mine.

Vladimir took the day off and went with me to the Embassy again. I was beginning to recognise where we were going and felt almost blasé. The guard let us in after I showed my temporary ID.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid,’ said Amanda, as I sat on the other side of her desk and Vladimir waited in the foyer.

‘What?’

‘The OVIR can’t find any record of your visa, so they’re refusing to issue another. Where was it issued?’

‘Um...Paris,’ I said, thinking quickly.

‘That’s odd. I’ll tell them that. I’m afraid efficiency is not one of the qualities we’ve come to expect.’

‘A little greasing of the palm would probably go a long way,’ I responded.

Amanda looked surprised at my bluntness, but nodded her head.

‘But I can’t get my credit card until I get my passport.’

‘They will probably accept your temporary identity document, especially if we write them a note on embassy letterhead to confirm it.’

‘Thank you. That would be great.’

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‘I can’t give you your passport without the actual visa, or you’ll be illegal. You’ll just have to be patient. Have you got somewhere you can stay?’

‘I think I can manage that for a few days.’

The Cat Theatre that afternoon was a mixture of the bizarre and the ridiculous. A tabby with a bonnet pushing a doll’s pram; a marmalade tom resembling a miniature tiger, jumping through a fiery hoop; a white Persian in a frilly tutu balancing briefly on its hind legs, while apparently accompanied on a miniature piano by a black and white feline wearing a tuxedo complete with bow tie. A multitude of cats ran along an obstacle course and leapt to set off mechanical gadgets, that got them to the next section of the course.

The children loved every minute of it and laughed delightedly every time a new act appeared. Vladimir and I exchanged indulgent smiles and held hands in the dim theatre, learning one another’s skin with sensitive fingertips. I wondered why he wasn’t married yet, but then he was entitled to ask the same about me.

After the show we wandered along the street until we found a little shop selling ice cream and I bought enough for everyone from a man dressed like a lab assistant in a white coat. As we were leaving the shop, an old lady said something to Vladimir that made him scowl.

‘What did she say?’

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‘She said the children weren’t dressed properly to be seen on the street.’

They looked fine to me, but when I looked closely I could see that the knees of Rudy’s little trousers were patched and worn and Maja had a rip in the back of her dress that had been carefully stitched. The others were outgrowing their clothes rapidly, wrists and ankles protruding.

We went to the park and the children played tag on the grass, shrieking delightedly at being free to run in the warm late summer afternoon.

Vladimir and I sat on a park bench and watched them. I went into a reverie of being a Moscow resident, out with her husband and the children for an afternoon’s leisure. It felt like an oasis of sanity – holding the strange, obscure reasons for my journey at bay. Vladimir interrupted my daydream by saying,

‘ You see that man over there. No, don’t look directly, look past him.

Yes, that one.’

I saw a man on a bench about a hundred metres away, reading a newspaper.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sure I saw him outside the Cat Theatre, before we went in. He’s been following us.’

‘Are you sure? Why?’

‘Tamsin, this is Moscow. There is a whole government department of people paid to spy on others. He must know you’re a foreigner.’

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‘I should go.’

‘Where would you go?’

‘To a hotel, I suppose.’

‘Without a passport and a visa? Not having booked? You wouldn’t get further than the lobby.’

‘Anywhere, it doesn’t matter – away from you and your family.

You’ve all been so kind to me. I don’t want to involve you.’

‘We’re already involved.’ He thought for a moment, then said,

‘Tomorrow you and I could move to our dacha. It’s safer there, out of

Moscow.’

‘What about your work?’

‘I’ll take a few days off. They owe me holidays.’

It was appealing, especially the idea of getting to know Vladimir away from the constant pressure of other people.

‘That sounds good.’

‘I will need to make some phone calls.’

On the way home the children and I stopped to look at some ducks on a pond at the edge of the park, while Vladimir disappeared for a few minutes into a public phone kiosk.

‘It’s alright,’ he said when he returned. ‘I organised something else as well. A friend of mine, or rather the son of a friend of Grandfather’s, stage manages the Bolshoi Theatre. He plays the piano well, too. The

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company are away touring until later this month, so tonight we could take

Grandfather...’

‘So I can dance?’

‘Yes, exactly.’

After dinner we got ready to go. Out of my suitcase I pulled the tunic that Anna had given me – the one that she’d worn in the photograph – and slipped it over my head before fastening the ties across my breasts. I had a pang of sadness that she couldn’t be here tonight. She would have liked

Ilyich. I wondered if they’d ever met. Ilyich was dressed in a tuxedo, except that he’d shrunk and, apart from his wizened face, looked like a young boy dressed up in his father’s clothes.

‘You look wonderful,’ I whispered, squeezing his hand.

Vladimir, too, looked smarter than usual, wearing dark trousers and a white shirt with a tie.

‘I’ve got your music,’ said Ilyich.

He opened an old leather briefcase and pulled out dozens of scores. I leafed through them. There was Skryabin, Bach, Beethoven, Wagner,

Schubert and several other composers. Vladimir took the briefcase and helped Ilyich carefully down the stairs. Once in the street we linked arms with him on either side to steady him. I looked back a couple of times, but couldn’t see anyone following us. It was possible that Vladimir was being a little paranoid, I thought.

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When we arrived at the theatre, Vladimir gave three sharp knocks on the stage door and it opened a moment later. The friend was a man in late middle age with silver hair who seemed a touch nervous. He didn’t speak any English, so Ilyich and I conferred about what music should be played and gave him the appropriate scores. He led me into the wings and I waited while he took Vladimir and Ilyich to the stalls. Standing in the semi- darkness, I took off my jacket and shoes and stood with my eyes closed – breathing deeply, feeling calmness radiate from my solar plexus. As the stage lights came up, I was delighted to see the background was a simple sky blue. The curtains were already drawn. I stood waiting.

The clear notes of a piano fell like drops of rain. As I walked onto the centre of the stage and stood, listening to Schubert, everything around me retreated. There was only this stage, this light, this music and myself, here in the moment. And I knew that self was Isadora. At first my movements were slow and measured, dipping my toe into unknown waters, feeling out the space, before gradually immersing myself in the music. I felt the notes swirl and eddy around me, pulling me forward until I launched myself and was swimming through it: silvery trails travelling along the lines of my limbs. I dissolved into the sound; carried on the current of emotion. I turned in on myself, spiralling like a shell, and then leapt clear of the water at the peak of a wave, like a fish; before plunging back into the depths – letting the music, the beat, the rhythm, the will of the creator rush through me with the exhilaration that only speed and movement can bring.

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When the storm came, I was unprepared. The first notes of Skryabin tore through me and I fought to stay upright, anger growing, braced against the opposing force. The tempo increased in intensity. I tottered, then dropped and the grief, the endless yearning gushed from me. I railed against the cruelty of what had happened – beating my fists on the ground, tearing at my hair, picking myself up, only to fall again...and again. I felt raw, battered and bleeding, beaten against the rocks until I thought I could not go on.

And then I stopped. What was the use in fighting such an irrevocable force? The only choice was to relinquish, to accept, to float. A quiet tune began. The waves were lapping and I was washed peacefully up on the shore. I crouched, head covered by an arm, body tucked in, everything protected. Recovering and breathing slow, laboured breaths.

The first notes of the Red Flag called. The crowd roared as they recognised it and took up the song. I rose, gathering a piece of tattered red fabric, running with it, letting it stream out behind me like a reminder of the blood that had been shed, of those who had died for the cause. Then I could see children, a hundred or more in red tunics, pouring in from the sides of the stage, right hands held high, clasping the left hand of the one before, swirling around me at the centre as we turned in a gigantic spiral, part of a collective dance that had brought us here, together in this slice of time.

There was no separation – we were all one. The audience was on their feet, singing, swaying, deep voices booming as we danced. As we finished, the theatre exploded into tumultuous applause. In one of the boxes high above

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was a small bald man with a beard. He was on his feet, hands above his head, clapping wildly. A hail of flowers was falling around us as the children and I lifted our joined hands and bowed deeply to the crowd.

When I lifted my head, the auditorium had gone black. I could not see or hear them anymore. The children had vanished. I stood, head bowed, hands across my chest, exhausted and exhilarated. I felt a hand on my back and heard Vladimir saying,

‘Are you alright? That was extraordinary.’

I nodded, unable to speak and hugged him close.

‘Grandfather was so happy there were tears running down his cheeks.

He told me at the end that when you, I mean Isadora, did that performance, that Lenin himself was watching in that box. I noticed you looking up there.’

‘I saw him. I know it sounds incredible, but I actually saw him on his feet, clapping. The rest of the theatre was full. They were all singing. I can’t describe the feeling – it was like I was experiencing it for the first time.

It’s so strong when it happens, I have no awareness of being me, Tamsin.

That’s what I meant about it not being a choice. She’s too strong for me.’

My head was against his chest and he stroked my hair. ‘She’s part of you, but this is your life, not hers. Her time has gone.’

‘But why, why does this keep happening to me? It feels glorious and terrible at the same time. Like when you drink too much and feel as high as a kite and then wake up with a lousy hangover the next day.’

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‘Yet this time, you chose when she could come to you. We made the arrangements and you let it happen. Perhaps you can learn to choose not to let her through.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said doubtfully.

‘You must. You did this tonight especially for Grandfather, but remember what I said. It’s dangerous. You must choose not to let it happen again.’

We made our way to the stage door, where Ilyich and their friend, my accompanist, were waiting. The friend’s expression was of genuine admiration, almost awe. He said something and Vladimir translated,

‘He says it was a privilege to play for you.’

I smiled. ‘Thank him very much for me. Tell him his playing was exquisite.’

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The following morning, Vladimir and I decided the best strategy to avoid detection was to travel separately. He went off, as if to work, while I travelled the by now familiar route to the Australian Embassy. We had arranged to rendezvous at midday at the Park Kultury Metro station. He’d advised me to go through one or two of the large hotels – in the main entrance and then out by the back exit.

Amanda at the Embassy was having a day off, but her male colleague told me to come back in a day or two, as nothing had been sorted out. I wished I had telephoned instead of going.

I met Vladimir as arranged and we caught a bus out of the city. The roads got worse the deeper we travelled into the countryside, the vehicle bouncing over the potholes the size of bird baths and making us grip the front of our seats and each other to avoid hitting the luggage rack above. We stopped frequently at small villages to let off and take on more passengers.

Large women with headscarves, gum boots and lots of bags crammed the bus. There were also younger women with small children bundled in pieces of fabric, as though gift wrapped. A working man with his arm in a bandage tenderly nursed a small puppy. Occasionally on the narrow roads we were forced to idle behind farm carts pulled by lumbering draft horses. There were cars, but these were even older and more patched up looking than those

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in the city. Sometimes children ran after the bus down the dusty roads, waving and shouting. I had the feeling life hadn’t changed much in the intervening years since Isadora saw this country.

Vladimir and I sat next to each other, thighs rubbing comfortingly. I was still bathing in post-performance afterglow. I couldn’t have looked more different, wearing a dress several sizes too big for me Mama had insisted I borrow, with one of her headscarves. I felt about twenty years older. Vladimir had told me not to say anything in English. He said the occasional few words to me in Russian and I simply nodded and said ‘Da,’ quietly. My few possessions now resided in a battered looking case next to his on the rack overhead.

I could tell from Vladimir’s body language when our stop was approaching. The muscles in his legs became taut and his face was alert.

We made our way down the aisle of the swaying bus and got off in a small village; the main street only distinguished by the presence of a few shops.

Another, older, couple got off at the same stop, so we started to trudge down the road and didn’t say anything until they were out of earshot.

‘You okay?’ he asked at last.

‘Yes, fine.’

We made a turn and then another, to arrive in street of small houses.

‘Wait here,’ said Vladimir, leaving me outside a house with a wooden fence and an overgrown garden. There were children playing a ball game in the dusty street, and dressed in Vladimir’s mother’s long blue dress,

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head scarf and boots, I must have looked part of the scenery, because passers-by didn’t even glance at me.

After a few minutes he returned wheeling two large old fashioned black bikes, with comfortable seats, high handlebars and baskets in the front.

‘We store them in our friend’s shed,’ he explained. ‘It’s much quicker to ride.’

He strapped the two cases containing our clothes onto the luggage racks behind the seats. It had been a while since I had worn a skirt, but as the bike he gave me had no cross bar, it wasn’t a problem. I tied a knot in the bottom of the hem to stop it catching on the chain and put the bag of food

I was carrying, courtesy of Vladimir’s mother, into the basket.

We rode out of the village along roads that were more potholes than surface, past the ruins of an old stone church that had become a holding pen for goats. The wheat fields on the outskirts had been harvested and cows were grazing on the stubble. Following a dirt track beside a forest for some way, we forded a shallow stream. Instead of just conifers, as I expected, there was an assortment of silver birch, oaks, elms and other trees I didn’t recognise.

After a mile or two we turned onto a narrower track running between the tall trunks. In the shade the temperature dropped a few degrees and the ground by the path was soft and spongy, covered with moss. Numerous tracks split from the main path, but it was some time before Vladimir chose a left hand fork. He slowed down and jumped off his bicycle and I followed

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suit, wheeling it after him down the narrow path. Birch trees flanked us on either side as we walked towards a patch of bright sunlight. We reached the edge of a glade, carpeted thickly with white lily-of-the-valley flowers. The air was redolent with their perfume.

Vladimir approached a wooden gate in an old paling fence. He fiddled with the latch and swung the gate open.

The late afternoon light cast a golden shaft across the garden, spotlighting the fiery heads of tiger lilies and deep purple irises, intermingled with bright red poppies growing in a tall bed to our right. The slight breeze as we walked down the path disturbed small yellow and brown butterflies, that fluttered up from the flowers and settled again in a continuous wave.

The small space, the size of a suburban house block, was crammed with vegetable beds. To our left were beans and peas climbing up tripods of crossed poles, then rows of corn and cucumber, onions and zucchinis, lettuces and radishes, cabbages and carrots, ripe for picking. Vibrant red tomatoes peered through the clear plastic of a small greenhouse.

‘Is this garden all your family’s?’ I asked in amazement.

‘Yes’, Vladimir laughed.

‘No wonder you eat so well.’

Ahead of us, with a backdrop of forest trees, nestled a small weathered cottage with vertical boards, a shingle roof and windows with lots of panes. Close to the house was a large pile of chopped wood, neatly stacked.

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Vladimir fished out the key from underneath a stone as we made our way to the front steps. He opened the door and I followed him in, putting the food basket I was carrying onto the patina of the kitchen table. The cottage was small inside, with unpainted wooden walls. There was a combined lounge room and kitchen and bundles of onions and herbs hung from the ceiling to dry. A large stone chimney dominated the main room, with an oven on the kitchen side and open fire place on the other. In the bedroom at the back were two sets of bunk beds and a single bed, set closely together.

Turning, I saw Vladimir taking our bags into the other bedroom. I walked over to stand in the doorway. There was a dark, old fashioned wardrobe against the wall. A cast iron double bed, with a mattress that sagged in the middle, took up most of the space. An impulse of apprehension rose from my gut up to my chest, settling back down around the solar plexus.

‘When I was a child, Grandfather and my grandmother used to live here,’ he said. ‘I always remember coming here for summer. It was a really special place for me.’

‘So did Ilyich come to live with you after your grandmother passed away?’

‘Yes. That was about ten years ago.’

‘Does he still come back here?’

‘No, he says he prefers to leave it to the new generation. I think it must be hard for him, too many memories.’

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He undid the lock and pulled up the casement window, framed with a lacy curtain, and moved from room to room in the cottage, letting the fresh air in. It didn’t smell musty, but judging by the cared for state of the garden, it wasn’t left unattended for long.

Opening the back door, he showed me the primitive outhouse a few metres away and the lean-to, with an old tin hip bath and a handbasin, both supplied by a rainwater tank outside. An ancient apple tree overshadowed the left side of the house, and there was a sweet smell of windfalls rotting beneath. A rope swing hung from one of the branches.

A battered metal samovar was sitting on the ground near a small outdoor table with four chairs and logs, to provide additional seating. There was also a tall metal box, open at the top. Judging from the blackness, it had held a fire inside it many times. It reminded me of an Australian barbeque, upended.

The sun had disappeared behind the trees, although it would be light for many hours. Vladimir quickly had a small fire going inside the samovar and we sat, sipping glasses of black tea sweetened with apricot jam. The twitter of bird calls and the steady drone of crickets were interrupted by the irritating buzz of a few mosquitos, the only thing to detract from the idyllic setting.

‘Shall we make some bread?’ Vladimir asked, ‘ So we’ll have some for tomorrow.’

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I felt a bit stupid. I had no idea how bread was made. It may as well have grown in packets with colourful labels on them as far as I was concerned.

‘Sure. If you’ll show me how.’

‘Let’s get some stuff for dinner first.’

He fetched a pitchfork and dug up four or five potatoes from the patch, brushing the dirt off their skins with his long fingers.

‘Would you like beans?’

‘Yes, please. Can I get a couple of tomatoes to stew with them?’

‘Sure.’

We walked purposefully around the garden, collecting things. There was such abundance, but I realised the growing season was very short and a lot of things must need preserving.

‘When I imagined a dacha, I thought it was a sort of holiday house, where people went to get out of the city and relax. I didn’t realise it involved so much work. Not that I mind,’ I added quickly. ‘It’s just different from what I thought.’

‘If people didn’t have places like this where they could grow their own food, there would be times they would starve. I suppose you know that a lot of people did, under Stalin. After that they allowed people to have state owned land to grow things.’

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After putting the food on the kitchen table, we collected some wood and Vladimir made a fire in the stone fire place. There was no electricity in the little house and it was quite dim, so he lit an oil lamp.

In the basket we had brought, among other things, was a small packet of fresh yeast. Vladimir mixed a bit of cold water with the hot water from the samovar and put a teaspoon of honey in it from a jar on the shelf. Then he added the yeast. In the pantry cupboard, beneath the hanging heads of garlic, rows of pickles and jam, was a large glass jar with rye flour in it.

Shaking a decent amount onto a wooden board on the kitchen table, he made an indentation and added a little salt and the yeast mixture, which by now was frothing and bubbling away. I watched the sinewy muscles in his arms as he worked the mix, turning it on the board and folding it back in from the edges, kneading and prodding.

‘Would you like to try it?’ he asked me.

‘Okay.’

In comparison with his smooth, unconsciously skilled action, I felt awkward and uncoordinated. He didn’t stand watching me, but got on with washing the potatoes for dinner. After a few minutes I felt more comfortable with what I was doing.

‘That’s it,’ he said, smiling at the neat round I had made.

‘This must seem so strange to you, that I don’t know how to make bread, when you’ve probably been doing it since you were small.’

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‘Not really. It’s just different lifestyles. I’m sure there’s a lot of things you can do that I would have no idea about. I can’t drive for instance.

I’ve never had the money to own a car, so I never learnt.’

Leaving the bread to rise near the fire, we ate our dinner at the kitchen table. We had brought a little bit of precious butter to go with the new potatoes and Vladimir chopped and mixed fresh dill in with it. The freshness of the vegetables made their flavour much more intense than shop bought ones.

‘Sitting here, we could be living at any time in the last five hundred years. It really doesn’t matter. There is no television to distract us, no radio and no telephone. It feels so relaxing.’

Vladimir raised his eyebrows. ‘I agree it’s lovely, but what about no easy access to doctors, bitterly cold winters and running out of food? All these things have happened here, too.’

I looked down at the table. ‘You’re right, of course. I’ve never been in a place like this – the closest I’ve come was camping when I was a child.

It’s easy to romanticise.’

He covered my hand on the table. ‘Tamsin. I love the way you think. It’s refreshing. You make me look at things I’m used to with new eyes. I’m sorry I’m such a cynic.’

I laughed. ‘Usually I’m the one who’s cynical. I’m a journalist, for goodness sake! It comes with the territory.’

‘Have you changed since...your dreams began?’

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That was a good question. ‘I suppose I have. Isadora is, was, someone who let herself experience things fully. She had a joy in life that somehow I think I covered up early to protect myself. Sometimes, I really like seeing things through her.’

‘Although that must mean she left herself open to a lot of pain.’

‘Yes, that’s true as well.’

He reached out and stroked the side of my face with his finger.

‘How did you get to be so aware, Vladimir?’ I asked.

He shook his head and didn’t say anything, just leaned forward to kiss me. The kiss became deeper and more urgent. Then I found myself sitting on his lap, hands running through his hair, kissing his eyelids, his nose, the bob of the Adam’s apple in his throat. His hands played over my body, exploring, learning. While we were kissing again, he slid one hand under my knees and lifted me as he stood. I was surprised by his strength – I wasn’t exactly featherweight.

‘Is this alright?’ he murmured.

I nodded and buried my face in his neck as he carried me to the bedroom and laid me on the bed before fetching an oil lamp, kicking off his shoes and lying down beside me. The undulations of light and shade made the planes of his face look foreign and exotic. Our fingers touched each other’s faces delicately.

We took hours to undress one another. Every part exposed revealed a new discovery to be learned, the most minute touch setting off ripples of

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powerful feeling. His lips on my nipples aroused such sensation I cried out, suddenly desperate to have him inside me. I opened myself, offering, and as the length of him slid in deeply, my orgasm was spontaneous and unrelenting. He continued the rhythm, every minute movement magnified ten fold, and moments later, I came again. There were no barriers between us, just pure communication. Every other time I had made love seemed but a pale shadow of this experience. As we lay, satiated, our limbs intertwined on the sheets of the old bed, he whispered. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to put the bread in the oven so we can have it for breakfast.’

I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The light came streaming in the window early, the garden and the trees were framed through the lacy curtains. Vladimir rolled over and stretched before turning to spoon my body in his, erection pressing against me like a gentle inquiry. My muscles inside contracted in a delicious spasm of longing and I turned to face him.

After we’d made love, he went to heat some water in the samovar, while I enjoyed the extra few minutes in bed. He called me and I pulled on my silk robe and went out to the lean-to at the back. The tin hip bath had a few inches of warm water in it and floating on the surface the heads of a few cornflowers and daises were scattered. Perversely after our recent intimacy, I felt shy taking off my robe to reveal my body in the daylight, but then forgot my self-consciousness as Vladimir scrubbed my back and poured water over

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me, hugging me as he wrapped me in a towel. When it was his turn, his long legs stuck out at odd angles from the small tin hip bath. I couldn’t help laughing.

‘I’m sorry, but you look like a grasshopper trying to squeeze into a bottle top.’

He joined in, with a deep throaty laugh that ricocheted off the walls of the tiny lean-to. I scrubbed his back and poured the water over him from a jug. As he stood up, water cascaded in all directions, wetting the stone floor. I towelled him gently dry, kissing his skin gently on each section of his body.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of delicious physical sensation.

Dressed in just our robes, we ate breakfast and cleared some of the fallen apples away from under the tree, so we could lie on a rug in a patch of dappled light. I relaxed with my head on his stomach and occasionally

Vladimir translated passages from a tattered copy of My Forest Village by

Vasily Belov.

‘It’s the only thing I’ve got with me,’ he apologised.

‘Well it could have been worse – the history of Soviet tractors or something.’

‘Believe it or not, this is a banned book. I only managed to get hold of a copy recently.’

‘Why? It seems pretty tame to me.’ It was a pleasant story about life in a small community.

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‘It’s an allegory about the importance of village life. The whole

Soviet push has been for centralisation.’

I thought again of Esenin’s little colt trying to out run the locomotive.

We slept a little and when we woke, made love again, out in the open. I looked up at the sky as he came into me, at the tops of the trees waving in the breeze back and forth, in time to our rhythm.

After dinner that evening we sat in front of the fire and told one another stories of our childhoods.

‘My father died when I was quite young,’ I said ‘I don’t remember him. I remember a feeling of flying through the air and then being caught by strong arms. I think they must have been his.’

Usually people muttered platitudes about how sorry they were, but instead Vladimir asked, ‘Why did he die, and how did that affect you?’

‘He was a pilot. He was always going away on jobs, my mother said, and one day he didn’t come back. When I was old enough to realise that there was a hole where he should be, I was angry for a long time. I was angry with him for leaving us, even though I knew it wasn’t his fault.’

‘Did your mother marry again?’

‘She did eventually, but it wasn’t until after I left home. Her new husband and I don’t get on very well, so Mum and I don’t have as much contact as we should. I find it hard to have a real conversation with her.

Your parents seem to be a real team.’

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‘Yes.’ Vladimir smiled. ‘They had me when they were very young.

I think I must have been an accident, and then they were more careful to wait for the others.’

‘Does it make a difference to you, having brothers and sisters so much younger?’

‘It makes me more like an uncle to them. They’re great kids.

Especially Maja.’

‘I picked up on that. She seems very bright.’

‘If any of them do, she’ll be the one to go to university. She’s so inquisitive. Sometimes a little too much. She asked me if you were going to stay with us all the time now. She said she would like that.’

I smiled. ‘She enjoyed us taking her to see the cats. And what did you say?’

‘That you had your own home to go back to.’ I squeezed his hand.

I resisted the temptation to quiz him about his past lovers and didn’t mention mine. They didn’t seem important. There was just us, in the here and now. We talked for hours, ranging across ideas and politics, experiences and intentions.

‘All my life,’ Vladimir said, ‘I’ve been passionately pro-Lenin. I thought everything that’s gone wrong since the revolution was the fault of those who came after, who distorted the aims. Now I’m not so sure.’

‘Why? What’s changed?’

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‘I’ve just read a book on the life of Lenin that uses material from the archives of the KGB, and shows he did know about what was going on.’

‘I don’t know very much about it. I would like to hear.’

We moved to the bed and I fell asleep in his arms as he was telling me.

I was back where it had all begun. But there was change. The grass was brown; the leaves of the giant oak were stripped bare, leaving only skeletal branches. It was as if autumn had finally arrived in this place.

Isadora was huddled on the day bed, her eyes squeezed tight shut. And she too was touched by autumn; her tunic had changed to a fiery red, the only colour in the landscape. My footsteps rustled on the dry leaves as I approached. She looked up, eyes blazing. ‘Although they try, they cannot contain me,’ she cried loudly. ‘I have to be free, and you must help me.’ She stood and held out her hands to me, and I took them without hesitation.

There was no sensation of touch – no familiar melding. Instead I was suddenly jolted as though someone had thrust me forward. I landed, as always, like a cat.

The strains of Tchaikovsky’s Marche Slave filled the air and as the lights rose I found myself on a stage, hands behind me as if bound, head bent in supplication. Most of my legs were visible beneath a short red tunic. As

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the Russian imperial anthem began, I flinched and cowered, whipped by the blow of every note, a slave beaten down by generations of feudalism. The music changed in tempo and the bonds on my hands loosened, I brought them slowly forward, bent and misshapen by their many long years of bondage. Freedom was, at first, too strange and incredible to comprehend and I shook with the fear of it. Then gradually I became still and began to move tentatively, as if discovering the joy of my body for the first time.

As the music and the dance reached their conclusion, I went and stood at the front of the stage. There was no applause, just a restive murmuring out there in the darkness. The house lights came up I could see the wives of the Boston burghers sitting in their expensive fur coats and glittering jewellery, that would buy hundreds of starving children, here on their very streets, the food they needed to survive. The citizens of Boston needed to be shocked out of their complacency. They had been expecting

‘pretty’ dances and I had shown them the truth.

These stolid, unimaginative American masses were as much prisoners as the serfs before the revolution. They paid lip service to liberty and democracy, but had no understanding of the concepts at all. When they had ‘greeted’ Sergei and I at Ellis Island, they forced me to sign a paper to say I would not sing the Internationale, nor make revolutionary speeches.

But I would show them they couldn’t control me.

‘This is red, so am I!’ I shouted, ripping off my scarf, which was covering my left breast. I relished the collective gasp as the naked flesh was

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exposed. They were so prudish. Why did think one part of the body so very different from another?

‘Red is the colour of life and vigour. You were once wild here, don’t let them tame you. Maxim Gorky says there are three types of people: the black, the red and the grey. The black are the people who bring terror, who want to command. The red are those who rejoice in Freedom, the colour of youth, promise, vigour and initiative. The grey are dead and buried already.

That’s Boston – politely, positively dead as far as any imagination or intelligence is concerned.6 I could hardly dance here tonight. You feed your children here canned peas and canned art and wonder why they are not beautiful. You will not let them grow up in freedom.’7

I heard a commotion in the wings and the protests of the stage manager as a posse of three heavy booted men in police uniform rushed towards me, but still I persisted.

‘I have one message to leave you with tonight...’

The men had reached me, and grabbing my arms on either side, were forcibly hustling me from the stage. I managed to shout the final words over my shoulder as they dragged me away.

‘Communism is the only solution for the world.’8

The next morning Vladimir woke me early, by stroking my back.

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‘Tamsin, would you like to ‘catch the azure bird’, come and catch a fish with me?

‘Sure.’ I was awake in an instant.

We dressed, grabbed some bread and honey and a few apples and I followed him down a path that led between the trees behind the cottage. He was carrying a fishing rod and a small jar of worms. After about a kilometre, there was a twist in the path and glimpses of green water could be seen through the trees. We arrived at an old wooden boat shed, so overgrown with vines that it looked as if it had grown naturally as part of the forest.

Inside were several small wooden boats, and a couple of canoes hung up on the walls of the shed, on either side of a rotting jetty.

Vladimir and I lowered a small rowing boat, with patches of mottled blue paint, into the water, being careful where we put our feet. The water was shallow, with strands of weed, like dark hair, floating to the top. I stepped carefully into the front of the boat and Vladimir sat in the middle.

He used one of the oars to push out from the jetty and then rowed us into the middle of the river. It wasn’t very wide, and the trees on either side reached down so it felt like being in a tunnel. He rowed a short distance and as we turned a corner, the larger river lay in front of us, mist rising and covering the surface – a cloud of white hovering over the dark, slick surface. The air was very still and the only sound, except for a few birds, was the small splash as the oars dipped.

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We rowed through the cloud, past rickety old fences that came down to the edge of the river.

‘Fish traps,’ said Vladimir. ‘In the spring, when the water is high, the villagers put nets across the gap and catch the fish as they swim by.’

A short distance away where the river widened, he lowered the anchor over the side so as not to disturb the fish, and prepared the bait on the hook, casting the rod so the line drifted down stream and they couldn’t see where the meal came from.

It was cool and calm and I enjoyed sitting quietly, listening to the rustling and twitters of animals and birds on the riverbank.

‘Would you like to hold the rod?’ Vladimir inquired.

I had never been fishing before. There wasn’t a lot of scope for it, living in the middle of a busy city. If I had gone out to the countryside or the coast, it was for work. When I had watched him holding the rod, I couldn’t see anything happening, but now I could feel the changing tension as the current pulled gently on the line.

I thought about the dream I had last night. I was about to tell him when a sharp tug brought me back to the present. The end of the rod was bending. I looked at Vladimir in alarm. ‘Quick, quick. You take it.’

‘No. You’ll be okay. Just start to reel him in slowly.’

I reeled it in gradually, a bit at a time, the tugging on the end growing stronger and more frenetic. A flash of wriggling dark silver broke the surface and the face of a large fish appeared, determined not to be dragged

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from it’s watery home. I’m sorry fish, I thought, as its tail cleared the surface.

‘Try and hold it still. Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.’ Vladimir was holding a net underneath and after a couple of attempts I managed to lower in the writhing streak of muscle. He hauled it into the boat and I turned away as, with a swift movement, he put his fingers into the gills and broke it’s neck. I cringed and almost cried out.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, hands full of fish. ‘ You did brilliantly.’

‘It just seems, I don’t know, awful.’

‘What, killing the fish?’

‘I’m a hypocrite. I eat them, but I hate killing things.’

‘Well, that was its destiny.’

‘It didn’t have a choice.’

‘Yes it did. The name of this fish is a Taimen. It has been caught by someone called Tamsin. Remember what I said the other day? Nothing happens by chance.’

That evening, Vladimir lit the fire and I filled the cavity in the fish with slices of lemon and herbs. We barbequed and then ate it hungrily, tearing the flesh with our fingers. It was pale pink and delicate, very salmon-like, and the juices ran down my arm.

‘You can be so amazingly gentle,’ I said, thinking about the touch of his fingers. ‘ But then with the fish, you were so...’

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‘Brutal?’

‘No. Quick. Decisive. I don’t know. Determined.’

‘I can be very determined. That’s another area you and I are similar.’

‘I used to feel that way, but now I’m not sure where that determination comes from. I don’t know who I am any more.’

‘I know who you are, Tamsin.’

As we were falling asleep, I repeated the phrase over and over in my mind like a mantra.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I was dragging my feet through heavy snow. The sky was grey and leaden and there were no landmarks to guide me. I was among denuded trees, seeking the clearing – my magical glade where I would find refuge – but all the trees looked the same. Not even my old oak was visible in this weather. I was unable to sense whether I was going away from or toward my goal. Should I proceed or conserve my energies? For what? It seemed hopeless. An overwhelming feeling of despair sapped me and I crumpled into the snow. I struggled to wrap myself in my cloak and then, with at least the hope of some warmth, I closed my eyes.

I awoke in a hot, dark room. But I liked being here even less, for the bed was as hard as boards. However, it was not the bed or the heat that woke me but a fearful itching all over my body. I fumbled for the matches and finding them, lit the candle by the bedside. Throwing back the covers, I could see that I was covered with red spots, as though I had a disease. But

I’d had measles and chicken pox and I knew it was not either. It was vermin; insidious and invisible. And to think that I was pleased to find this hotel last night. After sleeping in the theatre for two nights, anything seemed

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preferable. My manager and pianist were still there. I think the rats and mice and no proper bed was better than this awful itching. To distract myself, I pulled out a few sheets of writing paper and my pen. There wasn’t a lot of ink left in the bottle.

Ekaterinburg. 4 August,

1924

Dear Ilyich,

I got your letter when I was in Tashkent a week ago. I am sorry I did not reply immediately, but I have been putting off telling you news that can only be a disappointment.

I’m afraid this tour is not even making expenses and we simply have no extra to send you. Can’t you approach your friend in the government again to try and get the decision reversed? How dare they consider our school a luxury! If they expect us to survive on the results of our performances, we will not last a year. It is so ironic. They are, in their own way, no different from the Americans or the French. Their lack of vision amazes me. Lenin himself applauded our red robed kids, but they will not support us.

Do you remember the telegram that Zeno’s friend sent saying the prospects out here were ‘brilliant’? I can’t help thinking that perhaps he has been bribed by the ballet to bring us to ruin.

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The theatre tonight was only a fraction full. My blue curtains had not arrived and we had to use a backdrop left over from some other production, of sickly green fields and unlikely looking trees. The audience clapped in all the wrong places, like in the middle of ‘Death and the

Maiden’, where I am still for a few moments. But that is to be expected. I still tried my best.

I have to say, I knew this town was going to be a nightmare the moment I saw it. It is a mean, squalid place. They showed us the house – and the cellar – where they shot a certain family. The atmosphere is heavy here, as though the oppressiveness of the act has permeated the whole town.

The clumsy old man who did my hair tonight burnt it with his fumbling fingers. He said he has not done hair for years as there is not one lady left – they shot them all.

There is no restaurant here, only common eating houses that serve indifferent food, if you are lucky enough to get any at all. We are so broke even this is stretching our meagre resources. I haven’t had any soap, toothpaste or eau-de-cologne for over a month.

Have you news of Sergei? I have not heard from him the whole time

I’ve been travelling, except for a quick note saying that he could not join me, because he was trying some new venture. He didn’t say what it was. I worry about him.

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My friend, I want to come back to Moscow, but I don’t know who to telegraph for money. If you have any suggestions, they will be gratefully received.

Yours,

Isadora

It was close to dawn when I finally slept from pure exhaustion.

When I woke, Vladimir was lying looking up at the ceiling. I told him about what I had just dreamed.

‘When exactly did your dreams start?’ he asked me when I had finished.

I tried to recall. Was it after I met Anna, or before? I hadn’t paid much attention at the time.

‘I was wondering if perhaps Anna was a sort of cipher,’ he said.

‘You mean she somehow channelled this stuff?’

‘Or put you in touch with it.’

I thought about this. ‘I remember,’ I said slowly, ‘...there was a moment during my first visit to her place, when she passed me a photograph of Isadora.’

‘What happened?’

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‘Not much. I felt a tingle, that’s all. I remember it because it was strange. It felt like when you have a build up of static and you touch an object. But Anna wasn’t an object. I’ve never had it with a person before.’ I stopped, suddenly excited because another thought had just occurred to me.

‘And Vladimir, that was the same night I had the first dream. At the beginning, I met Isadora herself and while I was looking at her, I some how became her, if that makes any sense at all.’ I looked at him, seeking reassurance.

He nodded encouragement, his eyes shining as though reflecting my own excitement.

‘Then I was dancing in the Parthenon; feeling like a goddess...’ I came to a halt, unsure and confused. ‘But I don’t know how what you’re suggesting could apply. Because it wasn’t until after she died, the really strange episodes started to happen.’

‘The ones where you found yourself somewhere else?’

‘Yes. Paris, Moscow.’

‘That doesn’t discount what I’m saying. Perhaps the baton, so to speak, was somehow passed from you to Anna. Didn’t you tell me before about something she was supposed to do, but was unable to. What was it?

Something about a film she sent you to find for her?’

‘Yes. In Connecticut, but I couldn’t. And if she wanted the film then why am I here?’

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Vladimir gave a shrug of resignation. ‘Then forget the film. It probably doesn’t exist anymore anyway.’

‘Then why send me to find it?’ I said, unable to let it drop.

‘I have no idea. I’m flying blind here. A sort of test to see how far you would go?’

‘This whole conversation is crazy.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘The situation itself is more that a little bizarre. What I’m wondering, is, if there is something else you are supposed to do, but you don’t know yet.’

I shivered, although the morning was warm. ‘I’m so sick of it. I just want to be me again, no complications.’

‘But if you had not come here, we wouldn’t have met.’

Then a thought struck me. ‘Yes, of course! Your grandfather...do you think that’s it? That is why I am here – to meet you?’

‘It would be nice to think so, but who knows? It seems to me you have two options. You can try to rid yourself of her, or you can wait and see. Only you can decide.’

‘You said to me the other night after I danced that if didn’t rid myself of her,’ I hesitated, ‘that I might somehow be caught up in her death. Do you still think that?’

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he pulled me into his arms. ‘I don’t know what to think Tamsin. I only know that I care about you and I do not want anything to happen to you.’

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Days had gone by, languid days no longer distinguished by name, but by the activity we chose to do. One day it was picking mushrooms and berries in the forest, on another pickling cucumbers. One memorable rainy day we had simply snuggled under the bedclothes and stayed put, making the world of one another’s bodies.

His family had come for the weekend, a whirl of people. The time had been filled with helping to organise meals and exploring the surrounding countryside with restless, rangy children. We’d had to share a single mattress in the lounge. After they left, it was very peaceful, like a storm had blown over.

‘She seems like a pretty resilient sort of person, your Isadora, given all the things that happened to her,’ said Vladimir.

‘She wasn’t really, though. She was an idealist, but life battered her around so much I think she found it hard to sustain.’

‘Do you ever think about having children?’ he asked.

That question contained so much baggage, I didn’t even want to open the suitcase.

‘I always thought I would, but now the idea scares me. You are such a hostage to your emotions if you do. I would be terrified in case something happened to them, the way it did to hers.’

The little cottage with the abundant garden grew more and more like home and I found myself reluctant to leave it. I wished we could just stay

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like this and ignore everything outside. One day Vladimir said he needed to go to the village to get a few things. I didn’t go, because to do so could attract unnecessary attention. I was alone for a few hours. While I washed some clothes and made a loaf of bread, I thought about my life in Australia.

It seemed so distant now as to be fading into unreality. But the people kept coming insistently back to me, nagging my conscience. I really should phone them and let them know I was okay and make some arrangements. My mother would be worried and Helen and my friends didn’t have a clue where

I was. I was supposed to be back in Australia by now.

I thought what Vladimir had said, about the choice that I needed to make. I was following Isadora’s memories through the significant events in her life but I had no way of knowing if there was something else she wanted me to do. But if she didn’t have an agenda, why was I here – tucked away in a Russian forest? And if I continued to follow her history, what would happen when it came to the point where she died? Would she simply not be there anymore and my life continue on without her, or would she somehow drag me into her violent death?

After hanging the washing on the line of wire near the apple tree, I got a candle and some matches from the house and set out along the track into the forest Vladimir and I had followed the other day. Some way in I left the track, being sure to make a mark with a stick every few trees that I passed. There was a place where the forest was thick with conifers, the sun did not penetrate and a carpet of needles muffled every sound.

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I sat cross legged on the forest floor. It was completely quiet here – not even a bird could be heard. I buried the base of the candle into the pine needles and lit it. The flame sprang to life and grew in strength.

Concentrating on the point of light, I tried to clear my mind of its normal restless wandering, listening to the rise and fall of my breath and letting thoughts drift by as they arose, rather than following them.

After a few minutes, when I felt calmer and clearer, I pictured

Isadora. Not myself as her, but Isadora as a separate being. I visualised her dressed wearing folds of pale fabric, standing not far from me. I imagined watching her arms rising from her sides, palms upwards, until they were held to the sky, like an offering.

‘You are, were, an extraordinary person,’ I said aloud. ‘I’ve been very privileged to share some of your experiences. Now it’s time for us to part. I need to live my own life.’

The flame wavered and moved back and forth, although there was no breeze. It dimmed a little. I leaned over and blew it out, willing her gone as I did so.

When Vladimir returned, I told him what I had done. He looked

pleased and hugged me. ‘I’m so glad.’

‘But I don’t know if it will work.’

‘We will see.’

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The next morning, early, I put on Vladimir’s mother’s clothes again, feeling refreshed and ready to make the trip into Moscow to retrieve my passport. The garments did not feel so foreign now. We had discussed calling the embassy first from the village, but Vladimir wanted to take some tomatoes home for Mama to bottle and I needed to make some calls to

Australia to let people know I was still alive. As we got progressively closer to the city, the streets seemed faster and busier than I remembered. The noises of people and traffic were loud and jarring; the reek of diesel overpoweringly strong. Faces, colours and smells jumped out to accost me. I wanted to ask Vladimir if he was aware of the same thing, but knew I should not speak. I looked at him and he smiled and squeezed my hand.

At the bus station in Moscow, I found a public toilet. For a few kopeks, a babushka counted out sheets of toilet paper and I went into a stall and changed into my usual well worn jeans and T-shirt. Back on the street, outwardly it was as though my sojourn in the country had never happened, but I felt differently inside. Something fundamental had shifted: gone were the oscillations of anxiety that had been the background of my life without me realising.

To be cautious, Vladimir and I split up and arranged to meet back at his family’s apartment. I was confident I knew how to get there – it was a single bus ride. At the Australian Embassy, a different guard was on the gate and admitted me after I showed him my ID. Amanda welcomed me warmly.

We were practically old friends by now.

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‘Good news,’ she said. ‘I was able to pull a few strings and get your new passport back, with the visa. I made an enormous fuss and said it must have been their error in the first place. I only got it a few days ago and it is valid for another six days.’ She pulled it out of an envelope. The visa stamp was ornate and impressive.

‘Thank you so much. You’ve been very helpful. I really appreciate it.’ I was dismayed though. Six days was very soon to leave Vladimir. I wasn’t ready.

‘I need to make some calls to Australia and book a flight.’ I noticed her doubtful expression.

‘I am not asking if I can make them from here. Just tell me, where is the best place to do it?’

She smiled. ‘Sorry. We often get asked, but international calls cost a fortune and we have to say no, unless it’s an emergency situation. You could give me a letter for someone at home though and I’ll put it in the mailbag.’

‘How long do letters take to get there?’

‘A few days. There is a plane leaving in the morning, so they would be there in about three.’

‘That might be a better idea than calling.’ It would be the middle of the night in Australia and I didn’t want to alarm my Mother or Helen. A few more days wouldn’t make much difference – the letters would arrive just in time to let them know I was on my way.

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I dashed off a couple of short notes on embassy memo paper, saying I was okay and had had to leave New York unexpectedly, but they would see me very soon. Next I needed to organise a plane ticket, but felt an overwhelming reluctance to do so. I vacillated, then decided to wait and see

Vladimir first to explain – not that it would make a blind bit of difference.

As I was about to leave, Amanda said, ‘I’ve got something else you can have. Wait here.’ She returned a short time later with a plastic bag, and passed it to me. Inside was a frozen leg of Australian lamb.

‘Wow. Thanks.’

‘The diplomatic service sends them over sometimes to distribute to expats – they know it can be hard to get meat here. Several of the usual people on my list are away and I thought you might like to have some.’

‘It is very kind of you.’

I caught the usual bus back to the suburbs and then walked to

Vladimir’s family apartment. As I traipsed up the many flights of stairs, my steps got slower and slower. I paused on landing and thought, I don’t really want to leave. Is it the country, or is it him?

I was still thinking about this when I knocked on their door. Mama opened it and hugged me, giving me delighted kisses on both cheeks. Much to her astonishment, I presented her with the leg of lamb and she made appreciative noises.

I looked around, but couldn’t see Vladimir.

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‘Vladimir...’ Mama made a waving gesture and then tapped her watch. I presumed this meant he would be back soon.

We had a cup of tea together and I gave my passport to Ilyich for safekeeping. She insisted on me eating the last of the Vatrushki – small cakes filled with soft cheese.

‘She is very glad her son has found such a nice girl,’ Ilyich told me.

I smiled, but felt melancholy underneath.

‘Ilyich, the Embassy tells me I have to leave soon, in a few days.’

He looked downcast and when he explained it to Mama, she held her hands up to her face, shaking her head.

I lifted my own hands, shrugging helplessly. What could I do? The silence between us grew uncomfortable and I wished Vladimir would come back. After waiting a while longer, I decided to walk down the road to meet him. Having been together constantly the past few weeks, it felt hollow and empty to be on my own. My imminent departure loomed like a grey cloud out of clear sky.

I set out toward the bus stop. I knew the route and had just come down it a short time before, yet the further I went, the more uncertain I became about where I was. The buildings were all similar – monolithic, grey and run-down. I walked and walked, becoming increasingly disorientated. I asked some passers-by, but no-one spoke English. The calm I had felt earlier that morning was short-lived; panic began to build. I felt an urgent need to find Vladimir. A bus was coming along the street and stopped by a queue of

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people. I joined the line and got on, thinking it would take me back in the direction I had come from. I sat up the front, ready to get off and as it drove, tried in vain to spot any familiar landmark. After a few kilometres, I realised the bus was carrying me still further away, so I got off.

If only I could find a metro station, I thought, I could get to Park

Kultury and I would know how to get back. I turned a corner and found myself on a busy road with several lanes of traffic in each direction. The buildings all looked Soviet era and later. I remembered Vladimir telling me about Stalin’s attempt to modernise Moscow by destroying many of the historical buildings and widening the streets.

While I was standing there, a boy and a girl of about ten or eleven hurried past, accompanied by an older woman carrying a tattered sports bag.

As if snagged by an invisible hook, I found myself following them. The woman passed over the bag and parted with the children at the doorway of an unremarkable, utilitarian concrete building. Engrossed in conversation, the children didn’t pay any attention as I pushed open the swinging glass door after them, leading to a shabby foyer. I was not far behind as they walked up the stairs to the second floor and down a corridor. They parted company and each went into different rooms.

I heard a babble of conversation further along the corridor. It was coming from a large room with several windows onto the hallway as the only means of light. I stood at the edge of one of the windows and watched as a group of about twenty children, joined by the two I had followed, began

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a warm-up routine. The instructor was a mannish woman of about twenty with short blonde hair and a perfunctory manner. At first I thought they must be gymnasts, the movements were so mechanical and devoid of feeling, but as I observed, they began a routine, a combination of movements that had clearly been choreographed. The young people moved around the floor area, creating patterns with small groups and arm movements. The feeling of seeing beyond what I was looking at began to haze the edges of my consciousness. I recognised it and fought to stay in the moment. No, I said to myself fiercely, I’m Tamsin, I’m in the now.

‘But look at them, look at them.’ said her voice, deep inside me.

‘You must do something.’

The dancers, if you could call them that, moved in a leaden, solid way that had no joy or sense of expression. They were going through the motions, with faces blank as painted masks – following the instructor without question or understanding. Wooden marionettes, with an unseen puppet master pulling the strings. Elements of what I had inspired peeked through, but distorted so as to be nonsensical: the raised arms and then spirals, a sudden skip and then a circle. Stripped of the element of working from the centre, the core of self, bringing the life of the spirit to an idea. A ghastly parody of what I had worked so hard to achieve. This is what had become of my school.

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Startled heads turned as I burst into the room through the heavy door.

All movement stopped and they stared at me in surprise. The instructor, for I could not honour her with the description of teacher, stood still and stunned.

‘Comrades,’ I began, in Russian. ‘The spirit of Russia is the only sane thing in Europe.’

The teacher began to say something, but I ignored her and kept talking louder, and after a few more seconds she left the room, moving fast.

‘You, my small ones, should be the embodiment of the revolution, but a free spirit can only exist in a freed body and I can see you, none of you, are free. You must always feel your movement within you first, before you begin. Children, place your hands here, feel the life flowing within you.

This movement means Man.’ I raised my hands and placed them on my chest. A few children copied me and the others looked undecidedly around them. I waited patiently, smiling and nodding in encouragement until they all followed. Their small faces were puzzled but intrigued.

‘And now raise the arms upward and outward to the stars above you.

This movement means Universe.’ This time they all copied me, without hesitation.

‘Now let your hands fall slowly downward to the earth, down there are the meadows, the forests and the rivers.’ They did so. ‘Now hold your hands towards me in love, and this means Comrade.’ Twenty pairs of arms were raised towards me, and some of their owner’s expressions had become

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open and alive, reflecting my own. Inside the few who were aware, it was as though a light had come on.

As we stood, the doors at the back of the room swung open and several men entered, followed by the blonde instructor. They made their way from three sides, through the sea of arms stretching towards me . I did nothing, but continued to hold out my arms and smile encouragement at the children. The men grabbed me in unison and forced my arms behind me, although I offered no resistance. I made myself go loose, like a rag doll, so they were forced to lift me up and carry me from the room. As I left, the last thing I saw was the dismay and sympathy in so many young eyes.

They took me to another room off the corridor that had desks and chairs in it. They queried me in Russian, but I couldn’t understand a thing.

After a few minutes two members of the Moscow constabulary arrived and put a set of handcuffs on me and took over the questioning. I realised that I had crossed an immutable line and was no longer able to control the situation, so I may as well wait it out until they tired of me. What is the worst they can do? I asked myself. Surely they’ll give me a caution about disturbing the peace or something and let me go after a couple of hours.

With this reassuring thought I ignored them, increasing their frustration with me. I must be able to speak Russian, they had decided, and I was just being stubborn. There were more than twenty witnesses to that effect.

Another man came and opened a bag. He got something out. I saw what it was at the last second and tried to wriggle away, but my hands were

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constrained by the cuffs. As he jabbed me in the upper arm, the room began to go in and out of focus and then I had to close my eyes. My last thought was a cry of help to Vladimir.

I drifted in and out of consciousness. I knew I was lying on a lake of white. Winter, snow, ice. But I wasn’t cold. Sometimes I was floating just beneath the surface of the ice, and whenever I put my head out a hole to see where I was, a figure in white would appear and there would be a flash of thin silver and I would go under again. Images of the school, and of Esenin telling me I had been a bad mother were mixed up with the children and their hands reaching towards me. ‘Maman, save me.’ I fought through the water to get to them, but they drifted further and further from my grasp, sounding ever fainter, until their cries were like the plaintive mew of kittens.

One time I awoke. I didn’t actually know what time it was because there was no window and the lights seemed to be on twenty-four hours a day here. Enough to send anyone mad, if they weren’t already. There was no nurse by my side. I tried to move my arms and found I was constrained to the bed, with a drip in one arm, lying on a plastic sheet and I could smell the acrid sweet odour of urine, that I realised with disgust, must be my own. I felt weak and very scared. I thought about poor Vladimir waiting for me and me not returning. Perhaps he had thought the Embassy had fixed me up with a flight out and I had left without saying goodbye. No, surely he couldn’t

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think that. Ilyich still had my passport. He would know something had happened to me and be terribly anxious.

I had no way of knowing how much time had passed. It could have been two days, it could have been a month. Looking around, I could only see screens surrounding the bed. The ceiling was a dirty white and I couldn’t see where the light was coming from. Surely someone would appear soon to send me under again – the idea was almost inviting in its release. I must have drifted off again and when I came to the nurse was there again. But she was untying my restraints and helping me to sit up, murmuring something in Russian. She held a glass of water to my lips and I took a gulp. My mouth was so dry and out of the habit of drinking, that I had trouble swallowing it and spluttered it out over my front. Patiently she waited until I was quiet again and helped me take another small sip. The taste was cool and faintly metallic.

The nurse, a plain woman in her forties, had bought in a bowl of water and a sponge and washed me carefully. It made me think of my mother when I was a little girl and had a high temperature. I wasn’t able to help much, it was all I could do to stay sitting. Then she dressed me in the same clothes I had been wearing what seemed like a lifetime ago. They hung loosely now. She bought me a comb and a small hand mirror and I stared in dull surprise at the apparition reflected. My face was gaunt, with large dark rings under my eyes and my hair was about half an inch longer. I must have been here at least ten days. I was a mess, like a junkie in the

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middle of cold turkey. Beads of sweat sat on my upper lip and I felt weak and weepy. I was helped into a chair beside the bed and given a bowl of some sort of indefinable soup, after which I felt marginally better, but far from normal.

A man I presumed was an orderly, supported me down a corridor and into a lift. The foyer was utilitarian and it was hard to tell if it was a hospital or another sort of institution. The street was unfamiliar, with lots of boxy buildings but I didn’t have long to look before I was hustled into the back seat of a large black car. The driver was wearing some sort of military uniform and there was a glass partition between us. I thought about opening the door and hopping out when we were forced to stop in traffic, but I was hardly in a state to run anywhere. Then I noticed there were no handles on the inside of the doors.

Towards the end of the journey I started to recognise where we were

– in the middle of the city near Red Square. Finally the car came to a halt outside a very large building on the square itself and another man in uniform came around to my side of the car and opened the door. He didn’t look at me directly but waited for me to get out and escorted me inside. My hazy impressions were of numerous doors and security checks until I was taken into a room with a desk and three chairs and not much else apart from a large portrait of Lenin. Hello, Vladimir Ilyich. Good to see you again, I said to myself.

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I sat in one of the chairs and my escort departed. I didn’t have to wait for long before I heard two sets of footsteps behind me. Two men took their places in the other seats across the desk, both wearing dark suits. I gasped aloud. One of them was Oleg, the man from the train.

‘God, am I pleased to see you,’ I said to him.

His face remained impassive and he stared past me as though he hadn’t heard. The other man, with blonde hair and cold blue eyes, addressed me in stilted English. ‘That is good you are pleased to see us, we would be obliged if you would have some answers for our questions. Firstly, who are you and what are you doing in our country?’

I turned my attention to him. ‘As your colleague already knows, my name is Tamsin Doyle, I come from Australia and I’m writing a book. I’ve come here to do some research.’

They conversed a little in Russian. I got the impression Oleg was senior and the other man was deferring to him. Then my interrogator said,

‘We have reason to believe there is more to it than that. Is it true you are a journalist?’

I looked down. I hadn’t told Oleg this, so I had no idea how they’d found out.

‘I used to be, but not anymore. I’m here privately.’

‘But you just said you were here working. We know you are a journalist. Why did you not obtain a visa in this capacity?’

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Surely Oleg wouldn’t have admitted to his own role in obtaining my

‘visa’. I tried to deflect the question. ‘I said I used to be. Anyway, my passport was stolen.’

The man across the table fished around in his pocket and threw a battered looking rectangular object across the table. It was my missing passport. He leaned over and opened it to reveal the original tourist visa that

Oleg must have obtained on the train.

‘I see no stamp for working journalists, Miss Doyle. You are here illegally.’

A surge of anger welled up in me, making me stronger. ‘Haven’t you been listening?

I’m not here as a journalist. I’ve just been in some sort of asylum, held against my will for god knows how long. I’ve been drugged senseless.

I’m an Australian citizen. I have rights.’

He ignored this outburst and took another tack. ‘Tell us about your boyfriend.’

I started. ‘What? What boyfriend?’

‘Don’t play with us Miss Doyle. You were staying with him. You have been seen.’

‘Leave him out of this. I never met him before I came here, he just helped me, that’s all.’

‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that. You see Vladimir Martov’s flat was searched yesterday and we found no evidence that you were an author

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writing a book. On the contrary, we found this.’ He held up a business card.

It was one of mine from my time at the paper in Australia. The familiar sight of it was momentarily comforting.

‘That doesn’t make any difference to what I said. That was my old job.’

‘Your boyfriend has lost his job,’ he added, watching my face carefully for a reaction.

Bastard, I thought, but refrained from replying. I worked hard at suppressing my dismay, trying not to reveal my vulnerability. The cold-eyed man said something to me in Russian and then in English.

‘We know you speak fluent Russian, Miss Doyle. There is no point in trying to tell us otherwise. Why are you really here?’

I glanced at Oleg. He was staring off into space, refusing to meet my gaze, so I imitated him. Seeing he wasn’t going to get anywhere the man gave up after a few minutes and he and Oleg had a quiet conversation. They both left the room and I breathed a sigh of relief, although I knew it was probably a false reprieve.

After a few minutes my escort returned and took me back to the waiting car. To my surprise Oleg slid into the driver’s seat. He didn’t turn to look at me through the glass partition, but started the car.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

As we drove through the streets I felt decidedly unsafe. How did

Oleg fit into all this? More to the point, what was he planning to do? Take some sort of warped revenge for a failed night of passion? Was he the one responsible for stalking me? I worried about Vladimir and his family. I thought about how upset his parents must have been to have those men searching their flat. What a way to repay their hospitality. Vladimir’s kindness to me had cost him his job and goodness knew what else.

My watch hadn’t been returned with my clothes, so I had no way of knowing the time. It had probably gone through a number of hands by now, being traded for a child’s school shoes or an extra ration of vodka. Judging from the sun it looked like late afternoon. I tried to pay some attention to where we were driving as a way of distracting myself.

By my crude assessment, we were heading south from the city.

Office buildings, all hung with large banners of Lenin, gave way to decrepit apartment blocks. After a few kilometres, we took a major road to the west, to an older part of the city that had managed to escape the obsession with tearing down the old. Here the streets were narrower and the trees large and shady. Over fences and through gates I glimpsed generously proportioned houses, many of them two storey and wooden, with the graciousness of another era.

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The car slowed and we turned into a driveway, waiting at a set of gates set into a high wall. I craned my neck to see that Oleg was operating a small remote and the gates swung open. We drove in and they closed automatically behind us. The driveway was long and wound through an orchard. The sun flickered through the leaves, highlighting baubles of red and orange fruit; I could see cherry, apricot and almond trees. The grass between them was very long, almost waist high, and there was a scattering of blue cornflowers. It was hard to feel a sense of imminent danger in the middle of such a picturesque scene.

Oleg quoting Esenin’s poetry, the night I had first arrived, came back to me. I wished I knew what had actually passed between us in the hotel room, rather than my warped version of it, with him cast in the role of

Isadora’s husband. Then I might know more of what to expect.

A tennis court came into view and beyond that a two storey house, made of blue painted wood. It looked very old, with lots of small windows trimmed in white. A row of sunflowers were planted neatly in a bed in front of the house, heads heavy with seeds and starting to droop.

Oleg drew the car up in an empty garage near the house and came around and opened the door for me. ‘Get out,’ he ordered gruffly. He waited for me to comply.

‘Why should I?’ I asked. ‘Why am I here?’

Ignoring the question, he grabbed my upper arm painfully hard, forcing me from the car and frogmarching me towards the house. With his

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free hand he unlocked the back door and led the way into a large kitchen. A tall stove, reaching to the ceiling, dominated one wall. It had many doors and was covered with ceramic tiles painted with folk decorations. The counters were long and wooden. Hung on a suspended rack in the middle of the room were a set of copper pots and pans, gleaming and polished.

Releasing my arm, Oleg threw his keys on the kitchen table and took his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair before continuing along the hallway. I paused and looked at the car keys. As I hadn’t followed him, he turned and came back, stopping inches from me. His eyes were as cold as the other man’s had been in the little room where I had been asked the questions.

‘You need to wash,’ he said. ‘You stink.’

Stung, I retorted, ‘Well so would you if you’d been kept drugged and insensible for days. I don’t want to be here.’ I didn’t see it coming, but felt the force of the blow. Putting my hand to my face I stared had him in shock.

‘You will keep quiet,’ he said in a voice whose softness was more menacing than if he’d shouted. ‘You will not answer back to me. You will do as I tell you to. Come with me.’

I was still holding my face. No one had ever hit me before, except

Esenin in the dream, I couldn’t comprehend it had really happened. In shock, this time I followed him. He led the way up the stairs and into a large bedroom with an ensuite.

‘Wash in there. You’ll find something else to wear in the wardrobe.’

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He left me in the room and I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. I sank down on the bed, with my head in my hands. All the tension and activity after days of not moving had left me exhausted. Get it together, I told myself fiercely. Don’t let him get the better of you. My face still stung where I had been hit. I got up and had a look in the mirror. The skin looked red and inflamed. I must get out of here, but how? I scanned the rather fussy decor. No telephone. The windows were locked. If I broke one he would hear it. The drop to the gravel driveway in front of the house was too far.

Next, I muttered to myself, scanning the room for anything sharp that I could find. No scissors or letter openers.

You stink. How dare he. Perhaps it was true. I went into the marble tiled bathroom and turned on the gold taps, continuing my search for anything potentially useful while they were running. In the closet there were two sections, one with mens suits and casual clothes, all neatly pressed, the other filled with dresses, blouses and skirts. This must where Oleg brought his wife or mistress. Obviously the woman who owned them wasn’t a jeans type – most of the clothes were either tailored or florals, all in expensive fabrics with designer labels. Not the sort of things you could get in the shops. I cringed at my naive comment to Vladimir, not realising that Russia had an upper class. The price of one of those dresses on the black market would probably clothe his entire family for a year, but there was nothing I could use to help me now. No golf clubs or even tennis rackets were hiding at the back of the closet. The bathroom cabinet held lots of expensive

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perfume, make-up and aftershave, but nothing useful as a weapon, not even manicure tools or nail scissors. Didn’t these people ever cut their toe nails?

Stripping off my dirty jeans and T-shirt, I stepped into the water.

The tension in my limbs dissolved into the warmth, leaving a knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I tried to formulate a plan, but it all relied on being able to get out the door and make my way to the Embassy. I thought about the man Vladimir had seen following us in the park when we’d been with the children. If Oleg was KGB then he could have been responsible. Had he been stalking me? If I disappeared, no-one would know where I had gone. I shivered. The water was cooling rapidly.

Wrapping myself in a couple of the white fluffy towels, unlike the threadbare stripy ones Vladimir’s family used, I lay down on the bed and pulled the cover partly over myself. Just for a few minutes. The next thing I knew my shoulder being shaken roughly.

‘Wake up’, a deep voice was saying. ‘You must get up’

Groggy with sleep I looked over to see the shape of Oleg rummaging through the wardrobe.

He turned around and threw a dark blue and white dress on the bed.

‘Put this on.’ He moved to a set of drawers and some underwear flew across the room to join the dress. ‘Are you going to get dressed by yourself, or do I have to do it for you?’ he leered.

‘No. Piss off. GET OUT,’ I shouted, feeling suddenly awake.

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‘That’s better.’ He smiled, unfazed and stepped through the doorway.

I leapt up and slammed the door behind him. I suddenly regretted my outburst. Play along with him. Don’t get him angry. I needed to make him think I was being cooperative until I had the opportunity to get out the door and get a lift back into Moscow. Being well dressed might help.

After putting on a pair of white lacy knickers and a camisole, I slipped the dress over my head did up the row of buttons at the front. I combed my hair in the bathroom mirror.

My face looked a lot healthier. The sleep had helped, though my cheek was still red.

Finding a pair of black strappy sandals with a low heel, only slightly too big, I slipped them on. I wondered what their owner would think of me dressing in her clothes. Perhaps she was so wealthy she wouldn’t notice a few items were missing. As I was about to leave, I slipped a small bottle of spray on eau-de-cologne into the pocket of the dress I was wearing.

As I opened the bedroom door, music wafted up the stairs – a

Mendelssohn violin concerto. I quickly checked out the top floor before going down, taking off the sandals and walking as quietly as I could. Two other bedrooms and a bathroom. One a little girl’s bedroom, lots of frills and a big pink doll’s house. The guest room was bare of furniture. Oleg obviously wasn’t the gregarious type. I looked out both windows. No promising drain pipes to scale. It was going to have to be one of the doors downstairs.

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Carrying my shoes in one hand, I crept as quietly down the stairs.

There were a couple of unavoidable creaks, but no Oleg appeared. At the bottom I surveyed the hallway. I guessed he was in the room where the music was coming from. To get to the front door I needed to pass the open doorway. I would probably only get one chance at this, so it needed to be fast. I flattened myself next to the door of the room and holding my breath, dashed across the space. I caught a glimpse of him in there with his back to me, standing at a drinks trolley. I raced along the hallway and reached the handle of the front door. The handle turned, but the door wouldn’t budge. I felt like screaming with frustration. It was locked and there was no key.

‘I’m glad you’re feeling better.’ Oleg was standing in the doorway I had just passed with a drink in his hand. ‘Come and have a drink,’ he ordered.

‘I don’t want to have a drink. I want to leave. Now. Open the door.’

‘But you are going to stay. We have some important matters to discuss.’

‘Let me out. Let me out NOW’ I shouted. I threw the sandals at him, which bounced off the nearby wall and I turned and hit my fist against the door. It was futile. He just stood and watched as I flailed uselessly.

Tears of anger and rage ran down my face. I turned to run down to the back door, but he was standing blocking my way. I slid down the door, into a heap onto the floor and cried. I couldn’t help it. Oleg just stood and watched me, seemingly unmoved.

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‘When you’ve finished’, he said coolly, ‘dinner is served.’ He picked up my sandals and threw them down next to me.

Finally I got up from the floor and followed him into the dining room. I had no doubt that if I made a break for the kitchen door, he would be there in an instant to prevent me. I felt like a small child who has had a tantrum and the parent steps in to present the voice of calm reason.

On the long, highly polished dinning table two places were set, with white linen, napkins and wine glasses. Between the plates was a platter of cold meats, pickles and bread. A silver candelabra cast a muted yellow glow on the table. I was starving, having only eaten the soup that morning. He poured me a glass of white wine, without asking, while I served myself and ate hungrily, ignoring him. I took a few sips of the wine, which was very good. Something French.

He concentrated on his food and didn’t speak either. To all appearances, the scene was peaceful and civilized. Music, food, wine, a well dressed couple, but underneath was a current of tension that could be sliced, like a boning knife through a tender fillet.

When I had finished, I pushed back my chair and looked around the room. It was decorated in a fussy Italianate style that sat uneasily with the

Russian country house. Like the bedrooms upstairs, it was more an outward display of opulence than taste.

‘Why am I here?’

‘I have something important to show you.’

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‘This is a hell of a way to do it.’

He didn’t answer.

‘Do you have a wife?’ I asked, and was gratified to see a look of surprise on his broad face.

‘Yes.’

‘How would she feel about her husband forcibly detaining a woman in her house?’

He reached over for a wooden box on the sideboard, lifting it to the table. He opened it to reveal a row of cigars. The ritual of taking one from the box, unrolling it from the cellophane and clipping the ends was mesmerising. He lit a match from one of the candles and a thin whisper of smoke curled upwards. Then he sat back and looked at me, watching with curiosity as though I was an exotic animal and he was curious to see what I would do next.

I tried again. ‘What about your little girl? Surely she wouldn’t like to see her daddy being...’

‘Enough.’ He hit his fist on the table and the glasses rattled. ‘My little girl died. But that’s none of your affair.’

This threw me off guard and I bit back an apology. A dead daughter.

I knew how that felt.

But I wasn’t going to apologise to a man who was holding me against my will.

‘What is your full name?’ I asked.

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‘General Oleg Zolkin.’ He stressed the first word.

‘You’re with the KGB.’

‘Of course.’

‘What was that place I was taken to today, where you and your colleague questioned me?’

‘Lubyanka.’

I didn’t know what to say. Even I, hardly an expert on Soviet history, had heard of it. Wasn’t that where Ilyich had been taken? If Oleg hadn’t brought me here, I might still be in one of their cells. But here I was no less a prisoner.

Oleg had got to his feet and was pouring two glasses of Vodka. He put one down beside me and crossed to the corner of the room, wheeling out a tall black column from the corner that he swung to horizontal and drew down on a handle to unwind a white screen. A covered trolley by the bookcase revealed a type of projector I had never seen before. He blew out the candles, pressed a remote control and a rectangle of blue appeared on the screen. There was no accompanying sound. Then from the right hand side of the frame, a lone figure emerged. A woman, dressed in a white tunic, with short bobbed hair. The camera zoomed closer and focussed as she began to move. I shivered with shock. It was me. At the theatre the other night, when I had danced for a private audience of three, a fourth person had been keeping watch from the gods, recording my every leap and turn. Long curls of smoke from Oleg’s cigar trailed across the screen, caught in the shaft of

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light, twisting and turning like the dancing figure. I didn’t say a word, just watched. After a time, the image faded into darkness.

Oleg clicked on the overhead light and crossed to the bookcase. He located a round, battered metal tin, covered with stickers.

When he prised the lid off, I could see inside was a roll of 35mm film. It looked very old, perhaps nitrate stock. Pulling out a couple of electrical cords, he lifted the video projector off the trolley and replaced it with another, much older one that had been on the floor. He threaded the film leader through the gates of the projector with a surgeon’s care. As the countdown flicked up on the screen, he turned off the light and sat down again.

This time the image was in black and white and jerked and jumped, flashes flickering at the edges of the frame. But for the whirring of the projector, the room was silent. A solitary figure appeared and I took a sharp breath. Isadora. It was Isadora. The features were subtly different but, shot from this distance, virtually indistinguishable from those of the previous dancer. Her movements were an exact duplicate. It was extraordinary. I was seeing an older, heavier, version of myself – shot more than sixty years earlier. No, I was like a younger version of her. An impossibility, a paradox, but it was right there, outside the boundary of imagination. Like waking to bright daylight after suffering terrors in the night, it was sharply clear.

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Isadora was running with a long piece of fabric trailing behind her on the stage, then about twenty children ran in, spiralling around, their mouths open in song. The camera panned down over the audience in stalls who were on their feet, swaying and singing and then clapping furiously. It moved up to the right where a short, bearded figure was standing, hands raised above his head, publicly applauding his approval. Lenin.

I understood now why Isadora had Anna send me to find the film in

Connecticut. There was no poetry in the awkwardness of the black and white film. It was just a shadow, a parody, a stain left after the real being had moved on to another cycle. I knew she had wanted me to return the film so Anna could destroy it. And I knew that Isadora wanted this film destroyed as well. But I felt sick at the thought that these images would be lost. That nobody would see... and I came back round again to understanding why she wanted them gone. It is not Isadora, I told myself.

Those flickering, jerking images, are not Isadora.

The motor of the projector died and the room became completely black. I had almost forgotten Oleg, but I heard him bumping into furniture, then fumbling for the light switch. A match flamed. ‘Fuck!’ he swore. ‘The electricity has gone off again.’ He lit the candelabra and picked it up off the table. Perhaps I had misjudged him. If only he had told me at the beginning,

I would have come willingly.

‘Oleg, it’s amazing you found that film. Thank you for showing me.’

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He nodded his acceptance. ‘So who are you?’ he asked, looking down at me.

‘You know who I am. Tamsin Doyle.’

‘I know only what I see, and what I see is very strange. Are you a relation? I did some research after my man saw you dancing in the park.

Her children died. Are you a niece?’

‘No relation.’ I shook my head dismissively. ‘It’s not important.’

‘But I think it is.’

‘Where did you get the film?’ I asked, trying to change the subject back to the one that concerned me.

‘The KGB archives, of course. So it is valuable? I thought it might be. How much would they pay for it in the West?’

‘I have no idea. Probably quite a lot.’

‘Are we talking tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands? Who would pay this?’

‘As I said, I don’t know. There are libraries in America that would be very interested and there are private collectors.’

‘I have made some inquiries already,’ he said, surprising me. ‘I sent a copy of a few frames to the Smithsonian Art Museum. Their resident expert tells me they would be very keen to buy it, or any like it I might have.

They want me to name my price. But I don’t think I will sell to them.’

‘Why not? What will you do with it?’

‘I will find another buyer and send them several, but not this one.’

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‘You have more?’ I asked, with excitement.

‘I will have. Many more.’

‘In the archives? Can I see them?’

He laughed as though I had said something funny. ‘Naturally you can see them. You and I are going to make them.’

I stared at him stupidly.

‘What?’

‘Oh yes. I have the equipment.’ He crossed to another cupboard and pulled out an ancient 16mm movie camera. ‘You are going to dance and I am going to film you.’

‘To sell? But that’s ridiculous. It will be on new stock. No-one will fall for that.’

‘The old film is too fragile. It was transferred for its own protection and was unfortunately destroyed in the process. And I will release them slowly, one at a time, so the price stays high.’

‘Why would I have any part of this?’

‘You have no choice.’ He had put the candelabra on the table and dropped to knee level in front of the chair, his face leering into mine. I thought of Sergei Esenin the night in the hotel, full of hate and venomous words. Oleg Zolkin’s words were quieter, but their meaning no less threatening. ‘You are here in my house, in my country. You have no money and no where else to go. I can do anything I want with you. Anything.’

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His lips loomed closer and I could smell the vodka on his breath. I stiffened with revulsion , but couldn’t avoid the crush of flesh and the unfamiliar taste as he kissed me. A kiss as a weapon, pinning my head against the back of the chair, probing tongue forcing its way into my mouth.

My hand groped for the glass on the side table and as he drew back, I threw the Vodka into his face.

‘Little pizda,’ he swore, and spat.

The full force of his open hand knocked my face to one side. I tasted blood. He had my knees open and pulled me towards him.

‘No! Fuck off!’ I shouted, pushing away. He was forcing my knees open and pushing in close, while I fought to propel him away. ‘Fuck off, you bastard,’ I screamed again and again. It was futile, he was so much stronger than me, so I tried to get close enough to an ear or his nose to bite him, but he pushed my face away to one side. I was like a feral cat, wriggling and clawing but my fighting just seemed to excite him more. I heard a ripping sound as he tore the buttons down the front of my dress and his hand squeezed my bare breast painfully. It moved down to rub my crotch as I screamed again as loudly as I could.

Swiftly, in a combat manoeuvre, he pulled my body forward so I crashed to the ground on top of him. I struggled to get up, but he rolled so I was pinned underneath. I tried to push him off, but he simply grabbed both my wrists and pulled them above my head, easily holding them together with one hand, while the other yanked up the silk skirt of my dress. I managed to

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bite him on the lip as he pulled at my knickers and shoved his fingers deep inside me. He yelled and brought his hand up, slapping me on either side of my head until all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears.

His grip loosened as he tried to undo his trousers and I managed to free my right hand. As I groped for my skirt pocket, I could feel the hard shape of the small bottle of eau-de-cologne through the fabric. My fingers closed around the metal nozzle. He plunged into me, at the same time I pulled the bottle free and squirted the perfume, turning it to pump straight into his eyes. There was a moment that stretched as if he could not believe what had happened, then the pain hit. He cried out and pulled free, rubbing his eyes and struggling to stand. His trousers slid down past his knees and he overbalanced. Falling, he grabbed the edge of the table cloth and the remains of dinner and the burning candelabra crashed to the floor. Tongues of flame reached to lick the skirt of the chair where I had been sitting. The material was highly flammable and it was quickly engulfed. I watched in fascinated horror as bright fingers of fire reached out to touch the nitrate film on the projector. The spool of film exploded like a firework, popping and spluttering as a giant Catherine -wheel of flames unfurled, leaping and uncoiling, setting furniture, books and everything nearby alight.

Oleg had made it to his feet and was stumbling blindly as the unravelling film touched him, fire catching his face and clothes where the vodka and perfume had sprayed. As he disappeared beneath a sheet of orange flame there was a high-pitched, horrific scream. He fell to the

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ground, writhing, as I ran to the doorway, through the flames and thick smoke. The roar was increasing and windows began to shatter. I pulled my hand off the door frame, but not fast enough to save it from being burnt.

I ran down the corridor and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me. But where were the keys? They were no longer on the table.

The door was sturdy and the window above too small to climb through. I pulled back the kitchen curtains. The windows were double glazed and barred on the outside. There was no way I could get through them. The roar down the hallway was intensifying and sounded like it had reached the stairs.

There was no escape that way. What if Oleg had put the keys in his pocket?

I started to pull everything from the bench onto the floor, frantically trying to find if he’d hidden them somewhere. Salt containers, herbs, coffee containers, all crashed on the tiles. A ceramic jar held a collection of odds and ends. My hopes rose when I found two small keys, but neither of them fitted in the door.

Looking around in desperation, I saw his jacket hanging on the back of the chair. The noise outside the kitchen was so loud that I couldn’t hear if there was a rattle when I picked it up. The room was becoming hot and airless. I plunged my good hand into the pockets, desperately willing the bunch of keys to be there. The first one was empty, and then ‘Yes!’ I shouted as I pulled them out. There were more than ten keys on the ring and the room was beginning to fill with smoke. I got down near the floor and held part of my skirt over my face while I fiddled. It was the sweetest

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moment of my life when the door handle turned on the sixth try. I half ran, half fell out into the garden, choking and breathless. I stood in the fresh air, chest heaving, while room after room of the old, dry wooden house behind me exploded with the intensity of the heat.

My instinct was to run as far and as fast as possible, but the adrenaline surge gave me mental clarity. The car was in the garage and the bunch of keys were still in my hand. The car key was obvious and the engine started on the first turn. The driver’s seat was on the opposite side to what I was used to, but it was an automatic. The driveway seemed far longer than I remembered and when I got to the gates, they were closed and the remote wouldn’t function. I remembered the electricity wasn’t working. I had to get out of the car and force them open before I could drive through.

Looking back through the trees I could see what looked like a gigantic bonfire lighting up the sky, casting an orange glow into the night.

I drove around without any real sense of where I was. The street lighting in this part of the city was in darkness as well. I was terrified. I could still hear Oleg’s unearthly screams as he died. He might be a bastard and a rapist, but he didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody did. And the film. The precious film had dissolved in the flames.

I pulled over and sat, thinking – if they find me they’ll think I killed him, one of their generals. Then I’ll never get out of here. I tried to quiet my clamouring sense of panic. Stop it. Think. Get to the Embassy.

Vladimir’s face came into my mind. What about him? I couldn’t just leave

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him. The Russians would certainly never let me come back once they found

Oleg’s body and made the connection.

It felt like an age until I finally spotted a building I thought I remembered passing. Just nearby was one of the main arterial roads into

Moscow that Oleg and I had travelled along. I followed it until I came to the city centre. I thought I could remember where Vladimir lived from here. I tried to follow what I remembered of the bus route and got lost several times, once driving past a soldier who looked at the car rather than the driver and saluted. A mix of memory, guesswork and luck got me to the park near

Vladimir’s block of flats and I left the car in a side street, not easily visible to passing traffic. As I ran through the streets, a drunk tried to grab me, but I easily evaded him. After what I had been through tonight, such an encounter seemed almost insignificant.

Climbing the many stairs to Vladimir’s flat my legs were weak and trembling, the enormity of what had happened almost overtaking me. I tapped softly on the door. After a moment it opened a fraction and a pair of dark eyes peered out. There was an exclamation and the door opened wider and I fell into Vladimir’s arms. We hugged without saying anything for a long time. He felt wonderfully solid and real. We moved back into the hall and he pulled the door partly closed, so as not to wake the children.

‘Tamsin, what happened? Are you alright? Your face and your dress...your hair smells of burning. ‘ He looked down at my bare feet.

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I told him briefly, sparing no detail. He looked grim with anger and indignation long before I got to the part about the rape, when he hugged me close.

‘Tamsinka.’

I had managed to hold myself together quite well to this point, but now I was fighting off tears. It was a little while before I could finish my story.

‘You have to get out of here,’ he said, when I was through. ‘If they catch you, they will never let you go.’

‘I know that, but I can’t leave you.’ We hugged again, clinging to one another.

‘Vladimir,’ I whispered into his ear. ‘Will you come with me?’

He pulled back to look down into my face. His expression was troubled. ‘Tamsin it’s impossible. The Russians won’t let me leave and the

Australians wouldn’t let me in.’

‘They would if we were married.’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. I felt myself flushing as the colour rushed to my cheeks.

‘Marry?’ It was as though the concept had never crossed his mind.

‘Would you marry me?’

‘Of course. I have been thinking that’s what I would like more than anything. But how will that help if I can’t get out of here?’

‘Let’s go to the Embassy and see what they can do.’

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Of course it wasn’t that simple. Vladimir needed to get some things and I needed my passport. The rest of the household woke up. The children were very excited and Mama laughed, then cried and hugged me. ‘Look after each other’ she said, in halting English.

Ilyich, also, had tears in his eyes. He said something in Russian.

For a moment I stared at him, wondering why it struck me as odd.

Then, I felt something shift in me; a lurch – a bird buffeted in a gale. I had understood before. Or rather the Isadora part of me had. I looked around as though there would be something there to explain what had happened. I saw again the flames. The burning. And most clearly, the spiralling Catherine- wheel of nitrate. Gone. And, welling up inside, a deep sense of loss.

‘Are you okay?’ The voice amidst the smoke was Vladimir’s.

Okay? Was that how one felt after having a part cut out? A limb torn off? Your children drowned? I dug my nails deep into the skin of my arm. But all I felt was pain, there was nothing in there... nothing. I looked at

Ilyich. He was an old man I had met recently and of course I didn’t understand Russian. I knew I would grieve what I had lost, but something new was being born here and I wanted so much to nurture it. A final glimpse through the smoke of...white marble columns, bare feet, a diaphanous gown and for an instant I looked into those dark eyes and saw myself. I took a deep breath and the air felt cool and fresh. No hint of smoke. I turned to Vladimir ‘What did he say?’

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Vladimir looked at me in surprise.

‘He says I am doing what he should have done years ago. He is very happy for me.’

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was more than an hour before we were able to leave and my anxiety was growing. What if the police connected me to the burned dacha and came here looking for me? I kept trying to hurry things along. I wanted us to take the car, as proof of what had happened, but Vladimir’s fear of authority was too great. We left it where it was and took the keys to prove the point. We travelled via the subway. It was almost six in the morning and well before the station would be packed with commuters. I felt conspicuous with our suitcases. I hadn’t changed, apart from putting on a pair of sandals, because I knew my appearance was the only proof I had.

The same guard was on as the first time I had visited the Embassy.

Vladimir was able to slip him some roubles, so he let us wait in the grounds.

We sat on the steps of the building with our arms around one another. I drifted in and out of sleep with my head on Vladimir’s shoulder.

At around nine o’clock the next morning the staff arrived and let us into the reception area. Amanda, the woman who had helped me, arrived a short time later, waving us into her office and shutting the door.

‘What happened to you?’ she asked, looking at my dishevelled appearance. The front of my dress, where Oleg had pulled off the buttons, was fastened with a safety pin. I hadn’t even brushed my hair.

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‘I was kidnapped. Tonight I only just escaped from a fire.’ Her eyes widened in surprise.

‘This is Vladimir, my fiancé,’ I continued. She looked askance at me. ‘A lot has happened since I last saw you.’

I showed her my burnt hand and proceeded to fill her in on the details. About halfway through she excused herself and returned with another man. They made me repeat my story slowly and taped it. I left out all the stuff about Isadora, but said that a Soviet official had befriended me on the train and then broken into my hotel room. Later he had me taken into custody and drugged and interrogated me, then kidnapped me and taken me to his dacha. I explained about the rape and the fire and how I had burnt my hand. I outlined Vladimir’s role and said that we were in love and wanted to get married.

Even to my own ears it sounded wild and verging on the implausible.

Except that we had the keys to the car, my dress was ripped and the beginnings of a bruise were visible on my cheek. My hand was burnt, I had the mark on my wrist where I had been on the drip and Vladimir had reported my disappearance to the Embassy ten days ago, by phone. When I had finally finished talking they excused themselves for some time. The receptionist brought us coffee and toast. It was delicious, but we were too nervous to enjoy it.

Amanda and her offsider came back and sat down opposite us. They addressed themselves to me, not looking directly at Vladimir.

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‘We can help you to get back to Australia, but not your friend. We’ll have an international incident on our hands if we do. He’s a Soviet citizen.’

‘I’m not leaving without Vladimir. If he stays here, he’ll be persecuted. He’s a dissident, applying for asylum.’

‘Perhaps he can come later.’

‘What, when he’s been kept in prison for assisting me and you can prove persecution? How do you think it will be for him when they find the body of the official?’

‘He’s not an Australian citizen and you are not currently married.’

I looked directly at Amanda. ‘You’ll have an international incident on your hands if you don’t allow him to come. I’m a News Limited journalist...’ I said, crossing my fingers under the table, ‘...and I’ll write a syndicated story for all their papers. Plus I’ll sell it to New Idea or Who

Weekly, as well as 60 Minutes. There will be so much furore, you won’t be able to do any office work for all the phone calls. I’m sorry, Amanda, because I do appreciate how helpful and kind you’ve been until now, but I am serious. I will do this.’

Amanda looked annoyed, but she knew it wasn’t an empty threat.

They went away again for 10 minutes and then she returned alone.

‘We’ll just forget that you said that. Now, I’ve been making some enquiries. We aren’t even sure we can get you out, let alone him.’

‘All I’m asking you to do is try. The more time goes by, the less chance there is. Please get us out of here today.’

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‘I’ll make some more calls and see what I can do.’ We waited in the lobby, as anxiously as if outside an operating theatre.

When she came back again she was smiling. Vladimir and I clutched one another’s hands.

‘We can probably get you out on an Air France flight this afternoon.

The French owe us a couple of favours. You’ll need to reimburse us for the cost.’

I nodded.

‘You’ll need to sign a statement saying you’ll get married within three months...’

I looked at Vladimir, who confirmed it with a nod. ‘We’ll be happy to do that,’ I said.

Amanda continued, ‘...with the proviso that this arrangement is completely confidential and stays that way. One more thing. Vladimir will have to dress in an Air France steward’s uniform and go on with the crew.’

The rest of the time until our departure was a mad scramble to organise documents, sign papers and have passport Polaroids taken. We were both increasingly nervous. What if the authorities had found out about the fire and issued an alert for me?

At two in the afternoon we found ourselves getting into separate cars to be driven to the airport. Vladimir went first and gave me a tight smile as the car disappeared down the driveway.

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When Amanda and I arrived at the airport, my stomach muscles were tying themselves in complicated knots and all my attempts to relax and unravel them were a total failure. I was so grateful that Amanda been kind enough to come with me and just sorry she couldn’t take me all the way onto the plane. But, after we checked my bag and walked to the departure gate, she passed me my new temporary diplomatic passport and shook my hand.

‘You’re on your own from here. Best of luck.’

To her surprise, I leant over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Going through emigration, I tried to look as self-assured as a diplomat, my stomach was still a bundle of knots and I was certain my palms were sweaty. I caught my reflection in a window and realised that it had been a good decision to pull on a dark jumper and tie back my hair. I almost looked the part. I need not have worried, for, despite Amanda’s warnings that my temporary passport with the special visa would attract attention, it was checked by a bored official and I was waved through without comment.

There are, I thought, times when a lack of bureaucratic efficiency is to be welcomed.

Two flight attendants ushered me aboard and I looked over their shoulders into the galley for Vladimir. To my dismay, he was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t in the main body of the plane either. My feeling of panic grew as all the passengers took their seats and the stewards went up and down the aisles checking seat belts. I kept telling myself it would be alright,

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they would put him on at the last minute. I repeated it over and over – right up until the time they began to close the doors.

I knew what I had to do. No matter what the cost, there was no way I was leaving. I unclipped my seat belt and struggled out of my seat. A steward materialised by my side.

‘Madame, asseyez-vous. You must sit. We are about to taxi.’

‘No, you’ve got to let me off. There’s been a mistake...my husband...’

He pushed me firmly back and glared at me. ‘Madame, sit.’

I raised my voice. ‘Let me off at once.’

Another flight attendant had appeared, a woman, ‘Are you unwell,

Madam?’

‘No,’ I snapped. ‘I am not bloody unwell! I need to get off.’

She exchanged a quick glance with the other steward and then they moved simultaneously, grabbing my arms and shoulders, forcing me backwards into the seat. I had a flashback of being restrained by the Russians at Isadora’s old school and opened my mouth to yell very loudly, when the pressure they were exerting suddenly relaxed. Something had happened.

‘Keep quiet!’ she hissed and gestured with her head towards the main door. I looked and saw that another steward was unlocking it. For a moment, as it swung open, I thought that Vladimir was going to walk on. It will be alright, I told myself. He was delayed and they have waited...

Nobody appeared and my heart sank. But I fought back with the thought

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that maybe, they were going to let me off after all. Then all sense of hope vanished. The steward, a look of great concern on his face, stepped back as four men in blue-grey uniforms and red bands around their distinctive peaked hats marched onto the plane.

‘Police militaire,’ mouthed the female flight attendant and took her hand off my shoulder. Adrenaline surged through my body and the world became very quiet. Far away, I could see the cabin crew protesting as two of uniformed men pushed them to one side and began moving purposefully down the aisles, staring into faces. The other two were paying particular attention to the flight staff. Then, one officer locked eyes on me; his irises steely grey, the colour of barbed wire. He held the stare as he advanced. I felt like a rabbit caught in headlights, mesmerised, completely unable to breathe.

He stopped in front of me. ‘Come,’ he ordered in a low voice.

There was nothing to do but pick up my shoulder bag and follow him. The faces of the passengers around me showed a range of emotions from anger and apprehension to outright fear. The officer reached the forward galley and stopped.

‘Passport,’ he snapped at me.

My mind was refusing to think straight and I looked at him. He repeated the order and I fumbled in my bag with the irrational fear that somehow I had lost it. My fingers found it and I pulled it from my bag and handed it to him. He scrutinised the photograph carefully and then

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compared it to my features. Flicking over a few pages, he stared critically at the visa for what seemed like several minutes. With an abrupt movement, he snapped it shut it and handed it back. Then he leaned forward, his face so close to mine that I could smell his breath.

‘If you are wise you will not try coming back to the Soviet Union.

We have very long memories.’

He turned away and strode up the cabin towards First Class, leaving me standing there, shocked and trembling. There was, I knew no other explanation for what had happened other than Vladimir had been caught. I felt ill and steadied myself against the corner of the galley. The officer had joined the others at the front of the First Class section, their heads together as they conferred. Then three of the men moved to guard the exit while the officer who had dealt with me turned and swung open the cockpit door. I caught sight of a bank of instruments and two navy blue jackets, topped by silhouettes of headphones. The Russian appeared to be questioning them, then nodded curtly to the pilot, shut the door and signalled to his men that they were leaving.

I waited until they were gone and then, still in shock, stumbled back to my seat. I was devastated. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to clear my head of the images that my imagination was throwing up. Vladimir being interrogated. Vladimir dead. I became aware that we were moving and I had the irrational desire to do what the Russian had warned me against. I would come back. No matter what they did to me I’d take it. I deserved it.

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If it were not for me Vladimir would have been alright. He would still be alive. As my head spun out of control, I felt as though my heart had collapsed and aware that I was sobbing, put my face in my hands to hide my tears. They’ve got Vladimir. I betrayed him. Over and over. Irrational. I looked through my fingers at the nearest window and longed to claw my way out.

The aircraft took off, but instead of the usual exhilaration at the pull of the G-force, I felt as though I was on a rack being stretched tighter and tighter with every metre we ascended. My mind went blank and all I could feel was the pain.

It was just as the seat-belt sign pinged off and the plane began its long climb to cruising altitude, that I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned my head to see a navy blue sleeve with the distinctive gold stripes of a flight officer around the cuff. What now? I ran my eyes up the tall figure next to me. My stomach lurched with disbelief and I gasped. I didn’t trust what I was seeing. Vladimir was standing there, a broad grin on his face, like an errant boy who has just got away with breaking school rules. Then he knelt beside me, holding me. I touched his face, unable to comprehend what had happened. Behind him appeared another steward. It was the man who had restrained me earlier. He was looking extremely pleased with himself.

‘Excusez-moi Monsieur. May I have my jacket back?’

Vladimir obliged and the man slipped on the jacket, then smiled warmly at me, ‘Would you both like to move up to First Class?’

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‘Would that be alright?’ I asked. I was having trouble coming to terms with what was happening.

‘I hardly think anyone is going to argue with me, Madam. Please...’

He gestured to Vladimir to lead the way.

‘You have done us a great service, Captain,’ he said.

The man nodded, appreciatively. ‘It is a small victory, but a victory nevertheless.’

Vladimir shook his hand, then reached for mine and we moved up to where a real flight attendant was waiting with a bottle of champagne.

‘Compliments of the crew,’ she said.

For the first few minutes we didn’t say a word. We just sat like two infatuated kids, grinning at each other, our fingers constantly touching to reassure ourselves we were real and this was happening.

Later I asked Vladimir what he had felt when the Russian officer had opened the cockpit door. ‘I don’t know how you could have remained so calm ...’

‘When the officer came into the cockpit,’ said Vladimir, ‘I was petrified. He looked at both of us and then asked me in Russian how long the flight time was. Fortunately I caught myself and replied in French that I didn’t understand. The co-pilot told him to leave immediately, and he did.’

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I looked down at the dark blue trousers he was wearing. It was lucky the Russian hadn’t done so. They were a few centimetres too short for his long legs.

As we flew across the roof of the world I felt lighter in a way that wasn’t just to do with leaving Russia. I knew Isadora had left me with the burning of the house. I recalled the fingers of flame and how the Catherine- wheel of film had set everything else alight, but hadn’t touched me. It was as though there had been a shield around me, as if she had been protecting me.

I thought about Oleg. Would the woman, whose dress I wore still, grieve for him? A peculiar set of circumstances had made me responsible in some way for his death. I didn’t feel guilty though, but joyful. I was going home.

Several days later, when we were safely back in Brisbane and staying with Helen, I opened the packet that Stella had sent to me, via her address, containing my tape recorder that had been among Anna’s things. There was also an envelope, with my name on it, misspelt, in quavery oversize writing.

When I opened the envelope, a photograph fell out. There was no note with it, but then Anna hadn’t been up to writing much. The picture showed a serious faced young man, with his hair brushed back. His nose was rather

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prominent, saving him from being conventionally handsome, but his eyes were soft and reflective. He was wearing a dark suit and was bent over the keys of a piano, glancing up as though the photographer had just got his attention for an instant, and he was anxious to resume playing. On the back was written, Walter Rummel, 1919.

I picked up the tape-recorder, thinking I should make some verbal reminders of what had happened, and pressed it on to check what I was taping over was of no importance. Anna’s voice filled the room. The emotions surrounding her death rushed back and I sank onto the bed, listening. It was not a conversation I recognised.

‘Tamsin, I didn’t tell you today the reason why I sent you to look for the film. It was very good of you to go all the way to Connecticut. I feel I should.’ There was a long pause, and she cleared her throat.

‘It was the summer of 1920. The other Isadorables and I had been on tour here, in the States. This time by ourselves. Everywhere audiences loved us and made us perform encores again and again. About half-way through the tour we received a telegram from Isadora to go to Europe and travel with her to Greece. We all went immediately, of course, even though it meant breaking the contract. We owed Isadora so much.

It was a beautiful summer in Greece that year. We used to wake up in the morning and run down to the olive groves and do our dance practice there. Afterwards I lay and looked up through the leaves at the ripening olives. Some of those trees were three and four hundred years old. We

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would have lunch together and talk and laugh. In the late afternoon, after couple of hours siesta, we would set off for the Parthenon in our tunics and leather sandals, made in her brother Raymond’s workshop.

Besides Isadora, there was also the man she’d been living with in

France for the past two years, Walter Rummel. Walter was a pianist. He was thirty-one - about ten years younger than she was and he was a very special man. He was kind, compassionate and immensely talented. Isadora used to say he was her archangel. She was happier with him than she had been since the death of the children.

The photographer Edward Steichen was with us. He photographed us dancing in among the columns of the Acropolis. In one of his photographs we’re standing on the Caryatid Porch of the Erectheum and we look like the statues of the goddesses come to life. He filmed Isadora and us dancing on the Parthenon. Isadora insisted that he give her the film, and that he could keep the stills.

After a few weeks, the building work on Kopanos was finished. Did

I tell you about Kopanos? I forget...Kopanos was a temple that Isadora had built when she first came to Greece, sixteen years before. Other people thought she was crazy, but she was determined. She always did exactly what she wanted to do and never let what other people said stop her. She had poured all her money into it, but even that had not been enough and it had never been completed. We found it a ruin, inhabited by goatherds and their flocks. We spent days clearing out all the rubbish and Isadora got a young

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carpenter to put in doors and windows and a roof. Then we moved in. It was a simple stone building, although the rooms were large. We got Greek carpets and put them around the dirt floor, with lots of cushions for sitting on.

We bought Walter a piano. From the front of the building you could see the Acropolis clearly on Mt Olympus, a few miles away. Every afternoon when the sun was setting, casting golden rays into the sea, Walter would play for us, inspired and wonderful music. He played with such feeling, the emotion came through the notes and touched me deeply. I couldn’t help it. I was twenty-six years old. I had never been in love before.

I used to sit, listening to him play, yearning for him. The notes of the piano were like his fingers touching me, caressing me. I felt I would give anything for that to happen – even give up dancing if I had to, just to be with him.

But at the same time I was terribly torn – I owed everything to Isadora. She was more than just her teacher. From the time I was six she was like a mother, no more than that, like a kind of goddess to me. I knew how important it was for her to have Walter as a collaborator, someone who truly understood her work and her need to be loved as a woman. How could I take him away from her? After all she had been through. How could I do that?= There was a muted hush in the room. >But I did,= she said. There was a click as the tape clicked off and then resumed.

‘After a few weeks it became obvious to everyone that Walter and I were in love. We tried to hide it. We didn’t want to break up the group. We

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had not actually confided our feelings, but we couldn’t help looking at one another. There was a special energy between us. Isadora noticed, of course.

She was always sensitive to how people were feeling. I know she was jealous, although she tried to ignore it – it must have been hard for her. She was in her forties and had put on quite a lot of weight in the past few years.

Suffering had aged her, too. She started to drink too much and then one night she accused us of plotting behind her back. We were horrified – it wasn=t true at all. She threw us both out of the house and we were forced to leave hurriedly. I just took a shawl and Walter his coat. We walked down the hill and found some shelter beside a stone wall, underneath a tree. Later when it got cooler, Walter put his jacket around me and held me in his arms.

I was in a kind of exquisite pain. I felt so happy because we were together at last, but I was in agony because of Isadora’s rejection. Now I see the irony, because she believed in loving freely, but she couldn’t accept that we did.

Irma came and found us the next morning and told us that Isadora had gone away for the day, saying she was frightened of the violence of her feelings. After that there was an uneasy truce for a few days, but then the young King of Greece died of tetanus. Our patron in the Greek government was no longer in a position to support us, so we had to leave.

We went back to Paris and tried to put the whole matter behind us.

Although we all danced together and Walter played, the balance of the group had been disturbed. Once, when I danced March to the Grail Isadora sat in her chair watching me. When I had finished I went over to her and I saw

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that she had been crying. She took my hands and said that I had danced it so beautifully, against that all our personal differences were insignificant. But still, everything was not right and I realised I had to leave. Walter left too.

We tried to be together after that, but somehow the guilt of what we had done cast a shadow over our relationship, and we could not make it work.’

There was silence and then I thought I heard a muffled sob. Once more, the tape recorder clicked off and then started again.

‘It was a long time ago, but when I was telling you, it was as though I was there. Now do you understand why I owed it to Isadora, to do what she asked?

When we saw the film Steichen had taken of Isadora and us girls at the Parthenon, Isadora was desperately disappointed with the result. What she intended had been lost. The film was jerky and two-dimensional – we looked like puppets. But she couldn’t bring herself to destroy it, so she asked me to do it. I couldn’t either, so I put it in the vault when we went to stay at the Benson Estate. Isadora went to Russia later, with Irma. She married Esenin, but things didn’t work out for her there.

Whatever happens in your life, I want you to remember what Isadora said to me, “The only thing that matters is beauty: the pursuit of beauty to make all of life beautiful.” ’

The Sunday after we arrived in Sydney, I took Vladimir down to

Bondi Beach. The tatty pastel buildings, like the remnants of a seaside resort

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from the 1930’s, stretched around the crescent of the bay. We walked along between the sand and the Bather’s Pavilion and I saw it through new eyes: the deep, emerald sea, the power of the waves crashing onto the beach, squawking seagulls fighting for left over fish and chips; a child’s multi- coloured kite against a sky that seemed impossibly blue. Near naked sunbathers were stretched out on the sand, like fish laid to dry in the sun.

Vladimir was so tall, pale and serious, as he drank it all in. He squeezed my hand and turned towards me, eyes shining.

‘I have never seen the sea,’ he said. ‘I could not imagine it was so vast.’

Isadora, September 14, 1927

The day was bright and windy. Small white caps marked the progress of the waves. There was a wash of water over onto the promenade as the long, sleek Bugatti sped by. The Italian driver was proud of his new job. He had met the dancer Isadora Duncan and her friend Mary Desti in a café the previous day and offered to take them for a test drive. Only Isadora had accepted. Now she was here, next to him, as he showed her the marvels of the new machine.

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A stream of silk unfurled; a yellow bird seeming to fly along the two yard length of red batik scarf. There was a glorious moment that encapsulated perfection; the clear day, the proximity of an attractive man; the excitement of speed.

And then the wind dropped and the scarf fell; the fringe finding itself in the vicinity of the wheel, reached out to touch it. A fraction of a second and the spokes of the wheel caught the silk, pulling the noose tight around the swan-like neck of the woman who wore it. The sudden snap of bone could not be heard above the noise of the engine.

Isadora watched in surprise. It was such a small thing, a death. She could see her body below, splayed back in the seat as though asleep, and hear the horrified shouts of the young mechanic who had, inadvertently, killed the greatest living dancer.

Living no longer. Yet, the wind caught and held her, transporting her essence, no more than a sigh.

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Works Cited

1.Duncan, Isadora My Life Liveright New York 199, pg. 61

2.Duncan, Isadora Isadora Speaks City Lights Books, San Francisco 1981, pg. 123

3.Steegmuller, Francis ed. “Your Isadora” Random House 1974, pg. 26

4. Duncan, Isadora My Life Liveright New York 199 pg. 136

5. Steegmuller, Francis ed. “Your Isadora” Random House 1974 pg. 32

6. Duncan, Isadora Isadora Speaks City Lights Books, San Francisco 1981 pg. 134

7.Duncan, Isadora Isadora Speaks City Lights Books, San Francisco 1981 pg. 129

8. Duncan, Isadora Isadora Speaks City Lights Books, San Francisco 198, pg.124

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Bibliography

Blair, Fredrika Isadora: Portrait of the Artist as a Woman Equation, 1986

Desti, Mary The Untold Story: The Life of Isadora Duncan 1921-1927 DaCapo Press, 1981

Duncan, Anna In the Footsteps of Isadora Dansmuseet 1995

Duncan, Doree, ed. Life Into Art Norton and Company 1993

Duncan, Isadora Isadora Speaks City Lights Books, San Francisco 1981

Duncan, Isadora My Life Liveright New York 1995

Duncan, Isadora The Art of the Dance Theatre Arts, 1998

Duncan, Irma The Technique of Isadora Duncan Dance Horizons, undated

Kurth, Peter Isadora Little Brown 2001

Seroff, Victor Ilyitich The Real Isadora Doubleday 1971

Loewenthal, Lillian The Search for Isadora: The Legend and Legacy of Isadora Duncan Princeton Book Company, 1993

Murray, Douglas Bosie: The Biography of Lord Alfred Douglas Hodder and Stoughton, 2000

Shnider Ilya Ilych Isadora Duncan: The Russian Years Harcourt, 1969

Steegmuller, Francis ed. “Your Isadora” Random House 1974

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