Every Man for Himself - Beryl Bainbridge [45]
Adele was perfectly at ease in our company, sipping champagne and dabbing at the corners of her plum-coloured lips with a scarlet sleeve peppered with moth-holes. She said she had been disconcerted at first by the brisk tempo set by the violinist. When she had last sung the aria – it was at a concert given by the staff of Fenwicks – it had gone slower. She had also held a fan which had been used to some effect to signify the motion of the waves fluttering towards the harbour. We agreed this was a masterly touch and tut-tutted our regret at having missed it.
Lady Duff Gordon asked whether she would be appearing at a concert hall in New York. If she was it would be simplicity itself to arrange a supper party afterwards.
‘That would be kind,’ Adele said, ‘but I have decided to retire from the stage. My voice is not in any way remarkable.’
‘But you have such presence,’ cried Lady Duff Gordon, ‘such charisma. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cio-Cio-San portrayed better, and I include the great Madame Krusceniski.’ She was so anxious to convey the sincerity of her praise that she leaned across and seized Adele by the wrist. ‘My dear,’ she insisted, ‘you have a stroke of genius.’
‘I don’t wish to sing any more,’ Adele said. ‘I no longer feel the finger stroke of love.’
I was puzzling over this pretentious phrase when Rosenfelder demanded matches for his cigar; he had used up his own in lighting the candles. Digging into my pocket I spilled the contents on to the table. The snapshot thrust upon me in Manchester Square fell face down beside the keys to Princes Gate. On the back was written in pencil, To G.R. from A.B, 1909. Rosenfelder was reaching out for the matches – I caught the glint of his signet ring – when Adele roughly pushed his hand away. Stabbing at the square of card with her finger, she asked, ‘How did you come by this?’ Her colourless eyes, outlined in black, stared into my soul.
‘It’s a curious story,’ I replied, somewhat startled, and told it, after which Adele picked up the snapshot, stood, swayed, clutched at the table, dislodging a glass in the process, and drifted backwards to the floor.
Scurra appeared out of nowhere and knelt at her side. He touched her neck with the back of his hand and felt the pulse in her wrist. That wretched dog trotted over to see what was up and he kicked it away like a man getting rid of mud on his shoe.
Adele recovered quickly. She apologised for alarming Lady Duff Gordon and was led away by Scurra who seated her in a far corner of the room and fanned her with a napkin. Lady Duff Gordon told everyone within hearing that Adele was a sensitive artiste. Her husband frowned and seemed offended by the whole business, but then, it was his glass Adele had knocked over. Rosenfelder was mystified. ‘I thought it was you who would faint,’ he told me. ‘Your face was as white as hers. What was on the photograph? Who is this man who died on the pavement?’
I might have enlightened him if Scurra hadn’t beckoned. Adele was smiling. As I sat down beside her she cried out, ‘Thank you, thank you, my dear friend;’ seizing my hand she kissed it. She begged to hear the whole story again, and interrupted constantly. What had happened to his coat? Had the police removed it from the railings? Did he utter her name? Had he suffered? Heart attacks were painful, were they not? To this last question Scurra answered that strokes were worse. A cardiac arrest such as her lover appeared to have had would cause no more than a few seconds of discomfort. She asked me what the children had been singing.
‘What children?’
‘The ones going into the park over the road.’
‘I don’t think they were singing,’ I faltered. ‘It was just the way their voices sounded at a distance.’
‘Like bells,’ she remarked. ‘Like tinkling bells.’ She thanked me once more and said