No Regrets - Carolyn Burke [70]
A Paris-Presse journalist asked Edith what she thought of the evening. “I’ve felt all sorts of emotions,” she said, “but this goes far beyond them. It’s fantastic to see one of our guys, all alone in the ring among thousands of ‘Ricains’ [Americans], defending our prestige.” She had taken no interest in boxing before; in fact, she hated it. But now that she knew Marcel, she had changed her mind. “It’s not the same, it’s beautiful when he does it.” Having surprised herself by yelling, “Go on, Marcel, kill him!,” she knew what it meant to have “heart trouble.”
Although Edith’s heart trouble was not apparent when she and Marcel came down the gangway from the plane at Orly, it would have been impossible to miss their happiness. Both are radiant in the many photographs taken that day to welcome France’s champions. Just as telling—for those in the know—was Jaubert’s position several steps behind them. When Les Compagnons asked about Edith at their reunion the next day, he said wryly, “With Marcel, it’s not a contest of equals.”
One can imagine Edith’s joy at having found her equal—to her mind, the perfect match. Having been in the maternal role for years, as she nurtured the younger men who claimed her affections, she now felt cherished by someone who would protect her as she had protected others. Marcel would look after her despite the obstacles on their path, his marriage and their place in the public eye as France’s best-known celebrities. Meanwhile, they would present themselves as friends—compatriots whose desire to conquer the United States had brought them together.
Cerdan’s blend of gentleness and strength made Edith go weak at the knees. “I worshipped him like a god,” she wrote. “I would have done anything for him!” Like many strong men, he had a softness that showed in his generosity to those who were weaker than himself. At the same time, his self-confidence allowed him to accept her love tokens, the gold watch, tailored suits, and nubbly sweaters she kept knitting and tucking into his suitcase to bring him luck. Marcel’s purity of spirit, seemingly untainted by success, made her feel utterly safe in his presence.
What was more, they had an intuitive understanding of each other’s professions. Both had come from nothing and made their way to the top while retaining an innate modesty. (Perhaps remembering Aîcha’s flea circus, Piaf laughed out loud when Cerdan told her about his pig farm.) Both knew what it meant to stand before the volatile public. Just as Edith took possession of the stage to establish communion with her audience, so Marcel occupied the ring like the celebrant of some ancient rite. Being the cynosure of all eyes allowed both to know the mixed state of trance and solitude often felt by those who perform in public.
Cerdan fell for Piaf’s charm, her talent, and her conviction that what mattered more than anything was passionate love. He deeply admired the little singer. “Just look at her,” he often said. “How can such a big voice belong to such a tiny woman?” He confessed to a friend that she had shown him what love was; he was besotted, she “had gotten under his skin.” Cerdan asked only that their liaison be kept secret to spare Marinette, his wife. Accepting his conditions, Edith said that she had no intention of breaking up their marriage; the few journalists in the know honored the boxer’s request.
Soon after their return to Paris, Edith rented an apartment where they could live together discreetly. Its location—in the sixteenth arrondissement, near the Auteuil Church—may have recalled the days when, accompanied by Momone, she sang for the residents of this bourgeois quartier. What mattered most, she told her old friend (Momone having been reinstated in her good graces at this propitious moment), was to provide privacy for Marcel