cigarette girls exchanging banter with the young men. Then Carmen entered to sing Habanera. She was provocative and irresistible.
L’amour est un oiseau rebelle
Que nul ne peut apprivoiser,
Et c’est bien in vain qu’on l’appelle
S’il lui convient de refuser.
My heart proclaimed her words,
Love is a rebellious bird that cannot be tamed.
At length, Camille returned to the stage. Her small, perfectly formed body crept slowly towards her lover. She handed him a letter from his mother and slowly and deliberately planted a kiss on his cheek. She sang Parle-moi de ma mere and her soft voice filled the theatre. I resisted tears as she clasped her hands to her breasts and pleaded with him to return. Her song filled me with beauty.
O memories of long ago
memories of the country!
Fill his heart
with strength and courage
O cherished memories!
Three hours later I stood on the steps of the theatre, clutching my programme. I was overwhelmed. My eyes stung, my heart ached and my mind was saturated with music. People filed past me showing their enjoyment. I didn’t quite know what to do. It had been my intention to meet Camille but now I felt completely inadequate and unworthy of her attention. I noticed some people running down the side of the theatre to the Stage Door. For a moment, I contemplated returning home but decided instead to follow them.
I had to wait for twenty minutes to see her. Carmen emerged first and the crowd became ecstatic, “bravo, bravo” , they shouted! She was much older than her photograph suggested yet she was still beautiful and she obviously adored the adulation. She wore a long black velvet coat with a red scarf hanging loosely around her neck. Her thick black hair bounced lightly on her shoulders as she laughed and gave her autograph. I did not approach her. I was looking behind to where Camille stood almost completely ignored. She wore a pale yellow coat with a white fur collar trim. Her long blonde hair cascaded around her face. I pushed my way through the crowd and thrust my programme towards her.
“Mademoiselle, if you please!” She looked surprised. I quickly pulled the pen from my pocket and offered it to her.
“Merci, Monsieur. What is your name?”
“Paul! Paul Politzer.”
She scribbled something, returned the programme and began examining my pen.
“What a beautiful Lalex. My mother had one!”
“Merci, Mademoiselle.”
She smiled and almost reluctantly returned it to me. I read what she had written.
To Paul, with much appreciation, Camille Berman.
She had written it clearly in perfectly formed letters. I savoured her words blissfully unaware that her group was moving off towards the main street. When I finally realised they were no longer with me I was at a loss as what to do. Then quite unexpectedly Camille ran back towards me.
“We are going to La Coupole . You are welcome to join us.”
I tried to smile but could only manage a ludicrous grin.
“Well? Are you coming?”
She waited for me to join her.
“What do you do?” she enquired.
“I am a humble artist”, I replied.
She laughed and ran to Jose linking his arm. I became nervous and feared my interest in her would soon be thwarted. We continued walking. Carmen was telling everyone what she thought of the production and the theatre. At one point she began mimicking the director as he rehearsed with her.
“Frau Hartmaan, I need more passion; more of your hands and your beautiful black hair!”
“We all know how good you are with your hands Cecilia”, quipped Jose.
“Oh Alex, now we all know how bad you are at keeping secrets”, Cecilia retorted.
We came to La Coupole. I knew this was the place of Hemmingway, Joyce, Picasso, Sartre and de Beauvoir. As I walked through the door I noticed a large plaque on the wall and paused to read it.
La Coupole is a temple of Art Deco with a simplicity and faithfulness to French tradition, boasting a taste for
L’amour est un oiseau rebelle
Que nul ne peut apprivoiser,
Et c’est bien in vain qu’on l’appelle
S’il lui convient de refuser.
My heart proclaimed her words,
Love is a rebellious bird that cannot be tamed.
At length, Camille returned to the stage. Her small, perfectly formed body crept slowly towards her lover. She handed him a letter from his mother and slowly and deliberately planted a kiss on his cheek. She sang Parle-moi de ma mere and her soft voice filled the theatre. I resisted tears as she clasped her hands to her breasts and pleaded with him to return. Her song filled me with beauty.
O memories of long ago
memories of the country!
Fill his heart
with strength and courage
O cherished memories!
Three hours later I stood on the steps of the theatre, clutching my programme. I was overwhelmed. My eyes stung, my heart ached and my mind was saturated with music. People filed past me showing their enjoyment. I didn’t quite know what to do. It had been my intention to meet Camille but now I felt completely inadequate and unworthy of her attention. I noticed some people running down the side of the theatre to the Stage Door. For a moment, I contemplated returning home but decided instead to follow them.
I had to wait for twenty minutes to see her. Carmen emerged first and the crowd became ecstatic, “bravo, bravo” , they shouted! She was much older than her photograph suggested yet she was still beautiful and she obviously adored the adulation. She wore a long black velvet coat with a red scarf hanging loosely around her neck. Her thick black hair bounced lightly on her shoulders as she laughed and gave her autograph. I did not approach her. I was looking behind to where Camille stood almost completely ignored. She wore a pale yellow coat with a white fur collar trim. Her long blonde hair cascaded around her face. I pushed my way through the crowd and thrust my programme towards her.
“Mademoiselle, if you please!” She looked surprised. I quickly pulled the pen from my pocket and offered it to her.
“Merci, Monsieur. What is your name?”
“Paul! Paul Politzer.”
She scribbled something, returned the programme and began examining my pen.
“What a beautiful Lalex. My mother had one!”
“Merci, Mademoiselle.”
She smiled and almost reluctantly returned it to me. I read what she had written.
To Paul, with much appreciation, Camille Berman.
She had written it clearly in perfectly formed letters. I savoured her words blissfully unaware that her group was moving off towards the main street. When I finally realised they were no longer with me I was at a loss as what to do. Then quite unexpectedly Camille ran back towards me.
“We are going to La Coupole . You are welcome to join us.”
I tried to smile but could only manage a ludicrous grin.
“Well? Are you coming?”
She waited for me to join her.
“What do you do?” she enquired.
“I am a humble artist”, I replied.
She laughed and ran to Jose linking his arm. I became nervous and feared my interest in her would soon be thwarted. We continued walking. Carmen was telling everyone what she thought of the production and the theatre. At one point she began mimicking the director as he rehearsed with her.
“Frau Hartmaan, I need more passion; more of your hands and your beautiful black hair!”
“We all know how good you are with your hands Cecilia”, quipped Jose.
“Oh Alex, now we all know how bad you are at keeping secrets”, Cecilia retorted.
We came to La Coupole. I knew this was the place of Hemmingway, Joyce, Picasso, Sartre and de Beauvoir. As I walked through the door I noticed a large plaque on the wall and paused to read it.
La Coupole is a temple of Art Deco with a simplicity and faithfulness to French tradition, boasting a taste for
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