Hedi Kaddour - Waltenberg

The orchestra on the dish that was broken was a genuine orchestra, with trombone, trumpets, violins, and there were real girls dancing everywhere, even a couple on the right pretending to dance who were actually making off in the direction of the wood, a couple seizing their opportunity.

In the plate hanging in front of you, the people are stiff, unbending, there is a wood in the background here too but nobody heading towards it, there’s just a curtain of trees, a rather amateurishly rendered curtain of trees, no one here ready to seize their opportunity, a rather sad scene of jollity.

You’ve remembered, in the other dish time passed in laughter, but that’s because you can remember it, now that’s water under the bridge, forget it. The first country dance scene has disappeared, someone must have looked at the broken pieces one last time before putting them in the bin, Lilstein turns round to look at the dish:

‘This one, young gentleman of France, lacks the colourful rhythm of life.’

*

The way de Vèze and Vassilissa first met was like something out of a novel, a ball no less, in the presence of her uncle, Marshal Soloviev, a ball in Moscow, the Soviets love balls, in the mid-1970s, nostalgia for Tolstoy, full evening dress, not in the Kremlin, nor in the Ministries either, in the British Embassy, some Soviets begin to be fashion conscious, but style for the majority still means bulging paunches, pillowy bosoms and cheap perfume, and when a man is unmarried, like de Vèze, he is required to dance with the wives of Soviet officials or ambassadors’ ladies, a thankless task if you like dancing, mangle a waltz with mature matrons, one or two exceptions but rarely more, it was the number two in the French Embassy, the resident minister, who drew up the pecking order, he doesn’t like women, here’s your dance card, Ambassador, he was really rather pleased to land de Vèze right in it like this.

De Vèze waltzed assiduously for a time then retired to a corner of the room to relax with his old comrade Soloviev, he tries to spot pretty women, meanwhile on the other side of the dance floor, near the refreshment buffet, in the middle of a group of starchy, sagely nodding diplomats, a young woman wonders if the French Ambassador is really that tall man over there wearing tails and a single decoration, which is barely visible, a small green ribbon with black edging, he looks quite young, why did my uncle give him an army salute when he’s not wearing medals? There must be a rule, to be greeted with respect and affection by a marshal of the Soviet Union you must wear a single medal, one is enough; my uncle can’t have made a mistake, maybe it was the light, he himself is wearing a kilo and a half of medals, that’s what my aunt told me, nearly a kilo and a half by the kitchen scales, and even then he’s not wearing them all, he doesn’t want to offend certain comrades.

He’s not talking to this Frenchman as he would to an ambassador, the way he talks to the English Ambassador for example, he puts one hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder just as he would with an old wartime comrade, though I’ve heard that our officials should not have such close contact with foreigners, each time a hand is placed on a foreign shoulder there has to be a report, yet they’re really doing the old pals act, but my uncle looks a great deal older, how old’s the Frenchman?

It’s complicated, my aunt explained it all, I’m only a girl, I’m not allowed to talk to high-ranking foreigners, I may answer if they speak to me, but I mustn’t bother them, I can’t walk over to this Frenchman and ask him why my uncle is putting one hand on his shoulder in that familiar way, I’m here with young people of my own age, artists, young diplomats with big careers ahead of them, to create a happy, carefree atmosphere, but without pestering the grown-ups, and since this Frenchman has better things to do than talk to me, we’ll never talk at all, but he does have style, I’ve got to talk to him, I’m young, it’s a court ball, I’m sixteen years old, my eyes are all a-flutter, I’ve pinned a rose in my hair, my heart is racing, I’m wearing satin slippers, I’ve walked across a red carpet, down a flower-lined staircase, at this moment only the Tsar is on the dance floor and no other couple dares join him, my arms are thin, my breasts are small.

I’m a good dancer, I know that at a ball you have to be asked quickly, I’m not going to be asked, you have to be among the first couples when everyone can still see you, someone is walking diagonally across the room, he’s more than twenty metres away, I blink my eyes to check the tears that are starting, I won’t be asked, he’s a prince, he’s coming this way, he’s coming straight towards us, the room is very big, they say that he’s one of the best dancers of the age, and he’s a hero, he’s going to ask my sister, or my cousin, he’s so handsome, he almost got killed at Austerlitz, he was waving the flag, he’s chosen me, what did he feel when he took me in his arms? we’re dancing, everyone’s looking at us.

No, I’m not sixteen, our present Tsar doesn’t dance any more, he hasn’t for at least thirty years, and I’m thirty, my arms aren’t thin, my hair is fair, I’m a good swimmer, my breasts are large, I could wear a much lower neckline but my aunt looked unhappy when I tried on the other dress, she didn’t say anything, she looked unhappy, that was enough for me, she knows, the only thing she ever dares say is that I could be married, I asked her to find me a hero. For her, it was easy, she saw a hero in 1943, she married him, he worships her, he’s never laid a hand on her, when he gets drunk he sleeps at the Ministry, he’s drinking less and less, I’ve tried to find a husband, nowadays all the men are wimps, they talk about cars, drink hard, get jealous and squash the life out of you on rough sheets, my aunt drove lorries during the battle of Stalingrad, my uncle told me she was a goddess, they had no children, they’d like grand-nephews and — nieces, the Frenchman looked at me, I’m sure he did, are there any other good-looking women here tonight?

There are all these Western women, not all, but some are really beautiful, on the skinny side, and there are our women artists whom the Westerners always manage to invite, I’m not a dancer and I’m not a violinist, but I’m positive that I must look very pretty when I’m loved, I am a very good mathematician, more often than not I don’t need to work out my calculations, I just see them, apparently this ability doesn’t last beyond thirty-five, but for the moment it’s working well, and I can play the cello, I should play more often, where did they get these pyramids of cherries? Nobody dares touch them.

That dancer from the Bolshoi has obviously spotted the Frenchman, she hasn’t taken her eyes off him, dancers are shameless, they know that people make all sorts of allowances for them, this one is old, she’s a star but she’s old, that’s why she often puts a hand up to one cheek, because of her white glove, not far off forty, and skinny, her back is very arched, and she’s smiling at him, I always wanted to be able to walk like a ballerina, she turns her back to him, she’s skinny but you can see how her body is already beginning to sag.

The Frenchman is looking at her, he must be thinking that she walks well, men only see what interests them, ballerinas can do anything with their pelvis, it’s true that I don’t walk well, I’ve been told I shuffle, but my shoulders go all stiff when I try not to shuffle, what I need is a firmer, more springy step, then my buttocks won’t flop this way and that, the ballerina from the Bolshoi has vanished and now the Frenchman is chatting to my uncle.

‘In my capacity as a marshal of the Soviet Union, I’m going to give you a confidential mission, tovarich de Vèze, and you will obey, so drink up and ask my niece to dance, she’s the pretty blonde, the tall one, over there, who is smiling across the room, dance with her and tell her how wicked you Westerners are. She believes foreign men are more gentle than Russian men, she’s attractive, she’s unmarried, she’s a great worry to me and my wife, she won’t listen, she does maths, in this country we treat mathematicians like sacred cows.