“I remember it like it was yesterday. I felt like I was the most wanted man in Warsaw. I jumped every time I heard a noise and walked through the station with my back to the wall like the world’s worst spy. I finally got on a train without being stopped and made my way to the bar so I could hide amongst the crowd; that way, if a ticket inspector came in I’d have time to hide. I didn’t have a ticket. The journey seemed to last forever. I didn’t sleep a wink the whole night and changed cars every half hour so I wouldn’t get caught. I think that even if I’d had a ticket, the excitement of the adventure would have kept me awake. I had nothing with me but a few verses from the Torah. Even though I’d come from quite a well-off family, being penniless didn’t scare me. On the contrary, it was a chance for me to prove that I was capable of facing the world alone. After a few hours I could barely stand. I finally found a free seat in third class and dozed beside a very nice family who said they’d wake me if there was any danger. At first light, I woke to see the sunlight over the beet fields. I hadn’t realised it, but I’d left my home country. There was no hope left for me in Poland; the country seemed to me like a mother unfit to protect her children.”
“So you just left your family behind without a care?” Stella queried, forgetting herself.
“I hadn’t heard from my parents in years. They banished me from Krakow due to my...inclinations. I’d been living with my aunt. She was a loner, an old widow who lived modestly and spent all her days composing. Music was her only passion, and she rarely went out. She still had a few friends in high places in the Conservatory; in her day she was beautiful and talented, and some of them remembered her that way. It broke my heart to leave her, but she begged me to go. She wanted the best for me and said that she could see a great future ahead of me.”
“Why did you come to Paris?”
“I’d always heard people talking about Paris, and one of my friends had studied here. He described it as the brightest, most plentiful city you could imagine. ‘It’s a place of music, of culture, a city on the rise,’ he told me. You know, I was never even able to finish my studies at the Warsaw Conservatory, despite the help from my aunt’s friends. One day, out of the blue, I got a letter hinting that I shouldn’t come back. They didn’t say why, but I knew the reason. I locked myself in my room for weeks and composed; I was in a fury. I had loved the Conservatory, but now I wanted to burn it to the ground. But back to the journey. I was on the train, dreaming of the future. I spoke Polish, Russian, Yiddish and a little English, but not a word of French. I had no idea how I would communicate, but I hardly cared. I was free. I’d let my music do the talking. When the train rolled into the Gare de l’Est, it was early morning. I sat looking at the great glass roof for hours. I wanted that moment to stay in my memory forever. I’ve always liked to frame those symbolic moments and keep the places safe in my mind. That’s how I give my life meaning, and where I find my inspiration. Then I set out along the path of life and sat myself down at a café beside the station. I lit a cigarette — I still smoked then — and the waiter came over and started talking to me. He didn’t stop, and I understood not a word. All of a sudden he stopped; he must have known that I wasn’t French when he saw my pack of cigarettes. I smiled at him, not knowing what to say. He came back with a coffee and a croissant — he must have decided that’s what everyone gets when they arrive!”
“What a story,” Stella gasped. “You really left everything behind and just got on a train.”
“I learn more about you every day,” said Giovanni, impatient to hear more.
“You yourself have a rather unique story; we seem to both be adventurers!” Aleksander smiled.
“But your story isn’t finished, Monsieur Spielman — please continue. I’m eager to hear how you came to be as we find you today,” said Stella eagerly, squeezing Giovanni’s hand.
“I’d told one of my old friends from the Conservatory that I was coming; he was playing for the orchestra at the Paris Opera,” Aleksander Spielman went on. “He was a pianist like myself, and we both had an eye for handsome young men, so those were two things we had in common. He welcomed me with open arms. I was broke, but he was nice enough not to make me feel like it. I never wanted to live on charity, so I went out looking for work straight away. I played in the cafés, in the stations and in the cinemas where they still played silent films. I didn’t earn much, but it was enough to buy myself Polish pickles at a shop I found in the Latin Quarter, and to give my friend flowers on the nights he performed. It was a bohemian existence. Andrei, my host, would sometimes take me to the Dome to meet other artists; people would drink all night there. The painters came to show their latest works, and sometimes a few charitable souls would buy them if they could. I also met several poets and writers who never made it big, despite their talent. I can’t even remember their names now; fallen into obscurity, and no doubt the lives of low repute they were already on the verge of. I had some fleeting love affairs; nothing serious of course, but they all helped me improve my French. There’s no better way to learn a language than through love.”
“You must have met a lot of men — your French is perfect!” laughed Stella.
“I met enough to never really know most of them.”
“You’re very funny, Monsieur Spielman,” she decided as she finished her glass of Champagne. “I had no idea. But you still haven’t finished. Do go on.”
“I was telling you about the Dome, the best café in Montparnasse. But the Dome isn’t what it used to be...back in those days you could get a plate of Toulouse sausage and mash for less than three francs. It was a bargain for impoverished artists like myself. Andrei came to add to his collection of nudes.”
“But how did you become so famous?” Giovanni asked. “I still don’t know.”
“It was a stroke of luck for me, and a stroke of ill fortune for Andrei. They made me his understudy for the Opera orchestra. His predilection for young artists eventually meant he fell victim to what they call the ‘lovers’ disease’: syphilis. He was in hospital for a few weeks, and I took his place in the orchestra. I was ready to prove my worth, and, I must admit, show that I was more talented than my friend. It worked, and someone noticed me. His name was Simon Delavallère. He was the son of one of the biggest theatre directors in Paris. He came to find me in the Procope café when the other musicians and I were celebrating our latest performance. He was cold and scornful and acted like it was a great kindness for him to come to me since I had no fame and no graces, but he was in dire need of a pianist to accompany a French singer at a show the next day. I accepted immediately; it was an incredible opportunity. I spent several weeks working with that singer, and we toured all over France. I even composed a few pieces for her. She became a true friend, and she was the one who really helped my career to take off, even though she needed me. She introduced me to that hermetic inner circle of classical musicians, and one thing led to another...”
“Was it hard during the Occupation?” Stella inquired.
“Certainly. We all had to do things we would sooner forget.”
Alan Alfredo Geday