Lola Montez and the Poisoned Nom de Plume (2 page)

We were in northern Poland, nearing the German border and, ultimately, Hamburg, because—well, why not? Hamburg seemed as good a place as any other to try my chances. Finding a warmer winter was the imperative now.

The drivers claimed this was one of the coldest in memory, and I could believe it. Wild animals were coming into the towns in search of food; there was nothing to be had in their usual foraging places. As we’d been leaving Klaipėda a few days earlier, the handsomest driver had told me he’d entered the stables at dawn to find he’d arrived in the nick of time. Two wolves, very thin, were standing there boldly in the middle of the barn. They’d bared their teeth when they saw him, then thought better of it, squeezed themselves back under the barn door, and ran off—but the horses in their stalls were crazed with fear. We’d gotten away late that day, and at noon, when we stopped for a rest and I’d jumped out to stretch, I went up to speak to the nervous animals. The fear had not left them. They knew they were standing targets, bound by harness and reins, or corralled in small, square spaces. Unable to flee.

Inside the sleigh as it hissed along over the snow, my own legs were twitching and jerking with frustrated energy. Oh God, where was the next resting stop? I’ve always been accustomed to strenuous exercise, and this enforced confinement, day after day, had become unbearable! Seated to my left—and leaning (once again) upon my shoulder—was a hirsute gentleman with ferociously-waxed grey facial adornments. He was very heavy and breathed through his open mouth, wafting nauseating sausage fumes into the confined space. Again, I shoved him away; he swayed over to lean upon the chunky woman to his left (
gracias a Dios
). Rolling my shoulders in circles, I tried to ease the knots his weight had caused. Old bugger boots, I decided. If he leans on me one more time, I’m going to jab him! I meant it, too. Then—oh,
nom de Dieu!

“I’m so sorry, I do apologize,” I murmured, yanking my foot back. It had jerked out, in a spasm, and caught the big woman opposite a good one on the shin. She glared, rubbing the spot with short fingers, murmuring a German curse or two. Then she harrumphed loudly and closed her eyes. I rolled mine, saying a short, soundless prayer of thankfulness that I didn’t look like the fattened Frau: that I had a vivacious body and a clever mind, that I was young and beautiful with high, pert breasts and a slender waist, thank you very much, and that I enjoyed myself immensely in bed, with a dashing young blade and the pleasures he could give me and that I could give back—may those days return with all haste and
pronto
,
por favor
. I sniffed and looked around. It was no good. The well-padded burghers travelling with me felt no discomfort or restlessness, nor did they have any interest in conversation to help pass the time. No one to talk to, every sausage-fed one of them sound asleep. And every mother’s son of them over fifty years of age, too, looking as if they’d had neither a twinkle in their eyes nor a twitch between their legs for decades! What was the point of that? Dammit!

I was alone with my thoughts, silenced and immobile and clothed in layers upon layers of bulky winter wear—three of my least favourite things. Plus! The date on the calendar, glanced at that morning as we’d left the latest cockamamie hotel, said February the 14
^th
. St. Valentine’s is the date I long ago chose to celebrate my birthday, because it is a day for lovers. Now here it was, St. Valentine’s Day, with no valentine in sight! My brain banged about in sudden alarm: that also means—I’m twenty-four?
Merde!
How could that be, so soon? I’m not ready to be twenty-four, I’ve accomplished nothing of import. Before long I’ll be old, and then what? Rumbling through nowhere, celebrated by no one. Ridiculous imposter! Thrashing about, desperate, unloved, unwanted…

Worst of all, I was on the verge of believing these final detracting barbs, which came at me in my estranged mother’s hectoring, Irish tones. The words went on and on in my head, silencing any possible
joie de vivre
: you’ve been batting around Europe for the past eight months, a rudderless vessel about to capsize. Why are you running? You, who pride yourself on your bravado and daring. Hah! You’ve lost your nerve, that’s why.

Diablo!
At this, my thoughts began buzzing ferociously, like bees trapped in a jar. And is it any wonder, I huffed. The dreadful events lived through in Spain have left their mark. I barely escaped with my life. And yet, I have been brave, I’ve carried on. I tried to begin again—me!—Eliza Gilbert, Irish girl, transformed through her own efforts into Doña Maria Dolores de Porris y Montez, Spanish danseuse. A début in London, at Her Majesty’s Theatre! It was my pledge, to handsome, beloved Diego… At this, a hitch of the heart brought the sudden and dreadful realization: St. Valentine’s Day… Just one year ago today. We’d spent my birthday in the stable, making love all night long, my horse blowing gusts of hay-sweet breath upon us…

Don’t.
¡Imbécil! Mujer estúpida,
don’t torture yourself. I pinched myself sharply on the thigh, blinking hard. But, oh God, is it true?
Have
I lost my nerve? Shivering, I stared out at the ice-pelleted snow, now hurling itself against the sleigh’s window in staccato volleys.

In London, following the début, further calamity had struck, and I’d needed to get as far away as I possibly could. I accepted an invitation—an escape route, and the first one to hand—to travel to the continent with bumbling Saxon booby, Prince Heinrich the Seventy-Second: a brief visit to his wee fiefdom of Ebershoof-Clovenbum or whatever the hell it was. From there, I’d never stopped moving, all over Europe… Eight months of it now. And where was I going? Just following my nose. But why did I keep getting into so much trouble? In the various cities I’d passed through chaotically, I’d danced a few times, but never seemed to hit the mark. I’d tried different theatres, but kept being “released” from my engagements. Barbarians, I’d told myself—but maybe they sensed…?

Ignoring the icy rat-a-tat-tats against the window, I sat up very straight and took a deep breath. Time to pep up now, dammit, I thought, so never mind all that. Paris is my target.
La Ville Lumière
calls like a beacon, for its beauty and its liberal attitudes. I need to perfect my repertoire first, and perhaps my techniques: I just require a tad more dancing finesse. Then, back it came, like an unwelcome belch: but how will you acquire it, stupid, if the conceited apes in charge of things keep firing you and throwing you out?

We were barrelling along. The sky was darkening, becoming dusk. Just at that moment, my eyes registered the snowy landscape beyond the glass and I saw—not twenty yards off—a frozen river, upon which a large, grey wolf with its hackles raised was moving towards a terrified deer, downed upon the ice. The deer, in fleeing from its predator, must have slipped. Its delicate front legs had splayed beneath it, almost certainly breaking them. It waited, immobile, propped on its chest. The wolf was circling slowly, fangs revealed. Languidly, with an almost obscene pleasure, it seemed to be weighing the merits of the final approach. As we galloped past, the last thing I saw was the deer, its innocent muzzle resting on the ice, being savagely ripped apart from the haunches up. Other grey shadows were loping out of the trees to join their brother in the feasting and the live dismemberment. Our horses, obviously aware of the feral scene, took off wildly, charging down the road, sleigh lurching and passengers crying out in sudden consternation. I could hear shouts from the driver as he struggled to bring the horses back under control. Nauseated by the sight, I touched my fingers to the front of my waistband, feeling for the closed flick knife I carry embedded there. It is four inches of very thin blade, like a stiletto, sharp as a razor, folded into itself. Yes, pistols are fabulous, but can be unreliable in the heat of the moment (as I’d learned to my cost in Spain): I never go anywhere now without the cold reassurance of that little switchblade. Not that such a small knife could have stopped a hungry wolf, I thought, gulping—how could it? I could hardly breathe.

Oh God. The unbearable fear that I had been pushing down and out of sight with all of my strength had just loped out into the open and bared its fangs for me to face.

That big wolf, now filling itself with live meat, was the animal double of the human predator who’d stalked and very nearly devoured me. Eyes tightly closed but tears leaking through, I mourned for that poor deer. The violence and indifference of nature—that’s what I’d encountered in Spain. Fleeing, and falling, then ripped apart. My strength and confidence had been eaten away, and they were qualities I desperately needed to survive. I’d had them in spades: where had they gone?

I came to with a jolt as I heard the driver hollering in a commanding voice, “Whoa now, whoa there!” Not long thereafter, the vehicle began slowing. The burghers in the coach with me began straining to peer out the windows. Sausage-breath was pushing me into the upholstery—
¡hijo de puta!
—his hand nearing my breast in a scrabbling manner. “
Atento!
” I snarled, jabbing him savagely with my elbow. He retreated, slightly, and I took the opportunity to look out. There were lights, not many, but a few, dotting the night. Unbelievable, but we seemed to have reached some half-assed town. Suddenly, there was a street—with shops, by God. All closed, since it was late—but still, an actual street. People! Lights! Activity!
¡Fabulosa, por favor!
The team of horses were brought to a halt in front of a coaching house; I heard them snorting and stamping their hooves in the snow, lathered and perturbed, needing attention. Several of the burghers immediately tried to jostle their way out, two men getting jammed in the doorway together in their sudden haste to be gone. The woman I’d kicked was staring at me belligerently, as if daring me to do so again. Instead, I got up and poked my head out, then called to the driver in my rudimentary German, “Are we staying long?”

“Changing horses, Fräulein.”

Oh,
gracias por todo.
The stableboys would groom and settle the horses, soothe their fears. Also—hurray and huzzah—this interval meant I could get out and smoke. Another unladylike indulgence that creates quite a stir when I do it, so I do it whenever possible.

Stepping down, I tried to unkink my legs, feeling like a woman of eighty. Limping my way over to the post house, I went inside. It was mayhem in there, but warm. I wandered around, smoking happily and using every facility necessary; also, I was keeping an eye on the driver, who was knocking back a colourless liquid of some description and yammering away at his pals. I encouraged myself with a few hopeful thoughts: now that I recognize the rampant instinct spurring my erratic travels—flee for your life!—perhaps I can calm down, stop failing. I can curtail the bouts of anger which keep bursting forth at inappropriate moments. There and then I made a new vow to return to a happier, former version of myself, that of a strong young woman who can rise from the ashes, create herself all over again if need be, and emerge triumphant—a Venus on the half-shell, with attitude!

Allowing my cramped shoulders to unclench, I wandered, thawing slowly, mingling with sweaty, loud and smelly humanity. I cautiously urged my heart to open: to crack, to let repressed longings bubble up—for love (perhaps), for the return of ambitious dreams, to be known for something stupendous. I wanted it so badly. And I’d come so close… No! Don’t look back. Gazing about, then, for something to spark my interest or someone young to talk to, my eye caught sight of a newspaper abandoned on a table, so—starved for reading material and longing for diversion—I picked it up.

Inside was the usual rubbish, the doom-laden chatter that sells papers: beware the coming crop failures, so-and-so is a rising menace to the civilized world, ladies’ button boots at such and such a price. I was about to place the newspaper down when another notice jumped straight out at me.

“Franz Liszt,” it said, “is beginning a new series of concert hall performances.” Like everyone else, I’d heard of this man—he was the new idol of Europe. Over the past few years, he’d become an absolute sensation. Apparently, his female admirers purchased trinkets with his likeness and wore them everywhere; they devoured cakes in the shape of his piano. They would faint dead away at the actual sight and sound of him, playing his music, or even in passing. His phenomenal success as a pianist and the furor of his celebrity was being referred to as “Lisztomania.” What kind of man could he be, to cause such turmoil? Interest piqued, I read on, holding the paper into the light. The likeness revealed him to be angular, thin, with long hair. Not particularly handsome but—so it seemed—overwhelmingly charismatic. Everybody said so. “He will play in Köthen on Saturday, 24 February, and at Dessau on Sunday, 25 February,” the notice declared, then gave the concert hall addresses and other details.

It was as if a large bell suddenly tolled in my head, violently clanging. I did a rapid calculation—forget Hamburg: Dessau is near Dresden, is it not?—then rushed over to speak to the driver. There and then I decided that, no matter what damage it would do to my dwindling funds, I, Lola Montez, must meet this god who had captured and conquered the headstrong runaway called Fame. Whatever it took, I would learn its secrets from him—and whatever else I could get.

Mon Dieu
, the man could play! Sitting in the audience, hardly able to believe that I’d managed to get myself there in time, I let the cascading notes from the piano rejuvenate my spirit. Franz Liszt, in profile, was a demon of intensity; I had never heard anything like the sounds and emotion that he could produce from that inert-looking instrument. His long body was mostly still and concentrated, except for the vibrations of strength and power I could sense emanating from his spine. Occasionally his entire body would burst into action, like watching a kind of spontaneous combustion, then it would calm again, barely rippling, simply vibrating with the sounds he was creating. His hands were spellbinding, as the fingers danced and ripped across the keys with breath-taking speed.