The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr

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      Sylvie

      A star is born

      Ville Canfort-Terre, France

      1926

      A loud, roaring crescendo coming from the old church organ draws me to sneak inside the stuffy movie theater. I’m missing the best part of the film. The heroine is tied to the railroad tracks and is about to get run over by a train… or a rogue sea captain is holding her tight in his arms and proclaiming his undying love.

      I slide my fingers over the lever at the backdoor entrance… and giggle. It’s unlocked. I pull down the lever when—

      ‘Your ticket, madame,’ a man grumbles behind me. Insistent, coughing.

      I turn, smile big, showing him my teeth smudged with burnt ash. ‘It’s me, Monsieur Durand… Sylvie.’

      ‘Ah, but of course, my Sylvie…’ He winks. ‘I didn’t recognize you, mademoiselle.’

      He’s lying, but it’s a game we play. ‘Merci, monsieur, what do you think of my disguise?’

      ‘Wonderful, Sylvie,’ Claude Durand is quick to add. ‘You’re as good as any actor I’ve seen in pictures.’

      I strike a dramatic pose with my nose up in the air and wild hand gestures. He laughs. I like him. He’s a good-hearted old soul who turns a blind eye to my escapades.

      ‘Ah, you’ve got a fine talent for pretending, mamselle.’ He lights up a Gauloise and draws it deep into his lungs. I frown. I wish he’d stop smoking; his cough is getting worse. ‘I saw that in you the first time you snuck into my theater and tried to convince me your little sister was lost and had wandered in. You were… thirteen, non?’

      ‘I was just a child then, monsieur.’ I stick out my chest. ‘Now, I’m a woman.’

      His eyes turn serious. ‘Even an old braggart can see you’ve got a real talent for mimicking those actresses up there on the screen, Sylvie. You’re better than the lot of them. Be careful of those who’d take advantage of you. You’re a beautiful girl and with that angel-white hair of yours hanging down your back in that long braid, you make an old man wish he were young.’

      I feel my cheeks tint pink as I push back wisps of unruly hair sticking to my forehead and sling my braid over my left shoulder. ‘You flatter me, Monsieur Durand, but I’m not interested in men of any age… only acting.’

      He puffs on his cigarette, thinking. ‘Then follow that road and don’t look back, no matter where it takes you.’ He exhales a perfect ring of smoke, then smiles. ‘Now get on inside the theater before the picture is over. It’s one of your favorites, Mesdames en feu.’ He chuckles and opens the door of his private entrance then bows from the waist, inviting me in. ‘Free of charge,’ he insists, as always. I sometimes think he believes I’m his lost daughter. He’s always warning me to watch out for ‘bad men with pretty bedtime stories’ promising me fame and fortune, but I don’t mind because I know he speaks from his heart.

      I can’t get enough of going to the pictures. I cherish these moments sitting in the dark with the magical light coming from the projector behind me, wrapping me up in a spiritual place between dreams and reality. A place where I can be free in my thoughts. And my heart.

      The Order of the Sisters of Benevolent Mercy took me in when I was une petite jeune fille of three when my mother had to give me up – a grand drama in itself, or so Sister Vincent tells me. I don’t have any recollection of it and it’s too late to ask my mother since she died in a fire afterward. All the records were destroyed.

      I swear Sister Ursula, the Mother Superior, has been there that long.

      She makes it her business to order me about; she has me working on my knees scrubbing the stone floors until they bleed, or burning my hands in hot water in the laundry. She’s so crotchety and mean. I don’t know why she hates me so much unless it’s because my mother was an aristocrat.

      She’ll send me to my cell for days without food or water if she finds out I sneaked out today (I conned Sister Vincent), but the movie theater is where I come alive, acting out roles where I can lose myself. I find the challenge of becoming somebody else exhilarating, which is why I hobbled my way to the private entrance at the back of the Théâtre Durand with a hickory branch I found as a cane, the long, ivory lace veil Sister Vincent made for my Confirmation day when I was fourteen, draped over my head and shoulders (it’s my favorite prop), and blueberry juice rubbed on my cheeks. Burnt chestnut leaves mixed with olive oil ring around my eyes for dramatic effect and voilà, I’m a woman of an indeterminate age, as Sister Vincent would say. I may be only sixteen, but motion pictures have taught me so much about life, I can play anyone.

      Every time I say that, the sister smiles and rolls her eyes.

      I love the jovial nun so much. She’s kind and the reason I haven’t run away from the convent – yet. She helps me slip away to the cinema, finding excuses to bring me with her when she goes into town to buy fresh lamb and apples and pears for the convent kitchen. I left her in the textile shop ordering silken and linen thread and pins to replenish the cupboards to make the beautiful handmade lace the sisters are known for.

      Which gives me at least twenty minutes or so before she comes looking for me.

      I rush into the darkness of the theater in my usual wild manner and bump into a large man standing off to the side near the stage. I can’t help but sneak a peek at the stranger when he steps into the light streaming in from the creaking iron door. I get a good look at him. Heavyset, wearing a white Panama hat with a black satin band pulled down low over his face, a dark grey, pin-striped suit like I’ve seen in the gangster flicks.

      The strong smell of his lit cigar makes me hold my breath.

      ‘Pardon, madame,’ he tips his hat, respectful. ‘May I be of assistance?’

      I giggle. He bought it. Bon. He thought I was an old lady.

      Wrinkling my nose and completely in character, I say in a raspy voice, ‘No harm done, young monsieur.’

      I stifle a giggle and go about my way, limping for effect, knowing how you make an exit is just as important as your entrance. It is, I’m proud to say, a success. I’m curious why a patron would stand in the wings where he can’t see the screen very well. The cozy theater holds about a hundred and fifty moviegoers and has a small stage platform in front of the screen for live acts.

      I toss my braid over the other shoulder and forget about the stranger. I hover off to the side of the screen upstage where I’m nearly invisible in the dark. Once I see what’s happening on the silver screen, I can’t look away. A fancy party with beautiful people having such a lovely time flashes before my eyes. Flappers in beads and fringe and their beaux in black tuxes, smoking and flaunting champagne flutes and whooping it up at a supper club. We can’t hear their laughter, but the organist loosens his collar, foot-stepping on the pedals, hands flying over the keyboard to keep up with the raucous goings-on up on the screen. His lively tune begs to be heard over the audience filled with rowdy kids, whistling and hollering.

      It’s too much for two elderly ladies. Shaking their heads, they get СКАЧАТЬ