The Cherche-Midi mystery: a Julia Latour story

Josephine

Paris, 1950

-Who wants to see the one, the only... Josephine Saret? Come on! Everyone, right?

The crowd was growing. Women were wearing their most distinguished hats and dresses.

For months, newspapers had been bragging about the musical event of the year. For weeks, ticket prices had been rising irrationally. For days, the most curious ones had been stepping on the forecourt of the Olympia, desperate to catch a glimpse of Her: the great Josephine Saret.

She was twenty-two, had endless legs that seemed to be sculpted out of a mold, ocean-blue eyes... Above all, Parisian critics praised her warm, enchanting, whispering voice. Some of them, usually bound to undermine any popular artist, had started to nickname her: "the voice".

-Stop pushing, stop pushing right now. It won't get any faster!

Ushers were losing patience as many admirers did not seem to understand that they would have to wait another ten minutes to sit in the oldest music hall in town.

All this excitement and joy however did not spread backstage where the whole atmosphere was filled with anxiety.

Josephine Saret was almost ready. Even though her face was covered with powder, she still looked extremely pale.... and had to face indiscreet questions from the young stylist that was working on her look.

-Mademoiselle Josephine, what's going on? Don't worry! Your show is going to be marvelous, as usual. The public loves you.

-We're in Paris, Mathilde. Do you have any sort of idea what that means? The influential people of this business are here, ready to blame me for any detail that may cross their minds. If any note sounds off, my whole career is at stake.

-Stop whining and focus on the lyrics, Josephine.

The room was immediately filled by the coldest vibes that spread out of this strong, manly, almost brutal voice. Hippolyte d'Amneville was one of the most talented Parisian agents. He had been Josephine's impresario for almost three years. However, he usually gave no credit to her anxiety. "Woman junk", he used to laugh during his socialite diners, miming Josephine Saret's torments.

-I am sorry Hippolyte. But I have stage fright.

-Very well. No one in the audience should see it, nor feel it.

Then, he gave the coldest look to the hairdresser:

-Mathilde, enough! She's got way too much make up on, we're not at Pigalle tonight!

Mumbling indistinct apologies, the young woman slipped out, while Josephine kept ruminating on her looks.

-Should I remove some make up, Hippolyte?

-You look all right, but let's leave it at that. Come on, don't look so anxious. Everything is going to be all right!

The man caught the singer's neck, pressing his lips against hers. A beastly, brutal kiss.

— Hippolyte ! Josephine protested immediately, freeing herself, rather difficultly, from her agent's grip. I've already told you: I hate it when you kiss me right before a concert. It's really distracting. Here, I have to put some more lipstick on !

Hippolyte kept his irritation to himself: his strong jaw turned red, his large black eyes seemed to pop out. And he put his hands behind his back: the only reaction that could prevent him from expressing his fury. He was six feet and three inches tall, which had always frightened the young artist.

-I'll let it go for now, since you have to be on stage in less than twenty minutes. But in the future, I will not tolerate this kind of mood swings.

-I am so sorry, muttered Josephine. I am so stressed out.

-It's all right for tonight. Get ready, I will go and get a look. I want to know who's there.

Josephine was relieved to see him leave the room. Nevertheless, the incident revived the anxiety that had been growing in her for several days. An indescribable horror streamed in her flesh and blood every time she thought about the goal she aimed for after her show.

Two weeks. The songwriter gave herself two weeks for everything to go back to normal. However sure she was of her plan, the simple idea of his skin against hers, his breath in her neck was torturing her. How would it feel in a few hours? Josephine closed her eyes so hard she felt she was hurting her eyelids: this was not sufficient enough to prevent a few tears from shedding. She could not lose it: in a few minutes, she would have to be on stage.

-Well, everybody is here tonight!

-Please knock!

The musician had jumped up hearing Hippolyte entering the room.

-Stop being so uptight about everything dear! Keep yourself together! Tonight, your performance has to be brilliant. Do you want to know who I just saw in the audience? Right in the front row? Sir Le Comte himself! With his wife, the pianist... What's her name again?

-Sophie Duvauquelle.

-Sophie Duvauquelle! Exactly! So, no mishap in front of the Home Secretary and his wife! Not mentioning those many critics that spit their advice in the columns of Aujourd'hui Paris and all these Rive Gauche's influential magazines. So, tonight, dear, be efficient, brilliant, sensual... You know what I mean.

-You just said I was stressed out, you don't strike me as being so calm yourself!

-May I suggest you keep your jokes to yourself?

His tone had, once again, become cold and harsh.

-Time for you to go backstage. You'll be singing in less than five minutes. Everyone is waiting for you.

Josephine stoop up instantaneously. As if a fairy had put a spell on her, her anguish turned instantly into the specific excitement that run through her veins every time she was about to perform on stage : this renewed feeling that she was living the dream that she had cherished throughout her entire childhood, this passion that had given her the strength to leave her beloved countryside to settle in Paris.

Just a few moments later, she was there. The curtain went up, the spotlights blinded her, music filled the air, the audience applauded and Josephine hummed the lyrics of « Au cœur de l'eau », the song that had turned her into a respected singer three years earlier.

At times like these, the songwriter had the feeling to be floating, to be far away from the day-to-day problems that usually weighed her down. She knew she was part of it : as of this moment, her name was on that long list of mythical artists that had performed in this famous music-hall. In a sense, a part of her was becoming immortal as she sang that night. At least, the walls of the Olympia would remember her indefinitely, music lovers would only remember her performances, her voice, her lyrics. No one would ever know what was going on inside her, as she was warming up the theater with her bewitching voice. No. No one would ever know. There would be no scandal. Throughout the next two hours, Josephine faded away in the magic of singing, the enchantment of being on stage.