Devil in Disguise (16 page)

‘No, it
isn’t,’ Molly said loyally, though of course she could see that Lilia was now
past her songstress days. The show the previous evening had been enjoyable but
the old lady’s voice was quivering and rather ropy, taking a visit round the
note rather than to it.

‘Do you
really think so?’ Lilia’s eyes sparkled a little.

‘Of
course,’ Molly said, remembering Roger’s story of the failed comeback. I
mustn’t encourage her too much, or she’ll do it again, poor love, she thought.
And she shouldn’t waste her money and get her hopes up all over again. She said
quickly, ‘You should ask your friends round and do some little performances for
them. Have some more soirées. Maybe a spot of singing in the village pub.’

‘Huh!’
grunted Lilia. ‘I’m not that desperate. Those old women in the village, they
don’t understand me, or art, or beauty. They think I’m eccentric. They laugh at
me. What they don’t know is that I am alive and they are dead. And I have lived
more in a single year than they have in their entire lives!’

‘I want
to hear more about it,’ Molly said eagerly. ‘I want to hear about your amazing
experiences.’

‘You
shall, dear Molly, you shall. Are you back late tonight?’

‘No —
I’ll come straight home after the evening performance. I’ll bring us a bottle
of wine, if you like, and we can sit down and have a good talk.’

‘But
I’m sure you have better things to do. Drinks with your friends, a visit to
Northampton’s finest club, Manhattan Nights …‘

‘Don’t
worry about that,’ Molly said, waving away Lilia’s concern with one hand. ‘I’d
much rather be here with you. I’m leaving on Sunday and I still haven’t had the
chance to hear your story.’

Lilia
looked at her with watery eyes. ‘You’d really like that?’

‘Of
course I would. I can’t think of anything nicer.’

‘You’re
so kind to me,’ Lilia said, looking as pleased as a child promised an ice
cream.

When
Molly left, Lilia followed her to the front door almost anxiously. ‘Do you
really want to hear all about my life, Molly?’ she asked. ‘I would understand
if you’d rather be with your friends.’

Molly
bent down and gave her a hug. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Thank
you, my dear. You’ve made me very happy,’ said Lilia, bobbing up and down a
couple of times with enthusiasm. This she achieved by bending her knees; a
younger woman would probably have jumped lightly on the spot. ‘I will await
your return.’

Everyone at the theatre
seemed a little subdued, tired out by their carousing the previous night.

‘Thanks
for the party,’ said Peter, when he and Molly met in the Green Room. ‘Five
hours’ sleep and I still look like Dale Winton. I’m a walking miracle.’

‘Thank
you for coming,’ said Molly. ‘Isn’t Lilia fascinating?’

‘A game
old bird,’ said Peter. ‘And she can still warble a tune, I’ll give her that.’

‘Lilia
has soul. She sings in a way only people who have lived a life can.’

‘You
must find out what her story is,’ said Peter. ‘She might be related to Leslie
Joseph.’

‘I’m
going to. It’s my last chance tonight. After tomorrow, I’ll probably never see
her again.’

‘Or
me.’ Peter shrugged. ‘Showbusiness is a funny old world, isn’t it? We all get
thrown together in the most random of ways. Some people we attach ourselves to,
others we can’t wait to let go of.’

‘I know
what you mean,’ said Molly.

That night Molly left
straight after the curtain call, barely stopping to take off her wig and
makeup. On the way home, she picked up a bottle of good, full-bodied Chilean
Merlot from an off-licence. It seemed a suitable drink, somehow.

When
she got back to Kit-Kat Cottage, the bungalow seemed quiet and dark. Then, as
she shut the front door behind her, she heard Lilia call from the lounge,
‘Molly, my dear, you’re home.’

‘Yes,
and I’ve got the wine. I’ll just fetch some glasses.’

In the
lounge, Lilia was once again wearing her silken kimono, stretched out along the
red sofa and awaiting her audience. Molly poured them both some ruby-red wine
and handed Lilia hers. They chinked their glasses together.

‘To
you, Lilia!’ said Molly, brightly.

‘Thank
you, my dear,’ Lilia said modestly.

When
Molly was settled, she gazed at Lilia, who seemed to be waiting for a question
to prompt her into speech, so she said, ‘Was your childhood a happy one?’

Lilia
perked up at once. ‘It was very exciting. I practically grew up in the dressing
room of the Metropole. And the Nelson and the Theater des Westens, in Berlin.
My first toy was a lipstick. Yes, I was happy.’

‘Were
your parents actors?’

‘Not
exactly. They were a slightly different breed. Cabaret people, performers,
innovators. Berlin in the thirties — you cannot imagine it. I am coy about my
age, but I was there — just. I remember it in flashes, as a child would, not
intellectually.’

‘What
do you remember?’

‘My
mother, mostly. She was getting ready to go on stage. Dark eyes, and glowing white
skin. She would smoke nervously, and pace up and down. She would kiss and hug
me as if we were never going to see each other again, with tears of regret in
her eyes. Then she would leave me. Alone. She would only be gone for half an
hour, then she’d come back in and smoke some more.’

‘Was
your mother as famous as your father, Kurt Weill?’

‘Some
believe my father to be Kurt Weill, but I do not!’ Lilia said emphatically.

‘Oh!’ Molly
was surprised. Hadn’t Lilia herself said that Kurt Weill was her father? She
asked reasonably, ‘Well, who are the “some”?’

‘Academics,
musicologists. People of note. It has never been proven. In fact, I threw it in
for effect. If you say Kurt Weill was your father before you sing one of his
songs it heightens the experience for the audience. They think you’re
channelling or something. I’d say Cliff Richard was my father if I thought it
would help.’

‘You
devil!’ said Molly, laughing at the old lady’s audacity.

‘Ah, an
old cabaret trick.’ Lilia chuckled like a wise owl. ‘Nancy Sinatra, Liza
Minnelli, Prince — everyone does it at some stage of their career …

‘So who
is Lilia Delvard?’ asked Molly, relishing the sound of the name. ‘And who was
your real father?’

Lilia
leant back on her pillows and a dreamy look came over her face. She seemed to
be reaching back into the far-distant past and her earliest memories. Then she
began in a soft, musical voice, her German accent more pronounced, ‘I am the
daughter of Otto Falckenberg. He was the director of the Academic-Dramatic
Union in the Berlin of 1901. Apart from being my father, he was the sire of
modern cabaret in all its variations. Along with artists, painters and
students, he was protesting against the strict morality of the time, the
censorship by the government and interference of the police. With a group of
like-minded artists, he formed a group called Die Elf Scharfrichter — the
Eleven Executioners. They were young and ambitious and angry!’ Lilia’s voice
quivered somewhat. She paused to take a breath and steady herself. ‘They hired
a room at the back of an inn and decorated it with grotesque masks. To avoid
harassment by the authorities, they called themselves a club and played only to
invited guests. Their first performance began with a discordant song from the
Eleven Executioners, during which they threw their bloody robes at the audience.
Next came
chansons,
recitations, puppet plays, dramatic pieces and
literary parodies, all written and performed by this innovative group. They
acted vicious sketches about their betters and sang dangerous satirical songs.
As you can imagine, they were all the rage. It had never been done before. No
one had seen anything like it. A breath of fresh air. A
tour de force.
A
sensation. The beginning of a new era, a new means of expression, of resistance,
of liberty! ‘Lilia looked Molly gravely in the eyes. ‘But change was afoot. The
Eleven Executioners were soon to become twelve.’ Lilia tapped herself on the
chest. ‘And then thirteen.

‘One
afternoon during rehearsals a beautiful woman entered the room. She was tall,
with black hair parted in the middle, falling to her shoulders, framing her
pale, angular face. Her eyelids were heavy, her lips full and red, and she was
extremely, almost painfully thin, but with the pride and arrogance of a
thoroughbred foal. She was the most bewitching creature Otto Falckenberg had
ever seen.’ Lilia paused for a moment, as though fighting a strong emotion.
Molly guessed she didn’t want her feelings to get in the way of the narrative —
it was obvious that she needed to tell her all this. Somehow Molly felt she
understood.

Lilia
went on, ‘The woman’s name was Marya Delvard and in my opinion she was the most
important female cabaret artist of the twentieth century. She was also to
become … my mother.’

Molly
gasped and reached across to take Lilia’s hand. Lilia sniffed, took a
handkerchief from the side of her chair and wiped her eyes, even though they
were tearless.

‘This
is beautiful!’ breathed Molly. ‘It’s like a Radio 4 play.’

‘It is
dramatic and florid, perhaps, but this is the only way I can tell it to you,’
said Lilia, regaining her self-control. ‘I have told this story to myself so
many times, it is like a book to me.’

‘Please
carry on,’ begged Molly. ‘What happened next?’

Lilia
cleared her throat. ‘The moment he clapped eyes on her, Otto knew he had to
have her. He called a halt to the rehearsals, jumped down from the stage and
introduced himself as the director of the Eleven Executioners.

‘Marya
shook his hand and said, “I know who you are. I saw the performance last night
and thought you were of interest. I have come to offer my services to you. My
name is Marya Delvard and I am a friend of Frank Wedekind. He has written a
song for me to sing. I think it will suit your show very well.”

‘Otto
asked her if she had the music with her and called for the pianist. My mother
was a sensation from the moment she stepped onto the stage. For a woman to be
so bold and so powerful was a rare thing in those days. At once, Otto made her
a part of his performance, and later concentrated only on her when they fell
wildly in love with each other. The two of them became definers of the cabaret
— they really led the way for the re-emergence of the suppressed decadence of
the Berlin underworld. Otto was brilliant, talented, inspired. His stage shows
drew the great intellectuals, thinkers and writers. He was one of them. Marya
was a brittle beauty who personified intelligent excess, indulgence and
liberation, for their own sake. She was never seen in daylight and it was said
she had cocaine for breakfast and lettuce for lunch. God only knows what she
had for dinner. Schapps and cigarettes, probably. Despite her slight frame it
is said that no one noticed she was pregnant with me until she gave birth while
singing “The Lavender Song” during a matinée.’

They
both took a sip of the ruby wine and sat in silence. Lilia stared intently at
the wall. What will be next? thought Molly.

Lilia
said at last, ‘That is why I could do nothing but sing myself. You do
understand that, don’t you, Molly? It was in my blood. It was my birthright.
I’m a creature of the stage, just as my parents were before me. There was no
other calling I could follow in life, even when they had long gone.’

‘What
happened to them?’ Molly whispered.

Lilia
closed her eyes and said nothing for a long while. Then she sighed and opened
them again, fixing Molly with her watery green gaze. ‘I cannot tell you that
yet, my dear. Perhaps another time. It is too painful for me. Too difficult.’

‘Of
course. I’m sorry.’ Molly gazed at the floor, feeling awkward.

‘Don’t
worry, my dear, you haven’t hurt me. That particular pain is so familiar to me
now, it is a dull ache that I hardly notice. I’ve had other hurts to take its
place.’

‘Tell
me about your life, your career,’ begged Molly. ‘I would dearly love to hear
about them.’

‘Not
now. Let us talk about the future,’ said Lilia, brightening suddenly. ‘Enough
of the past.’

Molly
felt slightly shell-shocked. To jump from Lilia’s early childhood straight to
the future was quite a leap.

The old
lady continued, ‘You see, now I find myself preoccupied with the end of my
story, not the beginning. I know I am old and my life may be edging towards
some kind of conclusion, but I need a final flourish. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I
think so. The last act?’

‘I can’t
be doing with just fading away.’ Lilia seemed worried. A little distressed,
even.

‘You
have a lot of life yet to live, Lilia,’ said Molly. ‘A bang, not a whimper — is
that what you want?’

‘Exactly.
Look at poor Joey. He lies in his bed or he sits in his chair. I feed him and I
clean him, until one day — what will happen? His kidneys will fail or he will
turn blue or he will die in his sleep. After the life I have had it is bad
enough that I now live in a bungalow — I have always despised them! This must not
be my fate.’