Leonora by Elena Poniatowska Read Free Book Online Page B

peaceably graze.
    They arrive at the Hôtel du Palais in Biarritz in the midst of a February snowstorm. Maurie takes it as a personal insult that snow should fall on the eve of spring, and is convinced that the world is turning off its orbit.
    â€˜It’s obvious why Biarritz is empty. Next year we shall go to Torquay. Not only is it cheaper, but the climate is better there, too.’
    Skiing in St. Moritz, summering in Eden Roc are fixed items in their annual agenda; moving around from place to place in a Bentley or a Rolls Royce is a part of their everyday life.
    As soon as they arrive in Monte Carlo, Maurie shuts herself away in the casino.
    â€˜Is this your spiritual retreat?’ enquires Leonora.
    Ever greedy, Maurie always wishes to dine punctually, and the next day she delights in the memory of what she has eaten, whereas Leonora never remembers.
    â€˜Mama, you’re just like the Cheshire Cat, licking your whiskers over and over.’
    Leonora observes every last gesture of her fellow diners. She flirts with the employee of a travel agency who sells them tickets to visit Taormina, and from there to continue on through Sicily. The Italians observe the way she walks and comment aloud on her culino. In Taormina, the head waiter Dante is her new romance. He sells them a cut-price Fra Angelico which turns out to be a forgery.
    Back in Paris once more, Leonora goes riding in the morning, attends a polo match at noon, and dances all night. To be young, beautiful and rich is no bad hand to have been dealt in life. Maurie shares in her daughter’s success because going anywhere with her, entering a room and seeing how they all pause to stare at her, is – to say the least – gratifying. Every café seems to greet them with open arms, and they enjoy their apéritif in one and their meal in the next, while Maurie is advised on how her daughter is at least as marvellous as the Soles Meunières that both mother and daughter allow to deliquesce in their mouths. Leonora takes charge of ordering the wine, she knows all there is to know about Pouilly-Fuissé, and goes so far as to indulge herself in returning inferior bottles. Her mother watches her in astonishment. They have all the time in the world, for the whole of life lies ahead of them.
    â€˜What other tasty morsels are waiting to be crushed between our fine white teeth?’ enquires Leonora. ‘We are like harpies.’
    Morning porridge in Lancashire seems a very long way away. Leonora now recognises every vintage of wine poured into her glass.
    â€˜As happy as May Queens,’ her mother agrees.
    Leonora raises her arms, tosses her splendidly flowing locks over her shoulders and laughs aloud, showing all her teeth.
    â€˜Leonora, people are staring at you.’
    â€˜No, Mama. The person they’re looking at is you.’
    Mistinguette dances for them in the Folies Bergères and Maurie declares:
    â€˜These naked women bore me. The Greeks did the exact same thing centuries ago.’
    She is still preoccupied by the lack of coffee-coloured satin knickers. In the Bal Tabarin, Leonora dances with an Armenian who calls on her at the hotel the next morning. Maurie hastily purchases tickets to leave Paris before the Armenian can turn up to sell them an icon.
    â€˜Respectability is the most boring thing in the world. Not to Venice, please not, Mama. All the English go there.’
    â€˜I’ve said we’re going to Venice.’
    To Leonora, Venice is Thomas Mann’s Von Aschenbach, a hallucination in the mists, a lagoon of seawater on the point of dying, just like the lake into which she galloped her mare as a young girl. Everything is decaying, the detritus accumulates in the heavy blood of moribund Venice, but Maurie’s relish for life turns back the black tide of mortality. ‘Lord Byron came here,’ she insists. In the Lido, Leonora fails to recognise the sun-soaked beach on which Von Aschenbach