The Lost Ballet

by Richard Dorrance

  Chapter 56 – Gergiev Wonders

  Gergiev sat on the stage of the Mariinsky Theater, listening and looking around him. Through the wall at the rear of the stage he could hear the orchestra, tuning up in the rehearsal hall connected to the theater. The conductor and concertmaster had initiated three a week sessions, learning the new music themselves, forming a style, and transmitting it to the ensemble. The music would not be a problem. Overhead, three lighting guys crawled around the gantries like spiders, adjusting canisters at the direction of the stage designer. The lighting and the sets would not be a problem. The Mariinsky had done thousands of great shows, and this would be another one.

  Gergiev’s problems were the dancers and the choreography. He had great principles and a great corps, but what if some of them left? And who was going to do the choreography? That was the central question. Who could he get to do this work justice? He sipped his cup of green tea and wondered why he was so worried. The American fucks (Stirg’s vulgar appellative had rubbed off on him) had LandkirkThorley doing their choreography. They were great dancers, but that does not translate to great choreography. They may come up with something good, but nothing that would threaten his production. He could use his staff choreographers, who were world class. Why was he thinking of going outside his organization for this? Who out there in the world was better than what he had now?

  Whoever he decided on, the choreography would be fine. How could anyone go wrong with the stories Stravinsky had come up with in his notes on the score; the four acts based on paintings by Van Gogh, Cezanne, Matisse, and the great master, Picasso? What an idea! What a foundation for a ballet. Tremendous. Even he could choreograph those stories. But he knew he had to make his choice soon, so the person could learn the music, create the dances, and teach them to the dancers. Which brought him back to the dancers. Where did their loyalties lie? With him? With their country (almost all were native Russians, that being the way of the Mariinsky for two hundred years)? With Stravinsky? Or with something, or things, elsewhere? He couldn’t pin down the answers to these questions, and thus his mental state of concern.

  On the other hand he luxuriated in what he didn’t have to worry about, and that was money. Not that the Mariinsky wasn’t well funded by the government, but never before had he been handed a blank check, the way Stirg had done. That was eminently comforting. He had set his staff to working up a budget for the production, telling them the sky was the limit. He also told them to find ways to spend the first million dollars, so he had good reason to ask for the second. And the third. How much could he afford to pay the dancers? How much was it good to pay the dancers. He didn’t want to spoil them, right? Pouring another cup of tea, his thoughts turned to another interesting question: how much was he going to pay himself? How much was it good to pay himself? The tea tasted sweet, and he’d not added any sugar to it.

  His thoughts of what is would be like to purr in a Jaguar XK along the shoreline drive of the Neva River were interrupted by the faint sound of giggles coming from the basement below the stage. Which brought him back to the problem of the dancers. The damnably fickle minded, artistically inspired, temperamental dancers. He didn’t trust them, even though the stringent Mariinsky selection process included assessments of their sense of patriotism and loyalty to the state. Dancer’s political flaccidity of mind was notorious and omnipresent. All that went to wayward when art beckoned. Knowing he would return later to his playful vision of himself behind the wheel of the Jag, he got up and went down one of the dark stairways to the basement, where the giggles got louder. He stopped outside the doorway to one of the large women’s dressing rooms, and listened.

  It was Irina Pavlova talking, one of the six female principles of the Mariinsky, and the oldest at age thirty-one. She was the grandmother of the troupe. “When I was fifteen my class went to London, and we saw the Royal do Swan Lake, with Selgey Kirkland and Bartholomew Thorley having the leads.” Gergiev’s ears pricked up. Why was Pavlova talking about them, now? Why? “They were amazing. I remember seeing him throw her up with just one arm, and catch her with the other. Just one arm. She practically hit her head on one of the light canisters up on the gantry, he threw her so high. She looked weightless at the zenith, and when he caught her, I saw her smile at him, kind of dreamily. I’ll never forget that. I wonder what their choreography will be like. I’d love to see that performance.”

  Gergiev grimaced, and entered the room clapping his hands, rousting the dancers out of their gossip session and into a practice session. He didn’t have the choreography yet, but he was keeping them sharp. He would have a talk with Pavlova later; remind her she was a role model for the others.

  Upstairs, Stirg and Nev entered the theater through the employee entrance, the security guard knowing them, wondering exactly who these VIPs were, who now came in every day, and seemed to have access to everyone and everywhere. He wished he had access to the ballerina’s dressing rooms. Stirg said, “Where is he?” When the guard pointed downwards, Nev rejoiced. He had decided he would rather spend an hour in the ballerina’s dressing rooms than an eternity in Allah’s heaven, populated with all those virgins. The first time Gergiev had taken him and Stirg into the basement, they had blanched at seeing thirty, hard in all the right spots, soft in all the right spots, female dancers in various stages of undress. This reaction didn’t occur to Gergiev, given his history and the traditional attitude of nonchalance that was standard in stage dressing rooms around the world. Nev had looked around, hoping he would see a defibrillator hanging on a wall, in case his boss had an infarction.

  Now they were old hands around the babes, Nev chatting it up with a few of them while Stirg gave Gergiev shit for not yet having a choreographer, not yet have the costumes designed, not yet having sold all the tickets. The women tolerated Stirg because they knew he was their meal ticket; or at least responsible for the bonus Gergiev had promised them for the production.

  Stirg still felt a little awkward, not really knowing if he should call them girls, women, babes, or what. You would have thought he would have figured this out by now, having made so many mistakes with his granddaughter, Anna. But then, propriety was not high on the list of personal traits he had cultivated during his Nazi hunting years. He said, “My dears, are all of you happy? Do you love the Stravinsky music? Are you going to dance your best in this show, for your country?”

  Some of them rolled their eyes at the “my dears” thing, but some of them found Stirg to be on the grandfatherly side, not knowing about his still living and breathing propensity for coveting young women in the carnal way. Pavlova, not having gotten where she is today based on shyness or a lack of confidence, said, “Mr. Stirg, what about the American production. How can both be the world premiere? Are we going to be the first? Why are they both happening at the same time?”

  Gergiev cringed. Damned big mouth. Great dancer, but really big mouth. Damned artists. Nev, on the other hand, liked her, in all the ways possible. He wondered what his boss would say.

  Stirg became less grandfatherly and more like a Nazi hunter. He looked right at Pavlova and said, “There is going to be only one world premiere, and it’s going to be here. Where it should be. The American fucks are trying to steal our heritage, our culture, and I’m not going to let that happen. You’re not going to let that happen. Are you? Any of you?”

  Each woman in the room asked themselves the same question: Am I?