The Lost Ballet

by Richard Dorrance

  Chapter 67 – Stirg Finds Out

  Stirg didn’t know who Baryshnikov was, and Baryshnikov didn’t care who Stirg was. A day before the flight to Paris they fought a battle in the Mariinsky offices that was heard by the orchestra in the rehearsal hall and the dancers in the dressing rooms. It was the former Nazi hunter vs. the former ballet dancer, and the tutu guy won. It was no contest. Gergiev was caught in the middle, meaning he had absolutely no say in the matter. Here he was, the manager of the most famous ballet company in the world, and he had no say on its current operation, the Stravinsky production.

  It was interesting how easily Baryshnikov told Stirg to get lost. Stirg wanted to come on the Paris trip, and The B told him he wasn’t coming. Told him it was dancers only, it was to learn the stories on which he was going to base his choreography, and Stirg had nothing to do with that. When The B arrived in Saint Petersburg, the politico from the Ministry of Cultural Affairs and Gergiev explained to him who Stirg was. The money guy. The guy underwriting the production with a seemingly unlimited number of cashier’s checks made out to cash for one million dollars each. Baryshnikov said, isn’t that wonderful, how very nice; now where are the dancers and the stage, I’ve got work to do.

  He simply isn’t like other people, and that characteristic is what led him to the heights of artistry he has attained.

  When he was introduced to Stirg and Nev, he ignored them. Shook hands, smiled a half smile, turned away and went down a flight of stairs into the basement of the massive complex looking for Pavlova. He wanted to see her legs. He’d always liked ballerina legs. This pissed Stirg off, but The B didn’t care. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sustain this distain for Gergiev and the money man for very long, but he knew he wouldn’t have to. He’d be out of there and onto other ventures in a week. His thinking was, his motivating factor was, I’m working for Catherine Deneuve, the most beautiful woman on the planet. That’s my job, and it’s one I covet. These two guys are inconsequential.

  When he announced the trip to Paris, both Gergiev and Stirg automatically thought they would be going along. The B thought differently, and told them so. This is for dancers only, he said, not business people. The word business dripped off his tongue like a gob of virus induced phlegm. Both of them went ballistic, threats of all kinds, yelling and screaming, etc. Stirg told Nev to break one of Baryshnikov’s legs; that would teach the runty little dancer. The politico had to come down to the theater from his offices and mediate between two sweating, screaming guys on one side, and one short but supremely handsome guy on the other, who he found in the dressing rooms below the stage, surrounded by half naked women who possessed supremely beautiful bodies. The dancers let the politico in, but when Stirg tried to enter he was met with a barrage of flower vases filled with water. Ballerinas always have lots of flowers around their dressing rooms; they get them in the mood for the shower of bouquets they get at the end of a performance. And that’s what they live for.

  The end result was a compromise acceptable to The B, because it meant he won the battle. Gergiev would go on the trip to Paris; Stirg would not. Which is why Stirg and Nev were sitting in their suite at the Corinthia Hotel when the phone rang. It was the politico, who said, “Mr. Stirg, we have a problem.”

  Stirg thought, I’ve been banned from the ballerina’s dressing rooms. How much worst can things get? He said, “Yeah, what?”

  “There’s a problem with the trip to Paris. A problem with the dancers there.”

  Stirg said, “What, some of them get caught eating French food that had butter in it? 100 calories over their daily limit? Did a couple of them put a half pound on those skinny little bodies of theirs?” These, of course, were the same bodies he and Nev had been lusting after since arriving at the Mariinsky.

  The politico thought that was a pretty good joke for off the cuff. He wished he could tell a joke now, but he had to say, “Well, actually, it’s something serious. They’ve been kidnapped. They’re not in Paris.”

  Stirg was incredulous, a condition Nev was able to ascertain from the way Stirg looked at the telephone, like someone just had told him a new cell of former Nazis had been discovered in the area of Argentina where Stirg had operated so many years before. “What do you mean? How can someone kidnap forty-five people? Who wants a group of ballet geeks?”

  “They’re not in Paris.”

  “You said that. Where are they?”

  “They’re in Charleston. Some place in the United States. I’ve never heard of it. Must be one of those other parts of New York City, like Brooklyn, where all the godfathers are.”

  Stirg couldn’t believe his ears. He looked at Nev, said, “The dancers, they’re in Charleston, not Paris. Guy says they were kidnapped.”

  Now it was Nev’s turn to jostle with incredulity. Kidnapped? How?

  Stirg got a grip and said, “How? How did they go to Charleston? Where is Gergiev? He was with them.”

  Here’s where the tone of the politico changed from fear at having to tell Stirg, to one of professional admiration. He said, “They swapped planes on us, here in Saint Petersburg. Very slick, very slick. They had two identical charter planes here at the same time, with different flight plans. One to Paris, one back to Charleston, where it came from two days ago. The passengers swapped, and no one noticed. The people who came on the plane from Charleston got on the plane to Paris, and the ballet troupe got on the plane to Charleston. Adios, dancers.”

  Stirg had put the phone on speaker so Nev could hear. “Explain about the kidnapping? They got on the plane, right?”

  “Yeah, they got on the plane, but they thought it was going to Paris. So did Gergiev. They didn’t know it was going to the States. Very slick. I gotta remember this one.”

  “So, contact the cops over there, the Embassy, our spies. Someone. Tell ‘em they all were kidnapped.”

  “Gergiev called from over there. Said the dancers decided on the flight over they didn’t mind being kidnapped. They want to stay over there, and dance in some ballet, in this Charleston place.”

  “That’s crazy. People don’t get kidnapped, then say it’s all right. Especially not forty-five of them.”

  “Gergiev said they locked him in a lavatory for the entire seven hour flight, so he didn’t hear what went on. Doesn’t know how they did it, but says the dancers are sure; want to stay over there. They’re all defecting. All of ‘em.” The politico paused, then said, “There were the dancers, Baryshnikov, and Gergiev on the plane. Plus two others. Two woman.”

  “Who? What women?”

  The guy looked at a paper on his desk. “A woman named June. Gwenny June. And some actress. A Frenchie.”

  Stirg looked over at Nev, and with a coldness Nev hadn’t seen for many years, said, “Ok, Gwenny June. Ok.”