The Lost Ballet

by Richard Dorrance

  Chapter 71 – Well and Poorly

  The next two weeks went well for the Junes and poorly for Stirg. Gale rousted the dancers out of bed at 7am, and had them, full of breakfast, at The Hall by 8am. At 8:30am, the woman walked around the theater seats dispensing checks for $10,000. This assuaged any negative thoughts any of the dancers were having about their decision to defect and start their dancing lives anew. After this important function, and standing on the stage next to The B, Gwen confirmed to the dancers that he would sign a contract with Gromstov Enterprises and Productions to serve as resident choreographer for three seasons. This put smiles on most of the faces looking up at him on the stage. He waved goodbye to them, saying he had to get back to other responsibilities he had been shirking since Catherine Deneuve had lured him into this wild caper. He promised to be back for opening night.

  In contrast to this positive scene, Gergiev was fumbling to put together his production one week earlier than the Junes, using the junior Mariinsky dancers. The politico was sorry to lose Baryshnikov as choreographer, because that would have been a PR bonanza, and thus a coupe for him, but Gergiev was glad the little runt was gone. Stirg didn’t know what to do with himself, and that was driving Nev nuts. He longed for the days back in Charleston, hanging out with Otis on the dock.

  The Charleston Mariinsky dancers had money in their pockets, they had Baryshnikov to choreograph their dancing for the next three seasons, the world premiere of a lost ballet to perform, and a contract to sign with Gromstov Enterprises and Productions that would ensure them a very good salary for three years. They also had Gale on their asses, morning, noon, and night. Christ, she was worse than Gergiev; she was the manager from hell. Townshend’s playing of his song for Catherine the night before had indeed wetted the appetites of the dancers for more music. They wanted to hear the Stravinsky score, and they did, that afternoon. Gwen wanted to establish momentum among the troupe this first day, so she had lunch brought in. When they were done, and coffee was served, she took The Whosey by the arm and led him to the synthe. This would be only the third time he had played the entire score completely, and Gwen knew he had to capture the attention and loyalty of the dancers, here and now. She ended her pep talk to him with the American style kiss he had been waiting for, and man, did it work. For the next 100 minutes he played like the days of old, a rousing, crafted, emotional performance of a work of genius, by and through a genius. The pianos, the tympani, the cellos, and the trumpets played around glissandos, pizzicatos, recapitulations, themes, and motifs. As he played, Townshend thought (if it can be called that) of the paintings of the four artists: the wheat field with crows, the workers in the stone quarry, the nymphs in the wooded glade, and the factory spewing out gray smoke. It was Van Gogh, Cezanne, Matisse, Picasso, Stravinsky, and The Whosey, all sucked into the electronic world of the synthesizer, and then gloriously emitted outwards into the air of the theater, where it washed over, around, and through the dancers.

  At the fiftieth minute Selgey couldn’t stand it any longer and leaped out of her chair, charged down the center aisle, and vaulted onto the stage. There she improvised a rigaudon that Bart never had seen before, intuitively fitting it into the Stravinsky music. When she was done playing with this she found the Ps in the seats and motioned them onto the stage. She whispered in their ears, and then fled back out into the seats to find her mate. Peter moved to stage left and Pater moved to stage right. Gwen wondered what was going on. Peter waited until he found his place in the score and correlated the music with the story. He raised his arms outwards to the audience and began to narrate the story in Russian. Townshend just had started playing Act III, so Peter intoned a few sentences about Matisse and his nymphs. He motioned to Pater across the stage, who then took up the narration, just a few sentences at a time. Standing in place at the sides of the stage, they improvised movements with the music.

  During Act III, Selgey whispered in Bart’s ear, giving him instructions, just as she had to the Ps. At the end of the act, Townshend paused. He had played continuously for sixty-five minutes, and his hands were cramping. He stood up and stretched, walking around the synthesizer, looking out into the theater, reading the vibes from the audience. The woman brought him a bottle of water, massaged his shoulders for a minute, and told him he was dynamite. The forty-five dancers were mesmerized. They recognized Stravinsky in the music, but it was like nothing they ever had experienced before. A few whispered to each other, but most simply sat, gapping at the stage and the man at the synthe. Townshend of The Who. The Whosey. Who is this guy?

  When he again sat down, the dancers hushed. Selgey dug her knuckles into Bart’s ribs, as hard as she could, and told him to do his thing. Townshend crashed into Act IV, Picasso’s factory, and the dancers held their breath. Bart waited five minutes, stood up from his seat, looked at Selgey, and launched himself down the side aisle. He was onto the stage in seconds, eschewing stairs, circling first Peter and then Pater in graceful circles, biding his time, waiting for the crescendo he knew was coming. He timed his action, moving to center stage, looking out at the seats, waiting, waiting, and then, as Stravinsky and Townshend approached the apex of the trumpeting crescendo, turned and ran toward the musician. A single, piercing, synthesized trumpet blast simulated the factory whistle at the end of the long day of work; and as the blast echoed out of the theater speakers, Bart leaped completely over Townshend sitting on the bench at the synthesizer array that was larger than a grand piano. Up, over his head, over the array, and down the other side, landing with a muffled thump behind, and speeding out of sight into the curtains at the rear of the stage. Gone. Up, over, and gone.

  Townshend, immersed in his playing, saw a blur but didn’t understand what it was. Later, when the Ps showed the video, and he saw Bart fly over his head, he said, “What the bloody ‘ell. Why did we have to go to the trouble of kidnapping all the Russkies, when we had him sitting around here?” He wasn’t the only one who wondered that? Half the dancers in the audience said, damn, including a couple of the male principles.

  Gergiev wasn’t having any such fun. He worked with the Mariinsky house choreographer, who was very good. And he worked with the Academy dancers who were very good. And he talked with the politico at the end of the day, and told them the production was coming along nicely. And he talked with Stirg at the end of the day after lying to the politico, and told him things were good. Everything was good; everything was fine. Gergiev’s problem was just that. Things were good and fine, but they weren’t great. They weren’t great by a long shot.