The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  David nodded. “It’s not just tickets and toe shoes being rationed, but men, too.” He opened the program to the list of company dancers and pointed. “They’re all off doing their bit for the war effort.” He added, in a lower voice, “John Maynard Keynes tried to secure exemptions for male dancers. But the Minister of Labor was unimpressed, and dancers had to either volunteer or be drafted.”

  “How does Fredrick Ashton get away with being in London, then?” Maggie had met the choreographer and was familiar with his ballets.

  “Works a desk job during the day,” David replied.

  “Must be nice,” Chuck said, not without bitterness. Maggie realized she must be thinking of Nigel.

  “Well, at least we still have this fragment of civilization left to us,” she said, closing her program.

  “Oh my.” Chuck elbowed Maggie.

  “What?”

  “Look!” Chuck pointed up to the box seats. There was Giacomo Genovese, the violinist, in white tie, looking down at them. When he caught Maggie’s eye, he smiled. She raised a gloved hand in greeting.

  The lights dimmed, the music began, and the heavy velvet curtains opened. First entered the Children of Light, Sarah among them. The women wore simple white tunic dresses, the few men, billowing shirts over tights. They were barefoot, the women’s hair long and loose.

  Inevitably, the Children of Darkness arrived to menace them: men and women with black snakes coiled across their torsos and legs. The Children of Light, tortured by the evil of the world, had moments of great beauty and rarefied anguish—and one brief, heart-stopping moment of ecstasy where they ran toward a shaft of golden light. The writhing, demonic Children of Darkness were also disturbingly beautiful, seething with hard-edged aggression.

  Most remarkable to Maggie, however, was Sarah’s performance. In a brief solo passage, with quick broken steps and an anguished tossing of her head, she danced a terrible grief. I wonder if she’s remembering Hugh, she thought, her heart aching. She must be.

  The ballet’s choreography allowed no final victory; both sides had momentary triumphs as well as moments of shame, despair, and disaster. The women tossed their unbound hair, ran in galloping rhythms, and gestured emphatically. The men fought—pummeling prone bodies with fists, creating sculptural groupings with images of crucifixion, shame, mass death. At the end of the piece, the male leaders of both factions lifted their dead. All that was left was waste and destruction, rendering the audience breathless and exhausted by the end.

  When the ballet was over, and curtain calls taken, the houselights came up. “Moments like this,” David said, as he stood, “might just be able to redeem our civilization.”

  “There was no victory, though,” Chuck observed, as she rose. “The Children of Light didn’t win.”

  Maggie tucked her clutch under her arm and stood as well. “Maybe survival is victory.”

  She felt better after seeing the performance—the muscles in her neck had relaxed, her headache was gone, and she even felt a bit like her own self again. True, it had been harrowing in parts, but the piece had been a respite, a time out of time. Maggie thought of Aunt Edith saying, “A great performance, a great painting, great music, can ‘be the axe for the frozen sea within us.’ ” She looked up to the box seats to see if Giacomo was still there, but he and his party had left.

  “Shall we go backstage and see Sarah?” Maggie asked, the thrall of the performance evaporating. They waited behind a group of Americans in uniform. Chuck whispered to Maggie, “These Yanks are ridiculously handsome—I don’t know how you left them all behind.”

  “They don’t all look like Clark Gable, you know,” Maggie retorted.

  The trio headed to the stage door, then traversed the backstage area, a dim, cavernous space with barres for last-minute warm-ups and a table with a sewing kit for any mid-performance costume emergencies. Stagehands put props away. There was none of the usual post-performance chatter. The dancers seemed tired, overcome by emotion as much as physical effort, as they made their way back to the dressing rooms.

  They found Sarah in one of the back ones, slight and glistening with sweat, wrapped in her red silk robe, using flannel to remove her mask of stage makeup. “Hello, kittens!” she called, rising to disperse air kisses. “So what did you think? Did you like it?”

  “I wish the Children of Light would have won—we need it these days,” Chuck offered. They all knew Chuck’s bluntness and appreciated her self-censorship.

  “Don’t we all,” agreed Sarah.

  David nodded. “I saw an earlier performance of this piece, but it seems to have even more layers now.”

  “You were perfection,” Maggie said.

  Outside, in the hall, there was a howl of emotion as one of the dancers announced he was being called up. “I don’t mind dying,” Maggie overheard the man saying, “but I don’t want to lose a leg.”

  She looked at boxes and boxes of still-unused pointe shoes under Sarah’s makeup table. “So many!” she exclaimed.

  “And thank goodness,” Sarah replied, lighting a clove cigarette. “There was an official announcement by the Industries and Manufacturers Department of the Board of Trade we don’t need to use ration coupons for pointe shoes anymore.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Excuse me,” a low voice said. “I’d like to speak to Sarah Sanderson.”

  “Come in, come in!” Sarah handed David a sweating bottle of champagne to open. “Now it’s a party!” As the cork popped, the man took a step inside. He was tall and dark, with a long, melancholy face and a U.S. Army uniform. He peered at Sarah with an intense expression.

  “I’m Lincoln Kirstein,” he said. Maggie instantly recognized his accent as upper-crust Boston Brahmin.

  Sarah giggled as she sipped her champagne. “Welcome, Mr. Kirstein,” she said. “Want some fizz?”

  “Oh!” David said, recognizing the name. “Lincoln Kirstein—the Lincoln Kirstein?” He poured out a water glass’s worth of champagne and handed it to the man. “To what do we owe the honor?” He turned to Maggie and whispered, “Mr. Kirstein here knows George Balanchine.” Maggie remembered she had seen a few of Balanchine’s ballets on a trip to New York and had loved them.

  Sarah smiled and gestured to his uniform. “We can guess why you’re in London.”

  He put his drink down, untouched. “On leave from the Mideast. Working for General Patton,” he said quickly. He looked at Sarah. “Miss Sanderson, if I may, you’re just the type of dancer Mr. Balanchine is looking for.”

  “Why thank you,” Sarah said, wiping off the rest of her makeup. “I’ve heard of ‘Mr. B.’ ”

  “Balanchine and I founded the School of American Ballet in New York. He wants to create a company—called Ballet Society. But, for now, he works on Broadway and in Hollywood.”

  “I saw his company do Apollo and Serenade,” Maggie offered.

  Kirstein nodded, but his attention was on Sarah. “You’re perfect,” he said. “Fast, strong, with long legs. And musical.”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Kirstein,” Sarah replied. “But as you can see, I have a company here in London.”

  “We’d have to have a project to get you over,” he said. “And I know of just the one. A film. They need ballet dancers.”

  David spluttered champagne. “In America?”

  “Hollywood, specifically. Then New York.”

  “Hollywood?” Maggie, Chuck, and David exclaimed together.

  Kirstein snapped his fingers. “Hollywood.”

  Sarah began stripping off her false eyelashes. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Kirstein,” she said, “and we can discuss this further.”

  * * *

  —

  David and Chuck stayed while Maggie excused herself to sneak a quick cigarette. Outside, it was dark, with only a few blue lights illuminating the
garbage bins, stars winking. There was a cold, damp wind blowing. As Margot Fonteyn signed a young girl’s program, Maggie walked further down the alley, leaning against the crumbling brick, thinking over the beauty and sadness of the performance.

  The Luftwaffe’s last night raid on London had been in May 1941. Now the nights seemed ominously quiet. But just because there hadn’t been raids didn’t mean they couldn’t begin again with no warning.

  She managed to get a cigarette out and stick it between her lips but was having trouble with her lighter. Again and again she pressed the spark wheel down with her thumb, with no result. “Need help?” came a woman’s voice from the darkness.

  Maggie started. “I think my lighter’s out.”

  “Let me see if I have one,” the voice replied. Maggie could just make out her profile—tall and slim, wearing a dark trench coat.

  “It’s a Zippo—‘Life Time Warranty,’ if you believe the advertising,” Maggie said as the other woman rummaged through her handbag.

  “Here,” the woman said, pulling out a box of matches. “We’ll do it the old-fashioned way.” She struck one, and golden light blazed in the darkness.

  Maggie inhaled as the woman lit her cigarette, the tip glowing red. “Thanks.”

  “Mind if I have one, too?”

  “Not at all,” Maggie said and pulled out another. “Hope you like Player’s.”

  “I haven’t smoked in a while.” The woman stuck the cigarette in her mouth, then said, “Light?” She pressed the cigarette’s tip against Maggie’s.

  There’s something familiar about her…Maggie thought as she caught the scent of Chanel No. 5. The woman inhaled, then pulled away, her own cigarette now glowing in the darkness.

  “Don’t let the ARP warden catch you,” the woman said in an accentless voice as she left, then stopped and turned around, lit only by the cigarette’s embers. “Be careful, Margaret Hope,” she warned. “You have a cunning enemy after you.” Then she walked quickly down the alley and turned the corner just as Giacomo appeared.

  Who is she? And how does she know my name? Maggie stared after the disappearing figure as the violinist approached. “Who was that? Do you know her?” he asked.

  And who’s the cunning enemy? she thought. Nicholas Reitter? Jimmy Greenteeth? “No, I don’t know her,” she replied, looking back to where the woman had disappeared into the darkness, like a ghost. “I don’t think so, anyway. But she warned me to be careful.”

  “I tried to find you after the performance, but you’d disappeared,” he said, taking off his jacket and draping it around her.

  It was warm and smelled of his cologne. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t suppose you have heard anything about my Anna Maria?” he asked.

  Maggie dropped her cigarette and crushed it beneath her satin shoe. “I’m afraid not, signore. You’d need to ask Durgin for the latest,” she told him. “Last I heard, he was having the police watch the violin shops to see if anyone’s trying to sell it. Her,” she corrected. “And the auction houses and the black market.”

  “I spoke with my Aunt Silvana. She says you and the detective paid her a visit.”

  “We did.”

  He grinned. “Do you still think she stole it?”

  Maggie sidestepped the question. “Tell me about your cousin Francesco.”

  “Frankie?”

  “Yes. Your aunt said he’s serving in the military?”

  “Little Frankie? No—she must not have understood your question. Frankie’s a conscientious objector.”

  What? Maggie was sure she must have misheard, impossible though it seemed. She spun to face him. “Sorry?”

  “Frankie’s a CO. He’s never served.”

  “Is he…away?”

  “He works at Bellevue, as a security guard.” Giacomo laughed, loud and hearty. “You think he stole the violin?”

  No, but something’s not adding up. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Oh, not for a while…maybe Christmastime?”

  So over two months ago. “Do you know where he is now?”

  “In London, of course. At work or at home with my aunt.” He looked at her. “Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving your detective for little Frankie.”

  “No, no,” Maggie assured him. “I was just wondering.” I need to tell Durgin.

  As if he were reading her mind, Giacomo said, “And where is he? Detective Durgin?”

  Maggie was distracted. “Working. But he’s meeting us at the Savoy later.”

  Giacomo bowed to Maggie. “If you were mine, I would never leave your side.” He pulled her close and Maggie felt she couldn’t catch her breath. He bent down and took her hand. Then he turned it over and kissed her palm, brushing it lightly with his lips. The light touch sent shivers through her nerves, making her body tremble. With a great effort, she managed to pull away, her face flushed, hand burning.

  “Giacomo—” She paused on the brink of a warning. She couldn’t tell him her worst suspicions. Not yet. Not until there was something to tell. “I—I need to go,” she finished hurriedly, giving him back his jacket. “My friends will be wondering where I am…”

  “As you wish,” he said with a courtly bow. “I’ll be at Claridge’s if you want me.”

  She swallowed, heart heavy, knowing the eventual bad news he would hear. “Goodbye, Giacomo.”

  “Arrivederci, mia cara.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  At the Savoy Hotel’s American Bar, Maggie, Chuck, David, and Sarah—along with Lincoln Kirstein—were greeted by the sound of ice in silver shakers, a low buzz of conversation, and a few peals of tipsy laughter. Underneath it all, Maggie could hear the tinkling piano notes of Cole Porter’s “Let’s Not Talk About Love.” She looked around; many of the clientele were Americans by the sound of the accents. There were officers, diplomats, and journalists, as well as War Cabinet members, actors and actresses, and Mayfair hostesses.

  She heard an American call to an Italian waiter: “Hey, Geppetto, canna we getta some-a drinks over here?” The table laughed. “C’mon—the guy’s gotta be a spy for Musso, right?”

  They were seated at a round banquette, and a waiter in a white coat approached. “We’ll have a few bottles of champagne,” David told him.

  He nodded. “Yes, sir.” While champagne was rationed to individuals, hotels and restaurants were exempt.

  The waiter returned with the bottles, condensation already sliding down the silver buckets, while another carried a tea tray. David raised his gold-rimmed glass. “Sometimes I fear that we’ve lost the grace and elegance of life in this war. All around us there is destruction and hate. However, when I see the Vic-Wells Ballet—especially our beloved Sarah—I feel beauty and civilization perhaps aren’t lost. To you, Sarah!”

  The dancer smiled. “Thank you, darling David.”

  “To Sarah,” they all chimed in, clinking glasses.

  “Thank you, kittens.”

  As David settled into conversation with Kirstein, Sarah turned to Maggie. “He asked me to go! Me! Can you believe it?”

  “I heard. Congratulations!” Maggie took a sip of her drink. “Do you think you will go?”

  “I told him I need a few days to think about it, but why not?”

  “Well, there’s the Vic-Wells,” Maggie began. “Working with Ashton.” Us, she wanted to add.

  “Maggie, you know it’s been hell for me here.” She set her coupe on the table. “Hugh’s dead and I lost the baby. I’m dancing, yes, but life’s just so gray and sad offstage. When I think about going to California of all places…” She exhaled. “Well, it’s the first time I’ve been excited about anything in a very long time.”

  “ ‘A change is as good as a rest,’ Mr. Churchill used to say.” Maggie kept drinking.

  “And
I need both. Desperately.”

  Sarah was resolved, Maggie knew, and her heart dropped in disappointment. But while she would miss her, she was happy for her friend. She knew Sarah had struggled and perhaps sunshine and ocean and palm trees would do her good. She held out her glass to be refilled. “It sounds like an amazing opportunity.”

  “And it’s not because he’s after me,” Sarah said. “He’s definitely”—she lowered her voice—“ ‘like that.’ ” Maggie nodded, sipping her champagne. “He says he can get me a visa to work on a movie—it’s called Gotta Dance! But the real reason is eventually he wants me to audition for George Balanchine in New York. Says Mr. Balanchine will have a company again after the war and he’s looking for girls like me.”

  “I’m so happy for you, Sarah.” Maggie reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand.

  “I won’t know a soul, though,” Sarah said, looking suddenly fragile.

  “You’ll know John in Los Angeles,” Maggie reminded her, as she downed the rest of her drink, the alcohol making her comfortably numb. “He’s still working on war propaganda with Walt Disney.”

  “I guess…”

  “David said he’s engaged,” Maggie noted, pouring another glass and doing her best not to make a face.

  Sarah took a sip of her champagne. “He should be with you.”

  Maggie laughed. “That ship’s sailed. And hit an iceberg.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Sarah replied. Then, “You should come with me!”

  “Oh— What?” Maggie was gobsmacked by the suggestion. “I—I couldn’t.”

  “Because you need to defuse bombs? I have the feeling there will be plenty left when you get back.”

  Maggie took a long drink. “I—I have a life here, a job, a house…Then there’s Durgin.”

  “Is that enough to keep you here?” Sarah leaned in. “Is he enough to keep you here?”

  Maggie was silent.

  “Kitten, you need to recuperate. You’ve been through a lot, too. I think if you don’t, you’ll explode at some point. So why not come to Los Angeles with me?”