by ILIL ARBEL
“Wonderful,” said Madame Golitsyn.
At four o’clock the next day Madame Danilova arrived at the atelier, with the punctuality of a woman used to rigorous schedules. Madame Koska escorted her to the office, ordered tea, and closed the door. Madame Danilova looked around her with pleasure. “Such a nice office,” she said. “It must be comfortable to do business here. My husband’s business activities are done on tiny little bits of paper, he never sits at a desk, and the details are in his head instead of in documents.”
Madame Koska laughed. “And yet he is such a successful impresario, Madame Danilova, famous all over Europe, Russia, and the United States. You must lead an exciting life vith him.”
“I suppose,” said Madame Danilova. “But it can be exhausting. We hardly stay anywhere for more than a season; it’s a nomadic life. We don’t even own a home, Madame Koska. We live in hotels. Luxurious and comfortable hotels, I must admit, but I miss having a home, preferably right here in London. As you know, I am English, despite my assumed stage name, so I miss a permanent place here, not to mention that I am not getting any younger.”
“Ah, no, you are young and beautiful and you dance like an angel,” said Madame Koska.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Madame Danilova. “I am so glad I appear that way. And I am doubly happy because I will be dancing the ballet you are going to design your lovely clothes for.”
“You are the prima ballerina for all of the ballets, I think?” said Madame Koska, surprised.
“Not anymore. Certain leading parts go to the ingénues, it’s only natural,” said Madame Danilova. “I am not sad about it; such is the way of the world. For example, in the production we are going to discuss, I am dancing the long ballet. However, there are two short ballets that will be presented first. I will not be in either of them.” She smiled, seemingly without resentment.
“I see,” said Madame Koska, wondering if the prima ballerina was really as calm about it as she seemed. The career of a ballerina was so short… certainly all dancers were aware of it from the start, but facing the end, so quickly, must be harsh. Madame Danilova seemed to be only in her early forties. “So who vill be dancing these parts?” she asked.
“The same girl who is performing in Le Spectre de la Rose which is part of our program this season. Usually we do our own, new choreographies. But this time, we received permission from the owners to perform Le Spectre de la Rose in London. Everyone loves this piece! She is French and just out of the ballet academy. She is very good, but I am a bit worried about it.”
“Vhy is that?”
“Because she is only good, not great. It may take years to achieve greatness. The male part, the Spectre, is danced by our star, Victor Parizhsky. Calling Victor a great performer is an understatement. His performance is so extraordinary, that it is considered by some to be supernatural… the results of their dancing together are uneven. When you dance a pas de deux, it can lead to failure if one of the couple is always trying to catch up.” She sighed.
“Did you say anything to your husband?” asked Madame Koska.
“Yes. I suggested that he might select another male dancer for the piece, and he agreed at first, but when he told Victor, there was a scene of such magnitude, such drama, that Sasha backed off. He can’t refuse Victor anything, particularly if he cries. And believe me, Victor sobbed.”
“I heard that Monsieur Parizhsky is living vith you, like an adopted son,” said Madame Koska. “You must both love him very much.”
Madame Danilova looked at her as if she thought Madame Koska was trying to mock or insult her, her eyes full of rage. Suddenly she must have realised that Madame Koska was saying exactly what she thought with complete innocence. She shrugged and relaxed. “No, Madame Koska. I see that you don’t know the real situation. About ten years ago Sasha asked me to marry him because he wanted to hush up the scandals that were circulating about him and some boys who danced at the Ballet Baikal. He and Victor are lovers. The arrangement of marriage and living together worked for everyone, since I did not want to have a personal life and a real husband; it would have interfered with my career.”
Madame Koska nodded. “Yes, I see. Indeed, people can be so ridiculous in their criticism of any lifestyle that is not exactly like their own. I think that your arrangement vas a very good idea.”
Madame Danilova smiled. “I am glad you understand; it is such a pleasure to talk to a woman of the world, Madame Koska.”
Madame Koska shrugged. “It’s important to keep an open mind about all matters,” she said. “And if the three of you are finding the arrangement vorkable, vhy not?”
“Exactly. We get along very well. Victor is a quiet, shy creature when away from the stage, and does not connect easily with most people. But he trusts me, and I believe even likes me very much. I certainly like him, poor soul.”
“Poor soul? The most famous dancer in the vorld?” asked Madame Koska, surprised.
“He suffers from bouts of depression, and no wonder. The young male dancers live a harsh life,” said Madame Danilova. “From an early age, almost as children, they realise that they must accept the advances of the older, rich patrons of the ballet, or of the managers and impresarios. This form of prostitution is customary and they would never get ahead otherwise; the competition is fierce. They are so obsessed with the ballet that they do not care about sacrificing themselves, but it takes its toll as they are passed from hand to hand. Victor was the lover of an influential nobleman, a great patron of the ballet, who got tired of him. The nobleman simply wrote a note to Sasha, explaining that he knew a boy, a fantastic dancer and quite attractive, whom he thought Sasha should meet. This was the reward he gave the boy – introduction to the great impresario. Sasha sent a note to summon the boy, fell in love at first sight, hired him without even checking his performance, and had him spend the night.”
“It is rather harsh, I must admit,” said Madame Koska. “I vonder vhat vould have happened if Victor did not justify his reputation as a great dancer.”
“Nothing terrible, Sasha is too kind to just tell him to leave. He would have Victor join the corps de ballet, or perhaps introduce him to another gentleman… who knows; Sasha always finds a way. Luckily, Victor turned out to be the best dancer Sasha had ever met, and in addition, Sasha truly loves Victor, and treats him well; it’s not always like that, though.” She sighed. “But we must discuss the costumes! The ballet we are working on is highly innovative. You will not believe it, but we will not dance en pointe! We will be barefoot.”
“Really? How interesting,” said Madame Koska. “Vhat is the name of the ballet?”
“The Flight of Icarus. It is a Greek myth about a boy who flew into the sun and fell to earth. My husband and the choreographer feel they can show off Victor’s ability to soar into the air as he does the grand jeté and other such aerial moves. His ability to stay in the air is indeed a little frightening, even though I know how he does it.”
“Can you tell me?” asked Madame Koska, who had heard all the superstitious nonsense that was regularly told about Victor Parizhsky. While she did not believe it, she could not understand his leaps either.
Madame Danilova laughed. “It’s not a secret -- he simply has extremely strong toes. When he lands, he does not fall on the ball of the foot, like other male dancers, but lands on his toes, and then very slowly lowers the foot. These extra seconds somehow create the illusion of flight, particularly with the right lighting. In Le Spectre de la Rose, there is even a mechanical contraption to help the illusion when the Spectre jumps out of the window before the end of the piece. I’ll show it to you when you come to the theatre. It’s quite effective – you would imagine Victor is soaring into the night sky.”
“How fascinating,” said Madame Koska. “Yes, he vill do vell as Icarus. So the costumes should be Greek.”
“Yes, but we would like some fantasy. It does not have to be accurately Greek, just the spirit of the time and place; it is important to crea
te a sense of flight, and then express the closeness to the sun when the wings begin to melt. The colours would be significant, I imagine.”
“Yes, ve must move from cool colours as he and his father Daedalus begin the flight, to very hot colours when Icarus comes close to the sun, and then back to cool, or even dark colours as he falls to his death and his father mourns him,” said Madame Koska, pulling a drawing pad towards her. “I imagine the lighting can be helpful, too, if the fabric’s colour is more or less neutral.
“So you know the story,” said Madame Danilova with approval.
“Oh, yes, I love mythology,” said Madame Koska. “It vill be an adventure to design for such a project.”
“You must come to a rehearsal, and then discuss the terms with Sasha,” said Madame Danilova. “Would you be able to come tomorrow morning?”
There was no going back, but Madame Koska had already forgotten her misgivings anyway, and glorious costumes were swirling in her mind. How does one create wings that are large enough to take a muscular young man to the sky, but not so heavy as to drag him down as Victor Parizhsky performs his legendary leaps?
Chapter Two
Madame Koska felt she had stepped into another world. The ballet was like nothing she had ever seen. She was not even sure she could define it as ballet. The dancers, all female, worked on a bare stage with no scenery, but the wildness of the jerky movements suggested a bacchanal. However, it was different from the bacchanals she was used to seeing in several operas, and certainly not as tame. The music consisted of a cacophony of percussion and wind instruments. Every so often a burst of string instruments erupted from the orchestra, seemingly out of place. The dancers wore the usual rehearsal clothes and no shoes, as Madame Danilova explained, so they were a rather plain group, but as Madame Koska was watching, the images began to shift in front of her inner eye, which was always ready to design. She envisioned the dancers in Greek-influenced tunics, ephemeral white on blue. There was no magical lighting, no shadow at all under the bright lights that illuminated the stage, and yet the dancers succeeded in creating an aura of mystery and timelessness.
Suddenly, a male figure flew into the scene. The sheer height of the leap was startling, but the sensation of slow hovering, of real flight, was disconcerting. It was simply impossible – no one could stay up in the air like that – but one could not deny it as it happened in front of one’s eyes. Madame Koska held her breath as he smoothly merged with the wild female group, swaying and undulating. The musical instruments screamed and the segment of ballet came to an end. Madame Koska breathed again.
She was still slightly dazed as she watched the dancers disappear behind the stage, and was startled when she saw a person approaching her. He was a strongly built man of middle height, wrapped in a large overcoat with a fur collar. Madame Koska estimated him at about fifty years old. He had a large face, a generous, full mouth with thick lips, and a strange white streak divided his black hair. He could have been thought unprepossessing or even downright ugly but his brown eyes were so full of intelligence and enthusiasm, there was so much life and power in his personality, that somehow he appeared to be quite attractive in a strange, almost savage way.
“Madame Koska, I am delighted you have consented to design the costumes,” he said as he bowed gallantly over her hand. “We must speak French… it is our common language when my wife joins us. I don’t speak very good English, I am afraid, and she does not speak Russian.” At this time Madame Koska could speak Russian reasonably well, after the extensive studies with Mr. Korolenko, but nevertheless she was relieved. With so much work to concentrate on, she did not need to worry about making language mistakes.
“I am most pleased to meet you, Monsieur Danilov,” she said. “I have taken on the job despite serious misgivings – simply because I could not resist the challenge and the pleasure. I adore the ballet.”
The impresario laughed heartily. “I am so glad I did not have to spend days convincing you, Madame Koska. I would have persuaded you at last, but it would have taken so much time… much better like this.” Madame Koska believed him. There was no doubt this man always got what he wanted.
“We must go somewhere and discuss terms,” said the impresario. “Have you had breakfast? Let’s go to a café and have some. Here comes Galina, let’s go.” So Madame Danilova was telling the truth, thought Madame Koska. The great man did not bother keeping an office.
At the café, over a continental breakfast, M. Danilov explained that they were having two separate productions in London. They were performing traditional pieces over the next two months in London, The Spectre de la Rose and Giselle, while rehearsing for the controversial and modern The Flight of Icarus, and two other short pieces he was considering, to be presented in the fall. After that, M. Danilov was making arrangements in the United States, for a tour that would last a year.
“Vhat an exciting life,” said Madame Koska. “It must take a tremendous amount of energy to keep everything in order.”
“I love it,” said M. Danilov with childlike simplicity. “I could never live a normal life. Of course, there are always troubles. Money, mostly, there is never enough money, ever. We make so much, but it is swallowed by the productions and admittedly, by the life style. There is always the need to treat, to entertain, to buy gifts, to throw parties; it never ends.”
“This is inevitable,” said Madame Danilova. “Promoting is everything, we depend on it.”
“And I am sure you have some trouble keeping so many personalities in order, some of them sensitive and proud, others jealous and angry,” said Madame Koska.
“Oh, yes,” said the impresario. “Every single one of them thinks he or she is the most important personage. They are all divas. And among them are people who would stab others in the back for a better part, or a favour. But I enjoy these challenges, and somehow everything turns out all right in the end, I am not sure why.”
“I am no diva,” said Madame Danilova, smiling.
“You, a diva?” said M. Danilov in mock horror. “The mere thought! No one would suspect!” They all laughed.
“So I have a couple of months for the creation of the costumes. Very vell, ve must start immediately,” said Madame Koska. “There is not a moment to lose.”
“I am delighted by your efficiency,” said M. Danilov. “The dancers will be at your disposal. They rehearse in the morning, and have performances in the evening, but we do not have many matinees; they can come to your atelier almost any day between two and six.”
“Excellent,” said Madame Koska. “And now, as for the terms…”
“Yes, indeed. Let me see, is there a clean napkin here…” he turned to the empty table behind him and pulled a clean linen napkin from under the silver that was arranged over it. The silver fell to the floor, and a waiter quickly came to pick it up. “Ah, waiter, bring me a pencil,” said the impresario, searching in his pockets. “No, don’t bother. I have found my pen.” Under Madame Koska’s astonished eyes, he wrote “Costumes” on the napkin, and they launched into a discussion regarding payments, schedules of deliveries, and such like, all of which he scribbled in detail on the napkin.
“Do you always do your business so informally?” asked Madame Koska, amused.
“This is more formal than scribbling on his shirt cuffs,” said Madame Danilova, laughing. “He often does that, and then if the shirt is sent to the laundry by mistake, what a disaster! The napkin won’t get lost, you see? He’ll keep it in his pocket until he gets back to his staff… And don’t worry. Somebody will send you everything written neatly on paper for your signatures.”
Madame Koska laughed. “That is good since I vould not like to sign a napkin!”
“I imagine you are highly organised, Madame Koska. Everything in its place, as they say?”
“She is, Sasha. Her office is delightfully arranged in perfect order,” said Madame Danilova.
“I am afraid so,” said Madame Koska. “Such pedantry must seem boring t
o you, but it’s a habit with me, and it saves me from much trouble.” For a moment she thought about the horrible mess of papers she had to sort out when her husband embezzled his own atelier and disappeared. But she forced herself to come back to the present and smiled. She did not know if M. Danilov was aware of her past, and she did not want to discuss it.
The meeting ended by deciding that Victor Parizhsky and Galina Danilova, the two principals of The Flight of Icarus, would visit the atelier for measurements in two days. In the meantime, Madame Koska would have time to make a few preliminary sketches to show them.
As soon as Madame Koska returned to the atelier, Gretchen, who was acting as vandeuse as usual until her university course was to start, handed her the telephone. It was M. Korolenko.
“Would you like to go and see the current ballet?” he asked. “They are dancing two delightful pieces, Le Spectre de la Rose and Giselle.”
“Yes, I vould love to go,” said Madame Koska. “It vill be a good idea to get used to the vay they dance. I have never seen Giselle.”
“Have you seen Le Spectre?” asked M. Korolenko.
“Yes, years ago in Paris. I saw it with the original dancer. He was incredibly good, and it would be interesting to compare his performance with that of Victor Parizhsky.”
“I can have tickets for tomorrow night, if you like, or even tonight,” said M. Korolenko.
“Let me guess,” said Madame Koska, laughing. “Even though the performance may be sold out, you have some influence with M. Danilov. So let’s go tonight!”
“Of course I have influence with Sasha… Let me find out what time the show begins and I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you,” said Madame Koska, and hung up.
Neither of them mentioned an important issue. Some months ago, they were both involved in a grand theft of jewelry which put both their lives in danger. When the crime was solved, mostly by Madame Koska, Mr. Korolenko made his feelings for her known, and while Madame Koska had always thought she could never love again, she found herself falling for the sophisticated, handsome, brilliant man who had that touch of mystery and intrigue which made him irresistible. But she was not in a rush. She had explained that yes, she would welcome him into her life, but for the near future, she simply had to concentrate on creating the Mistral fashion show and could not start a new relationship. Mr. Korolenko was perfectly agreeable to the “understanding” between them, and refrained from pressing her, or even mentioning the situation.
