by ILIL ARBEL
They saw each other often. Mr. Korolenko was a linguist and a professor of languages, among other pursuits. Madame Koska, despite her convincing Russian accent, did not speak Russian. She was an Englishwoman who had married an upper-class Russian man in Paris, and since he was the owner of a successful fashion atelier, frequented by many noble Russian émigrés, he thought it advisable that his wife and business partner would also appear to be of the Russian upper classes. She quickly learned to adopt a fake Russian accent which she could use equally well in English and in French. When she moved to London, some years after the terrible scandal caused by her missing husband, she realised the sham could not go on unless she learned Russian. In Paris, her clients, even the Russian ones, spoke French. In London, they tended to speak Russian among themselves and English with the natives. Mr. Korolenko was introduced to her by Madame Golitsyn.
Madame Koska had sometimes wondered how Mr. Korolenko would approach this uncomfortable little dilemma when the Mistral show was over. With her hand still hovering over the phone, she realised how discreetly he had already started to change the rules of the game. The ballet would be the first time they would attend any performance, or even a restaurant, without the company of others. Yes, it would be a most elegant way to start the new relationship and quite typical of Mr. Korolenko’s way of handling delicate situations. She smiled at Gretchen, took off her coat and went to her office. There she sat down at her desk, pulled out a long cigarette holder from her purse, put a cigarette in it and lighted it, deep in thought. Was she truly ready for the new phase in her life? She placed the cigarette holder on an ashtray, removed her rings and took off her white gloves, then put her rings back on her hands. She thought of her husband and knew that once and for all, he was gone forever, not only from her life, but from her thoughts and feelings. Was it the right time? Yes, she decided. It’s time. I am ready.
Chapter Three
The theatre seemed different at night. It was rather stark during her morning visit, but quite festive and beautifully lit at night. The shafts of cigarette smoke were visible under the golden lights, their odor mixing with the different perfumes everyone wore. The air was warm and slightly thick but not oppressive, perhaps a little intoxicating. Madame Koska and Mr. Korolenko were escorted to their excellent seats at the seventh row centre in the Stalls, were handed the programme, and sat down on the plush red chairs.
“This is interesting,” said Madame Koska. “Dmitry, look at the picture of M. Parizhsky on the cover. They have the original costume – the one I saw in Paris.”
Using Mr. Korolenko’s Christian name in public was another first. Until this time, they used first names only in private. But it was time for her to show him she could adjust to the new situation. Madame Koska noticed a fleeting smile on his face, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he asked, “How can you tell it’s the same one?”
“Vell… costumes are my trade. I vould recognise these roses, particularly the petals, anywhere. Do you know, they used to sew the original dancer into the costume for every performance? It fitted perfectly – such beautiful vork. I vonder if they do it with M. Parizhsky.”
The theatre started to darken; quiet fell on the chattering crowd. The curtain rose on the stage of Le Spectre de la Rose. Based on a poem by Théophile Gautier, describing the spirit of the special rose a young girl is wearing to a ball, and the music of Carl Maria von Weber’s Invitation to the Dance, it had little story but plenty of opportunity to show technique and style. The stage represented the girl’s simple bedroom, done entirely in blue and white, with one alcove draped with hangings made of semi-transparent tulle. A few chairs, and a piece of embroidery that has not been put away before the girl had left was placed on a table. The girl danced into her room, graceful, young, and happy after the ball, which she obviously had enjoyed very much. She carried a pink rose. Was it her first ball? Most likely. Did someone special give her the rose? We would never know. The girl sank gracefully into a chair, her eyes closed, and dreaming, lost the rose which fell to the floor. At this moment, all those who had seen the ballet before tensed up, ready for the well-known surprise that never failed to startle you anyway – the Spectre’s first grand jeté into the room through one of the windows. The entire audience gasped. No dancer had ever been able to rise in the air, remain motionless, and then slowly descend, like Victor Parizhsky. It was impossible, improbable. He hovered like a bird, then landed softly next to the sleeping girl. He whirled around the room and then around the girl, finally drawing her to her feet, still asleep, to dance with him.
While the girl was wearing a chaste, simple, white dress and a little bonnet, the Spectre’s costume was calculated to startle the audience. It was multi-coloured – pink, rose, red, and green – comprised of a tunic that was covered with silk petals and some roses. High on his arms he wore two armbands that were also covered with the same materials, and also flowers in his cap. This was neither a masculine nor a feminine costume--it was unique, magical, and disturbing. The genderless spirit moved his arms softly in a style that male dancers did not employ. It was not that he embodied a bisexual being – there was no sexuality in it at all – it was entirely spiritual, as if the dancer were an angel, a being of another world, neither male nor female. As he danced, many silk petals and a few silk roses fell from the costume, floated gently down, and landed on the floor.
Madame Koska smiled. She remembered the story that was told about the original dancer’s valet – he used to collect the petals and sell them to admirers, earning a good income out of this little side business. She wondered if Victor Parizhsky knew about it.
The spirit bent over the girl, and drew her, still sleeping, into a dance. The dance signified love in its purest and most spiritual form, bringing the wonderful music to life. At the end of the dance, the Spectre settled the girl back in her chair and kissed her very gently. He then turned, and to the joy of the audience, performed the most celebrated grand jeté as he flew out of the window into the night. Madame Koska knew the technique of it. She was told about the five running steps from the middle of the stage, and then the leap at the sixth step from a low base board. She knew that behind the set, four men would catch Victor Parizhsky in the air, in such a way that no one could see the landing – or even the descent from the height of the leap. She knew that the conductor would enhance the illusion by holding the last chord for a longer time than usual, suggesting that out there, the Spectre was still flying. Knowing did not matter at all; when one looked at Victor Parizhsky, one believed that he could fly, that a miracle happened.
Madame Koska, who had held her breath since before the final grand jeté, relaxed. The thought crossed her mind that Madame Danilova was right. The young French ballerina was certainly good, but not great, and her dancing, while quite enjoyable, did not inspire. Victor Parizhsky dominated the piece. But the next performance was Giselle, and Madame Danilova in the title role was not shadowed by Victor Parizhsky. They were perfectly matched and the sad story unfolded like a glittering dream. As always, Ballet Baikal delivered a magnificent performance.
Slightly dazed, as she always felt after a great ballet or a truly superior concert, Madame Koska left with Mr. Korolenko, and they stepped into the clear, chilly spring evening. It was only a step to a café they both knew, and they decided to go in for a light supper.
“A magnificent performance,” said Mr. Korolenko. “Sasha may look and act like a barbarian, but he expresses all his inner beauty through the ballet.”
“Vhat did you think of Madame Danilova’s performance?” asked Madame Koska. “I thought she vas peerless. I don’t understand vhy some of the parts are going to the younger girls. The French ballerina is not up to dancing with Victor Parizhsky.”
“I don’t understand it either,” said Mr. Korolenko. “Perhaps there is a reason we don’t know…” He seemed thoughtful. After a few minutes of silence, he said “Vera, the Mistral show is over…”
“So it is, Dmitry,” said Ma
dame Koska. “And it vas a bigger success than I had the right to expect. Everything should go very smoothly from now on at the atelier.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Korolenko. “You may find some time to relax…”
“I intend to,” said Madame Koska. She looked at the handsome face across the table, the warm brown eyes smiling at her, and smiled back. Yes, she thought. It’s high time to make a change, to have a private life as well as a rewarding career. She finished her coffee, put her gloves on, and rearranged her rings on top of them. Mr. Korolenko turned to summon the waiter.
Since the atelier was not very far from the restaurant, they decided to walk. They did not talk very much; it did not seem necessary to either of them. When they reached the atelier, Madame Koska asked, “Would you like to come in for a drink, Dmitry?”
“Yes, I would like that very much,” said Mr. Korolenko.
Madame Koska pulled the key out of her bag and offered it to him. Mr. Korolenko took the key, raised her hand to his lips, and opened the door.
~~~
When Madame Danilova and Victor Parizhsky entered the atelier, Madame Koska was surprised to see that a young lady came with them. She welcomed them cordially and led them to her office. Gretchen already knew she must order coffee and tea for the visitors.
“Madame Koska, may I introduce Mademoiselle Solange Forestier?” said Madame Danilova. Madame Koska recognised the dancer, who had been Victor’s partner in Le Spectre de la Rose. “I am delighted to meet you, Mademoiselle Forestier. I have seen you dance and enjoyed your performance very much.” The young woman smiled, shook Madame Koska’s hand, and thanked her.
“We brought Mademoiselle Forestier with us, Madame Koska, since she is my understudy for Icarus,” said Madame Danilova. “She must be measured for the same costume as myself.”
“Of course,” said Madame Koska, hiding her surprise. This new girl would be the understudy? Why not one of the experienced ballerinas who had been with the Ballets Baikal for years? A special costume? Normally the understudy would wear the costume that was prepared for the star, fitted as well as possible at the last moment. An extra costume that may never be used was an expensive luxury – and the two women were pretty much the same size, anyway. Strange… thought Madame Koska.
“And would you kindly meet Monsieur Parishsky, our premier dancer?” Madame Koska shook the young man’s hand. “I vas thrilled by your interpretation of Le Spectre, M. Parizhsky,” she said, and catching herself in time, as she realised how much stronger her language was in praising Victor than Solange, continued, “Your pas de deux was inspirational. You both have created a whole new approach to this delightful piece.” The young woman laughed good-naturally and said, “It will be years before I can even begin to hope to match M. Parizhsky’s performance, if ever, Madame Koska. He is carrying me along in his performance, and I am grateful to him!” Victor shook his head and said, “No, no…” feebly dismissing the statement. The strong personality, fire and passion, so obvious on stage, were not there at all. It was as if a light that had burned brightly inside the dancer while he was on stage was turned off, leaving an empty shell behind. Victor Parizhsky’s dark eyes had no brilliance, his smile was vacuous, and he said very little. Madame Koska had an uncomfortable feeling that he was not fully there, that his mind wandered into another place and time.
One of the seamstresses entered with the tea tray and Madame Koska handed cups all around. “Vould you like me to show you the sketches vhile ve are having our tea?” asked Madame Koska.
“Yes, I can’t wait to see them,” said Madame Danilova, smiling brightly. Madame Koska noted that the ballerina looked tired, almost haggard. Was she exhausted by the morning’s exercises, on top of the nightly show? Quite possibly. Victor also looked tired, very tired. Mademoiselle Forestier seemed bright and cheery; she was the only one of the dancers to take a piece of cake with her tea. Victor hesitated, but when he saw that Madame Danilova did not take food, he refused it too.
Madame Koska brought out a few sketches. The woman’s costume was made for a high priestess. A full, loose, flowing tunic reached just over the knees. It was all white. A gold belt was tied high, empire style, and then crossed between the breasts and over the neck. A short, sleeveless blue vest was worn above it, drawn to show it was made of a shiny material. The high priestess was barefoot, with a gold anklet on each leg, and a gold band circled her loose, long black hair.
Icarus’ costume was shown in three different drawings. The first, which was marked “Neutral colour” was a short tunic worn over a pair of tights and simply belted. The colour was a plain beige-ecru. The second, marked “Blue light, cool” showed the costume as it would be lit right after the wings are attached by Icarus’s father, Daedalus. It was azure blue, cool and pleasant. The wings were large and impressive. The third was marked “Near the sun, warm” and was shown in a combination of orange and red.
“How lovely,” said Solange. “Though if I ever have to dance it, and of course I hope I will never have to, my dear Madame Danilova, would it look nice with my blonde hair?”
“Oh, yes,” said Madame Koska. “Vhite and blue, with gold touches? Vonderful for a blonde.”
Victor was looking at the Icarus sketch. He said nothing, but looked at Madame Danilova for guidance.
“This is magnificent,” said Madame Danilova. “Both my costume and Victor’s costume are wonderful. How are you going to construct the wings?” Victor seemed relieved and lost interest.
“The ving’s structure vill be made as a tube. Ve vill insert flexible vire into the tube, and so ve vill be able to shape it to any form ve need. Then ve vill cover it vith tulle and sew feathers onto it. They vill be extremely light, so ve vill experiment vith several sizes, to see vhat M. Parizhsky is comfortable vith.”
Victor, hearing his name, looked at Madame Danilova to see if anything was needed. She smiled at him reassuringly and he relaxed. “This is a magnificent design, Madame Koska,” said the ballerina.
After the tea, Madame Koska placed each of the dancers in a fitting room, where a seamstress was waiting to measure them. Victor, with whom she entered the room, did not bother to go behind the screen. Entirely oblivious to the presence of the seamstress and Madame Koska, he started to take off his clothes in the middle of the room, throwing them carelessly on a chair. Madame Koska was somewhat startled until she saw he wore a regular ballet leotard and tights under his clothes.
The dancer had a very unusual physique. His upper body was the torso of a strongly built, muscular young man, though not heavy. His lower body, however, looked almost as if it belonged to someone else. The muscles of his legs, both thighs and calves, were so heavily developed, that they were extremely large, completely out of proportion with his upper body. Madame Koska wondered why she could not see it when he was dancing. So much about this young man was baffling! Madame Koska shrugged, gave a few last-minute instructions to the seamstress, made sure she took separate measurements of the forearm, upper arm, calf, and thigh, and went to see Madame Danilova.
“I hope you don’t mind that we brought Solange,” said the ballerina. “Seeing that it is the same costume, I thought it would be saving time for you.”
“Not at all,” said Madame Koska. “I vill be measuring the entire company soon. But is it really necessary to create an entire costume for her? I vas a little surprised.”
Madame Danilova was quiet for a minute, looking a little thoughtful. “I will explain some other time,” she said, raising her eyebrows significantly and pointedly looking at the busy seamstress who was on her knees, measuring Madame Danilova’s length of calf.
“Of course,” said Madame Koska, and tactfully changing the subject, reminded Madame Danilova about their promised Easter Sunday dinner at the Saint Petersburg Room. Madame Danilova brightened and expressed her expectation of a very interesting and traditional experience.
“Miss Saltykov told me she vill have a little present for each of us,” said Madame Koska. “
She is preparing some very unusual Easter Eggs.”
“You mean the pysanky coloured eggs?” said Madame Danilova. “They are so lovely.”
“No, better than that. She can do something I find almost miraculous – she can embroider the empty shell of an egg instead of colouring it; apparently they do so in parts of the Ukraine,” said Madame Koska, “but it’s a rare thing. I have never heard of it.”
“Embroider an egg?” asked Madame Danilova, astonished.
“Yes, there is a special technique for that, and specific tools. Miss Saltykov learned how to make them from a Ukrainian friend in Russia, and somehow Madame Golitsyn managed to buy the tools from an acquaintance recently. Miss Saltykov’s skills are unmatched.”
“Indeed. Madame Golitsyn and I had known each other for years, so I was familiar with her niece’s work. Most impressive. Miss Saltykov had given me an embroidered set of handkerchiefs; I treasure them.”
“Vell, I must go and see how Mademoiselle Forestier is faring,” said Madame Koska. “After the session is over, I imagine you vant to rush back to the theatre to prepare for the evening performance, so I vill not detain you.”
“No…” said Madame Danilova slowly, with some hesitation. “As a matter of fact, would it be possible for you to see me privately after the session? Just for a few minutes? I will send the others to the theatre. I won’t take much of your time, but I really need to discuss something with you.”
