by ILIL ARBEL
Madame Koska grasped the back of a chair that stood near her, her face losing much of its colour. “Was he saved?” she asked.
“Yes, he seems to be out of danger, but…”
“But you are not sure if it is truly a suicide attempt, are you, Dmitry?”
“No, I can’t be sure. We don’t know yet if anyone tried to poison Victor’s costume, but if someone did, he or she might have struck again. I must go to the theatre to meet Blount.”
“I wish I could come with you,” said Madame Koska. “Galina… she must be distraught over this development. She could use my support.”
“Of course you can come with me,” said Mr. Korolenko. “Why not? Blount would be happy to have someone who could keep these divas calm.”
They left the half-eaten dinner on the table, not removing the dishes – something Madame Koska would never dream of doing under normal circumstances – and went to the theatre. It was the end of the performance, and the audience, mercifully unaware of the events behind the scene, filled the narrow street, blocking it and making it impossible for the police car to park in front of the theatre without making itself conspicuous by using the loud siren. Inside it was even worse. It seemed everyone knew about the attempted suicide. Dancers were running back and forth, some in costume, some in street clothes, not knowing what to do. Neither M. Danilov nor Galina were in sight.
“They may be at the hospital,” said Madame Koska, speaking loudly, trying to be heard about the general din.
“No, they are here,” said a voice next to her. Madame Koska turned to see Leonard Bassin, the young dancer she had met the other day. He was very quiet, but tears were streaming down his face.
“Victor was a brother to me,” he said. “I can’t bear it.”
“He is out of danger,” said Mr. Korolenko kindly. “The police told me that.”
“But he has lost his mind,” said the boy. “He will probably try to kill himself again.”
“Lost his mind? What do you mean?” asked Madame Koska. Her head ached with the noise and she was not sure she had heard him correctly.
“He was always a little strange,” said the boy. “He is different from other people. It’s hard to explain. Victor is the dance, and the dance is Victor. He is only the dance, nothing else, he has no other thoughts, no other existence. Just the dance… but he is kind and sweet and loving…” The boy suddenly ran away and disappeared among the crowd.
Madame Koska looked at Mr. Korolenko, who was shaking his head. “I don’t understand what he means,” he said. “Victor is only the dance… what can he possibly be trying to say?”
“I do know what he means, Dmitry,” said Madame Koska. “When I met Victor, he seemed vague. It’s as if his thoughts are permanently elsewhere, and he is like an empty shell. When he dances, he comes alive. When he is not dancing, he is only half alive. He lacks personality when away from the ballet.”
“But if he was always like that, why does Leonard Bassin say he has lost his mind?”
“I can’t say. We must find M. Danilov and hear what he thinks.”
Just as she said that, the massive figure of M. Danilov became visible at the end of a corridor. He shouldered his way through the crowd, pushing people aside, and with a few strides reached Madame Koska and Mr. Korolenko. “Come,” he said. “Inspector Blount is with me.” He turned around and they followed in his wake, the crowd dispersing to let them pass.
Inspector Blount and Galina were the only people present in the small room. When M. Danilov closed the door, the noise was greatly reduced and Madame Koska felt better. She went over to Galina and pressed her hand with sympathy. Galina looked terrible. Her face was white as chalk, while two bright red, feverish spots lingered on her high cheekbones, a testament to her tuberculosis. Her high chignon was disheveled, the hair showing traces of grey which Madame Koska had not noticed before, and some of her black mascara was smeared under her eyes – or perhaps they were extremely dark circles. Galina pressed Madame Koska’s hand in return, and gave her a grateful look. “I am so glad you are here, Madame Koska,” she whispered
“So what happened?” asked Mr. Korolenko with his usual calm. “And why did you need me, Blount?”
“I needed you because some of these dancers speak only Russian” said Inspector Blount. “We will call them soon. As to what happened, I think M. Danilov is clearer on it than I am.”
“I found him,” said M. Danilov. “He was not dancing tonight, so I did not know he was at the theatre, but I needed something in his dressing room and walked in. There he was, lying on the floor. He had been very incoherent for the last few days, behaving strangely… so I thought it was another episode. I bent over to talk to him, and realised something was very bad. I called the doctor right away, and he said it looked as if Victor had swallowed something. He was rushed to the hospital and they pumped his stomach. He took poison. They saved him with great difficulty.”
“Another episode, did you say?” asked Inspector Blount. “What other episodes had occurred?”
“Galina witnessed the first time it happened,” said M. Danilov. “I was not there.”
“Yes,” said Galina. “It happened a few days ago. He saw me coughing badly, something I had managed to hide from him for a long time. He looked at me with horror in his eyes and said, ‘are you sick? Your cheeks have these red spots like my mother had when she died.’ I knew his mother died of tuberculosis, which is why it was so important to me to hide my own illness. Victor is so fragile, emotionally.”
“So what did you say, and what was his reaction?” asked Inspector Blount, busily writing notes.
“He was frozen for a while, like a statue. Then he burst into tears; it seemed he could not stop sobbing. I held him in my arms and told him repeatedly that I am about to get the cure in Switzerland, in an excellent sanatorium. He did not seem to hear me at all. When he finally stopped crying he sat on the floor and curled himself into a hunched position. I held his hand and waited for a long time. Finally he looked up and blurted that his mother was too poor to get the cure, since his father had abandoned her for another woman. The usual tragic story, but now I understand better why he was always so afraid of losing the ones he loved. I asked him if he felt better, and he said that he did. I took him to his dressing room to rest, and he fell asleep almost instantly.”
“And were there any other episodes?” asked Inspector Blount.
“Yes. He would wake up at night, screaming, but remembered nothing in the morning. During the day he was motionless, terribly quiet. He only came alive when he was dancing. He is not eating, either. Really, he eats practically nothing.”
“Where he is getting the terrifying energy he still shows when he is dancing I’ll never know,” said M. Danilov. “He is almost like a machine now. But suicide? Why? Galina told him she was not dying and he always believes anything Galina says.”
“I wonder,” said Madame Koska, and stopped.
“What about?” said Inspector Blount, looking sharply at her.
“Perhaps he heard a rumour that someone was trying to kill him, rather than Solange,” said Madame Koska. “That would tip him over the edge.”
M. Danilov suddenly looked very self-conscious and uncomfortable. “Ah, well, yes,” he said. “I told him myself.”
“What?” exclaimed Mr. Korolenko, for once shaken out of his self-control. “Have you gone mad? Why would you do such a thing, when we don’t even know if the costume was poisoned or not? Didn’t you realise that frightening him this way might cause enormous damage?”
M. Danilov did not answer for a long time, than raised his eyes to Mr. Korolenko and said, “I told him because I love him so much. I was terribly worried and wanted him to be careful.”
“Sasha, how could you?” said Galina in quiet desperation. “You know how unstable, fearful, and fragile he has always been. Such a threat against his life would be too much.”
“Bad decision,” said Inspector Blount. “You should have co
nsulted the police before divulging such a piece of information. I don’t think you had the right to do so.”
“I am sorry,” said the impresario, and buried his head in his hands.
Madame Koska said nothing, but watched the impresario carefully. She had a sudden hunch that M. Danilov was acting a part; something did not seem right. She simply could not believe that this brilliant manager and manipulator of people could have made such a mistake. No, she thought. He had done it deliberately. But why? What could he possibly gain from destroying his star performer, the most famous dancer in the world, his prize?
She did not have much time to think about it. The inspector led Mr. Korolenko to interview several of the Russian dancers, and she was left with the impresario and Galina. Madame Koska decided to change the subject.
“It may be wrong of me to ask this question at a time like this, but M. Danilov, do you plan to go ahead with Icarus?”
M. Danilov raised his head and looked at her, genuinely surprised. “Of course I am,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I?”
Galina laughed, somewhat bitterly. “My dear Madame Koska, nothing will stop Sasha from going on with a ballet.”
“But… Victor may or may not be able to dance, the two possible prima ballerinas are out of the picture… how will you handle it?”
M. Danilov waved his hand as if dismissing some trivial details. “There are always some difficulties, but they never stop me,” he said.
Madame Koska privately thought that having a wife who is his prima ballerina afflicted by tuberculosis, her stand-in murdered, and his male star showing signs of insanity, may represent more than mere difficulties, but she refrained from saying so. She waited for him to continue.
“Victor will dance,” said the impresario. “Even if his mind is not completely healthy, he won’t give up his part. In the meantime, I will personally train Leonard Bassin as Victor’s stand-in, just in case. His Monte Carlo training can wait. But Victor will dance, depend upon it.”
“But the prima ballerina?” asked Galina. “Who will take my place? I simply must go to Switzerland, Sasha.”
M. Danilov pulled a telegram from his breast pocket and smiled. Madame Koska did not like the triumph in his eyes. He handed the telegram to Galina, who took it silently. Madame Koska looked at it with her, and it contained one sentence. “Accept – stop – on my way to London – stop – Tanya” Madame Koska heard Galina gasp.
“I telegraphed her as soon as I heard about Solange’s death,” said M. Danilov in a self-congratulatory tone.
“But she walked out on you before, Sasha,” said Galina. “She said she would not work with an established ballet and she kept her word. She is either doing solos or has her own group.”
“She accepted. You read the telegram.”
“This is insane, Sasha. You will try to control her, and Tanya Lavrova does not accept any form of control. The two of you will fight and Icarus will be destroyed.”
“I will let her do what she wants,” said M. Danilov. “Or at least, make her think she is doing what she wants. It’s worth it. She is a great dancer.”
“She is the greatest in the world,” said Galina. “But it will not do.”
“Think, Galina,” said the impresario. “The newspapers will say, ‘For the first time, Lavrova and Parizhsky together!’ I can just see the marquee with their combined names! Can you imagine? The audiences will be drawn like flies.”
“I don’t like it, Sasha, and I never will… but I am out of it and of course you will do what you want.” Galina sighed.
~~~
“Annushka, he was practically licking his chops, like a cat,” said Madame Koska. “He was so thrilled about the idea of Lavrova and Parizhsky together that he did not even pretend to consider Galina’s advice or feelings.”
Madame Golitsyn took a small sandwich from the tray. They were having tea at their favourite café, sitting in a corner by the great bay window, where no one could hear them.
“You know how he is, Vera,” she finally said. “He has only one object, one thought. The ballet. People don’t matter to him, at least not a great deal.”
“I understand,” said Madame Koska, “and I don’t think it’s so much the money as it is the glory of the ballet. He once said in my presence, ‘People think of me as a money-grabber, a dishonest impresario who would do anything for success. But I am the antithesis of a money-grabber. I have no respect for money; not my own money, not other people’s money. Mammon is not my god. I serve only one goddess – Beauty. For her, I will do anything.’ And that makes him even more ruthless, I think, than a regular money-hungry, normal businessman. He is a zealot.”
“Maybe he is the murderer, then,” said Madame Golitsyn, smiling. “Maybe he did it so Lavrova can dance for him.” Madame Koska looked at her, aghast.
“Vera, I was joking!” said Madame Golitsyn, alarmed by the look in Madame Koska’s eyes. “I did not mean it seriously.”
“I wonder,” said Madame Koska, putting down her cup, since her hand was shaking. “I wonder. It’s not all that far-fetched, Annushka. I can easily see Sasha Danilov committing a horrific crime if it served his purpose – or rather, the ballet’s purpose.”
“But if that is so, he never meant to kill Victor.”
“You are right. If that is so, he meant to kill Solange. And he told Victor that someone might have wanted to poison him, despite the fact that he was asked not to tell him anything before the results came from the laboratory. I don’t believe it was a simple mistake… it’s possible that he wanted to create this diversion, to make Victor, as well as everyone else, concentrate on the attempt on his life, rather than on Solange’s murder,” said Madame Koska.
“It still makes no sense. Why wouldn’t he simply write to Lavrova and ask her to come and replace Galina? What was the point of killing a stand-in who seemed so harmless and unimportant?” asked Madame Golitsyn.
“Perhaps there is something we don’t know about Solange,” said Madame Koska. “Could it be she had some power over him, blackmail, something like that?”
“His life is complex,” said Madame Golitsyn. “Blackmail is always possible.”
“I’ll alert Dmitry to this possibility,” said Madame Koska. “By the way, tomorrow I am going to meet Lavrova. She is coming to be measured for the costume. I hope we can adapt the one we started for Solange, since I am told that Lavrova is very small, even for a ballerina. If she is bigger than Solange, we may have to start a new one.”
“I wonder what she is like,” said Madame Golitsyn. “One hears so much about her, but most of it may be stories.”
“Galina told me she is a very difficult person,” said Madame Koska. “Driven, hard, cold, even cruel at times. No compassion for anyone. Yes, it will be interesting to meet Tanya Lavrova.”
Chapter Seven
Early in the morning, Gretchen and Natalya stood at the front desk in serious consultation. Natalya, carefully turning around a beautiful hat, covered with shimmering, dusty rose silk, was shaking her head dubiously. “I don’t know, Miss Van der Hoven… even the thinnest thread might cause a hole in this silk if sewn securely. And to sew three large roses to it is too much for such a delicate fabric. The silk will stretch.”
“But Miss Saltykov, the hat is perfect for these two occasions, and I would feel silly to buy two identical hats and put roses on one. You would be the first to tell me not to be such a frivolous spendthrift.”
“Yes, true, but I really don’t know how to do it,” said Natalya. “Perhaps Madame Koska will have a good idea.”
“I know how to do it,” said a quiet, musical voice. Both girls turned in alarm toward a petite woman who stood next to them. They did not hear her come in, and Gretchen was not even aware of opening the door to the public. The unknown woman smiled, and it was a totally bewitching smile. She was short, even for a ballerina, and very slim, giving the impression of an ethereal creature, lighter than the air itself. Her big black eyes and dark hair emp
hasised an extremely pale complexion.
“Don’t be alarmed, the door was opened and I stepped in,” said the woman, amused by their expression. “I am Tanya Lavrova. I am here to be measured for a costume.”
“Of course,” said Natalya. “I am honoured to meet you, Madame Lavrova…. I can start you right now, if you would just step in – but wait, here is Madame Koska!”
“Madame Koska, I am delighted to meet you,” said the ballerina. “But I am not going anywhere before I show these nice girls how to fix their hat. You see, I use stage tricks even for matters of my regular toilette.”
“Stage tricks?” asked Gretchen, intrigued. “Are they different from the adjustments we make when modelling?”
“It’s similar to modelling tricks, I imagine, but necessarily more inventive and dramatic,” said Madame Lavrova. “For example, when I danced the Peacock’s Romance solo, I had to lose a tail feather toward the end of the show, so it would be left in the middle of the stage when I flew away and the lights went out slowly. It had to be secure while I danced, but fall away easily when I wanted it to do so, and no one should notice me doing it. You can do the same with your roses.”
“This should save a lot of money,” said Natalya, already thinking about her own hats.
“Yes. Instead of sewing the roses securely by using several stitches, or gluing them, you take a silk thread and pass it through the hat once, leaving a tail inside. Then, you pass it over and through the rose, crossing it between the petals, and through the hat again. You would now have only two threads on the inside of the hat, and you can tie them in a bow. Then, when the roses are no longer needed, you simply pull the thread, the bow falls apart, and the hat is hardly damaged, left with only two small needle pricks.”
“Genius,” said Gretchen. “I am sure I can find the absolutely perfect thread that will match each rose. Thank you so much, Madame Lavrova.”
Madame Koska laughed. “Very nice!” She said. “I alvays say one should be resourceful and thrifty with one’s vardrobe! Now, may I invite you to the dressing room, Madame Lavrova? Ve must measure you. Natalya vill take you there and I vill join you directly.”
