Viktoriya gripped the armrest so hard her knuckles hurt. ‘I could have actually been up there and experiencing it firsthand.’
‘There is a method in this madness and it will be revealed, I promise. I wanted this evening to inspire you. To give you an insatiable hunger so you will stop at nothing to be the prima ballerina in a ballet designed especially for you.’ He studied her then smiled. ‘I’ve been speaking to Massine and Picasso.’
She opened her mouth then closed it again.
‘I’m more involved with your ballet company than you may realise, Viktoriya. When I asked Diaghilev to send me two of his up-and-coming dancers, I was not only surprised by your talent, but captivated by your beauty. Normally, I keep my distance with these projects but if I am moved then I find myself getting involved.’
‘Diaghilev said you were looking at financing the current productions.’
‘I was. I am. I also enjoy pet projects and you could become a star in your own right. Maybe even bigger than Anna Pavlova.’
Viktoriya concentrated on the delicate fabric of her dress. She’d heard of other artists, including some dancers, finding a patron to financially support their artistic endeavours, though it always had a price. She wondered what would be hers.
‘Baron—’
‘Erik.’
‘Erik,’ she swallowed hard, ‘I appreciate you taking an interest and I am flattered you feel I have so much potential. However, I do have to ask, what do you want from me in return?’
A small laugh escaped his lips and smile lines crinkled around his eyes.
‘I expect nothing. If you must know,’ he leaned in conspiratorially and his proximity caused goosebumps to sprout all over her body, ‘ballet has been a passion of mine since I was a child. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, my family’s status meant I could never set foot on stage. They don’t agree with me choosing to be a patron but at least this way I am helping others where it is needed and living vicariously through dancers I admire.’
She studied his face, trying to gauge the percentage of truth he spoke. He didn’t twitch, didn’t look away.
‘But why me?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not?’
A man with slicked-back grey hair sat beside Erik and gave the baron’s shoulder a squeeze. They started a conversation while Viktoriya stared at the footlights on the stage. Behind the curtain dancers she knew and loved were preparing for the premiere of what was one of the company’s most controversial ballets. The air felt heavy, and Viktoriya sensed that the performer’s future, as well as her own, were now hanging in the balance.
CHAPTER
16
Paris, 1917
As the lights dimmed in the theatre and the audience settled against their seats, Viktoriya’s throat constricted and hot tears burned her eyes. The baron’s idea about using this ballet as a way to inspire her to strive for lofty goals had fallen flat. Instead, a cloud of melancholy hung over her. She forced her back against the chair, trying to appear relaxed even though her entire body ached with anxiety. With her eyes trained on the stage, she sensed the baron sneaking glances in her direction. Was he some kind of masochist who enjoyed her discomfort?
She studied Picasso’s curtain, which depicted circus performers, a sleeping dog, a harlequin and a woman balancing on a winged horse. Viktoriya had heard rumours from her fellow dancers that Picasso’s return to classic painting was going to cause a stir. And, judging by the way the audience members were whispering behind their hands and staring at the curtain, she suspected the rumours held truth.
The curtain ascended and her heart raced. Never before had such a collaboration taken place and it didn’t surprise her Diaghilev had been the instigator. The word ‘surrealism’ had been used to describe Jean Cocteau’s one-act ballet, yet up until now no one knew exactly what surrealism meant. Only time would reveal the true meaning behind this strange word. Cocteau’s vision, Erik Satie’s unusual score and Picasso’s bizarre set and costume design had been a huge risk but, as the first notes filled the air and the incredible ballet unfurled on stage, Viktoriya pushed aside her disappointment and concentrated on the performance. If she couldn’t be a part of the ballet she sure as hell should live in the moment and, hopefully when she was old and grey with a gaggle of grandchildren, she could recount the beauty of history in the making.
The dancers who played the role of travelling theatre performers graced the stage, each wearing a bright blue full-length leotard with swirls that reminded her of Picasso’s earlier paintings, before Cubism. Viktoriya couldn’t help but be swept away by the magic of it all.
Massine jumped onto the stage as the Chinese Conjurer, dressed in a spectacular red and gold jacket, his face painted white to the point he was unrecognisable. His torso was stiff, his arms and legs bent to rectangles as he leaped. As the dance proceeded he mimed fire coming out of his mouth and sparking in the air, causing a few in the audience to whisper and move uncomfortably in their seats. When Massine mimed swallowing an egg that then came out of his foot, the murmurs grew louder.
‘He is a genius,’ the baron leaned over and whispered, his nearness disconcerting.
‘He is,’ she replied.
When Mariya appeared on stage as the American schoolgirl, Viktoriya’s heart sank. She had been so close to this role yet so far away.
Dear Lord.
Baron Erik Cheverin was right.
Witnessing Parade from the audience’s perspective stoked the fire in her belly and it now raged like an inferno of desire to climb to the top and never let go.
The dancers in the horse costume pranced around the stage and the audience grew noisy, their expressions ranging from confused to disgusted to delighted. The dancers who played American and French show managers stomped around the stage, their ten-feet tall costumes making them clumsy and awkward looking. The jerky movements and the strange angles at which the dancers contorted their bodies, along with Satie’s inclusion of the sounds of typewriters tapping, foghorns blasting, milk bottles clinking and pistols firing, were the perfect ingredients to set tongues wagging. From Viktoriya’s vantage point, she could see the composer and music critic Jean Poueigh, who sat with crossed arms and furrowed brows.
When the ballet finished, some audience members gave halfhearted applause while others clapped heartily, but a majority sat in stunned silence. Then the booing started. People yelled at the naysayers to shut up while the ones booing took to hurling insults in retaliation. A couple of men stood in the aisles, faces inches away from each other, screaming about what was wrong or right with Parade.
Grabbing Viktoriya’s arm, the baron said, ‘We need to get you out of here.’
Without argument, she hurried down the stairs and into the hallway only to be confronted with a disenchanted and growing throng. The baron took her hand and elbowed his way through the crowd. She tried to keep up but her heels made it nigh impossible. Entering the foyer, the crowd was more unruly and the baron craned his neck, looking for an exit.
‘Come with me.’ She yanked his hand and ducked through the doorway that led to backstage. It wasn’t the safest place but at least it would take a while before the rowdy theatregoers turned their anger directly onto the dancers, musicians and management.
The narrow halls were just as crowded as the main theatre. Dancers and production team members stuffed items in their bags and dashed along the hallway. Thankful for spending countless hours wandering the empty theatre and knowing every in and out, Viktoriya led the baron away from the throng and into a small room. Slamming the door behind them, she willed the burning in her chest to disappear. She fumbled in the dark for the door at the opposite side of the room, her fingers finally finding the knob. Twisting the cold round metal, Viktoriya used her shoulder to shove the door open. She stumbled into the narrow alley, the baron grabbing her arms just before she fell flat onto the cobblestones.
‘How did you—’
‘This is my second home. C
ome on.’ She led him through a series of alleyways, keeping to the shadows, shouting and police sirens in the distance.
Finally, a few blocks away from the commotion, Viktoriya stopped to catch breath.
The baron leaned against the doorframe of a bakery, the sweet scent of fresh bread seeping through the cracks.
‘Thank you,’ he said between deep breaths.
She studied her evening gown, the hemline now frayed and a horrible shade of brown. ‘Olga is going to kill me.’
‘The designer?’
‘The seamstress.’
The baron’s gaze travelled up and down Viktoriya. ‘Well this dress knows how to accentuate the curves of a woman’s body.’
Viktoriya balled her hands on her hips. ‘Listen, I don’t know what Diaghilev has promised you but—’
The baron held up his hands, his eyes wide. ‘I am so sorry. Please, I did not mean to offend you. I meant it as a compliment, nothing else.’
The tension racing across her shoulders eased a fraction.
The baron said, ‘I don’t like you being out on these streets with so much trouble in the air. I shall escort you home.’
‘I live near the theatre, I can make my own way back.’ Although he appeared genuine, she still didn’t trust him entirely. ‘Thank you for the offer, though.’
‘We don’t know what level of chaos is going on right now. Perhaps we should head in the opposite direction and find a café until the mayhem dies down. Would this suit you?’
Viktoriya rubbed her bare arms, which felt frozen in the late evening chill. Visions of her fingers being warmed by a cup of hot cocoa flashed before her. ‘That sounds perfect.’
* * *
Half-a-dozen patrons lounged on chairs or stools, the small bar the perfect refuge from the bedlam a short distance away. There were just enough people to give Viktoriya a sense of safety in numbers but not too many that she felt overwhelmed. Hot chocolate danced on her tastebuds and she revelled in its warmth.
‘Thank you, Baron—’
‘Erik.’ His smile went all the way to his eyes. ‘You have a short memory. I am just plain Erik. Yes, I was born into a well-to-do family but this money, this title, is not something I’ve earned.’ He sipped the steaming cup of coffee.
‘If you don’t want it then why did you use your position to get me to accompany you?’
He ran his hand through his straight blond hair. ‘All I wanted was for you to see the potential in your future.’
‘I still don’t understand why me.’ She really should keep her mouth shut.
‘That day you danced Scheherazade stayed with me much longer than any other performance I’ve witnessed. You have a special magic that I’ve not seen in others. Believe me, I’ve spent years studying dancers and looking for someone to whom I could be patron.’
‘So you don’t want anything else?’
‘I am not the overbearing moneyed monster you think I am. I will not use my power to…’ His raised eyebrows finished the sentence.
‘Sorry.’
‘I enjoy the freedom my title and money gives me but I will never use that power to force someone to do something against their will.’
‘The way Diaghilev sold it to me I had no choice but to say yes.’
‘I told him I wanted him to ask you, not make you do something you didn’t want.’ Erik sighed. ‘I’ll have a word to Diaghilev about his bullying tactics.’
‘Please, don’t.’
‘I insist. Besides…’ He drew his lips together.
‘Besides?’
‘Besides he’ll listen to me.’ He shook his head. ‘That came out wrong. I don’t believe he thinks more of me because of who I am.’
‘It’s fine, really.’ And it truly was. How on earth could a man so out of touch with the real world have any idea of the daily struggle to be heard above other voices? ‘I really would prefer you not to say anything. If Diaghilev knew I’d spoken to you about his approach, my life could be hell.’
‘So you really didn’t like the idea of accompanying me tonight?’
Oh, how to explain without hurting his feelings or encouraging him? ‘I didn’t initially because I thought you were just another man whose only concern was what you would get in this world but I have to say, I have been pleasantly surprised.’
‘About?’ He gave a lopsided smile.
‘There actually being some substance to you.’ The minute the words left her mouth she regretted them. How could she be so careless in expressing her thoughts?
The baron threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. ‘Viktoriya Budian, your candour is refreshing.’
She shifted in her seat, her face burning. Thank goodness he hadn’t taken her comment the wrong way. ‘I imagine there’s a lot of responsibility that comes with being in your family.’
‘Yes,’ the baron turned serious once more, ‘but money isn’t everything.’
‘That’s easy to say if you don’t have to worry when you’ll have your next meal or whether you’ll be sleeping with a roof over your head.’ She studied the pastries on the table. Her mouth watered, stomach grumbled, but her mind told her to leave it alone. Hot chocolate was enough decadence for one day. Maybe she should ask the baron if they could wrap up the food and find some children without homes to give it to. Or perhaps Yana might enjoy a sweet treat.
He gave a crooked smile. ‘It is true, my view on the world is very different from most, but having money doesn’t make someone a bad person, either.’ He leaned forward. ‘This horrendous war has changed so many things in my country. And in yours. Many are suffering in ways they shouldn’t. Being in my position means I can finance ways to help those who are ill or starving. I am no doctor but I can buy the doctors the medicines they need, then I can ensure the children in the orphanages have food to nourish their bellies.’
The skeptic in her wasn’t sure how much truth there were to his words but his earnest tone made her question her judgement. She wouldn’t let him get away with his claims so easily, though.
‘Shouldn’t the money you’re thinking about giving to the ballet go towards helping the sick and the starving? The homeless?’
‘I am not bragging by saying that my family is so rich I can afford to do both.’
‘But ballet is so…frivolous compared to giving someone life-saving medicine.’ She really needed to be quiet. Imagine if Diaghilev heard this conversation.
‘Ballet is medicine in its own way. Think of this—with the world falling apart, isn’t it good to escape reality and go to the theatre? It’s a few precious hours of peace, and that time immersed in culture can create a wellness within someone that can sustain them for months. And if there are well people in our midst then they can help those who are suffering.’
Viktoriya sipped her drink, letting his logic settle in her brain. If anyone else had said this she would have questioned their sanity, but the sincerity in his eyes, the passion in his voice, meant his thoughts held some weight.
‘It’s an interesting theory.’
‘One I hope you will come to understand better if we are to spend more time in the company of each other.’
Viktoriya took her time draining the hot chocolate, unsure how to reply. She carefully placed the cup on the saucer then looked the baron directly in the eyes. ‘Does being my patron mean I am obligated to spend time with you?’
She chastised herself for the direct question but it had to be asked.
‘Only if you wish.’ Tearing off a corner of a pastry, he put it in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully then said, ‘The only obligation with this arrangement is that you work hard to achieve everything you have dreamed of.’
‘I always work hard.’ She tried to keep the indignant tone out of her voice.
‘Of course you do. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be as good as you are.’ The baron studied the dented wooden table then rested his gaze on her. ‘There’s one more thing.’
Viktoriya’s shoulders slumped. To think
she’d started liking this man, that trusting him wouldn’t be the wrong thing to do…‘Go ahead.’
‘This ballet that Picasso and Massine want to devise, the one designed around you—’
‘And Alexei.’
‘Your partner?’ His question felt like it was double-edged.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, trying to quash her rising hopes.
‘Well, I will make certain the collaboration between Picasso and Massine is no pipe dream and you will get your ballet. I will make sure of it.’
CHAPTER
17
Paris, 1917
Viktoriya entered the apartment foyer, creeping through the shadows. Her body felt light, fuelled by the possibility of the ballet really happening. But how much could she trust the baron? His sincerity seemed real and from all accounts he was one of the richest men in Europe, so putting money where his mouth was did not appear to be a problem. The issue—and she was afraid to admit this even to herself—was that she liked Baron Erik Cheverin a lot. So much so, she was looking forward to their next meeting.
‘What am I doing?’ she muttered as she ascended the stairs to her apartment.
‘You are late, that’s what you’re doing,’ came a voice from the shadows of the foyer.
Viktoriya jumped. ‘My God! Alexei!’ She held a fist over her rapidly beating heart. Taking in his steely gaze and twisted lips, her annoyance with him increased. ‘Are you spying on me?’
‘I wouldn’t do such a thing.’ Alexei held his chin in the air, his back straight. ‘I was worried about you being at the performance. I looked for you at the theatre but someone said they’d seen you rushing out the stage door. I wanted to check you got home safely.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It appears to have taken you three hours to walk three blocks.’
‘Say what you came here to say, Alexei.’
‘What?’
Alexei feigning innocence pushed her over the edge.
Beneath the Parisian Skies Page 16
