Вечер в Балет, Глава II

The limousine, and its motorcycle escort squadron with sirens shrieking, pulled to the curb under the porte-cochére where a gold-trimmed crimson carpet led up broad stairs to the theatre lobby. Gumph leapt from the driver’s seat, trotted around the car and whisked open the door. Gennady Kuznetsov extended his arm to Claudia Aikens and gave his stiff imperial bow as she alighted from the car with only a slight stumble. She paused and shut her eyes tight against a sudden wave of unsteadiness. Chilled vodka and caviar and a lightning police motorcade across town – on top of all that hard booze – had left her reeling like a sailor coming ashore after several months embarked on stormy seas. The Excelsior City Centre for the Performing Arts was a monument to civic pride and certain prominent citizens’ tax writeoffs. On the brass plaque in the lobby, the name Clement Braveheart Rob Roy MacDougall, Esquire appeared with four others in the lofty Maestro category, signifying a tax-deductible founder’s gift of one hundred thousand dollars or more. Clem MacDougall himself, for sure and certain, has never set foot in this place – unless for some fat-assed client’s black-tie cocktail reception unmarred by anything as unbillable as culture, Claudia Aikens mused. Gennady Kuznetsov took Claudia Aikens’s arm and led her toward the theatre. A liveried usher in a powdered wig intercepted them and shepherded them up a small private staircase to a box seat overlooking the stage. In the orchestra pit below, the lead oboe sounded concert A and all the other instruments replied. Then silence fell. As the house lights dimmed, the conductor emerged from stage right. After the applause subsided, the maestro glanced upward and caught Gennady Kuznetsov’s eye. At a slight nod from Kuznetsov, he raised his baton. And the magic began. TO BE CONTINUED