Вечер в Балет, Глава III

Any resistance which might have lingered in Claudia Aikens’s soul melted like April snow as the tableau unfolded – a brilliant pre-Lenten festival under the glittering Admiralty spire in Saint Petersburg. Music and dancing, folklore and art – all the composer’s genius, love and passion washed over her. Her heart went out to Petrouchka, the pathetic, gangling boy-puppet, tortured by the fickle flirtations of the Ballerina, the murderous assaults of the Moor, the cruelty of the Charlatan. Of all the dancing dolls, Petrouchka alone seemed capable of grieving like a mortal. In the intermission, Gennady Kuznetsov pressed a small button next to his chair; a steward appeared moments later with champagne and caviar on a silver tray. Gennady Kuznetsov served Claudia Aikens with his own hand. “I hope you are enjoying the performance?” Her eyes shone with tears. “Oh, yes. It’s wonderful. So sad.” “A true story, so they say in Saint Petersburg.” “Oh, surely not.” “In Mother Russia, we believe everything that happens on the stage is true. That is how we face the harsh realities of life and death in the steppes of Central Asia. Life is short; art endures.” “How does it end? What happens to poor Petrouchka?” Gennady Kuznetsov smiled and shook his head. “You must follow the story and live in your own soul the outcome. Like a Russian.” “Gennady.” Claudia Aikens sipped champagne and nibbled caviar. “May I ask you something?” “Surely.” His dark eyes seemed to sparkle with some private delight. “This evening is fantastic. In the past two days, so much has happened. Yesterday you seemed like Detective Columbo with a phony Russian accent. Tonight you seem like ... like ... well, like something – someone – quite different. Who are you really?” “Ah. Accent is easy for actor, yes? On stage, everything is true story, yes? Shakespeare says all the world is stage. So everything that happens is true story, yes?” “Well...everything isn’t always what it seems, it seems.” “Now you are talking like Russian. So: you must follow the story and live in your own soul the outcome. Is that not so?” The house lights dimmed for the second scene. Gennady Kuznetsov patted Claudia Aikens’s arm, then took her champagne glass and set it on the silver tray. “The story goes on, my dear Claudia. The story goes on. And on. And on. The Grand Guignol endures so long as there is life. And even beyond.” He chuckled and gestured to the conductor. TO BE CONTINUED