Вечер в Балет, Глава IV

Claudia Aikens sat spellbound as the dancers leapt and pirouetted the tale of Petrouchka to its triumphant apotheosis in the darkened carnival on the banks of the Neva. As echoes of music, visions of dancing, and the fumes of hard booze, Russian vodka and French champagne whirled and eddied inside her skull, Claudia Aikens found to her surprise that Petrouchka’s struggle for immortality had engaged her tender sensibilities in a way she had not experienced since childhood. Themes of cruelty, revenge and redemption blended with her recurring daydream of a rescue from bondage by Buster Bezorkenflatz, the Champion of Tight Pants and Hard Booze, the Hero on the Harley. With that lovely big lance of his. Ha. Lance-a-lot Bezorkenflatz. Well, what the hell? Guinevere was a bimbo, too. Might as well see how the Cossacks do it. Standing up on horseback at full gallop, so I’ve heard. She tried to shake off the thought. So all the world’s a stage and we’re all actors? What we do becomes our truth? What baloney. Or is it? And from someplace deep, deep within, a voice she hadn’t heard before: Why do you hate MacDougall so? He’s just playing his part on the stage of life, isn’t he? Might as well expect a cat not to chase mice. Your hatred says more about you than it does about him. Destroy MacDougall’s files and ... and ... so what? So you’re out of work and he has the world’s sympathy because someone’s done him dirt. He reconstructs his practice from court records and clients’ copies. So what? Maybe he’s nicer to his next secretary; maybe he isn’t. So what? Some devil had got into her head, for sure and certain. As the house lights came up for the last time, she shuddered and excused herself. “I’m going to the ladies’ room. Be right back.” “Are you all right?” “Oh, yes.” She giggled. “All the vodka and champagne and excitement, you know....” “Ah. I understand. I will meet you in the lobby, where your employer’s name graces the wall.” He chuckled. “Then we will go for light supper, yes?” He stood and held the door for her at the rear of the box. He clicked his heels and bowed as she passed. In the ladies’ lounge, Claudia Aikens studied her reflection in the mirror as she touched up her lipstick. Here I am, getting ready to have an intimate supper – and then God knows what? – with the man whose mission in life for the moment is to expose someone as a criminal. Someone? Ha! I’m a mouse in the company of a rattlesnake. Come Monday, who’s going to look like the prime suspect? How guilty do I look? I wonder. I wonder. END OF EPISODE