Corpse de Ballet (11 page)

Still, Juliet was shocked. For all their problems, no question of physical abuse had ever arisen between her and Rob—between her and any man, for that matter.

“He hits her?” she asked.

Olympia shrugged again. “They fight. Whack away at each other. Believe me, she gives him good reason.”

“Like what?” demanded Juliet, forgetting entirely for the moment her role as tactful investigator.

Olympia gave her a long look, her rich mouth twitching with amusement. “I don't know if you've noticed, but my talented sister can be a bit—trying? A bit aloof? A tad bit condescending? To mere mortals like Ryder and me, I mean.”

In fact, Juliet hadn't noticed. Certainly, Elektra Andreades had not been as warm toward her as had Hart, her partner. But neither had she been anything but civil. Still, as Juliet now realized, that was probably the result of her privileged position at the Jansch—a friend of the choreographer, a personage to whom even Max Devijian and Gregory Fleetwood paid respectful attention. Calling the dancer's image to mind, especially in her interactions with her volatile, emotionally transparent husband, she could perceive in Elektra a cool haughtiness that would be extremely tiresome in a relative.

Not that such a thing would ever justify physical violence.

“You don't seem very concerned about her,” she could not help saying.

Olympia shrugged again. “Elektra looks after herself. I've given up trying to play big sister to her. After all, she's a star. Whereas I—” She hesitated. “Whereas I have a sense of humor,” she finished, and gave a barking laugh.

“Yet you're quite close to Ryder, aren't you?” Juliet asked.

“Ryder?” Olympia took a deep drag of her cigarette, then burst into a fit of coughing. Juliet was afraid she would lose her train of thought, but when she could speak, “I get along with him as well as anyone does,” she said. “I guess. He's a moody bastard.”

A moment later, she grinned and burst again into laughter, this time raucous laughter.

“And I'm a moody bitch!” she crowed, stubbing her cigarette out against the railing. “I'd better go back inside,” she added, and waved cheerily. “Hope you get lucky again tonight! Bye!”

Chapter Six

Juliet wondered if something supernatural could have happened to Anton Mohr during the break.

Having lingered on the fire escape before returning to what she feared would be a scene of even greater tension, she instead entered the studio to find the second hour of rehearsal off to a flying start. In the middle of the floor, Mohr was dancing—but really dancing. Somehow, he was now able to execute his steps not only accurately but with persuasive feeling. He was Pip. Juliet watched in astonishment as he somehow became boyish, small, frail during the earlier scenes, then grew into springy, sexually awkward adolescence in the trio with Estella and Miss Havisham. Of his cold, there was no sign. The steps seemed to flow out of him with organic ease as he alternately cowered and floated, snatched unsuccessfully at the flying oranges, hid, hungered for Estella's regard. With his performance as context, Kirsten Ahlswede's icy beauty seemed all at once perverse, twisted by the precepts of her wicked protectress. Lily Bediant's Miss Havisham, previously stern but emotionally opaque, was now palpably grim with years of anger and pain. Suddenly, the ballet had life.

Juliet was not the only one caught up in amazement. The whole ensemble felt the change and stared from every corner. For a dancer, there is no audience like his colleagues. If he stumbles, they will see it; if he flies, he will impress them most of all. The studio was electric with a strange excitement. Even Ruth stopped taking notes. The nineteen minutes of Act One which she had thus far choreographed concluded with the Estella–Pip “Approach–Avoidance” pas de deux, so that the corps and soloists were again at leisure to watch. When the duet came to an end, the room rang with applause.

Winded and heaving, Mohr smiled but otherwise ignored the clapping. Kirsten and Lily shot satisfied glances at each other, and Ruth—also smiling, for once—commended and thanked all three. Prettily, Lily thanked her in return.

“How did he do that?” Juliet demanded of Patrick Wegweiser a few minutes later, when Ruth had given what notes she had, then dismissed everyone for lunch. Since the design team was coming in for the run-through, Ruth had made plans to get together with them ahead of time, along with the Jansch's stage manager, head carpenter, and others. Patrick, whom she usually commandeered during lunch hours for follow-up work and preparation, was therefore free.

Patrick's long face was full of pride, and his small blue eyes flashed with pleasure. “That's Anton,” he said. “He's extraordinary. But you ain't seen nothing yet—wait till he has some time to develop the character.”

“But he was the character,” Juliet objected, repeating, “How did he do that? Before the break he could barely reproduce the steps.”

Patrick knelt to put his things into a canvas dance bag. “He gave one interpretation of the character—a quick, easy interpretation,” he said. “It's like … How do I explain it?” He paused, still kneeling. The fluorescent light darted short rays through his curly red hair. “It's like a master actor, you know? Once he has the lines, he starts to let his insight, his personality flow out through them. Anton has that gift. He's not a bravura performer, he doesn't make your heart stop with the height of his leaps. He has to work to get the steps; but that's just mechanical. It's the way he releases himself into the movement that's so unusual—that's unique. And it will get deeper and deeper. You'll see, he'll fill Cadwell Hall with Pip. He just has the ability to project himself that way. Most dancers can't. I never could,” he went on, and his tone was suddenly almost bitter. “People who see Anton Mohr dance Pip will never forget it.”

Juliet listened thoughtfully. Then, “Can Hart Hayden fill a hall?” she asked. “You started to say something once about him and Elektra, that they've been stars of the Jansch for years, but—but something. You didn't finish your sentence.”

“Oh. Maybe that they'd never inspired the kind of creative ferment an Anton Mohr does? They're wonderful at what they do, but they only do what you tell them. At least, that's been Ruth's experience. Although I do think Hart's been quite inventive on
Great Ex.
But—what did you ask first? Oh, yes, projection. Yes, they can both project themselves marvelously. It's what leading dancers do.”

Patrick stood, his canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and it occurred to Juliet this would be a good opportunity to check him out as a possible culprit. His fortunes rose and fell with Ruth's, so it wouldn't make much sense for him to try to sabotage her work; and he obviously worshiped Anton. But might he envy him even more than he admired him? And might he not secretly loathe his boss?

Patrick worked like a dog for Ruth, coming in early, staying through lunches, leaving long after everyone else; yet he never received more than casual thanks from the dancers or (so far as Juliet could see) his employer. Whenever she choreographed, he copied her movements, committing them to memory at once so that he could repeat them for her to look at. Later, he replicated them, recorded them, taught them to the dancers. He placated Luis, he coaxed the corps. His diplomacy mended the holes left by Ruth's acid touch. He danced constantly, with Ruth, with the dancers, during rehearsals and during breaks. He was Ruth's interpreter, guardian, and shadow; yet when Juliet had asked Ruth how much she paid him, she was shocked to learn it was half what she gave her own marvelous—but strictly nine-to-five—Ames. Even in the reduced scale of dance salaries, she could not believe it was near enough. And how must it be to play the drudge while others frolicked in the limelight?

“Want to have lunch?” she asked. “I'll take you out wherever you like—my treat.”

Patrick looked dubious. “Thanks, but I'll have a bite here. Ruth might need me.”

“Can I join you?” Juliet raised a straw bag she had brought that morning and swung it enticingly. “I'll share my bologna sandwich.”

Patrick smiled. “Promise not to and you've got yourself a deal,” he said. “Meet me back here in ten minutes. I just have to go and beg the physical therapist to move my neck around.”

He disappeared, and Juliet found herself alone in the studio. She let herself out into the empty corridor, empty now even of music, and began an idle wander along the halls. Usually, there were a few people at work in the studios even at lunch time, catching up on something with one of the ballet masters, or stretching and strengthening muscles. But today she saw no one, no one at all—until she reached the farthest end of a hall she had not explored before, where a tiny studio-cum-exercise room had been crammed in between a staircase and a storage room. Here she peered through the small window in the door and was surprised to see Hart Hayden alone. No music issued from the room, but Hayden was dancing like—like a madman, was the word that came to mind. Riveted, Juliet stared through the little pane. He was twitching. He twitched at the knees, then the shoulders and head. He grabbed his own hair and yanked his head back. He laced his fingers and grabbed his head, then knifed the air with upflung hands. Juliet found herself shaking her own head as if she were about to start twitching. There was something familiar about the movements, about the scene—Abruptly, he began to calm down, tugging at his clothes as if recovering his self-control. He smoothed his hair, straightened his cuffs. Soon he sat on a nearby chair and coolly mimed something—maybe filling a glass from a bottle.

Recollecting herself and fearing that he might observe her at any moment, Juliet scurried away back down the hall. He was only rehearsing a scene, surely; yet there was an intimacy about the moment that made her prefer not to be caught watching.

She hurried back to Studio Three, catching Patrick just as he returned.

“How's your neck?”

“Better,” he said, rubbing it. “Come on. I have an idea where we can go.”

Reversing their course of a week before, he led her through the maze of halls and staircases up to the top floor, where the Olympian administration kept itself clear of the sweat and groans in the building's lower reaches. He moved swiftly and Juliet scurried after him, feeling (as always at the Jansch) like a farm animal at a convention of gazelles. Finally, he turned into a small corner office.

“They gave this to Ruth to use while she's here,” he explained over his shoulder, as he swung his own bag down onto a modest, tidy desk. The office was minuscule, uncarpeted, and unornamented, but it actually had a window. Patrick seated himself at the desk, allowing Juliet to draw up a chair opposite and look outside.

There was not much to see—just the large, elderly office building across the narrow courtyard—but the window was clean (unlike those in the studio), the day had brightened, and altogether, the place was pleasant enough. Juliet removed the lunch of poached asparagus and Tuscan white bean salad that Ames had packed for her and set it out where Patrick could help himself.

“Wine?” she inquired, producing plastic tumblers and a silver thermal flask.

Patrick laughed and declined. “Not that I couldn't use a glass,” he said, unfolding the waxed paper around a tuna sandwich. “With the run-through coming up, Ruth's been absolutely wacko.”

“I'll bet.” Juliet poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and raised it in salute to Patrick's bottle of Diet 7-Up. “How do you manage with her? I love her, but she must be hell to work for.”

Patrick shrugged. Juliet could not be sure, but a certain uneasiness seemed to creep into his long, lightly freckled face. “She is. But I don't take it personally. When she's really bad, I pretend she has brain damage, some kind of frontal lobe injury that makes her literally unable to be polite.”

“What a good imagination you must have,” said Juliet, laughing.

“Oh, I'm pretty resourceful.”

“And forgiving, you must be.”

Juliet had forgotten that Patrick was a starer, the sort of person who locks his gaze into yours during conversation and never looks away. She herself was a glancer—she took a look into her companion's eyes now and then, then let her own wander for a bit—and she never understood why some people locked eyes so steadily. Did they understand more of the human condition? Were they more bold in meeting the souls of their fellow men? Was it an invitation to commune, or was it a challenge? Whatever the point (if any), after a few minutes, the habit invariably made her wildly uncomfortable, distracting her from any discussion and making her wish she could leave the room. Having now reached this unhappy juncture with Patrick, she broke her gaze quite consciously and refreshed herself by blowing her nose with abandon.

She was thus in the unfortunate position of missing the look on his face when he more or less barked out something that sounded like, “Ppfff!”

She looked up from her tissue too late. “No?”

He smiled, or at least, he drew back his lips. “Oh, I can hold a grudge,” he said lightly. “I guess anyone can.”

Was it her imagination, or was he deliberately trying to soften his first response? His cheeks had certainly reddened. They almost matched his hair.

“Like what?” she asked bluntly. She tried to return his habitual stare in hopes of reading the truth in his eyes, but his concentrated gaze overpowered her will. Involuntarily, she rubbed at her nose again and glanced out the window behind him and into the building beyond, where a man and a woman in an office opposite were passionately necking.

“Oh, for example—” he began, and stopped.

Juliet made herself look at him. His cheeks had reddened even more.

“For example, two or three years ago now, Greg Fleetwood offered to give me some studio space for free when the season ended, because I”—Patrick paused again, faltering yet staring on, his cheeks flaming even more brightly—“because I did him a favor. I do a little choreographing myself, you know, and I wanted to work out a piece with a few friends. Studio time costs a fortune. Anyway, when I phoned six months later, he never even answered my calls. It was like he didn't know me. So even now, I find myself kind of scowling at him. That kind of thing.”