Chapter 48 – Just Thinking
Roger sat out in the middle of the theater, listening to The Whosey work on his transcription of the score. It wasn’t as much fun as listening to him play his own music, say the beautifully simple acoustic number “Sheraton Gibson”, or the powerhouse sex rocker “Slit Skirts”, but it was interesting, to say the least. He leaned his head against the back of the chair, and let his mind wander between the music taking form on the stage, the knowledge that Stirg now was producing a competitive version of the ballet in Saint Petersburg, and a little matter that had gnawed at him for many months: where were the Hermitage artifacts? These, remember, were the nine shipping containers worth of Grade C antiques and objects d’art that the Junes and their team had stolen from the warehouses of the Hermitage Museum, and brought to Charleston, and which, in turn, Stirg had stolen from them. Where were they? What was Stirg doing with them?
Roger had had a lot of other things to worry about recently, all associated with his wife’s production of the ballet, but every once in a while, like today, he pondered on those two questions: where were they and what was Stirg doing with them? He didn’t like to lose a fight, and right now, he was on the canvas, with Stirg standing over him, glaring at him the way Muhammad Ali stood over Sonny Liston that day in 1965, in Lewiston, Maine. Roger loved that dramatic photo, but he hated the vision of him and Stirg replacing Liston and Ali in it. Really hated it. And that was the vision in his head right now. Him on the canvas.
To get away from it he opened his eyes and watched Townshend work the music. Townshend was trying hard to get a handle on a weird syncopation in the score, and incorporate it into the rhythm he had going on the synthesizer that sounded to Roger like it was being played by trumpets. How can rhythm be carried by trumpets? That is Stravinsky. Pater sat at the computer, monitoring the inputs from the synthe, and making sure the stuff that Townshend wanted to capture on the hard drive got captured. That left Peter, Selgey, and Bart sort of at odds for the day. They were at The Hall every day, even those, like today, when Townshend was doing transcription work rather than playing for their choreography. They tried to be productive, and most of the time they were, but there were times when they were at a loss. Gale was irritated that she and Helstof weren’t going out for lunch, and had told Peter to fuck off when he asked if there was anything he could do to help them with the costuming. She badly wanted to try the Beaujolais Nouveau before it was gone from the local wine lists. They saw Roger sitting out in the theater with his eyes closed, and went to check if he was thinking, or just asleep.
“Roger, we’re bored today. What are you thinking about?” said Selgey.
Roger opened his eyes and smiled at the three dancers. Peter had been part of the heist team that had stolen the stuff from the Hermitage. Selgey and Bart had not, but they knew about the theft. They knew they were associating not only with aristocratic thieves, but with people who carried guns, and got into conflicts with ex-Nazi hunters. It wasn’t as exciting as dancing on world stages with the best companies in the world, but it was better than most people’s retirement. He said, “I’m thinking about the Hermitage stuff. I’d like to know where Stirg stashed it. I gotta hand it to him; that was clever, the way he found it and stole it from us. Very clever. He whipped us on that one, whipped us good. So I’m thinking about it. When The Whosey plays his own music, I just listen. When he plays Stravinsky, I listen, but I also think about stuff.”
Peter said, “He told us the stuff belongs back in Russia; that it’s heritage stuff that belongs to the people. Maybe he had it all shipped back.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I think it’s here somewhere. He may think it belongs back in Russia, but mainly he was pissed that Americans stole it and brought it here. Now that we don’t have it, my bet is he’s satisfied. I just have a feeling it’s still here.”
“So, what are you going to do?” said Bart.
“Nothing. We got our hands full with this thing,” and he waved at the stage. “I’m just thinking.”
The Lost Ballet Page 48