‘Much improved, thank you kindly, ma’am.’
Perrot looked from Anzhelika to Killigrew and back again in astonishment. ‘You know this fellow, Lika?’
She blushed. ‘I told you I was assaulted by two drunkards last night; this is the man who tried to come to my rescue.’
Perrot arched one eyebrow. ‘I’ve heard of a knight in shining armour, but a knight in a tartan waistcoat…? Forgive me, Lika, but we are supposed to be going through the steps of the pas de deux in act two. Where’s Marius?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,’ Perrot’s assistant called up. ‘M’sieur Petipa is indisposed. Food poisoning – some bad oysters he ate last night, the doctor says.’
Perrot looked as though he was going to explode. ‘Food poisoning? Food poisoning? How dare he? On my time! How are we supposed to rehearse the pas de deux with our premier danseur indisposed?’
‘Perhaps you can stand in for him, M’sieur Perrot?’ Anzhelika suggested innocently.
‘With my knees? Besides, I’m supposed to be the choreographer. I can hardly judge the effectiveness of the steps while I’m up here on stage. It’s no good, you’ll just have to do it on your own.’
‘It is a pas de deux, not a pas d’une.’
‘This is the theatre, chérie. We improvise. Suppose it were opening night, with the Tsar and Tsarina watching, and you had no premier danseur? You wouldn’t expect me to call the whole thing off, would you? Let us face facts: you do all the work in this number. You just need someone to dance around. Why, I dare say even Count Orloff’s greatcoated ape sitting in the front row would suffice. What do you say, M’sieur le agent secret? Do you think you could stand in for M’sieur Petipa?’
Tweedledumber looked panic-stricken, and glanced over his shoulder as if hoping in vain that Perrot addressed some other Third Section agent sitting behind him.
‘Oh, well, perhaps not,’ sniffed Perrot.
Killigrew knew an opportunity when he saw one. He rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps I could be of service, sir?’
Perrot flicked his lorgnette open and peered at him. ‘In what respect?’
‘I took a few dancing lessons when I was a kid. It’s been a while, and though I’m sure I’m no substitute for M’sieur Petipa, reckon I know the difference between a pas de bourrée and a gargouillade.’
‘You do, do you? This is ballet, M’sieur Bryce, not baseball. A few lessons? It takes years of constant practice and training to make a premier danseur.’
‘You think a guy learns how to play baseball overnight? Maybe I’ll never make the corps de ballet, but if all you need is someone to stand around while Mam’selle Orlova goes through her steps, I’ve had plenty of practice of standing around on third base.’ Killigrew had no idea what third base was, but he had an idea it was something baseball players spent a lot of time standing around on.
‘Ballet as baseball,’ sneered Perrot. ‘This I have to see. Batter up, M’sieur Bryce! Someone fetch him a pair of shoes and tights.’
‘M’sieur Bryce!’ Anzhelika protested in horror as Killigrew divested himself of his coat and half-boots. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You wanted a partner for the pas de deux,’ said Perrot. ‘Here he is. Or would you prefer my pet policeman there?’
‘I would prefer not to do it at all.’
‘So would I; except that we open this ballet in two weeks and we still haven’t perfected the steps in this number. So be so good as to humour me, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Very well. But no lifts!’
‘What are you worried about? I’m sure M’sieur Bryce will have no difficulty catching you; provided he has remembered to bring his… what is it called, a “baseball mitten”?’
Someone provided some ballet shoes and tights, and after getting changed Killigrew practised the basic five positions, feeling extremely self-conscious. When he had been a boy, his tutor had taught him a few basic ballet steps, telling him that if he wanted to excel as a swordsman he had to be nimble on his feet, and for that there was no better training than ballet. Killigrew had hated the lessons at the time; only years later, watching the ballet at Covent Garden in wonderment, had he occasionally wished he had applied himself more diligently to his dance lessons as a boy.
Not that Killigrew genuinely regretted the path his career had chosen: nimble on his feet he might be, but he had always known he would never be good enough to become a premier danseur of any standing. Nevertheless, he knew that the time he danced a pas de deux with the prima ballerina of the Mariinsky Ballet while posing as an American journalist on a spying mission to discover the whereabouts of a submersible boat would be a story he would one day tell his grandchildren… assuming he lived long enough to have any. Even if he made a fool of himself, it would be worth it just so he could say he had done it.
‘When you’re ready, M’sieur Bryce?’ Perrot called from the auditorium, singularly unimpressed with Killigrew’s lesson one exercises.
‘Just stand centre stage, and follow my lead,’ Anzhelika suggested.
‘This is the seduction scene,’ Perrot explained to Killigrew. ‘You are Prince Yuri, who has disguised himself as a stable boy to win the heart of the Princess Olga.’
‘You’re Princess Olga?’ Killigrew asked Anzhelika.
‘No, I am the Fairy Enchantress Lyudmila. I have fallen in love with the stable boy Grigory, not realising he is actually a prince.’
‘Why would a prince disguise himself as a stable boy to win the heart of a princess?’
She smiled. ‘It’s just ballet, M’sieur Bryce.’
Perrot exploded. ‘Just ballet? Just ballet? Ballet is not just anything, Lika! How many times must I tell you? You may dance like an angel, but if you want them to remember you, you must play your roles with utter conviction! Be the Enchantress Lyudmila… and enchant him.’
‘I’m afraid I’m enchanted already,’ Killigrew said with a smile.
She gave him a funny look.
‘You just stand there,’ Perrot told him. ‘And try to look like a prince.’
‘Disguised as a stable boy,’ said Killigrew, ‘wearing tights.’
‘And try to put some passion in it, this time, Lika!’ said Perrot. ‘Remember, you’re supposed to be in love with him. Difficult in his case, I know, but that’s just one of the many challenges of ballet. Remember, love is blind. Even in the matter of waistcoats. Music please, M’sieur Balakireff! Da capo!’
The pianist played the introductory notes, and Anzhelika started with an arabesque before launching into a series of steps and leaps, dancing en pointe. Killigrew could only stand there and marvel at her grace as she glided about the stage as if walking on air, now fairy-like and delicate, now sinuous and sensuous, all the time drawing closer to him as she circled.
Finally, she stopped in front of him and a little to the left, and leaned over backwards – how she kept her balance was nothing short of a miracle – and elegantly extended an arm towards him.
‘Now you take her by the arm, and the two of you promenade,’ said Perrot. ‘That’s it, good.’
‘Just like a quadrille,’ remarked Killigrew, sorry that his appreciation of her exquisite movements had to end when he was brought into the dance.
Perrot rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, M’sieur Bryce, just like a quadrille. I think we shall pass over the grand jeté attitude croisé en arrière that M’sieur Petipa would undertake here and move quickly to the porté. Now you break away, Lika, leaving M’sieur Bryce yearning… yearning, M’sieur Bryce, not dazed-looking… into the soubresaut, Lika, good, now the ecarté… very good. And now, together again. You put your arm around her waist and draw her close to your side…’
‘Pardon the familiarity, ma’am.’
She smiled. ‘Do not concern yourself, M’sieur Bryce. I have danced with far less agreeable partners.’
Killigrew drew her in close.
‘'Promenade en manège… eh, bien! Very good, M’sieur Bryce. Another nineteen
years of rigorous training, we shall make a ballet dancer of you yet! Now you part, you take her by the hand, she pirouettes… magnificent!’
‘You are getting the hang of it, M’sieur Bryce,’ murmured Anzhelika. ‘Just relax yourself, and go where the music takes you.’
‘Now in close again, you put an arm around her waist… other arm, M’sieur Bryce…’
‘Sorry!’
‘…and you waltz en manège, she breaks away…’
Anzhelika launched into a series of fouettés, and Killigrew was so entranced that when she came back at him he was caught off guard, and it was luck rather than judgement that enabled him to catch her. He supported her with one arm about her waist as she bent over backwards, her bodice straining, their hips pressed together. He pulled her up sharply, drawing her in close, and looked down into her dark, wide eyes, her lips parted, and they spun around, foreheads and noses pressed together, her breath hot and sweet on his face. She brought up one thigh, hooking it around his leg, drawing the sole of one foot up the back of his calf, then the other, and her thighs were scissored around his hips, her hands clasped behind the back of his neck as they twirled.
Killigrew forgot all about their audience, about the submersible boat and the agonising torture and inevitable death that awaited him if the Third Section caught him. For now, all that mattered was the music, and the lovely woman in his arms. She jumped off him and landed neatly en pointe, they spun apart, caught each other by the hands and came in close again, whirling, and he took her face in his hands, and wondered what she would do if he kissed her, and she looked as though she were wondering the same thing, and then – thank Heavens! – the moment passed, and she broke away, spinning. From another pirouette she launched into a series of sautés, and the regret at the passing of that moment was only slightly mitigated by the beauty of her movement. He stood and watched her, feeling like a spare part once more, and wishing he had spent the past twenty years training to be a ballet dancer so he could dance with her properly, and…
She was coming towards him again.
Surely she didn’t mean to…?
Not with an untrained partner…?
She did!
She launched into a grand jeté, flying right at him. There was no time to panic, he just braced himself. As she passed over his head he caught her, his left hand against her bodice, his right on the inside of her thigh, and then for no reason other than that it seemed like the natural thing to do, he lifted her high over his head – she was as light as a feather – and she flung out her arms and threw her head back.
Killigrew was now faced with the problem of how to get her back down again, but she solved it by flicking a thigh past his face, and the next thing he knew he was lowering her to the stage, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her hips. He lowered her slowly, wanting the moment to last for ever as their bodies touched, and she melted in his arms, her legs entwined with his, their arms about one another. How they got down on the stage was a mystery, but they did, Anzhelika dying in his arms with a shuddering sigh, her supple limbs splayed languorously, her back arched, breasts heaving as she gasped for breath, her face beaded with sweat. He bent over her, one hand gently caressing her cheek, the other on her thigh. Her lips were parted and he was desperately trying to think of a reason not to kiss her and drawing blanks, when he remembered they were not alone: the audience of Jules Perrot and his assistant, Wojtkiewicz, the pianist, the stage hands and the juggling dwarfs were all gaping at them, open-mouthed, as if Killigrew and Anzhelika had just had carnal intercourse on the stage right there in front of them. Killigrew could not say with any conviction that was not what had happened.
‘C’est magnifique,’ muttered Perrot’s assistant, ‘mais ce n’est pas le ballet.’
‘Um… perhaps a little less passion next time, Anzhelika,’ suggested Perrot.
Killigrew heard someone clapping, and glanced towards the back of the auditorium to see a man dressed in the black-green uniform of a Russian admiral walking down the aisle towards them. He was a stocky man in his mid-forties with a neatly trimmed beard encircling a wide, hard mouth.
‘Magnificent!’ he enthused, although Killigrew thought he detected a mocking note in his voice. ‘Encore, encore!’
Anzhelika hurriedly squirmed out from beneath Killigrew and stood up, dusting down the sides of her skirts. ‘Samya!’
The man ascended the stage, took her hand in one of his, and bowed low to kiss it. ‘Lika, golubushka!’ That was wonderful! If you dance half as well on opening night, it will be the triumph of the decade.’
‘Unless the Tsarina has seizure in shock,’ muttered Perrot’s assistant. The newcomer turned to Killigrew, who had risen to his feet. ‘And you must be M’sieur Petipa?’
Anzhelika flushed crimson. ‘This is not Marius, Samya.’
The man regarded Killigrew with renewed curiosity. ‘No? Then who…?’
‘Samya, may I present M’sieur John Bryce of the New York Herald? M’sieur Bryce, this is my patron, Admiral Prince Samoyla Iakovlevich Zhirinovsky. M’sieur Bryce kindly volunteered to stand in for Marius, who is indisposed.’
Admiral Zhirinovsky was amused. ‘An American journalist? You are wasted as a reporter, my friend. If I were you, Perrot, I should sign this fellow up to your corps de ballet, before the Italians snap him up!’ He clapped Killigrew on the shoulder. Still dizzy and breathless from the dance, Killigrew staggered under the force of the blow and almost fell into the orchestra pit. ‘Tell me, Mr Bryce: where does an American journalist learn to dance like that?’
‘My old fencing master insisted I learn ballet when I was a boy.’
‘You fence? I did not know journalists fenced.’
‘No, well, I… uh… you’d be amazed how many people take exception to the truth, Your Highness. A good reporter is well advised to learn how to defend himself in a duel.’
Zhirinovsky laughed. ‘I can imagine. But I thought the handgun was the American weapon of choice?’
‘It is. But I’m a European correspondent.’
‘Of course! How silly of me.’
‘M’sieur Bryce is the man who saved me from those two drunks last night,’ added Anzhelika.
Zhirinovsky regarded Killigrew with renewed interest. ‘Then I am in your debt,’ he said, and took out his pocket book. ‘What do I owe you for your trouble?’
‘No reward is necessary, I assure you, highness.’
Zhirinovsky looked surprised, but returned the pocket book inside his coat. ‘You must let me repay you somehow. I have it! I am having a ball on board my yacht – Letayushchaya Tarelka – tomorrow afternoon. You must join us.’
Chapter 13
Novaya Gollandia
The Letayushchaya Tarelka turned out to be a paddle-steamer, which proved that not all Russian admirals were dead set against anything newfangled. She was a handsome vessel, about a hundred feet from knight-heads to taffrail, with an elegant sheer to her bulwarks and smoke rising from the slender funnel between her two rakish masts.
Killigrew arrived at the harbour on Vasilyevsky Island the following afternoon to find the yacht moored at one of the jetties. A couple of smart but burly sailors at the foot of the gangplank checked his name – or rather, Bryce’s – on the guest list, and he made his way up on deck. A ten-piece band played a waltz on the forecastle, but no one was dancing yet: instead the guests stood around, chatting gaily. Most of the men wore uniforms of some description – naval and army – but there were also several civilians present. Killigrew looked, but could not see any that answered Bauer’s description; but there were still more guests arriving. If the Bavarian had been invited to this ball, he might yet turn up; Killigrew hoped he would recognise him if he did.
There were plenty of women also, most of them too young and pretty to be the wives of the officers present, and wearing too much make-up to be their daughters. Evidently this was the sort of social gathering where one invited one’s mistress. Helping himself to a champagne fl
ute from the tray of a passing flunkey, Killigrew looked for Anzhelika, but if she was on board she was certainly not on deck. Perhaps a prince having the prima ballerina as a mistress was too scandalous for Zhirinovsky to parade her before St Petersburg society, but Killigrew doubted it: he could see the admiral was in full-dress uniform, his breast bedecked with numerous decorations, and he suspected Zhirinovsky would wear a mistress like Anzhelika on his arm with just as much pride.
A steam whistle blasted, momentarily drowning out the band and causing several people to spill their champagne and raise hands to their hearts to check they were still beating. The two sailors who had been guarding the foot of the gangplank now came on board, dragging it up after them, and the mooring lines were cast off. Feeling the deck throb underfoot as the engine started up, Killigrew glanced over the rail to see Tweedledum and Tweedledee watching forlornly as the yacht moved away from the quayside towards the harbour mouth.
Zhirinovsky stood to one side, talking to a couple of civilians. Killigrew thought he caught a hint of a German accent from one of them, an elderly, bearded fellow with a pair of spectacles pushed back on his high-domed forehead and receding grey hair. It was not Bauer – the Bavarian was supposed to be much younger, with dark hair and Vandyke beard – but Killigrew was intrigued nonetheless. He moved the long way around the deck so he could approach from behind Zhirinovsky.
‘…I suppose he’s getting all the funding now?’ the German was commenting bitterly, nodding to the other civilian, a tall, thickset, square-jawed man in his fifties. ‘Why, his infernal machines don’t even sink the enemy’s ships when they explode right against their hulls!’
‘At least my machines explode, Professor Jacobi!’ retorted the square-jawed man. From his accent, he was either Swedish or Finnish. ‘I too find myself a victim of—’
‘Mr Bryce?’ a woman said behind him.
Killigrew turned, his annoyance at the distraction from what promised to be a very interesting conversation indeed turning to the hope that it could only be Anzhelika.
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 25