Madame Koska and Le Spectre de la Rose

by ILIL ARBEL

  “Of course!” said Madame Koska brightly. “I’ll make sure ve have some coffee and ve can talk! I’ll tell Miss Van der Hoven that she should not allow anyone to disturb us.”

  Sitting comfortably in the office, sipping her coffee, Madame Danilova still seemed fatigued and anxious. She put her cup down and said, “Madame Koska, what I am about to tell you is of the utmost secrecy.”

  “My dear Madame Danilova,” said Madame Koska, “you can trust my discretion. I vill do anything to assist you.”

  “I would not burden you with this story if I did not think it is unfair for you to remain in the dark,” said the ballerina, and was quiet again. For the first time Madame Koska noticed the ballerina had a few tiny white streaks in her jet black hair, and some fine wrinkles in her fair skin. Madame Koska waited patiently for her guest to speak. Finally she said, “My husband would object to my telling you. I am doing it against his wishes.”

  “Are you sure you vish to tell me at all?” asked Madame Koska. “Vould it not cause trouble at home?”

  “I must,” said Madame Danilova. “The truth is, Madame Koska, is that I may be too sick to carry the burden of dancing the lead in Icarus in the autumn.”

  “Too sick?” asked Madame Koska, fearing the worst. “But you are dancing full time these days… may I ask…”

  “I am not dying, at least the doctors think I will live,” said Madame Danilova gently. “I was diagnosed with tuberculosis. I have to go to Switzerland very soon, and stay some months in a specialized sanatorium.”

  “First of all, I am relieved that it is not vhat I thought it vas,” said Madame Koska, not wishing to even mention the word “cancer.”

  “True. But it’s entirely possible that my career is over… earlier than I thought; I believed I had a few more years. Two or three months away from practicing may destroy my skills. Still, the important thing is, of course, to listen to the doctors and try to heal as fast as I can.”

  “You alvays have the best attitude,” said Madame Koska.

  “I try,” said the ballerina. “I always knew that in your forties, you have to stop dancing as a prima ballerina. Many of us move into teaching – and that is what I plan to do either way! But the issue of Icarus is not simple. Sasha thinks that if he cannot promote the ballet with me in it, it will greatly reduce the sales. I think Victor is the main attraction, anyway, so it would not matter, but since Sasha is so worried I promised him I will respect his wishes and tell no one. But I had to tell you, since it really looks so strange, creating the second costume. Sasha was adamant about it. He cares nothing about money, as you know… and he feels that he must cover all the possible situations.”

  “So vhat are you going to say?”

  “Nothing. The rehearsals start at the end of June. Sasha hopes I will be well by then. If I can’t come back at that time, he will have Solange do the rehearsals, still hoping I can come back any time until mid-August. He trusts I can rehearse the part quickly for the September show. Perhaps I can, particularly if he keeps sending me sheet music, transcripts of the ballet, and notes. At worst, if I can’t come back at all, Solange will have to do it. But my name will be on all the promotions as if nothing happened, with her name as the understudy. The sales will be assured, and if at the last minute the world is told of the situation, they will most likely not cancel their tickets.”

  “I completely understand. To be honest, Madame Danilova, I agree vith your husband. Your name is essential on the programme.”

  “Thank you,” said Madame Danilova. “It’s all so difficult, and I am so glad I told you. It makes me feel so much better because I am really totally alone. Sasha would not listen to me, Victor thinks I am a tower of strength who must guide his every step, and the other ballerinas, including little Solange, just want to take my place…” She pulled a handkerchief from her bag and touched her eyes. That was all; she then raised her head and smiled bravely. But Madame Koska saw the lost, sad look in the ballerina’s eyes and her heart ached for her. Underneath the brave, practical façade, a very sad and lonely person was doing her best to handle a sea change, a complete transformation of her life. Madame Koska hoped her new friend would not break under the burden of loss, secrecy, illness and isolation.

  Chapter Four

  “Annushka,” said Madame Koska over the telephone, “I just had a telephone call from Madame Galina Danilova. She cannot come to our Easter dinner. The performances have been switched, for some reason; they show the Spectre and Giselle that night, and she dances Giselle, as you know. Remember? That was the one I saw with Dmitry. But her husband will join us, she said. I don’t know if you would like to ask another person, or inform the Petrograd Room that we are one guest short.”

  “I’ll let them know, Vera. I can’t think of anyone I may ask at such a short notice,” said Madame Golitsyn.

  “Very well,” said Madame Koska. “We are a larger group this time anyway. I will see you there tomorrow night, then.”

  As always, the Petrograd Room was the epitome of opulent elegance. The huge restaurant, with its tables arranged around the square dance floor, was decorated lavishly, the red and gold tints shining softly under perfectly balanced lighting. Each table was covered with a snowy cloth, and piled with traditional foods, candles, spring flowers, and of course, a large basket filled with painted eggs as a centerpiece, each egg looking like a giant jewel. Madame Koska felt that the atmosphere was even more festive than the last time she and her friends assembled at the Petrograd Room. She knew that Russians loved Easter more than any other holiday, so perhaps that was the reason, but she acknowledged that it had something to do with her, personally. She was not under the dark cloud of suspicion and crime that had been so oppressive during that memorable dinner.

  “Darlings, I am speechless! Look at all this food on the table--it looks like sweets and cakes!” said Wilma. “But it can’t be since we have not had dinner yet!”

  “It’s going to be our dessert,” said M. Danilov, smiling at Wilma who was sitting next to him. “This tall narrow thing is the kulich, a Russian bread that is really more like cake. It will be eaten with the paskha, this pyramid-like sweet. It’s a kind of cheesecake. They might be offering baklava as well.”

  “Vasily, what do you think? Should we order our traditional meal?” said Madame Golitsyn. “I am sure our Russian friends would enjoy it, and our English and Dutch friends would like the novelty!”

  “How I miss these celebrations in Russia,” said M. Danilov, sighing dramatically. “The dear motherland…”

  “No, you don’t, Sasha, and I can’t say that this heartfelt sigh makes me too sorry for you,” said Mr. Korolenko with a smile. “You enjoy Easter and Christmas and what-have-you in the best hotels in Europe and the United States. You would not want to settle in one place, and you feel your creative freedom is not encouraged in Russia.”

  “Well…” said M. Danilov sheepishly, and everyone laughed.

  “I can understand that,” said Mr. Van der Hoven. “There is such joy in travelling the world.”

  “But you are not travelling anywhere!” said Gretchen, clutching his arm. “Never! At least, not without me making sure you are safe!”

  Mr. Van der Horn laughed and patted her hand. “No, don’t worry, my little one. I am not going anywhere.”

  M. Danilov looked at Gretchen with professional appreciation. “You really should be in the theatre, Miss Van der Hoven,” he said. “With your looks, you can go far.”

  “No, no. It’s too late for the ballet, M. Danilov,” said Gretchen. “I am too old to start dancing.”

  “But not too old to act,” said M. Danilov.

  “Miss Van der Hoven is studying at the university,” said Madame Koska. “And vhen she completes her courses, she has an interest in fashion.”

  “Exactly,” said Gretchen. “I want to be the best vandeuse in the best atelier in London!” Madame Koska smiled affectionately at the girl. “You vill go far in the vorld of fashion, my dear,
” she said.

  The waiter came to the table, and after serious consultation, the dishes were chosen, since every course had the option of two or three traditional dishes. For appetizer, they settled on potato and onion pancakes called draniki, served with sour cream and caviar; for soup, they chose rassolnik, made from beef and barley and served with pickles; for entrée, kvass-marinated pork loin baked in pastry and served with vegetables, and for dessert, the cakes already on the table.

  “This is a lot of food,” said Inspector Blount.

  Natalya laughed. “You should have seen the Easter dinner I attended at the Tsar’s court in 1903. The idea was to have forty-eight courses, each course representing a day of Lent. We had paskha, Easter bread, eggs, sturgeon, beluga caviar, salmon, pike-perch, pheasant, partridge, black cock, duck, lamb, bacon, tongue, beef, veal and several kinds of pierogi, you know, the little filled pies.”

  “Good God,” said Inspector Blount.

  “Of course, no one ate everything,” said Natalya. “You chose what you liked best. Whatever was left was given to the poor, so nothing was wasted. It’s the idea of treats following abstinence. A tradition. I was there with other children, though, and we really ate so much, it was ridiculous. And we had glorious fights, each holding an Easter egg and banging it against the other children’s eggs to see whose will be the last to break. Some of the adults joined as well.”

  “Natalya, while we are waiting, won’t you give everyone their present?” asked Madame Golitsyn.

  “Certainly,” said Natalya, pulling a large basket from under her chair. It contained a collection of eggs, nestled on multicoloured, soft silk. They were not the usual dyed eggs. Each egg had been emptied of its content, cleaned thoroughly, drilled carefully in a special pattern, and then embroidered with colourful floss. The result was something that belonged in a fairy tale. Everyone gasped at the incredible creations, trying to understand how it could be done. Natalya handed them around, producing a little silk bag for each.

  “They are considered good luck,” she said. “Be careful not to break them! They should bring you a very happy year, Easter to Easter.” Just as she was saying that, her own egg slipped from her hand and fell on the floor, breaking into tiny pieces. Natalya froze in terror, but it did not last. Her good sense made her overcome the superstition and she laughed and said, “I’ll just have to make another one for myself, so I can keep the wonderful good luck I already have!” and everyone relaxed. The waiters started to bring the dishes and the serious business of Easter dinner had begun.

  As they were finishing their after-dinner coffee, they noticed a slight commotion at the entrance. A police officer was talking to a waiter. The waiter pointed at their table, and the officer approached it.

  “Inspector Blount,” said the police officer, “I am sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Danilov must come with us, and you might wish to come, too. There has been a death at the theatre, Mr. Danilov.”

  M. Danilov stared at the police officer. “A death?” he asked incredulously. Madame Koska could tell he thought his poor English was making him misunderstand something.

  The police officer looked at a paper he held in his hand. “Yes, one of the ballerinas, Miss Solange Forestier. She died on stage, at the end of the performance of the first ballet.”

  M. Danilov seemed utterly baffled. “Was there an accident? Did she fall, or had something fall on her?”

  “No,” said the police officer. He seemed to be uncomfortable and looked at Inspector Blount for help. The inspector shrugged helplessly.

  “Was a doctor called? What is going on there?” insisted M. Danilov. “The girl was not sick, as far as I know.”

  The officer remained quiet.

  Inspector Blount put his hand on the impresario’s shoulder and said, “Let’s go, M. Danilov, it will best to get there right away and try to make sense of it. Korolenko, please come along, I may have to speak to some Russians…” They left the restaurant, while the others stayed in their seats in varying degrees of shock and surprise. Since most of them knew, or at least suspected, that Mr. Korolenko was working for the police, no one wondered about the inspector’s request.

  “I knew it was bad luck when the egg broke,” said Natalya quietly.

  “Now, now, Natalya,” said Vasily, “there is no reason to make such connexions… it’s superstitious. We will soon find out what happened, and in the meantime, let us say our Easter blessing, as we were ready to do after drinking our coffee. It is even more appropriate to do so now, in memory of the lady. Most of us didn’t know her, but we are all sorry for her passing.”

  “Indeed,” said Madame Koska. “Please say the Grace.”

  “It is simple, as you know, my dear Madame Koska. Christ has risen.”

  “Indeed, He has risen,” answered all those who knew the blessing.

  “And may Mademoiselle Solange rest in peace,” said Natalya. “I met her during her measurement session. A pleasant, cheerful young woman… it’s so sad.”

  “Do you think she might have stumbled during one of those high jumps? Do people sometimes get killed performing in the ballet?” asked Wilma.

  “I have never heard of any ballet dancer dying on stage,” said Madame Koska. “In addition, she did not dance in Giselle, only in Le Spectre de la Rose, and the female dancer does not perform any high elevations in that ballet, only the male dancer does.”

  “It’s extremely strange,” said Mr. Van der Hoven. “Well, I think perhaps we should break up and go home… We can’t help them and there is no point in speculation.”

  “Yes,” said Madame Koska. “Ve have finished anyvay.”

  “My dear friends,” said Vasily, “please don’t let this sad occurrence destroy the joy of Easter and the pleasure of having dinner together.”

  “No, of course not,” said Madame Koska. “It is sad, but ve really must accept the good and the bad life hands us… and ve must return here sometime soon and celebrate another occasion.”

  “Last time we all went to church,” said Wilma. “Can we go again?”

  “There is no special service right now,” said Vasily, “but of course the church would be open and extremely well decorated. It’s really a beautiful sight.”

  “Yes,” said Natalya. “Let us go. It will be comforting.” Mr. Van der Hoven and Gretchen also wanted to go.

  “I am very tired,” said Madame Koska. “I simply can’t go to church and must leave you, my friends. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course we don’t mind! You must go and rest, my dear Madame Koska!” said Vasily anxiously. “You work so hard…”

  Leaving the restaurant, Madame Koska said to Madame Golitsyn quietly, “Would you like to come home with me? I expect Dmitry will call and let me know what happened…” Madame Golitsyn nodded, said something to her brother, and the parties went on their separate ways.

  At home, Madame Koska poured tea. Neither of them wanted to eat anything after the enormous dinner, but holding the warm teacups could be comforting.

  “I can’t understand this situation,” said Madame Golitsyn. “Mademoiselle Forestier got sick on stage, I imagine. But why did they call the police? Why not rush her to the hospital?”

  “Perhaps a doctor saw her, someone who had been in the audience, and declared her dead,” said Madame Koska. “A heart attack could kill even young people; I have heard it happens to players of several violent sports. They may be born with a weak heart and no one knows until they die.”

  “Yes…” said Madame Golitsyn. “It’s possible.” She did not look entirely convinced, but had no other option to offer.

  “I hope Dmitry calls,” said Madame Koska. “He might tell us what happened; he probably has an idea already.”

  Madame Golitsyn smiled. “At least, Vera, I am glad you and Mr. Korolenko are together. I am so happy I had introduced you.”

  “Yes,” said Madame Koska. “Who would have imagined it could happen after all these years?”

  “Do you plan
to be married?” asked Madame Golitsyn.

  “No, no. Much too early to even think about it,” said Madame Koska. “Why should we?”

  Before Madame Golitsyn could answer, the phone rang. Madame Koska went to the side table to pick it up and Madame Golitsyn heard her cry out in dismay. She waited, terrified. Madame Koska put down the receiver and turned to her friend, her face white with horror.

  Madame Golitsyn looked at her, saying nothing, observing that her friend could barely bring herself to speak.

  “She was poisoned, Annushka.”

  “Poisoned? You mean the girl was murdered?” asked Madame Golitsyn, incredulously.

  “They don’t know if it is suicide or murder, but the signs of poison were clear as can be. And they know how she got it, too. It was the rose.”

  “What rose?” asked Madame Golitsyn, confused.

  “Remember the rose that the girl smells after the Spectre disappears, and she wakes up? She picks the rose from the floor and smells it. You see, the poison was in the rose.”

  “But… would anyone commit suicide like that?” said Madame Golitsyn. “In front of an audience? Why?”

  “Performers are sometimes a little strange when it comes to fame and adulation,” said Madame Koska. “She might have done it as the last, spectacular show. The Grande Finale.”

  “Do you really believe it, Vera? Was the girl particularly sensitive, sad, melancholy? Or ill?”

  Madame Koska thought about the simple, ordinary girl, a good dancer with a promise for a wonderful career, enjoying her adventures. She was a happy creature and did not seem to have a care in the world.

  “No, Annushka. I don’t believe she killed herself,” said Madame Koska. “She was not the type.”

  “So it can only be murder,” said Madame Golitsyn, shuddering at the thought.

  “I am afraid so, Annushka,” said Madame Koska. “But why?”