That's Paris

by Vicki Lesage et al.

  “Shit,” I whispered.

  Because of what’s going on up here. In my mind, I could see Madame Martin tapping her forehead and saying those words.

  Class was over. Our last movement was the usual révérence. Then, I pulled off my pointe shoes, stuffed my sore toes into sneakers and ran for the door.

  My reflection was waiting for me. Me, without the ballet look. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she wore jeans and a brown suede jacket.

  “Odette, what are you doing here?” I threw my arms open, and she let me hug her for the quickest second on earth. Then she took a step back.

  “I’m here to save your ass.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She grabbed my arm and practically dragged me down the stairs to a quiet corner. On the way, she nodded and smiled at old friends, but didn’t let up the pace for anyone.

  We sat by a bay window overlooking the lawn.

  “I still don’t know why you’re here.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “OK, to tell me you should be here instead of me, I suck and should be home. You saw my pirouettes! Don’t lie, Odette!”

  She rolled her eyes. Words didn’t easily hurt my sister.

  “You don’t suck. You’re not focusing any more. It’s as simple as that. And you know what? That’s just as bad. That’s what I came here to tell you.”

  I bit my lip and tried to look away. But I couldn’t. Odette was my mirror, showing me the truth. Whether I wanted to see it or not.

  But was I strong enough to accept it?

  We sat there cross-legged on the ground, facing each other for I don’t know how long. She wouldn’t tell me what she’d been doing. She just kept repeating what I should be doing: going to class, forgetting about the past and thinking only about my future.

  ~~~~

  I thought of my sister’s visit while I tossed and turned that night. I thought about her again as I groggily danced the next day. And my dancing was better. Strangely, I leaped into the air with loads of energy, glided across the room with grace.

  “Très bien, Odile,” Madame Martin said, her eyes glowing.

  I kept that feeling in my heart and tried to preserve it as if it were in a glass jar.

  That day passed and then the next and the next. I was getting stronger again. So strong, that on Friday night, on my way home from school, I stopped to see our old dance teacher on rue de Courcelles.

  And that’s when I saw Odette. She was working, slowly but steadily, with Liliane. Liliane was gentle and calm. The perfect person to bring a dancer back to life. I hung back in the shadows, watching my sister wince as she turned painful pirouettes on demi pointe. I knew she wouldn’t be back to pointe work any time soon. She wouldn’t be back to the Ecole de Danse either.

  But she was back to dance. And that made me smile. I smiled because, even though her body ached, I knew her heart didn’t. I could see it in her face as she danced. To me, she looked as beautiful and graceful as ever.

  I didn’t dare interrupt. When we sat opposite each other at dinner that night, I didn’t tell her that I’d stopped by, that I’d seen her dance. If I did, she would be angry. My parents didn’t seem to know what she’d been up to either. I don’t think they would have been too happy about it. The doctor had been really cautious, saying she shouldn’t even get near a dance studio for six months. But with Liliane, my sister was in good hands. I would keep her secret.

  ~~~~

  Backstage at the Opera Garnier. Hustle and bustle. Demonstrations of what we’d learned these past months and years. Mathilde, Sarah and I went through pliés and relevés at the barre. The three of us would be traveling across the stage together in a series of petits sauts and turns.

  A familiar voice startled me as I laughed at Mathilde’s silly joke. Odette. Not just anyone could get backstage before the show. But who could refuse Odette? I think our teachers cried even more than my sister on the day she left the school.

  I hadn’t seen her in weeks. Every time I came home for a weekend, she had run off here or there with some excuse. I told myself she was secretly dancing and that made me feel better.

  I’d called to invite her to demonstrations, but she’d never answered my call. I left a jumbled sort of message asking her to come but saying I wouldn’t be mad if she didn’t. So maybe she thought I didn’t want her there. I expressed my feelings better through dance than through words.

  And then there she was, smiling in the shadows a few feet away. I hurried over to her. This time, when I hugged her, she hugged me back.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t think you’d come!”

  “Don’t cry! Your makeup’s going to run.” Odette shot me a half smile. Her eyes were sparkling almost as much as before.

  “Listen,” she continued. “I wanted time… to work things out. There are some things we have to do alone, Odile, not as twins.”

  “Are you dancing?” I hoped she would tell me.

  She nodded.

  “Not like before… But saying it’s all or nothing was stupid. One day, I went to Liliane’s and tried. I missed it so much. It doesn’t matter as much that I’m not going to be on this stage, Odile. If I can still dance even a little, I’ll be OK.”

  There was so much I wanted to say, but the show was about to start. I squeezed my sister’s hand and left her waiting in the wings.

  Le Chemin du Dragon

  Didier Quémener

  “There are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they may solve only in part.”

  Abraham Stoker

  April 8, 1818: 39th section of Père-Lachaise cemetery.

  (Russian accent)

  I can’t believe they put me here. They will pay dearly for this…

  A few months later: 19th section of Père-Lachaise cemetery, Chemin du Dragon.

  (Russian accent)

  What was I telling you? Let the game begin…

  During the month of May, 2018: 10th section of Père-Lachaise cemetery, Chemin Denon.

  Anatole could almost hear the final notes of the Nocturne in B-flat minor, Opus 9, Number 1 as he approached the tomb. He knew every nuance, every detail of the music by heart. The long hours of research involving complex compositions and the weeks of rehearsal alone at his piano reached a crescendo: The day of the competition to win a spot at the conservatory. Now, wasn’t he obliged to come here and pay tribute?

  With a sense of sadness, Anatole lowered his head and looked at the statue of Euterpe on Chopin’s tomb. In his mind, he started a conversation about the greatness of the pianist.

  “Like you, I would have loved to have known him,” Anatole said as he addressed the statue of the muse of music. “He could have taught me so much, and I would have told him all that I feel every time my fingers touch the keys and bring his music back to life… Like you, my heart is elsewhere, and like you, my dreams are set to music.”

  “It’s certainly not the time to start whining in front of a block of stone!” a voice whispered.

  Anatole froze. He suddenly felt colder than the flowers at the statue’s foot as the gusts of early spring wind tossed them about.

  “I’m tired, that’s all,” he said to himself. “These past few months of burning the candle at both ends…”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Annoyance quickly replaced astonishment.

  “I’m not here to offer etiquette lessons, but you should know that this isn’t a place to disturb people,” Anatole said, abruptly turning around.

  But he faced no one. Only the wind from time to time, a gray cat crossing the path, trees, cobblestones… There wasn’t a single person in the area.

  “Who are you?” Anatole called out, turning around and peering left and right. “Why are you hiding? What do you want? And what’s with the Russian accent?”

  Silence. Feeling ridiculous, Anatole rubbed his hand against his forehead and took in a deep breath.

  The voice resonated through the air once
again.

  “Well, don’t just stand there! Hurry up! I’m waiting for you…”

  As if hypnotized, Anatole decided to play along. Curiosity had overtaken his feelings of disbelief.

  “OK, fine. You be the guide, and I’ll follow your instructions. It seems like that’s your style.” He couldn’t hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Exactly! Meet me in the nineteenth section of the cemetery. It’s along the Chemin du Dragon.”

  Anatole tossed one last look at the statue and strode toward the meeting spot.

  The air became gloomier with each step as he followed the twisted, descending paths. Drawings of bats and other creatures covered tombs and rusted metal doors.

  “It feels like Dracula is right here in Paris on the Chemin du Dragon,” Anatole murmured as he maintained his rapid pace.

  “You’re almost there!” The woman’s voice had returned.

  “Which tomb?” He nearly spat out the words.

  “Tomb? What an insult! A mausoleum, my dear. A marble temple supported by ten columns. And all perfectly adapted to my eccentric demands!”

  A few feet away, Anatole spotted the imposing structure that overlooked practically the entire cemetery. At its base was the entrance to a crypt.

  “So, are you going to tell me your name? You obviously already know mine…”

  “Finally!” she said. “We’re finally getting to the heart of the matter. I’m Countess Marie-Elisabeth Demidov. My closest friends know me as Princess Alexandrovna Stroganov, wife of Count Nicolas Demidov. I am an aristocrat and very proud of my social status!”

  Anatole looked at the staircase leading to the stone structure, and his eyes moved upward to an inscription surrounded by torches and sculptures of ermines and wolves:

  Here lies Elisabeth Demidov, born Baronne de Stroganov. Deceased the 8th of April, 1818.

  “Aristocrat?” Anatole laughed. “My dear lady, the aristocracy was buried long ago—probably around the same time as you!”

  Air vents constructed into the stone structure caught Anatole’s eye, and he couldn’t help commenting with irony, “It looks like you’re expecting visitors? It seems those holes are to let fresh air into the tomb… You usually don’t see that kind of thing around here.”

  “Are you the only one who doesn’t know about the legend?”

  “Legends are to adults what bedtime stories are to children.”

  “You certainly won’t be so smug in a few minutes. That, I can guarantee.”

  The countess paused and then continued, “Please know, my dear, that many are those who see in the steps a direct access to hell and this place is none other than the entry gates. But let’s leave that to amuse the curious. There is a much more interesting story to be told.”

  Anatole made his way to the top of the steps and listened attentively, as if under a spell.

  “According to the legend, the princess—that’s my ego and me,” she said, laughing. “I’ll begin again: The legend says that in my will, I offer my fortune to the person who spends three hundred and sixty five days and three hundred and sixty six nights by my side in the crypt. Of course, the person cannot leave for any reason… I love loyalty from my admirers, especially when it comes to them watching over my eternal beauty! Anyone can try his luck. The only rule: Don’t leave me for even an instant.”

  “Were you successful? That crazy request must have attracted candidates who were just as eccentric as you.”

  “Absolutely,” the countess said. “I’ve lost count of those who heard of the famous clause in my will, moved in and tried to win my treasures. Sadly, however, all who tried never lasted more than one night! Some have died, God rest their souls. Others simply went insane… The most recent left with quite worrisome testimony (my personal touch!) Did they really see phantoms, vampires or demons as many believe? Or were they simply hallucinations caused by the mushroom spores in the crypt? The mystery remains unsolved.” A long, icy laugh.

  Anatole remained silent for several minutes. The story repeated itself in his head as night began to fall.

  “The cemetery is already closed, and the guards are going to start their rounds,” the countess said. “You must hurry or they will find you and put you out.”

  “Hurry to do what?” Anatole asked, returning to the present. “Your story might have fascinated the naïve and incited curiosity for two hundred years, but I’m one of the skeptics, Madame. I have much more important things to do than hang around here and talk to myself.”

  His firm tone could no longer hide his exasperation and desire to leave the place as soon as possible.

  “Wait, Anatoly, wait… Come here, through the right side. There is an opening. I will guide you.”

  Anatoly. Why did she call me that? he asked himself. Probably more of her bizarre behavior.

  “Your fortune doesn’t interest me,” he said aloud. “And even if it did, what is really left of your riches after all these years? Maybe enough to pay for a coffee at the café across the street?”

  “You shouldn’t underestimate my words, Anatoly,” sighed the countess. “On the right, near the third column, if you lift the debris from the stone and cement, you will find a key that will offer you access to the crypt. Now hurry! There isn’t a moment to lose.”

  “Anatole, my name is Anatole—not Anatoly! If what you said is true, I understand why no one was able to put up with you for more than a few hours, or even worse, a few days! But I have principles. And as a consequence, I will force myself to remain courteous. I’ll take the key—that is, if it exists. I’ll open the doors, and then I’ll let out a couple of screams and close the doors. Is that what you’re looking for? Yes, in my opinion. Then I’ll dispose of the key far from this place so you’ll never bother anyone again.”

  As if his legs were mechanically guided, Anatole made his way toward the stones and dust. He lifted the cement block that wasn’t any bigger than his hand and discovered a long, slim key, worn by age.

  “Miraculous that it’s still here,” he murmured.

  “I’ve been guarding it,” said the countess. “Go ahead, enter…”

  Anatole inserted the key in the door situated around the back of the gigantic structure and pushed the handle warped by time and lack of use.

  “Careful on those steps! They are slippery and crooked.”

  “I noticed, but thanks anyway,” Anatole said, shaking his head.

  “Use your cell phone as a torch, Anatoly.”

  “I don’t have one,” he snapped.

  “You don’t have a cell phone? Well, isn’t that something? Nowadays, everyone has one. That’s all right. You will simply follow my instructions to the letter…”

  After descending a dozen steps, which seemed to take an eternity, Anatole arrived at his destination. The humid scent of mold filled the crypt and made him sneeze several times.

  The countess guided his steps.

  “Listen carefully, my child. Take one step to your left.”

  Anatole obeyed.

  “Extend your arms. Do you feel the rock?”

  “Yes.” His voice had become childlike.

  “Push with all of your might to move it to the other side.”

  Anatole placed his hands on the rock.

  “Go ahead, use a little strength!” the countess said, laughing.

  A deafening sound resonated in the profound corner of the crypt. As if he knew what to do without further instruction, Anatole rubbed the spot where the rock had been. He felt a rough, metallic surface.

  “We’ve made it, Anatoly. Now it’s your turn to play!”

  Blindly, Anatole felt the edges of the steel safe. Powdery rust covered his hands before he reached a vent that allowed him to lift the lid. A squeaking sound and then bits of stone falling and rolling across the floor. Anatole had the strange feeling he was about to face his destiny.

  “Be careful. They are fragile.”

  “What? What is fragile?”

  “Go ahead. Take
them—but gently.”

  Anatole’s eyes had started to adjust to the dimness. He plunged one hand into the open safe. His heart was beating a mile a minute.

  “But what is…”

  He stopped midsentence. Then he continued, nearly shouting.

  “Incredible! How did you… I mean, where did you get these?”

  “Astonishing, isn’t it?” the countess replied. “I knew you would love them. I’m quite proud of myself.”

  “It’s not possible! This has to be some kind of joke. We thought they were destroyed. No one suspected they still existed.”

  Anatole thoroughly searched the safe with nervous hands.

  “Caution, Anatoly! Don’t forget they have been waiting untouched for you for more than one hundred and fifty years.”

  Reality caught up with Anatole, and a mountain of questions grew in his mind.

  “I’m listening,” he said. “Why should I bother asking questions? You owe me more than a few simple explanations, don’t you?”

  “Anatoly, my Anatoly… I so would love to hold you in my arms and share all of my happiness with you. I call you Anatoly for a simple reason: You remind me of my youngest son, who also was named Anatole.”

  “I understand, but I’m not the only one in the world with that name. Anatole, Anatoly… What’s the connection with your son?”

  “Patience, and you’ll find out,” said the countess. “You don’t already understand? You don’t see? I’ll explain: My son Anatoly knew Frédéric. They were about the same age and became dear friends.”

  “You mean Frédéric Chopin?”

  “The one and only Fryderyk Franciszek Szopen, indeed. Did you notice my imitation of the Polish accent? Pretty good, isn’t it? Ah, what a composer… Well, I don’t have to convince you of that. Did you ever ask yourself why you have such passion for his work?”

  “No… No, but…”

  The countess interrupted.

  “What you hold in your hands is worth more than gold in my eyes, and I’m sure it is the same from your point of view. Do you realize what this means? His art, his greatness, will finally be reborn through your hands! A short time before his death in our great city of Paris, he had given Anatoly all of his latest work and uncompleted symphonies. As you said, everyone thought they had been destroyed, even to this day.”