corleonewrites

[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 9. Jazz Suite No. 2: VI Waltz No. 2 (Dmitri Shostakovich)

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Palais Garnier was ours for that magnificent night of the premiere. ‘Giselle’ was about to start within few moments, and the backstage transformed into the surreal feeling of anticipation all the dancers had the minutes before the performance as if everyone was holding the breath before first moves and notes of musical composition. The air was stiff: the scent of powder, perfume, flowers waiting in the wings, old wooden floor and velvet curtains, every detail which created the world of the ballet united in the surreal sense which I breathed in with my lungs.

When the corps de ballet warmed up, whispering something to one another, their tutus rustling like dry leaves – I stood beside the edge of velvet curtain which separated me from the cunning eyes of the public waiting to see the new étoile of Boris Lermontov’s travel ballet company. Giselle’s tutu was on my body, but there were few moments left for me before I’d become her for the evening in Paris. I was not afraid of the public, of critics, it didn’t matter to me as I got used to this noise of their attention when British Rambert was my ballet home. I was afraid of his opinion.

The backstage became quiet. I slowly turned, as if afraid to cut the thread of anticipation and that magical moment before the performance: Boris was there, wearing black suit and white shirt. His eyes looked around the backstage at first, then he stood beside me and looked at the stage with the audience, pushing the curtain a little with his hand and I could smell his cologne, the notes of which I began to remember: orange and bergamot.

“Look at their hungry eyes”, the man said thoughtfully, referring to the public, “Always hungry for the show, always there to consume the gossip and scandal, dropping the art of the ballet aside like the toy they got bored of”

I listened to his voice as the magic spell, when shivers ran down my spine. Boris understood me. I truly didn’t really care neither about the public nor about the critics, though, of course, their admiration would please my ego. But it all paled in comparison to the cruel art of the ballet. Both me and Boris knew and cared about it. Only I began to wonder if he could ever care about me the same way.

Grischa’s voice behind us called corps de ballet to get ready in Russian, the loudness of it brought me back to real world. Both Boris and I turned to face the backstage, which froze in the anticipation of the performance, as if the dancers were about to put a spell on the evening at Palais Garnier. Without further announcement Boris looked at me with his beautiful grey-blue eyes and took my hands:

“You’re ready, Vasilisa Novinskaya”, it was not a question, it was a matter of fact, as impresario always knew it.

The touch of his hands was firm, like it was something which had to be done to calm my senses. His hands were strong and slightly calloused which was the evidence of how much of himself he gave to the work. It was something reverent. And with the way of how he looked confidently at me – I felt how something sharp and cold cut my heart, pulse began to throb faster. It was something that I hadn’t dared to say out loud to my impresario yet.

“I’m always ready, Boris Lermontov”, I replied dryly instead, but with these words everything was screaming inside. I just wished he wouldn’t hear it.

But his eyes and the way of how tight he held my hands – it felt like a whisper: “The stage is yours. But don’t leave. Come back to me.”. The whisper echoed in my head, as the man let go my hands and I walked toward the curtains, which were waiting for me to transform into the peasant girl named Giselle.

I had memorized her moves: every turn, every arabesque, every step into her broken heart and the agony of madness. It was the dedication to love and revenge: what must be felt and not confessed in words which never had the weight.

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The second act arrived with its ghostly stillness, carrying the sacrifice of the heartbreak. Adolphe Adam’s music flowed organically with the steps I made on the stage of Palais Garnier. But with every turn I made, with every new note of music which followed – my mind pulled me into the depths of my senses, into the depths of my feelings towards Boris, which I tried to deny.

As if we’ve been tied up by invisible thread, when I slowly and graciously raised my hands up and stopped for a moment before the next move, when the music faded away for a second to begin with the new force – I caught impresario’s gaze in the audience, beckoning me with its magnifying power.

The blue dimmed light didn’t quite reach his face, but all the spectacle-loving audience around him blurred and there was only Boris who I saw. I always could. He sat motionless, as if thousands of thoughts were running in the mind were becoming a whirlwind, his elbows braced on his knees, hands folded beneath the chin, like he was leaning over the edge of a burning question he hadn’t dared to ask himself. But his grey-blue dark eyes were on me and only on me.

My breath faltered for a slight moment, the chest tightened and became sore not because of the corset of my costume, but because it became suddenly crystal clear like shining gems on Giselle’s tiara: I was no longer dancing just to the role of the peasant heartbroken girl, no to prove I was étoile, not even to my babushka, who was living with our common love of the ballet and our family, not even to my selfish stubborn ego. I was dancing for Boris Lermontov.

And every arabesque and fouettés, every lift of my arms turned into feelings I didn’t know how to express verbally. My feet were as light as the wings of the butterfly, which helped me to linger in the air between the stage and that single seat, where my impresario was silently watching me telling the story.

Whenever I caught his eyes in the crowd during the second act – that deep thoughtful look remained. Boris couldn’t take his eyes off me, and for one second, I thought that he froze in space, his hands folded beneath his lips as if trying to keep mystery he’d been hidden for years. The gaze measured every move I made on the stage highlighted by the lights and by the audience’s attention, I could feel it even from my back, cold shivers running down my spine.

I wasn’t supposed to feel it. We were not supposed to be anything more than the prima and her impresario. Creation and creator. But with every moment we spent together – the façade of icy-cold insensitivity and indifference in our Russian souls was melting.

That night in Palais Garnier we stood on the edge of new sensational and tender feelings which approached both of us and we couldn’t deny it. Until the last moments of the second act Boris’ gaze remained on me. It was intense and captivating as if the man was trying not to lose the thread which tied both of us together. I couldn’t look away either, trembling from an overabundance of feelings inside me. And only the whisper of velvet curtains coming down the stage separated us and I could finally exhale the breath I’ve been holding for too long.

Applause from the audience sounded just like the huge wave crashed onto the shore, but yet they sounded so distant as if the curtains shielded the stage from the storm of the outside world. Yet it was real. Everything felt more alive than ever since the first few days I spent in the company. And ‘Giselle’, Boris’ vision of ‘Giselle’, which was still covering me with the invisible cloak, was the part of that new life.

I stood in the half-dark stage, waiting for the curtains to rise up again and to bow to the audience. For a moment it felt like I transformed into the completely new person from that premiere and Giselle was the key to that triggered that mechanism. My heart was beating fast, cold shivers ran down my spine, when hot drops of sweat ran down my forehead. The other dancers were whispering congratulations, but their voices drowned out by my loud thoughts, which felt like the sharp blades: what if he didn’t like my performance?

Boris had seen everything. The man’s gaze followed me across the stage like an electric wire, keeping me on my toes and I felt it deeply. And now that it was over, for a slight second I was afraid to look at him. But there was no place for fear any longer. And when the stage manager’s voice screamed “Now bows! Attention!” – I stepped forward, back into the limelight, where I left not only the ghost of Giselle but also the pieces of my soul.

The applause rose even louder, like sea storm with thunder and wind, rapturous shouts “Bravo!” sounded from every corner of the tremendous hall of Palais Garnier, the glow of the spotlights warmed my face like a rising sun. But even in this whirlwind I tried to hear him clapping, knowing it was impossible, but still hoped that I would.

And when I slowly bowed to the audience, my arms floating like wings of the swan, I couldn’t help but glancing at my impresario, through the limelight, through the public, right to the place where I saw him during the second act. Boris was standing, clapping indeed, but his face was still restrained, as it always was during the rehearsals, it was still hiding something behind the cold surface. But his gaze found mine, and what I saw in his beautiful grey-blue eyes was the shining fire of curiosity and, maybe, I’d dare to say, even with pride. Something electric ran through both of us that moment when our eyes met – something inevitable.

He finally saw me.

I stood up from the bow and felt how my legs suddenly became heavy – all the nerves, all those rehearsals, all my attempts of 33 fouettés which I still had to practice – everything was leaving my body for some time before new ballets the company would begin to conduct in the short period of time. But that night at Palais Garnier was dedicated to the triumph and celebration of the successful beginning of the new ballet season.

The curtains finally closed behind me, the dancers and crew began to clap and laugh, congratulating me with the great debut in the company, Grischa even hugged me, someone from the corps de ballet gave me a bouquet of fresh white roses. The exhaustion from the performance gently transformed into the mood of celebration. But the fear and desire of hearing his opinion on my performance was unbearable, in that moment I could hear only the loud pounding of my heart inside the chest.

It felt like the century had passed when Boris finally appeared in the backstage. The dancers and the members of the crew surrounded us, but the man just came slowly towards me, like he was approaching something surreal or sacred. When he stood close to me his one hand almost hovered over my shoulder, the other halfway raised. But then, as if remembering himself, Boris let them down and only the bouquet of roses with sharp thorns, which I was holding in my hands separated us.

Such restraint and discipline in both of us was our own language of intimacy.

I daringly look at him:

“Did you see it, Boris?”, the silent question lingered in my mind when my icy-cold gaze was looking directly at my impresario, hands pricking on the thorns of flowers.

“Well, miss Novinskaya, I think your Giselle conquered Anastasia Nikolaevna”, his rich, sonorous voice was confident and sharp, yet the softness covered it, like silk.

For a moment I thought the bouquet would drop on the floor from my hands. It wasn’t just the compliment – it was the blessing. The ultimate recognition I’d never dreamed of. For all my ballet life I dreamed of being just like my grandmother. But I never thought I would be better than her. She was my inspiration, my guidance and teacher and how I wished her to see me on stage, dancing Giselle, even becoming that innocent peasant girl with the broken heart. I only wished mine wouldn’t torn to pieces the same way.

Something bright, tensed and terrifying flickered between us then. The invisible thread pulled me closer to him, even though we were standing few centimeters apart, not touching. But it was there. I couldn’t reply to him properly – my rapid breathing was ragged with the euphoria of overwhelmed feelings rushing through my body like the hot shower.

“Thank you”, my voice was hoarse, and I looked back at Boris with the light in my eyes which was burning like huge fire. In that moment I desired others to disappear in a hush of the Paris’ evening and let me stay only with my impresario, just like in the dream.

The man’s quiet soft smile was tendering, his grey-blue eyes held the same flame:

“Such success demands the celebration”

“Let’s all go to brasserie Lipp!”, Vanya, my ballet partner, declared happily and within few moments tutus rustled and pointe shoes of the dancers stamped briskly on the wooden floor. In such rush and sweet chaos, I lost sight of Boris, but before we lost each other in the stream of crew members, it seemed that he finally touched my shoulder softly.

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Brasserie Lipp always had been loud and busy, but our company, with enthusiastic cheers in English and in Russian, was able to shout over all the visitors, who were busy with their own endless conversations. Waiters were circling around the tables, the music from the gramophone sounded somewhere on the background, the glasses of champagne clinked, the clocks on the wall stricken every new hour, the air was thickened with the smoke of cigarettes and the perfume. The space was living its own life, and it felt like for everyone the time just stopped for that premiere night in Paris. Everything was sparkling: the champagne, the mirrored walls, the joy of never tiring souls of the dancers of the company.

We were sitting at a long table with white table cloth, Boris in the center of it, wearing the black wool suit with white shirt and black bowtie, the remains of the cigarette burning between his fingers. I was sitting on a couch beside the impresario, near the end of the long table. My evening gown was in the colour of dusty rose without sleeves, with bateau neckline and fitted bodice with a cinched waist above the spreading taffeta calf-length skirt. Babushka’s white golden necklace with a pearl, shimmered on my neck which was sprayed with Chanel’s Cuir de Russie.

Boris was talking to Grischa, half-turned toward the ballet master, answering someone’s toast with a nod, but I knew both of us were not really listening. We could feel each other’s electrifying attention towards one another, once igniting on the backstage after ‘Giselle’. It was now flickering like a candle in the wind.

Ivan toasted, waking me up from my dreams:

“To our Giselle!”

The dancers followed him: with forks tapping against their glasses of champagne.

I smiled and thanked them. My new company which became my family. But a part of me kept slipping away, glancing toward my impresario, who raised his glass silently, watching me, as he always did. New melody started on the record player – cheerful notes of Lucienne Delyle’s ‘Mon amant de Saint-Jean’ filled the brasserie:

“…Je ne sais pourquoi j’allais danser

À Saint-Jean, au musette,

Mais il m'a suffit d'un seul baiser

Pour que mon cœur soit prisonnier…’’

Suddenly, my heart began to beat faster, echoing in the chest with a kind of longing that couldn’t be explained in words. As if something invisible stricken me and I lifted my eyes on Boris. And so did he. Our gazes found each other in all the noise of the space, all the laughs and toasts in English and Russian, in the lights of the brasserie, and we held our eyes longer than politeness and discipline between prima and impresario allowed. That moment the song surrounded just the two of us.

“…Comment ne pas perdre la tête,

Serrée par des bras audacieux

Car l’on croit toujours

Aux doux mots d’amour

Quand ils sont dits avec les yeux…’’

I should have looked away, should have sipped my champagne, laughed at the joke or answered the question someone had just asked. But I didn’t, I couldn’t. Neither did Boris. He was looking at me with his grey-blue eyes, which were now as dark as the night, yet there was softness in the expression of his face. Fingers on my hand which was relaxing on the sofa under the table cloth twitched as if they wanted to touch man’s face, in front of the whole ballet company gathering in front of the long table.

“…Sans plus réfléchir, je lui donnais

Le meilleur de mon être.

Beau parleur, chaque fois qu’il mentait,

Je le savais, mais je l’aimais…’’

By some surreal accident, though it didn’t feel like one, impresario’s hand moved, almost invisibly to others, towards my hand, and so did mine, without a second thought. Beneath the table cloth, where peeping eyes of strangers couldn’t see, our fingers brushed, barely, like a ghost of a touch. But it was enough to feel the tremble inside me.

Fast rhythm of the waltz musette and the cheerful melody of the accordion was inviting to dance the waltz filled with love and tender, even though the lyrics of the song held the bittersweet sadness.

“…Mais hélas, à Saint-Jean comme ailleurs

Un serment n’est qu’un leurre,

J’étais folle de croire au bonheur

Et de vouloir garder son cœur…’’

Yet we remained on our place, as the brasserie was cramped, filled with people and tables, and there was nowhere to dance even if we wanted to. And in that moment I stopped lying to myself. I thought I began to fall for my impresario. This realization echoed in my head loudly, when the frantic rhythm of the fouettés, the clink of glasses and the accordion of Lucienne Delyle’s song beat in my temples. With slight fright I raised at Boris, our fingers were still brushing lightly beneath the table cloth.

But he looked at me with the unspoken answer. Like he had known it for some time. Perhaps, he felt something similar, yet I couldn’t name it ‘love’. We pretended not to feel the tension, not to feel mutual affection, we were still holding each other back, lying that it was nothing. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was all in my dreams. Yet I couldn’t deny that deep tender feelings were lighting up inside me towards Boris.

This word followed us like the ghost we were afraid to look at, to believe it existed, no matter if we hided it behind our stubborn egoistic characters, our pride, our roles of ballerina and impresario. It walked towards me, and I couldn’t stop it, and I didn’t think I wanted it to stop, no matter what kind of consequences there could have been. We sat there, unmoving, hearts beating with the rhythm of the accordion, Lucienne’s voice washed over us like a warm sea wave, washing the dancers, the visitors and waiters out. In that surreal mystical moment we created a memory for both of us, quietly but surely. And only that night at brasserie Lipp was the silent witness of it.

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Paris revealed with the softness and mystery of the night, which begins when the clocks stricken twelve. The doors of the brasserie closed behind out company, when the echo of the laughs of the dancers sounded loudly in the streets of the city.

It felt like all the colours of the night transformed into the bright magical painting of Vincent Van Gogh, with the moon and stars shining brightly in the dark sky like diamonds. It felt like the city saved the tenderness and secrecy of ‘Giselle’ with the ballet.

‘Mon amant de Saint-Jean’ lingered in my mind like the spell, following me in our walk in the city, it stitched like threads of my dress, it was in the electrifying air between Boris and me, shimmering with everything that had been left unsaid.

The dancers were walking ahead of two of us, singing Russian songs in the quiet melancholy which every person could feel inside. We followed them, prima ballerina and her impresario, but we didn’t feel each other as formal as we did in the daylight in front of everyone. I wasn’t sure if we’d chosen to walk slower than the dancers, if it was because of the tiredness, or it was the night of spring gave us the separate rhythm we followed silently. The sound of my heels on the cobblestones sounded just like the beat of the heart: rhythmic, muffling by the expectation of something mysterious and tender.

I didn’t look at Boris, somehow I thought if I did – it would ruin that tender moment of the night which was revealing in the air between us. But I felt everything: how close he was, how the silence between us was somehow different. It was heavy but intimate.

In one moment our hands, which were separated by few millimeters, swaying slightly as we walked, brushed. Not deliberately, but not by accident either, and we knew it. It was just one moment, one fouetté, a spark that never went unnoticed by us. We didn’t speed up, the distance between us was still very short. My heart treacherously was beating loud, and when the fingers of our hands finally closed our palms – only then I dared to look at my impresario. Boris had already been looking at me with his deep grey-blue eyes, as if he had a silent confession to make. Silently, unguarded by the daylight. It hadn’t been rehearsed; it hadn’t been theatrical. It was clear only for two of us. For a minute I didn’t say a word – I simply held his hand tighter.

Mon amant de Saint-Jean…

We reached Pont Alexandre-III, released our hands, breaking the spell between us. I leaned on the surface of the bridge slightly, letting the wind of the Paris’ night brush my unbuttoned coat and face. I looked at Paris, which with every second was falling into the deep sleep, leaving the memories of the premiere at Palais Garnier behind. The dancers were walking somewhere farer, but their singing voices could be heard from the other side of the bridge. The river moved slowly beneath us like the whisper, lanterns flickered on the surface like dreams.

“Are you always quiet after the success, Vasilisa?”, Boris finally asked me with his soothing, rich sonorous voice, soft like the silk. He leaned with his elbows on the surface of the bridge.

I sighed, smiling lightly, looking back at the man:

“I don’t think it’s just settled down in my mind yet, Boris. New city, new premiere, everything still feels like the dream, though I knew it in London”

The man nodded lightly:

“Tonight, you reminded me why I decided to open the season with ‘Giselle’. I thought I would never see such dance again, after Anastasia Nikolaevna”, Boris looked at me once again, this time lower, but I heard him. My breath caught for one second: not because of the compliment which meant a world to me, but how quiet his tone was, soft like the silk. It sounded like he wanted to say something else, maybe something more personal, but he never did. Instead, the man glanced at the water of the Seine, sounding quietly beneath the bridge.

I looked at his face then: calm, thoughtful, carrying the years of hard work, professionalism and discipline. But the eyes were carrying the depths of his Russian soul, and for a brief second, I was afraid I’d drown in the waters of man’s grey-blue eyes.

“And you…”, I finally whispered, overcoming myself and my cold façade, “…reminded me why I joined the company”. Of course, I meant to say “I danced it for your eyes only” stopped myself the last second, before my lips said what my impresario heard, hoping he would read my soul instead.

It felt like our figures froze in the space after the whisper, just if the spell covered us. But then my impresario turned to me and his eyes met mine. And then he smiled. It wasn’t a practiced smile for the reporters or the public. It was quiet and warm, unguarded, perhaps, a little sad.

“You belong on the stage. And not only Paris and London, but the world will know your name, Vasilisa.”

His words said with his captivating voice sounded like he knew not only the answer to my fears, but like a promise. The look in man’s eyes said more than his words: like I was not his prima, his protégé as the newspapers were saying. Something more gentle, real and rough.

And for a moment, I thought he might reach for my hand, or I for his. But we didn’t. As if we were afraid that if it happened – the spell would be inevitably broken. Yet still the air between me and Boris hummed with a trembling stillness just before a note of the music is beginning to play.

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The entrance of the hotel welcomed us with the quietness of the night, with the golden haze of the streetlamps reflecting on the glass doors, like the shining stars. The lobby with marble floor was quiet, but the light laughs of the dancers echoed faintly somewhere upstairs, like the ghosts of the past life.

I walked up the narrowed marble staircase, never minding the elevator. Boris followed me and I didn’t need to turn around to feel his presence. The silence covered us like the invisible veil or a gentle whisper of the shared secret.

The dimmed lights on the wooden walls of the corridor, where old illustrations of flowers were hanging in golden frames, casted long surreal shadows, reminding me of creatures from old Russian fairy tales. Boris walked a little behind me, just like the magician walking through the spells and mystery. He was close enough that I could sense him, feel the warmth of his body. The man’s presence felt like the silent strong force beside me, steady, calm, something I could lean to after the chaos after the ballet nights, after the reporters and photographers, when the world was still covered with the music of the orchestra.

Surprisingly, when the whole day was filled with the whirlwind of emotions, never letting me relax for a second, when the heart was beating with the rhythm of ‘Giselle’ at Palais Garnier first, then with the song of Lucienne Delyle at the brasserie Lipp – now, in the stillness of the hotel corridor, everything settled down, letting my mind rest.

But my senses were still wide awake, especially now when Boris and I were passing the doors of the rooms silently. Oh, how I wished this evening to never end, how I wished it could linger a little longer just to feel the man’s presence a little longer. But then we stopped – it was my room.

My left hand tightened on the cold keys of the door, and I was afraid to look at the man straight away, because only by the look in his eyes could pull me into something inevitable, something deep and breathless, from which I wouldn’t be able to dive. The impresario turned slightly toward me, looking at me, but not with his usual look: restraint, cold, as if he measured every step I made during rehearsals. The look was not choreographed. It was different, unhidden behind his cold surface. As if he saw the ghost of Giselle inside me, lingering until the night would fall on us.

I wanted to say something, to ask him what was he thinking of when he looked at me like that. But my throat was dry and thoughts in my head began to sound louder with every second we were standing in the corridor in front of my room. Words didn’t come, but in that hush of the shadows I let the fingers of my right hand linger against his fingers a moment longer.

“Thank you”, I said quietly to my impresario when the voice came back, “For trusting me with Giselle”

“Giselle lived in you”, Boris replied confidently, “I only opened the door for her”

Our eyes met once again, our heartbeats hummed with the same rhythm for a second longer than prima and impresario could ever afford. But then the man said softly, with his sonorous velvet voice:

“Good night, Vasilisa”

“Good night”, I whispered and the man turned towards the corridor.

But just before I opened the door of my room with the key in my cold slightly shaking fingers – I felt Boris’ gaze on my back, which felt like the touch that never could be felt or the promise of what neither me nor my impresario were brave enough to name yet. Perhaps, we never would. But this sense was still there: unspoken, real, waiting patiently.

I closed the door gently behind me, like announcing a pause before the new act. I leaned on the door and let emotions cover my mind. What would happen the next day did not really matter for me at that moment: the world of the ballet was still asleep under the moon of Paris, the city which welcomed us. But for that night I wanted to remember every second of it, for as long as I could. For a brief moment the glimpse of Boris’ face appeared in my mind and I slowly opened my eyes, feeling how my heart began to beat faster.

Of course I would not forget how we held each other’s hands beneath the table cloth inside the brasserie, how close our hands had been on the walk on the streets of Paris. I would remember what did Boris Lermontov say to me when we were standing on Pont Alexandre-III, I would remember every moment of it. For the first time that memorable evening of the premiere it felt like all the lights weren’t for my dances. They were for Boris and me. For something what was blooming between us.

The song ‘Mon amant de Saint-Jean’ started to lay in my head once again, and for few minutes my hotel room transformed into the scene, where I danced silently. I closed my eyes, and let the moves flow over me, disappearing in the moonlight.

That night Boris and I silently promised one another to keep the space between the noise of the celebration and the uncertainty of our feelings which would grow more with every new day, with every new ballet, with every new rehearsal. And for him I would never dance and feel the same again.

“…Il ne m’aime plus

C’est du passé

N’en parlons plus…”

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[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 8. Suite From Ballet “Firebird”: 4 Berceuse (Lullaby) (Igor Stravinsky)

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The dream faded away the moment I opened my eyes and looked at the blue sky seen from windows of my hotel room; the whisper of the morning was quiet and tender. But my pulse remained restless as if something quiet rapid has ended – that night I had dreamt of him for the first time.

I turned on my back and looked at the ceiling, recalling glimpses of that surreal fantasy: it wasn’t romantic, like any other woman would dream, it was deeper and sadder in a way. I found myself in the depths of theatre, strange moaning whispers surrounded the space, creating scary feeling. As I moved slowly towards the light gleaming somewhere in the distance – Boris appeared, standing on the edge of the stage, and I felt how my hands began to tremble from the anticipation of reaching him.

The theatre was deserted, only the echoes of clapping audience and limelight a shining brilliant glow that only existed in dreams remained. My Russian impresario was wearing black tuxedo, his beautiful hands behind his back. He didn’t hear me, as my steps were soundless. But Boris turned to me, when only couple centimeters separated us, as if he’d always known I would come. I didn’t say anything, didn’t ask questions – in that dream we knew the answers and could read our souls, our lonely Russian souls we protected in real life.

Boris looked younger, the limelight created magical glow on his face, his grey-blue eyes shined brightly. He stepped even closer and took my hand, his fingers curled around mine softly, naturally, and I felt how my breath was slowing down. And the way he looked at me…Oh, the way he looked at me…This vivid image would remain in my mind forever. It was not passion or admiration, it was tender, as if he saw something inside me, something fragile that he wanted, finally, to hold and never let go.

But when we finally reached out to one another – the curtains flew up in a gust of the wind and the floor under our feet trembled. I turned as I heard a loud splash of waves behind me, and when I looked back – Boris was gone. It was the last thing I saw before the dream faded away and I woke up, still feeling impresario’s warm gaze and soft touch of his hand holding mine. We hadn’t kissed. But his presence and the feelings we shared in that fantasy seemed so real, that I wished I could close my eyes and return back to that magnificent space where we were standing together, as if it there was nothing more needed to be said or done. It was the sweet continuation after the curtains fell for the audience but not for Boris and me.

But the morning came. With the last rehearsal before the premiere of ‘Giselle’ in Palais Garnier – my first performance with Lermontov’s ballet company, with his company. For a moment I wondered if his hand would ever reach for mine the way it had in the dream. I wondered if we would ever be so close, behind the curtains, behind the world of the dance.

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First morning in Paris welcomed the company with the sunlight. It filled the breakfast room with white wooden walls, black sofas, small rounded tables with white tablecloth and greyish-purple curtains. Sounds of muffled voices, of spoons clattering and soft rustle of newspapers created particular suite of the morning. As I entered the room – I saw dancers sitting around tables, gathered almost in the center of the room, reading articles of newspapers which had been delivered earlier carefully, laughing lightly. Boris was seated at a corner table, near the wooden wall and the window, where the light was more discreet and accurate.

He was reading the newspaper as well, Le Figaro, cup of coffee beside him, untouched, the dimmed light from the window touched the edge of his dark blue jacket and grey pants. The hat was laying on the table, his cane was standing by it. I paused for a moment near the entrance, heart began to beat faster. Perhaps, it didn’t make sense for someone else why the heart acted so anxiously over the decision where to sit. But for me it was perfectly clear, especially after the dream. It was a dare. I sighed slowly and walked toward the impresario, counting every step. Boris didn’t look up immediately, but when I reached the table – his gaze lingered on me: not surprised, not protested, just the curiosity and the recognition – as if he’d been waiting for me to appear.

I dared to sit beside him and not across. Some dancers looked at us for a brief moment, but then they went back on reading Le Figaro.

“Good morning”, I said to Boris quietly, and asked the waiter who appeared in front of our table for a cup of coffee.

“Morning, Vasilisa”, impresario’s voice was concentrated, as he was reading the last words of an article. My name sounded somehow different in Paris. Like the city added the touch of softness to it.

Boris folded the newspaper, spreading it beside his plate, and my glance fell on the photograph: our entire company, in front of the theatre’s entrance in London. I found myself in the center, smiling, chin lifted by the instinct, Giselle’s tiara glittered faintly even in black and white print.

The vertical photograph of only Boris and me standing together decorated the article as well: the man stood behind me, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder, as if he wanted to protect me from the camera and the cruel world of critics, public, perhaps, even the world itself.

Une Nouvelle Étoile à Paris: Vassilissa Novinskaya

Arrivée à Paris avec la célèbre compagnie de ballet itinérante de Boris Lermontov, Vasilisa Novinskaya entre sous les projecteurs en tant que nouvelle danseuse étoile. Sa première apparition dans ‘Giselle’ promet un renouveau de hantise et de grâce — sa performance déjà décrite par les initiés comme “tempête sensible." Portant le diadème, mademoiselle Novinskaya, la petite-fille de la célèbre danseuse étoile russe Anastasia Novinskaya, apporte le sacrifice de puissance et la gloire. Un partenariat ressemblant à celui de danseuse étoile Anna Pavlova et imprésario Sergei Diaghilev-vont-ils monter ou descendre? Monsieur Lermontov, connu pour ses normes élevées et ses décisions sans compromis, a déclaré: "Vasilisa ne suit pas son héritage – elle crée le nouveau." Le public et les critiques attendent, retenant leur souffle et leurs crayons pointus.

(Arriving in Paris with the celebrated travelling ballet company of Boris Lermontov, Vasilisa Novinskaya steps into the spotlight as the new prima ballerina. Her first appearance in ‘Giselle’ promises a revival of haunting and grace — her performance already described by insiders as “sensitive storm.” Wearing the tiara, mademoiselle Novinskaya, the granddaughter of the famous Russian prima ballerina Anastasia Novinskaya, brings the power, sacrifice and glory. A partnership resembling that of prima Anna Pavlova and impresario Sergei Diaghilev — will they rise or fall? Monsieur Lermontov, known for his high standards and uncompromising decisions, said: “Vasilisa doesn’t follow her legacy — she creates the new one.” The public and critics are waiting, holding their breath and sharp pencils.)(*fr)

I’ve read an article carefully, hearing how the waiter poured hot coffee in my cup, the drink which I always needed as the first thing in the morning. My eyes fixed on those great names Boris mentioned the day before: Anna Pavlova and Sergei Diaghilev. I folded the paper in half and met the glance of my impresario, who looked at me as if nothing extraordinary had been written in an article and it was inevitably destined for us.

“They noticed the tiara”, he said with his regular cold voice, but his eyes sparkled lightly – he approved my deliberate move and enjoyed how the press paid attention to it.

“So did the dancers”, I glanced at our company, recalling how they went silent when they saw me coming down the stairs with Giselle’s tiara on my head.

Boris smirked:

“You chose it on purpose”

It wasn’t a question. It was a matter of fact. I continued our game of pretend and replied simply, as if I didn’t care at all, folding the newspaper again and replying coldly, maybe even selfishly:

“I did. I thought if I was going to be seen, I should be seen properly”

The dancers began to leave the breakfast room, silently nodding to Boris – the final rehearsal of ‘Giselle’ was planning to start at Palais Garnier in two hours. The man took a sip of his coffee, not looking at me.

“You were seen”, he said it very differently as I thought he was going to. As if he saw through my soul, and not as a praise from an impresario.

The silence fell, as we continued to sit in the room quietly, having breakfast, or pretending to have one. We were two Russian souls with the deep devotion of love to the ballet and the desire of being remembered as the greatest, never being tamed by anyone, holding the unbreakable discipline close. And yet when Boris’ fingers brushed the side of my cup as he reached for the sugar – I didn’t move. Neither did he. It was our mutual dare, mutual duel in the art that demanded perfection.

Outside the windows Paris was shining in the morning light, the cars and people were passing the square, being busy with their own small worlds of business and entertainment, love and illusions.

I took a sip of my coffee and looked at Boris, eyes lingering on his hands, which lighted up the cigarette. Curious how the newspaper called us ‘Anna Pavlova and Sergei Diaghilev’. The weight of such comparison fell on my shoulders and from now on I had to hold it strongly and not to let it slip. I bet Boris had to do the same.

“They compare you to Sergei Diaghilev now”, I smiled slightly, wishing only him to see my smile, and not the waiters and guests of the hotel.

The man exhaled the smoke of the cigarette and let out the barest breath of a laugh, finally looking at me and I felt how my heart skipped a beat.

“And you, to Anna Pavlova.”, he smiled and turned his eyes on the window and on the street of Paris. Perhaps, the public had read an article already when we were having our breakfast before entering Palais Garnier for the rehearsal.

“They’ll be watching us more from now on”, I said thoughtfully, meaning not only the premiers, my dances or my dresses. They would look at us.

“Let them”, Boris held his gaze on me for too long – just enough to know we’d both seen the same thing: what I meant to say and what we both found out what was hidden between the lines of an article.

My fingers twitched slightly, as if they were trying to reach for the man’s hand. Perhaps, both Boris and I were wondering whether that was the blessing or the curse. Inevitable turn towards something far more dangerous than the journalists’ imagination. We could tell things to each other without saying much, feel different senses without touching. We finished our breakfast in understood silence, side by side, in the quiet intimacy under the whispers of last quiet morning, in Paris, before everything would turn like pirouette.

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Three. Seven. Ace. Troika. Semyorka. Tuz* (Three. Seven. Ace (*rus). I’ve never forgotten the promise I made in front of his eyes. And I’ve never gone back on my words.

The rehearsal studio was empty – everyone had gone back to the hotel after the long-exhausted day of final rehearsal of ‘Giselle’ before the premiere in Palais Garnier the next evening, opening new ballet season for the company. But I stayed. My promise fueled my ego, my love of excitement, and my desire to be better than her, better than Victoria Page.

The calmness of the studio felt like the pressure, for one second the walls began to move towards me. The floor trembled under my legs, waiting for me to fall. The whispers and laughs echoed in the room, and the silhouette of Madame Antipova reflected in mirrors of the studio, but I couldn’t let my imagination and insecurities prevent my desire to show what I was capable of.

I put the basin with cold water, a towel, and an additional pair of knee socks and shoes on the floor and took couple of tables placing them around me: they were my help or my punishment if my turns were shifting slightly. I had to stay in one place, no matter what, I couldn’t let myself to slip up. As the pages of ‘The Queen of Spades’ were saying: to truly understand the game, one must master both the art and the science of probability. Perhaps, in some way, I was exactly like Hermann: calculation, moderation and diligence were my three sure cards. And I was ready to toss them.

The ribbons of pointe shoes were tied tightly around my legs and I stood in the center of the circle of chairs, taking a deep breath.

Three. Seven. Ace. Troika. Semyorka. Tuz* (Three. Seven. Ace (*rus).

One turn. Two turns. Three turns.

Everything around me disappeared.

Ten turns. Fifteen turns.

I held my breath, concentrated on the rhythm, the pulse in temples began to pound. I hit the back of one of the chairs when I made twenty third turn. It fell loudly on the floor, but I didn’t stop.

The ache in my toes began to scream when I reached twenty sixth turn. Cold invisible gaze of Madame Antipova burned my spine. “Again!”, her voice sounded like an unpleasant creak inside my ears and I hit the second chair. But I kept going.

Thirty turns. Three more. Just three more. One for the girl I once was when I entered the ballet academy. One for leaving my old life at British Rambert. One for everything what was waiting for me and for the person I would become.

Thirty-three turns.

I slipped slightly and exhaled my breath I’ve been holding for too long. My legs were screaming from pain, but it didn’t matter. Fouettés were not perfect. I wasn’t perfect and thank God Boris didn’t see me then. I was completely alone, cursed by the secret of three cards.

“Again, Vasilisa”, I said with the remains of my breath, placed the fallen chairs around me once again and returned to the center.

One turn. Two turns. Three turns.

‘The heart of a gambler is a restless one, always chasing the elusive victory, oblivious to the cost.’, as it was said in Alexander Pushkin’s ‘The Queen of Spades’.

Twenty-one turns. Twenty-two turns. Twenty-three turns.

It was true. I was the gambler in the game of the ballet. I chased the perfection, I never looked at the pain, never dared to step back.

Twenty-seven turns. Twenty-eight turns. Twenty-nine turns.

‘We are all but puppets in the hands of fate, dancing to the tune of destiny.’. Perhaps. But I wouldn’t mind that.

Thirty-one turns. Thirty-two turns. Thirty-tree turns.

I slipped once again when landing, but remained standing. Two chairs were laying on the floor as the evidence to continuation of practice. Pain in my legs screamed for pause, but I didn’t stop, I couldn’t stop. Not my career, but my character was at stake. It was forbidden to stop.

One turn. Two turns. Three turns.

I didn’t know how many attempts I’ve made that evening.

Twenty-one turns. Twenty-two turns. Twenty-three turns.

I was possessed by them and nothing else could stop me until I’d made all thirty-three turns perfectly clear.

Thirty-one turns. Thirty-two turns. Thirty-three turns.

I must be better than Victoria Page. I must be better than Victoria Page. I must be better than Victoria Page. – those words were throbbing in my head with every fouettés I’ve made.

“Again!”, I said to myself, hoarse voice sounded like a loud crack in the studio.

One turn. Two turns. Three turns.

The pain in legs was unbearable, but my mind was somewhere far away, possessed by the desire. One chair fell on the floor.

Twenty turns. Twenty-five turns.

Troika. Semyorka. Tuz* (Three. Seven. Ace (*rus).

Thirty-one turns. Thirty-two turns. Thirty-three turns.

I landed. Not perfectly or flawlessly, but I landed, exhaling my hoarse breath through teeth. And this time only one chair was on the floor. But it still wasn’t enough and still the voice of Madame Antipova was whispering something inside my mind. The sweat was dropping from my forehead and my spine, the electrifying tension filled my legs. I sat on the chair beside the basin with cold water and accurately took of the pointes. My toes were bleeding again, the same way they did during lessons with Madame Antipova. This time the pain was unbearable, the bandages stuck to the blood, which made me want to cry from the pain with every passing moment as I tried to peel them off my fingers. But I couldn’t afford tears when my reflection was looking at me from the mirrors of the studio.

Suddenly, it felt like I was not alone in the room. I turned my head to the corner near the entrance: Boris was sitting on the chair, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, a cane in one hand, like a conductor’s baton. His hat tilted forward slightly, hiding his eyes, but I could feel he was watching me. Measuring me with his unspoken words, with his curiosity, with our smiles, quiet glances and touches of our fingers in silence, when no one was watching. I never saw how he entered the room; I was so possessed with the desire to make perfect 33 fouettés that I never saw anything around me. But when I saw him in the studio, right after my successful attempt my heart began to beat insanely fast: I wanted him there, to see it, after I proved to myself in the silence of the Paris’ studio that I was capable of doing it.

And there he was. I remained sitting on the chair, my toes in the basin with the cold calming water, they ached badly, yet I was trembling inside because of electrifyingly curse of what I’d just done. The man slowly stood from his chair and walked across the studio, tapping the cane lightly on the floor, like the rhythm only two of us could follow without slipping out. Boris stood in front of me, lingering his gaze on my bleeding toes then on me.

Was it my imagination, or did I see the worry in his eyes?

“You shouldn’t have done that many fouettés today, Vasilisa”, his voice wasn’t angry, of course it wasn’t. Just slightly aware. He always called me ‘Vasilisa’, never ‘Vasya’, like the obligatory which held us back from everything we could be to each other.

I looked at him, couple of strands fell on my sweating forehead, and smiled faintly, exhaling some kind of a laugh, replying with my hoarse voice:

“Would you have stopped me, Boris?”

Impresario didn’t answer. He looked at me as if he had just witnessed something dangerous and inevitable, like the gambling game which went out of control, like the wound-up mechanism which couldn’t be stopped.

I looked back at my toes in the basin, the evidence of hard work and strive for the perfection. I began to dry them with the towel, putting on socks and shoes I brought with me. Pointe shoes would be cleaned in the upcoming night, when Paris would fall asleep.

Boris took one of the fallen chairs and sat beside me and I held my breath for one second. When I glanced back at my impresario – our eyes met. He looked at me with these impossibly deep grey-blue eyes, in which I wanted to sink. The small warm flame in them was burning into familiar restraint.

“You were made for more than the stage, Vasilisa”

The man said these words so quietly that I thought I imagined them and I almost dropped the towel into the bloody water of the basin, because they took me aback. How much those words held and how warmly they were pronounced, it was too hard to believe Boris Lermontov was saying such things to me. Not my babushka, but him. The impresario, who everyone called the great and terrible.

The air between us shifted, for a second it felt like the small breeze filled the studio, though the windows were closed, shivers ran down my spine because of the intimacy.

“I don’t know who I am without the stage, Boris”, I replied dryly, as if I said it only to myself.

“You will always be yourself”, he continued quietly but confidently, my ears began to burn slightly with every word he almost whispered, “Even when you will think the role will become your possession. Even when the curtains will fall, even when you will be all alone…”

The man paused suddenly, looking at me. Goodness, his eyes said so much: like I was something unique, something he didn’t know he would find in his personal chaotic world of the ballet. And now that he accidentally discovered me – he couldn’t let it go.

The electrifying silence fell on figures of prima and her impresario, just like the ghosts which were trying to drag us to the darkness of their mysterious world. Everything disappeared, only my heavy breath from fouettés and the weight of impresario’s words remained. It was too much for that evening, yet it wasn’t enough for everything that had been unspoken between me and Boris.

I turned toward the mirrors, never trusting what I could tell him if only I dared to. But in reflection I followed his hand with my gaze as it lifted, hesitated for a moment, as it was afraid to get burned, and gently touched my shoulder. Lightly, like the feather or the sea breeze. I froze in my posture and didn’t turn around to my impresario. He didn’t take his soft hand away. And by the glance on our reflections in the mirror I asked myself a question: what was it like to live in the wonderland, in the other side of the mirror. What could we be to one another?

“Don’t lose yourself, Vasilisa”, Boris said calmly, the notes of worry could be heard in his quiet, always confident voice.

But I already had lost myself. To his ballet company, to him. That day during the last rehearsal of ‘Giselle’ I danced for myself, that evening I practiced fouettés for myself. But also, for him. Always for Boris Lermontov. And sitting there, in the empty studio, close enough to feel his breath and to reach for his hand which was resting on my shoulder I realized something dangerous and overwhelming: I didn’t want to be saved from it. I wanted to lose myself even more.

“The Queen of Spades takes what she needs.”, the man said quietly, as if he was saying it to himself, but cold shivers ran down my spine and filled my veins right when I heard them.

Three…Seven…Ace…

“Then I’ll give her everything I have. I won’t lose the game.”, I answered without hesitation, with cold voice, yet I was still trembling from the pressure and pain of my toes.

His face in the reflection of the mirror reminded me of a statue – nameless elegant figure with the hidden past, lost somewhere in space between the art and the senses, frozen between two fires. I wanted to froze with him, to remain like that forever, in the glimpses of desire and the ballet. But I couldn’t. Neither could he.

“I should go”, I whispered, my heart aching from the desire to stay with Boris in that quiet cold rehearsal studio, surrounded by chairs and mirrors as if they were guarding us.

We stood up together, my hands were holding the basin and bloody pointes which I had to clean later, Boris’ hand was still on my shoulder. But we didn’t move further, just lingered in that moment of uncertainty.

“Vasilisa…”, the man whispered, but I heard him and turned, meeting his grey-blue beautiful eyes, which in that moment were as dark as the night.

The impresario looked as though he wanted to say something else: not about Paris, not about rehearsal, not about librettos for ‘Giselle’ he found recently, not about the ballet. But Boris just nodded. He put the cane down and for a moment I thought, I hoped, that his other hand would reach for mine, the one which was holding my pointes.

But he didn’t. Boris said enough for that evening, without even finishing the sentence. I understood him and I would carry his quiet whisper of my name for the rest of the night. But what was he thinking about at that time? It remained the secret for me which I wish I could figure out. But I saw his face that evening, after I made 33 fouettés: he had seen me. Not just as the prima of his company. But just me. The woman beneath the cold surface of control, discipline and stubborn character.

I left the studio the terrifying thought occurred to me like the spell of the Queen of Spades: if I was ever going to stumble and fall ­– let it be toward my impresario. And only three words were now in circling in my head like the mad curse to the exclusion of everything else: Vasilisa. Boris. The Ballet.

______________________________________________________________

Third person point of view

“Again, Vasilisa”, Boris heard her voice from the empty studio when he was walking in the empty corridor, towards the exit through the backdoors of Palais Garnier. It was the last evening before the premiere of ‘Giselle’, before Vasilisa’s first appearance as the prima of the ballet company of Russian impresario, as his protégé, as the newspapers were now saying, as his…love?

Boris never liked this word, because he never felt it, and of course he was jealous of people falling in love, and he knew it perfectly well. But ‘love’ appeared in his mind more and more often with every new day they spent together with Vasilisa during rehearsals, when they glanced at each other, in silence, which was holding so much they hoped to tell each other when the time would come.

Dim lighting of the corridor hided the man from being seen as he lingered in the doorway, his eyes followed Vasilisa, as she stood in the middle of the studio, surrounded by wooden chairs, her back on the impresario. She didn’t see him, as the woman was concentrated on her next moves. Her ponytail was pulled tight, though a little disheveled, few strands of hair fell on her forehead. The faint marks on the floor from her pointe shoes gleamed with yellow light of the lanterns from the street. Such marks were the story of repetition, passion and dedication.

“Is she making fouettés?”, the question flashed through impresario’s mind. For a second, he thought she could hear him. But Vasilisa just sighed loudly, rose her arms, and began to turn. Carefully at first, but with every turn it was becoming more confident, like she was taming them.

There was something reverent, even sacred in this procession. She was ready to conquer her promise, quietly, when no one was watching, and that’s what stricken the impresario the most. Vasilisa didn’t do it to impress him, show off, she was dancing for herself, not for everyone, not for approval or applause which would come with the ballets he would make for her.

His free hand twitched when ballerina stumbled after landing. He almost stepped forward, wanting to reach her and prevent the fall, holding his breath for a second. But Vasilisa caught herself, found the center, said “Again!” with her hoarse voice, the voice Boris had noticed she had during hard rehearsals, and began turning again, floating with the stiff air of the room.

Impresario’s eyes were looking at how woman’s silhouette turned gracefully, her arms unraveled like the swan flapped its wings, legs struck soundless rhythm with clear precision. He caught her eyes once in the reflection of the mirror – they were distant, as if she was somewhere else, somewhere deep inside her, where no one could see her.

Boris didn’t remember how when he held his breath: he had seen thousands of dancers, great dancers. But now, when he saw Vasilisa for the first time, when she danced Odette – he realized there was something else, not only the perfection, or, not the perfection at all. It was the strive, it was the grace, the taming of the defiance, the stubbornness, wrapped into discipline and the depth of the strong character.

Boris had built his life on particular vision, undoubtful discipline, strict control, obedience and denial of human feelings towards the art of the ballet. But when he was standing there, behind the shadows of the Paris’ evening, in the entrance of the rehearsal studio, watching Vasilisa silently turning towards her promise, denying pain and exhaustion – he realized that she was the exception. She had already begun to create her story where impresario could play a small part, as he thought so.

He stepped silently into the room then, quietly, as if not to break the fragile sense ballerina was holding around herself, and sat on the chair near the entrance, never leaving his glace off her. It surprised him how this mysterious ballerina, half-English and half-Russian, captivated him silently, without abrupted moves, without ignorance like the other ballerinas tried to – Vasilisa held her grace and manners silently, yet her character was a mystery and that’s what charmed impresario.

When prima finally saw the man – she didn’t smile, she never did when she was focused, but her expression softened, her eyes began to shine with the fire of excitement as if the woman wanted to say “You saw that, didn’t you, Boris?”

And in that moment, when he approached her, with every new quiet step he made towards Vasilisa Novinskaya, it became clear to him – he wasn’t just her impresario. Not in those rehearsing hours, not in those premiers they were going to have, not those mornings and evenings surrounded by dancers and the public. He wasn’t the great and terrible Boris Lermontov for her. He was a man watching a woman becoming something he’d spent his whole life chasing everywhere – in the shadows, in the backstage, in silent lonely rides back to hotel rooms, in those praises of critics and the public, in the discipline – and never touched it.

When the man sat beside his protégé – she finally looked at him with her captivating grey-green eyes– he felt something sharp in his chest: perhaps, it was the pride in her. And fear. Fear for both of them, because he suspected to where they were inevitably dancing with the rhythm only they could hear.

Impresario lost the game of cards to his Queen of Spades. He only wished Vasilisa could read it in his eyes as she always understood him without words. Boris looked at the ballerina with his deep but sad look wishing her to understand what she had done to him – what it meant to finally found the beauty and love in the madness of the ballet he didn’t know he was chasing.

Three. Seven. Ace, Troika. Semyorka. Tuz.* (Three. Seven. Ace (*rus) Vasilisa. Boris. The Ballet.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

🩰 'Serpent dance' masterlist 🩰

[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 7. Nocturne in D-flat major, Op. 37 No. 1 (Alexander Glazunov)

note: Date of the release of the song ‘Hymne à l'amour’ was changed, to match the story

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Couple of reporters were at Victoria station – the word about new prima of Boris Lermontov’s travel ballet company spread as fast as fouettés. For a second, I wondered if Paris Gare du Nord would be filled with reporters even more. Of course it would and I had to be ready to meet them.

“Always keep your head high, my dear, especially around those little sneaky flies on the wall”, babushka nodded at reporters, when we were standing near carriage door, my luggage was already loaded inside, “Never let them crawl inside your feelings”.

She knew what it was like – to be surrounded by the reporters or general public, she came through the same experience when she was the prima at Mariiknsky Theatre in Saint Petersburg. She warned me, but she knew my character: I never opened my feelings to anyone, there was no one I could trust and show my soul, I was always hiding feelings behind cold look.

The train left out the soft steam, white clouds curled around the edges of the platform like mysterious breath of the dragon or the appearance of the ghosts of the past. It brought me back to reality, throwing me back to the chaos of the Victoria station. For a second everything began to suffocate me and the darkness filled my eyes, but the second my grandmother took my gloved hands in hers, touching my wrists softly – the weakness evaporated in the smoke of the train, and its whistle was already inviting passengers to board.

Is it time already?

I looked into blue-green eyes of babushka: they were so worm and caring. She was wearing her green trench coat with wool red turtleneck and tweed skirt; her small brimmed hat was decorated with veil. Of course the time made her older, but never less graceful and sharp as she always was.

“Your grace and tenderness belong only to the audience and to your most loved ones”, she whispered in my ear, when we hugged each other tightly, “You’ve always been the fire, my dear child. But even the fire needs something, or someone, who doesn’t fear its heat and can come through it.”

Her glance quickly fell on someone who was standing behind us, sparkles ignited in her eyes and she looked back at me, saying quietly: “And he’s not afraid of it”

I slowly turned my head back where my grandmother looked: Boris was standing near the entrance of the Night Ferry’s compartment, a book with notes in one hand, the coat in another, and for a slight moment he looked much younger than he actually was. Did my grandmother find something in him that I didn’t see? Something familiar, perhaps, the same deep Russian soul or maybe something else? I never asked her that question but by the look in her eyes I realized that she liked him, despite what everyone was saying about him and his unbearable stubborn character. Both babushka and I were the same kind. We could see if the person was good or bad despite what people talked about them.

“He sees you, Vasya. And he doesn’t look away like the others”, grandmother’s voice sounded somewhere far away as I watched Boris disappeared inside the train.

I turned back to the woman and smiled though there was a thick feeling in my throat which made it hard to swallow. Something was telling me that our lives would inevitably change from the moment when the train would leave the station and nothing could be done to stop it. Hers, mine and, perhaps my impresario’s.

“Good luck, Vasya”, babushka kissed me gently in the cheek and lifted her hand to it for a moment before the whistle of the train filled my ears and conductor waved aboard.

“I’ll call and write whenever I can”, I gave her a hug and climbed into the train, waving to her, to the woman who raised me and believed in my success, in my love to the ballet as she was once a big part of it, she never left it, and it never faded out of her heart. She wished me everything in the world and made me who I was. I promised myself to make her proud no matter how hard it would be.

The train sped further and further away, my grandmother was becoming smaller and smaller, and I was carried away faster and faster into my new ballet life, in which there was no place for unnecessary sentimentality, love and worries. Only then I glanced down the corridor – and saw Boris watching me, silently, hands still holding the notebook and trench coat. I didn’t look away, neither did he. And on that moment, I realized that my grandmother was right – he was not afraid, neither was he looking away. And I wished he never did.

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The cabin of the Night Ferry was small, but quietly elegant, with dark wood paneling, a vase of white carnations was on the corner of the wooden table, filling the cabin with sweet scent. Soft seats had dark-green finishing, a narrow window framed the London’s evening, where the moon was shining mysteriously in the sky.

Lida and I shared the cabin and when I entered the space and placed my bag carefully in the corner on a leather duffel – she already put the record on the portable gramophone she took with her and Glenn Miller’s ‘In the Mood’ began to burst out, filling in the air with joyful anticipation of the exciting voyage.

“Can you believe we’re going to Paris with ‘Giselle’?”, she smiled at me, putting the book she was reading aside, “Performing this ballet in Paris was the dream of mine, and you finally made it happen, Vasya”

I sat in front of her, taking off my hat and gloves: “We made it happen, Lida”

“Of course, but I think if Boris didn’t find you – it would remain only as my dream, it was not in his plans before Vicky left”, Lida said thoughtfully, continuing to read.

Her name came back once again. But then the look of Boris’ eyes on me during rehearsals of ‘Giselle’ appeared in my mind, as if saying to me “Victoria’s long gone.” She was the legacy of his ballet, she was the story, but it was left behind like the scent of the perfume and sweat in the rehearsal rooms.

I leaned my head on the wooden wall, looking at the darkness of the late evening outside the Night Ferry. The lamplight of the cabin was soft, casting golden halos over the walls, like something sacred was approaching.

“Boris never looked at Victoria the way he looks at you, Vasya”, Lida’s voice was gentle, like the warm smoke from a cup of tea with bergamot, “It feels like he’s watching something he can’t afford to lose, something he’s already afraid to miss and never bring back”

My heart dropped gradually. I met woman’s gaze, but her eyes were saying that she’s seen it.

“Anyone can see it”, Lida said calmly, if it was the matter of simple fact.

The record stopped and now only soft cracking sound remained in the cabin. Without saying a word, the woman put new record inside the player and the captivating song of Édith Piaf ‘La vie en rose’ smoothly filled the space, letting my heart beat even louder in unison with the rhythm of the melody.

______________________________________________________________

I couldn’t sleep that night. After the long day of photographing, of last preparations for the trip, I still couldn’t close my eyes, and especially not after Lida’s words about Boris Lermontov. I was just lying under the blanket, looking at the ceiling and listening to the stillness and whispers of the Night Ferry. My thoughts and anxiety were too loud to let me sleep.

Grandmother’s last words, especially her words about my impresario felt like gentle whisper of the fairytale. Of course it touched my senses deeply, of course her words woke surreal feeling inside me of something that I couldn’t name out loud and couldn’t still believe. What a mysterious and complicated man he was. With every new day that I spent with him in his ballet company – he wasn’t becoming clearer at all. Perhaps, I wasn’t clear to him either, even though our glances always found each other, full of understanding and maybe even tenderness.

I couldn't lay sleepless any longer with the swarm of thoughts in my head and stood up from the sleeping seat, put the bathrobe and slippers on and slipped out into the narrow corridor, hoping it would quiet my mind. The corridor was empty and dark, only the faint light from the dimmed lamps illuminated it. Even in the stillness of the night grandmother’s voice from the platform could be heard. Paris was still somewhere far away, wrapped in night’s fog.

I walked towards the window and leaned my forehead against the cold surface, catching my reflection, which was like a ghost of Odette in ‘Swan Lake’, when just like the mist, memories from the past crawled slowly to me, like the ache. The corridor of the train disappeared and I found myself in the rehearsal hall of the academy where I studied, when was a child. I recalled my first ballet teacher, Madame Antipova, who looked at us like a merciless hawk, walking with her cane tapping on the floor like a metronome for suffering.

“Again!”, she would say, glancing sharply at us.

And I did again, and again, even when my muscles screamed from pain. My toes bled quite often – crimson reminder that beauty and grace of the ballet demanded sacrifice. The other girls cried sometimes, during rehearsals, especially when Madame Antipova harshly chastised them for a tiny mistake, so tiny, that might have been unnoticeable to an ordinary person, but her sharp eyes saw everything. I never did. I saved my tears for later, when they poured silently under the blanket in the dormitory. My pride which I inherited mostly from Anastasia Nikolaevna wouldn’t let me show my emotions in front of everybody, no matter how painful it was, either poisoned words of Madame Antipova or endless exercises of fouettés, pliés and arabesques.

I doubted Madame Antipova believed in me. Perhaps, she didn’t believe in anyone from my class. But especially then I knew I would never stop until would become prima ballerina. For me ballet was the matter of family’s dynasty, it was my life, it was the only way when I felt myself whole. It was unforgivable if I’d give up and fail.

I slowly closed my eyes, morphing into the quietness of the night corridor of the train, memories from years in the academy were slowly fading away. How long ago that was, now I was 28, my spine was straight, legs strong, eyes lifted towards the possibility of everything.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”, the soft voice, undoubtedly his voice, asked me calmly.

I opened my eyes and looked at Boris: he stood a few steps away from me, wearing only his blue cotton shirt with a wool tie and brown pants, small scarf on his neck loosened, a book in one hand, another hand – inside the pocket of trousers, few strands of hair fell over his forehead. He looked younger, his grey-blue eyes were darker, deeper, the dimness of light of the wall lamps reflected in them.

I shook my head:

“Too many thoughts in my head”, I replied softly, leaning against the wall once again, holding impresario’s gaze, not sure about what I was waiting for.

For few seconds we stood there without saying anything: there was something extraordinary and intimate in the way of how silence found us. And it belonged only to Boris and me, still hiding words we were afraid to say out loud.

“About leaving London?”, his question wasn’t mocking me, it was a pure curiosity. How he changed from the first day we met, and I realized it only there, in the dark corridor of the Night Ferry, which reminded me so much of the theatre wings: same quietness and anticipation of the next performance. Boris made few steps closer to me, and the silence began to pulse between us like the music we began to conduct.

“About everything”, my reply was quiet, but he heard it, lingering his gaze on me and for a second I caught myself thinking how I wanted to reach my hand and touch the strands of his hair.

“I was about to make some tea”, the man said after a pause with his gentle voice, completely the opposite from how he sounded in the daylight with the demand, harshness and cold notes, “Would you like to join me? Perhaps, it would calm down your thoughts”

It wasn’t a command, neither it was a formality. It was a simplicity. His grey-blue deep warm eyes were still on me. With every new close encounter between us his look was becoming softer and more caring. In front of everyone else in the ballet company we were prima ballerina and impresario, but when there were only two of us – we were becoming something deeper. And we were afraid to tell even to ourselves what it was.

“I’d love it”, I glanced at him and nodded.

With his free hand Boris invited me to walk a little further down the silent narrow corridor, and as we made those accurate steps on the carpet, walking side by side – our hands nearly brushed, and the warmth of him lingered on me longer than I allowed myself to feel it.

Perhaps, I wouldn’t close my eyes that night, despite the fact that I’ve been up from early morning. The sleep would come, but not in the Night Ferry, not when I’d sit across from my impresario, alone, and only the silence which was hiding the truth between us would stand between me and Boris Lermontov.

His private compartment was dimmed with the light of small lamps near the window, catching on the polished wood. The space smelled of bergamot, paper and orange – the tea in the kettle, sketches in his notebook and the note of his perfume. Such small things I started to associate only with him, wondering if he had particular smells that reminded him of me.

I sat on the soft seat in front of him, straightening my night robe, looking at the man: Boris moved with the same deliberate attitude as he always had, pulling the kettle closer and pouring the water with delicate care.

“Lemon?”, he asked

“Yes, please”, our glances met and the man smiled warmly, the light from the lamps reflected in his grey-blue eyes like quiet flames.

At first neither of us said much, it felt like we wanted to talk about everything but didn’t know where to begin, thoughts were circling in the head just like the spoon was stirring in the tea cup.

Then it flowed naturally, just like the spring: we talked about ‘Giselle’, Boris showed me the book he found in the depths of the theatre, containing early ballet librettos from 1844, then Paris appeared in our dialogue. Indeed, we talked about everything. Coldness and professionalism were left in the lights of the day, we didn’t carry habitual restraint, that night inside the cabin the distance we kept between us in the daylight by choice, by discipline, by egoism and fear narrowed down.

The talks became quieter, as if even our words wanted us to finally rest, at least for the remnants of the night. I leaned slightly on the back of the seat, listening to Boris’ soothing voice, feeling how the warmth of the tea and Lermontov’s presence – calm and steady – lulled me into the softness and tenderness, without being afraid to disturb the space between me and the impresario.

He said something to me then, but his voice transformed into the smooth whisper of quiet Night Ferry, uniting with my own thoughts, creating unique pattern. I nodded to the man, or I thought I did – my eyelids were getting heavier, sweetness of the dream and my tiredness crawled to me, like the spirit. I let my head rest against the paneled wall, not realizing how I closed my eyes. The silence finally arrived and I breathed slowly, clinging on the quiet soft voice of my Russian companion, which was in the air of that still night.

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I opened my eyes abruptly, as if I felt a sudden jolt, and a loud sound rang in my ears. For a moment I didn’t know where I was and felt unexplainable fear of something unknown. But my senses came back to me: it was the same quiet compartment of my impresario, it was the same comforting light from the lamps on the wall, it was the same cozy seat, the same smell of the wood, bergamot and his cologne.

My eyes finally saw Boris, the residual haze of sleep finally disappeared. He didn’t know I was awake: he was still sitting across from me, his posture was at ease, though thoughtful, hands, his beautiful hands resting on sleeves, head slightly tilted as if he was listening to his own mind accurately. There was something sacred about watching him like this – unguarded, alone with his thoughts. The dimmed light from the lamps lingered on man’s face, highlighting his features for me to discover.

His face, always concentrated during rehearsals in the daylight, at that moment was carrying particular softness I’ve never seen before. Features had smoothed, though captivating grey-blue eyes remained thoughtful. In corners of his mouth a faint smile could be seen. With every moment I looked closely on his face – to my fear of what I began to think – I found him beautiful. Not harsh, not egoistic, not distant and cold, but beautiful. It was the particular beauty of a man with elegance shaped by restraint and discipline, remaining in the shadows and mystery, aching deeply for someone to solve it out.

Yet I feared my own thoughts and senses I began to feel towards Boris since the moment we first met. How natural it was – to feel his presence and adoring it, to feel that I truly belonged to be near him, silently, through the long hours of day and night, without questioning my heart. It’s been known all along, though it remained silent for the long time. I wanted to stay like this forever. With him, close, in the moment stopped just for the two of us. I trusted him. More than anyone. More than I had ever allowed myself to ever trust someone.

Then he turned his head to me. Our eyes met. That look. That softened look when he realized that I saw him, that I looked at him.

“You awake”, it sounded as the soft matter of fact more than a question, small smile could be seen on his face.

Only then I realized that Boris put a woolen blanket on me and it felt like a warm hug which had been needed for a long time.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep”, I said with hoarseness in my voice, feeling the flush rising on my cheeks.

“You don’t need to apologies, Vasilisa”, man’s voice was low, tender and respectful, “We all need to have some sleep before new act”

The stillness of the night enveloped us once again, just like it was never interrupted by my sleep. It felt like I was still dreaming and never wanted this moment to fade away. And maybe neither was he.

“Giselle will live again in Paris…”, he said quietly, as if he was afraid to break the spell between us, “The city is waiting for her resurrection”

“And what will happen after?” I asked and regretted it immediately. But, perhaps, that night was made for saying things which the heart was whispering, things which couldn’t be said in the chaos of the daylight.

His gaze locked on mine, carrying a promise and the ache. It was searching something in my glance: the soul, hidden behind the icy-cold look, the breath that was never fully exhaled.

“Afterward new story will be told”, he said after a pause, “There are things which we haven’t dared to say yet”

With every minute the distance between us was vanishing, yet we still were hiding things we hadn’t dared to say yet inside our façade. Shivers ran down my spine, like cold drops of water. I clutched a piece of woolen blanket in my hand and said quietly:

“I should go back to my compartment”, though I didn’t mean it.

The man nodded and we stood up. I folded the blanket and put in on the seat and before I reached the door – I felt his hand on my shoulder. Exactly the same way when photographer took picture of only two of us for the article that same day. This time it wasn’t for the photograph. It was natural, soft, like the feather or the warm wind from the ocean.

I turned to Boris; our eyes found one another in the dimmed soft light from the lamps on the wall, his hand was still on my shoulder. He wasn’t asking for anything, but he wasn’t turning away either. The tenderness remained in his look, though was trying to hide under the discipline and rules of the ballet.

“I suppose we’ll see more of each other”, my quiet voice remained a little hoarse, and I clenched my right fist, realizing what I’ve said.

How ridiculously it sounded. We were indeed going to see each other more: in Paris, in rehearsals, dinners, ballet premiers; we would exist side by side for God knows how long in that whirlwind. But I asked it anyways, just to say anything to let me be with my impresario for a little longer.

“I wouldn’t mind”, he whispered.

I gave him a faint smile, not knowing what to do or what to reply. I turned and opened the door of the compartment, letting the air of the rest of the world inside, as the reminder that we were not in dreams anymore. I glanced at the man one more time, fearing that if he would only ask me to stay – I wouldn’t refuse.

“Good night, Boris”

The sense of his warm smile and his grey-blue eyes settle inside me like a secret I would carry with me all the way to Paris.

“Good night, Vasilisa”

And with his tender voice inside my heart, I stepped out in the quiet corridor of the Night Ferry, Boris’ warm gaze was still on my back, and the echo of his presence wrapped around me.

As I opened the door to my compartment, where Lida dreamed quietly, I felt the thrust, not the sudden thrust of the train, but the one between me and Boris, narrowing the distance between us drastically. Inevitably we began to run to each other like two trains moving with great speed towards one another on the rails.

I slipped under the blanket and began to look at the ceiling. The presence of my impresario was still in the air, covering me like the soft velvet. I sighed and closed my eyes, letting myself to have the remains of sleep. Paris waited for me, as well as Giselle and new ballets to perform, but only Boris Lermontov lingered in my thoughts, in the quietness of the Night Ferry.

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The Night Ferry was approaching the Paris Gare du Nord slowly, letting the dancers and crew prepare for what was waiting for us in Paris. I was standing in the train’s corridor, small suitcase in my hand, back in my travel clothes, back into the light of the day brushing off the ghosts of the previous night, even though they were warming me up. But the mask of coldness and professionalism was already on me as I was looking through the curtains of the windows, meeting the sunlight of Paris.

The smell of dancers’ perfumes filled in the corridor as they were making the last touches of their appearances – reporters would look at us trying to find imperfectness in any detail and we couldn’t give them such a satisfaction.

The door of his compartment clicked and opened and Boris appeared in the corridor, in his travelling suit, hat and sunglasses on – perhaps, to hide from the annoying reporters and photographers. He didn’t like them. Neither did I. Of course he remembered the previous night, of course, as well as I, he stood behind the façade of professionalism and strictness again in the light of the day.

He turned to me and nodded briefly, pausing for a second before approaching me:

“Try to stay close to me when we arrive”, he said, looking outside the window curtains, “The station will be a chaos. Reporters, photographers, cameras. They’re waiting for us.”

The man didn’t look at me, though I felt the tension and his restraint. I simply nodded, my throat ached with something sour and dry. Of course, we both know that we had to pretend once again. For others and for ourselves. And as the train went slower and slower, when Boris and I, were approaching the exit to the Paris’ morning – we knew that our private ballet performance was about to begin.

The air in the city was completely different from London’s – more elegant and alive. I stepped off the train and the swarm of camera flashes blinded me: I had no idea there would be the whole squadron of photographers and reporters on the station. Their voices shouted the names, asked for our smiles and postures, transforming into the buzz of bees.

“Mademoiselle Novinskaya, can we have just one picture, s’il vous plait!”

I smiled and lifted my chin slightly, recalling Giselle’s tiara on my head. I mustn’t let it slip, not under their cunning eyes.

Reporters made it hard to leave the train, not talking about leaving the station. For a second I wondered how could I stay close to my impresario in all that chaos that surrounded the company, when I felt how his fingers found my hand, and his palm closed over mine, with delicate purpose. He didn’t look at me, but his gesture which gently guided my hand away from the crowd whispered: I’m here, and I won’t let you go. Follow me.

And I did, without hesitation. I didn’t care what others would think about it. All I cared about was that I’ve been led by someone whom I could trust, whom I, maybe, could even love, no matter how bizarre that thought was.

Boris didn’t smile at the reporters, who shouted our names, nor he spoke to them. He simply walked through them, my hand in his, cutting through their noise with invisible blades. And they moved aside, clearing our way through to the exit. He always had that invisible strong power above everyone.

He didn’t let go my hand as we walked, weaving through the eager eyes of the press and the flashbulbs. His grip was confident, though it was soft. Babushka’s words at Victoria train station echoed in my head once again, over the shouts of reporters: he’s not afraid. He sees you, Vasya.

The white car had been waiting outside Paris Gare du Nord, like the secret. The driver opened the door for us and I slid inside, and Boris followed, letting go my hand and placing it low at my back long enough to help me in and make the whole world fall silent for a moment. Only then I realized how long and tightly I had been holding my breath. The door closed behind him with a soft sound, like the barrier dropped between the world outside and us, just like the night in impresario’s compartment. The driver pulled away smoothly, leaving the chaos of the arrival behind, though memories about the reporters at the station, his hand confidently holding mine, how my impresario guided me through it all flashed in my head like flashbulbs, but in that quietness inside the car they sounded muffled.

Boris and I didn’t speak, though we didn’t need to. I found his profile turned toward the window in the reflection, his hand rested on the seat close to mine, not touching it, but close enough. And if I moved half a centimeter – our fingers would brush once again. But I didn’t move, neither did he.

My heart, exhausted but still wide awake was beating loudly inside. I wanted to lean on impresario’s shoulder, to close my eyes and forget that we had to support strict regulations of the company: art above human feelings. For a moment I wanted to take back what I voluntarily sacrificed to be prima, to take back what I’d never experienced before: to be loved by someone dear and give all my tender love to him, my body was aching for it desperately. I wanted to close the distance between us once and for all, no matter what others would think.

But I never dared. Neither did Boris. For us the awareness of one’s close presence was enough for that time.

We knew we were pretending, as both of us could feel the electrifying tension between us, we were pretending we hadn’t seen each other last night in the silent corridor, we hadn’t spent the night talking to each other, his hand wasn’t on my shoulder, Boris’ warm glance wasn’t on me, the distance between us didn’t crack. It was bright new day, filled with the curious public and we had to hide our secret desires until the night would approach, revealing the souls we lied we didn’t have.

Yet I could still feel the warmth of him, that shift in the air between me and Boris, even if it was slight and almost invisible.

I looked out the window, not really paying attention to Paris’ morning the car was driving through. All I could think about was the glimpses of the night and how that delicate silence came back to us, coming all the way from London. I could feel the warmth of him, the subtle shift in the air whenever he adjusted his posture — even slightly. A quiet magnetism pulling me closer, though we said nothing. I could feel the warmth of him, the subtle shift in the air whenever he adjusted his posture — even slightly. A quiet magnetism pulling me closer, though we said nothing.

“You handled the reporters very well”, were Boris’ first words after the long pause.

This “very well” again. But this time his words were hiding deeper meaning, understandable to only two of us. I gave a small smile, never looking back at my impresario:

“I’ll handle other things as well”, my reply was cold as I wanted to truly bring his attention to me, saying “Please, don’t let me go. Not just yet. Or I will break”

“I know you will, Vasilisa”, Boris’ reply was dry, and I saw how his fingers twitched slightly on the leather seat. How I desperately wanted to reach for them, how my heart began to ache, how my mind began to scream.

The man turned to me, as if he heard my silent screaming, our glances met once again, ruining the cold façade. Without further words our fingers found each other, brushing lightly, as if the car made a turn, bringing us together again. But then I put my hand away, placing it on my lap, he put away his hand. We returned back to reality, but the electricity between Boris and me remained in the air. We were in Paris, we were in the daylight, we were together, as ballerina and her impresario, but both of us were inevitably and irrevocably driving to something more than simple matter of work we were doing. And Paris was the witness for it.

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The late evening cover Paris with soft velvet: warm and elegant. The city lights were gleaming warmly outside, people were passing the Place Vendôme, where the beautiful Hôtel de Vendôme welcomed Boris Lermontov’s ballet company with a pleasant stay until it was going to be the time for us to leave for the new city. But for now, ‘Giselle’ awaited.

I was sitting in the lobby of the hotel, near the bar, in deep wine coloured silk dress, with hand-painted floral details with sheer sleeves and kitten-heel Mary Janes on my legs. My hair was loose as I always loved to keep it like this, making ponytails for rehearsals and pinned buns for performances. Vintage clutch I found at the flea market in London was laying on the small marble table with a glass of Champagne Cocktail. Earlier the same evening I wrote and sent the letter to babushka and had a lovely dinner with Lida, Olya, Ivan and Grischa in brasserie Bofinger.

The silence enveloped the lobby of the hotel, which had been emptied, as my dinner’s company as well as other guests went back to their rooms to travel to the world of dreams, though the echoes of lovely talks and clatter of glasses remained in the air. I couldn’t sleep, as my mind was overwhelmed with the impressions of the passing day.

The quietness of the night, the sacredness of it always captivated me. The boundary between the otherworldly and reality blurred, the tenderness remained, and the secret feelings were unwrapping. And I believed that what was blooming quietly between me and Boris, that unexplainable anxiety, those unspoken things we didn’t dare to say would soon be revealed.

I heard quiet steps on the marbled floor, approaching the bar. Boris entered quietly, like the music of the second act, in his black suit with crisp white shirt, silk, carefully folded blue pocket square of his jacket. He lighted up the cigarette, the light highlighted his face for the slight second, before we returned to the dimmed hush of the lamps in the space.

He saw me, sitting near the window, trying to hide from the world for some time before the performance and what would follow afterwards. For a moment neither of us smiled. The man just looked as if he had been waiting to find me, and now that he did – he didn’t know what to say. Then he walked slowly beside me, sitting in a velvet sofa next to me.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”, it was my turn to ask impresario the same question he asked in the Night Ferry. Suddenly, we were like children playing catch-up and mimicking one another.

“No”, Boris replied not looking at me, “Eto Parizh* (It is Paris (*rus). It was made for sleepless people”

I smirked, taking the sip of my cocktail, taking the bravery in my hands, and said:

“So it was made for us, then”, after those words he finally glanced at me, as if he wanted to read what I truly meant to say instead of what I did.

“Perhaps…”, the man replied, the gaze of his soft grey-blue eyes lingered on me with curiosity, “…Paris was also made for great dancers. Of course, it demands grace and dedication. Remember Anna Pavlova, for example, and Ballets Russes by Sergei Diaghilev. What a tremendous success that was, and the public never forgotten it…”, he silenced for a moment, when I glanced at him, falling into my thoughts for a moment of pause.

Ballet Russes was truly captivating and tremendously great, indeed, but I remembered Pavlova’s ‘Dying Swan’. It was the story told from the depths of soul. How accurately and gracefully she expressed and showed the last moments of swan’s life, full of pain and elegance, captivating with every breathtaking wave. I had the chance to see the performance from the documentary film about the greatest ballerina in London’s cinema when I was 13 and fell in love with it. I knew this ballet by heart and wished one day to perform it to so someone, who I would dearly love.

I sat still in my sofa, waiting for Boris to continue to talk, not asking what he was thinking. I was hoping that he would answer it by reading my mind. There were thousands and thousands unspoken words between us, and maybe in time, they would find their way to finally be spoken out loud.

“…And now you’re one of those great dancers, Vasilisa”, Boris finished confidently, looking at me as if I was still unsure about my decision in joining his company.

If only he knew what I was thinking about more and more often. About his restrained presence during rehearsals, about his beautiful hands, which were holding notes and cigarettes, the way of how his soft grey-blue gaze always found my eyes. How he walked beside me, step by step, how our hands brushed slightly couple of times, though we knew it wasn’t accidental. The way of how I was going to bed every night hoping the next day would come fast and I’d dance for him in ballets.

And I knew my impresario was feeling this tension between us, when the distance was narrowing down with every breath we took. In that quiet late evening at the lobby, we could reach across and took our hands, and we knew that with this move everything would change, we would stop pretending that nothing was happening between Vasilisa Novinskaya and Boris Lermontov.

“You won’t be disappointed in me, Boris”, I said quietly, though I wanted to say all the other things I felt deeply towards the man, “And we will be as great as Ballets Russes”

Impresario smiled warmly, the sparkles in his captivating grey-blue eyes appeared again:

“I know”, it was a simple answer, but his words slightly shook my heart. Or maybe it was the anticipation I began to feel since I met him and joined his ballet company.

“We should get some sleep”, my words sounded surreal, the same moment I felt how my eyes were holding with the last of their strength so as not to shut down from fatigue. It overwhelmed me with the cold strong wave and I couldn’t hold it any longer. Indeed, I needed to get some sleep.

“Yes, we should”, Boris stood up from his sofa and held out his hand to help me get up, and only then I felt how my legs trembled.

We said our goodbyes when we walked up the marble stairs, leading to the hotel rooms. He held my hand maybe for too long before letting it go, as he turned the opposite direction, walking silently to his room.

As I entered my room – I closed the door behind me and leaned on it, hands shaking and heart beating insanely loud and fast. Thousands of thoughts were circling around my head: the fragile ache of whatever Boris and I had stepped into was still in the air between two of us in the remains of that late evening. It felt like both of us were suspended somewhere between fear and desire, clinging on that sacredness we had in the Night Ferry and trying to bring it to Paris.

Oh, Paris. A city of love, though my heart which had always been beating for dancing was now aching of loneliness. I shouldn’t care about him. I shouldn’t care about him at all. I’ve always told myself that love weakens the spine of the ballerina, turning ambitions and talent to smoke, ballet was always above all for me. But Lida’s words about how impresario always looked at me during rehearsals and I saw this only now in the dark lonely hotel room: how Boris looked at me like I was more than prima, more than fouettés or arabesques, or the weight of success, grace and legacy. Like I was something more, and only he could see it. And his attention covered me like the silk.

As I crawled under a warm blanket into a soft, soothing bed, closing my eyes – the song of Édith Piaf ‘Hymne à l'amour’ began to play softly in the nearest brasserie, which could be heard from the slightly opened window of my elegant, but lonely suite.

That first night in Paris when we shared the understandable silence of our deep souls was slowly disappearing, but I would remember those moment for a long time. Perhaps, I was mistaken, perhaps, I imagined everything, but that night I didn’t think about it. Let it be thought over the next day, when the light would destroy the intimacy and dreams, but the ballet would remain, prima ballerina and her impresario would remain, and the silence between us would remain.

Le ciel bleu sur nous peut s'effrondrer

Et la terre peut bien s'écrouler

Peu m'importe si tu m'aimes

Je me fous du monde entier

Tant que l'amour inondera mes matins

Tant que mon corps frémira sous tes mains

Peu m'importent les problems

Mon amour, puisque tu m’aimes…

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

🩰 'Serpent dance' masterlist 🩰

[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 6. The Lark (Mikhail Glinka (arr. Balakirev)

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Victoria Page arrived at the theatre suddenly, next morning, when the dancers were getting ready for the group photograph. I saw her red-headed silhouette in black trench coat entering the hall, where we were standing and waiting for the photographer to arrive.

“It’s Victoria…”, Olya whispered, but it sounded just like the noise of the rustling ballet tutus we were wearing for the photograph.

The air became intense, as if it was bringing back memories which someone wanted to hide and never recall, opening wounds. “What’s she doing in here?”; the fragments of dancers’ whispers reached me, when I followed Victoria’s moves around the room, like the graceful ghost of the past tremendous success, like the legend of Boris Lermontov’s ballet company.

“She used to dance Odette…and she used to make 30 fouettés”, Olga’s whisper pierced my ears as if her words were sharp arrows. 30 fouettés. The prove of ballerina’s strength, both physical and mental, it meant a command, it meant dedication, it meant obsession. And in that moment, I said to myself that I’d make more of them, just to prove Victoria’s past success to be the part of something gone and replaced.

In the slight moment she turned to us and the image of the ballerina in ‘The Red Shoes’ appeared in my mind and faded right the same moment I caught Victoria’s eyes. She was beautiful. She had the elegance that only prima could have. And despite the fact that Victoria was former prima and wasn’t a part of Lermontov’s ballet company – the flame of jealousy ignited inside me. She looked curiously at me and moved forward, approaching me and Olga, but I remained on my place, giving the woman a cold look.

“So, you’re the new prima I’ve heard rumors about?”, her words didn’t sound mockingly, but curiously, as if I was the surreal unknown creature.

Dancers slowly looked at both of us: former prima and current one. Two different powers, which united with two things: ballet and the impresario. Her past and my future.

I smiled lightly at her, but perhaps it was more like a smirk. I didn’t want to look friendly or naïve to her:

“And I’ve heard that you used to make 30 fouettés”

Victoria smiled; the sparkles could be seen in her deep blue eyes.

“Ah, yes, when I danced Odette. You danced her too, yes? At British Rambert, as I’ve heard”.

The flame of jealousy remained burning inside me. I didn’t want to lose the verbal fencing we started.

“Yes, I danced Odette at British Rambert”, my voice was cold as well as my glance, my hands tightened pointe shoes which I had no time to put on yet, “And now I’ll dance Giselle…And I’ll make 33 fouettés”.

Touché

There was the uncomfortable pause. No one knew what would we say to each other next. Ivan, my ballet partner, who was going to play Albrecht in the upcoming ‘Giselle’ whistled quietly. Some girls from corps de ballet began to whisper. Of course, I knew it was a mad challenge, the challenge of abilities, talent, and spirit. Perhaps, my mind was somewhere else when I said those words. But maybe I could overcome Victoria. I must.

The woman blinked and looked at me surprisingly, arching her right brow:

“Why to add specifically three more turns?”

I just shrugged my shoulders, and looked around the hall for one moment: Boris was leaning against the doorframe of the entrance, arms crossed, listening to us, or it should be better to say, looking at the fencing. Our glances met for one second and I squeezed pointe shoes in my hands even harder. I looked back at Victoria:

“Three for the cards”, I replied confidently, as I sat on an empty seat of the row and began to tie up my pointes, not looking neither at the woman nor at my impresario, ‘The Queen of Spades’ by Alexander Pushkin – an officer named Hermann needed three cards to win: three, seven and ace”, I finished dryly and sharply, my pointes were tied up on my toes.

I looked at Boris again. He had heard every word, but remained silent, his eyes were measuring me, as always, but he gave me small nod and the smile, almost invisible, appeared at the corners of his moth. I knew that this promise and the reason that I gave to myself and to my impresario would remain in his memory. Three. Seven. Ace. Troika. Semyorka. Tuz* (Three. Seven. Ace (*rus).

Vasilisa. Boris. The Ballet.

I repeated these words like the cursed spell, the secret to the success and madness.

“Ambitious”, Victoria’s word brought me back from the darkness of Pushkin’s novella. Her eyes shifted to Boris, who remained leaning against the doorframe, “Julian is having a meeting with the director about the upcoming new opera he’s been contracted to compose, so I decided to look at your rehearsal since you’re here”

There was something in Lermontov’s eyes that surprised me: they remained without changes, same icy cold, bleak, emotionless. Like Victoria was truly the ghost of the past long gone.

“It’s nice of you, missis Craster, but we don’t have much time for chatting”, the man said coldly, and came to me as I stood up from the seat, “I see you’ve already met Vasilisa Novinskaya, our new prima”, he informed Victoria, with the same cold voice, but I felt the heat from his body when he stood next to me and my heart started to beat louder.

“Yes, I did”, Victoria glanced at me once again with her curious gaze, but the sparks of tension were still in the air, despite the fact that I felt myself more secure with Boris standing near me.

Loud footsteps and the rustle of the trench coat could be heard in the corridor, and the blonde man appeared in the doorframe. By the way of how the man looked suspiciously and angrily at Boris and then at Victoria, I assumed it was her husband and the conductor – Julian Craster. He gave a short nod to my impresario and said coldly to his wife:

“I’m waiting for you outside”, and he disappeared in the corridor, his loud footsteps muffled in the empty corridor of the theatre.

“Well, I think it’s my time to go”, Victoria sighed lightly, as if she wanted to catch the remains of her past life as ballerina, “It was nice to meet you, Vasilisa, and good luck to you”, she smiled at me and then looked at Boris, informing him coldly, “I hope you’re not mistaken about your choice this time”

The man looked at her emotionlessly, and I froze: was Victoria comparing me with her? Did she regret that she got married? What happened between her and Boris? What was he thinking behind his cold surface? Could I not only replace Victoria in his ballet but maybe in his heart?

Why did I ask myself such a question? Boris Lermontov was my impresario, nothing more than that. But why did my soul was screaming for his attention?

“Adieu”, Boris said to Victoria and his icy cold voice echoed in my head.

Victoria was gone. The ghost of her dancing was gone, leaving the cold feeling in the air of the hall. I shivered and turned my head to my impresario, who turned to me, taking off his coat:

“33 fouettés is a risk, my dear Vasilisa”

I felt how my fingers trembled lightly. But not with fear. The anticipation to take this dangerous risk was unbearable.

“The countess risked. Hermann risked. And so will I, Boris”, I said sharply, as if I wanted to set everything between two of us on fire.

He didn’t reply to me, but everything could be seen in the way of how he looked when our glances met: this time the sparks of warmth ignited in his eyes. His eyes. His captivating grey-blue eyes. That moment they held something between a warning, wonder and intrigue. And I didn’t know what burned me more.

Boris turned to the dancers, who remained on their places, as if they froze in place, captivating by the scene they just witnessed:

“The photographer arrived and waits for everyone outside. You have 20 minutes to get ready”

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The air of the dressing room smelled of a mixture of perfumes and powder, remaining after the dancers from corps de ballet who left the room. I made the last touches of my makeup and looked thoughtfully at myself in the mirror. The woman of 28, with grey-green icy-cold eyes, big eyebrows, with a neat bun of long brown hair on her head looked back at me. It was surreal: it was me but at the same time I could barely recognize her. The creation of Anthony James Acton and Polina Fyodorovna Acton. I was so much like them, with strong influence of grandmother’s, Anastasia Nikolaevna Novinskaya, stubborn character. It all shaped me into who I already was.

But who I would become when Boris Lermontov was becoming a part of my dancing life? And maybe, not only dancing life, even though I was afraid to admit it, something that I never said out loud, and was afraid that I could possibly feel this for him. The great and terrible Boris Lermontov, as everyone called him. But I never did.

My glance fell on the silver tiara of Giselle, shining in blue velvet wooden box. My babushka danced Giselle; I was dancing Giselle now. Boris made it happen, he wanted to see me as that peasant. Maybe just how he wanted Victoria Page to dance peasant girl in ‘The Red Shoes’ before. The same moment I recalled the image of the beautiful red-headed girl on the poster of that ballet and the flame of jealousy grew into disastrous fire. I must be better than her. No matter what it would cost me. If someone asked me to give my happiness as the sacrifice – I’d give it without a second thought. And I wanted him to see me as the one and only prima, I wanted him to see me as the heart of his ballet. I’m not like the girl on the poster. I’m Vasilisa Novinskaya. Without hesitation I took silver tiara from the velvet box and let down my long hair.

The dancers and the crew gathered around the photographer outside the theatre, on the marble steps in front the entrance. The weather was warm and even the sun came out of the clouds to look at the small ceremony of ours: girls from corps de ballet were chatting and checking each-other’s makeup and tutus, Boris was talking to Grischa, when I came out of the theatre’s entrance, with Giselle’s silver tiara and grandmother’s necklace gleaming on my head and neck.

Photographer’s eyes were the first to capture me, then everyone else’s. I didn’t care what they would think of me, I knew precisely why I put the tiara on my head. Was I the egoist? Was I the selfish young woman? Of course I was. Was it the rebellion? Indeed it was. With that move I wanted to tell them “Look at me now as I’m going to stay here until the end of time”

Boris’ gaze lingered on me, when I was coming down the stairs: a surprise could be clearly seen in it. Of course he couldn’t think that I would wear something apart from protocoled tutus and hair in a bun. My place where the photograph was going to be taken was right in front of him, and Boris stood behind me, like a true pair of impresario and his protégé.

“I see Giselle rose from the world of ghosts”, Boris said it quietly, only for me to hear, without any mockery in his voice, just as if he was talking about the weather. But I knew, that the tiara that was shining in my head got the silent approval.

“Yes”, I rose my head slightly higher, not looking back at him, but smiled softly, almost invisibly, to let only him be aware of it, “And she remembers who helped her to do so”

I could feel his gaze on my back, how it ran coldly like blades through my spine, letting my heart pounding louder and faster. The tension was heating up with every second as Boris and I stood in front of each other, electrocuting us stronger with every new second. The invisible thread between us pulled tighter. Boris’ presence was not scary for me, it never was.

It was the attention I was asking from him. It settled silently, gracefully, promising to stay longer. I was Vasilisa Novinskaya. I was Vasya. I’ve become Giselle now. I’ve become his prima.

The camera clicked its final shot and captured this tension in our story.

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The wind of chaos of the preparations to the train to Paris almost settled down. The dancers began to disperse, with the usual rustle of their coats and the clatter of their heels, leaving the theatre with their luggage, filled with excitement of the upcoming ballet season. I lingered for a couple of minutes in the corridor, to talk to my grandmother, agreeing to meet each other at the train station, where the train would take me away from her, to the new chapter of my life: intriguing and mysterious.

I already changed to my travel clothes I took with me the same morning: crepe long-sleeved forest-green knee-length dress and a trench coat in a shade of dark chocolate, a felt cloche forest-green hat with a small feather replaced Giselle’s tiara which I put back inside blue velvet wooden box, small silk scarf on my neck to protect from the cold. I was holding brown kid-leather gloves in one hand, and thoughtfully ran my fingers of the other hand along the poster of the premiere of the opera which was hanging on the wall near the telephone.

Someone passed me by as I was talking to babushka, not paying attention to the person, who then lingered in the corridor, as if they were afraid that they forgotten something. But I remembered the cologne immediately: soothing, with notes of orange, lavender and rosemary.

“Yes, the train leaves at nine. Yes, I’ll meet you at the train station, do skoroi vstrechi* (*see you soon (rus)”, I hung up the phone and turned to the stranger, who lighted up the cigarette.

Boris slowly, accurately, exhaled the smoke of the cigarette, as it was the part of the well-rehearsed part of his discipline. He was also ready for the departure wearing brown suit with vest, blue cotton shirt and a wool tie, his trench coat was beige and was hanging on his shoulders, a silk scarf knotted at the neck, a brown trilby hat with a ribbon band was on his head. Sturdy and polished leather valise was standing near him. He looked like the character from the film: mysterious and attractive, like Humphrey Bogart or Clive Brook. For a slight second it felt like the two of us were in a film which had just begun and it was still a long way from the end credits. We smiled lightly to each other, as if we both imagined the same thing.

I didn’t see him after the photograph was taken, he just disappeared, talking to Grischa. I was busy with changing my clothes and packing the remains of my belongings inside the leather handbag. It was the first time I saw him after our whispers to each other when no one was hearing us. We stood silently for few more seconds, then I clutched gloves slightly in my hands and approached the man: 

“My grandmother will come to see me off on the train”, I said quietly, but my voice still sounded too loud in the empty corridor of the theatre.

He nodded. And then he said something that ran through me like a warm flow:

“I saw Anastasia Nikolaevna on the stage once, when I was young, in Saint Petersburg. She danced ‘Giselle’…”, Boris’ voice was quiet and soothing, “Your grandmother was extraordinary. When her Giselle fell into madness – it was like watching the heart shattering into pieces”

I didn’t reply to him first. Boris caught me off guard by the softness of his voice. He was always controlled, always disciplined. But now it felt like something was slightly off. Like the shift which I was feeling inside me whenever I saw him reached my impresario as well. I couldn’t believe that he saw my grandmother on stage. And maybe it was the destiny that now I was dancing ‘Giselle’ under the grey-blue eyes of Boris Lermontov. We were standing close to each other, the smell of his cologne mixed with the tobacco of his cigarette, and I loved how it covered me, like the mysterious invisible fog.

“I’ll make her proud”, I said finally, when really meant to say “I’ll make both of you proud”, but my tongue didn’t let me do it. I couldn’t name the reasons why I wanted to make Boris proud and impress him more than anyone else. I was still trying to get such reasons off my head, unsuccessfully.

The man looked at me, our glances met and lingered longer than we could possibly let them. He gave a nod and a small warm smile. He understood. My heart traitorously began to pound louder, aching in my chest.

“You should keep the tiara, Vasilisa”, Boris said, taking his valise in one hand, and turned to me once again, saying quietly, “It was truly always yours”

There was a pause, heavy and light at the same time. Impresario’s words were so sudden that I was taken aback by them. In that moment I looked at him, but this time I truly looked at him. Not it the way how the light of the corridor or the hotel hall caught the silvering in his hair, it was deeper than everything. The way I looked at my beloved grandmother, the way Boris’ eyes softened when he looked at me when I was dancing. And if in that moment he had extended his hand to me, I would have taken it without hesitation.

“I see you at the train station”, he said suddenly sharply and walked away, towards the exit of the theatre, before I could reply something to him, as if he was afraid of his own words, and I was left with doubts and with the loud beat of my heart, echoing in the empty corridor.

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Third person point of view

Boris was standing apart from others, his arms crossed over his chest, looking around the dancers, giving advises who would stand where at the group photograph for the article. The announcement in newspapers had been agreed few minutes ago: ‘The Ballet Company of Boris Lermontov Opens Its Season in Paris Led by Its Shining New Prima Vasilisa Novinskaya’

Vasilisa was nowhere to be seen but she had always been punctual and always came in time. Yet he felt the anxious feeling of anticipation of seeing her again, even though Vasilisa was becoming the heart of his company. No, she already was the heart of the company. Perhaps, now, she was becoming a part of his heart?

Impresario felt that slow, irreversible shift growing stronger every day, right from the evening he saw her performing Odette at British Rambert. The same moment his glance caught Vasilisa on the stage when poetic music of Pyotr Tchaikovsky began – he forgot Victoria Page, the woman who left his ballet company with her husband Julian Craster. And at the same moment his eyes captured Vasilisa – he knew that his world was about to change.

No, he didn’t want to fall into the thing that regular people called love. Through his life he had the lack of it, especially when he created his travelling ballet company. Ballet and love couldn’t live together and it was the moto. Boris built the concrete walls around him in order not to feel it. Yet when Vasilisa appeared – the walls began to crack.

The silence fell on dancers, bringing Boris’ attention to the theatre’s entrance and he froze, as if he had been struck by lightning: Vasilisa flew off the stairs, it felt like she wasn’t touching the ground. Giselle’s tiara was shining in her beautiful long brown hair, which she didn’t tied in a bun as corps de ballet supposed to. He never told her to wear the tiara. Neither would anyone else. And the way Vasilisa was wearing the tiara it was clear to impresario’s eyes that with this silent move the woman which remained mystery to him began to say things she hadn’t said yet.

She passed the man with more than just elegance that she had as prima and as a woman. She passed with her deep soul. She captivated yet stayed untouchable and graceful. At that very moment, he smelled her perfume – and remembered it forever: mandarin, rose, bergamont and jasmine. It was opulent and tensed, but there was something else, something with which only Vasilisa would be remembered. It was something deep, something from Boris’ memories of his childhood in Imperial Saint Petersburg, where he saw the great Anna Pavlova to perform ‘The Dying Swan’. Vasilisa had that grace and tragedy of the swan. And when Boris stood behind her for the photograph, he restrained himself with all his power so as not to touch her soft loose hair or the fingers of her cold hand.

Instead, the man whispered, never leaving his eyes off the woman:

“I see Giselle rose from the world of ghosts”

Vasilisa stood still, not turning to him, but he knew she heard him.

“Yes”, the woman rose her head higher, getting ready for the photograph to be taken, but she smiled at him, and the man froze for a moment, “And she remembers who helped her to do so”

A flow of cold water ran through Boris’ spine and he heard how his heart dropped. Her words startled something in him, as if she touched a part of him he buried inside a thousand curtain calls, inside his cabinet, inside his soul and mind. And he was afraid to say what it was. Not to himself, not to her.

And when later that same day he looked at Vasilisa once again: a quiet, fragile woman which was standing in front of him that tender and strong feeling hit him with a greater force, like an all-destroying wave of the tsunami. She was so fragile, that Boris was afraid she would break if he touched her. And he wanted to touch her hand, softly, tenderly, yet her soul was still hidden behind her icy cold façade she built around her, just like he did few years ago.

But the invisible thread between them tightened stronger with every new day, with every moment they spent together at rehearsals or in the corridors of the theater, pulling them closer to each other. Yet during that moment in the empty corridor, where they were standing, the ballerina and her impresario, he remained at a cold distance, when his mind was screaming to reach to her and hold tight in his arms.

He noticed how she also tried to slip back to the discipline of the ballet, into self-doubt she had, despite that beauty and grace she had when she was dancing. That frightened him. That discipline she had, the one he forced himself into long time ago. They were so similar yet the huge gap still separated them. All he could do at that moment was to look at Vasilisa’s captivating grey-green eyes full of loneliness and discipline, and tell coldly:  

“I’ll see you at the train station”

He turned his back at Vasilisa as sharp as he could, took his valise and walked towards the theatre’s exit. He was afraid that if he took her hand - the facade that he built around him would crack and it would ruin both of them. And so, Boris Lermontov walked away that day, without looking back at Vasilisa, because he knew that if he was going to do so – he would never be able to take his eyes off her again.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

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[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 5. Prelude in G Minor, Op. 23, No. 5 (Sergei Rachmaninoff)

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The rain was pouring heavily on the streets of still half-asleep London, which was slowly waking up for the new day. Postmen carried morning papers and letters; people were hurrying up to their work. Despite the fact that the night was my most dear time of the day – there was something magical in early mornings: the calmness and the quietness, even stillness which was big contrast from busy chaotic loud afternoons and evenings.

I came through the backdoors of the theatre, escaping the rain filling the streets of the city, taking off my trench coat, feeling excited and anxious at the same time: the whole new ballet company and performances were waiting for me and I lost count how many times I imagined what would it be like. There was no use in imagining – but to open myself to changes and accept them.

The dressing room was found without any difficulties and within few minutes I was ready for the rehearsal: my long brown hair was accurately combed into ponytail, grandmother’s necklace was shining on my neck, on which I sprayed Cuir de Russie, pink cardigan covered black topic, white socks were worn over the leggings, hands holding small towel and pointe shoes. My hands were slightly shaking, when walking towards the rehearsal hall, and I held pointes in my hands as tight as I possibly could to hide the shaking. It felt like I was in the corps de ballet once again, and only couple of centimeters separated me from the scene and my first performance, in ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. It felt like it was in another life, yet it happened to me. And now I was walking towards new performance and new company. Despite my anxiety and fear I was ready for it.

With a quiet sigh I entered the rehearsal hall, where the smell of sweat mixed with perfume and dust created that particular sense of discipline that only people who know the world of ballet would understand. If the day before I deliberately made myself unnoticed, hiding in the shadows of the space – that first rehearsal day I was visible for everyone. For a few moments dancers continued warming up, but as if they were struck by something invisible – some of them turned to my direction, a little hush could be heard somewhere, but I never figured out who that was.

Dancers’ curious gazes could be felt on me with every step I made towards the scene. They weren’t measuring me or my abilities, not yet. Within few moments they continued stretching, when I put my pink cardigan on the empty chair near the ballet bare and sat beside it, lacing my pointes. Others continued to chat with each other, laugh about something, the pianist continued to warm up the piano, it all turned into a buzzing of bees in the hive, but then the sound of closing door reverberated through the room and everything became quiet within seconds: Boris Lermontov walked towards the scene, wearing a dark-brown suit with blue shirt and dark-brown hat, holding the trench coat in one hand and notes in another, the cigarette was in his mouth. This time he wasn’t reading his notes: he looked directly at me as I finished lacing my pointes and stood up, meeting his cold gaze, holding my head high.

Without further words my new impresario hung the trench coat in the chair in the first row, went up to the scene, put notes on the chair beside the piano, nodded to the pianist and Grischa, and stood beside me, sharply and still. Every dancer was looking at both of us now, running their gazes from my head to toes, someone with their arms crossed, someone looked at me curiously, someone suspiciously.

“Everyone, this…”, Boris said loudly and confidently, nodding to me, his voice echoed in the big rehearsal hall, “…is Vasilisa. She is going to join the company and will be our new prima.”

Dancers continued to look at me, without saying a word. What they were thinking about? Probably, something like “Where did Boris find me”, “How would I fit in”, “Could I handle his strictness”. For them I was the risk, a newcomer, someone unknown. A complete stranger. I could easily say who would become my friend or who would measure every plié like a challenge or rivalry. But it didn’t matter to me as I wasn’t there to be liked by everyone. Dance was the reason.

I glanced at Boris briefly, maybe searching for the sign. There was still a flicker in his eyes that was there previous evening, when we were alone. He still believed in my abilities and was confident about them.

“Oh, we’ve met earlier”, Grischa was the first one to break that strange silence that fell on everyone together with the doubt and confusion. He smiled at me, and nodded.

“Enough of introduction”, Boris interrupted suddenly, walking towards the piano, exhaling the smoke of the remains of the cigarette, “There’s not much time left, and the Paris won’t wait for our slow movements”, then he asked me, looking through his papers, “You know how to dance Giselle, Vasilisa?”

I froze in a place for a moment, recalling how Boris mentioned Giselle at The Savoy days ago, when we were standing at the balcony, hidden from the sounds of clinking glasses and laughs of guests behind the dark-green velvet curtains. At that time, I had no idea that Lermontov wanted me in this ballet. But it was undoubtedly clear for him right from that moment.

“I used to dance her at British Rambert…”, I replied dryly, feeling the invisible strings tided up my legs.

“Then you know what to do, but make her more alive”, his eyes met mine, though my look was icy cold, “Let’s start from the beginning, Grischa, please”

The hush fell on the rehearsal scene: everyone began to move, rushing to their positions, the tapping of pointes made fast and unique rhythm and I stood in the middle of that organised chaos, my hands began to tremble again. It was a challenge. A challenge of my abilities as prima, a challenge of my character, a challenge of me. Boris dropped the invisible glove, as if challenging me to a duel, and I coldly accepted this move, without letting go the promise: to let him never forget me.

For a brief moment I clenched my hands into fists, and turned to look at the empty hall, making a deep breath. I wasn’t afraid that I’ve forgotten how to dance Giselle as I remembered it almost mechanically and my legs recalled every assemblé, bourrée or détourné of this ballet. I was afraid that it would be impossible for me to bring Giselle truly to life.

The ballet master Grischa clapped his hands and the pianist began to play the first moments of Act I. I began to move, with every beat of the piano key, letting the music and the movements in, to help me flow with senses.

I danced Giselle in another rehearsal hall, eyes of another impresario were looking at my movements, but this time it was completely different. The air was different, the dancers were different, the impresario was different. It was Boris’ view on Giselle. Unique, vivid, tender, even the sadness and tragedy of her story felt deeper than before, during my previous performances.

“Again”, ballet master’s voice sounded somewhere far away, as the dancers stopped after my final arabesque of Act I, breathing heavily.

Of course, it wasn’t enough. Of course, it was just the warming up and I got used to it. All the dancers got used to it.

In that moment of pause before the repetition my desire to look at Boris was too strong to overcome and remained buried inside me. The man stood silently near the piano, with his arms crossed. I wanted him to tell me something, anything that could lead me to the right path to Giselle. But impresario remained silent, as if saying “You’ll find the right way by yourself if you are trying harder”. Though his eyes were fixing on me and I could feel how the man tried to get inside my mind or at least to know what I’ve been thinking about. But my thoughts were in another universe, trying to reach the fragile character of Giselle. Honesty and tenderness – that’s what mattered.

And so, I danced the scene once again, the repetition of movements only made them more accurate, more graceful, I never stumbled, I couldn’t possibly let it happen. Never under the eyes of Boris Lermontov, never on my first day in his ballet company. His glance was measuring me, my moves, my breath, hoping to prove himself that he was right about me, or maybe wrong. Such attention from him burned my back, reaching to my spine, and for a moment I thought I felt that fire inside me, pulse was pounding loudly in my temples, but it was the fire of encouragement, of challenge, of the risk. And this time I danced for him and only for him, never caring what could he possibly think of me and my abilities as prima of his company.

I had to become Giselle, that fragile peasant girl who deeply believed in love yet was deadly hurt, the madness and unbearable pain of a lie destroyed her, made her cold and lifeless. I was indeed that fragile girl who continued to believe in love even though never let myself feel the secrecy of it. As to become more successful prima love was forbidden. It was my silent declaration and dedication to the art of the ballet.

“Again”, Grischa demanded once again, this time louder.

The sweat was running down my back, the tension in legs became stiffer. It was the aftermath of passionate act of the ballet, it was what I used to strive for and never refused to accept it. Unknown power ran down my spine, and my heart had cracked open slightly – I didn’t recall the time when I felt the same sensational anxiety before at British Rambert. Maybe it was because of the new ballet company, where the blood in the dancers’ and impresario’s veins was Russian and I began to feel myself truly belonged to this place, surrounded by people who, without a doubt, would understand the depths of my character, even though I was half-Russian. It was amazing how fast those changes arrived.

The music stopped once again, and I froze in my place, catching my breath and glancing at Boris: our eyes met briefly and he gave me a small nod, a small flicker in his eyes could be seen. Was it the beginning of trust between us? A recognition? Or was it the beginning of something that we possibly couldn’t name neither aloud nor in our thoughts? I wanted to believe in the beginning of the fall of that cold concrete wall that we built around us for the protection from normal human feelings. I guessed that Lermontov didn’t know those tender feelings either, just like me…

“Again!”, Grischa said loudly, and Boris smiled lightly, arms crossed, as if he knew that that repetition of the Act I would be the best one.

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Finally, the rehearsal hall began to cool down from the heat of dancers’ bodies, which were practicing throughout the whole day, the sweat made the air stiff. My legs were still burning from the tense rehearsal day as if they were in agony, the sweat was tripping from my forehead, but it pleased me, it was the proof of the hard work. All the dancers left the room couple of minutes ago, welcoming me to the company a few moments before it. The hall became quiet, only the echoes of their voices and footsteps could be heard. I remained sitting on the edge of the scene, hands, as confident as ever, were unlacing the ribbons of pointes, thoughts slowly began to crawl back inside the head, accompanying with the sounds of the piano keys, sounding dark, like Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor BWV 565.

The same moment lonely footsteps sounded closer and closer in the hall, muffled by the carpet on the floor, but I still could hear them. I didn’t look at the person approaching me, as if it was dangerous, maybe in some way it was indeed. Only when the footsteps stopped, I turned my head and looked: Boris stood beside me, hands tucked behind his back, holding trench coat, a hat and a cane. His eyes looked as if they were reading my thoughts once again, they were not cold, but curious. I remained sitting on the edge of the scene, placing my pointes near me. Few strands of hair from my bangs fell onto my forehead, hiding my eyes, like they were protecting me. My gaze was cold, but my heart began to beat faster.

“You danced well…very well”, the man said with low voice and a small pause, as if he was trying to find correct words.

“Thank you”, I replied with a hoarseness. My voice was always slightly hoarse, but it sounded even deeper and more expressive after intense rehearsals or performances and every morning right after waking up.

It was not ‘good’, not ‘fine’, simply ‘well…very well’. But maybe soon he would say ‘perfect’. And I would make sure about it.

“Tomorrow we’ll practice Giselle’s act of madness, and we’re leaving to Paris in a few days”, Boris said informed thoughtfully, glancing at his watches, “Do you think you’ll be ready for the performance so soon?”

I gave him a cold look, but the man replied to me with the same cold attitude. We were like two serpents, getting ready to bite each other, the deadly serpent dance.

“This is not the right question to ask me, Boris”, I replied dryly, but my voice remained hoarse, giving me even more intimidating attitude. He hadn’t seen my abilities yet, but everything just begun.

“Of course, for you it wasn’t, Vasilisa”, the man smiled slightly, and leaned on the edge of the scene, beside me, as I turned my body towards him, feeling the tension rising up between us. The prima and her impresario. Whatever was growing between these two was unexplainable and deep, like Russian soul.

“You know now how we dance here, what is required, and I know that you understood it”, Boris continued thoughtfully, looking directly at me, “And what will come in Paris and after it – it will be different. Harsh, demanding public, hungry for the show, never forgives if someone slips and falls, but it praises the success and always remembers it”, he finished in his calm tone, but the notes in the voice were warning, “I believe they will remember you and your success, Vasilisa”

“And you?”, the question slipped from my tongue before I could think about it, “Will you remember me?”

I shouldn’t have asked him that. What would he think about me? But I couldn’t take back what I’ve said, and the question hung over us on the invisible ribbons of pointes or on the strings of a piano that had long been silent.

Lermontov paused. It felt like there was a shift inside his mind, as if the question touched something inside him that had been long-time buried.

He didn’t reply to me at first, for few more seconds our eyes seemed to lock onto each other, his shoulders twitched slightly, almost invisibly, as if he wanted to release his hand towards me. I didn’t realise at that moment how I held my breath.

The man stood up and turned his back at me, without saying a word and put on the trench coat, and I couldn’t help but look at his beautiful hands, not being afraid to be caught.

“I already do”, his voice was as quiet as never before, it was a whisper, something that he wanted to held inside him and never tell me. He never looked back at me that late evening, he went straight to the exit of the hall, his trench coat rustled with every firm, confident step, and the carpet muffled the hum of Boris’ perfectly patent-leather shoes again.

He was gone and I was left in the darkness of the stage, feeling like a little girl who was left alone in the world of unknown. The hall was quiet and still, but every sense inside me was screaming and asking questions. Maybe he never wanted to say this…“I already do”… Maybe these words also slipped from his tongue just how mine did. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to say something different, maybe it was too much. But I heard him. I heard Boris Lermontov. Something faltered inside me, and my heart dropped but not because of fear, never because of fear, but because of tenderness and anticipation. I exhaled slightly, releasing the tiredness and amazement. He believed in me, he believed in my abilities to carry not only Giselle, but, probably, other ballets that would come. He believed that I could be his prima.

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“Again!”, it was my turn to say that word when the music stopped, when we were rehearsing the scene, where Giselle was deeply hurt and became mad.

New day of rehearsal didn’t run smoothly. But maybe it was only me who thought so. I thought I didn’t make pirouette nicely, as if the scene around me disappeared, and my thoughts and Giselle’s madness became one. That scene needed to be precise, sharp, insane, every muscle should feel the pain of the peasant girl, the audience must see her pain not in words but in her movements. For this I had to push myself further.

The music began again, the sweat continued to ran down my spine and my forehead, but I just wiped the drops off with the back of my hand. There was no time to pay attention to it. But again, I thought that I wasn’t emotional enough. Giselle’s pain had to be mine, but I was angry at myself for not trying. It was all in my head. My doubts about myself had been always eating me, when I thought that I was doing everything wrong – it was completely opposite.

“Again, please!”, my voice was as demanding as it ever was.

“Vasya, you’re mad!”, Grisha’s voice was sharp as well, but only one word jarred my ears, my breath stopped for a second.

Vasya

It was always “Vasilisa” before I joined Boris’ ballet company. No one at British Rambert knew ‘Vasya’ and no one called me like that. ‘Vasilisa’ was sharp, precise, but cold, distant and too official. “Vasya” was more personal, warmer, unique and more real. When Grischa called me Vasya’ it felt like my family was approaching me. It was too close to home, close to my character, close to me.

For a brief moment I looked at the ballet master:

“You know, only my family used to call me Vasya”

The man just winked slightly, and smiled, crossing his arms.

“Well, we’re the part of the family now, pravil’no?”* (*is it right? (rus)

I didn’t reply to him in words, but smiled a little, catching my breath and getting ready to hone the pirouettes and arabesques, and I was ready to hone these movements until the perfection or until the ligaments and muscles in my legs were torn. I stood in the position and finally looked at Boris, strangely how my eyes were always catching him in the space now, when I was the part of his company, a core element, which was ready to give the soul to it.

He was standing, as always, near the piano, arms crossed, as always, his dark grey jacket was on the hanging on the back of the chair, sleeves on his blue shirt were rolled up. Our glances met and for a moment I thought an invisible electrifying thread tied us. The man nodded slightly, and suddenly he asked:

“‘Giselle’, Vasilisa, was always about passionate love, tender, revenge and forgiveness. And what word would you choose to describe it?”

Without hesitation, without a doubt in my hoarse voice, I replied dryly, and broke the glance, cutting the invisible thread as well:

“Revenge. Always revenge, mister Lermontov”.

He just smiled slightly and gave me a nod. That’s what he wanted to hear. That was all I wanted to say.

“Of course. It’s never about love. And you mustn’t forget that a great impression of simplicity can only be achieved by great agony of body and spirit”, the man continued and then his voice became louder, addressing all the dancers who was present, “You cannot have it both ways. Remember it. A dancer who relies upon the doubtful comforts of human love can never be a great dancer. Never!”

Suddenly the air became stiff. Of course, it was the company’s policy, the dancers informed me about it the previous day. But Boris sounded like it was also something personal to him. Yet with his posture and attitude I couldn’t be sure if it, actually, was personal. He blinked once, as if waking up from thoughts and demanded, turning his back at the scene:

“Again!”

The piano began playing the act of Giselle’s madness and death and I began to move, but my thoughts were concentrating on the words of my impresario: I understood what he was talking about. The strive for the perfection without looking at human love. It was the privilege for someone who knew nothing about the passion to art, to dance. I shut myself from love long time ago, when made a promise to the world of the ballet. But why suddenly my heart was beating faster whenever I was trying to find Boris with my own eyes in the crowd of dancers, in the fuzz of the rehearsal and in every corner of the room?

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“Oh, you’ll get use to Lermontov’s comments”, Lida, one of the girls in corps de ballet, with short dark brown hair and blue eyes said to me, when we were walking in the narrow corridor of the theatre, after the rehearsal, wiping sweat from our foreheads and necks with towels, “And sometimes he can’t say a word, but you can see in his eyes and even in his posture that he’s not satisfied at all!”

“But do you remember how he used to talk to Vicky?”, Olga, another girl in corps de ballet, with brown eyes and long braided blonde hair asked Lida, squeezing between us.

Who was Vicky? The previous prima who got married and left the company? The one, whom Boris mentioned during the evening in The Savoy?

Those questions filled the stiff air of our sweat and perfume, when Lida’s voice seemed to sound somewhere far away though she was walking beside me:

“It was a completely different story, Olya. Nevertheless, she ran away with Julian”

“Who are Vicky and Julian”, I asked curiously, looking at Lida, but she just rolled her eyes.

“She was the prima of the company, and Julian was a conductor, they met here and fell in love with each other”, she sighed, “Long story short, she left the company right after the premiere of new ballet, ran away with him, and now they live together in London. And per company policy she had to leave us at once Boris found out about them”

We entered the dressing room, followed by other girls from corps de ballet, who were too noisy and loud, but we found the quiet corner of the small room, behind the rack with tutus, guarding us from curious ears of other ballerinas and continued the dialogue, beginning to change our training clothes:

“You know what? I think that Boris is jealous!”, Olga said loudly, bringing my attention back.

“Of what exactly?”, asked Lida, taking off her training knee socks.

I sat in front of the mirror, removing the elastic band from my hair, pretending that Olga’s words didn’t really matter to me, but my mind was catching the glimpses of Boris’ eyes and his posture, when he looked at how I danced Giselle.

“Of their happiness, of course”, the girl finished, putting on her cardigan, “He pretends that such things like love and marriage don’t matter to him, but I bet he takes our emotional lives as a personal sight, because he just has the lack of them, but I’m not sorry for him”, she snapped as sharp as the sharp blade, and cold goosebumps ran down my spine. Was it true? Or was it another gossip?

I didn’t tell them my opinion. Boris Lermontov was a man about whom the public who loved ballet created myths and gossips. No one knew who he was in real life when no one was watching. We were all wearing masks throughout the day, we pretended, but no one knew the truth behind the curtains. But no matter how I tried to walk inside the depths of the closed curtains – my Russian impresario remained the greatest mystery to me.

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The air of the studio already smelled of sweet anticipation of Paris ­– the premiere of ‘Giselle’ was going to happen there precisely in one week. It was time to say farewell to London as the company was planning to travel. From early in the morning until the evening everyone was packing suitcases, big boxes with props, endless wardrobe trunks with tutus and costumes. It looked like insane organized mess, accompanying with Richard Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’. Ballerinas ran from one corner of the stage to the other, Grischa couldn’t find the sword and flowers which were used as props, in all of this storm I was trying to help everyone, when my own suitcases had already been packed and stood next to the front door of my flat.

“Vasya, can you help me find the swords?”, the ballet master came to me, when I was zipping one of the wardrobe trucks, “I’ve looked everywhere and I couldn’t find them anywhere. And we have so little time, bozhe moi!”

“Yes, of course”, I replied, looking around the stage, wondering, where could the props be. Some of the company members have already left, it was late in the evening, and only few people were still in the theatre.

The depths of the theatre storage were searched, but maybe not good enough, and I decided to check the space first. It was too quiet there, the sounds of the scene were almost inaudible and it felt like I was inside the deep dark cave, and the props felt like the golden treasures. Big cracked mirrors were standing in a row, leaning on each other, pretending they were hiding cracked broken souls inside them.

The swords were hiding under the dusty poster, and before I took them and headed back – my eyes shifted on the faded image of the poster which was calling for my attention, like the secret, yet untold story was trying to be revealed.

‘La compagnie de ballet de Boris Lermontov présente: ‘Les Chaussures rouges’. Ballet en deux actes. D'après le conte de fées de Hans Christian Andersen. Prima ballerina: Victoria Page dans le rôle de Karen, la paysanne. Compositeur: Julian Craster. Opéra de Monte-Carl, Monaco’*, said the poster, screamed even.

(The ballet company of Boris Lermontov presents: ‘The Red Shoes’. Ballet in two acts. Based on the fairytale of Hans Christian Andersen. Prima ballerina: Victoria Page as Karen, the peasant girl. Composer: Julian Craster. Opéra de Monte-Carlo, Monaco)(fr*)

The poster showed the ballerina in assemblé, her red hair seemed like the burning fire was loose, and her gaze was on the bright red pointe shoes she was wearing as the deadly treasure. I tried to imagine how ‘The Red Shoes’ was performed. It was the tremendous success, as I’ve read in the papers some time ago, but I never remembered Victoria’s name. Victoria Page. The previous ballerina who once was dancing in this company. But she passed the unspoken baton to me.

My fingers, with a small tremble, hovered near the title of the ballet and then touched it gently, as if it could burn my fingers. Would Boris create something as tremendous as ‘The Red Shoes’ but now something for me to dance as graciously as Victoria did?

“She only danced it on the opening night”, low, calm and careful voice of Boris Lermontov sounded like the thunder in the quietness of the evening in May.

I turned slightly to him: he was standing behind me, wearing his trench coat, grey hat and black suit, arms crossed over his chest. Our gazes met once again; this time they were warmer. No one was disturbing us and we could be real with each other. The ballerina and the impresario. He was wearing his trench coat, grey hat and black suit, arms crossed over his chest.

“Perhaps the girls told you that she fell in love with the composer, who conducted this ballet and ran off back to London right the same night after the premiere…”, the man continued, coming closer, but looking thoughtfully at the woman on the poster. Something in his gaze shifted again. It became serious, even angry, but his voice remained calm.

“Yes, she was excellent. But she belonged to someone else’s story, not to the world where we are shut down human feelings for the sake of art…”

My hands felt too cold and I squeezed them, trying to warm them up. Whenever I said to someone that my hands were cold – the girls at British Rambert said that they were cold, because my heart was cold as well, because they never saw my emotions clearly, I always hidden them inside my cold soul. Maybe they were right, and my heard was indeed like the ice.

I turned to Boris, he slowly looked back at me. There was a magnifying pause between us, and for a moment I thought that the man’s gaze shifted when he looked at me – it became gentle, but he quickly hided it behind the mask of the coldness. Both of us were professionals in putting masks on our faces.

“In British Rambert they said that I’m Vasilisa ‘The Cold Tsaritsa’”, my quiet sigh sounded louder in the depths of the hall, “Not just because of my cold look. But because I dance with cold blood in my veins, because I care only for the dance, for the perfection of every step I’m making”

Boris looked at me quietly, he didn’t interrupt me.

“And they were right. Strive for the perfection without looking at human love. It’s the privilege for someone who knows nothing about passion to art. And if I could love anything…or anyone – it would be the ballet. I won’t betray it; this is what I’ve been working for with almost all my life”, I said confidently, looking back at Boris with my icy cold gaze. It was a rush of my pride and the deathly dance of two serpents wasn’t finished just yet and my abilities were ready to accept his duel.

But something slightly changed in Lermontov’s expression. He understood me, not only my strive for perfection, but maybe even something that I never said aloud? We stood in silence for a couple of moments, Boris was holding his hands in the pockets of his trousers, my arms were holding swords, when the walls of the depths of the hall began to move towards us, as if they wanted to trap Boris and I and to watch what would be left of us.

He was first to break the silence:

“The photographer will come tomorrow in the morning to take a picture of the group…And the train leaves tomorrow in the evening”, the man sighed, “These photographers and journalists with their articles, they never find the right time for their intrusion”

I smiled slightly, and held the swords tighter in my hands: it was still impossible to believe that I would leave London and babushka soon, not knowing when I would be back.

“I will be ready, don’t worry, Boris. You shouldn’t doubt me”, I replied and look at my impresario.

“I never did, Vasilisa”, the man smiled slightly and turned towards the exit. When he passed me by – his hand, his beautiful hand brushed mine. Lightly. It was almost weightless touch, but everything inside me turned upside down. Like an electric lightning bolt ran between me and Boris, illuminating the stage and the hall of the theatre.

Maybe it was the accident, maybe it was nothing, it was the lack of accuracy and we were standing in the room littered with props, fabric and spider webs, and it was impossible to leave the place without hitting each other. Nevertheless, a new quiet feeling was growing in my mind. 

The scene, the whole hall was empty – everyone went home, as it was late evening. When Boris and I were in the depths of the stage like in the deep dark cage – time disappeared for us. Even the air shifted whenever we were alone. It was deeper, quieter, the masks of pretense and composure began to descend. We didn’t talk on our way to the exit, I just put the swords inside the box Grischa prepared for them, took my trench coat which was hanging on the back of the seat, and followed my impresario. He left the room first, I followed, being tied to the man with the invisible thread. So many words were yet unspoken, but we were afraid of saying them aloud, even thoughts about tenderness and tension were forbidden for us. But maybe one day it would all be crystal clear. Vozmozhno* (*maybe (rus).

In the cold, empty hallway of the evening, where the music of the piano music played during the rehearsal still was echoing, we were already walking abreast, the tips of our coats rustling against each other. The tension between our hands increased with every step we took towards the exit, but we never dared to connect our fingers again, reassuring ourselves silently that it was the imagination. Boris’ steps were quiet and measured.

I glanced at his face once again and my heart ached. I shouldn’t have done that. His face was sharp but yet gentle, it was handsome in the way of dark depth of the ocean – mysterious and dangerous but captivating. The dim, barely discernible light from the chandelier created bizarre shadows on his concentrated face, the light reflected curiously in his deep grey-blue eyes. For a moment I held my breath, but I kept walking beside the impresario, matching my steps with his, when Swan Lake, Op. 20, TH 12, Act I: Introduction. Moderato Assai Chapter one played in my head.

______________________________________________________________

“Rest well, Vasilisa”, Boris said in a farewell, when the doors of the theatre closed and London’s cold night embraced us, “Tomorrow will be a very long day”, our glances met for the last time that evening. And maybe I wished he could say something to me. Something else, something that my heart was yearning for even though it was denying it all those years when I shut my feelings from love and tenderness.

But Boris just kept looking at me with his measuring look, the wind made his coat rustle. That poetic tensed moment reminded me of the film ‘Waterloo Bridge’ I’ve seen in the cinema theatre: poetic yet tragic, leaving unsaid words and unsettled feelings to fill in the viewers’ souls. Suddenly I felt myself as Myra Lester, the main character, played by Vivien Leigh – who overcame a lot of desperate moments in life, but remained pure and sincere. But that tender moment between Boris and I was lost when the lights of the passing car brought us back to reality.

We didn’t say night farewells to each other, there was no use for them. But as I turned to walk back home, I heard how impresario inhaled softly, quietly, as if he wanted to say something, but at the last moment he pulled himself away from this thought. And so, we went our separate ways back home, taking with us the unspoken words and actions that we decided to keep to ourselves, doubting and denying them.

But on that evening in the depths of the hall both Boris and I made a silent promise to each other: ballet above all the specter of the love. We believed in art, but never in tender love. Or we thought we didn’t believe in it? Maybe the art of ballet was no longer enough? Something deep was following our figures, like a shadow of inevitable and dangerous, impossible to outrun. It was following us secretly, but it was impossible to outrun, to pretend that it was a mirage, imagination, scary fairytale. And both me and Boris were reaching for it, despite all the forces to build the concrete walls around our hearts.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

🩰 'Serpent dance' masterlist 🩰

[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 4. Ballet Suite No. 1 – Lyric Waltz (Dmitri Shostakovich)

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Huge street market situated just right near the entrance of the building, where the rehearsals of Boris' ballet took place. I was squeezing through the crowds of people buying goods from local farmers, who were shouting loudly, inviting their customers. It took me some time to finally enter the backdoors of the theatre, inhaling the smell of wooden walls, where the posters of previous ballet performances were held.

It was easy to find the stage: I knew the inside world of theatres by heart and everywhere they were pretty much the same. Even the smell was the same in every theatre: a sweet mixture of perfume, powder, sweat and wood. The stage was in a buzz: dancers, decorators, musicians in their music pit – everyone made a surreal mixture of sounds, but somehow it seemed organised and well-conducted.

I stood on the back of the rehearsal hall, like a shadow, arms around my jacket, looking at the scene. No one saw me, like I was the silent phantom, but I saw everything: every movement the dancers were doing over and over again, the musical instruments sounded like it came from the depths of the soul: unhinged, sharp, strange.

"Where's Lida? Has anyone seen Lida?", someone's voice came from far-right corner of the stage, and the man in white blouse appeared from the opened curtains, looking to the right and to the left, and before he continued his search of Lida – he reached the depth of the stage, froze and turned to me, with curiosity and confusion in his eyes:

"Who are you?", his gaze ran from my head to my toes, and pointed his head on my hands, which held my pointe shoes, "Are you a newcomer?"

His look seemed too curious to me, and I smiled, replying:

"Mister Lermontov invited me to see..."

"Oh, you're miss Acton, am I right?"

"Vasilisa Acton, yes", I nodded, being slightly surprised by the fact that impresario, indeed, informed someone from the group about me coming to see the rehearsal.

“I’m Grischa, the ballet master of this mess”, the man shook my hand and invited me to follow him out of the room to the dark corridor, “Boris told me about you earlier this morning”

The voice of the man was echoing loudly in the empty corridor, in the end of which was the door leading to Lermontov’s temporary office – a miniature painting of Winter palace in Saint Petersburg was hanging on the wall, a pack of documents was laying on the table, in which Grischa began to sort out, as if he was looking for particular papers, and I’ve already known, what they were.

“He said if she comes – give her this, just in case”, the man finally found and handed me a paper titled ‘Contract’, “He said you can do with it whatever you want, but he needs the reply, that’s all he was asking”

I looked at the paper closely, feeling unsatisfied and confused. That was it? I wondered why did Boris invite me to join his company after all if he acted so uninterested towards me, if I wasn’t even in his slightest interest. But maybe that was true. But I was about to prove him wrong.

“When will mister Lermontov come? I’d like to give him these papers in hands”, I took the paper, my hands were trembling slightly, but the choreographer didn’t see it.

“Oh, who knows, he can be in the hall when first morning birds begin to sing, but he never misses the rehearsal, if that’s what you think, and especially not now, when we don’t have prima”, the man sighed helplessly, “She just left without saying goodbye, only the small note, this is so in English style, Bozhe moi* (*My God (rus)”

The mention of previous nameless prima echoed inside me once again: it felt like she was a vivid dream of Lermontov’s ballet, someone who became the voice of it. Jealousy about this mystical prima ballerina arose inside me like a faintly igniting flame.

I put the paper back on the table, and replied quietly, but surely:

“Well, let me tell you that since I’m half Russian, I can assure you that I will say ‘Do svidaniya’ before I’ll leave”

Grischa froze for a moment, within a second his eyes widened slightly with amazement.

“Oh…”

“Where’s Grischa?”, demanding voice sounded suddenly in the corridor before the man could said anything to me. It was his voice. Sharp, strong, and confident.

“Don’t tell him I’m here!”, I whispered loudly, waving my hands chaotically. I didn’t want Boris to see me, when he was surrounded by the crew. I didn’t want him to see me that day at all, promising myself to came back the same evening, when no one would be there except for impresario. And I haven’t told John that I was leaving British Rambert yet.

For a second Grischa looked at me questionably, but then he winked and left the room, closing the door behind him:

“I’m here, Boris! I was looking for those drafts of ‘Giselle’”

“Grischa, how many times I said that I took them with me two days ago?”, my soon to be impresario’s voice sounded more far away, fading in the depth of the corridor.

The walls began to shift tighter when I sat in front of the desk, placing the contract in front of me. There was only Boris’ sign on it, the line where mine needed to be was empty. The fingers on my right hand began to tap on the table’s surface as my gaze fell on the ink and pen, standing in the middle of the surface. Automatically I began to touch the necklace, given me by my grandmother on previous day. The idea stroke me the same second like the thunder and spring rain in the end of May. I dipped the pen in ink, squeezed in my hand, and signed the contract.

‘Vasilisa Novinskaya’

It was my proclamation, my artistic manifest, my gesture to Anastasia Fyodorovna. A gesture and my deep admiration to the woman who told me everything about the ballet, who went to see ‘The Nutcracker’ with me at The Royal Ballet, who gifted me my first ballet shoes and satin ribbons when I told her that I dreamed of being a ballerina. Prima.

Vasilisa Acton remained in British Rambert, and Vasilisa Novinskaya took her place in the art of ballet and in life.

I couldn’t imagine Lermontov’s reaction when he would see my signature. Whenever he was planning to enter his temporary cabinet – the paper will wait for him. No rush, no assemblé, no sudden movements which don’t fit in the music composition. I just hoped that he would understand. He knew not only the inside gossips of ballet world, but also the inner world of the dancers, extracting their deepest desires, and achieving such heights that they didn’t even think about. Boris was the impresario of his craft. And somehow I decided to give my abilities in dance to him.

I looked at the signed contract once again and left it on the table for Russian impresario to find. But before leaving, I wanted to have one curious look at the rehearsal, keeping myself from being noticed, just not yet being noticed. Of course I’d come back later the same evening and stay with his ballet company forever.

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The air felt completely different when I returned back to the rehearsal hall: it was electric, aching with unexplainable pain. It shifted, the invisible force turned the tension, where movements of the dancers and the sounds of the pianist warming up his fingers on the piano keys filed the space, making it stiff.

Boris Lermontov was standing on the scene. The Russian impresario, known for his unique vision, his strive for art and music, his cruelty, austerity and exquisite discipline. But there was something else, something that I could felt but couldn’t explain, just followed his presence as he was talking quietly with Grischa, glancing at dancers. The music began and the energy surged.

I remained in the shadows of the depths of the rehearsal hall, but nothing could pass me by without being unnoticed:

The organization of the dancers was mesmerizing, but something in their movements felt unsafe, dangerous even. They moved sharply, dangerously, but graciously. Yet something wasn’t there. By looking at Boris’ gaze, how it shifted to slight disappointment, I realized that he was thinking the same thing. And then sudden realization came: the heart. It was missing, when everything else was undoubtedly there. The core element that would give ballet soul. That unbreakable, cold, deep Russian soul. I dared to think that maybe I could be that core element. The walls of British Rambert were indeed small for me and I finally realized it. All those years I’ve been striving for something yet was afraid to push myself forward. Those thoughts swirled in my head, making me dizzy, the body slightly leaned forward, and I stumbled. Cold sweat ran down from my head to toes, and I nervously looked at the scene but thankfully, no one saw or heard anything. Boris was standing beside the piano now, tapping lightly on the floor with his elegant cane, dancers kept practicing their movements, nothing distracted them.

I turned my back to the stage and sighed quietly. How silly it was to be afraid of showing up, of revealing myself, it felt like I was seven once again and was standing in the doors of the rehearsal room, looking at my first teacher at ballet academy with the same fear. The fear of something great and unknown was back again, when I was twenty-eight, standing in the shadows of the rehearsal hall, looking at my soon to be impresario. But as it happened in childhood – the invisible hand pushed me forward lightly, as if saying “Don’t be afraid of anything, Vasilisa”. I sighed once again and quietly disappeared in the darkness of the depths of the rehearsal hall: I had to pack my belongings and make farewells with British Rambert.

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The door to my dressing room in British Rambert was slightly opened, a small ray of light was falling on the corridor. On that time of the day the rehearsals usually were in their zenith. The next performance of ‘The Swan Lake’ was in schedule of couple of days from that particular afternoon when I was putting my personal things in my old bag, where I used to keep my training suits. Of course John was clever enough to know that it was now his mission to find the next prima of the theatre. Kathy? Kathy could be the one, not only she had right abilities for it – she wanted it with her heart.

“Well, I thought you’re going to leave without saying goodbye”, light knock on the door and John’s voice called from the corridor, waking me up from thoughts. He appeared in the doorway and leaned on it, smiling in satisfaction.

I smiled back:

“How could I?”, I acted if I was deeply offended, “After all the years and all the ballets we’ve made? You think too down about me, John Gilbert”

The man sighed lightly and continued, as leaned on the wall with posters of ‘The Swan Lake’, ‘Sleeping Beauty’ and ‘La Sylphide’ were hanging:

“I always knew that you couldn’t be kept in this place forever, Vasilisa. There is fire burning inside you, and it’s bigger than British Rambert.”

I stopped packing and turned to impresario, pleased to hear his approval of my increasing dancing abilities:

“Honestly, if not your invitation – my decision to leave wouldn’t come soon…”

“But you thought about it, am I right?”, the man winked at me, “And Boris felt it. He watched you dance Odette and he knew that you must shine brighter. But, Vasilisa, I’m warning you: don’t let him burn you down”

I looked at John with a slight uncertainty, maybe even with fear. Uncomfortable pause filled the air. If something too dark was hidden behind this warning.

“He’ll test you, I bet he’ll make you suffer, but, Vasilisa Acton, I’ve known you for many years and I tried to fight your stubborn character and failed…”

John’s words touched me deeply, and I looked at the impresario once again, but this time closer: he had warm look in his eyes, even when he was scolding someone – that warmth gaze remained. He was the one who believed in me when I just graduated from the academy, he gave me my first roles as prima. Year passed us by and we became very good friends. It was hard to let memories of British Rambert go. Yet John Gilbert was the one to slowly begin the parting ceremony.

“It’s Vasilisa Novinskaya now…”, I said quietly.

“Ah, well, Vasilisa Novinskaya, I know you were made for his ballet company, not for mine”, John smiled warmly, “And you know, like you, that Boris is not easy either, but you’ll handle him. And make sure he will never forget your name and the flame inside you.”

There was a small pause. We knew that, probably, it would be our farewell, and, probably, we wouldn’t see each other again, or, maybe, during Lady M welcoming parties, but years would pass, we didn’t know for sure.

We didn’t embrace, but John warmly touched my shoulder with his hand as he always did when he satisfied with the rehearsal or performance:

“Go, Vasilisa. And don’t look back. Not for me, not for anyone else. The stage belongs to you.”, he winked again, and I nodded and smiled lightly. I just wished John would never be disappointed in the decision that we both made. He left silently, just how he appeared earlier in the doorway.

I was alone again, as I have always been. There was some time left from the end of rehearsal, before dancers would fill the corridor, tired and sweaty, laughing about something, as they usually did, especially if the rehearsal was smooth. Of course they would talk about me leaving British Rambert. Of course there would be gossips about why Boris Lermontov picked me, no one else, but me. And I realized that I never asked him about that. Why it was me? Surely, I danced well, but maybe there was something else that ran through his mind? The mystery had to be revealed that same evening.

Posters on the wall were screaming ‘Vasilisa Acton’, the memories of every performance crawled back inside my head. They built me, they built my career and they were now left behind for new discoveries.

I sat in front of my makeup table, sighing. Photos of my parents from their wedding day and poster of my gradmother’s performance at Mariinsky theatre were hanging on the mirror frame, looking at me silently, as if they were always sharing my success and disappointments. My favourite cup of tea which I’ve found in the antique shop, small matryoshka doll my cousin Alexey from Moscow sent me as a small present, music box with ballerina, playing the music from ‘The Swan Lake’ with newspaper clippings inside were standing on my table with makeup brushes, small towels and bottle of Chanel’s Cuir de Russie – my favourite perfume which I always used when performing on stage. These small things were the part of my character. My Russian part, knowing only by my dear grandmother, who knew me like no one else did, who knew the depths of my lonely soul without words. But who would understand me when she would be gone? I tried to shove this thought off from my head, which slowly was crawling back more and more frequently, annoying and all-consuming, keeping me in cold vise.

Of course I would be fine by myself. No one would see me emotions if the façade would shatter a little.

Personal belongings were finally inside the suitcase and there was no sign of dancers or Victor in the corridor: it was time to leave British Rambert forever. I glanced around the dressing room and smiled to myself as if something amusing came to my mind, and finally closed the door which still had my surname 'Acton' on it. This chapter of my life has ended, but the new one was waiting for me in the corner.

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It was late evening, when I came back to the theatre. All the dancers were gone home, tired from the rehearsal. There was something mystical, private and sacred in theatre at night, when the voices of ballerinas, their rehearsals and performances, the echo of the music faded away with the light of day. The hum cars on London streets faded with every second me legs led me to the depths of the theatre. Everyone was gone except for the Russian impresario and the night watchman.

Boris wasn’t in his temporary cabinet. The contract with my signature on it was still on the desk where I left it. He didn’t see it, perhaps. I knew that he hadn’t seen it yet. And something was telling me that he never left the theatre. Not thinking much, I took the paper and left the room, aiming to find my future impresario in the depths of now empty building.

I found him, as guessed, in the rehearsal hall, standing in front of the piano, a small candle was standing on the top of the surface. He was making notes in the notebook, the tie on his white shirt was loosened, the sleeves were rolled up, left hand was running through his hair. My gaze stopped on his hands for a few seconds: wrists were lean and tendons were visible, the ink smudged along his knuckles. There was something silently beautiful in his hands, which commanded the entire production of the ballet, gentle, strong and deliberate. For a slight moment I thought I never wanted to touch someone's hands before as strongly. His jacket laid on the back of the chair, the cane was standing nearby, and a stack of paper laid on the chair's seat, some lumps of it were laying on the floor.

Probably he heard my quiet steps: when I reached the stage, he stopped writing and turned his body to my direction, several strands of hair were falling over his forehead, the sign of slight surprise could be seen in his eyes.

“You came back…”, he said thoughtfully, and after he saw surprised look on my face, added, returning to his notes he was holding in hands, “I saw you leaving the hall earlier today”, Lermontov seemed effortless, uninterested, but I could recognise the sign of relief in his voice.

“I didn’t want to announce myself”, I told him the truth, because it wasn’t possible for me to lie to him. I reached the chair with his notes on it, looking briefly at the pack, paying attention to his handwriting: it was calligraphic, with aesthetic curves curlicues.

“I thought so, too”, the man reached the chair and placed new notes on the top of it.

The silence fell, as we stood close to each other, and a low, electric current ran between us. Something was already in the air, but we couldn’t recognise what exactly that was. Or were we both afraid to even guess what could it possibly be?

To defuse this feeling and the atmosphere I dropped casually:

“I saw your ballet, actually, couple of days ago, in theatre", I glanced at Boris, but he just looked at me, raising his right eyebrow.

“And how did you find it?”

We walked to the ballet bare, which was still standing on the stage, our reflections in the mirror were blurred because of the darkness of the space we were in.

“Well, I found it unique, sharp, but…”, I paused again, trying to find the right words.

“But?”, now in impresario’s voice I could hear the curiosity and I smiled almost invisibly.

“But there’s something missing in it. I’d like to say soul of it is missing…”

I looked at the man, our eyes met. Our cold gazes were trying to froze the space and that tension which couldn’t leave us. Why would I feel it anyways? That dangerous magnetism, when similar attitudes began to morph together.

He was the one to ask questions, looking at me if he was doubting me:

“And you think that you’re the soul of it, miss Acton?”

I bit my lip, crumpling signed contract in my hand. Let him call me ‘Acton’ for the last time once again.

“I know that I can be the soul of it, mister Lermontov”

A sparkle ran in impresario’s gaze – he was pleased with my reply.

“Funny. Funny that you mentioned it, because I, indeed, invited you here to be the core element of my ballet.”, the man finally smiled lightly, and looked at his reflection in the mirror in front of the bare.

It was astonishing answer. Surprisingly I didn’t know that he was thinking about me that way.

“But I thought…”, I began, still crumpling my contract in hands, “I thought you picked me to be the prima of your company because I danced good”

He glanced at me in a way that made the air between us feel even more electrified. But then he turned and began to walk towards the chair with notes and his cane, not looking at me, his voice was thoughtful.

“You danced like you was still reaching for something more, not the applauses the audience, but something bigger than that. Something honest and pure. Of course you danced well, Vasilisa. Unforgettable, even. But as I said ­– I didn’t pick you for that”, he finally replied and his worm, but strict voice echoed in the room.

But why then?

I never dared to ask such question. He never dared to answered it. It hung in an electrifying air between us, but we still could feel it. Instead, Boris reached the chair, turned and stepped toward me, reaching out his right hand, the shirt sleeve still hasn't been pulled down, to take my contract from my hands. Our fingers almost touched when I gave him papers, but I pretended I never felt it.

“Vasilisa…”, Boris began slowly, his eyes running through the contract.

“Novinskaya,” I finished sharply, being sure in my decision.

The man looked up at me, his eyes widened slightly. The slight sign of a smile could be seen in the corner of his lips. Of course he understood me. It wasn't just the change of my surname. It was the beginning of something unknown, bold and daring, something dangerous, yet something unforgettable.

“We’ll begin tomorrow”, his voice remained soft, confident. When I felt the cold wave pouring down on me right the same moment. I gave the small nod, and turned toward the exit door, when the threads of electricity which kept us in claws began to rip off.

The sound of shoes heels echoed in the empty theatre, when anticipation was running down my spine. It was everything that I needed to hear that evening. That Boris Lermontov waited for me, that he needed me in his ballet company, that I was not only there simply because I danced well. It warmed my ego, and my heart was beating so loud that I thought I could hear its pounding in the corridor.

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[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 3. Cello Sonata in G Minor, Op. 19: III. Andante (Sergei Rachmaninoff)

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Sunday morning was quiet. As they always were. The time felt slower. Maybe too slow comparing to the previous night at The Savoy with the beautiful classical music, laughs and talks of guests and the clinking of glasses. The dizzy feeling of the night morphed into the colourful dream, uniting the events of previous days into one surreal scenery. I didn't want to wake up and let the magical feeling vanish. My bed didn't want to let me go, holding me tight in invisible arms of the blanket. I wished I could stay in the dream forever, in dream there were no troubles of the world and people dear to me were alive. But the sounds of the morning were morphing into the remains of the dream, just like loud interrupting sounds.

Even if my body and mind didn't want to wake up, I had to obey. The day of the anniversary of the death of my parents came and cut my heart once again, leaving deeper scar on it. I wished this day would never come, but of course it came back. It was slow, viscous, heavy, it kept all the muscles in rusty vise, leaving the remains for the next morning.

Maybe it wasn't the right time for me to think about the ballet offer. It added heavy burden to those feelings which I already had that day. And the condition of my grandmother's heart made it even worse. Of course, she had a nurse, who came to her to help if needed, but it was still hard for me to make the decision. I was afraid not to be with her when the time would come for her to leave me. Somehow I knew that it wouldn't be far from that day we visited the graveyard.

Anastasia Nikolaevna Novinskaya was very strong and wise woman. She always had that cold and sharp attitude, which, in my parents' opinion, I inherited. My father Anthony Acton would point this out especially when I demanded something very angrily or when I would remain quiet when we went to cinema or art gallery. He was smart, polite, hard when needed to be. I still remembered the smell of tabaco which he loved to smoke from his pipe. And I could still recognise it on the street whenever someone passed me by.

My mother Polina Fyodorovna Acton was gentle, kind, and she had a great sense of humour. Whenever when I was a child and had a nightmare: she would sit beside my bed, telling me stories and fairytales with her beautiful voice. All those magical Russian fairytales: 'The Tale of Tsar Saltan', 'Vasilisa the Beautiful', 'The Scarlet Flower'. My mother knew them by heart. But she didn't know the spell to bring her and my father back to life.

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"Here lay Anthony James Acton and Polina Fyodorovna Acton, dearly loved husband and wife and devoted parents. The water called them home, but they were never parted", was engraving on the stone near the graves, where I put bouquet of white daffodils.

The photographs of my parents were standing on their crosses: mother in her beautiful dark-green dress with silk blouse, long brown curls of her hair framed her face, same grey-green eyes as mine and warm smile on her face. For me she was the most gorgeous lady, like Vivienne Leigh. Father was in dark-brown jacket with white shirt and a tie, his brown hair was neat and tidy with the help of wax, with a few strands of hair fell over his forehead. Grey-green eyes and a slight smile was on his face. For me he looked like Cary Grant, the real dapper gentlemen.

Grandmother never talked much when we visited their graves. There was nothing that could be said that day, and every word that was said felt like it came from the depths of ourselves, like whisper. Even London, as busy as it always was – shared our grief.

The birds stopped singing and the spring rain conducted our figures when we left the graveyard – grandma, leaning on my arm with her hand, still gentle and graceful despite old years and still graceful despite the years and the arthritis on them, and I with my strong legs but heavy thoughts inside my head.

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"Is something bothering you, Vasya?"

My family used to call me by the nickname 'Vasya', 'Vasilisa' was used only if I've done something mischievous or wrong.

I heard how grandmother stirred her tea in the cup, placing the spoon gently on the saucer, as I stood beside the window of the living room of my grandmother's apartment, looking at the raindrops falling down the glass. The fire was cracking in the fireplace and the music in the old music player sounded quietly on the background, playing songs of Alexander Vertinsky, when the samovar was still steaming on the table with white laced tablecloth and saucers with jam, honey and a plate with 'Moscow' buns – my favourite pastry granny used to make every time I visited her.

"Babushka* (grandmother (rus)", I sat gently across from Anastasia Nikolaevna, taking my cup of hot tea in two hands, "I didn't tell you this earlier, but I met Boris Lermontov the other day..."

Of course she knew who he was. She even told me couple of times throughout my rising career, that she would love to see me as his prima, as his protégé. “Only he can understand your desire to dance, only his Russian stubborn character can tame your obstinate Russian soul”, she told me once, but I just rolled my eyes. I never knew how right my grandmother was. But that time she looked at me silently, and took a sip from her tea, signing for me to continue my story. Even though she probably knew what I wanted to say.

"He offered me a place in his company, to be the prima...", I lowered my gaze, taking a small sip from my cup if my throat was dry, "It felt like it wasn't even a question, as if he knew I would agree...But I didn't answer"

I looked back at my grandmother to see her reaction, whichever could it be. She had a little pleased smile on her face as if she was telling me “I told you so, my dear”, but she replied nothing, and I continued.

"I told him I'd come visit the rehearsal tomorrow, just to watch, before they'll leave to Paris", I exhaled these words and they hung in the air of the living room, where the sounds of raindrops mixed together with the cracks of the fire in the fireplace and the ticking of big watches.

"If you're waiting for me to tell you not to take his offer than you think strangely of me, my dear, I told you what I think about him before, Vasya", grandmother smiled lightly, "And don't worry about me – Lucy will take care of me as she does now, don't ruin the opportunity because of my health", she said sharply, maybe even too loud, to wake me up from doubts.

I looked at Anastasia Nikolaevna, my dearest grandmother. I wanted to be as strong as she was. No matter what pain and sorrow she faced – she was always dancing through all the hardship with the grace of ballerina and strength of the Russian woman. Even after she was forced to the hospital after her stroke – she refused to let anyone take care of her, she never wanted to look weak in the eyes of others. Not when she was prima in Mariinsky, not even now. She finally agreed to let the nurse Lucy come and check her during weekend only few months ago.

“Vasya, are you afraid?”, she said gently, taking my hand in her rough palm.

I didn't answer, but I nodded positively. Of course I was afraid. Even a slightest thought of leaving theatre and signing for Lermontov's travelling ballet company made my legs heavier as it they transformed into stones. I was afraid of failure. Of being laughed out loud. I worked so hard to become prima of British Rambert and now I was afraid. But deep inside I knew that if I was not going to accept Boris' offer – I would regret it for the rest of my life. No matter if I was going to succeed. My heart would yearn because I would made a fool of myself. I never realised that I held my breath for too long.

"I don't know if I can do this, babushka.", I stood up from the chair and walked towards the fireplace, sighing heavily. It felt like the invisible thread of the corset was knotted inside my chest tighter and tighter, "What if I fail?"

"You think I never failed?", grandma laughed lightly, "Vasya, if you only knew how many times it happened, during my career, it was tremendously hard to rise up, despite the pain. But I rose up, with grace, because there was no other choice. And you will rise up with pride, Vasilisa", she smiled softly and stood up from her seat, "Come with me, I have something for you"

We came to her bedroom, with a bit painting of her, when she was prima in Mariinsky Theatre and performed as Ondine – gracious woman in turquoise costume, shoulders and tutu decorated with big flowers. Her hair was tied up in a bun pinned with big flower. The woman on the painting smiled lightly, as if she was hiding the secret.

“I found it three days ago, but I thought I lost it when I arrived to London”, babushka opened the box with Palekh painting on it, where she kept her jewelry and handed me beautiful white golden necklace with a pearl, shimmering on a light of the small lamp, standing on the bedside table.

“I want you to wear this, as a sign of my endless support of you”, she smiled softly, and touched my cheek, “My dear, you've always been dancing towards something bigger than yourself, you just didn't have the courage to figure it out”, her look was worm and gentle that only grandmothers had.

She put the necklace in my opened palm and placed her hand on it, saying quietly:

"I always knew that you're greater than British Rambert. You heart belongs to different place. And it seems like this place has found you. Go with Boris, and never doubt yourself", she took my face in her hands and the smile disappeared, replaced by sharp look, "And never, never show your weakness"

These words pierced me like sharp needles, like cold water dropped on my whole body. My grandmother was right. In the eyes of new ballet troupe, and especially in the eyes of Boris Lermontov I should show my strength and my strength only. No one saw me crying after the rehearsal if I moved slightly wrong, no one saw me frown, that's why I was famous for my cold gaze and heart. No one knew what I felt inside. And no one would know. Not even the impresario, especially not him.

The music on the record player in the living room stopped and only the cracking sound of the disc could be heard. It felt like thoughts in my head in one second disappeared and only the same cracking noise remained.

“Chai ostyl* (the tea got cold (rus)”, babushka said quietly, bringing us back to our evening’s routine when I visited her, and left the room, leaving me behind.

Before coming back to the living room, I glanced once again at her painting, which captivated me every time I looked at it. It felt like young prima ballerina Anastasia Nikolaevna was whispering to me, but her voice sounded like unsettled shores of the sea and I couldn’t recognise the words, or maybe it was my imagination, mixing with lack of sleep and confusion of uncertainty. But it became clear as suddenly as the music of Alexander Vertinsky stopped playing.

I took a deep breath, and left the bedroom, feeling like the stream of water had carried me into an ocean of new sensations that would open up to me the next day, when I’d go to see the rehearsal of Boris Lermontov’s ballet company. Everything was decided.

______________________________________________________________

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[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 2. Romeo and Juliet, Op. 64, Act 1, Scene 2: No 13, Dance of the Knights (Sergei Prokofiev)

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Couple of impresarios, with the help of the famous Lady M, who tremendously loved ballet, organised the private party at The Savoy's to greet Boris Lermontov and his travelling ballet company in London the next night after my performance in ‘Swan Lake’.

John Gilbert, as the impresario of British Rambert and one of the closest friends of well-known in wide circles Lady M, was invited to the event. I bet the dancers in our company at British Rambert wanted to join us, but John was unwilling. I knew that he wanted me to become successful prima, more successful than I was at British Rambert, and somehow he knew that Lermontov was the one who would lead me to such success.

My mind was telling me the same thing when I was getting ready for the evening at The Savoy, zipping my red knee-length velvet dress and spraying perfume on my neck. Black evening jacket was hanging on the back of the chair, black evening lacquered shoes were standing on the floor near the chair.

When I put evening shoes on my toes, I remembered the first time when fingers on them bled from the calluses when I was twirling the fuetes as a student of the ballet academy, many years ago. How pointe shoes sucked blood and I had to wash them thrice, because the bloodstains couldn't be washed off. How some students were very curious why my name was 'Vasilisa' and asked me if I appeared from Russian fairytale.

Their curiosity didn't hurt me, they meant no harm and I was never being laughed about even though my name was unusual for them. I always remembered my roots and knew my family tree, which began to grow in the Russian Empire and in Great Britain, because my mother was Russian and my father was British. But for almost my whole life I was mostly by myself. Of course, I had friends, but mostly preferred my own company during free time after school and ballet academy. And books kept great company: stories of Jane Austen and poems of Brontё sisters came together with poems of Sergei Yesenin and great stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolsoty.

The clocks in the living room struck half past seven – it was time to leave for the event. The jacket and my long black coat were finally on me as I glanced at myself in the mirror, sighing slightly, and left the flat, closing the door behind me, not knowing what to expect from the endless night of the party and my second meeting with great and terrible Boris Lermontov.

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The night was very warm for the end of march, that particular smell of blooming spring was in the air. Strangers were passing by the street of Mayfair, where I used to live. All those people and sweet couples were busy: everyone was going somewhere, either back home from long day at work or heading to pub, theater or cinema.

When I was about to catch the taxi cab – it stopped beside me and a laughing couple exited the car: they were both laughing and holding hands, looking even too sweet. For a second the girl's eyes met my glance where I could see her deep joy and love for the guy who held her hand tightly. I lowered my gaze as fast as I possibly could and sat inside the taxi cab, but a whirlwind of thoughts started in my head as soon as the car started moving.

Love and relationships were something that I never considered to myself: at the ballet academy my attention was fully on dance lessons, I didn’t even have the time to think about anything else, especially love. Almost all the girls there were excitedly talking about the boys, how they used to hang out together, sneaking out of the academy, missing ballet lessons. I found it a waste of time: if someone was thinking effortlessly about the ballet, if they were missing their classes and rehearsals – they shouldn’t be there in the first place.

Of course, I felt jealous, wishing to love someone, loneliness sometimes was unbearable for the girl coming of age, but when I grew older – it stopped bothering me as much. I didn’t know what it was like to love a boy who loved me back. The only love for me was my family and the art of ballet.

The thoughts about love smoothly transformed into memories of my early days in British Rambert when I just joined the ballet company when the taxi cab was driving through London's traffic jam of Saturday’s evening.

______________________________________________________________

I joined British Rambert when I graduated from the ballet academy. John saw my courage to become prima, which was hidden in the cold façade of my soul and first insecurities. Someone was gossiping that I had the opportunity to join the company because my grandmother was once prima in the Mariinsky ballet company in Imperial Saint Petersburg, and John heard about my lineage. But my grandmother never asked about such things. She was very strict, and believed that if someone was talented enough – they would overcome those who entered the company simply because of their connections. Talent and great passion to the craft were the key to the success.

My soul was aiming for The Royal Ballet in Covent Garden, but I stayed with British Rambert until the present day. But since I turned twenty-eight last summer – my heart began to yearn for changes, when my senses were still afraid if I could tame The Royal Ballet, but deep inside I felt that I was craving for something or even someone more unique, as stubborn as I was, outlandish stranger surrounded by people who would never understand their character.

And I deeply wished that my parents Polina and Anthony Acton would be there to support me or give their ponderous advice. I missed them tremendously, despite the fact that they died in the car crash when I was seven and didn’t remember them much and those pale memories that were once vivid faded away with time.

My grandmother Anastasia Nikolaevna Novinskaya took care of me, giving lessons of life and she was the one who introduced me to the magical world of the ballet. Her surreal stories about how she was prima in the the Mariinsky ballet company, how gracefully she danced her ballet parts, how even The Tsar admired her performances convinced me to enroll to the ballet academy.

“There will be pain, tremendous pain, my dear”, she told me once during the tea time, smoking the cigarette in the mouthpiece, when I told her about my decision to become ballerina, “Not a lot of young girls are willing to overcome tears and pain, bloody, worn-out toes in pointe shoes to become ballerina, I am not mentioning l'étoiles.”

“But I want to be l'étoile, grandma”, seven-year-old me said harshly, but confidently, as if my grandmother didn’t believe in my desire, “I want to be like you”

She stopped smoking and looked straight into my eyes, leaning slightly closer. The living room became quiet, only the ticking of big old clocks could be heard.

"You must be greater than me, my dear", she said with her quiet but demanded voice, making me shiver.

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"The Savoy", voice of the cab driver woke me up abruptly, and I didn't even notice how was immersed in memories.

"Thank you", I replied, and exited the car, stepping on the big red carpet, which led to the hotel's entrance in my evening shoes. It felt like I suddenly entered the fairytale, like the princess attending the ball, staying incognito.

I walked through the grand hall of the hotel and walked up the marble stairs, following the music which sounded upstairs. The room for private events was located between the fourth and fifth floors, hidden behind the dark-green velvet curtains: the party was in its zenith, when I entered the room, where Sergei Prokofiev's music composition ‘Dance of the Knights’ from the ballet ‘Romeo and Juliet’ could be heard.

The space was crowded but every guest found their comfortable spot: someone was sitting in the couch, talking, some gentlemen and ladies in evening dresses and gowns were standing beside the bar, drinking champagne or whiskey. The music was diving: the band was playing compositions mostly of Russian composers, who wrote ballet pieces: Pyotr Tchaikovsky, Sergei Prokofiev and Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.

I took a glass of champagne from the waiter who was holding the tray of shining glasses and stood beside the wall with the big copy of painting hanging on it: 'Ophelia' by Sir John Everett Millais. There was something mesmerising in it: bright small details of the scenery and on the garment of Ophelia's dress, her upward gaze captivated and scared me.

"Oh, I'm glad you came!", John reached me from my back, as I was looking at the painting, holding a glass of whiskey in his hand, "I knew that you would listen to me"

I rolled my eyes and smirked, taking a sip from my glass:

"Sometimes I think you know me too well, John"

Impresario bowed his head and laughed:

"Because it's true, Vasilisa", he took a sip from his glass, "Have you seen Boris yet?"

"No, I haven't", I replied dryly, taking another sip from my glass of champagne, "I've heard he's not a great fan of such parties generally. And even if he is here – I'm not going to chase him, like other ballerinas would"

"Oh, your obstinate attitude, miss Acton", John rolled his eyes, "Sometimes I wonder what's inside your head..."

"Cold calculation, mister Gilbert, cold calculation", I replied and turned to face the room, where every lady and gentlemen enjoyed themselves, but only him was missing. Only then the realisation came to me: I wish I would see Boris in that crowd of people, or maybe I wished he would see me. As if such thoughts scared me, I shook my head slightly to make them go away and turned to John who never saw it.

"Well, enjoy yourself, dear, we have tomorrow to cure the hangover of today's evening", John winked and smiled, hugging me lightly, "I'll join you later", and impresario of British Rambert dissolved in the crowd of guests, leaving me standing near "Ophelia" painting.

John never joined me later, but I didn't need to have his company for the evening, as I was perfectly fine with myself and being alone. For couple of minutes, I walked through the room, looking at the ceiling, decorated with golden tinsel and looking at paintings, hanging in the walls. After some time, I had a feeling that the space became too loud and crowded, my head felt dizzy and with fear that I might faint at any moment – I went out on the balcony, where the fresh and cold night air of filled me inside, bringing my senses back. It was so fresh and so good to finally breathe the air of springtime, I wasn’t afraid of catch a cold as I was wearing only my dress and a jacket. When I closed my eyes to make a breath with my full lungs – I felt someone’s presence on the same balcony.

“Good evening, miss Acton”, Boris Lermontov remained at his place, leaning on the wall of the hotel, smoking his cigarette.

I quickly turned to him, as if some indescribable force had jerked me sharply and met his gaze.

“You’ve found my hiding spot”, he smiled pleasantly, walking towards me, when I slightly leaned forward on the surface of the balcony. Funny how only during that evening I noticed how charmingly he talked with his slightly visible Russian accent. My grandmother used to have the same sweet accent when she used to talk in English. But thankfully to her and to my parents – I knew both Russian and English and talked without accent.

“Well, rumors of your dislikes of public events arrived to London earlier than your ballet company”, I smiled back, placing the glass of champagne on the surface, “And neither am I a fan of big parties”

"Such parties are the fuzz for the people who think that they know what the ballet means and want to show it to everyone, but it's their vanity, a show-off", the man continued, pointing at guests, who were enjoying themselves at the party, "They don't know anything about ballet"

I smiled lightly:

"Funny, my grandmother says the same thing about such people..."

"I've heard about Anastasia Nikolaevna, John mentioned her the other day"

I glanced at Boris. I didn't want him to think that he asked me to join his ballet company because of my grandmother.

"Predatel'* (*traitor (rus)”, I lowered my gaze, "I asked John not to mention my grandmother to anyone, people loved to make rumors that I am prima in British Rambert because of my grandmother's blessings"

But the man just smiled effortlessly.

"You know Russian, miss Acton?", he asked with his little Russian accent, looking directly at me. There was a sparkle in his eyes, and I couldn't help but being captivated by his whole appearance.

"Well, with my Russian grandmother and mother it's not that hard, ne pravda li, tovarisch Lermontov?"* (*isn't that right, comrade Lermontov (rus)

Boris smiled cunningly and replied:

"Konechno"* (*of course (rus), the man leaned forward on the surface of the balcony, "I’ve known Anastasia Nikolaevna for couple of years, I saw her once in Mariinsky when I was younger. And believe me, I didn't have such a thought when I saw you as Odette. You have talent, tremendous talent, miss Acton", he paused for a moment, and looked at me. The tension ran between us like a hot flame, "And I'm asking once again, have you come to a decision about joining my ballet company? There are more opportunities for you to open up your talent, more than in British Rambert."

I looked at the Russian impresario. The laughs of the guests could be heard inside the room, but at that time there were only two of us and our conversation on the balcony that mattered. To both of us, to both strangers yet to closest people.

"Not yet, mister Lermontov", my reply was dry as if something was stuck in my throat and I took a sip from my glass of champagne to moist it and turned to face the opened doors of the room where the sounds of popping corks and opening champagne bottles mixed together with the laughs of the guests. By this time John was completely erased from my memory.

“What stops you then?”, the man asked, also turning to face the room.

“Many things…”, I said thoughtfully, looking at my black shoes, recalling my grandmother: for couple of months, she didn’t feel herself well, and the heart issues which she had for her whole life have made themselves felt, this time deeper.

“Miss Acton, do you love dancing?”, Lermontov looked at me reproachfully.

I looked back at him, feeling myself insulted, and snapped, looking at impresario:

“Do you love breathing?”

The surprise could be seen on his face: probably he wasn't expecting that I'd answer with a counter question and it would be straightforward.

"Well, in order to live I must", he replied, still being astonished by my question.

"That's my answer too. And I don’t want you to doubt my desire. There are other obstacles, deeper than that…", I paused and suddenly it felt like the music inside the room disappeared after my words.

For a brief moment it felt like with such reply I defined my purpose in life, not only in my profession which became the desire. But I just shrugged my shoulders and lowered the gaze on my shoes, sighing:

“Sometimes I think I’m too old to start something new, mister Lermontov, I’m turning twenty-nine this summer”, I smirked lightly, "It's especially hard when someone got used to the place where they spent so many years..."

"Miss Acton, have you heard about Lola Montès?", he cut me off abruptly, breathing out the smoke of his cigarette which he lighted.

"Who haven’t?"

"Well, so you know that Lola never considered herself too old for trying something new and extravagant as she was through all of her unpredictable life", the man replied, turning his gaze at me, "So I don't see a decent excuse here. You need those changes, you just can't accept it yet", he finished dryly, but confidently, as if he was the magician. He truly was, in a way. "And call me Boris, it will be easier for both of us, miss Acton"

I looked back at him again and our icy-cold gazes met. It felt like the ground of the balcony was sinking under our feet. Somehow, I knew that Boris would understand not only my reply, but more than that – my strive for being one of the greatest prima of the ballet world, not just of British Rambert, and he would share my obsession with the art of dancing.

"Well, in this case, you can call me Vasilisa", I said as confident as I could, waiting who was going to be the first one to break the stare. Both of us broke eye contact at the same time. The man smiled lightly, almost invisibly.

"Well, since you're still thinking about my offer: how about looking at the rehearsal of my ballet company then?", Russian impresario asked me, looking at his watches, "It'll start on Monday, early in the morning, at 7. It's in the rehearsal studio right close to The Royal Ballet, you know this place?"

I nodded. There was no harm in visiting the rehearsal. In fact, it was very curious to look at how did he work with dancers, especially after hearing gossips from other ballet dancers in British Rambert that Boris was very strict and had his own unique methods.

“Good. And, perhaps, you’ll want to practice with my dancers, if you want, of course”

"Perhaps", I took a sip from my glass of champagne, "Are the dancers rehearsing something from new production?", my eyes lighted up, maybe from the champagne, maybe from the curiosity of hearing about Boris' ballet, maybe from our dialogue.

"Oh, no, for now, new production exists only in glimpses of my imagination", the man smiled cunningly, but the next second he became serious, "The prima of my ballet suddenly decided to get married and leave the dancing world, right after the premiere and I decided to cancel the production...", he paused and looked at the scenery of the busy London, unfolding from the balcony.

There was something mystical in Lermontov's words. Why did he cancel the whole new performance? That question remained unanswered. I just looked at him and understood that there was deeper explanation for his actions. But during that evening in The Savoy, during that moment I didn't dare to ask further questions. The right time would come shortly afterwards.

"… 'Gisele' is in plans for now.", Russian impresario finished and continued to look at the streets of London, not paying attention to the party inside the building. Neither did I.

"So, Monday, 7 o'clock.", the man turned back to me, and looked at his watches again, "I'm leaving you now, but I think that we would have more time to talk deals over in the near future. Enjoy the evening, and, do svidanya, Vasilisa"* (goodbye (rus), Boris nodded and smiled slightly when I looked into his eyes, which were telling me that he already knew that I would take his offer.

After Russian impresario left the balcony, I remained standing there for few more minutes, breathing in the air of the night, until I heard John's voice, calling me to join the party, which at that time seemed everlasting, even when the one, to whom it was organised, left it long time ago.

______________________________________________________________

“And who knows maybe your two Russian lonely souls will find the right connection”…Goodness, maybe John was right after all?”, I asked myself again and again during the whole evening.

The taxi cab was driving me back home, leaving The Savoy and memories of it behind. For the whole evening I tried to shove his words off, but with every new minute that I’ve spent talking to Russian impresario these words were confirmed and it was impossible to think otherwise. It began clear to me that me and Boris had so much more in common than I could possibly imagine before. With him only I won’t be afraid of taking any kind of a risk, any risk a person could or couldn’t even thought of. Maybe it was a clear sign to take this tremendous opportunity and dive into it, without looking back. To trust his ideas, because both of us knew the same language of strive for the perfection.

I leaned back in the car seat, closing my eyes, feeling a little dizzy because of the champagne I drank. The lights of the street lamp got on my closed eyelids as was driving me back home, leaving The Savoy and memories of it behind. Yet I couldn't help but realise that I began to think about the great and terrible Boris Lermontov more and more constantly from that memorable night at the party.

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🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

🩰 'Serpent dance' masterlist 🩰

[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

note: The title of each chapter is a musical composition of particular composers that conveys the mood of a certain part of the narrative. For a better feeling of the chapter, it is better to read it while listening to a particular composition.

Chapter 1. Swan Lake, Op. 20, TH 12, Act I: Introduction. Moderato Assai Chapter one (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

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It was a regular performance of 'Swan Lake' with British Rambert at the Mercury Theatre. It was an ordinary day, full of rehearsals, preparations and anxiety which I always had right before every single ballet night, no matter if it was my first performance as one of the ballerinas in the corps de ballet or when I became prima ballerina, and no matter if it was the premiere or the third performance. There was no sign of changes in the air that day. But the evening after my performance of Odette irrevocably and stunningly changed my life and my perception of love and passion.

I never saw him in the audience. The great and terrible Boris Lermontov. That’s how almost everyone used to call him. Of course, when someone was involved in ballet world – his name and his travelling ballet company were known by every person, but no one could tell me about his character, there were only gossips. It never bothered me. Before that night at the Mercury Theatre.

During ‘Swan Lake’ my concentration was fully on movements, on every step and pirouette that I made, listening to the immortal music of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, and every time when my partner lifted me above his head – it felt like I was floating in the air. When I was performing on stage the rest of the world faded away – there was only me and the dance.

Nothing mattered to me: my love to art of the ballet was always in my heart and I put soul inside it. No one understood my passion. Even my grandmother didn’t, and sometimes I wished to find someone who would share my passion to ballet, who could lead me to the pure grace and pain of it. I never knew that it would happen, but destiny is very unpredictable.

After that regular, as I thought it was, performance of ‘Swan Lake’ with British Rambert at the Mercury Theatre we made our bows to the audience as we usually did. Same curtains dropped and hided us from peeping eyes of the audience. With laughs of other ballerinas, I went to my dressing room, closing the door behind me.

I took off my tutu, changing into my regular clothes and was about to take my stage make-up off, when the knock on the door brought me back from thoughts.

“May I come in?”, Kathy, one of our ballerinas, asked me.

“What is it, Kathy?”, I didn’t turn to her, but saw her reflection in the mirror. She had very strange look on her face and she was looking directly at me, smiling excitedly.

“Just guess who saw the performance tonight”, she sat on an empty sofa in front of the rail with ballet tutus and empty hangers.

“The King himself?”, I smiled sarcastically, but the girl continued to smile brightly.

“Almost”, she took a deep breath, “It’s Boris Lermontov”

For a second, my hand stopped holding a towel. This was too surreal to be true. I heard Kathy’s voice echoing in my head saying his name louder and louder. But I turned to her with an effortless look, continuing to take off the powder and lipstick from my face.

“Well, I hope he liked the performance…”, I didn’t finish the sentence, when Kathy stunned me again.

“He is here to see you, Vasilisa”, she said it quite loud, and I heard whispers of other girls from behind the slightly opened door of my dressing room.

I glanced at Kathy for one second, trying to figure out if she was telling the truth or it was one of her jokes.

“Me? Please, don’t be ridiculous”, I smirked slightly, “The great and terrible Boris Lermontov can open any door, ask for any tremendously dancing ballerina in London, Paris, Moscow or New York, but not me, I'm afraid. You’re mistaken, my dear”, I snapped and turned to Kathy.

"But I've heard John", the girl insisted, "He was talking to Lermontov in the corridor…Maybe he saw something in your performance and why didn't he? You're great dancer"

Her confidence made me curious. Perhaps, it was not one of her jokes at all. But why me? I wasn’t ideal prima, as, for example, my grandmother was when she was young. Why me, after all?

"You're flattering me, Kathy", I winked at the girl. She was right, though, but I couldn't see it in myself, I felt stagnation rather than the improvement of my dances.

Kathy laughed a little and stood up from the sofa, “We're leaving in couple of minutes, you’re coming with us?”

“No, you can go, I’ve got some things to do here”, I replied and continued to look at myself in the mirror, beginning to comb my long dark-brown hair and catching my reflection: my face wasn't that remarkable except for the thick dark eyebrows and big grey-green eyes, even though they were now tired – they always had sparkle inside, especially when I was dancing on stage.

Almost everyone in British Rambert at the Mercury Theatre were telling me that I was great prima, but I was craving for something more tremendous and was striving to conquer the ballet world, to make my grandmother proud of me, I wanted to be proud of myself and I would sacrifice everything to make it happen.

The footsteps in the corridor sounded louder and louder as someone was reaching my dressing room, with echoing murmuring voices, and then there was a loud knock on the door: John, the maestro of British Rambert used to knock that loudly.

"Come, John, I know that it's you", I said and stood up from my make-up table, putting the black jacket on my shoulders.

John entered the room but my eyes met the icy gaze of the guest: the great and terrible Boris Lermontov. But I looked at him with the same cold gaze, because of which everyone called me 'Vasilisa the Cold'. I hoped he understood that I was not that simple-minded girl even though I looked like one.

"Oh, I'm glad you're still here, Vasilisa", John's voice sounded somewhere outside the building when me and Boris tore our icy gazes away from each other, “I wanted to talk to you.”, maestro  closed the door behind him and all three of us were now captured in the dressing room. Suddenly it became too small and too cramped.

“Vasilisa”, John exhaled my name excitedly, “I want you to meet…”

“Yes, I know who you are”, I looked at the man, who continued to run his gaze over me, as if already judging my abilities.

"Did my reputation get ahead of me?", Boris asked sarcastically, holding out his hand to greet me.

“As fast as the success of your travelling ballet company”, I replied, shaking his hand. On exact same moment it felt like the cold tension ran between us.

"Well, since foreplay is unnecessary here, let's go straight to business, shall we?", John asked to cool the pressure down and looked at me, “No one in the ballet company knew about it, but I invited Boris tonight to the theatre to show him our performance, since he was in the city”

“Victor was very persistent”, Lermontov began, leaning against the wall slightly, “He, actually, wrote me a couple of times before, begging to visit Mercury Theatre and see your performance, miss…?”, he looked at me questioningly. I realized that he didn’t know neither my name nor my surname.

“Miss Acton. Vasilisa Acton”, I pronounced, and for a brief second, he froze, looking at me.

But then he continued:

“Miss Acton, yes. To see your performance in 'Swan Lake'. He said that you, miss Acton, is unique prima but with lack of ambitions”

I looked angrily at John. When someone was saying things about me or my abilities – I always became furious. Because they were right. I just simply didn’t want to admit it to myself, because the truth hurt my ego.

“And I must admit, that mister Gilbert was right”

“That I have lack of ambitions, mister Lermontov?”, my voice sounded sarcastically, but anger was burning inside me. With a corner of an eye, I saw John turning his head towards me, as if he couldn’t believe that someone could talk to Boris Lermontov in such arrogant way. But he didn’t know what I could do when my ego was hurt.

“That you are unique prima”, Boris smiled slightly, “But with lack of ambitions indeed, as I saw it myself. Without any more preludes and long talks, I want to ask you, miss Acton, if you want to join my ballet company”

In that moment I thought that I was dreaming and became deaf at the same time, like a cold wave washed over me. There were ballet dancers in our theatre, who wanted to be in Lermontov's ballet company. Of course, I was among them. But when the maestro was now standing in front of me, asking to join his company – it sounded too ideal to be true.

“And mister Gilbert approves it”, the guest finished, and was waiting for my reply, just how John was waiting, glancing at me and at Boris with every new second of my silence.

There were rumors about Lermontov's hard character and cruelty towards dancers. But I knew my cold and hard nature as well. What was eating me inside was the fact that I was not sure if I could take high stakes, if I could achieve high goals, when my age wasn’t becoming any younger. I was afraid of changes but at the same time my heart was yearning for them. It was all confusing and it was hard to give straightforward decision without looking at it from another prospective or to think about it after a night of good sleep.

My mind was screaming for another, true answer, but my reply was completely different from what I wanted to say:

"What can I say?", I paused for a moment to get some air inside my lungs, "...It is an honor, really, but I must think this proposal over, mister Lermontov...”, I exhaled and glanced at John first, then at Boris, who was looking directly at me. If only I could hear his thoughts at that moment, because the way of how he looked at me I thought that he could burn out my soul, but I responded with my defiantly cold gaze.

Not a sound could be heard from outside the makeup room – everyone went home but only three of us remained at theatre. It felt like all three of us were in the detective story, which was filled with ghosts of the past.

“Well, I suppose you can have time for making up your mind, miss Acton”, the man replied calmly, but looking at me with his cold gaze, “I just hope you’ll think about this clearly and deeply, before making harsh decisions. My company will stay in London for the next week.”, he finished and looked at his watches, addressing John, “I’ll see you at The Savoy tomorrow then?”

“Of course”, John finally woke up from hearing our caustic conversation.

“I’ll wait for your decision, miss Acton”, Boris looked at me for the last time that evening, and all I could do was to shake his hand as parting.

The guest put on his trench coat and a hat, and without looking back, left my dressing room, leaving the door opened.

I watched Boris go and when the sound of closing front doors of the theatre echoed in the corridor – I turned and looked reproachfully at John, who effortlessly was looking at his watches as if nothing has happened.

“Well, as your current maestro, I advise you to take this proposal into consideration. You must think about your career and what heights you can achieve”, he said finally, “But you know perfectly well that I don't want to let you go. You’re l'étoile of British Rambert”

“But I haven't said "yes" have I?", this question sounded like it was a bluff and the acceptance of Boris' offer was inevitable. Something inside me was telling that it would happen only I rejected to believe in it, “Besides, the final performance of ‘Swan Lake’ is only in two days…”

“Just think about it. Such proposals don’t come around that often and especially they don’t come from Boris Lermontov”, John replied, shrugging his shoulders, “And who knows maybe your two Russian lonely souls will find the right connection”, he gave me a look and smiled, but I only smirked.

Of course, not only John but other members of the crew in British Rambert paid attention to my attitude: I was always by myself, not talking much, always keeping personal feelings inside. Not only because of my profession: the world of ballet is very tough and crucial; it was also my character: cold, emotionless, lonely.

Only when I was alone – I could feel myself better. No one was peeping on me, no one knew what I was neither doing outside the stage nor thinking. No one knew that sometimes the facade which I built around me could sometimes shrink.

“Posmotrim*(* we’ll see (rus)”, I replied thoughtfully, mostly to myself, but John heard me and rolled his eyes.

“Vasilisa, please, stop talking in Russian, you know that I don’t understand a word that you’re saying when you talk in Russian”.

To be fair, he loved when I said words in Russian from time to time. Kathy asked me if she could learn some words in Russian as well. It was quite obvious from my first name that I was Russian, when my surname was British – my mother took father’s surname when she married him.

“Promise that you’ll think about it, eh?”, John put his hand around my shoulder, “Or at least come to tomorrow’s party” and looked at his watches, “My goodness, did you see what time it is now? Tomorrow we must be fresh and ready for the new day”, he yawned, “And don’t forget about The Savoy – you’re also invited, as l'étoile of British Rambert”

“All right, I’ll go”, I sighed, but was excited to hear it. I wasn’t into parties, but from time to time it was refreshing to go somewhere and relax, leaving ballet world behind just for some brief moments.

______________________________________________________________

It was very late at night when I entered my apartment: the clocks in the living room struck thirty minutes past midnight. It was quite spacious apartment in the prestigious area of London: there was my bedroom with big bed, living room with big bookshelves and a small reproduction of ‘L'Étoile’, 'Ballet Rehearsal on Stage' and 'The Dance Foyer at The Opera' paintings by Edgar Degas hanging on the wall with green wallpapers, and the small kitchen.

For me nights were the most private, mystical and honest time of the day, when people stopped pretending to be someone else in the light of the day and finally could open themselves and their souls without being judged. All deep secrets were revealed but they still were hidden in the calmness and quietness of the night.

The city was preparing to sleep, when I was laying on my bed with opened eyes and thinking: all my thoughts were circling around that striking and sudden conversation with Boris Lermontov. Of course, for me, he was one of those greatest maestros of the ballet world, and despite the talks about his strict character – I adored what kind of performances he and his ballet company was doing, and I knew that my ego and my selfish character could have fought it out.

I wished I could dance with his ballet company, I wished to be their prima. But everytime when such thoughts entered my mind, I strictly shut them down. And when such magical opportunity literally came to me – I began to back down. Maybe I was too old for such changes? Oh, how I hated to be afraid to take risks. How I hated to be rejected, not to be able to grab the opportunity. Maybe it was the right time for me to stop being afraid and keep moving forward towards what I truly wanted: to dance as gracefully as I could ever imagined, to be prima in Lermontov’s ballet company and be proud of myself.

I didn't remember the exact moment when my thoughts transformed into the deep dream where I danced the scene of the dying swan in 'Swan Lake', when the music began to fade away and the stage was submerging in cold water.

______________________________________________________________

🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

🩰 'Serpent dance' masterlist 🩰

[corleonewrites]

Serpent dance masterlist

AU: The Red Shoes (1948)

Boris Lermontov x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: When stubborn egos of the creation and the creator collied – the fatal dance of serpents begins. Their hearts cannot be tamed, their icy-cold facade cannot be destroyed. Her desire to dance and to prove that she is prima is unbroken. His aim to make her the greatest danseur étoile at all costs is undoubted. There is no place for personal sensitive feelings and love in the crucial world of the ballet. But what is hidden behind the facades of two serpents?

🩰 Ao3 link to fanfic 🩰

Chapter 1. Swan Lake, Op. 20, TH 12, Act I: Introduction. Moderato Assai Chapter one (Pyotr Tchaikovsky)

Chapter 2. Romeo and Juliet, Op. 64, Act 1, Scene 2: No 13, Dance of the Knights (Sergei Prokofiev)

Chapter 3. Cello Sonata in G Minor, Op. 19: III. Andante (Sergei Rachmaninoff)

Chapter 4. Ballet Suite No. 1 – Lyric Waltz (Dmitri Shostakovich)

Chapter 5. Prelude in G Minor, Op. 23, No. 5 (Sergei Rachmaninoff)

Chapter 6. The Lark (Mikhail Glinka (arr. Balakirev)

Chapter 7. Nocturne in D-flat major, Op. 37 No. 1 (Alexander Glazunov)

Chapter 8. Suite From Ballet "Firebird": 4 Berceuse (Lullaby) (Igor Stravinsky)

Chapter 9. Jazz Suite No. 2: Waltz No. 2 (Dmitri Shostakovich)

[corleonewrites]

Wandering winds masterlist

AU: The Terror (2018)

James Fitzjames x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: Alexandra Walton’s life was always surrounded with sea: either it was her walks near the seashore with its cold waters, or deep sea of her senses. Her father taught her to throw herself headlong into it, without fear of being drowned and she used to it since her childhood. She dived into love with the same courageous way. And even when everything and everyone was talking about the hopeless state of things she continued to believe in the opposite: that her loved one will return to her safely.

🌊 Ao3 link to fanfic 🌊

[corleonewrites]

updates

My new obsession called 'The Red Shoes' (and celebrity crush named Anton Walbrook) hit hard, I'm also in love with ballet theme in general that, I must admit, the desire to write fanfic for is unbearable.

Since for the last couple of weeks writing 'The Terror' fanfic was less productive and less inspired – I've decided to postpone it and write my 'The Red Shoes' one.

[corleonewrites]

Welcome to my blog!

Daria, 28 y.o.

I'm in love with cinema, especially with old films. 

I mostly write about my current obsessions, all of them dedicated to films and sometimes tv-shows. I have new ao3 profile where I'm publishing my works and duplicating them here. 

I make edits and I publish them on my main acc, tagged under dariasedits.

my fanfics masterlist

my edits masterlist

my ao3

my letterboxd

[corleonewrites]

La Vérité

AU: Anatomy of a Fall (2023)

Vincent Renzi x Original Female Character fanfic.

Summary: Two people connected by the same past. Two lawyers. And one tangled case which brought them back together again, giving them the opportunity to sort out their feelings towards each other, no matter how painful memories are to both of them can be.

Chapter 9 (Final). Suite Bergamasque, L. 75: Clair de Lune

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We talked through almost the whole night, while we were lying in bed. Firstly, it felt surreal: I forgot how it was like to lay on Vincent’s chest, when we used to spend nights together, years ago. Never knew that I’d felt the same thing again, after countless lonely nights.

The night seemed endless, we completely lost our time, talking quietly to each other, opening hearts and minds to each other without realizing how both of us fell asleep, when the winter’s sun began to slowly rise up behind the window.

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It was the last hearing of our case and surprisingly for myself I was calm as never before during the hearings of this case. Maybe it was because of the indications which Daniel, Sandra’s son, gave to the court, which could turn the whole thing in the different direction, but I was sure that it was not only because of it. The idea that Vincent and I finally sorted every confusion and misunderstanding out between us, giving the opportunity to start all over again, when all the mistakes were made and figured out.

My heart was beating fast when it was the time to hear the verdict. I looked at Vincent slightly, when I felt fingers of his hand slightly touching mine, only couple of centimeters were separating us. In that moment all my thoughts narrowed down into one small dot.

I don’t remember what I felt when we heard the acquittal verdict. It felt like it was real and surreal at the same time. But what I remember clearly how the relief covered my whole body and how strongly I was struggling to calm myself down and not to kiss Renzi deeply in his lips and put my hands inside his soft hair right in front of the whole court with judges and the jury.

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“I can’t believe that this whole thing is finally over. Can’t believe that tonight I’ll sleep calmly in my house, knowing that I’m innocent”

We were sitting in the café, celebrating the closed case. It was late at night, and almost all the visitors left the café, except for our small table which consisted of only three of us. This time it didn’t bother me at all, as Vincent’s was around my waist.

“All of us need a very good deep sleep. We deserved it”, Renzi replied, taking a sip from his bottle of beer.

“Agree”, I said, taking a look at the clocks on the wall: it was almost midnight.

“Are you planning to spend some time here in Grenoble?”, Sandra asked, looking at both of us.

“We, actually, got tickets to Paris, we’re leaving the day after tomorrow”, Vincent replied, when I added, placing my bottle of cider on the table:

“All I need now are two weeks off that’s for sure. My head was filled with all those details, I need to clear it off”

“I quite understand that”, Sandra smiled a little, and also looked at the clocks, “Oh, it’s getting too late, I should come home now”, she stood up, taking her bag.

We gave her a hug and said our goodbyes. It was so strange that it was all ending now, when we spent a lot of time together, during hearings. It felt like the part of me was also leaving me. My head was dizzy and I sat back on the chair. I didn’t see how Sandra left the room, when I heard Vincent’s voice:

“Are you okay, Camille?”

I opened my eyes slowly, looking at Renzi’s worried face, as he was holding both of my shoulders, being afraid that I’d fall from my set, but I felt myself well and secured. When he was near me.

“I’m fine, Vincent.”

“Tired?”

“Very.”

“It’s time to go back home”, he said softly, looking at me with that sweet calm look, as he did before. Now that look came back.

I just sighed and he placed his forehead on against mine and kissed it softly after some seconds. I quietly placed my head on his shoulder, when he placed his arm around my waist once again. It felt so calm and quiet. The stress left me and I finally felt myself secured. In that exact moment there were only two of us and no one else in the world. Ex-tutor and ex-student, two lawyers, two lovers and the tangled story that united us again. This time strongly and without turning back.

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Fin

______________________________________________________________

La Vérité masterlist

[corleonewrites]

La Vérité

AU: Anatomy of a Fall (2023)

Vincent Renzi x Original Female Character fanfic.

Summary: Two people connected by the same past. Two lawyers. And one tangled case which brought them back together again, giving them the opportunity to sort out their feelings towards each other, no matter how painful memories are to both of them can be.

Chapter 8. Symphony No. 5 in C-Sharp Minor: IV. Adagietto. Sehr langsam

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Startled from a dream in which my body seemed to be falling, I opened my eyes, trying to breathe normally as my heart was beating faster.

The TV in the hotel room was turned on: I didn’t realize that I fell asleep after that conversation with Vincent when he tried to reach me, making pathetic try to explain the relationship between him and Sandra. I didn’t even change into pajamas.

Crimson Rivers was on air. I liked that film but wasn’t ready to rewatch it especially when it was 3 o’clock in the morning and busy day for both Renzi and me was waiting for us: the last hearing was scheduled in a few days and we needed to be ready for it. I turned the TV off, put pajamas on, but couldn’t go to sleep again without the help of my sleeping medication and putting socks on: my feet were too cold.

Of course, I knew that there needed to be a serious talk with Vincent, because I couldn’t take it, that uncertainty between us: either we could stay friends or colleagues, if it could be possible at all, I wasn’t sure about it, or we were about to break all the strings which were connecting us. Our common romantic past needed to be in the past. It was clear for me that he found someone else.

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We were in a team, so, of course, we needed to spend the days which were left before the final hearing together: looking through documents, writing speeches and checking the evidence. He invited me to his hotel room and from early in the morning until late evening we were working, even forgetting to have lunch.

Somehow both of us began to believe that we would win the case: I always had that particular feeling which I couldn’t explain but when I knew that the case was going to be successful – I always felt it. And that particular feeling started to appear in my head.

“Well, I think we’re done for tonight. And for this case. We can finally relax before the hearing, and we have time until the day after tomorrow to make sure that everything is ready”, Vincent closed his folder with documents and notebook and looked at me, “I think we deserve a bottle of nice wine and good dinner, don’t you think?”, he looked at his watches, checking the time, “And we definitely need the fresh air”

“There is a good place near my hotel”, I said, “We can sit there”

I put my documents inside my bag and looked at watches as well. It felt so strange to talk to him after that evening, the pressure was floating in the air, and it felt like if we didn’t go outside – the eruption was about to begin.

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Of course, one bottle of wine at the restaurant wasn’t enough for us, and since both of us knew that we needed to talk, no matter how drunk we could be, we decided to spend the rest of the evening at my hotel room, talking and drinking wine.

“What are you planning to do after this work?”, the conversation at my hotel room started with a very ordinary, when Vincent asked me this question.

Finishing twirling the lighter on the table and putting the leftovers of my cigarette in the ashtray, I replied, without looking at him:

“I’d love to have some days off – it was one of the most dreadful cases that I’ve ever had before.”

“Honestly, mine as well”, Renzi replied, and poured more wine in our glasses, “But on the other hand, it was very nice experience to work with you, Camille, I’ve heard about your work and I can see why you’ve been recommended as one of the best”

I just smirked, but he caught it

“Why are you smirking? It’s the truth”

“Oh, please, Renzi, just stop sugar coating yourself.”, I finally looked at him, trying to find the courage to tell him everything that I was keeping inside me. Vincent looked at me with frown, “I will never forget how did you trample on our relationships, and now you’re trying to shove it off with pleasing me, it’s so pathetic”

“Camille”, Vincent moved closer to me, trying to take my hand, but I shoved it off and stood up, moving back, and stood near the sofa. The rage was growing inside of me. I was angry at him and his attempts to keep me calm.

“Why the fuck are you acting like you are an innocent person?”, my voice started to break into a scream, “I can’t believe that you forgot that it was you who decided to break up with me saying that it was a mistake to begin relationship with me because I’m a lot younger than you and you didn’t know that it would go that far?”, I paused, catching my breath, when Vincent raised from his seat and moved closer to me, placing his hand on a sofa which was separating us:

“Because I had no idea that it would be so hard not to think about you and not to care about you. It was I who was afraid scared of the responsibility, of other people’s opinion about us.”

“Now you sound ridiculous.”, I smirked crookedly, I couldn’t believe that he was talking like that and was taken aback, “You’re acting like a young adult and now you’re playing with my feelings. You could at least tell me that you and Sandra are a thing and I would understand it”, my voice broke down, when Vincent made the last attempt to catch my hand when I moved back again, and this time he was successful, when I tried to pull it out, he squeezed it harder, talking loudly:

“Sandra and I are NOT a thing, Camille!”, it felt like the walls shook after his words and I finally gave up trying to pull out my hand, “We were never a thing”, Vincent finally released my hand and stood behind the window, looking outside, and I accurately sat on the sofa.

“I know that I was a child. I understood it long time ago, how wrong I was, but was trying to defend myself. Funny how I couldn’t do it, because, believe it or not, I was looking for our meeting but was avoiding it at the same time. I was thinking about you. Sometimes too much”, he looked at me with certainty, “When the case came around, I thought that maybe it would be a good time to finally meet you and talk about us. I was trying to deny it, but when I saw you, Camille, when we began to work together…”

Vincent’s voice broke a little when he started to move closer to me, and I stood up, but keeping the distance, “…what we had years ago, of course, was lost, but I understood that I wanted to come back to what we had together”, he finally finished, but I couldn’t move.

My mind was telling me that it was all lies, but my heart, no matter how hard I tried not to hear its voice, was saying that it was true. Tears came from my eyes, when I asked Vincent with my hoarse voice, as if it had disappeared:

“How can I believe you, Vincent? You hurt me, my feelings, how can I possibly believe you?”

He moved closer to me, couple of centimeters were separating us. Suddenly, everything seemed so quiet, even clocks couldn’t be heard.

“What about trust?”, Vincent whispered, looking in my eyes,

“It’s hard to find”, I whispered, but I moved closer to him, I think I heard not only the beat of my heart, but Renzi’s as well

“But can it be gained back again?”

“Can it?”, without realizing it at first, I put my hand in his hand, when my mind was circling.

“We can try... I don’t want to lose you, mademoiselle Cadieux”,

“Neither do I, monsieur Renzi”, I finally breathed out these words and our lips merged into deep kiss, which I didn’t want to break, but dived deeply into it. How long I’ve been waiting for it, how long my mind and my heart were fighting between each other, but finally my heart won the battle.

We fell on the bed, kissing each other madly, Vincent kissed my neck, when I put my hands in his soft hair, trying to catch my breath. The kisses were deeper and deeper when finally, Vincent took off his sweater and I took off mine, unbuttoning my bra. Renzi took off his jeans and layed down on me, when I closed my eyes, diving into the passionate night which was ahead of us.

______________________________________________________________

La Vérité masterlist

[corleonewrites]

La Vérité

AU: Anatomy of a Fall (2023)

Vincent Renzi x Original Female Character fanfic.

Summary: Two people connected by the same past. Two lawyers. And one tangled case which brought them back together again, giving them the opportunity to sort out their feelings towards each other, no matter how painful memories are to both of them can be.

Chapter 7. Concerto No. 4 in F minor (L’inverno/Winter) RV297 (Op. 8 No. 4): I. Allegro non molto

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It was one of those terrible and dreadful hearings after which we needed to get drunk. For that case Sandra invited us to her house, and even though I felt bad after the hearing and I didn’t want to go, but I had a feeling that if I didn’t go – I’d miss something important. Little did I know that I was terribly correct.

The night was still ahead, it felt like it was on a pause, or slowed down dreadfully, when all three of us got pretty drunk, and it was the time to let more personal talks to enter the space. I didn’t talk much, only looked at how did Vincent and Sandra told jokes, laughing like crazy.

I honestly felt myself the third extra in this strange triangle of emotions and feelings and in one moment I got inside the house, I theatrically passed right in the middle between them when they were talking to each other, finding my way to the kitchen for another bottle of beer. I was mad at myself, mad at my thoughts about Vincent and my jealousy towards Sandra in the way of how she talked to Renzi, as they were very close to each other when both me and Vincent had a lot more in common, not to mention that we were a couple.

On my way back outside, I saw something that at first, I thought was the play of my drunken imagination, but it was painful true: Sandra and Vincent were laying in the snow, kissing. In exactly the same moment I felt cold sweat on my back, like someone poured iced-cold water on my head, my hands dropped the bottle of beer, which fell on the carpet. I staggered back and quickly turned my back on them, rushing to the bathroom. My thoughts were screaming inside me, it felt like they were echoing inside the quiet empty house. I closed the door behind me and let my tears burst out. I knew Sandra and Vincent couldn’t hear me.

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“I think it’s not right, Sandra”, whispered Vincent, when Sandra opened her eyes after the kiss that she gave him. He looked at her confused eyes and continued, talking seriously, “I didn’t tell this to you before, but I feel a deep affection towards Camille”

Both of them sat on the snow. Snowflakes were slowly falling down on them. There was no wind, the night was extremely quiet, it felt like all the sounds died.

“Oh, I didn’t know about that”, Sandra said confusedly, “Did you have something between each other?”

“We began an affair when I was a tutor and Camille was my student, she was receiving her master’s degree.”, he made a pause, looking at Sandra and catching his breath, “Of course, I thought that it wouldn’t lead to anything more than that. But I was wrong. And I realized it just few weeks ago, when I saw her again, after all those years.”

Sandra looked at Vincent, sighed, and looked at the mountains, which seemed blue because of the snow which was lighting up from moon’s light.

“I see. Sorry if I confused you…”

“Don’t feel sorry, I understand.”, Vincent laughed sadly, “I confused myself and Camille, I treated what was between us stupidly and irresponsible…”, he paused and looked back at the house. He felt the sudden fear, not knowing where did Camille go, as she left long before his conversation with Sandra. What if she saw their kiss? Did she leave? How will she arrive back to the hotel? Is it too late to reach her by his car?

“Where’s Camille?”, he asked Sandra, she heard a fear in his voice

“She’s inside, probably in the kitchen or in the bathroom”

“We must find her”, Vincent stood up and rushed inside the house, he heard his heart started to beat faster.

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“Camille? Where are you?”, I heard Vincent’s voice downstairs and put a hand on my mouth, fearing that he could hear me crying.

I didn’t answer. I wanted him to be scared that I left, I wanted him to rush after me, but I knew that he wouldn’t do that as he had more important and fine business to do with Sandra. How pathetic it was for me to actually feel something for him, how pathetic was to believe that we could actually be together and work something out. We were not in romantic drama; it was real life and it can hurt.

“Camille?”, he screamed my name, and I clenched my fist, clutching it to my chest, fearing that I’d start to cry again, washed my face with ice water from the sink to recover, looked at myself in the mirror and opened the bathroom door, leaving tears behind. Only silent anger remained inside me.

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Of course, it was painful and hard for me to be back to the university after Easter holiday, but I took all my strength in my hands and dedicated couple of weeks before final assessment only to my essay. Luckily, we had only three sessions with tutor and now my ex-lover Vincent, during which I avoided looking at him, only concentrating on my writing and rushing home right after tutorials, without even saying goodbye to him.

I didn’t want to talk to him anymore, I didn’t want to see him anymore and after graduation I promised myself never meet him again or never accept the invitation to work with him even though it sounded unreal. He possibly couldn’t ask me for that. How funny things turned out in a couple of years after my promise.

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Next evening after the kiss, right before one of the last hearings I heard a knock on my hotel room.

“Camille, we need to talk”, Vincent was standing near the door and I rolled my eyes, but, opened the door, letting him inside.

“I know exactly about what we can talk with you, monsieur Renzi”, I replied dryly, placing my hands around my waist and looking directly at him, “So let’s the hearing start, then”

Vincent moved closer to me, dropping his bag on the sofa. I angrily moved back

“Let’s be reasonable, Camille”, Vincent began, but I interrupted him.

“Reasonable? What are you talking about, I’m always reasonable. And you, actually, not.”, I walked to the window, and looked for a second on the evening street, “I’m not the one who’s mixing personal feelings and work, especially with the one who’s the suspect and the prosecutor.”

Vincent looked at me astonishingly. He realized that I saw him and Sandra last night. He wanted to reach me, but I moved back and stood near the sofa.

“That’s not what you are thinking…”

“Did I dream it?”, my voice began to grow louder, my heart started to beat faster, “Yes, we drank last night, but I saw you together clearly. Of course, it’s your choice, I don’t blame you for this, but I don’t want to talk about it neither with you, nor with Sandra.”

I felt the anger growing inside me and since I was still on the edge after the previous night and anxious about the hearing the next morning, I looked at Renzi, and said with a broken voice:

“Now would kindly leave my room? The hearing is over, it is not a subject to dispute about”

“Camille, stop”, he caught my hand, I felt his hand for the first time in years and it felt so familiar and so forgotten, that for a brief second, I wanted to fell into his arms, but then I shoved his hand off and turned my back on him

“The hearing is over, monsieur Renzi!”

He was quiet for a second, but then he finally whispered, he sounded on edge as well

“Fine, mademoiselle Cadieux”

I closed my eyes and heard how the door closed loudly behind him, when I continued standing frozen in the middle of my hotel room.

______________________________________________________________

La Vérité masterlist

[corleonewrites]

La Vérité masterlist

AU: Anatomy of a Fall (2023)

Vincent Renzi x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: Two people connected by the same past. Two lawyers. And one tangled case which brought them back together again, giving them the opportunity to sort out their feelings towards each other, no matter how painful memories are to both of them can be.

Chapters

Chapter 1. Consolations, S. 172: No. 3 Lento placido

Chapter 2. Nocturne No. 8 In D Flat Major

Chapter 3. Suite Española No. 1, Op. 47: V. Asturias - Leyenda Arr. for String Orchestra

Chapter 4. Gnossiennes: No. 1

Chapter 5. Fantasie in F Minor, Op. 103: D. 940

Chapter 6. Symphony No. 3 in F Major, Op. 90 - III. Poco allegretto

Chapter 7. Concerto No. 4 in F minor (L’inverno/Winter) RV297 (Op. 8 No. 4): I. Allegro non molto

Chapter 8. Symphony No. 5 in C-Sharp Minor: IV. Adagietto. Sehr langsam

Chapter 9 (Final). Suite Bergamasque, L. 75: Clair de Lune