I had been to Palais Garnier numerous times, yet the beauty of it always struck me. It was hard to tell whether I had stepped back in time. Along the Rue Scribe, the façade was opulent, and the interior even more so.
It had been built as an opera house sometime in the late eighteen-hundreds. Grand corridors, alcoves, and staircases were built with a rich experience in mind; during intermission it was open for guests to socialize and enjoy all of the velvets, marbles, cherubs, and nymphs decorating the open space.
The auditorium was multileveled, the classic Italian horseshoe shape, hundreds of rows of seats, and a grand ceiling that consisted of Italian artwork and a massive chandelier. The stage itself was massive and towering. Red velvet curtains reminiscent of the gowns women used to wear kept it hidden or revealed its secrets. But it was a mirage—it was actually painted, even including tassels and braid.
Not only was history embedded in the Baroque style, but in the air. The place reeked of old times, like a sweet-smelling cigar in a gentleman’s mouth.
I had gotten the same sort of frisson when Scarlett would dance in Verona, in one of the oldest coliseums. She danced on the same floor where gladiators used to stride off to battle.
“It gives me goosebumps,” she’d once told me, “to stand where they stood, to please the crowd as they did, but with one gigantic difference: there’s no battle for my life. Ifeeltheir sacrifice and honor. Sort of reminds me of you.”
I came back to the present when a short, stout man met us backstage. He wore a blazer, and his scarf was wrapped around his neck so many times, it looked like he didn’t have one.
Scarlett went into his open arms, greeting him in perfect French. “Jean-Pierre!”
“Scarlett!”
She kissed each of his plump cheeks, making his skin go red beneath salt stubble.
I had rudimentary French, or the “bad words” Scarlett sometimes used, but other than that, I had very little of the language. Judging by the tones of their voices and their reactions, though, I had a pretty good idea of the conversation.
I didn’t expect to see you here!I imagined Scarlett had said.
I could not miss a chance to see you!I assumed was Jean-Pierre’s reply.
He was older, closer to her grandmother’s age, and usually when someone around that age came to see Scarlett, it was to reminisce about the times shared with Maja. Just as her family had watched her grow up, so did the people of the ballet community. They all held a huge amount of pride for her success.
“Jean-Pierre,” Scarlett said, wrapping her arm around mine. “C'est mon mari, Brando Fausti.”
“Ah!Splendide!” He held his hand out and we shook. He patted the top of mine before he released me. More French flew from him.
“Brando, this is Jean-Pierre Roux. He was a good friend to Maja and is also one of the most celebrated choreographers in living history. He is the reason we are here tonight. Well, using this space. We only have a small amount of time.”
I didn’t know whether to give the man a punch to the gut or shake his hand again. He nodded at me, smiled, and then carried on in French.
“Jean-Pierre says—” she smiled, giving him a second to finish what he was saying “—that we make a beautiful couple. He believes he has met you before, if only briefly. At a party we attended some time ago, before Maja’s passing.”
She listened to him for another moment or two. She replied to him, but he used his hands to encourage her to speak. I felt her hesitation.
“Tell me what he said,” I said.
“He says that—” her eyes went down, almost demure “—you should be very proud of me.”
“Ah!” Jean-Pierre made a motion to dismiss this vain attempt to hide his praise. “Votre femme est une légende!”
“My wife is a legend,” I said.
“Oui!” He clasped me on the shoulder with a beefy hand. “Un seul comme elle!” He lifted one finger.
Too complicated, so I looked at Scarlett. Her cheeks were flushed.
“Just one,” she said.
“Just one of you.” I translated her attempt at watering down his compliments.
“Yes,” she almost whispered.
He turned toward the stage, opening his arms. He prattled off a few more words and then hugged her—he left me with a kiss on each cheek and a wink.
