After a prolonged moment, the creature reared its head, its horn a dagger in the center of its forehead, and then released her. She had been transformed into a swan, her costume now one made of soft white feathers.
A frisson of excitement, pride, yearning, all three or more washed over me, and goosebumps rose on my skin. I gripped the seats even tighter.
The entire scene changed. Odette fell out of sight; the music became more upbeat, joyous, more royal, and more dancers flooded the stage to join the ball.
During her absence, I took note of the crowd around me. Maja Resnik’s profile was clearly defined against the stage. The pride in her eyes was undeniable. So was the longing to be on the stage once again, where her granddaughter stood.
Scarlett’s parents sat side by side. Pnina laid her hand over her husband’s. He patted it for a moment and then moved away. Her shoulders stiffened in response.
Mick was transfixed. Violet turned to me at the same time and smiled. I managed a grin.
My Ballerina Girl didn’t appear again until the next scene, when she remerged as a swan for the second time near a moonlit lake. A sky full of stars glinted behind her.
Her dancing was magic, pure sugar. She could spin it under her feet and create another world, one that was too tempting to resist. Every hair on my body stood erect, my eyes never left the stage, never left her, and my fingerprints were going to be forever marked on the seat. Pride surged up in me to the point where I thought I’d drown in it.
The transformation from Odette to Odile was no less spectacular. She became the temptress, and then once again the innocent Odette. Not so easy to do, transform from naïve to vixen, yet Scarlett did so without a single flaw. I had come to know how close to the truth those roles touched on her real life.
The end of the ballet came with a standing ovation that seemed to shake the history-filled walls with a surge of intensity for the newestÉtoile.
Tears streamed down my face.
“Hard core Italians,” Violet said, nudging me with her shoulder. She cried too. “They wear their hearts on their sleeves, no matter how tough.”
Fuck being tough. There’s a time and a place. When the spirit moves, you give in to it. There’s nothing shameful in passion. Scarlett moved me, always had, and no one else could bring me to my knees in this way. Her art touched heart and soul, made a lasting impression that seemed to brand bone.
I would trade a hundred and fifty-five years of my life to watch her dance this way, in this capacity. And I had.
Chapter Nine
Brando
After the ballet, I opted not to go backstage or join in the after-performance plans. Scarlett’s parents were off to a celebratory dinner. Mick and Violet were going to Moulin Rouge. I walked to Scarlett’s apartment, took a spot underneath a wilting tree that still provided plenty of coverage, and waited.
The night was crisp and clear, the sky full of stars. The people of Paris must have felt the promise in the aligned conditions.
A man and woman walked by huddled close together, whispering French words that I didn’t understand. The intent was clear enough though—home, as soon as possible.
The lights of a car illuminated my body before it moved on, but the car came to a stop not far from where I stood, which was about half a block away from the apartment.
The magnetic pull that caused my heart to extend from my chest to wherever she was became stronger.
The driver got out and moved with speed to open the door closest to the curb. He said something in French to the people inside before a gorgeous bare leg popped out and then another. The driver offered his hand, she took it, and then her entire body emerged into the harsh winter night’s air.
She stood underneath a French street lamp, haloed by its light.
A deep breath escaped me, causing a white cloud to form in the darkness. I narrowed my eyes; she wore my leather jacket and a dress with high heels.
The driver left her alone, only to open the door opposite. Olivier Nemours stepped out, fixing his scarf before meeting Scarlett under the street lamp. He pointed to the car, said something in French, and she shook her head in response. He gave her his arm, she took it, but before she started for her apartment, she stopped, looking over her shoulder.
I could feel her eyes on me, though she couldn’t see me. She felt me.
He tugged at her arm, but she wouldn’t be moved. Not until she was ready. Shaking her head, like she was trying to clear it, she finally allowed him to move her.
Like the car that had dropped them off, I followed behind, not too far, not too close. Neither of them looked behind again. Once the apartment was in close distance, I took shelter under another tree and waited for the next move.
He did most of the talking in French, and by the tone of it, he was praising her performance. Occasionally she would nod, smile, and say simply, “Je vous remercie,” in that graceful way of hers.
“Your friend has a rose,” Olivier said, his voice low and his eyes solid on hers. “For later use, of course.” He reached out and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
