“We need to go,” she whispered, sidestepping. It took her a moment to collect herself, though she pretended to fix her hair in the mirror on the way out. “Violet and Mick are waiting.”
She started out with five seconds. Down to four.
“Oh, and be careful,” she called over her shoulder. “Someone dropped a vase of roses outside. You don’t want to cut yourself. Such ashame.” She ticked her mouth.
I laughed as I followed her out.
* * *
If anything, the party only served to grate on already raw nerves.
It was rich, rich, rich…thechâteaux, the people, the food, the drinks, even down to the music and lighting. Over two thousand candles, at least, burned, and the air was thick with smoke from the floral-scented beeswax.
Per my usual party attitude, I kept a safe distance from Scarlett and her many admirers. I was content to watch, as long as they didn’t touch. A few couples had approached her due to her status in Paris, the newest star of the ballet, and pride washed over me again.
Besides, she only spoke French around them, so I wasn’t much use in the conversation anyway.
I had always enjoyed watching her move; tonight, I rediscovered the newness of her. The way she’d smile at the joke, even if it didn’t seem funny; the way she would sometimes close her eyes when she thought no one was watching, maybe to take in the music, or to catch her breath. She floated so seamlessly through the crowd, leaving an everlasting touch on their lives, not even aware of what she had done. They adored her for it.
With other venues of art, the art lives on through what the artist leaves behind with their hands, their pens, even an echo of a voice, but with a dancer, they become the art. Once their star has faded from the sky, all that is left is a memory—art in motion, a streak of light behind the eyes.
For the most part, she had used her time in Paris wisely. She had grown so much. The change was noticeable and not just to me.
Men, the ones with balls big enough, approached her, going in for a shot at the hopeless. The rest were boys with expensive drinks in their hands, still attempting to convince themselves to do it—her beauty and grace were daunting to kids, a fantasy suddenly come to life.
The men who approached had a different take on the situation. They felt that they deserved.
Again, it was hopeless. There might as well have been no one there but the two of us. She felt my eyes on her the entire time, just as I felt her eyes on me. We collided, no matter where or when.
After I stood on my own for a while, Scarlett’s mother pulled me aside to ask me if I wouldn’t mind dancing with her mother, Maja Resnik. She answered the look on my face rather than the words I didn’t say.
“She requested it. This trip has been bittersweet for her.”
Maggie Beautiful had taught me how to dance once upon a time, during one of her phases, and I could hold my own. During the dance, Maja Resnik complimented me, which meant a great deal coming from her.
A crowd had gathered in the ornate ballroom, walls made of panels of reflective glass, floors of gold marble, a ceiling full of painted angels, watching the old ballerina as her feet turned back the hands of time.
“You are a beast,” she said, looking up into my eyes. “I knew a beast once. I loved him. And I dare say he loved me in return.Lepe let. It is said in my first language. In French it isles belles années. In Italian it isle belle anni. In any language, it is beautiful.My beautiful years.”
I kissed her cheek. The old ballerina closed her eyes and put a hand to the spot.
“Hvala,” she said simply.Thank youin Slovenian.
Scarlett was among the crowd, the look on her face unreadable. She touched her own cheek, but only to wipe away a tear.
The dance over, a few people attempted to start up conversations with me. One in particular was a French woman who I could hardly understand. Her meaning came across clear enough when she asked for my name.
“Fausti?” She repeated.
I nodded in answer.
The Frenchwoman called to a man named Nigel, who had an English accent. While she introduced us, his eyes searched my face until they sprang open.
“Dear boy,” he said, slightly slurring. His nose was marked with broken capillaries like a map of roads under his skin. “Do tell me, are you blood of one of Italy’s most elite families? The legendary Fausti family? If you say it isn’t so, my eyes do fail me.”
I looked between the woman and Nigel. I hadn’t expected anyone to connect me to that family. Not so soon. In Natchitoches, Fausti was a name associated with a man who knocked up a young girl and then became a reckless killer of an innocent woman and her unborn child. Here, the name held immense meaning. It was a weighty presence known to sway, by one means or another.
“You are the spitting image of Marzio.” Nigel rocked back on his heels, seemingly pleased that he had connected us, though I hadn’t confirmed or denied his claim.
