Eva Ibbotson by A Company of Swans

Author:A Company of Swans
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The first week’s run of Swan Lake ended as it began with fifteen curtain calls for Simonova, though the last of these needed a little assistance from Dubrov who seized the winch-handle from the stage hand who had been turning it and had been about to pack up and go home. The following week was to open with La Fule Mai Gardée, a relatively undemanding ballet in which the ballerina is merely required to be enchanting, innocent and tender, qualities which Simonova believed herself to possess in abundance. With the dreaded Nutcracker in which Masha Repin was to star still a week away, and Olga signaling her recovery by biting the thermometer in half and demanding borscht, the Company settled down to their well-earned Sunday rest.

At least… most of the Company. In the bedroom which Harriet shared with Kirstin and Marie-Claude, a rehearsal was in progress.

Marie-Claude’s star was rising high. Her meeting with Mr. Parker had been wholly successful. He had given her a substantial sum for her costume and expenses, and promised that her sizeable fee would be waiting for her, in cash, on the evening of her appearance. With her usual efficiency, Marie-Claude had left instructions about the music with which she was to be accompanied, the topography of the cake, the arrangement of the concealed footstool which would enable her to leap effortlessly on the banqueting table. She had even agreed to a brief run-through on the actual morning of the dinner—but to polish up the finer points of her routine she preferred the privacy of the Hotel Metropole.

“I wish my Aunt Louisa could see you,” said Harriet, grinning at her friend.

Marie-Claude was in costume: a pair of black fishnet stockings, an inch-wide band of black froth which apparently constituted knickers and two minuscule black and crimson rosettes which adhered by some mysterious process to her breasts. They had put their three chairs together in a circle to constitute a “cake”; the beds, pushed into the shape of a horseshoe, stood in for the banqueting tables and in the middle of the center one, an upright bolster impersonated the Minister for Amazonia.

“Harriet, you must do the music,” instructed Marie-Claude. “It’s the Offenbach first. Then when I’m on the table, it’s the slow bit from The Odalisque—I’ve marked it there… Then back to the Offenbach for my exit.”

Harried nodded. Since her lunch with Verney she had waited patiently for the ache left by his rejection to fade. It had not done so, but now, as she had set herself to work, so she set herself to help her friend. And trained to sight-read in the Bach choir at Cambridge, she launched into a very respectable rendering of La Belle Hélène.

In the bottom of the “cake” crouched Marie-Claude, wrapped in the golden mantle of her hair. Then—at precisely the point where the music soared to a crescendo of expectancy—she burst!

It was a splendid spectacle: sudden, dramatic, timed to a split-second. Even Kirstin, busy sewing a miniature scabbard for Tante Bertha’s hat-pin, gasped and Harriet was so overcome that she lost her place in the score.

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