Page 13 of Reverence

A storm is coming.

On cue, lightning tore the night in half, a crash of thunder on its heels shaking the sky. Juliette knew her life had been very much demarcated now. Before tonight, and after.

Perhaps Francesca had been correct in her assessment that Juliette had no idea what she had wrought. The multitude of logistical details about this defection were becoming apparent and quickly overwhelming. And one of them loomed larger than all the others.

Lalande, ever the political pragmatist, had not let the issue escape him, either. “The Paris Opera Ballet has apartments and dorm rooms our dancers can occupy while working for the company, but none are currently ready and I would hesitate to take you anywhere alone while the Bolshoi and the KGB agents are still on the ground?—”

“She can stay with me.”

There, now nothing loomed anymore. Settled. Juliette wanted to pat herself on the back, despite every head in the room turning toward her. Granted, this gesture was so uncharacteristic of her that she was certain she’d lie in shock that very night in her cozy bedroom on Rue de Rivoli. This saving business must’ve gone to her head if she was offering her own apartment, her veritable sanctuary, where not even Gabriel had free entrance, to a virtual unknown.

Francesca was the first one to find her voice. “The apartment next door to yours is being renovated. It was slated for our new star soprano, but she will not join till January and so this gives us enough time to find her different accommodations. It will likely take a few weeks to a month to finalize it for Mademoiselle Vyatka.”

Juliette shrugged. “Then we shall revisit this in a few weeks. In the meantime, I think we have been kept prisoners in these walls for a bit too long?”

Lalande cleared his throat before gesturing outside. “The car is ready, Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel. The police will be posted in front of your building for a few days, just in case. I’ve already arranged for that, since the KGB knows it was you who spirited Mademoiselle Vyatka away from the party. As for getting out of here, I don’t think there is any chance of avoiding the crowd. The story is out there, the public has been drooling over Mademoiselle Vyatka from her first performance, and she is the biggest star that has graced the floorboards of Garnier since… well… you. And you were not a Soviet ballerina shrouded in mystery and intrigue and quite a lot of rumors.” He smiled lasciviously, and Juliette was grateful for skipping dinner.

“Your point, Monsieur Lalande?”

He dropped the smile and was back to his irritable self. “My point is that I believe we do this once and we will never have to do this ever again. The public wants to see and to know.The order of asylum has been signed. There is no going back and there is nothing to lose. We come out, Mademoiselle Vyatka gets photographed and waves to the public, I will make a short statement, Madame Bianchi will concur, and we all go on our way. Sneaking out will only cause more questions. We have nothing to hide here.”

Juliette could certainly see the reasoning behind his plan. And she had to give it to him, it wasn’t all bad. In fact, feeding the hungry monster that was the French press would probably end up the wisest decision they could make under the circumstances, even if all she wanted was to disappear quietly into the night. She had never enjoyed curtain calls as much as her peers did.

But this was not her decision to make, and so she turned to the one who would have to do the proverbial curtsying to the press and to the French public.

“This is a very small price to pay for my freedom, Monsieur le Ministre.” The steel was perfectly audible in Katarina’s words, and everyone exhaled, clearly relieved they’d be doing the right but also the expedient thing. It was getting late. Juliette’s feet, encased in the stiff leather of her high heels, were not going to be happy tomorrow.

They exited together, a group of ten people, Juliette and Katarina surrounded by ministerial staff with Gabriel and Francesca close by, and just as they approached the area where photographers and gawkers were cordoned off by the gendarmes, the rumpled brown suit that could only belong to one man, whom Juliette thought she’d recognize even in her sleep, the pockmarked face that was sure to haunt her nightmares, materialized to their right. The crowd of photographers swallowed the Russian for a moment, and to her dismay Juliette lost sight of him in the avalanche of questions being hurled at them.

Some photographers were respectful, some were presumptuous, yelling out her first name only, some were shouting for Gabriel, but most were targeting Katarina. Several even attempted to ask her questions in extremely broken Russian.

Katarina stayed above the fray, her apprehensive expression from earlier gone, the seasoned, arrogant, and cold prima front and center. She answered questions with brief precision, her words measured and sparse. She disregarded the ones that were too invasive and kept her tone remarkably neutral.

The cameras kept rolling and the flashes were bright and blinding, yet Katarina Vyatka stood tall and proud in front of what pretty much amounted to the entirety of France—and the whole world through the live TV broadcasts—and without disparaging her own country, simply held the line of “I wished to dance my best years in Paris,” which was diplomatic but also extraordinarily mild considering that she was escaping a deadly dictatorial regime, even if it had mellowed slightly in the recent years.

A shout of “Are you defecting because of a man?” from the back of the crowd was laughable. Yet, to Juliette’s astonishment, Katarina was visibly taken aback, turning slightly to face her, seemingly seeking guidance or perhaps reassurance, and Juliette found herself giving her a little smile and a nod. Their gazes held on each other a second longer, the air filling with an intensity and an energy that Juliette was not entirely unfamiliar with, but the tether of realization was just out of her reach and she couldn’t grasp it, distracted as she was by the crowd of vociferating reporters.

“I am here precisely because I won’t allow men to influence my life anymore. No woman should.” Katarina’s answer only seemed to amplify the noise. Yet she looked completelyunperturbed and after a few more minutes stepped back, allowing Lalande and Francesca to take center stage again.

And just as she thought they had finally escaped unscathed, with Francesca and Monsieur Lalande reciting the standard diplomatic statements about human rights and talent and freedom, the pockmarked face appeared right in front of Juliette.

“I told you, you have no idea what you’re meddling with. The game here is way above you. You are out of touch, woman. Who do you think you are?” He spat every word, and this time she did not hide her revulsion, demonstratively wiping her face, fully aware that the entire world would be capturing this footage. Even the shouts of the reporters seemed to have quieted down, focusing on the exchange, cameras rolling.

Next to her, Katarina froze, the proud and even haughty dancer vanishing, a shaken woman left in her stance, eyes wide and the already pale face now almost ashen. Juliette felt Gabriel move closer to her, no doubt with the intent to shield her as he often did in situations with rowdy or overzealous fans. But this wasn’t one of those cases. And Juliette needed to slay this particular monster, no matter how much she hated the way she was about to do it.

“I am the Princess of Paris, Agent Ivanov. And nothing in this city is above me.”

Juliette very demonstratively reached out her hand, knowing that the risk was very high, since Katarina had rejected her just a few hours earlier, and that her apprehension at being touched was visibly strong. But Juliette also knew that there was only one way of taking one’s power back. And that she couldn’t do it for Katarina. She had already done more than her share.

And then, in the middle of Place de l’Opéra, with hundreds of photographers and the whole world watching, Katarina, graceful and in full prima mode, made the perfect ballet hand—thumbtucked and middle finger slightly lower than the index—and extended it toward her.

Juliette took it gently but firmly and felt it steady, even if ice-cold, in hers.

The Minister of Culture’s people cleared the way, and from the corner of her eye she could see them taking the agent away. It was over. Ivanov shouted more threats in their direction, but Juliette ignored him. After the little interlude, the two ballerinas reached the car with no issues, the crowds parting in front of them like the Red Sea.

As the car door shut behind them, Juliette found herself exhaling and closing her eyes.

“For what it’s worth, Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel, the title, and the role… It’s natural for you. And it becomes you.” Katarina’s voice was quiet again, yet neither distant nor lifeless, the hand Juliette hadn’t realized still rested in hers warming slowly.

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