Page 15 of Reverence

Then she realized what the hell she had been thinking and blushed, taking a steadying breath. Time to take care of issues at hand instead of entertaining these foolish notions.

Hearing Juliette’s earlier assertion—about letting a stranger into her life and her home—being echoed back at her was eerie. And so she said nothing, just stood there as Katarina took the first few steps into her space.

She was tentative initially, something Juliette had come to recognize as natural reservedness, perhaps indeed refusing to pry into the affairs of a woman who owed her nothing.

Juliette wondered what Katarina saw, how this sanctuary looked through the eyes of someone who had lived an entirely different life. She had been to Moscow and Leningrad twice. Paris Opera Ballet toured regularly, and even though Francesca preferred to travel anywhere else but the Soviet Union, they still occasionally stopped there en route to the much more hospitable hosts in Asia.

She remembered the regimented buildings, all alike, square and boxy, concrete slabs standing huddled together in exacting neighborhoods. Rows and rows of the identical structures lining the equally similar streets. Scarcity and order were everywhere, even if the touring ballet company was always sheltered from the everyday lives of regular Soviet people. Still, some things slipped through, and the reality of the daily grind was harsh and sobering.

How did Paris, with its frivolity and its freedom, its gauze and lace, look to this woman after an existence of standing in line for a loaf of bread? For sausage? For tights? An existence she couldn’t leave without causing an international scandal? They didn’t call it the Iron Curtain for nothing; escaping was akin to breaking through metal barriers.

The apartment on Rue de Rivoli was Juliette’s pride and joy. Years of collecting art and books. Years of lovingly arranging thespace to fit her needs, to reflect her style and her moods. Some posters of the dancers of old. Her idols, looking down at her from the aged paper, encased in glass and carefully crafted wooden frames. A tiny Monet. A large Bellcourt. Several paintings by lesser-known French and English contemporary artists. A slew of sculptures and small knickknacks. All thoughtfully selected.

Juliette looked around, and when she turned back Katarina was no longer observing the space. She was watching her.

“It’s beautiful.”

From those lips, the praise felt effusive. Juliette smiled. Was she really nervous about this woman liking her apartment? How ridiculous. How absurd! But she had already admitted to wishing to be liked, so what was one more indignity?

What was it about this creature, encased in silence and derision, that tugged at something in Juliette’s chest? Since she had no answer, Juliette turned away, her heels dangling from her fingertips as her bare feet followed the familiar track toward the bedroom and its walk-in closet. Just before she closed the door, she heard Katarina’s murmured, “It suits you.”

Well…

Juliette lit the few lamps scattered around the room, detesting the overhead light, and found herself sitting on the bed, the shoes falling down with a mutedthumpat her side. She could sense the scent of orange blossom in the room, despite Katarina never having crossed this threshold. Juliette thought she could get used to the sweet fragrance, so unlike the woman herself yet now so intimately linked to her in her mind.

The phone rang, pulling her harshly out of her stupor. She felt like she had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

Busted.

Oh, what nonsense. Busted? For what? For the second time this evening, Juliette thought how ridiculous she was behaving.

She lifted the handset off the hooks and schooled her voice.

“Hello?”

There was only a small beat of silence before the line came alive with a familiar chuckle.

“Your Highness.”

Juliette could have recognized this voice anywhere. For three years it had been the sound of her happiness.

“Helena.”

Juliette didn’t know if she was upset, sad, or just flat-out irritated at her ex calling at this hour. Calling again. Calling at all.

“I loved it. TF1 interrupted their news program and had it live. I caught the tail end of it.”

The wonders of modern live television. Juliette was still weirdly unaccustomed to something being broadcasted live across the ocean. And for that something to be ballet-related news, of all things. When a few years ago her own performance had been televised, she’d felt like she’d stepped into one of Isaac Asimov’s books. The future was right here. What was next? Portable phones?

Helena would have a field day with Juliette’s thoughts going anywhere except to the matter at hand. But avoidance had never been her style.

“Why do you still watch French television? And TF1, of all the channels?”

Helena laughed again, the warmth and familiarity of the sound enveloping Juliette in a languor that wasn’t entirely unwelcome. She tugged the diamonds from her ears, dropping them on the nightstand, and then simply stretched on her bed, gown and all.

“Is this an actual question, Jett? And it wasn’t the actual TF1. NBC, CBS… one of them re-broadcasted. Does it matter?”

No? Yes? Maybe? Juliette didn’t know. So much left unsaid between them. So much pain and hurt, and now? Now just small talk. How strange.

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