Page 33 of Reverence

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OF FAILURE & PERCEIVED WEAKNESS

Don Quixotefailed.

No, to say the opening night of the ballet composed by the revered Ludwig Minkus and choreographed by the legendary Marius Petipa failed was to do both those icons a disservice. They were legends. Only the most grandiose epithets would do. If they couldn’t have the very best, then the Parisian media—and thus the public that followed the media’s lead—decided they would be given the very worst.

And so,Don Quixotebombed. The resoundingly humiliating reviews panning it completely were so numerous that Juliette was certain one could paper the entire Rue de Rivoli with them and there would still be column inches left to do a half-assed job on Rue Saint-Honoré as well.

Even Gabriel—normally shielded from the press’s wrath by his gender and good looks, as unfair as that was—had been absolutely dismantled by the critics, from his technique to his interpretation of the character. And this time Juliette, studiously trying to ignore her own negative reviews, thought the public opinion was correct.

Not that it had been either of their faults. The issue lay much deeper and ultimately boiled down to one question: What werethey doing staging an 1869 version of a ballet that had been reinvented countless times since then, most famously recently by both Nureyev and Baryshnikov? Their versions were much more vibrant and modern without dropping the classism of the music or movement.

What the Paris Opera Ballet had staged was… passé. Petipa’s vision was amazing. But he had had his time. And that time was the nineteenth century. The changes to the original choreography that Francesca had deemed necessary did not achieve the return to the classic roots she was aiming for. They just made it feel antiquated.

And yet, here they were. Sitting in Francesca’s office next to Gabriel, who seemed entirely too big for the tiny uncomfortable chairs set up for this occasion, Juliette was not even remotely interested in hiding her thoughts. After all, she had been called “overrated, underused, and devoid of any emotional involvement in the proceedings surrounding her on stage” byLe Monde, withLe Figaroadding that she was “wooden and underserved by the lack of imagination of the stale production.”

She knew her face, still black and blue despite the best attempts to cover up the bruises from her fall, spoke volumes, so she was not surprised when Lalande took one look at her and cursed.

“Merde!”

Juliette pursed her lips, felt the lingering sting of the yet-to-heal lip, and said nothing.

“Why are you cursing out Juliette? What does she have to do with it?” Clearly tired of the confines of the stiff chair and unaccustomed to being torn to shreds by the press, Gabriel was up like a bull seeing red. To his credit, the pinkish shirt Lalande was sporting deserved the derision.

However, pink shirt or not, the minister did not back down, even if he had to lift his face to look up at the six-foot-five-inch height from which the irate dancer was glaring at him.

“She, you, Madame Bianchi, Monsieur Lenoir, every single one of you has something to do with it.”

Well, Juliette found no fault in this logic, though it meant that not even the poor seventy-year-old orchestra conductor, Victor Lenoir, was spared, and he had been with Palais Garner forever, was the soul of professionalism, and just played the damn music. He sat in the corner of the office silently, the only one yet to utter a word since they had all arrived at ten a.m. after getting both the evening edition and the first print of the morning papers.

“I disagree.” Gabriel balled his fists before stuffing them in the pockets of his jeans. This had to be some kind of feat, because the garment was so tight on him, it must’ve been illegal in some places here in Europe and most certainly anywhere along the Bible Belt in the US.

“You can disagree all you want, Monsieur Flanagan, but you were rotten. You, Mademoiselle Lucian-Sorel—and no, I do not give a damn that she was underserved by the production. It was Dulcinea, for God’s sake, a nothing part, and you fucked that one up too!”

It was Juliette’s turn to see red.

“Too? Are you implying I have been messing up parts?” She’d be damned if she’d honor him with his title when he was being rude, sweary, and downright wrong. Gabriel made a move to stand in front of her, but she pushed him aside. “You are insulting. Every dancer has bad reviews. Bad days happen. Bad productions happen?—”

“You’ve had nothing but bad days and bad productions for the last two years. This was marked as the be-all and end-allseason. And I swear, I will end it all, right here, if nothing is done.”

At Francesca’s customary clap of hands, everyone turned toward the desk dominating the office as she slowly stood up from behind it. She was looking worse for wear, somehow ages older than yesterday, and smaller. Her cane was not in its regular spot by the door; she was holding on to it tightly, her knuckles white on the handle.

“I take responsibility.” The buzzing of the overhead light, so much like an annoying mosquito, was the only sound in a room that, just a few seconds ago, had been submerged in chaos.

“I takefullresponsibility,” Francesca amended, and when nobody protested, her fingers relaxed almost imperceptibly on the cane. “The choice of the choreographer, the call to switch scenes, and everything in between those decisions were mine and mine alone, Minister. My dancers execute my direction. I am the Director of Paris Opera Ballet. And I stand by my decisions, such as they are.”

Nobody spoke. Francesca exhaled loudly and then lowered back into her chair. Outside, Paris was waking up, the sounds of people and birds, vendors and street sweepers, so familiar, so dear to Juliette, did nothing to soothe the abraded nerves.

“Swan Lakeis the last chance you get, Madame Bianchi.Swan Lakeis the last chance all of you get. And even then I cannot guarantee that I will not take matters in my own hands, since clearly none of you can.” Lalande allowed his words to sink in and then left the room without a backward glance.

Through the door he left open, Juliette glimpsed him speaking softly to Katarina, of all people. What was she even doing on the third floor? And why was she talking to Lalande?

Except, it dawned on Juliette, she wasn’t. The minister was whispering, accompanying his words with the classic gallic gestures of irritation and persuasion. Katarina’s face, as always,showed nothing, but her eyes held that empty look, the look that Juliette had grown to know so well. Whatever he was selling her, she wasn’t buying it—but wasn’t saying so either.

Gabriel stood up and closed the door, and Juliette refocused her attention on the task at hand.

“What are we going to do?”

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