The Dark Arts of Blood (14 page)

Although he was a relative newcomer, Emil was aware that she had enigmatic patrons who came and went at their own whim. He’d glimpsed them a few times: a striking couple, the woman dressed in subtle warm colours that complemented her hair, the man dark-haired and elegant in black. They were known as Herr and Frau Alexander, but no one could tell him
who
they were.

They had Violette’s confidence. For that, he envied them.

Quietly he left his room and trod the corridor, wincing at every creaking floorboard. He hadn’t undressed and was still in the white shirt and grey slacks he’d travelled in, feeling rumpled and grubby. He descended stairs to the next level, hearing snatches of conversation behind closed doors. Apparently others couldn’t sleep, either, though the hour was past midnight.

Bedrooms and dormitories occupied the highest floors of the academy. Beneath lay practice studios and rehearsal rooms for the orchestra. Violette’s apartment was immediately above the main studio, although the entrance was tucked away and the door always locked. Not that he would dream of trying to enter her private quarters. On the lowest floors lay kitchens, dining rooms, staff quarters and costume stores.

Next door was the theatre, newly restored. Soon they would be rehearsing for the Ballet Lenoir’s first performance in Violette’s own venue. Emil wandered, envisioning his readjustment to the daily routine of practice, rehearsal and performance that would be his existence for the foreseeable future. How strange, to live in this mixture of the mundane and the magical.

If fate hadn’t dealt him the good fortune of talent and looks, he would still be in Tuscany, bullied by his grumpy father, a peasant farmer, bossed by older brothers, alternately fussed over and slapped by his adored if aggravating mother. He missed the warm sun shining through the olive groves, the vineyards and wildflower meadows. Even missed his family, a little. He did not miss the arguments. He couldn’t have borne the frustration of doing nothing but farming, having a few children with some peasant girl, and growing old in the same village.

He refused to become his father.

A schoolteacher had told him about ballet, showing him photographs of Anna Pavlova and Vaslav Nijinsky. No one could fathom the workings of a child’s brain: why you
knew
, almost before you could walk, what you wanted to be.

Emil had been ten when he announced his intention to become a famous dancer. The resulting blow from his father made his ears ring for a week. Life grew no better. Emil was stubborn. The more his brothers mocked him, the more determined he became. The more his father shouted and struck him, the more his mother pleaded, the less he cared.

Years later, he realised that their anger was fired by more than the prospect of losing a son, a useful pair of hands. They assumed that dancing made him something too unspeakable to be named.
Homosexual
. A word not even to be whispered.

As a child, Emil knew nothing of that. The day of his twelfth birthday, he ran away. He found his way to the Ballet Russes in Paris, begged a job as a kitchen boy. Then he sneaked into classes, solicited tuition in exchange for running errands. Through hard work and natural brilliance, he inveigled his way into the corps de ballet – and one day Violette saw him dance, and took him away with her.

Fate.

He’d never been home. His mother might be proud, but his father would receive news of his success in the traditional way, with a punch to the ear.
Quit this nonsense and get back on the bloody farm!

Emil laughed.

“No thank you, Papa,” he said out loud.

Later, he’d heard the horrific news of his older brother, Alfonso: publicly lynched for attempting to assassinate Mussolini. Emil was only too aware it might not even be safe for him to return to Italy. That was what you got for involving yourself in politics: execution. Emil tried to push Alfonso far out of his thoughts.

In a corridor, he tried the door that led through to the theatre. He expected to find it locked, but occasionally the caretaker would forget. Tonight the door opened.

He strolled through the backstage area and came out into the auditorium, a huge space embellished with Art Nouveau fancies; smooth wooden pillars carved into sweeping shapes, lamps held aloft by idealised female forms. Violette had insisted it be restored to its full romantic glory.

A couple of lamps glowed, shining on a figure that sat on the edge of the stage with his feet dangling over the orchestra pit. Mikhail. He turned and saw Emil in the wings, raised a bottle of clear liquid and waved it.

“Couldn’t sleep either? Hey, come share this vodka with me.”

Emil crossed the stage and sat down beside him. He accepted the bottle and took a swig, wincing at the burn of raw spirit. He was not a drinker. Violette disapproved.

“I’m forty years old tomorrow,” Mikhail said glumly.

“
Prost
,” said Emil, saluting him with the bottle. “Happy birthday. You dance like a twenty-year-old, still.”

“Hah. No need to flatter me. The joints start to ache, the muscles seize up. How many more moments of glory shall I have on this stage, eh? Is it already over?”

“Surely not. You could go on to sixty, or longer…”

“Ah, but do I want to? If I cannot give my best – no. I want to be remembered in my prime, not as a shambling has-been. Do I want to teach the young puppies who come after me? No. Damn them, with their eager faces and long legs like newborn foals. No. When it’s over, it’s over.”

Emil realised he’d get little sense out of Mikhail. Every time he passed the vodka back, Mikhail pushed it on him again. The fourth swallow went straight to his head.

“You’re so young, golden boy. Grab the success, enjoy it while you can.”

“I intend to.”

“Because I was you, once. So never forget – one day it will be you sitting here in my place, with grey stubble on your chin and a bottle of vodka in your fist, having this same conversation with your blue-eyed replacement.”

Never
, thought Emil. For a while he was too horrified to reply. He took another drink, startled by how fast the liquor took effect. Soon it seemed perfectly reasonable to raise questions he’d never dared ask before.

“You’ve known Vi— Madame Lenoir a long time,” he said at last.

“No one
knows
her, my friend.”

“But…” He couldn’t stop thinking about Violette beside him on the liner, her hand in his. The thought made him want to laugh and weep. “Is she… Has she ever been married, do you know? Is there someone… special to her?”

Mikhail laughed so loud that the auditorium echoed. “Oh my God! The puppy is in love with her!”

“No!” Emil flapped his hand to hush Mikhail. “No, of course not. I’m just… curious. No one ever mentions it. I won’t repeat anything you say. Please tell me.”

Mikhail shrugged. “Married, I don’t think so. It’s said she had something with Janacek…”

Janacek was the ballet’s founder. Everyone knew that, though Emil had never met the man. Violette had taken over as director when he’d died two years ago.

“Did she?”

“Pah. I don’t believe it. Idle rumours. Truth is, she hated him.”

“Really?”

“She hid her feelings well, but he was a bully, as well as a lecher. She’d never let an old goat like that touch her.”

Emil felt a jolt of relief.

“Anyone else?”

“Who knows? She’s private.” Mikhail waggled his fingers in front of Emil’s nose. “
Mysteerrious
.”

“Do you know her friends? The couple who visit her? They’re here now.”

“You mean the Alexanders? Karl and Charlotte. Fine-looking pair, aren’t they?” Mikhail sniffed, took another drink. “They helped her rebuild the ballet after Janacek died, but no, I don’t know them. They are mysterious too. Sometimes they come with two blond men, twins. But it’s not done to pry into her personal life, little brother. Not done.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Come on,” said Emil, inhibitions gone. “You partnered her for years. I believe that you and I are the only male dancers in this company who prefer women to men.”

“You’re right. You got that right.”

“So close to her, did you never feel… Surely you and she…?”

“What, you’re asking if Madame and I were lovers?” Mikhail roared with laughter, even louder than before.

“Yes!” Emil said, exasperated. “Were you?”

“Oh, you’ve a lot to learn. No, we were not. I had a girlfriend, until she ran off with the first violinist. I had many girlfriends, but Madame never knew. Oh, I’m sure she suspected, but she pretended otherwise. Not discussed. You must know that. Such matters are
verboten
. But – Violette with her dance partner? Never. Never, never, never.”

Emil chewed his lower lip. Mikhail was not making complete sense. Did he mean she never
would
, or that she never
had
? His own skin felt too hot and tight, as if he might explode. He pushed his fingers into his hair, groaning.

“Hey.” He felt Mikhail’s hand land on his shoulder, warm and heavy. “You’ve really got it bad for her, haven’t you? This is terrible.”

“I don’t know what to do!”

“You don’t? This is
very
bad.”

“What do you mean? I don’t believe you didn’t desire her. Can’t believe you didn’t
try
. Were you too scared? What?”

Mikhail’s face clouded. “You’re an idiot.”

“I can’t help it. I love her.”

“Of course you do. Everyone loves her.”

“No – I
really
love her. On the ship – never mind. You wouldn’t understand. I just feel – damn! I have to be with her, or I shall go mad.”

Mikhail chuckled. “Don’t torment yourself. Sure, you need to be a little crazy to dance in the first place – but let this go, or you’ll end up insane.”

“But what should I do? I have to tell her. Should I tell her? I can’t
not
… but how? It’s no good, I’ve got to, but…”

The older man was shaking his head. His indulgence brought Emil close to hitting him. “Slow down. You’re tired, drunk, emotional. Me too. That’s another way you’re lucky – at my age, takes
so
much longer to get drunk.”

“You’re not listening. Please. Perhaps Violette – Madame – is alone because everyone is afraid of her. She’s still young, she hasn’t met the right man yet. But I’m not afraid. I need to be with her. And I’m sure she feels the same, or would if she knew… I have to ask her, but… dare I?”

Mikhail opened his mouth to speak, lips wet with vodka. He paused. Then he gave a broad grin. “You know what? You go right ahead and tell her.”

Emil looked up. He felt a rush of hope. “You really think I should?”

Mikhail opened his arms wide, as if preparing for a bear hug. “Absolutely you should! It’s romantic, my friend. Ah, my God, so romantic! Go ahead. Pick your moment, and declare yourself. What can go wrong?”

T
he dagger lay on a scarf in the centre of a small table. Violette prowled around it like a cat circling a venomous snake. The scarf, one of Karl’s, was black cashmere. The knife shone against the blackness with a yellowish glow. Now and then the blade shifted so that the tip pointed towards the dancer like a compass needle. As if it were following her, Charlotte noted uneasily.

“So you can pick it up, wrapped in cloth?” Violette asked.

“Karl can,” said Charlotte. “If I try, it’s like seizing a live electric wire. Still, I can withstand the pain for a few seconds. The knife seems to be dangerous only if the blade pierces the skin.”

“Do you think it’s safe to have kept it?”

“We couldn’t dispose of it,” said Karl. “Anyone might have picked it up.”

“What of the men who attacked you?” Violette turned to Charlotte with an expressive, sombre stare.

Charlotte’s heart went sour, as it did every time she thought of that evening.
This is going to plague me forever
, she thought,
unless we find out the truth.
A string of unpleasant memories flashed through her mind, and she clearly saw the lamia, a pale replica of herself, standing beside Violette.

No one else noticed. Something went dark in her mind, like a lucid dream collapsing into fog. The lamia vanished. Charlotte made a careful effort not to react.

“As I said, I thought I’d killed the intruder in the chalet. But his blood was too foul to drink, and the slope must have broken his fall. Karl found no body, only tyre tracks.”

“And you’ve no idea who they were?”

“They put me in mind of soldiers,” said Charlotte. “The one who stabbed me, Bruno, might have been a private once. The reddish-haired one who came to the chalet, an officer. Apart from that impression… No idea at all.” Everything about that night was taking on an odd mistiness in her memory. Details were slipping away.

“But they followed you from Lucerne, so it’s possible they live here.”

“If they do, we’ll find them,” said Karl.

Violette’s startling blue-violet eyes fixed on Charlotte. “Couldn’t you have chosen a different town to hunt in?”

“It was only once. You know I’d never touch anyone from the ballet, and you weren’t even here at the time. I felt drawn here because I missed you… but that’s no excuse at all. I’m sorry.”