CHAPTER 1: The Dancer
PART 1: LIGHT (Sun)
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’
– John Milton, Paradise lost. 1667
--
He knew things didn’t last. He’d experienced innumerable disappointments throughout his lifetime, and this was just one more to add to the list.
‘You’re blinded from reality’, she had said. As they all did. All everyone said was the same. People seemed to think shouting and screaming would open his eyes, (once and for all, they’d mumble) but none of that worked. He knew better. He knew himself; they only saw what he wanted them to.
Those words were the last his girlfriend uttered in his direction before leaving for ever. It had definitely hurt, not the words themselves, but the fact that after all that time she still hadn’t grasped a thing about him.
He was an artist. A dancer. A good one at that (so people claimed). He worked as a performer in a theatre. It was a dream come true for him. He’d just got added to the main cast of a famous production and it was all he could’ve ever asked for; therefore, his girlfriend’s (now ex) words made no sense to him. No matter how much he pondered them, they seemed nothing but arbitrary.
A part of him understood where she came from. He’d spent his entire career getting injured. He was weak. He had several muscle and joint conditions which jeopardised his dance activity. He was born to be a dancer, but made to break. He was always fully aware, but he’d broken through. It had been years since his last injury, why, he’d never felt better. He was sure he was at his peak. The zenith of his career was approaching. That play would be his best, he knew. He’d make it his best.
Even with his issues, he’d managed to get that part and he was not going to waste such an opportunity. Even if it meant making it his last.
Rehearsals were every day from 7 to 10 am, and then from 6 to 9pm. It was exhausting. Presumably the hardest he’d ever had to work. But it was fulfilling, it felt worthwhile and productive, so it wasn’t difficult to keep up and stay motivated.
It was the third week. They’d been laying down the basics of the choreography, and getting to know each other (the characters needed to have some degree of chemistry in order to convey the emotions correctly).
The first performance was in a month. No one gave the nearing date much thought, their focus was solely on practising to make the most of their capacities. Everyone was much quieter and slier than he’d imagined. They all looked simply absent minded, lost in the bodily experience of fluctuating with newly attained, foreign feelings one must learn to embody. The process of adapting to one’s character varied greatly from person to person, in his case, it was more of a thought process, in which he spent hours daydreaming, gazing at himself, locking his actual self out and accompanying the persona in. The air of professionalism in the rehearsal room never ceased to delight him. He was surrounded by the best. He had much to learn from them.
Elias Lavigne. Most would call him a prodigy. The golden boy of Gordes, who overcame his many hardships regarding health, and ended up in Paris, as a main character of one of the most well-known productions. And at such a young age, they’d say. It was true, born April 3rd 1960, he’d started his dancing journey in the 70s, at only 16 when he got accepted into The Paris Opera Dance School, trained there for a while, and at the same time began taking small roles. It didn’t really take long for him to get noticed by the public. He was good. However, he was young and inexperienced, so the majority of the roles he got stuck him in the backroom. That is till now.
People knew he was good, but none had actually seen his full potential, and this was his chance to show them. At 20, he was finally going to dance among the best.
The day after Lavine, his now ex-girlfriend, had stormed off the way she had, yelling nonsensical (to his mind) accusations to him, claiming to know it all, he was beaten. The last thing he wanted was to get out of bed, though the sloppy apartment in which he had to sleep in (dancing hadn’t gifted him much money), encouraged him to leave and get some fresh air.
It was 6, meaning that he still had an hour before running late to rehearsal. He’d habitually wake up at that time and calmly have his breakfast. Always the same. Two toasts and a cup of coffee. Any variation of that combination irritated him, but today was different, he felt miserable, and couldn’t take the overwhelming feeling of routine.
He went out for a walk and decided to have some hot cocoa at his favourite café. He frequented that particular café chiefly because of its unusual schedule that matched his. No other cafes would be open at such an undeniably inconvenient time. Plus, the food and drinks were good, so it was nice.
‘Why, hello there, El. Quite unusual to see you here today, it’s Monday.’ spoke Mr Gabriel Bates, the owner of the café, who was familiar enough with him and his schedule to hold such a claim. It was a fact that he only ever visited his café on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. The rest of the days had been reserved for his homely breakfast, with his girlfriend.
‘How’s everything, Gabriel? I’m aware of the rareness of my sight today. Something happened.’ He explained as he slowly sat down at the counter, ready to order his usual. Gabriel appeared to want to further ask him about what it was that had happened, but noticing his dreadful countenance, he assumed he wasn’t in the mood to talk.
‘Hot cocoa?’ Gabriel questioned, though knowing clearly the answer. ‘Yes, please.’
He watched as Gabriel poured the cocoa into a mug, and immediately flung it into the heater. The silence drove him to think. About all that’d occurred, what it meant. He really deeply believed that his relationship wouldn’t fail, but what could he expect, anyway. Nothing ever lasted, anyway.
‘Here you go. Careful, it’s boiling hot.’ Gabriel offered him a warm smile. He was one of Elias’ only friends. Maybe the only one. Not many people entered the café at the time he did, so they were typically alone. They’d shared countless occurrences with each other. Gabriel came from Germany, from a small, insignificant village, and Elias also came from a small village, so they had a perspective of the big city in common.
Gabriel often found himself missing his homeland, so he’d talk. He’d tell Elias all sorts of stories about his village, his country. Their chats were always fairly pleasant. Though one thing Gabriel had never told him, which piqued his curiosity, was the reason for keeping such an unusual schedule in his café. He’d actually asked once, when he started going there, but Gabriel had just said, ‘I attract a different kind of clientele, a kind which wouldn’t come in broad daylight’. It seemed to him a dangerous topic, so he stayed away ever since.
He waited a few minutes before diving into his hot cocoa. He gulped it down swiftly, not caring to stop to take a breath. Gabriel stood watching him confounded. ‘You know, that’s supposed to be drunk bit by bit, right?’ he posed comically, with a half grin.
‘I’m aware. I was just very thirsty.’ He blatantly let out. He was annoyed. Even his hot cocoa didn’t last long. He didn’t care to take his friend’s feelings into account with his response, since friendships also never lasted. He wondered, what was the point of it all, when he already knew, before even starting something, that it would inevitably and surely end. But then he thought of dance. His dance was different, it was young and immortal. Nothing could ever end it; nothing could restrain it. That was the point of it all.
‘Got it, mate. You should get some rest, you look torn.’ Gabriel was a good friend. He understood the circumstances without needing them to be made explicit, and he adapted. He gave Elias another of his reassuring smiles, and started cleaning some cups.
‘You’re correct. I should rest. I’ll take half the day off. Here’ He pulled out a couple of coins, and placed them on the counter. ‘Keep the change. See you tomorrow.’ As he stood up and walked towards the door he caught a glimpse of his friend waving goodbye, ‘Take care.’ he said.
He was moved by Gabriel’s worry; however, he wouldn’t follow his advice. He wasn’t going to skip practice, regardless of his changing mood. As a matter of fact, he theorised that it would help him feel better.
It was almost quarter to 7, so he set his destination to the theatre. The café was conveniently placed near the theatre; thus, he needn’t agonise much about the time it would take him to get there. He could take a refreshing walk to clear his intrusive thoughts and ready his mind for what was to come; rehearsals took an awful lot of concentration, which could drain his mental health.
When he arrived, it was close to 7. Still a few minutes left, however, most of his fellow dancers were already there, stretching. He copied them; started to stretch each part of his body delicately. Making sure to get every joint and every muscle in its ideal state, prepared to bear what he put them through with his dance. His stretching had to be even more thorough than that of his co-workers, being so prone to injuries.
Once they were all done with their stretching method, they regrouped and started chatting; the director and choreographer wasn’t there yet, so they had some time to kill.
It was an amusing experience for him, every time he had the opportunity to speak amongst those people. He was the youngest out of them, so they treated him as more of a naïve creature, eager to learn, and with an incredible potential. But when he overheard their own conversations, it was mesmerising; the way they spoke was equivalent to the way they danced. Like graceful swans they flew from one topic to another, only touching lightly on each, enough to spark curiosity, but not to fully satiate you. The tone of their voices had a certain musicality which rang beautifully in one’s ear. A recognisable tendency amid every single one of them to elaborate each topic with an airy sense of loftiness, that could leave anyone in awe. What they said didn’t matter, but how they said it. They were dancers, they were artists, he thought.
As pretentious and superior as they may seem, they didn’t hesitate to help him out (their experience made them wiser, and great teachers), as they appreciated his growing, innate talent. Though of course, he was the main character. Many who appeared scarcely, at best had one scene with any important character, envied him. He was perfectly aware of this, in fact, he found it compelling that people should envy him. He wasn’t afraid of them, for he was strong, and he knew he deserved that jealousy. It was the proof of his success, as well as the price of it.
The performance they were preparing was none other than the ballet adaptation of Macbeth, originally a play by William Shakespeare. It was a play Elias had read, and loved. The tale of love, passion, ambition, murder. It was splendid. The moment he saw the audition, he knew he needed that part. No one else could pull it off like he would. He saw himself in Macbeth; a strong young man who fought for his goals, no matter the cost, overcoming it all. Save the tragic ending, which bound the tale to all the other Shakespeare tragedies, it was similar to his own life story. His story which he was keenly proud of. He wanted the world to know where he’d come from.
There was a loud thud. The entrance door. The director came raging, in big strides, into the practice room where they were chattering. ’Your first performance is in a month, less than that now, you’re wasting time. If you think you’re good enough to afford to be goofing around gossiping, you got a storm coming, ‘cause I got some bad news!’ They were left speechless. Everyone started moving and getting into their respective positions to commence the rehearsal. That was the power the director and choreographer Sergei Orlov held over the performers. The sheer terror he infused was more than enough to make the greatest dancers oblige to him, leaving them completely subdued to his every order.
He was a tall, sturdy man. Years of dancing non-stop, all around the world, had left him both immensely talented at his job as a choreographer, but also broken. He was no older than 45, but he seemed completely torn; his limbs dropped at his sides as if they were weights he had no option but to carry, which compromised his movements and slowed him down. He must have been extremely heavy, too, even though he was no longer a dancer (career wise, since he would always be a dancer at heart) and didn’t train, he was nonetheless still surprisingly toned and buff. All in all, he made for a terrifying guy, with his 190 centimetres and his 90 kilograms of pure muscle. That, plus his voice, piercing and deafening, which they never ceased to have to bear; he yelled frequently.
Aside from the dread they all felt for him, and the many headaches that stemmed from his shrieks, they were grateful to have him as director. He was a greatly talented and experienced choreographer and dancer. In his youth, he’d been one of the best. He’d come all the way from Russia, from The Moscow State Academy of Choreography, The Bolshoi Ballet Academy. He’d been first a student, afterwards a teacher, before deciding to come to Paris to continue expanding his career. They were lucky to be in his production.
