The Breaking of the Spell, The Red Shoes (1948)

[derwent_f]

Title: The Breaking of the Spell

Fandom: The Red Shoes (1948)

Characters: Boris Lermontov

Rating: G

Summary: The shoemaker's creation turns against him.

Notes:

• Yuletide gift for laughingacademy. Beta by Small_Hobbit, sinkauli checked the Orthodox Liturgy part.
• '... there’s as much dedication, as much religion, as there ever is in the Imperial Russian Ballet ...' was taken from the Powell and Pressburger's novelisation of the movie.

The door closes, and Lermontov is alone in his triumph.

He falls down on the sofa, heart blissfully light.

Moments like this bring Lermontov back to his childhood, when his parents used to take him to church every Sunday. The saints staring down at him from the ornate iconostasis, the solemn service, and the arresting scenes painted on the walls all roused an indescribable feeling inside him, which in his naivety he called faith but later he recognised as wonder. All these elements, beautiful in themselves, rise together to create a grand magnificence that humble those who are receptive to such beauty.

As he grew in mind and years, he realised that that magnificence did not come into existence on its own – rather, there were people who, in their devotion, spent their life sustaining it. And thus his eyes began to seek those people, the monks who shunned both the dreadful mundanities and the pleasure of everyday life, all in the service of God, which for Lermontov is merely another word for beauty. Later, as he plotted the birth of his company, he recognised the same devotion inside himself.

And so he sought others who shared the same fire inside, and so far he had mostly succeeded. For all their occasional failures in ignoring their human nature (do they think he’s unaware of their dalliances?), Sergei, Grishka, Ivan, and Livy never let those trivialities distract them from that noble call: ballet.

Not so with his prima ballerina. Ah, what is it with them, that they swoon and throw everything away the moment a man declares his love? Why confine themselves to the meagre love of one man, when they can have the whole world at their feet? First Irina, and then Vicky – but now Vicky has returned, and though the first few weeks might be difficult, Lermontov has no doubt that she’ll return to her old self soon, once she truly understands how fickle a lover is. A hundred lovers may pass; ballet would always remain there, steadfast as the stars.

The door bursts open. Vicky’s dresser stands there, face twisted in ugly hysterics.

‘Oui?’ he snaps. The woman’s supposed to keep an eye on Vicky, and instead she stands there babbling like a madwoman, hands flailing around in a grotesque parody of Vicky’s nimble and graceful port de bras.

His sharp tone shakes her out of her hysteria. The woman’s mouth opens and closes as she struggles to catch her breath and find her words. With a deep breath that sounds like a strangled sob, she finally begins, ‘Monsieur, . . .’

He catches only the first few words before they become a meaningless drone. Vicky, running away? After everything?

He stands up, abruptly, and without registering it shoves the woman out of his way and runs. In the hallway the music surrounds him from all sides, engulfing him, and he knows he only has a few minutes at most.

He almost misses the tell-tale glimpse of red. A sharp turn, and his feet trip over each other on the spiral staircase. The stairs run on and on and on, and for a moment he despairs of ever reaching the last step.

But finally he steps onto solid flat ground again. The alarmed call from the man in the reception desk passes by unheard. Heads turn in surprise at seeing the ever-collected man running like a madman. But Lermontov’s world has narrowed down to only that flash of red, always too fast, always just out of reach – there, down on the platform!

And without any thoughts whatsoever, Boris Lermontov jumps over the parapet and falls, falls, falls.

 

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Excerpt from the Monte Carlo Daily, 1948

ACCIDENT VICTIM IDENTIFIED

The victim of yesterday’s train accident has been identified as Boris Lermontov, the head of the world-renowned Lermontov Ballet. An investigation is still on-going, but a source inside the police department has ruled out foul play.

‘He was running frantically, almost like he was chasing something – or someone,’ said M. Stoddard-West, a tourist. His account has been corroborated by other witnesses. It is unclear what, or who, M. Lermontov was chasing.

The Ballet Lermontov has issued the following statement: ‘We are deeply saddened by the passing of M. Boris Lermontov. He was an impresario of a calibre that the world will never see again.’

His death undoubtedly adds more chaos at the ballet company, whose highly-anticipated revival of The Ballet of the Red Shoes had to be cancelled at the last minute when the prima ballerina, Mlle. Victoria Page, went missing right before curtain-up. Several porters stated that they saw Mlle. Page boarded the train to Paris with a man later identified as her husband, the British composer Julian Craster. The Crasters have been contacted for comment.

 

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The audience at the Mercury Theatre can generally be divided into two groups. The first is those who enjoy ballet, but for financial or social reasons are unable to afford the more prestigious venues. The other is the casual ones, those who come either out of curiosity or out of lack of other entertainment options.

And yet, both groups leave feeling as if a dry patch in their soul has been watered. For despite its small stage (too small for an orchestra, hence the corps member watching the record player like a hawk), humble décor, and lack of pomp, there’s as much dedication, as much religion, as there ever is in the Imperial Russian Ballet or even in Ballet Lermontov itself. The impresario was right indeed when he told Lady Nestor that ballet was a religion to those who practise it, and like the monks who do not need elaborate, fancy buildings to rouse their devotion, so do these dancers.

In recent years, though, a third type of audience begins to show up. These are the balletomanes who come to the Mercury for one reason only: to see the one and only Victoria Page dancing. Some of them whisper what a shame, she should be touring the world.

Some nights, a man waits outside the theatre. Most pass him by without the slightest notice. Only very few people recognise the noted composer Julian Craster. After all the audience has left and the stage turns dark, after dispensing signatures on various memorabilia, Vicky Page steps out of the theatre and takes her husband’s arm. Together, they begin to walk home.