The Red Shoes Dance On, The Red Shoes (1948)

[derwent_f]

Title: The Red Shoes Dance On

Fandom: The Red Shoes (1948)

Characters: Boris Lermontov, Julian Craster, Victoria Page

Rating: G

Summary: Someone always loses. Sometimes that means the story doesn't end well - and sometimes it does.

Notes:

• Yuletide treat for laughingacademy. Beta by Small_Hobbit.
• Artistic licence taken with regards to the Ballet Rambert. Its history (Part III's 2nd and 3rd paragraphs) was summarised from Wikipedia.

I.

The dresser’s done such a good job fixing Vicky’s makeup, there are no traces of the tears she painfully shed less than fifteen minutes ago. Lermontov makes a mental note to give the old woman a token of appreciation later.

Something is off with Vicky’s dancing, though. He frowns, eyes tracking each movement. No, it’s not her technique. She still burns brightly, and yet effuses no warmth.

His jaw clenches, an act of betrayal. Then with effort he arranges it back to its usual marble-smooth visage. He’s keenly aware of Sergei’s eyes watching him closely. Perhaps Sergei was right after all. Perhaps he does need to visit an oculist.

(No, he doesn’t believe that in the slightest. But it’s a far more preferable explanation.)

 

---

 

II.

‘I do hope you’re sure, Vicky,’ Lady Nestor’s lips thin in disapproval. They stand on the courthouse steps. It’s a rare beautiful summer day – of all days, why does it have to fall on the day her divorce is finalised?

‘I am,’ she says. And it’s true, she is sure, no matter what that tiny yet persistent voice in the back of her head insists.

A week later she is back on stage in Monte Carlo. It’s nearing the end of summer, and after this season’s over the Ballet Lermontov will once again pack their bags and move on to the next city. Vicky’s looking forward to the trip, and to the roles she will dance – all except one.

The Ballet of the Red Shoes is her calling card. It’s what everyone wants to see her dance, more than any other role.

And yet, with each performance, she can feel her joy diminish more and more. Somehow, she and the girl have become one – cursed to dance on and on, forever and ever, when it has long stopped giving them pleasure.

Only the music can save her, as it once had, that first night long ago. Julian had been conducting, then, and the music had been his and his alone. It guided her, steadied her, the only compass she needed as she danced her way to the end. But now, night after night, it’s Livy on the conductor stand. And so the music is no longer Julian’s, and so it can no longer save her.

She dances alone.

 

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III.

The Observer, April 1970

MERCURY THEATRE’S ARTISTIC DIRECTOR STEPS DOWN

The Mercury Theatre, home to Ballet Rambert, has announced the retirement of its artistic director, Ms Marie Rambert. The former prima ballerina of the company, Ms Victoria Page, has been named as the new director.

Ms Rambert founded the Ballet Rambert in 1926. Her husband, Ashley Dukes, purchased the former church space and converted it into the current Mercury Theatre.

Despite the constraints of its small size, Ballet Rambert developed a reputation for innovation in dance. Several dancers and choreographers who began their careers with the company have gone on to stellar international careers with more established companies, such as the Royal Ballet.

One such dancer is Ms Victoria Page, who launched into international fame after joining the Ballet Lermontov and dancing the main role in a new ballet, The Ballet of the Red Shoes. Her time in the company was cut short after she married the composer Julian Craster (The Ballet of the Red Shoes, Cupid and Psyche). After guest-starring in several other companies, she returned to Mercury Theatre as the prima ballerina and has stayed there ever since.

 

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IV.

Julian looks away from the platform and back to the fidgeting young reporter across the table. She fumbles with her notebook, flipping through the pages until finally finding the list of questions.

Julian nods at the tape recorder between them. ‘Is it on yet?’

‘Right!’ she flushes, jittery with nervous energy.  She turns on the recorder and begins to ask him questions from the prepared list.

As far as interviews go, this one’s a breeze. The reporter, a twenty-year-old university student, is more enthusiastic than experienced. Julian answers the questions with half his mind still listening for that long-waited for whistle of an incoming train.

It’s at the end of the interview that the reporter finally asks the question. ‘So, um, you’ve been married to Ms Victoria Page for almost a decade now, right, Mr Craster?’

‘That’s right,’ he says, ‘Exactly our tenth anniversary this year.’ He knows what she’s about to ask. He wonders why they keep asking – he’s never answered differently.

‘Oh, congratulations! And, um, I understand if this is too personal, so, if you’d rather not answer, that’s perfectly fine. But – how do you make it work? What with you here composing for The Royal Opera and Ms Page touring all over the world with Ballet Lermontov? I’ve read somewhere that you only see each other for around four months each year?’ The girl’s blue eyes shine with curiosity.

‘It was difficult at first,’ the practised answer begins. ‘Once or twice we thought about just calling it quits.’ Once more his eyes flicker toward the slowly-filling platform. ‘But Vicky and I are nothing if not stubborn, and neither of us wanted to admit defeat, so we found a way to make it work.’ Which is true enough, and all that he cares to reveal. He already has to share so many parts of Vicky with the world, is it so strange that he’d like to keep some things for the two of them only?

His well-attuned ears catch the faint murmur of a train far in the distance. Julian smiles kindly at the reporter. ‘I hope that’s enough? I’m afraid I have another appointment, as I’ve mentioned before.’

‘Oh, right, yes! I’m sorry, I almost forgot. But thank you so much, Mr Craster! And I hope you have a great summer.’ The tape turned off, the cups cleaned away by the waitress, Julian pays the bill despite the girl’s protestations. He winks and reminds her that he once was a starving student as well. With a final nod of goodbye, he steps out of the café and onto the platform.

Now that the train’s entering the station, the platform is rapidly filled with waiting families and friends and eager porters, all jostling about. He could push his way to the front, of course, but he leans against a pillar instead.

Among those looking out and waving from the windows, there’s one head crowned with fiery hair that Julian would recognise anytime, anywhere. He lifts a hand in greeting and catches the woman’s eyes immediately. That dear face breaks into a smile, as wide and joyful as it was years ago one Monte Carlo night.

‘Julian!’ Vicky shouts, and the world is once again theirs.