Rêverie in the Paris Opera, France
Two delicate turns — and stop. The body was perfectly placed.
Natalia did not lower the small opera glasses from her eyes for a moment. The ballerina now balanced on one leg. Her partner brushed her fingertips lightly and guided her through a full, unhurried circle. They held each other’s gaze for a fleeting second before he released her. She turned towards the audience. The spotlight caught her face; her electrified eyes fixed steadily on an invisible point.
Poised on the tip of one toe, she restrained the unfolding of an arabesque. Natalia held her breath and counted silently — one… two… three… The arabesque must appear eternal, suspended beyond time itself.
Aurora felt the tremor of balance ripple through her body and, with exquisite control, began to release it. Effortlessly, she lowered her foot to the stage and closed in fifth, her pointe brushing the floor with quiet precision. The orchestra sounded the final bars of the third act of The Sleeping Beauty. The curtain fell.
The theatre erupted into applause. Natalia remained motionless. Still staring at the ballerina, she felt a thousand thoughts crease her brow. How could she ever attain such perfection? How could she master her own body, that relentless adversary against which she battled day after day? Ballet demanded everything and promised nothing. Of a hundred girls who aspired to become ballerinas, perhaps ten were worthy — and there was room for only one.
The Paris Opéra Ballet School
Her thoughts drifted to Paris. She would manage alone; she was certain of it. A scholarship might cover the fees, and with the modest savings of Grandfather Stéphane she could rent a small loft in one of the narrow streets behind the Opéra. For the rest, she would have to work. A faint, rueful smile touched her lips as she wondered what skill she possessed beyond counting balances in arabesque. Perhaps she might secure a minor role in the company and spend the remaining hours working backstage. It was not an unworthy beginning.
One day, they would recognise her talent. She allowed the thought to unfurl within her, to gather strength and warmth. She would labour tirelessly; she would endure. The spotlights would one day bathe her face, applause would rise to meet her, and she would blaze across the stage — a star of the ballet.
*Natalia, the heroine of my 1995 novel “PROVENCE, Fragrances”, was born, in part, from a memory of my youth: an evening at the Paris Opéra, where the spell of ballet — its rigour, its fragility, its splendour — first impressed itself upon my imagination and has never quite faded.
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