“I have just rearranged everything for seventeen,” he said sourly.
“Well, then, rearrange it back again,” answered Dubrov.
Grisha raked her with his coal-black eyes. The height was right—she would fit in with the smaller girls and she didn’t look stupid like some of the others. All the same…
“Which version of
Harriet swallowed. “I have not danced in any of them, Monsieur.”
“Not in
She shook her head.
“And
“No production. I have never danced in
Grisha sighed and became placatory. Obviously the girl was so nervous she had lost her wits. “In English it is called
“No.”
“Or an attendant to the Sugar Plum Fairy?” Grisha continued imploringly. He broke into the “Valse des Fleurs,” revolved, swayed, became an icing-sugar rose.
Harriet shook her head once more and looked beseechingly at Dubrov. But the impresario, who seemed to be enjoying himself, was staring at the ceiling.
“But a Wili?” persisted Grisha desperately. “A Wili in
Harriet lifted her head and in a voice she just managed to hold steady said, “I have never danced on any stage before.”
A strangled sound came from Grisha. “Impossible,” he managed to say. “It is impossible! In five days we leave.”
She made no attempt to entreat or argue, but he saw her bring her small white teeth down on to her lower lip to stop it trembling, and then she bent down to pick up her case.
Grisha swore lustily in Russian. “You have your
“Yes.”
“Then put them on. And hurry!”
“On the program you will appear as Natasha Alexandrovna,” said Dubrov to Harriet as she sat opposite him in his office, a shawl over her practice dress. “Dancers cannot have English names.”
“Natasha! Oh…” She leaned forward, her eyes alight and on her face the memory still of that terrifying, grueling, awful and marvelous hour she had just spent on stage.
“Why? Because of
“Yes. I used… oh, to
“Angry!” Dubrov glared at her. “What are you saying? Prince Andrei is the finest portrayal of goodness in our entire literature.”
“Goodness? How can it be good to get someone
“An exam which, however, she failed.”
“How could she
Dubrov waved away her apology. “Not at all—Smetlikov, one of our critics, takes a very similar view. However, we must get down to business. You will attend class every morning at ten. The rest of the time you will work to learn the
“Yes.”
He looked up, to see again that extraordinary illumination of her face from within which had followed Grisha’s order to put on her dancing shoes. To be told to do the impossible seemed to be all that she desired.
“The tour is extended. We shall go on to Lima and Caracas, so we will be away all summer.” And as she nodded, “Have you somewhere to stay?”
She flushed. “Well, no, not actually. I was wondering if I could sleep in the dressing room just until we sail?”
“Impossible.” He sighed. “I will speak to one of the girls—perhaps Marie-Claude or Kirstin will find room for you in their lodgings. You have money?”
“A little.”
“Good.” He put the tips of his plump fingers together and said reflectively, “Of course, if someone should come here and ask me if I am employing a girl called Natasha Alexandrovna in my
“Oh…
“Yes,” said Dubrov heavily, “I gathered this. Perhaps you should tell me…”
Later, meeting Grisha in the corridor, he said, “Well, how is she, my little protegee?”