The Wrong Ballet (A Fairy Story in Three Acts)

By Chris Gordon

It is a sad fact that on this earth something dreamed remains forever just that — a dream. It has nothing of reality, solidity, tangibility about it. It has nothing of a satisfying substance to it which either engenders individual or shared memories to be relished and, if the dream is a pleasantly fulfilling one, enjoyed to the full.

So it is with this story — of a theatre director's passion for a ballet and later a passion for one of his colleagues. Though neither of these passions existed in this reality — they are no less real than any that have been felt by men and women who have lived (or who still live) on this planet. And though the reader may look for the Théâtre Piccolo in the Quartier Latin on a map of Paris, it will not be found. It, too, has been conjured from the æther by the magic of creative thought.

May, 1913. Victor Lapin, the Director of the Théâtre Piccolo in the Quartier Latin of Paris, France has fallen in love with Ballets Russes and he is desperate to entice this 'ballet phenomenon' to perform their sensational new ballet, 'The Rite of Spring', in his theatre. He fails in his attempt to seek an appointment with the ballet company's Director, Serge Diaghilev. Just as Victor is about to give up the idea as hopeless his assistant, Claudine Cheval, has an inspiration. Her good intentions lead her, Victor, and even the Théâtre Piccolo, in a direction that no one could have foreseen!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Gordon
• Release date: Jan 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781910100585

Chris Gordon

A talented composer, arranger and, more recently, writer of fiction who has been around the classical music scene for a long time. He is best known for his inventive, imaginative and beautifully written music for wind instruments published by Cool Wind Music. He has also written quite a few serious works including music for wind ensemble, saxophone ensemble, piano solo, two pianos, songs, choral works etc., etc. He orchestrated three early songs of Second Viennese School composer, Alban Berg, for Berg's publisher, Universal Edition. These songs originally formed part of the cycle of Berg's early songs which became the 'Seven Early Songs', orchestrated by Berg in 1928.Chris turned to writing fiction following a dramatic life crisis which 'switched off' his composing ability for a time. In the absence of writing music, which previously had been as easy as breathing—if sometimes laboured breathing—he began to write stories. He discovered that all his composing knowledge and skill could be channelled into writing stories which often draw on musical themes of one sort or another. A good example of this is his novella, 'The Wrong Ballet'. Happily, the ability to write music has returned, albeit sporadically, and he is working on a set of piano variations. He has just finished writing music for chamber ensemble which 'goes with' his story of Pauline Viardot-Garcìa and Johannes Brahms, 'The Baden-Baden Idyll', which you can read about in the Smashwords Interview 'What are you working on next?'

Book preview

Ouverture

The bullet-headed, bearded Head Receptionist of the Hôtel de Crillon looked at the elegantly dressed visitor with an insouciant impassivity which was blood-chilling.

"I am sorry, Monsieur, but I regret that my instructions are absolutely firm. Your request is completely out of the question. The Maestro has made it crystal clear that he is not to be disturbed for the entire afternoon." The Head Receptionist pursed his lips to show that his patience was almost depleted.

But I only ask for five minutes of his time. Just five minutes! Please send a message to him, I beg you!

No, Monsieur. I repeat: it is quite out of the question. He is a very busy man—he is working on important projects at the moment. You are asking the impossible.

Busy with Nijinsky—his most important project, quipped a ruddy-faced, red-haired junior receptionist standing next to the Head Receptionist. He smirked as he uttered these words. Without warning, the underling received a sharp dig in his ribs from his superior’s left elbow, which caused the acolyte to grimace with pain. All the while, the Head Receptionist continued to maintain perfect eye contact with the gentleman who stood on the other side of the reception desk. The gentleman was now tapping his right foot rapidly against his walking stick to demonstrate his annoyance and frustration. The impasse seemed to last forever. Finally, it was broken by the Head Receptionist.

My apologies, Monsieur, but you really must excuse me. I have to attend the Duchesse d’Orléans. Her Grace is most particular about the flower arrangements in her suite. It is imperative that I supervise the installation in person. Good day, Monsieur.

Damned martinet, whispered the Hôtel de Crillon’s visitor to himself, as the Head Receptionist disappeared stage-right through a door concealed by a heavy velour curtain. The gentleman was left with nothing but the ‘smirking oaf’ junior receptionist to look at. Taking his cue that the ‘audience’ was now at an end, he walked briskly towards the hotel’s main entrance.

Le Premier Acte

—I—

At a quarter-past four in the afternoon of the 2nd of June, 1913, Monsieur Victor Lapin stepped into the late spring sunshine streaming down onto Paris’s Place de la Concorde, having left the relative shade of the foyer of the Hôtel de Crillon. He paused for a second, his eyebrows knitted together, as he pondered what had just transpired. From the top pocket of his elegant black frock-coat, he took a large, powder blue handkerchief with which he proceeded to mop his wide brow. He frowned, seemingly annoyed that the sun’s warming rays were imposing themselves on his person uninvited, and also, seemingly bidding the sun to return its rays whence they had come—however far the journey!

If truth be told, M. Lapin was angry. His countenance suggested, rather, that he was upset. It was impossible to say exactly which it was, as the two emotions fought each other for complete dominion over him. He had made a special pilgrimage to the Hôtel de Crillon in the hope, nay, the expectation of seeing and speaking to Serge Diaghilev, the renowned Russian impresario and Director of the enormously popular ballet company, the Ballets Russes. M. Lapin had cancelled all his appointments for that afternoon and had travelled a considerable distance in the hope of discussing with this ‘God’ of the theatre an idea which burned with a passionate fervour in his heart and in his soul and which was in danger of consuming him entirely.

M. Lapin, 40 years of age and in his prime, was also a man of the theatre, although you would never have discerned his profession from his appearance. It gave nothing away whatsoever. From his sleek black hair, rather bulbous nose, fine mouth and unusually chiselled chin, his moderately full figure hugged by his immaculately tailored coat and neat, grey, pin-striped trousers, down to his black patent