In every way possible, Vincent bridges the distance. Not only does he step closer, linking their arms with an assertiveness that Claude somehow expected of him, although perhaps not yet, but his tall frame aligning with Claude's own shorter one fills whatever cracks remain between them with a welcome calm. A welcome break with force and stillness, the traits Claude has come to rely on so heavily to compensate for the rest. The things he lost. Selective tastes in company, Vincent comments and all those words, jumbled and lumped together and drowning in his chest, seem suddenly much too heavy to carry around anymore. No wonder he hasn't been able to rise anywhere, with stones tied to his ankles like this. He frowns. Considers the consequences and the implications only briefly, because part of him knows that if he doesn't talk about it now, he'll miss the chance to. Ever again.
"I had a friend," he hears himself begin. Strangely far away. His voice sounding foreign. "An étoile from Saint Petersburg who came to Paris a few years ago to aid the Opera with their staging of two classics in the Russian repertory. One of them was La Bayadère. We --" And he doesn't get further, because the descriptions fail him. Even amongst themselves in Le Ganyméde, there's the eternal struggle of wording their relationships correctly. The two of them, Vincent and him, are drawing closer and closer to the water, the electric lights across the Pont du Carrousel reflecting in the murky surface of the Seine in glimpses. Glimpses of light and darkness and all the nuances in between. "We did our best to be discreet about our involvement, but must have gotten carried away. French legislation in general is liberal and the Opera as a community, you'd think, even more so. Two weeks before the grand premiere of La Bayadère where Pavel was scheduled to dance Solor, the entire Russian delegation was ordered home. La Bayadère was called off. The Opera lost a fortune. I got demoted from my soloist position..." A long breath. The telegram he'd received from Elizaveta two months later is still so vivid in his mind that he could recite it from memory, if he wanted. He doesn't. He doesn't even want to think about it; once he'd grasped its message, his first reaction was to burn it to crisps. "The family of Pavel's fiancée back in Russia had demanded that Pavel would be held personally responsible for the restoration of her honour. He got the choice between remaining in Russia under their surveillance or suffer capital punishment. He told the Tsar to his face that he'd rather die than stay in Russia, so they hung him."
There's something too blasé about the way he ends up telling the story, but when all comes down to it, the events are what they are. It's everything that lies behind, untold... which makes it truly complicated.
no subject
"I had a friend," he hears himself begin. Strangely far away. His voice sounding foreign. "An étoile from Saint Petersburg who came to Paris a few years ago to aid the Opera with their staging of two classics in the Russian repertory. One of them was La Bayadère. We --" And he doesn't get further, because the descriptions fail him. Even amongst themselves in Le Ganyméde, there's the eternal struggle of wording their relationships correctly. The two of them, Vincent and him, are drawing closer and closer to the water, the electric lights across the Pont du Carrousel reflecting in the murky surface of the Seine in glimpses. Glimpses of light and darkness and all the nuances in between. "We did our best to be discreet about our involvement, but must have gotten carried away. French legislation in general is liberal and the Opera as a community, you'd think, even more so. Two weeks before the grand premiere of La Bayadère where Pavel was scheduled to dance Solor, the entire Russian delegation was ordered home. La Bayadère was called off. The Opera lost a fortune. I got demoted from my soloist position..." A long breath. The telegram he'd received from Elizaveta two months later is still so vivid in his mind that he could recite it from memory, if he wanted. He doesn't. He doesn't even want to think about it; once he'd grasped its message, his first reaction was to burn it to crisps. "The family of Pavel's fiancée back in Russia had demanded that Pavel would be held personally responsible for the restoration of her honour. He got the choice between remaining in Russia under their surveillance or suffer capital punishment. He told the Tsar to his face that he'd rather die than stay in Russia, so they hung him."
There's something too blasé about the way he ends up telling the story, but when all comes down to it, the events are what they are. It's everything that lies behind, untold... which makes it truly complicated.