Claude Laurent Bérubé (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
waywardious) wrote2015-11-23 08:52 pm
waywardious) wrote2015-11-23 08:52 pm
Entry tags:
(2) after and before.
The post-performance bustle is always exceedingly pronounced on closing night. The dressing rooms reverberate with the chatter of the ballerinas and the loud shouting of the danseurs, trying to hear themselves above the rush of water and clothes. Claude has slipped relatively unseen through the commotion, narrowly avoiding Jules and managing to excuse himself when Marise makes a brave attempt at cornering him. He has no idea whether he’ll actually meet Vincent at all, on the street once more, but his entire system is overwrought from the emotional charge it required to dance like he did tonight. Watched, all over again, by a pair of non-judgmental eyes. The rest of the company may be headed for their scheduled parties, but he fully intends to go easy on himself tonight. Grant himself just a little elbowroom.
So, out of his costume and his makeup – tonight (at least) wearing a vest over his shirt, he thumps his brown top hat into position on his head and shrugs into his coat. Slides on a pair of kidskin gloves, but no scarf tonight, because April has brought along gentler winds and kinder temperatures.
Opening the heavy door leading out, right at the heels of the first corps girls, he feels the initial gusts of contentment seep into his system. He danced that variation better tonight than he has ever danced anything in his entire life; he doesn’t even care if his promotion remains obscured in the fogs of the future. He danced like Pavel taught him. Like Pavel inspired him to. All the while, someone watched him and Claude hopes to God that Vincent doesn’t decide to simply disappear back into the crowd.
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It's tradition. Usually something the company enjoys together across ranks and internal fighting; these after-parties on the last day of a run, especially if the run has been as successful as this one. La Bayadère has undoubtedly earned Jules a greater profit than the man has seen since... since... Tonight, however, Claude would honestly rather celebrate with someone who thinks him better for his charisma than certain of his fellow dancers who (in the wake of the catastrophe back then) would prefer and have suggested he take it to another venue. All of it. The dancing, the charm and the physicality. All of it. God knows, Strauss would pay up front.
Looking Vincent over without being too blatant about it, he gives him a fair chance to consider his response. He's tall. Taller than Pavel. Definitely taller than Claude, although this is by no means a great feat, Claude being on the shorter side. The back door opens behind them and he hears the first ballerinas scatter into their close-knit groups, milling past them without a care in the world, seemingly. He knows their feet must hurt. La Bayadère is no laughing matter, technically. Out the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Marise's blackish-brown curls bouncing merrily up and down. She, in turn, catches sight of him as well. Eyes moving alertly from him to Vincent. The briefest pause, before she waves at him and continues into the night with the others. He only greets her halfway, her back already turned and his attention focused solely on the other man.
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“Please, lead the way. I’m sure you must be starving – that was quite an exertion tonight on your part.” He turns away, starts towards the street further down. The Latin Quarters – that’s a good hour’s walk from here. Turning his head slightly to glance at Claude with a raised eyebrow, he adds, “You very much swept me off my feet.”
He’s aware of the romantic implications of the phrase. This time, however, he doesn’t redden or chide himself – after all, it’s innocent enough and Claude’s such a decent man. Unlikely to get offended, consequently, and really; it’s the god-honest truth. Tonight, Vincent watched him and almost felt like he was soaring himself while the bronze idol left the ground behind, the golden dust glittering in the stage light. Besides, over the past weeks his dreams have become more intense, less unforgiving and it’s been almost like a transition – going from terror and humiliation to resignation. He’s not taking it out on anyone, is he? So long as he keeps himself under control outside the confines of his private quarters, aside from God himself, he’ll be the only judge.
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The past month has been one long blur of constant practice, rehearsal, training - Claude has lost a good couple of kilos in weight, because he gets home too late to eat a proper dinner. And a month ago, all the exertion would have been well worth it just for the obvious attention that Jules has finally been paying to him, for once in the capacity of ballet master rather than friend. Even so, it isn't the rising promise of a promotion at long last which has kept him on his toes, in every sense. No, at the back of his mind that hopeful, non-intrusive but altogether insistent air of Vincent's has spread, like a fog. Like a sickness, if Claude would ever characterise another person as such. You were the reason, he tells the other man and it isn't flattery. It isn't empty speak. It's the honest-to-God truth. Claude hasn't danced for anyone but himself since Pavel died. Perhaps what has been missing all along (aside from the obvious, the obvious) was this realisation that dancing should never be reduced to a singular affair. In that regard, all ballet is a pas de deux.
So, certainly, Vincent is no dancer - despite the pretense of his lines. The audience, though, is always only another participant to partner. In the end, the steps mean nothing, if no one is around to interpret their meaning.
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“That means the world to me, Claude.” He’s trying hard not to be excessive or blatant but all the same… there’s something about the other man that inspires honesty in him, even with all the lying he does on a daily basis to the world and to himself as well. He couldn’t possibly take what he’s offered, innocent as it may still be, and devalue it with something uncaring or superficial. Not from Claude. It wouldn’t be right. “I…” Pause. A deep breath. “The ticket you got me – however did you manage to get me such an amazing seat? The lady next to me seemed afraid that I’d steal her diamonds in the dark and her lord husband was too busy staring at the ballerinas on stage to notice.” A quiet laugh as he straightens up a bit, waving a hand in the air mostly as an afterthought. “At times, I swear I could almost feel you fly by right above my head.”
Not almost. Literally, like a gust of wind as Claude whirled across the stage, his movements so powerful and so fast that the air around him had to give in to his lead. He’s not going to get that poetic about it, however; no need to take advantage after all. No need to encourage it.
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Raising an eyebrow, partly at himself, partly at the question, he leads the both of them around the corner onto Rue la Fayette where the electrical lighting is stark and chases their shadows behind them which is undoubtedly the fitting place for them to be, tonight. "The ballet master has yet to find a successful way to withstand my charms," he answers, keeping a chuckle at bay mainly due to the fact that it is a gross understatement. As bad as Claude has felt for the disaster that struck their repertory two seasons ago, it cannot compare to the guilt that has been eating away at Jules - at seeing his rising star rot amongst the corps dancers who possess no skills to help reinvent the company's dying style. If nothing else, then for the sake of his own vanity. "Other than that, it's an in-house secret that the middle seat of the first row is never sold until last minute, should the President need to show favours."
They have had memorable incidents, backstage, where it's been announced that they were performing for foreign ministers, ambassadors, delegates, even the President's mistress only five minutes before going into the wings. Compared to that sort of pressure, dancing for Vincent was the greatest pleasure, in every conceivable way.
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“The rich are a curious class of people, aren’t they? They cheat and commit fraud without even a blink of the eye – no wonder they see treachery everywhere.” He should know. Monsieur LeBeau is very much a prime example. Vincent knows for a fact that multiple aspects of his business go either undetected on the accounts or are re-classified for private needs. The man’s never going to admit it – and Vincent’s never going to expose him, either – but the fact is, riches are inherently dirty. Filthy, as you might say. “It’s good, knowing that no one truly deserving missed out tonight because of me.”
Perhaps it’s just an accident. Surely. His body merely happens to gravitate in the direction of Claude’s with enough momentum that he can’t avoid it – the sudden body contact, their shoulders rubbing against each other for at least a few seconds before he recoils, putting at least an additional foot between them. Behind him, his shadow jumps along the ground along with his long legs, Claude’s contour a solid block of see-through black streaked across the street.
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"Paris isn't exactly a deserving city, when it comes to ballet-goers," he replies. Moving across the distance on light, soundless feet. "They're an unforgiving bunch, the audience. Unlike you."
The compliment is followed by a bump of his shoulder against Vincent's upper arm, good-naturedly, almost playful. However, Vincent is by all means lightweight and Claude shoves him a noticeable stumble to the side without truly meaning to. Quickly, he reaches up and closes his fingers around his arm, steadying him with practiced ease. At least, he's not in unaccommodating pointe shoes. "Sorry," he adds, laughing a bit awkwardly. Only loosens his grip minimally, for effect. To finish on a satisfactory note.
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For a long moment, he just tries to regain his composure, following along shakily, Claude’s grip loosening only slightly as they walk on. Swallowing his nerves, he tries to push all the wrong thoughts aside once more, wondering how he can even remain acquainted with this man in the long run if this is what he does to him, to his mind and body and soul. It’s a losing battle. At some point, he’s bound to ruin it all and is it really worth the resultant pain? Is it?
Glancing sideways at Claude, noting the awkwardness of his laugh, the slight stumble in their conversational flow, he finally smiles. “Quite alright. As you can see, I’m no dancer myself.” His hands tighten harshly in the fabric of his coat. Raising an eyebrow at Claude’s hand still curled around his upper arm, he adds, “It’s hardly going to break me.” It’s an almost impossible feat, however, keeping the underlying resignation out of his voice. There’s a flatness to it, it seems. Despite his best intentions.
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"You don't strike me as someone easily broken, Vincent," Claude says by way of acknowledgement. His lighter voice and narrow build aside, Vincent truly doesn't give off the air of spoils and privilege that often underlies the frailty of the upper classes. Then again, resilience and force has always been a stamp of the French working class, called middle class these days because society is changing all around them in the wake of the growing industry. Whatever name - these were the people who beheaded kings and accomplished revolutions. Not people to mess around with. "What do you do for a living?"
Something that earns him enough to attend the Opera. And something which keeps his hands incredibly soft.
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“I’m an accountant.” He speaks the word without much sentimentalism or indeed, much of anything. He’s never hated his job, he’s got a head for numbers and order – really, it’s the most logical thing he could do. Sometimes, however, logic becomes a rather numb excuse for motivation. “My father…” He swallows without meaning to. “My father’s acquaintance owns a somewhat sizeable dressmaker’s business. He was kind enough to give me work.”
It’s not that getting a job by himself would have been impossible but truly, using your family connections remains a much less vulnerable approach to the market. Naturally, his father owes his friend for taking Vincent in years back and keeping him on – and indeed, favours slip from hand to hand, solidifying the arrangement in a way that a flawless performance never could. LeBeau doesn’t come out of that deal any poorer and obviously, if he did, there’d be no deal to speak of at all. He knows what they’re like, all of them. His father always looks quite ashen when they talk about it. But he’s chosen to accept that the world works as it does, that in order to provide for his household, he’ll have to endure those who’d take advantage.
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Somewhat unconsciously correcting his gloves, tugging them back over his wrists because they tend to slip down, smooth enough to slide over his skin, Claude smiles - another small tug near the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure your handwriting is something I should take note of, in that case." Their footfalls dull and uneven across the newly repaved Place de l'Opéra, they steer around the carriages making their way into the night. At this hour, the traffic is nightmarish, everyone with somewhere to be and someone to see finding themselves in transit. "I hear it's a work-related injury for your kind, to wield an immaculate cursive."
His own is barely readable, if he's not concentrated enough and Heaven knows, the concentration he needs to manage anything beyond a scrawl is not something he often begrudges the world. He can do very neat things with his feet, thus the point just remains lost on him. Pavel used to tease him about it. Called it a proof that he lacked sensitivity. Naturally, he would fall blissfully silent when Claude put his hands to an altogether better use... The blush sneaks up on him and he doesn't catch it in time. A slight frown and he fixes his gaze on the corner where Avenue de l'Opéra crosses Boulevard des Capucines.
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“I have worked along side people with unintelligible handwriting, Claude. Nothing in the world is for certain, right?” He shifts just a bit closer again, looking sideways at the other man, very consciously keeping his eyes from roaming downwards towards his hands. It would only lead his mind onwards and he’s already torturing himself enough by far. Is he blushing, though? Quite a fitting look for him, isn’t it? All rose-coloured subtlety. Imagine how that would look... whilst… Or don’t, actually. No. Heat spreading on his face as well, Vincent adds, somewhat hastily: “Why would you take note of it, though? Surely, a man with your physical skills…” He can’t finish the sentence, swallowing the last words, whatever they would have been. Physical skills indeed. He’s implying, of course, that a ballet dancer who can work his body through the air not unlike the strokes of a painter’s brush should have no difficulties with pen and paper. But his mind is taking his words into indescribable places and all he can do is hope that Claude catches his meaning regardless.
For some reason, though, he can’t help but think - even if he doesn’t… surely, they’ll work it out. Claude hasn’t once made him feel awkward or inadequate despite his slip-ups and lack of self-restraint. He’s been so kind, so very, very kind. There’s a reason why the man’s taken over the nameless stranger’s place in his dreams, has settled himself so thoroughly in the main role despite Vincent’s frantic attempts at sparing even his fictional self the humiliation of it. Of having to partake in… in that. In any of it. But Claude simply stays right where he is, all calm strength and presence, all him.
Almost all.
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From here, they can't make out the water yet, but as they continue down Avenue de l'Opéra, Claude knows they're only a long cobblestone stretch and a few rows of tall apartment buildings from the banks. The grin fading from his face little by little, he remembers how often they would walk the same route, Pavel and him - to the same restaurant in the Latin Quarters every time, after practice or rehearsals. Sighing slightly, he reaches up and runs his kidskin-covered fingers through his hair, all golden specks carefully washed out tonight when he hoped and halfway expected someone would be waiting for him. Since that fall, he hasn't talked to anyone about what happened. Enough people knew and he couldn't think of anyone in addition who'd need to. Maybe until now.
The glance he throws to the side is as stolen as anything Claude can ever manage. Which is to say, not very much. Not very much at all.
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Biting his lip, he runs one hand through his hair quickly, every muscle in his body seemingly tense. There’s a slight shake to his hand again, a tremble running right beneath the skin as his blood rushes just a bit faster through his veins. God. His… his fantasies, his dreams… Surely, he’s simply forgetting himself again, deceiving his senses because he’s too weak to withstand the temptation. Eyes searching the ground uselessly, he finally looks back at Claude, managing nothing even close to a smile this time, his voice just a bit thinner than normal, audibly frail around the edges.
“Claude, I…” A quick breath as he squares his shoulders somewhat, knowing exactly what he looks like when he slumps, “Forgive me, but I… I wonder if you often invite your loving audience out for post-performance dinners.” True, there’s no question mark at the end of his sentence, not in his voice either or in his facial expressions. Whether Claude wants to treat it as a question, however, is entirely up to him. All he knows is, this talk about hands and sizes and whatever else is making him feel lightheaded and incredibly silly at the same time and if he doesn’t in some manner verbalise his confusion, it won’t take very long before it drives him mad.
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Remaining quiet for a long time, his shoes tap across the more level, more worn pavement of the Avenue de l'Opéra. His hands sink low along his sides while he considers how to present the issue to Vincent without either offending him or scaring him away. "Usually, the people who show that level of investment in my person aren't someone I would waste that kind of attention on," he settles with. Keeps his eyes focused on the long stretch of sidewalk ahead. The women they pass fall into one of two categories, either clad in their big fur coats still or hoping for gentler weather by mere willful thinking. A delivery boy, hardly more than twelve, runs past him on his right, managing not to bump into him even as he jumps through the narrow space where Claude is passing by a young, seemingly newly-married couple.
And to be completely clear, unmistakably clear - he slowly adds, inclining head enough to cast a look at Vincent's face first, then at the ghostly facade of the window front behind him which reflects the somewhat hesitant look in Claude's eyes back at him: "So, no. I shouldn't say."
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“In that case,” he says, voice oddly pensive as he tries to gather his thoughts, “I’m honored to be here.” Making absolutely no conscious effort to emphasise his point, he manages to do so regardless by drifting closer to Claude, close enough for their shoulders to brush once more. This time, though, he decides that it’s not an accident. It’s just… a natural conclusion. Vincent’s always thought himself at least half-way alone in this world concerning his bizarre, sexual urges – maybe there are others, yes, but surely only the deranged, the bastards in the gutters. It’s still difficult to imagine this somber, calm and talented man be anything but in line with… with what, exactly?
Hands loosening slightly in his pockets, he thinks it over as carefully as he’s capable of in his current state, his body still tense enough to hurt beneath his clothes. It’s not much, granted, but even like this, he’s starting to realise that something doesn’t add up. Something about his view of the other man, idealised as it may be. Idealised, yes, and perhaps that’s the problem in a nutshell. Surely, if Claude turns out incongruent with the image Vincent’s constructed of his morality in his head, maybe the constructor needs to re-assess his calculations. His building blocks. He pushes the thought aside quickly, disturbed by himself – but regardless, it lingers.
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Since Pavel died, there has been nobody. Certainly, he hasn't deprived his body of its basic needs... As it is, he's a very physical sort of person, isn't he? He relies on his body enough that it matters with what exactly he stuffs his mouth or how tense he allows his system to become. Ganyméde is a safe place to take care of the basic urges, but when he doesn't eat alone, he eats with other dancers and at this point, the Opera has become forbidden territory in any matters of the heart. If he can't risk it there, it has felt utterly useless to risk it anywhere else.
Jaw tight, he kicks aside a pebble mostly without thinking about it. Such a childlike gesture, of course, but feelings are something he reserves for the stage. Beyond it, he strives for balance. When balance fails him, he can pretend and pretends with enough gusto for the levels to resettle themselves. They always resettle, at times you simply have to wait longer than you'd thought.
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Reacting rather than thinking, he crosses the distance between them quickly and links their arms together, making certain to strike a pace next to Claude that won’t be… invasive or bothersome. He realises only belatedly that he’s touching him, that he’s invading his personal space without even an ounce of hesitation or humility but surely, surely, there’s nothing quite as important in the world as this. As slowing them both down, just enough to leave a sense of calm floating between their bodies, filling out whatever little distance remains.
“I hope I won’t disappoint, then.” He keeps his voice light, the slight tremble at the last word giving away the nervousness raging through his body with every step. He doesn’t – it doesn’t have to mean anything. If he doesn’t ponder too much, surely there’ll always be the night for regrets and self-reproach. “Apparently, you are a man with very selective tastes in company.”
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"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.
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“I – you two were…” He swallows, colour welling up into his cheeks once more, not from embarrassment at the subject matter but from the stupidity of the question. Because really, at the core of it, what does it matter in light of all the rest? Not one bit. Instead, he shakes his head quickly, his grip on Claude’s arm tightening subconsciously. “I’m sorry. I…” Pause. There really is not much else to say, is there? “Claude.” A deep breath and then, voice softer still: “I’m deeply sorry.”
Beneath it all, there’s relief. A stark sense of relief, something he can’t even begin to acknowledge or deal with because what are his own, personal troubles against this tragic tale? Vincent’s lived a peaceful life, a boring life too, certainly, but utterly devoid of danger to both himself and his family. Except, perhaps, for whatever hazards his father may subject himself to at work to take home his daily living. When Vincent was younger, his mother once dreamt for him to train and later work as a farrier – his father, in response, had put his foot down. A rare occurrence indeed, but this idea he wouldn’t hear. The thought of burning fire, of harsh metals and dangerous animals were too much for him to bear and Vincent, in turn, silently thanked him from the bottom of his weak little heart. He’s never imagined loving someone and losing them in such a horrendous fashion; even his nightmares, in comparison, seem pale and pitiful.
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Outside the Opera, Claude is a very difficult man to disappoint. If it's not a question of choreography and movement, rules are meant to be disregarded, if they fail to address the situation you find yourself in. Ask anyone, Claude Bérubé is ever the gentleman, but he's also as informal as they come and takes life in stride. Whatever happens tonight, after dinner - Claude doesn't expect that Vincent could let him down, even if he consciously tried. Perhaps because he couldn't imagine the other man wanting to. Try. Consciously. Lines mean edges and edges can be sharp, you won't hear him deny it, but behind Vincent's very handsome armour, Claude doesn't feel even the notion of arms aimed at him. He likes that, it's admirable.
They cross the bridge, their reflections blurry and disturbed in the rippling Seine. Underneath their feet, the passing carriages and heavy trotting of the horses pulling them shakes the very foundation on which they're walking. Then again, isn't that the lesson he's been taught? This ever-trembling nature of living, as if at the foot of a slumbering volcano.