“There, look through that.”
The boy took the brown-backed book. It was large-format hardback. He turned the pages. “You want me to read this?”
“No,” Jonathan said irritably. “Here.” He leaned over him and flicked the pages for him. “There.”
The boy looked at the sepia photograph then up at him. “That him?”
Jonathan nodded. The boy looked back then did an odd thing. He held his hand out exactly like it was in the photograph.
Christ, Jonathan thought, the damn thing looked channelled, a replica. And he heard Aubrey saying, He doesn’t bite his nails, though.
It was the only damn difference that he could see.
The boy dropped his hand and turned the page. He studied them all intently; the women as well. When he came back to the photographs of Nijinsky, he studied them minutely, turned back, restudied a couple, then said, “He should have got his focus right.”
Jonathan laughed. “It’s deliberate. It’s art.”
“It’s a pain.”
Jonathan laughed again. “You’re the first person ever agreed with me. I think so too. Why couldn’t he have been boring and pin-sharp. I went to see the man, not the effect.”
Frank Delaney nodded then said slowly, “He’s a bit odd looking, isn’t he?”
“How?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Sort of… sort of not human. I mean, the girls look like girls in costume, he looks like… well, like it’s his skin, doesn’t he?”
Jonathan nodded, feeling that odd prickle of gooseflesh he got when he found anyone or anything who crystallised something he thought himself: uncanny and almost unpleasant, especially to find it here. He looked at his watch, said, “God, I’ve got to shower and get dressed. Look, have a look at the others. There’s a dozen or so books on him here, more. Enjoy yourself. I won’t be long.”
The boy nodded, didn’t spare him a glance. Jonathan went to wash.
“Ready?” Jonathan came in smelling of aftershave and soap, hair still damp, pulling a jacket on.
The boy said, “Look,” and pushed a book at him. Buckle’s Nijinsky. It was open at a photograph of Nijinsky dancing in Les Orientales.
Jonathan said, “Jesus.”
The boy said, “It’s my Granda’s costume. Without that mask balaclava thing. It’s just the same.”
Jonathan said, “I knew I’d seen it somewhere before. I knew it.”
The boy said nothing, closed the book with a thump, much as he’d closed the album yesterday, and got up saying, “Come on, I want to go.”
Jonathan followed him out.
They met Linda in the foyer. She was surprised to see Jonathan with a man, but she tried well to cover it.
Jonathan didn’t introduce him. The boy seemed not to expect it, gave her a cursory and rather unpleasantly appraising glance, then spent the time looking around him. He had an odd way of looking at things, she noticed; almost as if he were fixing them in his memory. Very intent. Very absorbed. He reminded her of a very small child on a day out, seeing something it had never seen before.
“You’ve got good seats, Jonathan. We had two cancellations today I can give you instead of those you’ve got. Here, let me.” She disappeared into the box office, came back out. “There. Much better.”
The boy was moving restlessly as if he were anxious to be gone. She saw Jonathan look at him briefly. It was an odd look. She couldn’t read it.
“We’ll get in then, Linda, thanks.”
“Will you be coming backstage after, John?” she shouted after him. “Mikhail would like to meet you.”
“No… I… We’ll see.” He smiled. “Got to go.” He followed the already disappearing Frank.
He watched him all the way down the aisle. He seemed to know where they were going; he must have seen the ticket numbers. Ruddy eagle-vision.
He stopped abruptly. Jonathan nearly walked into him. He began ploughing through the seats. He did say excuse me, after a fashion. By the time they got to their seats Jonathan was smiling.
They sat down, elbows bumping as they struggled out of jackets.
When they’d settled, Jonathan said, “Do you want the programme?”
He shook his head. He appeared to be studying the tiers of boxes. He said abruptly, “They’re even worse than your lot.”
Jonathan looked up, not understanding.
“You can’t see anything from them. Fucking stupid.”
The oath made Jonathan feel uncomfortable. No reason. It just did. Plenty of people used it around him, although he never used it himself. It was the contemptuous way he used it. He supposed Paul would say he was being a snob. Maybe he was. The idea didn’t make him feel any better. He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”
The boy suddenly looked at him. “Your friend is. The one who picked me up. He’s a fairy. And the other character. Audrey.”
Jonathan laughed in spite of himself. “Aubrey.”
“Whatever the hell his name is. He’s a fairy.”
Jonathan nodded. “So?”
The boy nodded as if to say, ‘I knew it,’ as if somehow he’d been guilty of some deceit, then he looked away again saying, “I can’t stand fairies.”
The orchestra had come in and was already tuning up. Just as Jonathan went to answer, a triumphant blast of the overture sounded. Frank Delaney was already withdrawn from his presence.
Jonathan didn’t like it, but Romanov was on top form. Really top form. His control was absolute, and the boy could get off the floor, make no mistake. But Jonathan couldn’t concentrate on the damn thing. All the bloody pearl costumes, that ruddy lush sugar-sweet music. Jesus.
He felt aware of Frank Delaney’s intentness beside him. Did the boy do everything like this? Either total indifference or total absorption. Christ, he’d be wearing to live with. He felt sorry for the legendary Nan. It explained how fast he picked things up though. He’d never seen concentration like it. Maybe he was nothing but a mimic. Well, the hell with that. Most dancers these days weren’t even that, God help them. To quote his aunt, they couldn’t emote their way out a paper bag.
He smiled to himself. He doubted if Delaney could emote either, but with mimicry powers like he had, what did it matter? At the worst, he could show him all the photographs he had amassed and let him copy Nijinsky’s damn expressions. It would do. He realised with an abrupt jolt that he was thinking of it in the happening tense.
Christ, it wasn’t going to happen. Put an utterly untrained unknown in a major ballet? Well, not major, but one of the biggest noises in recent years. Nijinsky’s original etc. etc. etc. Tedious. Still, Paul had a point. It would certainly make for good publicity. And he could be taught; he’d seen that with his own eyes. But what was the point?
The point? Jesus. The point was sitting right there. It was him.
No it wasn’t. It was a sham, a fake.
Going to have to sort this out, Johnny. You really are.
He tore his concentration back to Giselle and her dear Albrecht.
“What’s his name?”
“Who?” Jonathan was startled. It was the first word he’d spoken during the intermission.
“The character dancing the hero.”
“Romanov. Mikhail Romanov.”
Delaney turned away. “He looks like a fairy.”
Jonathan laughed in spite of himself. “I said very nearly the same thing. He can dance nevertheless.”
“He’s good at leaping around.”
Jonathan looked at him curiously. A Critique? Surely not? “What d’you mean?”
Delaney didn’t look at him. “Leaping around’s not dancing.” He turned to him abruptly. “Is it?”
Jonathan was nonplussed, then he said thoughtfully, “No. No, it isn’t, I suppose.” He laughed and said, “I think. You’ve thrown me now.”
“Gymnastics is leaping around. And they don’t look so poofy.”
Jonathan nodded and muttered, “True.”
Nothing else was said till the second act.
“Well?” Jonathan stood up, picking up his jacket.
Delaney shrugged, not meeting his eye as usual. Jonathan began to wonder if he was really impressed by anything.
They made the way out to the aisle. Jonathan stopped, standing back to let people pass. “Do you want to go backstage and meet the cast?”
He shrugged again. “I’m easy.”
Compelled by God knows what impulse, because Jonathan didn’t want to meet Romanov, he said, “Come on then, we’ll go. There’s a few celebs here tonight. They’ll probably be bringing on the champagne. Ever had any?”
Delaney stopped beside him. “Don’t fuck me about.” He looked furious. Well, what might pass for furious on his face.
Jonathan looked blank, felt it. He said, “Sorry,” without knowing what he was apologising for. Frank Delaney moved on. Jonathan followed.
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