Ficlet: Entrechat Cinquante: spectacles
Jan. 26th, 2009 10:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Entrechat Cinquante
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: PG-13
Author: Alex
Warning: AU
Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
seans_50 challenge.
Beta: the most excellent![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite.
Disclaimer: Utterly untrue.
Prompt: Spectacles
*
The piano was thumping out the last act of Le Sacre as Sean threaded his way to the middle seat of the eighth row. Onstage, Viggo saw and raised questioning eyebrows. Sean made an ignore-me-I’m-not-here gesture and sat back to watch.
Disaster had struck, inevitably and unsurprisingly. Tim, the principal playing the sacrificial virgin, had torn a ligament. His substitute, Brian, was onstage, nitpicking, arguing, sighing, rolling his eyes, and generally giving Viggo a hard time. Viggo was patient, but Brian was a legendary pain in the arse; Sean could see Viggo’s patience eroding.
“Watch your penché. You’re trying to escape, but it’s got to flow.” Viggo demonstrated, bending his upper body toward the floor.
“It’s impossible to flow out of penché when you’re being yanked off your feet. Couldn’t I try flowing up, épaulement, then croisé, croisé –"
“You want me to change the choreography – now? And everyone else’s, too, because they’re moving toward you, and around you.”
Brian put his hands on his hips. “It would be easier for me.”
“Well, if this were easy, any chump off the street could do it, and you’d be on unemployment. Come on, Brian. Watch.” He gestured to the four male dancers waiting. “Okay, guys. Ready? And!” The music started again, discordant and upsetting, as Viggo dove forward, suspended for a frozen instant as if the air were reluctant to release him. Then the dancers grasped his arms and legs, swept him up, high over their heads. His body arched, agonized and beautiful. His face, turned toward Sean, reflected both terror and ecstasy. In another stunning flash of movement, he was placed on the sacrificial altar, where a dozen girls clad in short white tunics converged upon him.
Sean felt the old familiar excitement. Every great dancer had something, some quality that made him extraordinary. In Viggo, it was a lyricism that took him from utter stillness to a breathtaking surge of motion in a single, unbroken line. Even at fifty, he still possessed that power. It was almost impossible to recreate, and hardly anyone bothered to try.
“All right,” Brian called. “Let’s do it.”
Brian’s movements were almost as lyrical, his body nearly as eloquent. It wouldn’t be long until he achieved greatness. He was a temperamental little sod, but he worked hard despite his bitching, he concentrated and calculated, and he had a fierce determination to beat Viggo at his own game. It was the eternal struggle: the delicately balanced tyranny of dance, those who were fading teaching those who were emerging, and the eventual triumph of the young over the old. And again, and again, cruel and merciless, heartbreakingly beautiful, a microcosm of life itself.
Too short.
“Okay!” Viggo clapped his hands twice. “That’s better, everyone. Let’s be back at three for one more run-through.”
The dancers applauded as Viggo trotted down the stairs, then streamed offstage, chattering and giggling. Viggo flopped into the seat beside Sean, toweling the sweat from his face. “I’m going to kill him.”
Sean put on his spectacles and studied the program cover. “He’s just envious. You’ve seen it a thousand times.”
“He fights every step like each one’s a personal insult. He’s driving me crazy.” Viggo tipped the program toward the light. “Did they spell my name right?”
“Looks like it. Can I talk to you in private?”
“Uh-oh. Serious?”
“It’s what I couldn’t tell you before.” Sean stared blindly at the program, unable to meet Viggo’s eyes.
All jocularity fled Viggo’s face and voice. “All right. Come on.” He led Sean to the tiny office lent to the company for the duration of their London stint. It was small and stuffed to bursting; Sean, Viggo, Todd the tour manager, Annie the secretary, and Stan the production manager had to share the space, but it was better than dealing with everything from their hotel rooms.
Sean lingered at the door as Viggo eased himself into one of the hard wooden chairs. He looked at the posters: Chess, Rent, Miss Saigon, Swan Lake, Jesus Christ Superstar, Giselle, Prodigal Son. He started at the last; it was his leaping figure on the Prodigal poster. Slowly, he moved into the room, closing and locking the door. Viggo saw, but made no comment. Sean took another chair, moved it nearer to Viggo.
“I had a call from Kit a little while ago. There was an emergency board meeting.”
Viggo’s glance flew to the clock. “When did she call?”
“Half-hour ago, perhaps a little more.”
“Pretty late there.”
“She’d just got out of the meeting.” Sean took a deep breath. “Vig.”
Viggo’s brow laddered into a frown. “What is it?”
“The board...the board decided to close us down.” A sharp intake of breath was the only noise that preceded the regular, maddening ticking of the clock. Sean sat paralyzed, waiting for Viggo to speak.
Seconds passed: seventeen endless seconds.
“Just like that,” Viggo said.
“They told Kit she should have known,” Sean said. “Apparently they’d met without her...and me...a number of times. Still, she should have known.” His voice brimmed with bitterness as he answered Viggo’s questions, answers that step by step told the whole tale. They’d lost two crucial NEA grants the year before. Costs had risen sharply, were still rising. The stagehand and musicians' unions...old story. Box office was way down. Tickets were too expensive; why go to see a ballet if a movie was cheaper? Their regular contributors were scared, tightfisted. Their 401Ks were plummeting, and they were holding onto what money they had left. Even the rich-rich were cutting back, not spending money the way they used to on financing sets, costumes, entire galas. MBT could only meet payroll for another four months. Even the pay cuts everyone had agreed to take at the beginning of the year weren’t enough. Not near enough.
Viggo dragged his hands through his hair and studied the floor in silence. Forty-two seconds passed. Finally, he spoke, his voice trembling. “You knew about this before? That’s what you couldn’t tell me?”
“Kit was afraid,” Sean said, no more able to look up than Viggo. “She tried to scare up some rescue money. I thought maybe she’d work a miracle at the last minute. She has before – time and again, you know that. This time....” Sean sighed. He wanted to take Viggo’s hand, to hold him and be held, but he was frozen in a curious state of numbness. How long before the immobility would dissolve? When would he feel the reality of his life collapsing inward?
“Thirty years with MBT,” Viggo said softly. “I’ve been ballet master for fifteen. And you’ve been artistic director for seventeen.” He shook his head and rose to his feet, then moved to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to talk to Stan about the floor. It feels like pudding. I think they let the roof leak for a year or so.” Viggo looked back at Sean, his eyes brilliant with unshed tears. “Do you mind if I don’t join you for lunch? I’ve got too much going on.”
Yes, I bloody mind. Stay here, for Christ’s sake, stay with me. He nodded. “That’s fine.”
“I’ll see you back at the room.” Viggo let himself out, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Sean sat as if riveted to the chair. He watched his fingers playing over the scarred leather surface of the tiny desk, silent music to the steady percussion of the clock. He stood, finally, and stared at the poster of himself in Prodigal: eternally young, eternally lovely, eternally optimistic.
Then he tore the goddamned thing off the wall.
*
picture bygovi20
My table is here
Pairing: VigBean
Rating: PG-13
Author: Alex
Warning: AU
Written for the
seans_50 challenge.Beta: the most excellent
kimberlite.Disclaimer: Utterly untrue.
Prompt: Spectacles
*
The piano was thumping out the last act of Le Sacre as Sean threaded his way to the middle seat of the eighth row. Onstage, Viggo saw and raised questioning eyebrows. Sean made an ignore-me-I’m-not-here gesture and sat back to watch.
Disaster had struck, inevitably and unsurprisingly. Tim, the principal playing the sacrificial virgin, had torn a ligament. His substitute, Brian, was onstage, nitpicking, arguing, sighing, rolling his eyes, and generally giving Viggo a hard time. Viggo was patient, but Brian was a legendary pain in the arse; Sean could see Viggo’s patience eroding.
“Watch your penché. You’re trying to escape, but it’s got to flow.” Viggo demonstrated, bending his upper body toward the floor.
“It’s impossible to flow out of penché when you’re being yanked off your feet. Couldn’t I try flowing up, épaulement, then croisé, croisé –"
“You want me to change the choreography – now? And everyone else’s, too, because they’re moving toward you, and around you.”
Brian put his hands on his hips. “It would be easier for me.”
“Well, if this were easy, any chump off the street could do it, and you’d be on unemployment. Come on, Brian. Watch.” He gestured to the four male dancers waiting. “Okay, guys. Ready? And!” The music started again, discordant and upsetting, as Viggo dove forward, suspended for a frozen instant as if the air were reluctant to release him. Then the dancers grasped his arms and legs, swept him up, high over their heads. His body arched, agonized and beautiful. His face, turned toward Sean, reflected both terror and ecstasy. In another stunning flash of movement, he was placed on the sacrificial altar, where a dozen girls clad in short white tunics converged upon him.
Sean felt the old familiar excitement. Every great dancer had something, some quality that made him extraordinary. In Viggo, it was a lyricism that took him from utter stillness to a breathtaking surge of motion in a single, unbroken line. Even at fifty, he still possessed that power. It was almost impossible to recreate, and hardly anyone bothered to try.
“All right,” Brian called. “Let’s do it.”
Brian’s movements were almost as lyrical, his body nearly as eloquent. It wouldn’t be long until he achieved greatness. He was a temperamental little sod, but he worked hard despite his bitching, he concentrated and calculated, and he had a fierce determination to beat Viggo at his own game. It was the eternal struggle: the delicately balanced tyranny of dance, those who were fading teaching those who were emerging, and the eventual triumph of the young over the old. And again, and again, cruel and merciless, heartbreakingly beautiful, a microcosm of life itself.
Too short.
“Okay!” Viggo clapped his hands twice. “That’s better, everyone. Let’s be back at three for one more run-through.”
The dancers applauded as Viggo trotted down the stairs, then streamed offstage, chattering and giggling. Viggo flopped into the seat beside Sean, toweling the sweat from his face. “I’m going to kill him.”
Sean put on his spectacles and studied the program cover. “He’s just envious. You’ve seen it a thousand times.”
“He fights every step like each one’s a personal insult. He’s driving me crazy.” Viggo tipped the program toward the light. “Did they spell my name right?”
“Looks like it. Can I talk to you in private?”
“Uh-oh. Serious?”
“It’s what I couldn’t tell you before.” Sean stared blindly at the program, unable to meet Viggo’s eyes.
All jocularity fled Viggo’s face and voice. “All right. Come on.” He led Sean to the tiny office lent to the company for the duration of their London stint. It was small and stuffed to bursting; Sean, Viggo, Todd the tour manager, Annie the secretary, and Stan the production manager had to share the space, but it was better than dealing with everything from their hotel rooms.
Sean lingered at the door as Viggo eased himself into one of the hard wooden chairs. He looked at the posters: Chess, Rent, Miss Saigon, Swan Lake, Jesus Christ Superstar, Giselle, Prodigal Son. He started at the last; it was his leaping figure on the Prodigal poster. Slowly, he moved into the room, closing and locking the door. Viggo saw, but made no comment. Sean took another chair, moved it nearer to Viggo.
“I had a call from Kit a little while ago. There was an emergency board meeting.”
Viggo’s glance flew to the clock. “When did she call?”
“Half-hour ago, perhaps a little more.”
“Pretty late there.”
“She’d just got out of the meeting.” Sean took a deep breath. “Vig.”
Viggo’s brow laddered into a frown. “What is it?”
“The board...the board decided to close us down.” A sharp intake of breath was the only noise that preceded the regular, maddening ticking of the clock. Sean sat paralyzed, waiting for Viggo to speak.
Seconds passed: seventeen endless seconds.
“Just like that,” Viggo said.
“They told Kit she should have known,” Sean said. “Apparently they’d met without her...and me...a number of times. Still, she should have known.” His voice brimmed with bitterness as he answered Viggo’s questions, answers that step by step told the whole tale. They’d lost two crucial NEA grants the year before. Costs had risen sharply, were still rising. The stagehand and musicians' unions...old story. Box office was way down. Tickets were too expensive; why go to see a ballet if a movie was cheaper? Their regular contributors were scared, tightfisted. Their 401Ks were plummeting, and they were holding onto what money they had left. Even the rich-rich were cutting back, not spending money the way they used to on financing sets, costumes, entire galas. MBT could only meet payroll for another four months. Even the pay cuts everyone had agreed to take at the beginning of the year weren’t enough. Not near enough.
Viggo dragged his hands through his hair and studied the floor in silence. Forty-two seconds passed. Finally, he spoke, his voice trembling. “You knew about this before? That’s what you couldn’t tell me?”
“Kit was afraid,” Sean said, no more able to look up than Viggo. “She tried to scare up some rescue money. I thought maybe she’d work a miracle at the last minute. She has before – time and again, you know that. This time....” Sean sighed. He wanted to take Viggo’s hand, to hold him and be held, but he was frozen in a curious state of numbness. How long before the immobility would dissolve? When would he feel the reality of his life collapsing inward?
“Thirty years with MBT,” Viggo said softly. “I’ve been ballet master for fifteen. And you’ve been artistic director for seventeen.” He shook his head and rose to his feet, then moved to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to talk to Stan about the floor. It feels like pudding. I think they let the roof leak for a year or so.” Viggo looked back at Sean, his eyes brilliant with unshed tears. “Do you mind if I don’t join you for lunch? I’ve got too much going on.”
Yes, I bloody mind. Stay here, for Christ’s sake, stay with me. He nodded. “That’s fine.”
“I’ll see you back at the room.” Viggo let himself out, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Sean sat as if riveted to the chair. He watched his fingers playing over the scarred leather surface of the tiny desk, silent music to the steady percussion of the clock. He stood, finally, and stared at the poster of himself in Prodigal: eternally young, eternally lovely, eternally optimistic.
Then he tore the goddamned thing off the wall.
*
picture by
govi20My table is here
