Appassionata

selfishness. The longer the wait, the greater the entrance.

Knocking on Alexei’s door, ignoring the snarl to fuck off, George went in.

‘We need to start, Alexei.’

Alexei’s belongings: track-suit bottoms, towels, books, tapes, shoes spilled out of suitcases all over the floor. Fully made up, wearing his wolf-coat over his Romeo costume of white tights and floppy green transparent shirt, Alexei shivered convulsively as he listened to Britten’s War Requiem on his walkman for the fifth time that day.

And George was suddenly reminded of a ram who’d strayed off the moors into his nan’s parlour, during a bitterly cold winter, who had knocked over all the furniture and the knick-knacks, reducing the room to a shambles before leaping straight out through the big sash-window.

George had never forgotten the combined terror and ferocity of that ram and looking at Alexei, he realized he wasn’t bloody minded, just shit-scared.

‘Always eet is same, why do I put ass on the line? No-one who doesn’t dance, understand the cold sweat, the fear.’

‘You haven’t faced the RSO in a bad mood or Rutminster Council when you’re trying to pull a fast one,’ George tried to lighten the conversation.

‘Is not comparable.’ Haughtily Alexei glared at George as if he was the village idiot. ‘Will I remember the steps? Will I bore the audience? Am I too old to play Romeo?’

In the still face, the black eyes rolled like marbles.

‘You’re the best in the world.’

Alexei shrugged. ‘Is millstone, eef you are best you must always be bettair.’

Plonking himself in the second armchair, George lit a cigar.

‘Please don’t smoke.’

George hastily put it out.

‘When I was first married,’ he said, ‘we had no money. We saved and saved either to hear Harefield sing-’

Alexei looked outraged. ‘That screeching beech.’

‘Or to see you dance. We saw you in Giselle at Covent Garden. We couldn’t afford a meal out afterwards, didn’t matter, we couldn’t have eaten anything we were so excited, we could hardly speak on the way home. It was truly the best evening of my marriage.’

‘That was fifteen years ago, I am old now.’ Sulkily Alexei turned to the mirror, picking up a cotton bud to tidy up a smudged eye-line. George admired the long eyelashes sweeping the slanting cheek-bones.

‘You’ve got a body any twenty year old would die for,’ he said humbly, patting his gut, which Juno’s diet didn’t seem to be having much effect on. He must stop sending Jessica out for Toblerone in the middle of the afternoon.

‘What ‘appen to your marriage?’ asked Alexei.

‘My wife left me.’

‘Silly cow.’

Getting to his feet, Alexei put a hand on the portable barre, raised his leg till his calf brushed his ear, stretching and turning, then he wandered over to the window. Floating down from George’s silver-pillared beech trees was the first pale green foliage. Alexei broke off a twig, caressing the shiny satin leaves.

‘Tender as young flesh,’ he sighed. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps the day after, the leaves darken and harden and coarsen and they will never be that young again. Did you know Prokofiev was lousy ballroom dancer? He write these great ballets, but when he ask pretty young girls to dance with him, they ran away.’

Dropping the twig in his glass of Perrier, stealing a last glance in the mirror, Alexei touched George’s square blushing face with the back of a careless finger.

‘You are good guy, I will dance for you.’

Evgenia was waiting outside, bent over, arms flopping loosely, as graceful as one of George’s willows.

He’s on his way, a rumble of excitement went round the vast crowd, who were really squashed now as more and more people flowed in from Cotchester. Floodlighting added splendour to the towering trees and the battlements of the house.

Dropping his wolf-coat in the wings as if he were shedding the years, Alexei strutted on, nostrils flaring, dark head thrown back to show off the wondrous slav bone-structure, half-smile playing over the jutting lips, thrust-out chest beneath the floating shirt descending to the flattest belly, above long strong white legs, rippling with muscle. Alexei had no need of the older dancer’s disguise of black tights. There was strength and arrogance in every inch of his lithe youthful body.

‘Oh Christ, help me,’ murmured Marcus.

Never had the RSO strings played with such swooning lyricism. Alexei crept behind the pillar, the lurking lover quivering with anticipation.

Justin woken by the applause, however, had other ideas.

‘Dad, Dad, why isn’t that man wearing any trousers?’

There was a horrified pause.

‘That man’s got no trousers on, Dad.’

‘Expect he’s been playing in the pit,’ said the Labour councillor’s husband with a guffaw.

‘Shut up!’ hissed an anguished Marcus.

‘Dad, Dad, why’s that man got a big willy?’

‘It’s called a codpiece, Justin,’ said Gilbert, who believed in reason.

‘Shut up, you little fucker,’ hissed Marcus, who didn’t.

‘More like an ‘ole cod in there,’ said the Labour councillor’s husband. ‘They cover that bulge in foam padding so you can’t see the meat and two veg.’

A rumble of embarrassed laughter was already sweeping the stalls. Marcus wanted to die. Alexei swung round glaring directly in his direction. The laughter died. Alas Gwynneth had been far too busy chuntering over the dog fight and Alexei’s bad behaviour in the interval to eat anything. In her greed, she had emptied a plate of canapes into her Red Riding Hood basket to eat during Romeo and Juliet. Choking on a Scotch egg, she couldn’t stop coughing.

Alexei waited, then, when Gwynneth, puce as an aubergine, carried on, raised a regal hand and halted both orchestra and Evgenia, who by this time was floating down the staircase, skirts swirling.

‘Weel the old lady who ees bent on destroying thees concert,’ Alexei’s acid drawl echoed round the whole park, ‘please either cough everytheeng up now, or get out.’

The dreadful pause seemed to last for ever as Gwynneth stumbled out, then Alexei turned to Abby: ‘We are ready to dance, Maestro.’

Briefly he looked drained and middle-aged under the spotlight, then as the doom-laden, swooningly romantic music swept through the park, the years disappeared again. Evgenia danced angelically, but it was Alexei’s passion that took the breath away. He didn’t just dance, he became the young lover, awkward, shy, bewildered, reverent, deliriously happy by turns, holding Evgenia so tenderly, then releasing her to dance as if he’d opened a window for a trapped butterfly. Then he would leap into the air, showing off with wild grace. Look what I can do. Watch me touch the stars for love.

Wait till he lands, Abby told herself grimly, but time and again as Alexei hovered over the stage, it seemed he would never come down and the poor strings would run out of bow, and the woodwind and brass out of puff.

But as they danced on through the darkening night until the moon rose huge and pink over Rutminster Cathedral, everyone forgave him the delay and the tantrums.

Oh God, sighed Marcus, if only I were Juliet.

The applause went on for twenty minutes. Stepping over the flowers carpeting the stage, Alexei and Evgenia returned again and again. Pale and drawn, but with eyes glittering with elation, Alexei took up his position on Juliet’s balcony and, with princely wave after princely wave, raised each section of the orchestra to their feet, giving the longest stand-up to the strings, which was much appreciated as they were so often taken for granted.

‘Look at the old queen on the balcony,’ scoffed Viking.

‘He’s not a queen,’ protested Blue. ‘He was really French kissing Evgenia.’