Dare to Love (39 page)

A resounding knock on the door brought me out of my revery. Before I could respond, the door burst open and a pack of young men spilled into the dressing room. There were only three, actually, but Eric, Hans and Wilhelm
en masse
managed to seem like a pack. Wilhelm grabbed me and gave me a mighty hug. Eric handed me a bouquet of roses. Hans grinned and began to recite a poem he had written about my beauty, but Wilhelm gave a groan and, stepping behind the exuberant poet, slammed a palm over his mouth, stopping him mid-verse.

“She doesn't want to hear that nonsense now! You can recite it to her some other time.”

Hans pulled Wilhelm's hand from his mouth and whirled around to glare murderously. “Some people just don't appreciate art!” he exclaimed.

Wilhelm gave him a friendly shove. Eric shook his head, disassociating himself from his rowdy companions.

“The roses are from all three of us,” he told me.

“We combined our resources,” Wilhelm added. “We wanted you to know we cared.”

“Thank you very much. They're lovely,” I said, suspecting that they had totally depleted their resources.

“Lovely flowers for a lovely lady,” Hans said gallantly.

Wilhelm made a face. Eric sighed. I smiled and put the roses in a vase as the boys watched, all three beaming, all three handsome and glowing with youth and vitality. These young men had taken it upon themselves to make me feel welcome in Barivna, a trio of lively gallants who showered me with attention.

Eric was tall and slender with dark brown hair and soulful brown eyes. He painted nudes and longed to go to Paris and use real models. Hans was a plump youth with floppy blond hair, merry blue eyes and a sunny disposition not at all in keeping with the epic tragedies he churned out at an alarming rate. He loved to recite them and, alas, knew each by heart. Wilhelm was a robust, muscular redhead with roguish brown eyes, humped nose and a lopsided grin. The university's champion wrestler, Wilhelm lived to grapple on the mats with a groaning opponent thrashing beneath him.

“Do you have good seats?” I inquired.

“Ten rows back,” Eric said. “We had to fight to get them. Wilhelm barreled through for us, knocking the mob aside. Someone jumped Hans just as we reached the ticket window, but I managed to plop down our money and get the seats before someone shoved me out of the way.”

“I hope I don't disappoint you.”

“Not a chance,” Wilhelm assured me. “You're going to be sensational!”

“All Barivna's been waiting for this night,” Hans said. “I just hope there isn't any trou—”

He cut himself short, glancing nervously at his companions. Both Eric and Wilhelm glared at. him. Hans sighed and looked down at his feet, painfully aware that he'd made a faux pas.

“Are you expecting some kind of trouble?” I asked.

“Of course not!” Wilhelm exclaimed.

“Certainly not!” Eric added.

“Something is afoot,” I said. “You might as well tell me about it. I'm used to trouble, you know. I'm not likely to fall to pieces.”

“As a matter of fact, there was a group of soldiers in front of the theater,” Hans said. “Not a large group, no more than thirty at the most. They glared at us as we came in and looked as though they were planning a demonstration of some kind. It's nothing to worry about. There are over five hundred students here tonight, and we're not about to let any rotten soldiers spoil your performance.”

“I—I see.”

Wilhelm scowled and yanked Hans' head back against his shoulder. “Now you've upset her!” he snarled.

“I almost expected something of this sort,” I said calmly. “I've had a strange feeling ever since I arrived at the theater. You see, Captain Schroder is very unhappy about my being in Barivna.”

Hans struggled, trying to say something more, but Eric spoke first.

“Schroder's all bluff and bluster,” Eric told me. “He likes to strut about and look fierce, but he hasn't nearly as much authority as he'd like to think he has. Sturnburg is very cautious. They're not about to disturb the status quo.”

“I don't quite understand just what the status quo is.”

“It's simple enough to explain,” Wilhelm said. “Sturnburg has a military stranglehold on Barivna—” He looped a muscular arm around Hans' throat in demonstration. “They could tighten their grip and crush the life out of it—”

He yanked his arm back, forcing Hans up on his tiptoes. Hans made a series of gurgling, gasping noises, blue eyes wide with alarm, mouth working like a fish's as he struggled for breath. Wilhelm chuckled and loosened his hold.

“But actually they maintain a very loose grip,” he continued, “giving the King and Barivna plenty of room to breathe, knowing full well there'd be terrible repercussions if they really were to squeeze too tightly.”

He flexed the muscles of his arm, causing Hans to splutter, and then he released his victim and gave him an amiable shove. Hans coughed and gasped, plump cheeks still a bright pink from Wilhelm's demonstration.

“You damn near choked me!” he protested noisily.

“I should have broken your neck while I had it in the crook of my arm,” Wilhelm told him. “The situation is both vexing and uncomfortable, Elena, but there's no real danger. Half a dozen states would invade Sturnburg if they made a serious move against Barivna.”

“Don't worry about the soldiers,” Eric said. “They're not likely to try anything tonight.”

Wilhelm nodded in agreement. “If they do, we'll take care of 'em.”

“We'd better go take our seats,” Hans said, adjusting his neckcloth. “Good luck, Elena. We'll all be cheering for you.”

“Thank you for coming back. I'll see you all later.”

“You certainly will!” Wilhelm exclaimed. “Come on, you two. It's almost time for Elena to go on.”

Their exit was as noisy and boisterous as their arrival had been, and shortly after they left, the stage manager came to inform me that the curtain would go up in five minutes. I made another quick inspection in the mirror, touching the side of my hair, adjusting one of the feathered purple sleeves. As I left the dressing room and walked down the hall toward the spacious backstage area, I could smell new paint and varnish. The traditional smells of dust and flaking plaster were missing, as was the clutter of flats and ropes and boxes.

The silver backdrop curtain gleamed brightly, and a stagehand stood ready to pull the ropes that would lift the heavy purple velvet front curtain. I moved quietly across the stage to peer through the peek hole once more. The theater was a gleaming jewel box, white and gold and red, crystal pendants glittering on the chandeliers. The musicians were in the pit, instruments at the ready, and the house lights were beginning to dim. The students were talking excitedly and waving their programs, their faces young and bright and eager. The two rows of seats near the front were still empty. I had a good idea who would be sitting in them, and I was ready. I took my place in the wings, not at all nervous now, thankful that Hans' slip of the tongue had given me time to prepare for what I suspected would be an ordeal.

The house lights went out. A hush fell over the audience. The music began, softly at first, gradually swelling into a melodic waltz, and the stagehand tugged on the rope. The purple curtain parted, rising in scalloped folds to reveal the shimmering silver backdrop with shadows dancing across it as the footlights flickered. I took a deep breath and began to sway with the music, letting it sweep over me, and then, as the strains of the waltz merged into sumptuous melody, I smiled radiantly and sailed onstage, fluttering the black lace fan, black spangles all aglitter as my purple skirt swirled. The applause was thundering, and there were hundreds of cheers. Still smiling, I acknowledged the reception with a slight nod, waltzing, whirling, using the fan skillfully.

The music was rich and romantic, and I was a vibrant young girl aglow with the joy of first love, dancing joyously in an empty ballroom to celebrate the love that filled me with such splendid bliss. The dance was a drama, as were all my dances, but I was no longer Elena. I was the young girl in Cornwall, remembering, conveying what I had felt when the blossoms of emotion had first unfurled. I thought of Brence, dancing for him, remembering only the joy, blocking out the grief. I sailed on the wings of love, time dropping away as I danced.

There was a disturbance in the audience. As I turned, skirts lifting and belling, I noticed that the two rows in front were still empty. The Royal Box was in shadow, curtains half closed. Was that a pale face peering down at me, or was it my imagination? The waltz music flowed, and I flowed with it, dancing, smiling, and a clicking undercurrent stole into the melody, a subtle change taking place as the Spanish melody gradually rose to replace the waltz. I adapted my movements as waltz faded and the fandango took over. I swayed. I clicked my heels, a Spanish maiden now, in love as before but far more sensual in nature, dancing in the hot sun for my sullen, dark-eyed caballero.

I heard loud voices, murmurs of alarm. Soldiers were parading down the aisle, talking loudly, deliberately making as much noise as possible. It had begun. I ignored them and continued to dance for my invisible Spanish youth as they filled up the two empty rows and began to exchange crude comments about me in rough, strident voices. The students immediately behind them tried to shut them up, but that only spurred them on. The musicians played nervously, concentration broken, discordant notes stealing into the music. I pretended not to notice anything, and then the first rotten tomato sailed across the stage, splattering against the backdrop.

“Whore! You call that dancing!”

“Go back to the streets!”

“Strumpet! Corrupting our young men!”

“Get out of Barivna!”

“Did you hear what they called her!” I recognized Wilhelm's voice over the din. “Look, they threw another tomato! Are we going to stand for this outrage?”

“No!” the students roared.

“Come on! Let's get 'em!”

The music stopped. The musicians put down their instruments and huddled in the pit as more tomatoes flew over their heads. The whole audience was standing now, all shouting. One of the soldiers raced down the aisle, hoping to reach the stage. A husky student flew in the air behind him and brought him down roughly. The other students cheered. I ducked as another tomato flew across the stage, almost hitting my shoulder. I saw Schroder in the aisle watching with an evil smile on his face. When the next tomato came, I didn't duck—I caught it in my hand. Pulpy red seeds spurted out, but most of the tomato remained intact. I took careful aim and let fly. The tomato splattered magnificently as it hit Schroder's jaw. The students roared, cheered, and at least a hundred of them poured over the seats to launch their attack on the soldiers, yelling lustily as they fell upon the troublemakers.

The melee began in earnest, then, and it was spectacular, spilling out into the lobby. The soldiers fought viciously, but they were hopelessly outnumbered. More and more students leaped into the fray, fists flying, and soldier after soldier went down, three or four students on top. Hans and Eric had one of them in the aisle, Hans sitting astride him as Eric seized his hair and pounded his head on the floor, and Wilhelm was doing his best to strangle another. I stepped to the edge of the stage and watched with a feeling of savage satisfaction as I saw Schroder stumble to his knees and disappear beneath a tangle of bodies.

“Out with 'em!” Wilhelm yelled. “Let's throw 'em out!”

Arm still hooked around the throat of his soldier, Wilhelm twisted the man's arm and shoved it brutally up between his shoulder blades, goose-stepping him up the aisle as his companions cheered. Uniforms torn, faces battered, other soldiers were forced up the aisle, still struggling violently. The roars of delight were so loud that the elegant chandeliers trembled. When the final soldier had been evicted, the young combatants came back inside to take their seats. Wilhelm clasped his hands over his head and shook them victoriously. There was a deafening round of applause as he sank into his seat, and after a few moments the audience settled down, waiting for me to say something.

I smiled. They smiled back. I spread my skirts and bowed.

“I'm pleased to see that chivalry isn't dead,” I called. “Thank you, my gallants.”

Again they cheered. I nodded to the flustered, still frightened musicians as the cheering died down.

“Gentlemen? Shall we start at the beginning?”

They began to shuffle their music, as stagehands rushed to clean the stage of tomatoes. With cool poise that belied the elation inside me, I stepped back to the wing. I felt gloriously vindicated, and when the music began again I danced as I had never danced before, sailing through the waltz, performing the fandango with new verve. After the dance was over I performed one encore and then another, doing yet a third before I stopped. When, exhausted but aglow, I stepped to the footlights to take my bows, the audience leaped to their feet to yell and stamp and applaud, giving me a standing ovation that went on and on. Ushers began to parade down the aisle with bouquets of flowers, red, orange, yellow, blue, a rainbow of bouquets from my student admirers.

I bowed again and again. I waved. I blew kisses. Finally, I gave a signal to a stagehand and stepped back with an armload of bouquets as the curtain fell. The lusty cheering continued. Backstage, I was surrounded by a jubilant crew who congratulated me noisily, faces split with wide grins. I was eventually able to return to my dressing room, the theater still filled with jubilant yells. Setting down the bouquets, I looked at myself in the mirror, a smile on my lips. Tonight had been a triumph, my greatest triumph, perhaps. I wondered what the press would make of it. Newspapers all over Europe would doubtlessly carry accounts of the riot, each more exaggerated than the next.