Rondo Allegro (20 page)

“Oh, how exciting,” Therese exclaimed, clapping her hands.
“You never whispered a word about being an aristocrat.”

Anna had been playing so many roles that she no longer knew
how to define herself. But the question did not concern her identity, it
concerned her knowledge. Ignoring Therese’s interjection, she said slowly, “I
remember all my lessons in court etiquette, but we were told that Spain’s
courtly protocol was much more rigid than that in Naples.”

“I cannot believe this!” Ninon would not have spoken to M.
Dupree, but she felt safe enough in her position as first dancer to protest to
his wife. “What is the use of bowing and scraping to these Spaniards? We are
French!
We can hold up our heads to
anyone.”

Philippe tossed his mane of hair back. “In this, I agree.”

Anna was unnerved by the intensity of M. Marsac’s gaze, his
unreadable expression. She looked away from him as she said, “If it is true
that the First Consul is about to crown himself king, that means court
etiquette will be the new mode in France, too. In, fact, I expect that this
very day at the Tuileries in Paris, Madame Bonaparte’s ladies are lined up,
just like you, about to practice their first curtsey.”

“Exactly what I was going to say!” Madame Dupree exclaimed.
“We do not have to bow and scrape to the Spaniards on the streets, but what
they do at the Tuileries, they will expect to see on the stage, will they not?
It will only be to our advantage if we return to Paris well practiced in how to
move in a room, how to line up according to rank, and how to manage court
trains.”

Eleanor burst out, “We will not be forced into those
terrible panniers that my grandmother wore?”

“Or the absurd wigs?” Catherine cried. “My father was a
perruquier
, and he used to tell us that
those grand ladies wore whole ships upon their heads, complete with sails, and
feathers beyond that! They used to have to kneel on the floor of their coach,
and crawl out like beggars at the gate, lest they disturb their heads.”

Madame Dupree laughed. “Do you really believe that Madame
Bonaparte, the most elegant woman alive, would suffer a headdress the size of a
chair upon her head, or skirts wider than a coach?”

No, they all agreed, and, at a wave from Madame Dupree, Anna
demonstrated the court curtseys and bows. She was glad of her dance lessons as
she demonstrated over and over. Except for Marsac, the singers were loud in
their protests at the strain in their backs and legs. None managed the dip and
rise with any grace.

At the end of that session, everyone separated. Anna was
grateful to get away from M. Marsac, who
stared
so.

o0o

Ninon led a party of dancers into the city to seek
entertainment. They returned at midnight. Most of the company was still awake,
unused to the heat. “We went to the Spanish opera,” Ninon declared.

“Spanish opera?”

“They have such a thing?”

“It must be—”

Ninon waved her hands. “The opera itself is boring. Mostly
speeches, and we could not understand a word, of course. But the dancing!” Her
eyes widened. “
Las
labradoras de Murcia
, it is called—”

“No, that is the opera itself. The dance, it was called za,
zar, something,” Eleanor put in.

“Guitars like thunder. Tambourines. Little castanets.” Ninon
drew herself up in a compelling pose, brought her knee high, flashing the hem
of her skirt. Then she slammed her heel onto the warped flooring, as she snapped
her fingers in counterpoint. “It is
not
ballet.”

“At first I laughed,” Helene admitted. “It looked so, so
wild.” She flapped her hands. “But it draws you in, and you cannot stop
watching. The men especially.”

Philippe, who had been silent, crossed his arms and looked
down his chiseled Greek nose. “I will see this za-za dance of yours.”

The next day, while the luckless M. Dupree ventured out yet
again in hopes of hiring an escort, Madame ran the rehearsal.

They incorporated the simplest of courtly etiquette into
their stage movements, and that night all the dancers went out. They returned,
most thoughtful, Philippe rigid with disgust. “This is not dance, it is the
shuffle of . . .” Habit caused him to suppress any comment about
clod-hopping peasants. “There is none of the purity of ballet.”

“I know now why the Spanish believe our ballet to be
boring,” Ninon retorted with spirit. “I am going to learn this Spanish dance,
me.”

The next morning, when Anna woke, she found the dancers
already at work, Ninon having sweet-talked some of the younger musicians into
playing for them. Ninon and Eleanor led the others in trying to incorporate
Spanish dance elements into their own ballet, as the musicians experimented
with new rhythms and melodic sounds.

When Philippe came downstairs, he protested with such
vehemence and passion that M. Dupree came at a run.

He listened to both sides, then mopped his head. “I see your
point, Philippe, and I agree that nothing in the world reaches the height of
art as taught by the great Noverre. But!” He turned to Ninon. “We are in the
kingdom of Spain, which has its own tradition of dance. I traveled here once,
when I was a boy. I know the
zarzuela
.
I was here when Boccherini introduced his famous
Clementina
. And so I say, if you can adapt some of the Spanish
dance to our opera, I think we shall be the better received.” As Philippe began
to curse, he added in haste, “The male solos may be preserved intact,
naturellement
.”

“
Naturellement
,”
Philippe declared, arms crossed over his magnificent chest, and rehearsal
commenced.

The third day, M. Dupree’s efforts were at last met with
success, and the company set out two days later, crowded into hot, stuffy
carriages, perched on the baggage carts, or riding mules. It seemed that mules
were as ubiquitous as olive trees in Spain.

As they traveled inland, the spring of Spain felt to the
French far more like the summer farther north. The inns were long, rambling
buildings, often with swallows’ nests in the attics, the birds’ song as
unceasing as the rasping rhythm of cicadas. The company fretted about the
mules, the heat, the unfamiliar noise and smells, and M. Dupree fretted about
the fact that he not only had to pay his impressive escort, but to house and
feed the men and their animals.

Most daunting of all, M. Dupree had assumed that mention of
the Godoy name would go a ways toward giving them what ministerial largesse had
not. He was astounded to discover that the Prime Minister was not universally
loved in the country.

After days of dispiriting travel, everything changed when
they reached Teruel, whose towers and arches were decorated with carved stone
that looked to French eyes like lacework. The town was small, as was its main
inn, but not long after they sat down, dusty, hot, and thirsty, their guide
reappeared with a young fellow in beautiful livery.

“This is an equerry from the marquis,” the guide explained.
“Is it true, that you perform the operas of Italy?”

A marquis? Though his purse had grown disturbingly flat, M.
Dupree swallowed a couple of times, then offered to perform for his excellency the
marquis, if it would please him.

It was the right decision.

After a hasty rehearsal, they hired the inn’s cart and gig
to carry them to the castle of this Spanish grandee. Here, they discovered a
complete stage as fine as anything they had seen in Paris, if on a smaller
scale, and a full set of stage hands waiting to serve them, all wearing the
livery of the marquis. They could hear the rustles and whispers of a
considerable crowd from the other side of the curtain.

The marquis had invited not only his entire household, but
all the local persons of rank. Marc Gros was able to set up the stage very
swiftly, with all that willing help. As the sun set over the shimmering
landscape, the company musicians struck up and the performance began.

And here they made a happy discovery that went a long way
toward reconciling them with the heat, the dust, the terrible roads, the
strange foods and the lack of a comprehensible tongue: the Spanish were opera
mad.

When the curtain fell, the marquis handed M. Dupree a purse
filled with golden ducats, and delivered a long and flowery speech of thanks.

Thereafter, M. Dupree sent Pierre riding ahead not only to
secure accommodation, but to apprise any local grandees of their presence. At
the performance end, Philippe changed his mind, and threw himself into adapting
the more militaristic flourishes of Spanish bolero, to enthusiastic success.

o0o

Early in May, the travel-worn company crossed the
heat-shimmering flat plain, which seemed endless, until at last they spotted
the beautiful bridge over the Manzanares, the first sign of civilization to
come.

Presently there was walled Madrid itself, with its forest of
spires, domes, and towers. Pierre was anxiously watching for them from the gate
of the Fuencarral over the grand boulevard of San Bernardo.

The Prince of Peace had assigned a functionary to Pierre,
who joined him at the gate to meet their party. The company looked in wonder on
the rich, crowded streets, the air filled with the fragrances of tobacco. Once
they had been conducted to the customs house for a cursory search through their
belongings, now liberally sprinkled with red dust, they proceeded down splendid
streets as the functionary gave Pierre a list of royal Spanish expectations.

During his wait, Pierre had taken care to obtain the latest
French newspapers, brought in by a constant stream of couriers. These were
awaiting the company as they traversed the beautiful buildings of Madrid to the
narrow street where they were to be housed.

He pointed out the assigned accommodations and then waited
in resignation for the expected lamentations.

They were not long in coming. “What is this? My room has no
windows?”

“Mine looks directly into a wall!”

“At least you found yours. Mine seems to be up the stairs,
and then down another set, and through a closet!”

“Yes, and my chamber is that very closet!”

“Is this a deliberate insult?” M. Dupree asked his brother.

Pierre stroked the air between them, as if gentling a
nervous horse. “No, no. This is merely what they call a
casa a la malicia
. The city is full of them, due to a royal decree
generations ago, that the citizens must all house palace functionaries and
guests in their second floor. So many of them built these terrible rooms. I
assure you, Anton, there are worse!” He spread his hands. “At least this entire
house is owned by the Prime Minister, so we will not be subjected to the
exigencies of resentful citizens.”

Madame reappeared. “It is still intolerable. No room is on
the same floor as another. We must find a hotel.”

“This is a very crowded city.” And Pierre bluntly named the
going prices.

M. Dupree squawked as if he had been stabbed. He mopped his
shiny dome, and then sank into a chair. “At least we have our performance
date?”

“That, yes,” Pierre said thankfully.

At that, some of the company settled down to read, or rest,
and the younger among them set out to take in the sights. Presently the angelus
was rung, a sound that reached into infant memory for many. The Spaniards
paused in their business, parade, flirting, and when the last shivering bong
died away, resumed their preparations for the evening. To the French it seemed
that the great bell demanded a universal pause, a moment of quiet during which
all that was heard amid the dying echoes were birds, and the hush of the river.

As for those gathered in the main salon with the newspapers,
meeting their astonished eyes was the news that France was now an Empire.
Bonaparte would be crowned Napoleon I by winter.

“And the creation of all these marshals?” Pierre predicted,
making motions as if tearing out his hair. “There is to be war and more war.
What else have marshals to do? And you know who is to fight these wars, if we
return? You and me, that’s who!”

“We can do nothing about it at this moment,” his brother
stated. “Come! Dispose of your belongings as best you can, and let us get to
work. This must be our best performance yet.”

o0o

There was time to attend both Madrid theaters. At La Cruz
they found an odd adaptation of Moliere, awkward and uninspired to the French,
except for the dancing; the
bolero
,
which Philippe had been driving his dancers to master, was astonishing. As was
the slower, more expressive
fandango
.

They had an entire day to arrange the palace’s private
theater, so that they would be ready to perform when the royal party arrived
that evening. The King of Spain’s palace, a massive white-stone building
festooned with arches, windows, pilasters and a riot of decorations, stretched
out to either side to a considerable degree, looking loftily over the
surrounding plains and distant hills. They were led down corridors that seemed
to stretch into infinity, past busts and marbles, tapestries and magnificent
paintings of enormous size, their subjects often larger than life—all the
ornamentation that had been stripped away from Paris palaces, and carted off or
sold on street corners.

The theater was elaborately decorated, with a fine royal box
that by nightfall was full of people in glittering costume. The company spotted
military figures whose chests were laden with sashes and medals, women with
high-dressed hair and low-cut gowns that were partly obscured by beautiful
carved fans and exquisite lace mantillas draped in graceful folds over their
shoulders.

The dancers knelt low, peeking out and trying in whispers to
determine which was Prime Minister Godoy, the Prince of Peace, and which the
royal family.