The Lost Ballet

  Chapter 47 – The Russian Production Begins

  The Aeroflot 747 touched down in Saint Petersburg at 4pm, with Stirg and Nev leaving the first class section and walking down the ramp, through the concourse. It was the first time in several years that Stirg had been home, and he was excited. He had a lot to be excited about; and a lot to be apprehensive about. He was biting off a big piece of life here, the creation of a new ballet. He was involved in something very new and very different from anything he ever had experienced. But he had guts and lots of self-confidence, not unlike the Junes. Both projects were being run by amateurs, with unlimited budgets. Was this a recipe for disaster? Or was something great going to happen?

  The Derenencourts had brought the computer directly to Stirg’s house, and Nev had set it up on the kitchen table. It had taken him three hours to find the Stravinsky score file, not being that good with computers, but eventually he got it up on the screen. He was elated, and yelled, “Got it, boss.” From that moment on, Stirg’s mind was a whirlwind of computations. He had figured out three options for his Russian production. First, he could take this to Vladimir Putin, turn it over to him, and make this a state government project. He had no doubt the powers that be, when they understood the circumstances of the discovery of the score and the fact that Americans were threatening to produce the premiere, would sponsor and support the project. The second option was for him to go to the Mariinsky Ballet and buy their entire operation as a package: dancers, orchestra, marketing, and choreography. No matter what they asked for in compensation, he would pay it. The last option was for him to go the route the Junes had taken, which was to piece together an ad-hoc team, and manage it himself.

  Midway over the Atlantic he ruled out the last option. His ego was tempted to take on management of the production himself, but the instinct for self-preservation won out over valor. By the time he and Nev were ensconced in their hotel suite with a bottle of ice cold vodka on the table in front of them, he also had eliminated the first option, involving the government. He had been spared the machinations of monolithic bureaucracies for a long time now, and wasn’t eager to return to those strange and frustrating worlds. So the Mariinsky it was. He would buy them, lock, stock, and barrel.

  Before he left Charleston, he contacted his money manager, and told him to liquidate funds. The guy asked, “How much?”

  Stirg thought for a moment, and said, “I’m not sure. Enough to do a ballet.”

  “What do you mean, ‘do a ballet’? You mean go to a ballet? Like in New York City, or somewhere?”

  “No. I mean make a ballet. The dancing. And the music. Make a show. A ballet show. Make it from scratch. New.”

  “You mean you’re going to back a production, like backing a Broadway show? Underwrite it?”

  “Yeah. Like that. Underwrite the show.”

  “How big a percentage are we talking about? Ten percent? Twenty?”

  “The whole thing. One hundred percent. I’m paying for everything.”

  The money manager had no idea how much it cost to produce a ballet, but if it was like a Broadway show, it would cost a bundle. He said, “So how much is that? Where is this show? How big a deal is it? Will it be in Charleston? You gotta give me some information, here.”

  Stirg asked Nev how much he thought a ballet would cost. Nev thought for a minute, said, “I don’t know. Maybe a hundred thousand. It’s not like making a Bruce Willis action movie, is it? That costs millions.”

  Stirg knew it would cost more than a hundred thousand, but really had no idea how much more. He said, “Better get me ten million, cash. Right away.” The guy said, Ok.

  In the hotel room Stirg said to Nev, “We’re going to buy the Mariinsky. The whole thing. Make them do the ballet, here. They know what they’re doing, and we don’t. I’ll be the boss, but they’ll do all the work. What was that ballet word that means the boss? That’ll be me.”

  Nev said, “Impresario. Impresario means the ballet boss. That’s you. You’re gonna have to wear a black suit with a coat that has tails on it. You ready for that?”

  Stirg liked the sound of impresario, but he wasn’t so sure about the tails thing. He hadn’t worn one of those while he was hunting the Nazis, but he would give it due consideration. He was ok with traditional stuff. He said, “Find out who the boss of the Mariinsky is, and get me his phone number. We gotta get going on this if we’re going to beat the fucks.”

  “Boss, what if the Mariinsky is all booked up? What if they have their shows set for the year?”

  “I’ll make them an offer they can’t refuse.”

  “You’re going to shoot some of them?” Scenes from The Godfather have permeated culture worldwide.

  “No, I’m not going to shoot the ballerinas. I’ll just offer them enough money where they can’t say no. Enough so they’ll change their plans, their schedule. Besides, I think they’ll want to do this lost music from Stravinsky. Shouldn’t they be willing to give up the stuff they have going, to do this? I would hope so. Christ, it’s original Russian stuff. Art. Isn’t that their business?”

  Nev didn’t know about that. He knew something about commandoing and bodyguarding, though he hadn’t really done very well with those lately. He went down stairs, corralled the concierge, and got the name and phone number of the Mariinsky Artistic Director, Valery Gergiev. He also got the current schedule of the troupe, noticing that it had a full schedule for the upcoming season. It was performing at the Mariinsky Theater in Saint Petersburg for the first, and main part of the season, but then was off on a world-wide tour for the later part of the season. It looked like Stirg was going to get a chance to make them his offer. When he returned to the suite, Stirg was napping. Nev unpacked for both of them, showered, and came back into the living room to find Stirg awake, trying to decide between coffee and vodka. When the coffee tray arrived and he had downed a cup, he put in the call to Gergiev. An hour later, he and Nev were sitting in Gergiev’s office in the Mariinsky Theater.

  Back when Stirg had decided to steal the ballet score from the Junes, he had mentioned the Mariinsky, and having them do the production, but he never had called them. So this was his first contact. He said, “I have something important; something you will be very interested in. Something you have to be interested in.”

  His use of the imperative phrase “have to be” caught Gergiev’s attention. Was Stirg from the government? From the Ministry of Cultural Affairs? Oh, shit. Stirg went on, “Do you know who Stravinsky is?”

  This dumb question almost clinched it that Stirg was from the government. “Um, yes, I’ve heard of him.”

  “Do you know he wrote a piece of music that no one knows about? That no one has ever heard?” Gergiev’s placid stare at Stirg changed. “Music for a ballet?” Gergiev didn’t say anything. It wasn’t unheard of for quacks to make claims about finding lost works of art. But, Stirg didn’t come across as a quack. Stirg had a presence honed by many years of dealing with Nazis. And there was Nev. Nev still couldn’t do two hundred fifty pushups the way he could when he was a Mossad guy, but he was back in shape, buff, and also presented a certain presence that commanded attention. Gergiev was on alert, but still didn’t say anything. Stirg had expected him to come unglued, start panting with anticipation. He was an artsy person, right? “Look, I’m not gonna fuck around here. You’re the Mariinsky ballet guy, the boss. I have this music, this Stravinsky music. Russian music, the real thing, that no one has heard or seen. I want you to do it, make it. Make the ballet. Now!”

  Gergiev really came alert. There was command in Stirg’s demand. He didn’t come across as a quack, but he did come across as a little out there. He looked at Nev, who was stone cold. Nev, with his own vibes, was backing up his boss’s demand. Now! Gergiev said, “Gentlemen, tell me more about the music. I am all ears.” Stirg motioned to Nev, who opened his briefcase, removed the c
opy of the score, and dropped it on the desk in front of Gergiev. Gergiev looked at the blank cover, then leaned down and smelled the document. He said, “Not the original. Where is the original score?”

  Stirg said, “Don’t worry about that. Just worry about making the ballet.” He was terse.

  Gergiev turned the first page and read, at the top, four dances for Ballets Russes, 1914, IS. Then he looked at the first measures of Act I, and touched the pages where he saw hand-written notes. What are these? He saw the name van Gogh, and the word painting. What does this mean? He got a funny feeling. Could this be real? Are these guys serious, not quacks? Was his life about to get very complicated, in a good way? He turned the page and looked; turned the page again, and looked; turned twenty pages, and looked; turned to Act III; Act IV; turned to the last page. And then flipped the entire score over, turned to the first page, and again read four dances for Ballets Russes, 1914, IS. “Where did you get this?” No answer. “Stravinsky wrote the ballet Rite of Spring in 1913 and an opera, The Nightingale, in 1914. He wrote the ballets Pulcinella in 1920 and Les Noces in 1923. What is this? I‘ve never heard of this piece. There is no ballet between Rite and Pulcinella. What is the title? There is no title on the cover.” He looked hard at Stirg. “Where did you get this? I cannot accept something like this without more information. It could be a fake. What is the provenance of this music?”

  Stirg looked at Nev, silently asking what the word provenance meant. Nev shook his head. He hadn’t learned that at the Mossad spy and commando school. But then he remembered the June’s website about their production. One of the pages provided the fake provenance, and Nev now recognized the word. He leaned over to his boss and whispered in his ear. Stirg said, “Oh, you want to know if it’s a fake. I have this provenance thing, but it’s a little tricky. I can work that out for you later. Let me tell you, this is real. It was discovered recently, and now I have it. Ok? What you need to do, what you are going to do, is figure out how to make this thing happen, here in Saint Petersburg. Soon.” He turned to Nev. “What is the date of the fuck’s show?”

  Nev told him the date, which was five months away. Stirg looked at Gergiev and said, “You got five months till show time.”

  Gergiev’s head had a tennis match going on inside, swinging left to right, right to left, from, are these guys crazy to, is this thing real and am I going to do something momentous? He stared at Stirg, at Nev, at the score with Stravinsky’s name on it.

  Stirg could see the man was confused, so he attempted to ameliorate the confusion by using a technique he successfully had used many times. He said, “Look, this is a big thing, I know. And important. Very important, to me, and to Russia. It’s our history and our art. We gotta protect that, and you can be part of that. You’re going to be part of that. Here’s the good news. I’m paying for it. The whole thing. I’m the, the….” and he turned to Nev, “what am I?”

  “Impresario.”

  “Yeah, I’m the impresario. The money man. You’re the art guy. You know how to get the ballerinas to do their thing. And the musicians. And the, the….” he turned again to Nev, “what is the dancing thing?”

  “Choreography.”

  “Yeah, the choreography. You’re the choreography guy, too. We’re a team. You make the show, I pay for the show. Including, of course, something for your time and effort. Get me?”

  The tennis ball continued sailing back and forth over the net in Gergiev’s head. Now it wasn’t just the possibility of producing the world premiere of a lost ballet by Stravinsky, it was money. How much money? Did these guys have a clue? Are they real? Is this serious? He said, “Gentlemen, this is a very big proposal. A very big surprise. Maybe we should go out to a restaurant, have a cup of coffee, something to eat. We can talk more. You can tell me more.”

  Stirg sat back in his chair and stared at Gergiev. After a moment his intuition told him Gergiev was ok, that he could do the job, he just was a little scared. Stirg could understand this, something new getting thrown in his face. A big job, on a tight schedule. Being a little scared was ok. He decided to help the man through his fear, and reached into the inner pocket of his sport coat. He removed an envelope, and from the envelope he removed ten pieces of paper, all the same size and shape. He looked at them, assembled them into a short stack, and pushed the stack towards Gergiev. Gergiev looked down at the paper on top of the stack and saw it was a cashier’s check, issued from a major Saint Petersburg back, made out to CASH. The amount was one million dollars. When Stirg saw he had absorbed the amount, he peeled off the top paper and set it aside. Gergiev saw an identical check below it. Stirg peeled that one off the stack, then the third check, and the fourth, and finally the tenth check, all for one million dollars. He looked at Gergiev and said, “These checks are yours. To make the show. The ballet. If this is not enough, there is more. There are as many of these checks as you need to do it. By the deadline. There is no end to these checks. You understand? But in return, Russia gets the best. The best dancing, the best music, the best, the best….” and he turned to Nev, “the best what?”

  “Choreography.”

  “Yeah, the best choreography. That’s the deal. Ok?”

  The tennis ball inside Gergiev’s head had stopped soaring back and forth, from left to right, right to left. It was suspended in midair, right over the net, and symbolized Gergiev’s state of mind. His thinking was suspended between the ten million dollars sitting on the table in front of him, and the proposal of producing a world class ballet premiere in five months. Was this possible? Could he do it? What are the ramifications, both good and bad? The good ramifications are obvious. Glory in the world of Russian art. The bad ones, nullifying all the existing commitments of the company, could be very bad. He would get his ass sued off. The tennis ball went back into motion: glory vs. courtroom; glory vs. courtroom; art vs. lawyers; art vs. lawyers; money in vs. money out; head on his shoulders vs. head lying at his feet. He closed his eyes, sitting at his desk in his office, in the Mariinsky Theater, located on Theater Square in Saint Petersburg, Russia. Stirg watched him. Nev watched him. He watched the tennis ball. Back and forth; back and forth. The ball slowed its velocity and lowered its trajectory. Gergiev watched it slow, and was thankful. Gravity won, and the ball dropped on one side of the court. Gergiev felt the pressure release, and he opened his eyes. Looking at Stirg he said, “If you show me the provenance, and it proves this score is real and as you say it is, I’m in. I’ll make the ballet.”

  Stirg nodded, collected nine of the ten checks, put them back in the envelope, and rose from his chair, leaving the tenth check on Gergiev’s desk. He put the envelope back in the inner pocket of his coat and said, “Let’s go get something to eat.”