Chapter 53 – Going After the Dancers
Nev sat on the twelve foot long sofa in the living room of the suite at the Corinthia, and stared at the closet that hid the personal safe that contained the remaining seven million dollars that his boss seemed hell bent on throwing to the wolves in the form of this stupid ballet thing. The only part of the ballet thing that didn’t appear stupid to Nev was the fact of all those ballerina’s legs. He still hadn’t actually met any ballerinas, but he figured he would, and he remembered what their legs looked like in the website photos and videos. Any money that went towards perpetuation of those legs he approved of; the rest was going down the toilet. He interrupted his fantasy about what he would do with the seven million to ask his boss a question. “When are you going to tell the museum people you have all their stuff? All the stuff the fucks stole. We’re here, and the museum is just down the street.”
Stirg looked up from the book he was reading about Pepita (1818-1910), the master choreographer of Russian ballet. He had sent Nev to the Saint Petersburg library to find the book, which they had, in Russian. Stirg wasn’t so good at reading Russian anymore (he wasn’t that good at reading, period), so Nev had had to find the same book in English at, of all places, the American Embassy. The embassy librarian (intelligence officer) had lent it to Nev after getting a call from the Israeli Embassy, who had placed the request after getting a call from a Mossad officer in Tel Aviv, who had gotten a call from Stirg. All that so Stirg could learn what that big word choreography means.
Stirg thought for a minute about Nev’s question, and said, “Don’t we have enough to occupy our attention here, with this ballet stuff, without worrying about the Hermitage stuff? Do you know all there is to know about ballet? About choreography (at this point he could at least pronounce the word)? About ballerinas and why they do what they do?” He paused. “The stuff in Charleston ain’t going nowhere. Maybe I should go over to the Hermitage and talk to them about it, but after we get Gergiev on track.”
Nev nodded, as he was wont to do when his boss offered an opinion, but the thought occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, Stirg wasn’t in as big a rush to return the goods to the homeland, to reconstitute it’s lost heritage, as he led some folks (the fucks) to believe. Nev filed this thought away for future use.
If Nev had been perusing important websites visited frequently by those interested in all things ballet, instead of wondering about the Hermitage goods and the cashier’s checks ensconced in the safe, he would have seen the huge advertisements announcing the call for world class ballet dancers to audition for roles in the premiere of the upcoming production, Stravinsky’s Lost Ballet, in Charleston, South Carolina, United States of America. Many of the Mariinsky dancers saw them, as did dancers around the world. Minutes after the coordinated advertising campaign lit up the Internet, the text messages started to fly. “Did u c the Stravinsky announcement?” “Where is Charleston?” “Where is South Carolina?” “R u going to apply?” “Did u c the $ they are offering?” Etc. The lines of the ballet world hummed.
The ads showed photos of old Igor, looking stern and artistic in his pince nez. The graphic designs were glossy and eye-catching. Some ads incorporated photos of pages from the score, labeling it the lost score, while others showed photos of Nureyev, Fonteyn, and Kirkland in dramatic poses, mostly midair. The ads emphasized the phrases world premiere, newly discovered Stravinsky score, choreography by LandkirkThorley, music direction by Pete Townshend. Several of the ads showed photos of Paul McCartney, quoted as saying he would attend opening night. The Whosey had told Gwen and the woman, go ahead with that, he would square it with Paul. The woman had come up with the idea of putting a photo of Bill Gates at the bottom of the ads, but instead of saying next to the photo, Funding Provided by the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, it said Funding Provided by the Gromstov Foundation for International Artistic Achievement. She said it was imperative to give the impression that the Charleston production had money up the yang, and what better way than imply that Bill Gates was underwriting it. Roger said, “People actually misrepresent that sort of thing?” and the woman rolled her eyes at his naiveté.
Similar ads appeared the next day in newspapers around the world, all full page, full color, including the major rags in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. When Gergiev saw them he practically froze. Then he wanted to tear them up, but decided instead to take them to Stirg, which he did. When Stirg saw them, he maintained control of his emotions, limiting his response to a relatively calm and benign, “Those fucks. Those dirty fucks.” He looked at Gergiev and said, “What do those mean? Why did they put the ads in the newspapers here? What are they doing?”
Gergiev looked from Stirg to Nev, said, “You tell me. You’re the ones who know them; have relationships with them. I don’t know them from Adam and Eve. Well, I know LandkirkThorley. Great dancers. But as far as I know, they’ve never done choreography. You tell me who this production group is. I’ve never heard of them. All I know is they’re advertising for world class dancers, and they’re doing it here. Which means, I guess, that they are looking for responses from Russian dancers. MY Russian dancers. And Bolshoi dancers from Moscow. Who are these people?”
“They’re fucks,” said Stirg. That’s who they are. They’re fucks.”