Opening Night of a Faun - Part 2

By Senya Jo Bruskin

On the strand that afternoon, sister and brother had paused along the low stone wall that ran along the edge of the sea. They looked in wonder at the brilliant flowers glistening in the noonday sun, and breathed in the balmy air. They had just left the huge snow drifts and piled lap blankets of St. Petersburg. He put one foot on the ledge, his elbows on his massive thigh and rested his head in his hands. He looked down at the beach club umbrellas: each with its own design. Swaths of blue and white, yellow and green, red, or pink and pale blue like bunches of flowers, bright against the dark stones on the beach.

"Bronia," he said, "I have this idea. You remember that vase we saw in Paris, when Serge Pavlovitch took us to the museum? Remember? And remember how he told us about the poet who wrote about it. I can see it still. There was a creature, and he was alone. Then he sees a woman and falls in love. I have a ballet in my mind, but the steps are different from ours." He hesitated. "You remember Lupokov? He said there should be a sixth position, with the feet like this," and he stood with his feet parallel.

"Oh, but Vaslav, that is so ugly, and how can you have balance, or how can the back be straight if you bend?" responded Bronia, laughing as she showed how she would fall forward if she tried to plié with her feet as he had shown her.

"No, no, like this," he said, sliding one foot in front of the other. He turned his shoulders slightly towards her, and straightened his arms downwards, at a slight angle, his palms flat, his thumb bent. ". . .the vase, yes?" Immediately, Bronia saw the figure on the ancient piece come to life before her. He moved forward slowly, his head aligned with his shoulders; his knees still bent. He stayed level, he moved in a plane.

He turned towards her, with desperation in his eyes, "Bronia, you must help me. Only you can dance this with me, and only you can show my steps to others, just a few, it is a short ballet." He was speaking quickly, freely, breathlessly. "Debussy composed a piece inspired by the poem, and Sergei played it for me recently: it is haunting, a match for my vision of the poem. I feel as if I can make it come alive!"

Of course she agreed. Not only could Bronia speak easily to everyone, she could move the way he wanted her to move. It was easy for her to copy Vaslav, she had done it all her life, except for the time they climbed out on the ledge of their hotel room of some city where their parents were on tour. Vaslav was scampering all over the ornate carvings, was it three, four stories above the street. But though she longed to do everything he did, she could only hold back admiringly; she was not as strong as he was, nor as well coordinated.

Those first rehearsals! His steps were so hard for the other dancers that she had to explain every little thing to them. Thank goodness he trusted her to help him set his steps on the other girls. He would try to show them what he wanted, but they couldn't understand him. Vaslav knew Bronia would translate his garbled sentences for the dancers, extract from him what they had to do, and then show the girls how they had to do it for "Faun." He quickly became frustrated with their constant complaints that the steps were impossible, too difficult, and would scream and curse at them until they ran off crying. She would rush to comfort them and bring them back, and break down the steps so they could perform them.

Now, one year and many, many rehearsals later, here they were. The piece was completed, the world would see it now, and she prayed the world was ready for Vaslav's ideas, as beautiful and true as they were. She lowered her hand now, the electricity between them ceased, and he walked on.

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