Petrushka
In which Guerrero's determined to inject Ames with some culture, and Ames is...skeptical, to say the least.
I had a dream that this wasn't going to be more than 900 words. 1,000 tops. HAH.
---
Let's see. Three, two on-- no? Oka-- No, wait. Yup. One.
Once again Ames felt the evil eye burning into her shoulder, courtesy of some biddy about a yard away who'd been blasting it for the last ten minutes. Ames counted again-- three, two, one --and turned her head just enough to flash the woman a look of menace beneath her lashes. The biddy flared her nostrils and looked away to murmur something to her husband.
Ames reset her mental timer.
Guerrero was going to be back with those drinks any minute now. Any. Minute. Now.
She started taking inventory of the rocks on display. A woman to her left was sporting a ring with a canary diamond the size of Ames' thumbnail; Ames followed the path her hand as it wove through the air, driven by the woman's animated conversation.
Ames laced her fingers together over her clutch and took a deep breath. Steady, girl.
The timer hit zero. Ames was fairly certain the skin on her shoulder was starting to blister.
Thirty minutes in, she thought as she closed her eyes and let her head thunk against the pillar behind her, and this is already a terrible idea.
"Please don't tell me you're going to do that the entire time."
Ames opened her eyes. Thank god, the wine. Oh, and Guerrero too.
"No," she said. She held out her hand for one of the plastic wine glasses, and as she accepted it she leaned forward to murmur in his ear.
"Look. See that lady over there? Is it just me, or did I murder her children in a past life or something?"
Guerrero made a show of fishing his cell out of his pocket to check the time. When he put it back he raised his glass to his lips and said, "Sea foam dress, white hair?"
She nodded.
He smirked against the rim of the glass. "She probably thinks you're an escort, dude."
"What?"
Ames glanced down at her dress. Given the venue, she'd gone with the most conservative one she owned: a knee-length, strapless number with a delicate floral pattern on white and a jacket to match. Compared to some of the things in her closet, it even bordered on puritanical.
"It's not the clothing," Guerrero said. He gestured between the two of them with a slight incline of his chin. "Older guy shows up at a performance like this with a girl your age? She's usually an escort. Or a girlfriend of the 'generous monthly stipend' variety."
"Really." Ames scooted closer to Guerrero, smoothed her hands over her hips, and pushed her chest out, just a little. The air around the old woman fairly sizzled with offense.
"Behave," Said Guerrero. But the corner of his lip was threatening to twitch upward.
"Oh, come on. I might as well have a little fun."
He sighed and shook his head.
"What? I didn't say anything!"
"I'm well aware at this point that this is the place on Earth you'd like to be." Guerrero said dryly. "Humor me. Who knows? You might even enjoy yourself. Inconceivable, I know."
She frowned and caught breath to answer, then let it all out in a soft rush when a chime sounded through the lobby.
"What's that mean?" She asked.
"Means the show's about to start. Come one."
He drained the rest of his glass and dropped it in the trash. Ames followed suit, and they merged into the line to enter the theatre proper.
The hall was painted in various shades of creme and gold lent extra vibrancy by the warm glow of the house lights. As the usher led them to their aisle, Ames looked up at the intricate sculpture on the walls, then up again to the silver-and-crystal chandelier that dangled at the center of a wide field of mottled blues.
"Fancy," Ames said as they sat down.
Guerrero nodded. "It's a nice place. Beaux-Arts isn't my favorite style, but it suits the space well given the context of its construction."
Ames pinned on a smile and nodded slowly.
"Never mind," Guerrero said. He looked like he needed another drink. That made two of them.
"What's this thing about anyway?" She asked. Her program hadn't revealed much beyond the cast list. Apparently ballet catered to those who already knew what they were getting into.
"Petrushka? It's about a love triangle between three puppets: Petrushka, a clown; the Ballerina, who is, well, a ballerina; and the Moor."
"Who is...?"
"A Moor," Guerrero said. "Back in the day, it used to refer to anyone from Northern Africa. Like Othello."
"Oh! I love that movie."
"Really?" He sounded impressed. "Which version?"
She frowned. "Which version? There was only one."
Guerrero's eyebrow crawled upward.
"It came out in what, '99, 2000? The one with Julia Stiles and Martin Sheen?"
He stared at her like she was speaking tongues.
"The movie 'O'!" Ames said. She nearly throttled the air in frustration.
"So what you're telling me," he said after a long moment, "is you've never seen an actual film version of Othello."
"O is an actual version. It's just...updated. And less boring."
He looked like he wanted to say something very, very badly, but instead he just squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. Then, just as suddenly, he whirled back.
"And let me guess. The only Romeo you know is Leonardo DiCaprio."
"I don't know why you hate the classics so much," She said, more to annoy him than anything else. She knew she'd lost the battle somewhere around Julia Stiles.
His pause this time lasted long enough for the din in the theatre to quiet to a steady murmur.
"Right," he said. "So, the entire Shakespeare library for movie night."
"I had a feeling that's where this was going."
Guerrero patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, Eliza. We'll make a lady of you yet."
"Garn," She deadpanned.
Around them, the house lights began to dim. Guerrero leaned over to whisper in her ear.
"Okay. Ground rules: No talking, no sighing, no fidgeting, no--"
"Seriously? I'm not four."
He didn't look convinced.
Ames elbowed into his share of the arm rest.
A spotlight burst on to follow a tiny woman in an evening gown making her way to the stage. She introduced herself as the director of the ballet company, and ran through a brief history of Petrushka before listing the house rules-- no recording, no flash photography, stuff Ames was used to from some of the concerts she'd attended-- then taking her leave with a wave and a cheerful, "Enjoy the show!"
Ames folded her hands in her lap, eyes narrowed, waiting.
Someone in the balcony section coughed. Down her row, she could hear another attendee shifting back and forth in their seat, making the cushions squeak. Then, finally, the curtains drew aside and receded into the wings.
Ames' lips parted. She leaned forward, eyes wide. The tune of a lively flute flitted through the hall, and the dancers crowding the stage came to life.
---
"So?" said Guerrero afterward.
She blinked slowly, like she was shaking off the fragments of a dream. Then, she laughed and shrugged in surrender.
"You know what? It was good. Really, really good."
He smiled, one of his rare ones that actually lit up his face.
"I've always kind of liked ballet," she admitted, "but I figured it was all boring stuff like Swan Lake and the Nutcracker. This was... not what I was expecting. At all."
"See? You gave it a chance and you enjoyed yourself."
She rolled her eyes as she started to rise from her seat. "Yes, we all know you were right."
"Of course. But I'll tell you what-- since you liked it so much, how'd you like to meet one of the dancers?"
She paused. "Really?"
"Really. We'll wait until the crowd is gone."
She sat down again, grinning.
---
The backstage area was, unsurprisingly, not nearly as interesting as the audience portion of the theatre. A man in black, one of the stagehands she guessed, led them down a short flight of stairs and past the dressing room into a narrow corridor with doors on either side. Two of them belonged to bathrooms; another bore the words "Green Room" in chipped and faded gold lettering, and it was this door that the stagehand rapped on with the corner of his clipboard.
"Your guests are here, Mr. West."
Mr. West must have said something in reply, for the stage hand wrestled with the knob until the door popped open.
"After you, folks." The stagehand said. When they entered the room, the door jiggled and creaked shut behind them.
A slender black man stood in the center of the room with his thumbnail pressed between his lips like he'd been caught mid-gnaw. The moor, Ames realized. He saw Guerrero first, and his whole body stiffened.
"Hey Dev," Guerrero said easily, like they'd been friends forever. "It's been a while."
A tight smile forced its way over Dev's face.
"You're right," he said, "it has."
"This is Ames," Guerrero said, nodding in her direction, "she's the associate I spoke to you about."
So many questions, thought Ames. Like, why was Guerrero throwing her name around to ballet dancers? Better yet, why did Guerrero even know one in the first place? Actually, no, that was a stupid question, Guerrero knew everybody, but what possible strategic advantage could there be to knowing--
And she forgot everything else she had lined up to ask, because Dev's eyes turned to her and the expression on his face went eased from sour to sweet.
"Ames," he said as he looked her over, "It's a pleasure."
She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.
"Anyway," said Guerrero, "Ames, this is Devon West. I've asked him to be our assist on the LeMarche job."
Ames' eyebrows shot upward.
"I know what you're thinking," sighed Devon, "and you're right. I am a full time dancer. But in the off season, well-- I've been known to take...other jobs." he threw a sharp look at Guerrero. "In the off season being the important part."
"Sorry dude. We're under a time crunch, and you're the only one in town who I know can do the job."
Devon sighed and swept a hand over the smooth dome of his skull.
"I still would've liked more warning. I'll have to make up something to tell the company."
"Family emergency? Food poisoning? You won't be gone that long, dude."
Devon shook his head.
"Fine," he said. Then, in a much kinder voice, "but only because I'd hate to leave this lovely woman in the lurch."
He winked at Ames. She had a feeling she was really going to enjoy this case.
I had a dream that this wasn't going to be more than 900 words. 1,000 tops. HAH.
---
Let's see. Three, two on-- no? Oka-- No, wait. Yup. One.
Once again Ames felt the evil eye burning into her shoulder, courtesy of some biddy about a yard away who'd been blasting it for the last ten minutes. Ames counted again-- three, two, one --and turned her head just enough to flash the woman a look of menace beneath her lashes. The biddy flared her nostrils and looked away to murmur something to her husband.
Ames reset her mental timer.
Guerrero was going to be back with those drinks any minute now. Any. Minute. Now.
She started taking inventory of the rocks on display. A woman to her left was sporting a ring with a canary diamond the size of Ames' thumbnail; Ames followed the path her hand as it wove through the air, driven by the woman's animated conversation.
Ames laced her fingers together over her clutch and took a deep breath. Steady, girl.
The timer hit zero. Ames was fairly certain the skin on her shoulder was starting to blister.
Thirty minutes in, she thought as she closed her eyes and let her head thunk against the pillar behind her, and this is already a terrible idea.
"Please don't tell me you're going to do that the entire time."
Ames opened her eyes. Thank god, the wine. Oh, and Guerrero too.
"No," she said. She held out her hand for one of the plastic wine glasses, and as she accepted it she leaned forward to murmur in his ear.
"Look. See that lady over there? Is it just me, or did I murder her children in a past life or something?"
Guerrero made a show of fishing his cell out of his pocket to check the time. When he put it back he raised his glass to his lips and said, "Sea foam dress, white hair?"
She nodded.
He smirked against the rim of the glass. "She probably thinks you're an escort, dude."
"What?"
Ames glanced down at her dress. Given the venue, she'd gone with the most conservative one she owned: a knee-length, strapless number with a delicate floral pattern on white and a jacket to match. Compared to some of the things in her closet, it even bordered on puritanical.
"It's not the clothing," Guerrero said. He gestured between the two of them with a slight incline of his chin. "Older guy shows up at a performance like this with a girl your age? She's usually an escort. Or a girlfriend of the 'generous monthly stipend' variety."
"Really." Ames scooted closer to Guerrero, smoothed her hands over her hips, and pushed her chest out, just a little. The air around the old woman fairly sizzled with offense.
"Behave," Said Guerrero. But the corner of his lip was threatening to twitch upward.
"Oh, come on. I might as well have a little fun."
He sighed and shook his head.
"What? I didn't say anything!"
"I'm well aware at this point that this is the place on Earth you'd like to be." Guerrero said dryly. "Humor me. Who knows? You might even enjoy yourself. Inconceivable, I know."
She frowned and caught breath to answer, then let it all out in a soft rush when a chime sounded through the lobby.
"What's that mean?" She asked.
"Means the show's about to start. Come one."
He drained the rest of his glass and dropped it in the trash. Ames followed suit, and they merged into the line to enter the theatre proper.
The hall was painted in various shades of creme and gold lent extra vibrancy by the warm glow of the house lights. As the usher led them to their aisle, Ames looked up at the intricate sculpture on the walls, then up again to the silver-and-crystal chandelier that dangled at the center of a wide field of mottled blues.
"Fancy," Ames said as they sat down.
Guerrero nodded. "It's a nice place. Beaux-Arts isn't my favorite style, but it suits the space well given the context of its construction."
Ames pinned on a smile and nodded slowly.
"Never mind," Guerrero said. He looked like he needed another drink. That made two of them.
"What's this thing about anyway?" She asked. Her program hadn't revealed much beyond the cast list. Apparently ballet catered to those who already knew what they were getting into.
"Petrushka? It's about a love triangle between three puppets: Petrushka, a clown; the Ballerina, who is, well, a ballerina; and the Moor."
"Who is...?"
"A Moor," Guerrero said. "Back in the day, it used to refer to anyone from Northern Africa. Like Othello."
"Oh! I love that movie."
"Really?" He sounded impressed. "Which version?"
She frowned. "Which version? There was only one."
Guerrero's eyebrow crawled upward.
"It came out in what, '99, 2000? The one with Julia Stiles and Martin Sheen?"
He stared at her like she was speaking tongues.
"The movie 'O'!" Ames said. She nearly throttled the air in frustration.
"So what you're telling me," he said after a long moment, "is you've never seen an actual film version of Othello."
"O is an actual version. It's just...updated. And less boring."
He looked like he wanted to say something very, very badly, but instead he just squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. Then, just as suddenly, he whirled back.
"And let me guess. The only Romeo you know is Leonardo DiCaprio."
"I don't know why you hate the classics so much," She said, more to annoy him than anything else. She knew she'd lost the battle somewhere around Julia Stiles.
His pause this time lasted long enough for the din in the theatre to quiet to a steady murmur.
"Right," he said. "So, the entire Shakespeare library for movie night."
"I had a feeling that's where this was going."
Guerrero patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, Eliza. We'll make a lady of you yet."
"Garn," She deadpanned.
Around them, the house lights began to dim. Guerrero leaned over to whisper in her ear.
"Okay. Ground rules: No talking, no sighing, no fidgeting, no--"
"Seriously? I'm not four."
He didn't look convinced.
Ames elbowed into his share of the arm rest.
A spotlight burst on to follow a tiny woman in an evening gown making her way to the stage. She introduced herself as the director of the ballet company, and ran through a brief history of Petrushka before listing the house rules-- no recording, no flash photography, stuff Ames was used to from some of the concerts she'd attended-- then taking her leave with a wave and a cheerful, "Enjoy the show!"
Ames folded her hands in her lap, eyes narrowed, waiting.
Someone in the balcony section coughed. Down her row, she could hear another attendee shifting back and forth in their seat, making the cushions squeak. Then, finally, the curtains drew aside and receded into the wings.
Ames' lips parted. She leaned forward, eyes wide. The tune of a lively flute flitted through the hall, and the dancers crowding the stage came to life.
---
"So?" said Guerrero afterward.
She blinked slowly, like she was shaking off the fragments of a dream. Then, she laughed and shrugged in surrender.
"You know what? It was good. Really, really good."
He smiled, one of his rare ones that actually lit up his face.
"I've always kind of liked ballet," she admitted, "but I figured it was all boring stuff like Swan Lake and the Nutcracker. This was... not what I was expecting. At all."
"See? You gave it a chance and you enjoyed yourself."
She rolled her eyes as she started to rise from her seat. "Yes, we all know you were right."
"Of course. But I'll tell you what-- since you liked it so much, how'd you like to meet one of the dancers?"
She paused. "Really?"
"Really. We'll wait until the crowd is gone."
She sat down again, grinning.
---
The backstage area was, unsurprisingly, not nearly as interesting as the audience portion of the theatre. A man in black, one of the stagehands she guessed, led them down a short flight of stairs and past the dressing room into a narrow corridor with doors on either side. Two of them belonged to bathrooms; another bore the words "Green Room" in chipped and faded gold lettering, and it was this door that the stagehand rapped on with the corner of his clipboard.
"Your guests are here, Mr. West."
Mr. West must have said something in reply, for the stage hand wrestled with the knob until the door popped open.
"After you, folks." The stagehand said. When they entered the room, the door jiggled and creaked shut behind them.
A slender black man stood in the center of the room with his thumbnail pressed between his lips like he'd been caught mid-gnaw. The moor, Ames realized. He saw Guerrero first, and his whole body stiffened.
"Hey Dev," Guerrero said easily, like they'd been friends forever. "It's been a while."
A tight smile forced its way over Dev's face.
"You're right," he said, "it has."
"This is Ames," Guerrero said, nodding in her direction, "she's the associate I spoke to you about."
So many questions, thought Ames. Like, why was Guerrero throwing her name around to ballet dancers? Better yet, why did Guerrero even know one in the first place? Actually, no, that was a stupid question, Guerrero knew everybody, but what possible strategic advantage could there be to knowing--
And she forgot everything else she had lined up to ask, because Dev's eyes turned to her and the expression on his face went eased from sour to sweet.
"Ames," he said as he looked her over, "It's a pleasure."
She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.
"Anyway," said Guerrero, "Ames, this is Devon West. I've asked him to be our assist on the LeMarche job."
Ames' eyebrows shot upward.
"I know what you're thinking," sighed Devon, "and you're right. I am a full time dancer. But in the off season, well-- I've been known to take...other jobs." he threw a sharp look at Guerrero. "In the off season being the important part."
"Sorry dude. We're under a time crunch, and you're the only one in town who I know can do the job."
Devon sighed and swept a hand over the smooth dome of his skull.
"I still would've liked more warning. I'll have to make up something to tell the company."
"Family emergency? Food poisoning? You won't be gone that long, dude."
Devon shook his head.
"Fine," he said. Then, in a much kinder voice, "but only because I'd hate to leave this lovely woman in the lurch."
He winked at Ames. She had a feeling she was really going to enjoy this case.