MFU Fanfiction : Third - Leitmotifs
This is mostly the thirty segments of backstory which I posted during November 2011's PicoWriMo. The extended flashback is far from finished, but as I have re-ordered them the selections follow one another fairly continuously, so I thought I'd collect them in one place with the hope that more work will be done from the foundation gathered here. Feedback would be most appreciated.
For those who have read Third (and can still remember it), this describes how Illya, Daria (Dasha), Alexandra (Sasha), Kyrill and Pavel met one another (pre-UNCLE).
Title: Third - Leitmotifs
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon (overall), Illya/various (this section)
Genre: Pre-slash and het
Rating: R
Word Count: ~8K
Disclaimer: The usual, because MFU is not mine and no money is being made.
Third
Leitmotifs
Early September
The sea faded away. The towns and the fields drifted past. The train seemed to stop at every station from the Baltic to Tbilisi and yet arrived before the mechanism could reset. Illya’s gait rolled when he crossed the platform. He heard the waves when the wind blew through the trees leading up to the university. The shouts of reunited classmates were cries amidst the waves. His bed lay too still for him to sleep at night.
By the next week, Illya was a student again. At the beginning of that week, his advisor told him to join the new English language drama club being started by one of the foreign doctoral students, “Attending practice with the gymnastics team is, of course, good for your body, but you should exercise your creative side as well.”
Assuming the professor was trying to keep his every waking hour occupied, Illya considered explaining his intention to audition for the chamber music ensemble since he had not been practicing his oboe enough on his own, until the professor had added, with a certain look over the top of his glasses, “Acting skills are quite useful.” Illya murmured his assent and picked up the slip of paper his advisor slid towards him. “Auditions tomorrow evening. The main auditorium at the Conservatory.”
Crumpled paper still in hand, Illya detoured past the library on the way to his dormitory. Near the entrance, a notice announcing the drama group auditions had been posted, explaining a few more details than the paper his advisor had thrust at him. Students could choose a scene or read a selection from Shakespeare provided by the director. The notice solicited not only aspiring thespians, but those with experience or an interest in learning the technical aspects of theatre production. Preferring to prepare, Illya checked out a collection of Shakespeare’s plays with annotations on the text and historical background. Both Iago and Richard III appealed. He opted for the latter. It fit his mood.
**********
Wednesday, 18 September
About thirty students were milling around the large foyer of the principal auditorium of the Conservatory when Illya arrived. He chose a vantage point a few steps up the stairs leading to the balconies and leaned against the wall to observe. It was surprising that a new, extracurricular activity would be assigned such a venue. Perhaps only for the auditions. One of the stages in the Theatre Department or the small stage in the English Department would have seemed more suitable. Illya glanced at the ornate sets of doors leading into the auditorium. He had seen several operas and ballets on the grand stage inside. It was where the university symphony gave their concerts. The Conservatory had smaller halls for chamber ensembles and vocal recitals. The small halls are more intimate. Better for a play.
A rattling sound drew Illya‘s eyes back to the eager group clustered by the doors. Although it was five minutes after the announced starting time, they were apparently still locked. Illya did not share the students’ impatience, he was enjoying watching. He had not seen anyone he recognised from either the Physics or Mathematics Department yet, although he usually encountered a classmate or two when he came to use a practice room. Music was popular among the scientists.
A man with dark grey hair strode into the foyer jangling a set of keys and the crowd of students parted. Was this the connection? He was followed by a tall redhead who glanced quickly about the group before returning her attention to the man unlocking the doors. “There,” he said and handed her the keys. “Keep them, so there won’t be any mix-up next time.” He smiled briefly at the young woman and strode back the way he had come.
“The head of the Psychology Department,” Illya noted. Softly, he began humming In the Hall of the Mountain King as he walked down to the open doors.
********
Although some had chosen the same play, no one had selected the same scene. Illya wondered whether there had been some mechanism for avoiding duplication which he had missed. The spoken lines were not easy to follow. As the evening progressed, his ear grew more accustomed to the cadence of the language and the vocabulary. No doubt the students' pronunciation left something to be desired, not to mention their delivery, but Alexandra did not interrupt anyone and offered no comments at the end except a thank you.
His turn came. Illya announced his name as instructed and mounted the steps to the stage. He had chosen black clothing, as he often did, but his shoes shone and the turtleneck which clung to his slender frame was his least faded one. His jacket remained on the back of his seat. His speech was memorised, but he tucked the paper upon which he had copied it into his back pocket, just in case. When he reached centre stage, he turned and hunched slightly, taking a moment to gather the dark feelings around him: the bitterness of disappointment, the pain of rejection and ridicule, the hardness of cruelty and revenge. He kept a small piece of self-doubt to arouse a little sympathy.
************
A buzz of conversation rose in the auditorium. Their performances behind them, most of the students on the left of the aisle were smiling. Several stood to stretch, others headed towards the lavatories. Alexandra rested her arm on the podium, curving it around the top of her paper, making notes about the order of the readings after the break. Finished, she glanced over the podium at Illya. No trace of the fierce emotions he had radiated into the hall remained. He was leaning into the aisle, politely listening to the student seated on the other side, the picture of an ordinary young man pleased by the attentions of a pretty classmate. Alexandra checked the information next to his name: physics and mathematics. “That can’t be right,” she thought and walked over to him. The girl stopped speaking as Illya looked up.
“You’ve played Richard before,” Alexandra stated.
“No,” Illya replied. “I prepared last night.”
A student passed behind Alexandra, jostling her with his satchel, for a moment she was pushed against Illya’s knees.
...Daria had lounged against the pillows, a Russian translation of Shakespeare’s plays balanced on one raised knee, as he read and reread the speech. Her hair had hidden her breasts until she shook her head in disapproval at a gesture, an expression. The lamplight had caught the gold in her hair...
Alexandra stepped back, the student behind her apologising, his voice rapid with embarrassment. She turned to reassure him. Illya saw the flush move up her throat to her cheeks. Another student approached with a question and Alexandra moved closer to the podium before replying, leaving the aisle unobstructed. She didn't glance back at Illya.
“Did you really just prepare last night?” the girl across the aisle asked.
********
Illya lingered, watching Alexandra bid farewell to each of the students by name as they left the auditorium. He considered saying something other than good-bye on the way out, but decided against it. In the foyer, he delayed further, perusing the announcements for upcoming concerts. When Alexandra had locked the doors and the jingle of her keys had receded, he turned from the notice board and followed her. Near the bottom of the outside steps, Pavel and Oxana were chatting with two students whose backs were turned. Pavel made a remark when Alexandra passed the group and the others laughed. Illya did not hear the comment, but as he walked by them the image of dark water swirling around algae-covered rocks flickered into his mind and was gone.
He ambled along the path well behind Alexandra, turning left when she did. Between lampposts she disappeared into pools of complete darkness, but when she passed the brightly-lit library Illya found himself admiring the motion of her walk, the way her belt accentuated her narrow waist. By his side, his hand moved. Beneath his fingertips, her skin was smooth, warm. He traced the curve of her hip. Ahead of him, Alexandra stopped, raised her hand to her waist. Illya side-stepped behind a statue of Athena, clenching his right hand. Her skin became softer, warmer, only the heel of his palm against the bone. He shook his head. His fingers trailed away. He took a deep breath and peered around the base of the statue. Alexandra was mounting the steps of the building which housed the Psychology Department. Illya exhaled slowly and retraced his steps as far as the library. He hoped he would find Daria there.
*************
Other than the light provided by Professor Kuzmenkov’s open office door, the first floor of the Psychology Department was dark. Alexandra rapped on the door frame before she entered and closed the door behind her.
Kuzmenkov looked up from his reading and a smile flitted across his face. “How did it go?” he asked, gesturing towards a seat.
“Well, I think,” Alexandra replied. She dropped her bag onto one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Exactly the thirty we ‘invited’. No one extra responded to the notice at the library,” she added, pulling her clipboard out of her bag.
“Any one stand out?” Kuzmenkov enquired. He brushed his hair off his forehead, tilted his chair back and fixed his eyes on Alexandra.
“Two,” she answered, dropping into the second chair. She glanced down at the list on the clipboard. “Pavel Glazunov and Oxana Linetsky, Drama Department. A glimmer of something more than acting talent there, although they were good.” She looked up and met Professor Kuzmenkov’s regard. “In fact, they were all good. A dream casting call, really.” She paused and Kuzmenkov considered her flushed cheeks. “I think we should pursue a possible link between exceptional actors and other talents. Probably singers, too, and instrumentalists.” Alexandra’s eyes wandered for a moment along the shelves of books behind Kuzmenkov. “Traditionally, the plays would have live music.” She paused again. “Could we test the conservatory students?”
“It could be arranged. You want to incorporate them into this phase of the project?”
“If we identify some with high potential, yes. Success may depend on the aggregate and the greater the aggregate…” Alexandra halted, brought her gaze back to Kuzmenkov. The brightness in her eyes was duly noted. He laced his fingers across his stomach and waited for her explanation.
“Oxana and Pavel prepared a scene from Romeo and Juliet together. I’m not sure which of them was responsible for what happened when they performed it or if both were necessary.”
“An event?” Kuzmenkov asked, his voice carefully professional. He had wagered a lot to back this project.
“During the scene where Juliet’s father disowns her, for a few seconds, I saw the two students having a different conversation. Pavel had Oxana by the arm and was berating her for missing a cue. When she tried to pull away, he threatened to do worse if she got it wrong again.”
Kuzmenkov’s chair creaked when he leaned forward.
“Both were wearing other clothes, Oxana’s hair was plaited; she wore it loose at the audition. It was longer than a flash. When I heard the play next, I had missed two lines.”
Kuzmenkov exhaled. “Doesn’t show this fellow, Pavel, in a very good light.”
Alexandra shook her head, “No, it doesn‘t.” She glanced away and her voice dropped. “Their faces, their voices…their feelings were clear, sharp.” She looked back at Kuzmenkov. “I think Oxana was projecting a memory. Pavel was angry and she was afraid. Feeling either emotion again could have triggered the event or perhaps it required the combination.” Alexandra reached into her bag and pulled out a pencil. “I will assign them another part together for the second audition. Iago and his wife, I think.”
Kuzmenkov nodded, his chair squeaked as he settled back into it. “Anything else?”
Alexandra leaned back in her chair, lips compressed, eyes focused on a cigarette burn on the edge of the desk. She let out a breath. Her index finger extended, then curled back against her palm. “I’m wondering,” she began, the index finger starting to tap on the arm of her chair, “whether it took everyone in the room to cause that event.” The tapping stopped and her fingers extended slowly, palm upwards. “It might explain why everyone acted so well.” She looked up, but not at Kuzmenkov. “It didn’t matter whether they chose comedy or tragedy…” She frowned, one eyebrow raising, her hand waving with the cadence of her words, “…prepared their own lines or read parts I’d selected.” She looked directly at her professor, both her hands gesturing outwards. “Everyone projected the right emotions, used the right gestures, tone of voice, expressions.” Alexandra's hands collapsed onto her lap. She sighed. “Anyone watching would have thought they were professional actors.” She shook her head. “It was...extraordinary.” She paused again.
“And?”
Alexandra tilted her head and smiled. “I think we may have discovered the next Boris Babochkin.”
Kuzmenkov raised his eyebrows.
“He's listed as studying mathematics and physics." Alexandra's hand started waving in the air again. "I asked whether he had performed the role before, convinced he must actually be in the Drama Department. He told me he prepared last night.” Her hand settled on the chair arm.
“You believed him?”
Alexandra nodded. “I had thought he would admit to being a seasoned thespian. Although, in truth, he is rather young to be a seasoned anything.”
Kuzmenkov smiled at Alexandra‘s youthful face. “Well, keep an eye on him, too, because you may be right about the connection between the muses and the gift we wish to cultivate. What’s his name?”
“Illya Kuryakin,“ she answered, without consulting her list.
Prof. Kuzmenkov watched Alexandra thinking, her eyebrows moving, her hands making partial gestures as she marshalled her thoughts. It was too early to judge, but he felt pleased he had agreed to help his old friend at the Cultural Centre in Paris recruit a student from the Sorbonne. A promising student whose very special research project proposal had been rejected by less perceptive minds than his and Anatole's. Several strings had had to be pulled to get the university to agree to grant her an undergraduate diploma in psychology if she finished the first year of the proposed study in Tbilisi under his tutelage and to admit her to the doctoral programme if the study progressed sufficiently well to be continued into a second and third year. Yevgeney Kuzmenkov considered himself to have a modest gift of his own. Everyone who survived the difficult decades he had, had needed something extra. His doctorate in biology had been earned in Vienna and his decades of research experience had been gained in three countries, yet he respected his intuition as much as he had as a child when he used it to win sweets. He credited it for the fact that he was around when so many of his contemporaries were not. Even if he were in Tbilisi, not Leningrad or Moscow, he was still around.
Alexandra finally spoke again. “I asked them to bring any friends or classmates who might be interested in either acting or providing technical support to the second audition.”
Kuzmenkov lifted an interrogatory eyebrow.
“I thought I should evaluate anyone they chose to ask. Pavel elected to work with Oxana. Their prior connection may have facilitated the manifestation. And we could use a few more to stage two full productions.”
Prof. Kuzmenkov eyes widened slightly.
“If we do two, rehearse them and present them on alternate nights, of course it would be a lot of work, but it would provide a number of minor parts for people who don’t have major ones and give us more leading roles to bring out as much as we can from those who seem most talented," Alexandra rushed to explain. "If this audition was anything to go by, we might present something quite memorable.” She took a deep breath and smiled at Prof. Kuzmenkov.
“Which would make a great cover, wouldn’t it?” he smiled back.
Alexandra inclined her head. “Shall I write up my impressions of today for tomorrow or wait until after Saturday’s audition?”
“I have enough information for now. Combine your impressions from both auditions and write them up for me, say, by next Wednesday.”
Alexandra started to speak and Kuzmenkov shook his finger. “You’ll have a lot of work directing these productions, especially if you decide to stage two, which I think you already have. We’ll proceed seriously with both the art and the science and see what the marriage yields.” Kuzmenkov stood up and walked around his desk to see Alexandra to the door.
His hand was on the door handle when Alexandra smiled even more broadly at him. “I am so pleased it has begun so well.”
“I can see that,” Kuzmenkov nodded. “But don’t attempt too much at once. We have a long time for this project. Time to do it well, which requires staying well,” he admonished and patted her arm.
“Yes. Yes, you are right. I won‘t stay up all night assigning parts. I have tomorrow,” she responded gravely, but the smiled broke out once more as she slipped out the door. “Good night, professor,” she said before heading down the dim corridor towards the lighted entryway.
“Good night, Sasha,” Professor Kuzmenkov murmured as he closed the door, turning back to his desk. He could hear the rapid tap of her heels on the hard flooring. “A beautiful woman seized by an exciting idea is a charming sight.” His desk drawer squeaked as he opened it. He gathered his papers, deposited them in the drawer and locked it. “Oh, to be twenty years younger.” He dropped the keys in his pocket and switched off the lights. For a moment, he stood still in the dark. “More like thirty,” he sighed. “Thirty,” he repeated, shaking his head. He locked the office door and walked quietly out of the building.
*********
Illya pushed a few books aside to roll onto his stomach.
“You are awake, liebchen?”
Illya scrunched up the pillow and turned his head to face Daria. “Shouldn’t you be thinking in French tonight?” he asked, yawning.
“This one’s in German,“ Daria answered, tapping the open book on the top of the stack on her lap. “The author’s view on Flaubert is almost acceptable.”
“Close to yours, then,” Illya concluded and stretched. Papers crinkled.
“Careful,“ Daria mumbled and scribbled another note. Illya stretched again. A book thumped onto the floor. Daria pressed her hand against the middle of his back. “You’re upsetting my filing system.”
“Is the blanket around anywhere?”
“Cold?” Daria asked. Her hand began tracing circles on Illya's back.
“Mm.“
“I’m almost finished with this chapter.” Her eyes descended to the bottom of the page, one hand still rubbing Illya’s back. “He won’t take that final step and admit that women are simply portrayed as chattels,“ she declared, closing the book and looking over at Illya. She smiled. “You are lovely in that position,” Daria observed. She pushed the book off her lap and leaned over to kiss the small of his back.
“I wasn’t sleeping soundly enough?”
“Obviously not,” Daria answered and kissed the dimples on either side of his spine. “You smell good.”
“Like flowers?” Illya asked, shifting a little to pull a pencil out from under his stomach.
Daria sniffed up to his ear. “No, more like something good to eat.” She nodded to herself and took a nip at his earlobe. “Something delicious to eat.”
Illya turned on his side to face her. “Do you remember when you first saw me?” he asked.
Daria sat back and smiled. “I do.”
“Did it cause you to have any sensations?” he asked.
Daria’s head tilted back as she laughed. “Oh, that would be telling.” She paused, sitting up straighter and staring across the room. “Actually...” Her other hand slid beneath her hair. “I was at the top of the library stairs and you glanced up from the path. I felt a hand on the back of my neck, lifting my hair,” she said pensively. “Just for an instant.” She glanced down at Illya. Her hand smoothed along his side and her lips twitched as though she would laugh again. “I was going to turn to see who had been so bold, but I decided to keep my eye on you." Daria pressed her palm more firmly against Illya's hip and smiled. "Why? Did you?”
“No,” said Illya slowly. “But I remember the sun made your hair look like a golden cloak falling about your shoulders.” He paused. “It looked silky. I wanted to feel it in my hands.” He fingered a tress dangling off the edge of the pillow behind Daria.
“Gold. Silk. This poetry reading is really affecting you, Illusha,” Daria chuckled. “I didn’t know you liked my hair so much.” She leaned closer to kiss him, her thick hair falling about their faces. “There,” she said, drawing back a little, “You may run your hands through it now while I demonstrate that I am no man’s chattel.” She gave his shoulder a gentle shove and he dropped onto the pillows, a couple books which had slipped behind him poking into his back.
“Ow,” Illya said, twisting his arm behind his back to pull one of them out.
“Shh,” Daria cautioned.
*********
Thursday, 19 September
Thursday afternoons usually found Illya practicing with the gymnastics team. Occasionally, he went on other days, but his labs conflicted with most of the practices; it was deemed a valid reason for his not being part of the squad. It was a convenient excuse. He enjoyed the exercises, the precision and the power and the danger of the moves, but he wasn’t interested in competing with others.
Daria sometimes came to watch practice; quite unconsciously, the captain of the team had ensnared her affections. Gregor was confused by Daria, and Daria worried that Gregor might have chattel-owning tendencies. She would recount to Illya instances that seemed to support that view and then offer other possible explanations for his behaviour. Mostly Illya listened, commenting on the rare occasions when the evidence did not seem to support her conclusions.
Daria complained that it was hard to decide where to focus her attention when he and Gregor were practicing at the same time. Illya chalked his hands and walked across the mats to mount the parallel bars. The consternation in her voice always made him smile.
He turned his head to scan the seats for Daria and spotted a redhead instead. His routine on the bars was particularly crisp.
***********
Friday, 20 September
A day of precise methodology had yielded ambiguous outcomes. Scowling, Illya hung up his lab coat and glanced at the clock above the door. It was nearly five. Somewhere he had seen a schedule for the pool; it was free at five on Friday. He could dive. His pace picked up as he walked down the corridor.
The chlorine fumes made his eyes water while he stretched, but the pool was nearly empty as he had hoped it would be. After a few laps, he dove off the low board, gliding beneath the water to the far side of the pool. He did the breast stroke back and dove again, and yet again, changing strokes every time he returned. Each repetition buoyed his mood. Water splattered across his face as he did a leisurely back stroke down the length of the pool past the shadow of the high board. He looked up at it and smiled.
Illya paused at the edge of the high board, gathering his energy into a tight ball. His arms stretched out to his sides, then above his head, hands pointing towards the ceiling. He rose on his toes, sprang up as his arms beat against the air once, folding him double. His energy reoriented itself as he straightened like a blade. He sliced the surface of the water, plunging towards the bottom before curving towards the other end of the pool to surface and breathe deep. Illya pulled himself out and walked round to the ladder to mount the high board again. And again. Flying through the air and cutting through the water, the energy coursed through him, increasing with each dive. He leapt upwards and folded downwards, his eyes focused on the entry point in the water. It foamed about the jutting rocks. Cries rose above the rush and slap of the waves. Illya held his position, his muscles confident despite the contradictory input from his eyes and ears. He entered the water cleanly, arching to skim a millimetre from the bottom. He came up before he reached the far side of the pool and dog paddled to the nearest ladder without looking behind him, concentrating on the air he was drawing with deliberate slowness into his chest.
The solidity of the tiles was a welcome sensation as Illya stepped off the ladder. He pushed the hair back from his face and made a quick tally of the people by the pool before he made his way back towards the boards. Two swimmers were warming up on the other side of the pool, the teasing tone of their murmured remarks carrying across the water. A diver approached the end of the low board at a run. His angle was poor. Illya winced. The splash echoed around the room. Illya waited for the other man to swim to the side before he dove. The water remained turquoise. For several laps, Illya kept the other swimmers in view, but the sense of danger, of treachery, was gone. Illya considered the image he had seen when he passed Pavel and his friends after the audition, compared it to what he had just experienced. Duration and intensity had been different and, under the circumstances, the latter could have been fatal, but they both involved dark water. Why? The rhythm of Illya’s side stroke faltered for an instant and an internal door he hadn’t known he had, shut. Tightly.
Cool-down lap completed, Illya climbed out of the pool, collected his towel and strolled towards the locker room, drying off his back and making a couple swipes at his dripping hair as he went. On the way, he entertained a few conjectures behind that firmly closed door.
********
His hair was still damp when Daria sat down next to Illya in the dining hall. “You smell of chlorine,” she observed, pinching a damp lock.
“I washed my hair twice,” he said, turning to look at her. “They overdo the chemicals.”
“The gymnastics team went to Yerevan today,” Daria announced.
“Are you all right?” Illya asked, observing the neutrality of her expression.
“I suppose. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be, with your good company and a fortifying meal in front of me.”
“Shall I distract you?” Illya asked, placing the book he had been reading between their trays. He tapped on the open page. “I’ve been assigned this for tomorrow afternoon,” he explained.
Daria stared at the Russian translation next to the column of English text, then flipped back a few pages to the beginning of the play. “That’s one of the monologues you were considering for your first reading, isn’t it?”
Illya nodded. “Want to help me practice again?” He monitored the muscles around her usually bright eyes as she poked at the food on her plate.
“Yes,” she answered. “We’ll make you the best again,” she added more softly. A small smile lightened her expression as she speared a chunk of beetroot. “Isn’t there a strange dialogue earlier in Scene II?”
“There is,” he replied. “Shall we practice that, too, for good measure?”
Daria inclined her head and ate the beet. Illya pushed his empty dishes aside. “I can read the translation aloud to refresh your memory.” Daria nodded and began eating her dinner in earnest.
********
Saturday, 21 September
The doors to the auditorium were open when Illya arrived, a score of students already inside, seated or standing along the first row. Illya noticed that his seat on the aisle was still vacant. One side of his lips quirked as his mind prepared to order the data. Would everyone sit in the same places as before? Would those Alexandra had moved sit where they had started or ended the audition? Did the tendency flow from instinctive territoriality or an effort to establish patterns, make the unknown predictable? He dropped his bag onto his seat and looked about more carefully. Anna smiled at him from a few seats away; seated where she had finished last time. Illya walked towards her, asking what role she had been assigned, thinking that he already knew the answer.
“Queen Elizabeth,” she replied. In his relief, Illya beamed at her and her eyes lit up.
The student next to Anna extended her hand regally. “Queen Margaret,” she intoned. Illya brought his lips close to her hand. He recalled the anguish with which Svetlana had performed Gertrude.
There was a laugh and Illya glanced over at a young man he was sure was named Ivan. “And I’m everyone else in Scene III! Well, except Richard, of course. I think you’ve made that part yours, Illya.”
Alexandra came along the row and laid her hand on Illya’s shoulder. He turned towards her, his expression studiously neutral. He wondered whether she knew he had seen her at the gymnasium on Thursday.
“There was an omission on the list posted at the library,” she explained. “You’ll be joining this group for Scene III as well as doing the soliloquy at the end of Act II in Richard. Do you need…” Illya saw the folder of papers she held and shook his head.
Alexandra remembered the book on the blonde girl’s knee. “You have a book, don’t you?”
Illya nodded. He was certain that he had never taken the book out of his bag on Wednesday.
Several more students arrived. Alexandra checked the clock above the auditorium doors; it was five past the hour. Another survey showed Pavel and Oxana still absent. Alexandra frowned and headed for the entrance, fishing the keys out of her pocket. The foyer was empty. Shifting her weight against the lefthand door, she lifted the hook from the brass ring. Shoes clattered against the marble floor as three people rushed towards her.
Pavel halted, out of breath, in front of Alexandra, “We’re very sorry to be late. Kyrill was finishing a rehearsal." Pavel took a breath, gesturing vaguely down one of the corridors. "Kyrill Dyachenko is in our Theatre History course, but music is his area.” Pavel nodded at the auditorium and extended his hand towards the tall man by his side.
Alexandra tilted her head up to focus on the newcomer. “Which instrument do you play?” she asked, trying not to let the dimples show in her cheeks as she considered the composed individual regarding her.
“The orchestra,” he replied, and the corners of his lips curved slightly upwards. He was familiar with admiration. “I conduct,” he elaborated. “And play the bassoon." His eyes took in each shift in Alexandra's expression as he spoke. "I also have an interest in historical instruments.”
Keeping herself from glancing at Pavel, Alexandra enquired, “You don’t happen to speak English, do you? It’s not essential,” she hastened to add.
Kyrill nodded. “And Italian and French…for the operas. I would very much like to attempt an acting part,” he continued, switching into French-accented English.
Alexandra let her smile brighten. “I’ll assign you a part to read in a moment, then. Meanwhile, welcome,” she pointed towards the front seats. While the three students were making their way down the aisle, Alexandra drew the doors shut and locked them.
“Thank you all for returning this afternoon,” Alexandra announced. From her vantage at the conductor's podium she ran her eyes over the attentive faces turned towards her. There was no one new other than Kyrill and no one missing, yet the group felt incomplete.
“We have one additional thespian today, Kyrill Dyachenko, who is from the conservatory,” she continued, motioning towards the left end of the front row. Kyrill nodded as a number of heads turned in his direction before returning their attention to Alexandra. “Many of you have already found those in the same scene. Anyone who has not, please raise your hand.” Three hands rose close together. “Ah, Sergei, Stanislav and Nurgul, if you could join Oxana, Pavel and Kyrill. Thank you.” When the students had changed seats, Alexandra went on. “We’ll start with the opening scene from Othello.”
Sergei, Pavel and Stanislav climbed the steps to the stage. Alexandra approached Kyrill’s seat with several sheets of paper. “Please read Cassio,” she said and laid her hand on his shoulder. Kyrill looked up at her with a smile. Alexandra heard an orchestra softly playing Scheherazade. She waited a moment to speak and studied Kyrill's face. As though for a portrait, she considered how to light it. His dusky skin accentuated the blue of his eyes, the white of his teeth. Waves of black hair framed his face, brushing his shoulders. An orchestra would certainly follow you. “You know the play?” Alexandra said aloud.
“I know the opera,” he replied and she heard Verdi.
“We will need music for the play. Would you use some of the opera for incidental music or consider something from Shakespeare’s era more appropriate?” she enquired. Kyrill’s gaze moved to the right and he tilted his head as though listening. The full sound of the orchestra faded, replaced by the strumming of a lute, the rhythm and jingle of a tambourine and the sharp, high notes of a recorder, then Scheherazade returned.
“I will consider this,” he replied as though speaking from afar, his gaze still directed into the middle distance. Alexandra listened as instrumentation, style and tempo changed, repeated, changed again and tried to quell the excitement, to remain the detached observer. Kyrill's eyes came back to her. Scheherazade was playing again. “I will watch and listen and learn what I feel,” he offered. Pavel called out that they were ready and Kyrill turned towards the stage. Alexandra recognised Verdi's theme for Iago.
She drew her hand reluctantly away. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice sounded too loud in the silence. Kyrill stood, nodding once to take his leave before mounting the steps.
Alexandra noted how pleased Pavel seemed that she had placed Kryill with his group. If he could manage the lines, he’d make the perfect Cassio, she thought. The most confident husband would discover a jealous streak if his wife were championing a man who looked like Kyrill.
Alexandra positioned herself in the centre aisle. When Othello began, she shifted closer to Illya’s seat until her full skirt brushed against his upper arm. From the stage, she could hear Pavel reading his lines clearly, but there was nothing more. Nothing. That slight contact had been sufficient last time.
Possibilities arranged themselves in Alexandra’s mind. Perhaps it was only Oxana or her and Pavel together and Illya had only seemed to be part of the equation.
“We’ll proceed to Act II. Stanislav, you’ll be reading Montano and the herald for this act,” Alexandra called out. Rustam, Kyrill, Tatiana and Oxana joined Pavel on the stage. “After that proceed to Act III. Stanislav, please read the clown. Then we’ll have a short break.”
By the time Oxana and Pavel performed their first dialogue, Alexandra could feel the warmth of Illya’s arm through the cloth of her skirt and still there was nothing. Mentally, she ticked off more possible factors, heightened anxiety during the first audition, adrenaline levels or something as yet unguessed. Today, the only unusual impressions were from Kyrill who, even without direct contact, seemed to be emanating fragments of melody, as of music heard at a great distance. Once or twice while Kyrill was speaking she glanced down at Illya, noticed him craning his head slightly forward and tilting it to the side. She wondered whether he heard it, too.
With the exception of occasional suggestions about positions and a few requests to re-read lines, Alexandra did not interrupt the scenes and Illya did not shift away in his seat. Steadily, the students grew more familiar with their characters and their characters’ relationships to one another. When they stopped for their break, Alexandra could feel the attachment of the students to their roles, but nothing more.
At the beginning of the break, she returned to the podium and reminded the students to use the drinking fountains off the balcony near the lavatories. She suggested that they bring containers for water next time as it was important to keep themselves hydrated, keep their throats moist. “When we resume, we’ll start with Richard III.” She listed the order of the scenes. Paper rustled as marks were made on scripts. Illya leafed through his book and mentally noted which scenes were omitted.
They lingered on the stage when their last scene was finished, their expressions uncertain, shy, except for Kyrill. He walked towards the stairs and down, his departure rousing the others. He stopped when he reached Illya’s seat. Illya’s head was bowed over an open book balanced on the armrest. His lips were moving as he read.
“The oboe is suitable for the Shakespearean period,“ Kyrill stated without preamble.
“So is the bassoon,” Illya replied, without looking up.
“Yes. They go well together.” Kyrill sat down in the seat behind Illya and leaned forward. “I could adapt Verdi or some early 17th century music or compose something new for the play. What do you think?”
“You kept returning to the Verdi,” Illya replied over his shoulder, then paused as though to consider the exchange.
“Iago’s theme suits Pavel well.” He nodded to himself and laid his hand on Illya’s shoulder. Kyrill heard a flute and a cello, felt a sleepy reassurance. He concluded they were a child’s memories. Illya turned in his seat. Kryill met his eyes. “Your parents?” he asked. Illya nodded. “There’s a British composer who wrote incidental music for Richard III; we could use that.”
Illya closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. He shook it.
“No, I need to hear you on stage,” Kyrill said, his hand tightening slightly on Illya’s shoulder, his brows drawing together. “Perhaps for your Richard, we need something original,” he concluded softly.
Illya opened his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said. Kyrill stood, his smile mostly in his eyes as he looked down at Illya before releasing his shoulder. He turned and headed towards a tall, pale violinist he had noticed sitting on the far right.
Illya went back to his book, humming a Vivaldi concerto for flute and cello.
Alexandra was leaning against the podium answering a series of questions Stanislav was posing when she lifted her hand to the back of her neck. Her glance strayed from Stanislav to check that the doors were still closed. As soon as Stanislav thanked her and turned away, Alexandra looked behind her, catching the end of Kyrill and Illya’s conversation. Kyrill’s hand was resting exactly where hers had on Illya’s shoulder. Illya responded with gestures to most of Kyrill‘s questions. Something in the exchange reassured her. "We're all here now," she said under her breath.
The theatre darkened as Illya mounted the steps to the stage and walked slowly to the centre. Kyrill looked up from his conversation with Antonin. A spotlight followed Illya's black-clad form, reflecting off his hair. They hadn’t used the stage lighting for Othello; it was unusual for an audition. Kyrill’s eyes flickered over the house lights; their bright globes seemed distant. He glanced at the people near him; no one looked surprised. They looked expectant. He ducked his head to see the stage lights. None that he could see were lit. Kyrill sat up straighter as Illya swivelled in his small circle of illumination to fully face the audience, but rather than addressing them, he questioned himself.
"Was ever woman in this humour woo’d? Was ever woman in this humour won?" Illya asked with almost light-hearted incredulity.
"I’ll have her," he declared, his chest swelling. "But I will not keep her long," he sneered.
"What! I, that kill’d her husband and his father, to take her in her heart’s extremest hate; with curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes..."
Illya stretched out his arm towards the shadowy corpse behind him. Kyrill wondered that he hadn’t heard the prop being wheeled into place, but he had been concentrating on Antonin.
"The bleeding witness of her hatred by; having God, her conscience, and these bars against me," he enumerated them on his fingers. "And I no friends to back my suit withal..." He pointed to himself and then opened his arms.
"But the plain devil and dissembling looks, and yet to win her, - all the world to nothing!" He raised an arm. "Ha!…" His arm fell to his side
The wild dissonance between the lilting childhood memory of a few moments before and the callous contempt issuing from the stage made Kyrill's eyes widen. What talent you have or what dark pools of emotion to tap, Kryill thought, leaning forward. Between words, the high note of an oboe vibrated. Kyrill closed his eyes and focused on Illya’s voice. Above the sound of rushing water, a melody formed.
The lights brightened when Illya commanded and his shadow stretched across the boards as he strode, affecting a slight limp, to the wings. Half a dozen students clambered onto the stage and crowded into the wings with him. Anna and Ivan were nearest; they patted Illya on the back, grinning. Svetlana nodded and smiled from behind them. Illya smiled in return, then raised a forefinger. They heard Alexandra’s voice summoning them to begin Scene III. They exchanged glances with Edvard, straightened their shoulders and headed towards the centre of the stage.
Illya’s Richard was treacherous, commanding and unctuous by turns. At times, his book was open before him, but often it hung at his side as he spoke and as he listened, drawing reactions from the others which helped bring their characters alive.
At the end, Alexandra thanked everyone again, advised them that their parts would be posted at the library the following afternoon and that the next practice would be on Wednesday evening at seven.
Kyrill rose from his seat, absorbed in his thoughts. “Something totally original,” he murmured to himself as he made his way towards the doors which Alexandra had opened. His smile was vague as she said good-bye to him on his way out.
***********
Once more, Illya let the others leave before him. Alexandra was closing the doors as he approached. He heard the key turn in the lock and paused a few steps behind her. He was certain she didn’t think he had already left. She pivoted and took a step towards him.
“We’ll rehearse the beginning of Act I, Scene II now,” she stated and continued towards and past him. The aisle was wide, but she passed close.
The smell of lilacs and honeysuckle was distinct. Nervous, at the very least, he concluded.
He followed Alexandra onto the stage, dropping his bag by his seat. He did not need the book for this.
***********
Illya shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and took the fork in the path leading in the opposite direction from Alexandra’s retreating figure. He didn’t want to follow; she’d said she was meeting with her advisor and Illya didn’t care to test the truth of it. He had more than enough data to sift through.
The sun was gilding the trunks of the cherry trees when he reached the orchard, the branches already in shadow. He shuffled through the newly fallen leaves, winding his way towards his tree, the one he liked to sit in when he thought. He didn’t climb up though; the dining hall would be closing soon, so he just leaned against the tree, feeling the knots through his jacket, watching the sky turn grey and remembering.
Alexandra had exited to the wings at the end of their dialogue. He had stayed where she left him, his nerves humming with the intensity of their exchange. He didn’t think Alexandra wanted him to repeat his monologue, so he waited. Anne’s words had been scathing, but her eyes had strayed to Richard’s mouth as he spoke. After a moment, Illya took a few steps towards the wings and saw Alexandra staring out towards the front of the stage. He heard an echo of his own voice saying, "I'll have her, but I will not keep her long."
He held his breath. Alexandra shook her head, turned with raised eyebrows towards Illya and smiled. "We’ll do the scene again with you reading Anne and I, Richard," she said.
There was a pattering among the leaves over his head. Illya pushed away from the gnarled tree trunk and headed towards light and food. He tried not to resent the fact that Gregor would have gotten back sometime in the afternoon.
**********
Wednesday afternoon, 25 September
"Come in, come in," Prof. Kuzmenkov called when he heard the light rap on his door. Alexandra came in smiling and sat in the chair he indicated. "You look much calmer that you did Saturday evening," he observed. "The serenity of having your first report finished?" Alexandra nodded and extracted the report from her bag and handed it across the desk. Kuzmenkov leafed through it, noticing the table. "Concise. Good. I'll make it even briefer when I send on my report." He lay her papers to one side. "Tell me about what was troubling you on Saturday evening when I had to rush off on you."
Alexandra sighed. "I thought, and I may think so again after tonight, that I may not be able to maintain my objectivity about the people in this project."
Yevgeney Kuzmenkov snorted, "Scientific objectivity is a myth scientists use to cow others. Let us not be confused by it ourselves." He leaned back in his chair. "You know that everything we perceive is through the lens of our training, our experience, our emotions. Even though you are leading this project, you are a part of it and you will have feelings about your work. Any scientist does, even one testing rocks. How much more so for psychologists? Doubts are to be expected." He paused, his chair creaking as he leaned forward. "Even though I said it in a hurry the other evening, don't think it wasn't a considered response. I trust your intelligence and your judgement. You should, too." He picked up the report again and flipped to the back. "You are satisfied with the one musical addition to the project? You don't want to test the conservatory students straight away then?"
Alexandra shook her head. "It will be a worthwhile area to explore, but I don't think I can deal effectively with any more than the participants I have now. And, I believe, we have already begun to knit somehow. Even in these two sessions." Kuzmenkov noted the “we“.
"Maybe next year, when some have graduated, you could take in others. Unless it would disrupt the cohesion of the group too much. You’ll see what you think closer to the time," He said, watching Alexandra. "We could test at the end of this year or next autumn and run a separate project if we find enough candidates."
Alexandra nodded. "I think we should look at those who pursue music as a hobby as well as those studying it." Our star actor plays an instrument as well as a graduate student in the biochemistry department. Our conductor discovered this."
"Hmm," Prof. Kuzmenkov murmured as he scanned Alexandra's notes from the second audition. "Does he know them? Perhaps they use the practice rooms at the conservatory?"
"They may, but it didn't seem he knew them," Alexandra replied. "This is something I have to enquire more about..."
"Gently," Prof. Kuzmenov said, still reading. "Proceed gently. But you heard…Dyachenko clearly?"
"Like a radio without any static," Alexandra confirmed. "When I was touching him, it was distinct. When he was on stage, it was faint. I think he was hearing music from others. Perhaps that is how he found the musicians in the group," she continued.
"Or the musicians with another ability," Kuzmenkov remarked without looking up from the report.
Alexandra tilted her head. "Perhaps. He touched both of them while he was speaking with them and I put my hand on his shoulder when I brought him his script. During rehearsals, I've decided to maximise physical contact. The plays call for it at times, of course, but I'll introduce it in practice even when it won't be needed in the performances." She paused. "I will say it is a technique to improve their awareness of the other characters, especially those with whom they have extensive dialogue." Alexandra stopped again and began to smile. "I think that may bring us further developments."
Prof. Kuzmenkov looked up from the report when Alexandra stopped. "So you hear Scheherezade when Dyachenko looks at you," he asked, regarding her carefully.
"It seems to be when he is focussing on me," Alexandra answered. "And Verdi's theme for Iago when he watches Pavel."
"You do realize how much progress this is in just two sessions, don't you?" Kuzmenkov asked.
Alexandra looked back, shaking her head. "No. I was too excited last week, I actually expected more after such a beginning." Her head tilted and her eyebrows rose. "Immature of me, wasn't it?"
"Youthful enthusiasm has its uses. Temper it with scientific method. Most experiments yield tiny steps forward in knowledge, if they yield anything at all." Kuzmenkov stood up and Alexandra did, too. "I have yet another meeting, I'm afraid. Next Wednesday, give me your second report. That can be our routine, except for vacations. At 3 o'clock again." He came round his desk and walked with Alexandra to the door. "Remain confident," he smiled as he opened the door. "And patient," he added.
**********
For those who have read Third (and can still remember it), this describes how Illya, Daria (Dasha), Alexandra (Sasha), Kyrill and Pavel met one another (pre-UNCLE).
Title: Third - Leitmotifs
Author: saki101
Fandom: Man from UNCLE
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon (overall), Illya/various (this section)
Genre: Pre-slash and het
Rating: R
Word Count: ~8K
Disclaimer: The usual, because MFU is not mine and no money is being made.
Third
Leitmotifs
Early September
The sea faded away. The towns and the fields drifted past. The train seemed to stop at every station from the Baltic to Tbilisi and yet arrived before the mechanism could reset. Illya’s gait rolled when he crossed the platform. He heard the waves when the wind blew through the trees leading up to the university. The shouts of reunited classmates were cries amidst the waves. His bed lay too still for him to sleep at night.
By the next week, Illya was a student again. At the beginning of that week, his advisor told him to join the new English language drama club being started by one of the foreign doctoral students, “Attending practice with the gymnastics team is, of course, good for your body, but you should exercise your creative side as well.”
Assuming the professor was trying to keep his every waking hour occupied, Illya considered explaining his intention to audition for the chamber music ensemble since he had not been practicing his oboe enough on his own, until the professor had added, with a certain look over the top of his glasses, “Acting skills are quite useful.” Illya murmured his assent and picked up the slip of paper his advisor slid towards him. “Auditions tomorrow evening. The main auditorium at the Conservatory.”
Crumpled paper still in hand, Illya detoured past the library on the way to his dormitory. Near the entrance, a notice announcing the drama group auditions had been posted, explaining a few more details than the paper his advisor had thrust at him. Students could choose a scene or read a selection from Shakespeare provided by the director. The notice solicited not only aspiring thespians, but those with experience or an interest in learning the technical aspects of theatre production. Preferring to prepare, Illya checked out a collection of Shakespeare’s plays with annotations on the text and historical background. Both Iago and Richard III appealed. He opted for the latter. It fit his mood.
**********
Wednesday, 18 September
About thirty students were milling around the large foyer of the principal auditorium of the Conservatory when Illya arrived. He chose a vantage point a few steps up the stairs leading to the balconies and leaned against the wall to observe. It was surprising that a new, extracurricular activity would be assigned such a venue. Perhaps only for the auditions. One of the stages in the Theatre Department or the small stage in the English Department would have seemed more suitable. Illya glanced at the ornate sets of doors leading into the auditorium. He had seen several operas and ballets on the grand stage inside. It was where the university symphony gave their concerts. The Conservatory had smaller halls for chamber ensembles and vocal recitals. The small halls are more intimate. Better for a play.
A rattling sound drew Illya‘s eyes back to the eager group clustered by the doors. Although it was five minutes after the announced starting time, they were apparently still locked. Illya did not share the students’ impatience, he was enjoying watching. He had not seen anyone he recognised from either the Physics or Mathematics Department yet, although he usually encountered a classmate or two when he came to use a practice room. Music was popular among the scientists.
A man with dark grey hair strode into the foyer jangling a set of keys and the crowd of students parted. Was this the connection? He was followed by a tall redhead who glanced quickly about the group before returning her attention to the man unlocking the doors. “There,” he said and handed her the keys. “Keep them, so there won’t be any mix-up next time.” He smiled briefly at the young woman and strode back the way he had come.
“The head of the Psychology Department,” Illya noted. Softly, he began humming In the Hall of the Mountain King as he walked down to the open doors.
********
Although some had chosen the same play, no one had selected the same scene. Illya wondered whether there had been some mechanism for avoiding duplication which he had missed. The spoken lines were not easy to follow. As the evening progressed, his ear grew more accustomed to the cadence of the language and the vocabulary. No doubt the students' pronunciation left something to be desired, not to mention their delivery, but Alexandra did not interrupt anyone and offered no comments at the end except a thank you.
His turn came. Illya announced his name as instructed and mounted the steps to the stage. He had chosen black clothing, as he often did, but his shoes shone and the turtleneck which clung to his slender frame was his least faded one. His jacket remained on the back of his seat. His speech was memorised, but he tucked the paper upon which he had copied it into his back pocket, just in case. When he reached centre stage, he turned and hunched slightly, taking a moment to gather the dark feelings around him: the bitterness of disappointment, the pain of rejection and ridicule, the hardness of cruelty and revenge. He kept a small piece of self-doubt to arouse a little sympathy.
************
A buzz of conversation rose in the auditorium. Their performances behind them, most of the students on the left of the aisle were smiling. Several stood to stretch, others headed towards the lavatories. Alexandra rested her arm on the podium, curving it around the top of her paper, making notes about the order of the readings after the break. Finished, she glanced over the podium at Illya. No trace of the fierce emotions he had radiated into the hall remained. He was leaning into the aisle, politely listening to the student seated on the other side, the picture of an ordinary young man pleased by the attentions of a pretty classmate. Alexandra checked the information next to his name: physics and mathematics. “That can’t be right,” she thought and walked over to him. The girl stopped speaking as Illya looked up.
“You’ve played Richard before,” Alexandra stated.
“No,” Illya replied. “I prepared last night.”
A student passed behind Alexandra, jostling her with his satchel, for a moment she was pushed against Illya’s knees.
...Daria had lounged against the pillows, a Russian translation of Shakespeare’s plays balanced on one raised knee, as he read and reread the speech. Her hair had hidden her breasts until she shook her head in disapproval at a gesture, an expression. The lamplight had caught the gold in her hair...
Alexandra stepped back, the student behind her apologising, his voice rapid with embarrassment. She turned to reassure him. Illya saw the flush move up her throat to her cheeks. Another student approached with a question and Alexandra moved closer to the podium before replying, leaving the aisle unobstructed. She didn't glance back at Illya.
“Did you really just prepare last night?” the girl across the aisle asked.
********
Illya lingered, watching Alexandra bid farewell to each of the students by name as they left the auditorium. He considered saying something other than good-bye on the way out, but decided against it. In the foyer, he delayed further, perusing the announcements for upcoming concerts. When Alexandra had locked the doors and the jingle of her keys had receded, he turned from the notice board and followed her. Near the bottom of the outside steps, Pavel and Oxana were chatting with two students whose backs were turned. Pavel made a remark when Alexandra passed the group and the others laughed. Illya did not hear the comment, but as he walked by them the image of dark water swirling around algae-covered rocks flickered into his mind and was gone.
He ambled along the path well behind Alexandra, turning left when she did. Between lampposts she disappeared into pools of complete darkness, but when she passed the brightly-lit library Illya found himself admiring the motion of her walk, the way her belt accentuated her narrow waist. By his side, his hand moved. Beneath his fingertips, her skin was smooth, warm. He traced the curve of her hip. Ahead of him, Alexandra stopped, raised her hand to her waist. Illya side-stepped behind a statue of Athena, clenching his right hand. Her skin became softer, warmer, only the heel of his palm against the bone. He shook his head. His fingers trailed away. He took a deep breath and peered around the base of the statue. Alexandra was mounting the steps of the building which housed the Psychology Department. Illya exhaled slowly and retraced his steps as far as the library. He hoped he would find Daria there.
*************
Other than the light provided by Professor Kuzmenkov’s open office door, the first floor of the Psychology Department was dark. Alexandra rapped on the door frame before she entered and closed the door behind her.
Kuzmenkov looked up from his reading and a smile flitted across his face. “How did it go?” he asked, gesturing towards a seat.
“Well, I think,” Alexandra replied. She dropped her bag onto one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Exactly the thirty we ‘invited’. No one extra responded to the notice at the library,” she added, pulling her clipboard out of her bag.
“Any one stand out?” Kuzmenkov enquired. He brushed his hair off his forehead, tilted his chair back and fixed his eyes on Alexandra.
“Two,” she answered, dropping into the second chair. She glanced down at the list on the clipboard. “Pavel Glazunov and Oxana Linetsky, Drama Department. A glimmer of something more than acting talent there, although they were good.” She looked up and met Professor Kuzmenkov’s regard. “In fact, they were all good. A dream casting call, really.” She paused and Kuzmenkov considered her flushed cheeks. “I think we should pursue a possible link between exceptional actors and other talents. Probably singers, too, and instrumentalists.” Alexandra’s eyes wandered for a moment along the shelves of books behind Kuzmenkov. “Traditionally, the plays would have live music.” She paused again. “Could we test the conservatory students?”
“It could be arranged. You want to incorporate them into this phase of the project?”
“If we identify some with high potential, yes. Success may depend on the aggregate and the greater the aggregate…” Alexandra halted, brought her gaze back to Kuzmenkov. The brightness in her eyes was duly noted. He laced his fingers across his stomach and waited for her explanation.
“Oxana and Pavel prepared a scene from Romeo and Juliet together. I’m not sure which of them was responsible for what happened when they performed it or if both were necessary.”
“An event?” Kuzmenkov asked, his voice carefully professional. He had wagered a lot to back this project.
“During the scene where Juliet’s father disowns her, for a few seconds, I saw the two students having a different conversation. Pavel had Oxana by the arm and was berating her for missing a cue. When she tried to pull away, he threatened to do worse if she got it wrong again.”
Kuzmenkov’s chair creaked when he leaned forward.
“Both were wearing other clothes, Oxana’s hair was plaited; she wore it loose at the audition. It was longer than a flash. When I heard the play next, I had missed two lines.”
Kuzmenkov exhaled. “Doesn’t show this fellow, Pavel, in a very good light.”
Alexandra shook her head, “No, it doesn‘t.” She glanced away and her voice dropped. “Their faces, their voices…their feelings were clear, sharp.” She looked back at Kuzmenkov. “I think Oxana was projecting a memory. Pavel was angry and she was afraid. Feeling either emotion again could have triggered the event or perhaps it required the combination.” Alexandra reached into her bag and pulled out a pencil. “I will assign them another part together for the second audition. Iago and his wife, I think.”
Kuzmenkov nodded, his chair squeaked as he settled back into it. “Anything else?”
Alexandra leaned back in her chair, lips compressed, eyes focused on a cigarette burn on the edge of the desk. She let out a breath. Her index finger extended, then curled back against her palm. “I’m wondering,” she began, the index finger starting to tap on the arm of her chair, “whether it took everyone in the room to cause that event.” The tapping stopped and her fingers extended slowly, palm upwards. “It might explain why everyone acted so well.” She looked up, but not at Kuzmenkov. “It didn’t matter whether they chose comedy or tragedy…” She frowned, one eyebrow raising, her hand waving with the cadence of her words, “…prepared their own lines or read parts I’d selected.” She looked directly at her professor, both her hands gesturing outwards. “Everyone projected the right emotions, used the right gestures, tone of voice, expressions.” Alexandra's hands collapsed onto her lap. She sighed. “Anyone watching would have thought they were professional actors.” She shook her head. “It was...extraordinary.” She paused again.
“And?”
Alexandra tilted her head and smiled. “I think we may have discovered the next Boris Babochkin.”
Kuzmenkov raised his eyebrows.
“He's listed as studying mathematics and physics." Alexandra's hand started waving in the air again. "I asked whether he had performed the role before, convinced he must actually be in the Drama Department. He told me he prepared last night.” Her hand settled on the chair arm.
“You believed him?”
Alexandra nodded. “I had thought he would admit to being a seasoned thespian. Although, in truth, he is rather young to be a seasoned anything.”
Kuzmenkov smiled at Alexandra‘s youthful face. “Well, keep an eye on him, too, because you may be right about the connection between the muses and the gift we wish to cultivate. What’s his name?”
“Illya Kuryakin,“ she answered, without consulting her list.
Prof. Kuzmenkov watched Alexandra thinking, her eyebrows moving, her hands making partial gestures as she marshalled her thoughts. It was too early to judge, but he felt pleased he had agreed to help his old friend at the Cultural Centre in Paris recruit a student from the Sorbonne. A promising student whose very special research project proposal had been rejected by less perceptive minds than his and Anatole's. Several strings had had to be pulled to get the university to agree to grant her an undergraduate diploma in psychology if she finished the first year of the proposed study in Tbilisi under his tutelage and to admit her to the doctoral programme if the study progressed sufficiently well to be continued into a second and third year. Yevgeney Kuzmenkov considered himself to have a modest gift of his own. Everyone who survived the difficult decades he had, had needed something extra. His doctorate in biology had been earned in Vienna and his decades of research experience had been gained in three countries, yet he respected his intuition as much as he had as a child when he used it to win sweets. He credited it for the fact that he was around when so many of his contemporaries were not. Even if he were in Tbilisi, not Leningrad or Moscow, he was still around.
Alexandra finally spoke again. “I asked them to bring any friends or classmates who might be interested in either acting or providing technical support to the second audition.”
Kuzmenkov lifted an interrogatory eyebrow.
“I thought I should evaluate anyone they chose to ask. Pavel elected to work with Oxana. Their prior connection may have facilitated the manifestation. And we could use a few more to stage two full productions.”
Prof. Kuzmenkov eyes widened slightly.
“If we do two, rehearse them and present them on alternate nights, of course it would be a lot of work, but it would provide a number of minor parts for people who don’t have major ones and give us more leading roles to bring out as much as we can from those who seem most talented," Alexandra rushed to explain. "If this audition was anything to go by, we might present something quite memorable.” She took a deep breath and smiled at Prof. Kuzmenkov.
“Which would make a great cover, wouldn’t it?” he smiled back.
Alexandra inclined her head. “Shall I write up my impressions of today for tomorrow or wait until after Saturday’s audition?”
“I have enough information for now. Combine your impressions from both auditions and write them up for me, say, by next Wednesday.”
Alexandra started to speak and Kuzmenkov shook his finger. “You’ll have a lot of work directing these productions, especially if you decide to stage two, which I think you already have. We’ll proceed seriously with both the art and the science and see what the marriage yields.” Kuzmenkov stood up and walked around his desk to see Alexandra to the door.
His hand was on the door handle when Alexandra smiled even more broadly at him. “I am so pleased it has begun so well.”
“I can see that,” Kuzmenkov nodded. “But don’t attempt too much at once. We have a long time for this project. Time to do it well, which requires staying well,” he admonished and patted her arm.
“Yes. Yes, you are right. I won‘t stay up all night assigning parts. I have tomorrow,” she responded gravely, but the smiled broke out once more as she slipped out the door. “Good night, professor,” she said before heading down the dim corridor towards the lighted entryway.
“Good night, Sasha,” Professor Kuzmenkov murmured as he closed the door, turning back to his desk. He could hear the rapid tap of her heels on the hard flooring. “A beautiful woman seized by an exciting idea is a charming sight.” His desk drawer squeaked as he opened it. He gathered his papers, deposited them in the drawer and locked it. “Oh, to be twenty years younger.” He dropped the keys in his pocket and switched off the lights. For a moment, he stood still in the dark. “More like thirty,” he sighed. “Thirty,” he repeated, shaking his head. He locked the office door and walked quietly out of the building.
*********
Illya pushed a few books aside to roll onto his stomach.
“You are awake, liebchen?”
Illya scrunched up the pillow and turned his head to face Daria. “Shouldn’t you be thinking in French tonight?” he asked, yawning.
“This one’s in German,“ Daria answered, tapping the open book on the top of the stack on her lap. “The author’s view on Flaubert is almost acceptable.”
“Close to yours, then,” Illya concluded and stretched. Papers crinkled.
“Careful,“ Daria mumbled and scribbled another note. Illya stretched again. A book thumped onto the floor. Daria pressed her hand against the middle of his back. “You’re upsetting my filing system.”
“Is the blanket around anywhere?”
“Cold?” Daria asked. Her hand began tracing circles on Illya's back.
“Mm.“
“I’m almost finished with this chapter.” Her eyes descended to the bottom of the page, one hand still rubbing Illya’s back. “He won’t take that final step and admit that women are simply portrayed as chattels,“ she declared, closing the book and looking over at Illya. She smiled. “You are lovely in that position,” Daria observed. She pushed the book off her lap and leaned over to kiss the small of his back.
“I wasn’t sleeping soundly enough?”
“Obviously not,” Daria answered and kissed the dimples on either side of his spine. “You smell good.”
“Like flowers?” Illya asked, shifting a little to pull a pencil out from under his stomach.
Daria sniffed up to his ear. “No, more like something good to eat.” She nodded to herself and took a nip at his earlobe. “Something delicious to eat.”
Illya turned on his side to face her. “Do you remember when you first saw me?” he asked.
Daria sat back and smiled. “I do.”
“Did it cause you to have any sensations?” he asked.
Daria’s head tilted back as she laughed. “Oh, that would be telling.” She paused, sitting up straighter and staring across the room. “Actually...” Her other hand slid beneath her hair. “I was at the top of the library stairs and you glanced up from the path. I felt a hand on the back of my neck, lifting my hair,” she said pensively. “Just for an instant.” She glanced down at Illya. Her hand smoothed along his side and her lips twitched as though she would laugh again. “I was going to turn to see who had been so bold, but I decided to keep my eye on you." Daria pressed her palm more firmly against Illya's hip and smiled. "Why? Did you?”
“No,” said Illya slowly. “But I remember the sun made your hair look like a golden cloak falling about your shoulders.” He paused. “It looked silky. I wanted to feel it in my hands.” He fingered a tress dangling off the edge of the pillow behind Daria.
“Gold. Silk. This poetry reading is really affecting you, Illusha,” Daria chuckled. “I didn’t know you liked my hair so much.” She leaned closer to kiss him, her thick hair falling about their faces. “There,” she said, drawing back a little, “You may run your hands through it now while I demonstrate that I am no man’s chattel.” She gave his shoulder a gentle shove and he dropped onto the pillows, a couple books which had slipped behind him poking into his back.
“Ow,” Illya said, twisting his arm behind his back to pull one of them out.
“Shh,” Daria cautioned.
*********
Thursday, 19 September
Thursday afternoons usually found Illya practicing with the gymnastics team. Occasionally, he went on other days, but his labs conflicted with most of the practices; it was deemed a valid reason for his not being part of the squad. It was a convenient excuse. He enjoyed the exercises, the precision and the power and the danger of the moves, but he wasn’t interested in competing with others.
Daria sometimes came to watch practice; quite unconsciously, the captain of the team had ensnared her affections. Gregor was confused by Daria, and Daria worried that Gregor might have chattel-owning tendencies. She would recount to Illya instances that seemed to support that view and then offer other possible explanations for his behaviour. Mostly Illya listened, commenting on the rare occasions when the evidence did not seem to support her conclusions.
Daria complained that it was hard to decide where to focus her attention when he and Gregor were practicing at the same time. Illya chalked his hands and walked across the mats to mount the parallel bars. The consternation in her voice always made him smile.
He turned his head to scan the seats for Daria and spotted a redhead instead. His routine on the bars was particularly crisp.
***********
Friday, 20 September
A day of precise methodology had yielded ambiguous outcomes. Scowling, Illya hung up his lab coat and glanced at the clock above the door. It was nearly five. Somewhere he had seen a schedule for the pool; it was free at five on Friday. He could dive. His pace picked up as he walked down the corridor.
The chlorine fumes made his eyes water while he stretched, but the pool was nearly empty as he had hoped it would be. After a few laps, he dove off the low board, gliding beneath the water to the far side of the pool. He did the breast stroke back and dove again, and yet again, changing strokes every time he returned. Each repetition buoyed his mood. Water splattered across his face as he did a leisurely back stroke down the length of the pool past the shadow of the high board. He looked up at it and smiled.
Illya paused at the edge of the high board, gathering his energy into a tight ball. His arms stretched out to his sides, then above his head, hands pointing towards the ceiling. He rose on his toes, sprang up as his arms beat against the air once, folding him double. His energy reoriented itself as he straightened like a blade. He sliced the surface of the water, plunging towards the bottom before curving towards the other end of the pool to surface and breathe deep. Illya pulled himself out and walked round to the ladder to mount the high board again. And again. Flying through the air and cutting through the water, the energy coursed through him, increasing with each dive. He leapt upwards and folded downwards, his eyes focused on the entry point in the water. It foamed about the jutting rocks. Cries rose above the rush and slap of the waves. Illya held his position, his muscles confident despite the contradictory input from his eyes and ears. He entered the water cleanly, arching to skim a millimetre from the bottom. He came up before he reached the far side of the pool and dog paddled to the nearest ladder without looking behind him, concentrating on the air he was drawing with deliberate slowness into his chest.
The solidity of the tiles was a welcome sensation as Illya stepped off the ladder. He pushed the hair back from his face and made a quick tally of the people by the pool before he made his way back towards the boards. Two swimmers were warming up on the other side of the pool, the teasing tone of their murmured remarks carrying across the water. A diver approached the end of the low board at a run. His angle was poor. Illya winced. The splash echoed around the room. Illya waited for the other man to swim to the side before he dove. The water remained turquoise. For several laps, Illya kept the other swimmers in view, but the sense of danger, of treachery, was gone. Illya considered the image he had seen when he passed Pavel and his friends after the audition, compared it to what he had just experienced. Duration and intensity had been different and, under the circumstances, the latter could have been fatal, but they both involved dark water. Why? The rhythm of Illya’s side stroke faltered for an instant and an internal door he hadn’t known he had, shut. Tightly.
Cool-down lap completed, Illya climbed out of the pool, collected his towel and strolled towards the locker room, drying off his back and making a couple swipes at his dripping hair as he went. On the way, he entertained a few conjectures behind that firmly closed door.
********
His hair was still damp when Daria sat down next to Illya in the dining hall. “You smell of chlorine,” she observed, pinching a damp lock.
“I washed my hair twice,” he said, turning to look at her. “They overdo the chemicals.”
“The gymnastics team went to Yerevan today,” Daria announced.
“Are you all right?” Illya asked, observing the neutrality of her expression.
“I suppose. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be, with your good company and a fortifying meal in front of me.”
“Shall I distract you?” Illya asked, placing the book he had been reading between their trays. He tapped on the open page. “I’ve been assigned this for tomorrow afternoon,” he explained.
Daria stared at the Russian translation next to the column of English text, then flipped back a few pages to the beginning of the play. “That’s one of the monologues you were considering for your first reading, isn’t it?”
Illya nodded. “Want to help me practice again?” He monitored the muscles around her usually bright eyes as she poked at the food on her plate.
“Yes,” she answered. “We’ll make you the best again,” she added more softly. A small smile lightened her expression as she speared a chunk of beetroot. “Isn’t there a strange dialogue earlier in Scene II?”
“There is,” he replied. “Shall we practice that, too, for good measure?”
Daria inclined her head and ate the beet. Illya pushed his empty dishes aside. “I can read the translation aloud to refresh your memory.” Daria nodded and began eating her dinner in earnest.
********
Saturday, 21 September
The doors to the auditorium were open when Illya arrived, a score of students already inside, seated or standing along the first row. Illya noticed that his seat on the aisle was still vacant. One side of his lips quirked as his mind prepared to order the data. Would everyone sit in the same places as before? Would those Alexandra had moved sit where they had started or ended the audition? Did the tendency flow from instinctive territoriality or an effort to establish patterns, make the unknown predictable? He dropped his bag onto his seat and looked about more carefully. Anna smiled at him from a few seats away; seated where she had finished last time. Illya walked towards her, asking what role she had been assigned, thinking that he already knew the answer.
“Queen Elizabeth,” she replied. In his relief, Illya beamed at her and her eyes lit up.
The student next to Anna extended her hand regally. “Queen Margaret,” she intoned. Illya brought his lips close to her hand. He recalled the anguish with which Svetlana had performed Gertrude.
There was a laugh and Illya glanced over at a young man he was sure was named Ivan. “And I’m everyone else in Scene III! Well, except Richard, of course. I think you’ve made that part yours, Illya.”
Alexandra came along the row and laid her hand on Illya’s shoulder. He turned towards her, his expression studiously neutral. He wondered whether she knew he had seen her at the gymnasium on Thursday.
“There was an omission on the list posted at the library,” she explained. “You’ll be joining this group for Scene III as well as doing the soliloquy at the end of Act II in Richard. Do you need…” Illya saw the folder of papers she held and shook his head.
Alexandra remembered the book on the blonde girl’s knee. “You have a book, don’t you?”
Illya nodded. He was certain that he had never taken the book out of his bag on Wednesday.
Several more students arrived. Alexandra checked the clock above the auditorium doors; it was five past the hour. Another survey showed Pavel and Oxana still absent. Alexandra frowned and headed for the entrance, fishing the keys out of her pocket. The foyer was empty. Shifting her weight against the lefthand door, she lifted the hook from the brass ring. Shoes clattered against the marble floor as three people rushed towards her.
Pavel halted, out of breath, in front of Alexandra, “We’re very sorry to be late. Kyrill was finishing a rehearsal." Pavel took a breath, gesturing vaguely down one of the corridors. "Kyrill Dyachenko is in our Theatre History course, but music is his area.” Pavel nodded at the auditorium and extended his hand towards the tall man by his side.
Alexandra tilted her head up to focus on the newcomer. “Which instrument do you play?” she asked, trying not to let the dimples show in her cheeks as she considered the composed individual regarding her.
“The orchestra,” he replied, and the corners of his lips curved slightly upwards. He was familiar with admiration. “I conduct,” he elaborated. “And play the bassoon." His eyes took in each shift in Alexandra's expression as he spoke. "I also have an interest in historical instruments.”
Keeping herself from glancing at Pavel, Alexandra enquired, “You don’t happen to speak English, do you? It’s not essential,” she hastened to add.
Kyrill nodded. “And Italian and French…for the operas. I would very much like to attempt an acting part,” he continued, switching into French-accented English.
Alexandra let her smile brighten. “I’ll assign you a part to read in a moment, then. Meanwhile, welcome,” she pointed towards the front seats. While the three students were making their way down the aisle, Alexandra drew the doors shut and locked them.
“Thank you all for returning this afternoon,” Alexandra announced. From her vantage at the conductor's podium she ran her eyes over the attentive faces turned towards her. There was no one new other than Kyrill and no one missing, yet the group felt incomplete.
“We have one additional thespian today, Kyrill Dyachenko, who is from the conservatory,” she continued, motioning towards the left end of the front row. Kyrill nodded as a number of heads turned in his direction before returning their attention to Alexandra. “Many of you have already found those in the same scene. Anyone who has not, please raise your hand.” Three hands rose close together. “Ah, Sergei, Stanislav and Nurgul, if you could join Oxana, Pavel and Kyrill. Thank you.” When the students had changed seats, Alexandra went on. “We’ll start with the opening scene from Othello.”
Sergei, Pavel and Stanislav climbed the steps to the stage. Alexandra approached Kyrill’s seat with several sheets of paper. “Please read Cassio,” she said and laid her hand on his shoulder. Kyrill looked up at her with a smile. Alexandra heard an orchestra softly playing Scheherazade. She waited a moment to speak and studied Kyrill's face. As though for a portrait, she considered how to light it. His dusky skin accentuated the blue of his eyes, the white of his teeth. Waves of black hair framed his face, brushing his shoulders. An orchestra would certainly follow you. “You know the play?” Alexandra said aloud.
“I know the opera,” he replied and she heard Verdi.
“We will need music for the play. Would you use some of the opera for incidental music or consider something from Shakespeare’s era more appropriate?” she enquired. Kyrill’s gaze moved to the right and he tilted his head as though listening. The full sound of the orchestra faded, replaced by the strumming of a lute, the rhythm and jingle of a tambourine and the sharp, high notes of a recorder, then Scheherazade returned.
“I will consider this,” he replied as though speaking from afar, his gaze still directed into the middle distance. Alexandra listened as instrumentation, style and tempo changed, repeated, changed again and tried to quell the excitement, to remain the detached observer. Kyrill's eyes came back to her. Scheherazade was playing again. “I will watch and listen and learn what I feel,” he offered. Pavel called out that they were ready and Kyrill turned towards the stage. Alexandra recognised Verdi's theme for Iago.
She drew her hand reluctantly away. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice sounded too loud in the silence. Kyrill stood, nodding once to take his leave before mounting the steps.
Alexandra noted how pleased Pavel seemed that she had placed Kryill with his group. If he could manage the lines, he’d make the perfect Cassio, she thought. The most confident husband would discover a jealous streak if his wife were championing a man who looked like Kyrill.
Alexandra positioned herself in the centre aisle. When Othello began, she shifted closer to Illya’s seat until her full skirt brushed against his upper arm. From the stage, she could hear Pavel reading his lines clearly, but there was nothing more. Nothing. That slight contact had been sufficient last time.
Possibilities arranged themselves in Alexandra’s mind. Perhaps it was only Oxana or her and Pavel together and Illya had only seemed to be part of the equation.
“We’ll proceed to Act II. Stanislav, you’ll be reading Montano and the herald for this act,” Alexandra called out. Rustam, Kyrill, Tatiana and Oxana joined Pavel on the stage. “After that proceed to Act III. Stanislav, please read the clown. Then we’ll have a short break.”
By the time Oxana and Pavel performed their first dialogue, Alexandra could feel the warmth of Illya’s arm through the cloth of her skirt and still there was nothing. Mentally, she ticked off more possible factors, heightened anxiety during the first audition, adrenaline levels or something as yet unguessed. Today, the only unusual impressions were from Kyrill who, even without direct contact, seemed to be emanating fragments of melody, as of music heard at a great distance. Once or twice while Kyrill was speaking she glanced down at Illya, noticed him craning his head slightly forward and tilting it to the side. She wondered whether he heard it, too.
With the exception of occasional suggestions about positions and a few requests to re-read lines, Alexandra did not interrupt the scenes and Illya did not shift away in his seat. Steadily, the students grew more familiar with their characters and their characters’ relationships to one another. When they stopped for their break, Alexandra could feel the attachment of the students to their roles, but nothing more.
At the beginning of the break, she returned to the podium and reminded the students to use the drinking fountains off the balcony near the lavatories. She suggested that they bring containers for water next time as it was important to keep themselves hydrated, keep their throats moist. “When we resume, we’ll start with Richard III.” She listed the order of the scenes. Paper rustled as marks were made on scripts. Illya leafed through his book and mentally noted which scenes were omitted.
They lingered on the stage when their last scene was finished, their expressions uncertain, shy, except for Kyrill. He walked towards the stairs and down, his departure rousing the others. He stopped when he reached Illya’s seat. Illya’s head was bowed over an open book balanced on the armrest. His lips were moving as he read.
“The oboe is suitable for the Shakespearean period,“ Kyrill stated without preamble.
“So is the bassoon,” Illya replied, without looking up.
“Yes. They go well together.” Kyrill sat down in the seat behind Illya and leaned forward. “I could adapt Verdi or some early 17th century music or compose something new for the play. What do you think?”
“You kept returning to the Verdi,” Illya replied over his shoulder, then paused as though to consider the exchange.
“Iago’s theme suits Pavel well.” He nodded to himself and laid his hand on Illya’s shoulder. Kyrill heard a flute and a cello, felt a sleepy reassurance. He concluded they were a child’s memories. Illya turned in his seat. Kryill met his eyes. “Your parents?” he asked. Illya nodded. “There’s a British composer who wrote incidental music for Richard III; we could use that.”
Illya closed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. He shook it.
“No, I need to hear you on stage,” Kyrill said, his hand tightening slightly on Illya’s shoulder, his brows drawing together. “Perhaps for your Richard, we need something original,” he concluded softly.
Illya opened his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said. Kyrill stood, his smile mostly in his eyes as he looked down at Illya before releasing his shoulder. He turned and headed towards a tall, pale violinist he had noticed sitting on the far right.
Illya went back to his book, humming a Vivaldi concerto for flute and cello.
Alexandra was leaning against the podium answering a series of questions Stanislav was posing when she lifted her hand to the back of her neck. Her glance strayed from Stanislav to check that the doors were still closed. As soon as Stanislav thanked her and turned away, Alexandra looked behind her, catching the end of Kyrill and Illya’s conversation. Kyrill’s hand was resting exactly where hers had on Illya’s shoulder. Illya responded with gestures to most of Kyrill‘s questions. Something in the exchange reassured her. "We're all here now," she said under her breath.
The theatre darkened as Illya mounted the steps to the stage and walked slowly to the centre. Kyrill looked up from his conversation with Antonin. A spotlight followed Illya's black-clad form, reflecting off his hair. They hadn’t used the stage lighting for Othello; it was unusual for an audition. Kyrill’s eyes flickered over the house lights; their bright globes seemed distant. He glanced at the people near him; no one looked surprised. They looked expectant. He ducked his head to see the stage lights. None that he could see were lit. Kyrill sat up straighter as Illya swivelled in his small circle of illumination to fully face the audience, but rather than addressing them, he questioned himself.
"Was ever woman in this humour woo’d? Was ever woman in this humour won?" Illya asked with almost light-hearted incredulity.
"I’ll have her," he declared, his chest swelling. "But I will not keep her long," he sneered.
"What! I, that kill’d her husband and his father, to take her in her heart’s extremest hate; with curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes..."
Illya stretched out his arm towards the shadowy corpse behind him. Kyrill wondered that he hadn’t heard the prop being wheeled into place, but he had been concentrating on Antonin.
"The bleeding witness of her hatred by; having God, her conscience, and these bars against me," he enumerated them on his fingers. "And I no friends to back my suit withal..." He pointed to himself and then opened his arms.
"But the plain devil and dissembling looks, and yet to win her, - all the world to nothing!" He raised an arm. "Ha!…" His arm fell to his side
The wild dissonance between the lilting childhood memory of a few moments before and the callous contempt issuing from the stage made Kyrill's eyes widen. What talent you have or what dark pools of emotion to tap, Kryill thought, leaning forward. Between words, the high note of an oboe vibrated. Kyrill closed his eyes and focused on Illya’s voice. Above the sound of rushing water, a melody formed.
The lights brightened when Illya commanded and his shadow stretched across the boards as he strode, affecting a slight limp, to the wings. Half a dozen students clambered onto the stage and crowded into the wings with him. Anna and Ivan were nearest; they patted Illya on the back, grinning. Svetlana nodded and smiled from behind them. Illya smiled in return, then raised a forefinger. They heard Alexandra’s voice summoning them to begin Scene III. They exchanged glances with Edvard, straightened their shoulders and headed towards the centre of the stage.
Illya’s Richard was treacherous, commanding and unctuous by turns. At times, his book was open before him, but often it hung at his side as he spoke and as he listened, drawing reactions from the others which helped bring their characters alive.
At the end, Alexandra thanked everyone again, advised them that their parts would be posted at the library the following afternoon and that the next practice would be on Wednesday evening at seven.
Kyrill rose from his seat, absorbed in his thoughts. “Something totally original,” he murmured to himself as he made his way towards the doors which Alexandra had opened. His smile was vague as she said good-bye to him on his way out.
***********
Once more, Illya let the others leave before him. Alexandra was closing the doors as he approached. He heard the key turn in the lock and paused a few steps behind her. He was certain she didn’t think he had already left. She pivoted and took a step towards him.
“We’ll rehearse the beginning of Act I, Scene II now,” she stated and continued towards and past him. The aisle was wide, but she passed close.
The smell of lilacs and honeysuckle was distinct. Nervous, at the very least, he concluded.
He followed Alexandra onto the stage, dropping his bag by his seat. He did not need the book for this.
***********
Illya shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and took the fork in the path leading in the opposite direction from Alexandra’s retreating figure. He didn’t want to follow; she’d said she was meeting with her advisor and Illya didn’t care to test the truth of it. He had more than enough data to sift through.
The sun was gilding the trunks of the cherry trees when he reached the orchard, the branches already in shadow. He shuffled through the newly fallen leaves, winding his way towards his tree, the one he liked to sit in when he thought. He didn’t climb up though; the dining hall would be closing soon, so he just leaned against the tree, feeling the knots through his jacket, watching the sky turn grey and remembering.
Alexandra had exited to the wings at the end of their dialogue. He had stayed where she left him, his nerves humming with the intensity of their exchange. He didn’t think Alexandra wanted him to repeat his monologue, so he waited. Anne’s words had been scathing, but her eyes had strayed to Richard’s mouth as he spoke. After a moment, Illya took a few steps towards the wings and saw Alexandra staring out towards the front of the stage. He heard an echo of his own voice saying, "I'll have her, but I will not keep her long."
He held his breath. Alexandra shook her head, turned with raised eyebrows towards Illya and smiled. "We’ll do the scene again with you reading Anne and I, Richard," she said.
There was a pattering among the leaves over his head. Illya pushed away from the gnarled tree trunk and headed towards light and food. He tried not to resent the fact that Gregor would have gotten back sometime in the afternoon.
**********
Wednesday afternoon, 25 September
"Come in, come in," Prof. Kuzmenkov called when he heard the light rap on his door. Alexandra came in smiling and sat in the chair he indicated. "You look much calmer that you did Saturday evening," he observed. "The serenity of having your first report finished?" Alexandra nodded and extracted the report from her bag and handed it across the desk. Kuzmenkov leafed through it, noticing the table. "Concise. Good. I'll make it even briefer when I send on my report." He lay her papers to one side. "Tell me about what was troubling you on Saturday evening when I had to rush off on you."
Alexandra sighed. "I thought, and I may think so again after tonight, that I may not be able to maintain my objectivity about the people in this project."
Yevgeney Kuzmenkov snorted, "Scientific objectivity is a myth scientists use to cow others. Let us not be confused by it ourselves." He leaned back in his chair. "You know that everything we perceive is through the lens of our training, our experience, our emotions. Even though you are leading this project, you are a part of it and you will have feelings about your work. Any scientist does, even one testing rocks. How much more so for psychologists? Doubts are to be expected." He paused, his chair creaking as he leaned forward. "Even though I said it in a hurry the other evening, don't think it wasn't a considered response. I trust your intelligence and your judgement. You should, too." He picked up the report again and flipped to the back. "You are satisfied with the one musical addition to the project? You don't want to test the conservatory students straight away then?"
Alexandra shook her head. "It will be a worthwhile area to explore, but I don't think I can deal effectively with any more than the participants I have now. And, I believe, we have already begun to knit somehow. Even in these two sessions." Kuzmenkov noted the “we“.
"Maybe next year, when some have graduated, you could take in others. Unless it would disrupt the cohesion of the group too much. You’ll see what you think closer to the time," He said, watching Alexandra. "We could test at the end of this year or next autumn and run a separate project if we find enough candidates."
Alexandra nodded. "I think we should look at those who pursue music as a hobby as well as those studying it." Our star actor plays an instrument as well as a graduate student in the biochemistry department. Our conductor discovered this."
"Hmm," Prof. Kuzmenkov murmured as he scanned Alexandra's notes from the second audition. "Does he know them? Perhaps they use the practice rooms at the conservatory?"
"They may, but it didn't seem he knew them," Alexandra replied. "This is something I have to enquire more about..."
"Gently," Prof. Kuzmenov said, still reading. "Proceed gently. But you heard…Dyachenko clearly?"
"Like a radio without any static," Alexandra confirmed. "When I was touching him, it was distinct. When he was on stage, it was faint. I think he was hearing music from others. Perhaps that is how he found the musicians in the group," she continued.
"Or the musicians with another ability," Kuzmenkov remarked without looking up from the report.
Alexandra tilted her head. "Perhaps. He touched both of them while he was speaking with them and I put my hand on his shoulder when I brought him his script. During rehearsals, I've decided to maximise physical contact. The plays call for it at times, of course, but I'll introduce it in practice even when it won't be needed in the performances." She paused. "I will say it is a technique to improve their awareness of the other characters, especially those with whom they have extensive dialogue." Alexandra stopped again and began to smile. "I think that may bring us further developments."
Prof. Kuzmenkov looked up from the report when Alexandra stopped. "So you hear Scheherezade when Dyachenko looks at you," he asked, regarding her carefully.
"It seems to be when he is focussing on me," Alexandra answered. "And Verdi's theme for Iago when he watches Pavel."
"You do realize how much progress this is in just two sessions, don't you?" Kuzmenkov asked.
Alexandra looked back, shaking her head. "No. I was too excited last week, I actually expected more after such a beginning." Her head tilted and her eyebrows rose. "Immature of me, wasn't it?"
"Youthful enthusiasm has its uses. Temper it with scientific method. Most experiments yield tiny steps forward in knowledge, if they yield anything at all." Kuzmenkov stood up and Alexandra did, too. "I have yet another meeting, I'm afraid. Next Wednesday, give me your second report. That can be our routine, except for vacations. At 3 o'clock again." He came round his desk and walked with Alexandra to the door. "Remain confident," he smiled as he opened the door. "And patient," he added.
**********