A flash from an exploding shell cast grotesque shadows across the walls of Suzette's apartment; fires from the many burning buildings proof that the city she loved had turned to hell. The once great city now surrounded by unseen enemy forces, the government deciding whether to surrender or fight to the last man. These were the darkest of days and most fearful of nights. And yet, in all the chaos and death, Suzette wanted to dance. For her, dance gave vent to her intense feelings of suffocation. Mercifully, the long mirror in her studio had not yet been shattered, and the mirror represented all the long years of study and practice; thousands of hours spent in the pursuit of perfection in movement. It was years since she retired from professional dancing, of course, but in these dark times, only dance could make sense of the calamity of it all. And so she danced. Alone in her apartment as the night sky was filled with the terror of war. She danced until her leotard was drenched in sweat and her long grey hair stuck to her face like a mask. The time had almost come.
Hugo picked his way through the debris blocking the street. It was hard work for a man in his seventies. The blood on his shirt - his own or that of a stranger? Who knows? He carried no bag, no wallet, nothing of himself. His grip on life loosened by the fire that destroyed his home and roasted his wife Alice in her bed. Her screams would fill his head for the rest of his days. He thanked God that his remaining days were now so few, and looked forward to seeing his beloved sweetheart in the next life. He thought about her pretty face and the flowery summer dress she would be wearing on the other side, and how they would touch each other's cheeks and laugh amoung the trees and flowers. But the day of their reunion would have to wait. God had spared him tonight, and he knew exactly where he wanted to go.
The Romanian has forgotten his own name. Many years had passed since anyone referred to him anything except 'The Romanian', or called him anything other than 'Uncle Marin', and he knew that they only called him Marin because of his sailors' tattoos that had blurred and blued over the years. His sinewy arms were working hard now. digging through the rubble of his house, searching for his violin case. And there it was, covered with dust but otherwise unharmed. He found his bow too, and, praise be to God, it too was undamaged. Uncle Marin took his shirt sleeve, dusted off the case, and kissed it. It was time to play. As he positioned the old instrument under his chin and drew the bow back in readiness. For a moment, he thought about Nero playing while Rome burned. The first note: weak and faltering, but then he gained his composure and the sound of his playing filled the night air. It seemed that even the explosions stopped to allow him to play. It felt good to let the violin talk of his anguish and broken heart; to exorcise the demons that had taken control of his mind and pushed him to the very edge of what he could take. Then purposefully, Uncle Marin, replaced the violin in its case and started walking towards the river. He had an appointment tonight.
Across the city, hundreds of people were on the move, heading for safe places, away from the devastation. But a disparate group were making their way to a special place. A place of passion and glamour, of laughter and music. To a place they all hoped that others would remember, and be making the same journey. Christophe and Sylvester; Anna and Louise and the rest of the chorus line; Monsieur LeGrand, Madame Landry; and all the other patrons. But most of all, they all hoped that Suzette and Didier would come. The greatest dancers the theatre had ever seen. From across the burning city, they came. All of them alone, and all on foot. The theatre was by the river in what was, before the war, the heart of the vibrant latin quarter. Long days and nights of laughter and frivolity seemed long gone now - like an echo of a distant scratchy record player, the memories of that time seemed to be out of reach. One last night is all the dancers, singers, musicians and patrons wanted. One final performance before the city was overrun.
Suzette pushed open the stage door. Inside was a blaze of lights. She thought it miraculous that the theatre's generator was still working. The backstage was a hive of activity, with half-dressed dancers skiting about; handsome young men practising their singing scales; Monsieur LeGrand, the owner, barking instructions and encouragement to the finest troupe of dancers the city had ever known. Suzette received a hundred hugs and two hundred kisses on her way to the dressing room. Her name was still on the door. As she sat, applying heavy stage make-up, the door opened. It was Didier. He was much older now, but still incredibly handsome. His fine African face was perhaps the most perfect thing Suzette had ever seen; his eyes an incredible mixture of pride, confidence and vulnerability. He put his hand on her shoulder. It had been such a long time. She put her hand on his, and looked into the mirror and into his eyes. They both smiled. 'Are you ready?' he enquired. 'Of course!' she replied with a glint in her eye that spoke of the closeness that had once been between them, 'This is for our patrons. Without them, what would we have been?'
The curtain opened and to rapturous applause, the dancers took the stage. Monsieur Dubois, the conductor, signalled and the orchestra began. Didier and Suzette moved in total harmony. The single spotlight following their feline movements. It was a dance of passion, a dance tinged with both sadness for the loss of the city and for the loss of time itself, but mostly coloured with the joy of life, the joy of having one last chance, a final repreive. The audience applauded from start to finish. They had come to celebrate the theatre as part of their memory, as an essential part of their identity. The singers, dancers, performers, musicians - they had all strived to live life to its fullest; to celebrate the joy of existance through sound and movement; to try to capture what it means to live and to love. The theatre meant everything to them, and the patrons meant everything to the performers. Perfect symbiosis.
The orchestra played, the
singers sang, the dancers danced, and outside an enemy tank slowly
rumbled along the road by the river, almost at the centre of the city.
Following behind were a platoon of soldiers, checking the buildings
along the route. Almost every building was damaged or destroyed. the
city was in ruins. One of the men turned to his comrade, 'Look! See
that old theatre. That was a famous place many years ago. Want to look
inside?'.
'There's no point. It's just an empty shell now. Let's move on.' the
weary soldier argued.
'Come on. Let's take a look. You know how I used to love theatre before
the war.'
'Okay, but just a quick look.' his comrade relented.
The two soldiers entered the foyer of the theatre, passing the old
art-deco ticket booth. The door to the main auditorium lay just ahead.
'What's that noise? It sounds like music!' the first soldier said to
his friend.
'I can't hear anything. But let's look inside.'
They stood at the large wooden door and slowly pushed it open. The
theatre was just an empty shell. The inside had been burnt out and they
could
see stars through the void where the roof used to be. 'See! Empty! I
told you so.' The two soldiers rejoined the tank outside. The door
slammed shut as they left.
Didier and Suzette danced again. A final encore. Dozens of roses thrown onto the wooden boards of the stage filling the air with sweet summer scent. The door opened and for a moment a gust of wind filled the theatre. 'It's okay, it's nothing,' Didier reassured his partner, 'We are safe here.' One of the patrons closed the door and the applause continued. This was to be a long night.