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“She and Foltin planned this all along. Your dismissal. Her taking over as prima, perhaps becoming an Étoile. She defected here because I was an easy target. A desperate, sad, naïve lesbian.” Juliette shouted the words and the room spun, the scent of roses fighting with the hospital disinfectant, so real, so strong, so cloying she felt she would gag at any moment, her senses going into overdrive on the sheer intensity of the memory.
“Jett…” Francesca’s cane clattered to the floor. Well, wasn’t that Juliette’s very reaction to the news three weeks ago? To crumble down? She had simply done it in a more dramatic fashion.
Helena’s fingers on her hand tightened, the pain a welcome distraction.
“I wanted her. She wanted my crown.”
The buzzing of the lamp above filtered through the ringing in her ears.
“Well, dear, you had her. And she is now wearing your crown. She openedOnegin, Foltin’s mesh of opera and ballet, on Tchaikovsky’s score last night. The reviews are all raves. The queen is dead, long live the queen, and all that garbage. Honestly, these people couldn’t even wait till you were out of the hospital.”
A sniffle from her side distracted Juliette. Francesca so rarely cried.
“I hoped to keep you from this, amor. I so hoped to spare you.”
Something in the wording, in the way Francesca spoke so carefully, made Juliette struggle to sit. Helena helped prop her up.
“Keep me from this? From what, Cesca?”
A sudden gasp from Helena was confirmation enough. Juliette felt the world around her narrow down to Francesca’s next words.
“The farce that had been going on for two years now, Jett. Also known as the game to oust Francesca Bianchi from Paris Opera Ballet, authored by one Jacques Lalande. You might have an acquaintance with him, no?”
Francesca’s voice broke with her own sarcasm, but she carried on.
“Everything was sabotaged. Small details to production-wide issues. Performances in the corps and solos. Dancers falling ill, transferring suddenly at the very last moment, understudies being a no-show. Decorations being delivered damaged. Nothing was working as it should have been. He and his cronies were out on the warpath to get me fired. They asked me to resign when Foltin defected two years ago. They wanted him to lead our ballet company. His name, the scandal around him, the prestige. I guess they thought it would elevate Paris Opera Ballet more. As if Paris needs elevation!” Francesca smirked, then set her jaw. “I refused. The reviews started tanking pretty much right after.”
Francesca sniffed again, her hands balled, her knuckles white. “No matter how high you jumped, how many fouettés you performed, how well Gabriel lifted you. Nothing worked—the papers were destroying me. And dragging you along to hell. Collateral damage. As a woman you took the brunt of it, but once it became clear that I was not going to give in easily, Lalande decided to take aim for Gabriel as well.”
She unclenched her fists and took out a dainty handkerchief, drying her eyes. There was pity in them when she looked at Juliette.
“Amor… I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I tried to keep you out of it. I knew you’d run to the president, or do some other foolish grand gesture to save me from Lalande?—”
“Cesca, but how can he have so much power?” Like little pieces of the bigger mosaic, things were falling into place. How had she not seen this sooner? He was at the center of everything. A despicable man, with big ambitions and a pocketful of intrigue and lies.
Francesca shrugged, but her face was anything but indifferent. “He was with the Finance Ministry for years. Budgets were his authority, including the one for Paris Opera Ballet. And illustrious mass media. Some of the newspapers are owned by his friends. But that’s not even the point, Jett. It’s that in this city, in this country, everyone owes him.”
Juliette felt her hands go cold. Was it really this easy to ruin a life? It certainly seemed so. So many questions now had answers.
Still, Francesca kept speaking. “He had ambition. Once. But God gave him no talent to dance. And apparently a hatred for women. Why do you think Gabriel was initially spared? No, at first it was all on me. And then on your head too. And I couldn’t bear it. The productions weren’t as awful as they painted them, Jett. You know it. You danced them.”
“But if you read more and more bad reviews, you start to believe them. The public did. Soon the company did too. Mission accomplished. From a psychological point of view, a brilliant scheme.” As she spoke, Helena crossed her arms over her chest and stepped closer to the window. Her face showed nothing, and when she didn't carry on, Francesca began again, her tone beseeching now.
“Amor, I never wished for you to be in the middle of any of this.” Juliette wanted to laugh at the assertion, but Francesca kept speaking, words just pouring out. “I couldn’t see how to stop any of it. The press, Lalande, and when Katarina defected, I knew what would happen. She was the match that lit the fuse of my demise. I figured they’d perhaps marginalize you once I wasgone, maybe add her as the second Étoile, make you split your parts. But for the life of me, I didn’t foresee Katarina betraying you this way. I could’ve sworn, I thought she loved…”
Francesca trailed off, letting the unspoken “you” hang in the air, a loose feather of a bird long gone.
“Good thing neither of us had to swear then, Cesca. I’d hate to break a vow like that.” Juliette allowed the words to fall to the ground and closed her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, amor. For everything.” The tears kept falling, Francesca now hiccupping with every word.
“You know you could’ve shared some of the burden instead of going about making as much drama for everyone.” Helena sounded like she wanted to either hug or slap Francesca. Juliette worried her lip, opening the unhealed split, welcoming the metallic taste.
“I don’t blame you, Cesca. You told me to expect the drama. I guess it was very much in character.” Juliette smiled, feeling the warm blood drip down her chin. A curious and strange sensation. Her eyelids drooped.
“Jett?” Both voices lifted in alarm, and Juliette could hear the cane thumping away, Francesca leaving the room, surely in search of a doctor. Good. She wasn’t feeling all that well. Someone should probably check her out.
“Jett, love, talk to me, stay with me, please!” Helena sounded panicked.
