Chapter 9: Habanera (Jaqui)

I STARED DOWN AT THE postcard and accompanying letters in my hand. Such opposite messages—the postcard from Vasily, a shot of a river with towering cathedral behind it, was upbeat and positive as usual. I don’t understand why Misha thinks he is better than I, who’s been here longer and practiced more, but then he is a ... I didn’t understand the Russian word he interrupted the French with, but I assumed it was derogatory ... Dancing is truly my passion, he had continued, I know you feel the same. Will you dance again, now that your ankle has healed? He’d asked that on the phone two weeks ago, but I still didn’t have an answer. What if I fell and hurt myself even worse than before?

Vasily’s tone changed abruptly in the letter, only one page this time, and it was short, borderline cruel, and devastating. The third even worse—a tempting job offer. I told Elijah I wanted to go to Moscow, and he’d made the arrangements. But now Vasily didn’t want me to come. I didn’t understand, as I stood there, frowning at such different turn of events on his part. Why would he not want me to come? I reached for my phone and dialed his number, but no one answered.

“Sister, are you alright?” It was fourteen-year-old Renee, coming down the stairs from his room, still dressed in his plaid pajamas and rubbing his eyes. He paused at the end of the bannister, his hand on the wide railing.

“Why? Do I look worried about something?” I snapped as I shoved the postcard and letters behind my back, slipping my phone in my pocket at the same time.

He frowned at me and his eyes shined. My poor, sensitive little brother. I’d wounded him. He was used to me being mean to him, but this time I saw him in a new light. Renee, who lost our father at age eight, who narrowly escaped the fire which had altered all our destinies and took Marceau Arnolt’s life.

“You wander here like a ghost,” he said, sitting down on the step. “Ever since the cast came off, you’ve just locked yourself in your room. I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Sweet, kind Renee. He read me better than my own mother did. Of course, after Elisa moved to America, we only had each other. Izzy and Darci were still too young to really remember Father.

“Do you want to get out of here?” I asked him suddenly. “We could have Jacques drive us somewhere.”

Normally, I would remind him Elijah wasn’t our father, but today I let it slide. He was right. I’d been cooped up in this mansion, aside from a few trips out with my parents, for two months. And there was only one thing that would return everything to normal—dance.

“Marci!” I called up the stairs, and the girls’ nanny appeared at the top of the balcony.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Arnolt?” she shouted down. Her voice echoed in the wide foyer.

She nodded curtly and disappeared back into the playroom. My sisters were too old for toys, and even a nanny now, but my mother still insisted on Marci working part time and on weekends, like today. The playroom had transformed over the years to hold Izzy and Renee’s computers, a trampoline for Darci, and a myriad of her dolls and stuffed animals.

“Gym?” Renee looked at me, smiling and shaking his head. “What need do we have for a Papa’s gym?”

“They are at some fancy brunch and won’t be home for hours,” I said, “it will be empty. Plus, it’s not the weights or the treadmill I’m interested in. It’s the studio. There’s a piano there, Renee.”

His eyes lit up and he pressed his clasped hands under his chin. “Is there, now?”

“Yes.” I turned and looked into the sitting room, as my mother called it, with the huge fireplace and the baby grand against one corner. An accomplished, and a few would call him prodigy, pianist, he rarely played at home. Elijah objected to classical arrangements, and besides, Renee had his own modern electric piano in his room.

I followed him, glad to be back in my room at the top of the stairs. In a way I was glad Elise had found her new life in America; I had her room now, and my old room had been converted to the playroom. Her room was much bigger than mine, and I had my own private bathroom—something I’d dearly missed from being in Elijah’s office for eight weeks. I dressed simply, in a leotard, with jeans and t-shirt pulled over top. In the corner, my bag from the night of Firebird, still lay abandoned where I’d thrown it two months ago. I sighed as I emptied it slowly, watching the red and orange costume spill onto my bed, along with my pointe shoes and nude flats. I stared at them, knowing full well the doctor had said I may never be able to do pointe again.

Before I could decide to even bring my pale pink pointes, my phone buzzed on the bedside table. I picked it up, wondering if Renee would text me from the other room Jacques was ready for us. Instead, I glanced at an unknown number, and a single emoji: two eyes staring directly at me. Who is this? I rapidly texted back.

Of course, I already knew. Elijah could block his number, but Claude could just buy another phone. He had all the wealth I did at his disposal.

Another set of emojis appeared on my screen, eyes followed by hearts and winking faces.

Disgusted, I deleted the text and threw my phone on the bed. If it was Claude, I didn’t want to answer or encourage him. All the same, a shiver ran down my spine as I pulled the heavy curtain shut across my wide window. It faced the back of the house, over the garden maze my mother loved so much, the place where Elijah had proposed to her four years ago. We didn’t have much security outside the mansion, but our property was gated. There was no way Claude could be watching me, right?

I shrugged it off. He hadn’t come to the mansion or tried to contact me since that night. This was clearly just an act of desperation. Frustrated, I threw both my flats and pointe shoes in the bag and slung it over my shoulder.

I threw open the door, ignoring my phone vibrating from across the room. I’d have to tell Elijah to block another number when we got home. “Let’s get out of this place,” I told my brother.

“SHALL I WAIT, MADEMOISELLE?” Jacques pulled up to the unmarked studio on the outskirts of Paris half an hour later.

“No,” I said as I scooted out after Renee. “We’ll only be an hour or so. Come back then.”

Elijah’s private gym had been my private dance studio once upon a time, a gift from Father twelve years ago. Renee had been a few times, though not since before Father’s death. I spotted the familiar wire chair Father used to sit on, watching me perform the plies and pirouettes I so carefully practiced for my master exam. As I flipped on the bright lights, I closed my eyes as a memory of him, clapping and cheering at my perfect execution, washed over me. I could remember his front row seat at Carmen, my first starring role, after passing the master with flying colors.

Now, this place was nothing more than a studio my mother had converted into a gym for her new husband. She had left the barre in one corner and the high mirrors, but added a treadmill, a recumbent bike and a Stairmaster, four different weight sets, and entire wall of different weights and lifts on one side of the room.

“Are you alright, Sister?” Renee asked again, as he had from the bannister not an hour ago. Without waiting for an answer, he spotted the old Straub in one corner, a relic from Father’s childhood, I was sure. Renee sat on the simple wooden stool before it and swung into chord arpeggios up and down the keys.

I squeezed back the tears, whisking away the memory of father, especially remembering mother never had time to watch my ballets, because she was always off with her books or doing something more important, I figured.

I shrugged out of my jeans and t-shirt and fixed the flats onto my feet and began to stretch along the barre next to the piano. Even after eight weeks of no practice, I was still as agile and limber as before.

Renee threw himself into a piece of his own composition, leaning over the piano as he poured his heart into finding the right notes for what he saw in his head. Finally, his fingers found the beginning lines of something familiar.

“You know Habanera?” I asked, surprised. I had heard him play a million times, but I wasn’t as good at recognizing the pieces as he was.

He briefly looked at me, then down to the ebony and ivory again. “You know, it is not so much the Habanera as it is a type of Hungarian rhapsody,” he said so quietly it was if he breathed such a thing to the keys to awaken the seductive song.

I loved my nerdy, shy brother and his quiet intelligent quips. A smile played on my lips. “Just play it,” I urged him softly.

I knew the dance well, better than anything else, if I had to guess. And bonus—it didn’t take much pointe ability, and the simple, seductive steps could be completed with flats.

Renee, as usual, was consumed by his ability to play such a piece by memory, his eyebrows creased in concentration as he threw himself into the contradanza Habanera. My body took over as it remembered the simple plie and relevé motions, combined with the Spanish-influenced swing of my hips. My ankle throbbed worse, but I ignored it. I groaned, throwing my leg into the air, and landing on the wrong leg. I wobbled, and fell into the splits, leaning sideways.

This time, my throw was more executed, and I bounded into the leap a little more proficiently. Holding the barre for support, I practiced the arm positions. Fifth, fourth, and back to fifth again. Dancing to the middle of the room I twirled with the music, spinning high on my tip toes.

Stumbling out of the twirl, I caught myself on the barre, breathing heavy. I was more frustrated and angry at myself. Why couldn’t I execute something as simple as Carmen?

“Again!” I shouted to my brother, who looked as if his fingers would crumble and fall to the floor. Frowning, he obliged.

This time, the song ended, and I folded myself onto the hard wood floor, glad for no spills or stumbles.

Nevertheless, my ankle was useless, and I could barely stand. I’d overdone it.

“Do you need help?” Renee spun on his stool, his hands on his knees. He looked like he’d just run a marathon. It seemed we had both pushed ourselves today.

“No, I just need a minute.” The pain in my ankle was searing through my tights now, and I gingerly felt at it. It was already swollen. I wasn’t even sure if I could stand at this point.

“I’ll be right back,” Renee said, standing. He eyed me again. “Are you sure you’re okay, sister?” He asked. I waved him away.

He disappeared behind the mirrors to the small bathroom in the back of the studio. Now that he was out of sight, I crawled to the small radio and CD player in the corner of the room. I blew the dust off the lid. I doubted Elijah even knew it was here; it must have been about as old as Renee. There was one CD still left when the lid opened — The Nutcracker.

Of course. I’d been practicing for it the year Father died. I had given my place to the understudy that year while we all recovered from our grief and my mother remarried. I’d never had a chance to star in it again. A shame. I had practiced the sugar plum fairy to perfection back then.

I pushed the triangle play button and cranked the volume while I waited for Renee. I didn’t know how I would tell him I’d need his help out to the car. How could I be so stupid as to overdo it so soon after my fall? I struggled against crying. I couldn’t let Renee see that. I crawled to the center of the room and lay flat on my back, staring at the dark gray ceiling my Father had painted with silver streaks, to resemble a night sky.

My pretty girl with stars in her eyes is the star of any show, he had told me, just before he picked me up around the waist and swirled me around on his hip. He had brushed his black hair out of his eyes. Green eyes, the same as mine.

As the melody of the Nutcracker filled the room, I wondered how much longer Renee would be. We had been gone over an hour and should be getting back, before Mother and Elijah arrived home. I wondered if Vasily would be performing the Nutcracker this year. Didn’t the Russia ballet always perfect their nation’s favorite piece?

I thought about Vasily’s letter, the one telling me not to come to Moscow. The words burned into my brain, and I closed my eyes to see them float across my darkened vision.

Much thanks getting to know you, Jaquellyn Arnolt. Unfortunately, my studies take me away from time to pen such wonderful letters to you. With great regret I ask you do not come to Moscow; I have thought about your injury and it would be a detriment to Tanets. You would only slow us down, and you are far too young to be a teacher. Please enjoy your time in Paris and do not contact me again. Best of luck and riches to you in life.

It was hard to believe such painful words took up less than a page, not the day after I’d written him a heartfelt letter and even included a snapshot of myself. Did he have any idea how hard it was to get those things printed these days? I cursed the fact he didn’t do social medial or email like the rest of us. I already had a job waiting for me in Moscow, but my only friend didn’t even want to see me. Even worse, he thought I was too injured and unfit for the position.

Pre-accident Jaqui would have told him to go screw himself. Post-accident and post Claude, Jaqui, however, was a weak shell of what she used to be. If I couldn’t dance, I could teach; my mother had been right. Now, I just needed to find somewhere in Paris that would take a 22-year-old failed ballerina as a teacher.

From somewhere behind me, a door shut, and I knew Renee would be back in the room momentarily. I would have to admit what a failure I was that I couldn’t even stand.

“Damn you, Claude,” I said out loud, my eyes still shut. If he hadn’t dropped me, I’d be performing the Nutcracker this year with the rest of the academy. But no, I was laying in the middle of an empty, cold studio on the west side of Paris, accompanied by my brother, who had a far better future in the arts ahead of him as a performer than I did.

I failed my father, my mother, and my siblings. I would never take the stage again.

I recognized that voice immediately. I shot into a sitting position, only to witness Claude advance rapidly towards me from across the room. A scream strangled in my throat as I struggled to stand, but my ankle twisted, dumping me on my ass, stars erupting in my vision.

My mind flew a million miles a minute. Where was Renee? Surely Jacques was back, and had seen Claude come in. Why didn’t I have the sense to lock the door.

I half expected Claude to tear at me, and the last thing I remembered was at least this time I was wearing a leotard he’d have trouble getting off.

He had other ideas, however, as he stood over me. Frantically I tried to pull myself across the slick floor with my arms to no avail.

Before I could finish screaming my brother’s name for help, Claude cocked his fist at my face and landed a punch directly at my nose. I ducked my head to the side, and his fist connected hard with my temple, sending me dazed even more than I was. His hand ripped into the bun at the nape of my neck. He yanked, smashing my head into the ground and pulling my face directly close to his.

“You can’t just get rid of me, toss me aside like some play thing, you whore!” He screamed, spittle spraying me on the forehead and cheek. Another hit on the floor, and something warm flowing from the back of my head.

“Just kill me,” I mumbled, my limbs going slack. Tears streamed out of my eyes when I realized he must have taken Renee out on the way in, and there was no one to rescue me. “I’m a failure, I deserve to die.”

“What?” Claude paused, then viciously yanked my hair again, my head flopping side to side. He dropped his hand suddenly and stood over me, unbuckling his pants.

I turned my head away. I didn’t want to see what would come next. I couldn’t bear it this time, knowing there was no Sean, or Elijah, or Jacques to save me now. In the corner I could see my pink bag. Why the fuck had I left my cell phone at home?

“I didn’t come here to kill you.” He slid his pants down. “I came here to make you remember what you were missing.”

“Then get it over with,” I said, still motionless. I couldn’t see, my ankle was toast, and moving would just upset him more.

The sad Swan Song of the Nutcracker swirled around us, an ironic melody to such an act of violence.

Claude stumbled, falling to his hands and knees beside me. The soft orchestra tones immediately died as I saw my brother, Renee, standing behind him, the destroyed radio lifted over his head.

He brought it down again, this time on Claude’s back, and he fell to his stomach, arms out. He twitched once, and then didn’t move.

Before Renee could bring the radio down a third time, I held my hand up to stop him.

I pressed my hand to the back of my head and came away with the sheen of blood. I shook my head. “I’m fine. Let’s get out of here,” I breathed, and he helped me up. He was so slender and weak, and almost dropped me as I rested my weight on him. My ankle was completely useless.

Somehow, without another look back, we stumbled from the fluorescent light of the studio and onto the sunlight of the sidewalk. My mother’s black Mercedes pulled up, and a worried Jacques hurried to the side door to open it.

“Just get us the hell out of here,” I said, struggling to get in the back seat as he took over for Renee.

Safely buckled, Jacques pulled away from the curb. “What happened in there, Mademoiselle? Shall I call you mother?”

“No,” I shook my head, and Renee, surprised, looked at me. “Call the police. Tell them Claude Beauchamp is unconscious back at that address.”

Jacques, ever patient, just nodded and pressed a button on the console in front of him.

“How is it that you’re always in the emergency room?” I shot back as the nurse finished the last stitch to the back of my head.

“I see hats in your future, mademoiselle,” the nurses whispered to me. “I had to shave a portion carefully to get to the wound.”

The doctor stood at the end of the bed, signing paperwork. “Do you have a ride, Miss Arnolt?”

He smiled and handed the nurse the clipboard before ducking under the thin sheet that hid us from the rest of the emergency patients.

I looked at him with a small smile that widened into a big one. I’d always known about Renee, of course, since he was little and preferred to undress G.I. Joes instead of play with cars and plastered half-naked male rock stars to his wall in his bedroom. Rock? More like shirtless Romanian violin players.

When I agreed with him, his shoulders slumped, removing a weight I’m sure he carried every day. To be an Arnolt was one thing, but to be gay as well was a paparazzi’s dream come true.

It was hard to focus on Renee’s offhand comment, one of which didn’t surprise me all that much. I was too tired of dancing, nearly dying, and giving my statement to not one, but three police officers. Turns out that Claude hadn’t even woken when they arrived to take him to jail ... the second time in as many months.

“He’ll be out in a few days,” the officer told me, “May I suggest a restraining order?”

I promised him I would consider it, but I was too worried about what Elijah and my mother would say—rather, I focused on getting the hell out of the hospital before they decided to meet us here.

“Can we go?” I asked the nurse impatiently as she flipped through the paperwork and slowly handed me each piece. “You know what, thanks,” I snatched the last one out of her hand and hopped off the emergency room stretcher. “You know where to send the bill!” I shouted, grabbing Renee’s hand and virtually running to the sliding doors at the end of the long ER hallway.

“Jaqui!” Renee squealed, and I tried to skid to a stop. Unfortunately, the sliding doors revealed us clearly to what was waiting on the other side.

Ah, shit. I forgot it was the middle of the day, and Renee and I were still Arnolts, no matter if my mother’s last name had changed. Two dozen cameras and just as many screaming journalists erupted into the hospital hallway as the doors swung wide.

Blinded by fifteen camera flashes exploding in my face, I threw up my hand, nearly blind, and grasped Renee’s hand harder.

“What can we do? It’s too late now. We have to find Jacques!” I pulled his hand to follow me through the crowd.

“Mademoiselle Arnolt!” I heard Jacques’ voice behind us and we both spun to see him poke his head up from the nearby stairs door. “This way, mademoiselle and monsieur!”

It was Renee’s turn to tug my hand as we ducked into the stairwell. Three journalists broke from the crowd and we heard them enter the same door as the three of us, as we tried to race up to the next level. My wrapped ankle, rolled, the doctor had said, was killing me, and I limped the best I could, clinging to Renee’s shoulder. We burst through the doors to the garage level, leaving the fat journalists to huff their way slowly behind us.

I could hear the Mercedes’s engine before the door even shut behind us. Sure enough, it was running right at the door’s entrance. Jacques popped our door open before flying to his own.

“That was the worst attack of them since your broke your ankle, sister,” Renee said, collapsing against the back seat as we cleared the hospital parking lot.

I sighed. Head hurting and ankle throbbing, I couldn’t wait to get back home. “There’s one thing that’s for sure, brother,” I said quietly.