Chapter 45 – The Competition Begins
As if the team didn’t have a steep enough learning curve; didn’t have enough tasks and challenges; didn’t have enough pressure on them to produce a great work of art. Now they were in a serious competition, which they learned about at lunchtime the next day. Without knocking, Stirg and Nev came into The Hall from the main doors at the rear of the theater. Nev carried a large portfolio under his arm; Stirg carried a large smile. Neither carried guns, which was a relief to the artistic types on the team. The Whosey stopped playing the introduction to the Act III, and Selgey and Bart separated from their embrace. Gale and Helstof stopped sketching the transparent suits the dancers would wear in Act III, the nymphs in the wooded glade, and Pater ran to the office to get Gwen.
When Gwen came out, hand under her jacket to the rear of her hip, Stirg and Nev were standing at seating level, hands resting on the center front of the stage. Stirg said, “Good afternoon. How nice to see you all today. It is a glorious day. A glorious day for Russia.” He stood erect, smiling up at the Charlestonians on the stage. “We won’t take up much of your time, because as of this morning, we are very busy men. Very busy, indeed. We have lots of work to do, and can’t dawdle here, but I did want to have a brief chat. Ok?”
The team got the drift of the conversation. Gwen pulled a chair to the front of the stage and sat down. The others followed suit. The group resembled musicians surrounding a conductor, except in this case there were two men in the conductor’s position. Stirg nodded to Nev, who opened the portfolio and removed a thick stack of oversized sheets. The team recognized the document as a full copy of the Stravinsky score, freshly printed. “I’m sure you know what that is,” Stirg said. “It’s the thing that used to be your property, but now is the property of the Russian people. It’s back where it should be. It’s going home.”
Pater was incensed, now that he knew guns weren’t going to make any appearances. In a squeaky voice none of them had heard before, he said, “You stole it. You stole the ballet. Our ballet. Give it back.”
Nev smiled. Stirg smiled. “Yes, I stole it. After you stole it. Now it’s back to us, and we’re going to produce it. That’s what I came to tell you. It’s going back to Saint Petersburg today, and we’re going with it, and tomorrow we start the Russian production of Stravinsky’s lost ballet. The true production. The rightful production. We will bury you.”
Only the older members of the team, like The Whosey, recognized the Khrushchev quotation, but the others were impressed by it forcefulness.
Stirg looked at Helstof, and said, “You’re Gromstov, aren’t you? You and your husband. I’ve heard of him. Very rich. You used to be Russian. Now you’re traitors. American thieves are bad enough, but Russian traitors are worse. We will bury both of you. You are the money behind this, aren’t you? Of course. Bringing money you earned in Russia here, to do this thing. This travesty.” He paused. “It doesn’t matter how much money you put into this. I will put more. I, too, am wealthy. And this matters to me. A lot. I am the savior of this Russian art work, and it’s going home, where it belongs, and the production there will be glorious. You will be a footnote to the history of ballet.”
None of those sitting on the stage had anything to say after Stirg’s speech. He gave them the finger, turned, and walked up the center aisle to the rear doors. Nev left the copy of the score on the stage.
When the doors slammed, Gwen rose from her chair, jumped down to the seating level, and took the exact position Stirg had used for his speech. She waited a moment, looking each team member in the eye. Then she raised a hand and pointed a finger at each person, in turn. “We’re going forward with the project. Our project, our ballet, our production. We have our goals, which are to produce a great work of art, here in Charleston, and to contribute to culture. We have a unique opportunity, and we are going to succeed. We have something he doesn’t: a new way to exhibit ballet music.” She looked at The Whosey. “No one has ever taken an orchestral score for ballet, and played it in its entirety on synthesizer, for a major production.” She looked at Selgey and Bart. “And we will have great choreography, done by great dancers and artists. Movement based on stories from paintings by the greatest of nineteenth and twentieth-century artists. All the ingredients are here, in this room, right now. We have the spirit, the motivation, the talent, and the monetary backing. If it’s competition he wants, it’s competition he’ll get.”
Roger smiled at his wife, as he had so very many times over the years. The Ps were relieved, them being of delicate artistic temperament, thinking, “Thank god, no guns.” Selgey and Bart wondered who Stirg would get as his choreographer. Helstof wondered, exactly, how much this new wrinkle in the project was going to cost her and Henric. The woman just thought, “Great, now they’re going after the same dancers we’re going after.” But it was Gale who closed out the meeting.
“Gwen’s right. Fuck him. Let’s get back to work.”