Inspired by Four Dancers by Edgar Degas. The first in my exploration of Red and Liz as a post-Berlin couple. I hope you enjoy and, of course, feedback is life, so if you leave some it will make my day. I'm miserably behind on reading and commenting, but rest assured my fellow writers, yours is in the summer queue.
(x)
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Red sat in a grey corner of the studio, his fedora on one knee. The rigid brim kept his fingers moored; the slight pressure he applied kept him from fidgeting.
He came here when he'd forgotten why he fought the war in the first place.
The studio was bright. It was late morning, and the sun slanted through the gauze curtains, brushing the dancers in warm strokes of yellow ochre and cadmium red. The hues changed as they stretched, limbs alternately straight and curved in arcing lines that splashed in and out of the ray of sun that streamed through the uncovered side of the window and onto the polished wood floor.
The room buzzed with a relaxed energy; the girls moved through their warm-up with practiced effort, stopping only to adjust the strap of a shoe or to help a fellow dancer coax a stray lock back under the careful bun. The slide and scuff of their toe shoes, the gentle thump of their feet against the floor made the only sound in the room.
Red watched them impassively, his eyes fixed on a distant point. In his frequent visits, the girls never acknowledged him. Whether they had been instructed not to he was unsure, but he preferred it that way.
Madame Louise entered, a striking willowy woman with dark red hair and fair skin. She clapped for attention, and suddenly like blossoms on the bough of a tree, pale pink flowers began to bloom along the barres arranged in rows in front of the mirrored back wall as the dancers took their places. Their feet were turned in perfect first position, arms relaxed on the barre and chins held at an angle, waiting for the music.
The record began and Red closed his eyes. The scratch of the needle was soothing, the pop and whir singular and unmistakable. He had always liked vinyl records; record players reminded him of things simple and unspoiled.
The soft strains of one of Mozart's piano concertos flowed over the room, and the dancers swayed to and away from the barre with the current of the music.
As the record reached its end, Madame Louise clapped once more and the barres were moved away. The girls lined up near the corner of the floor, nervously flexing warmed muscles and joints in that strange, restless way that is standard for dancers. When it was their turn, they moved across the floor in pairs, performing grand jetés in unison and to Madame Louise's instruction.
There was a girl in the back that was a bit more restless than the others. She shook her hands at the wrists in front of her as if they were asleep, and she held her body taut. The young girl finally found her partner and waited her turn. She was considerably smaller than the others and no doubt younger; Red wondered if she wasn't placed in the advanced class ahead of her time.
And then, as if she could sense him watching her, she looked over her shoulder and smiled.
It was that innocent smile, that flash of happiness in the bloom of youth that stole his breath.
Because that moment became years ago. The flaxen hair, the soft green eyes. The little plastic barrette he had found in lieu of a bobby pin. She had been so afraid of getting in trouble that day, of her hair not being just so-sometimes he thought Madame Janette held more authority over his little girl than he did.
Red closed his eyes against the memory of his daughter's face, felt it dissolve into vapor, taking with it all of its comfort and only some its sting.
When he opened his eyes, all of the other girls were gone. The lights were dimmed, and a single ray of sunlight illuminated a young woman near the middle of the floor. He couldn't see her face, and she was not dressed as the other dancers were-ballet pink tights and toe shoes and a black leotard. This dancer wore the ornate corseted bodice and tutu of a principal dancer; the sequins and satin glimmered in the light. She held herself with the confidence and artistry of a true ballerina.
Her graceful arms opened as she waited on the music. It began to play and she began to move.
With every step she proved herself worthy of the spotlight. She danced with emotion, her movements fluid and expressive. Red sat transfixed, mesmerized by this dancer who was so impassioned by her craft, who was so agile and full of life.
As the final notes died away she smiled, bowed deeply. Her blond hair caught the spotlight, and that's when he saw it. A small plastic barrette in her hair.
He shut his eye before the ballerina could smile up at him, before he could recognize the adult eyes of a daughter that would never be a woman, of his little girl who would never be that dancer or have the life she was meant to have.
Before he could remember that it was all taken away. That she was taken away.
"Mr. Reddington?"
He blinked, pulled from his revelry by a foreign voice and thankful for the thick shadows that masked any slip in composure. The studio was empty, the curtains shut against the light.
"Practice is over, Mr. Reddington."
Red looked into the prim face of Madame Louise and nodded. She smiled down at him with the polite humor reserved for those at the perimeter of one's life. He was the curious benefactor she knew so little about, nothing more. Who she didn't need to know, Red concluded. Madame Louise pressed her lips together and left him in the dark.
When the last of her footfalls had faded away, Red rose stiffly from his spectator's seat and took a last look at the empty room. He flipped his hat back onto his head and exhaled slowly.
Silently, he walked across the floor of the studio, his footfalls echoing in the cavernous room that was only hours before art come to life-a canvas on which to paint a moment in time. But the moment was passed, the music stopped.
Without looking back he pushed through the side exit. The afternoon sun glinted sharply as it ducked behind the clouds, and he pulled on his sunglasses. He let the door shut heavily behind him, hearing the lock slide into place.
There was much to remember, but much to forget.
He made his way across the empty parking lot, lost in thought. When he looked up, he was surprised to find the parking lot was not empty at all. There, cutting into the horizon was a large black sedan. A figure in silhouette leaned against the hood, and he squinted to make out its shape.
Lizzie.
She walked slowly toward him, a curious expression on her face, and he wondered how long she had waited for him.
"Need a ride?" She smiled then, relaxed and beautiful. It was a smile that came a lot easier now that Tom Keen was out of her life. She held up her hand in a small wave.
"I was going to call Dembe," he said.
She smiled generously then. "I gave Dembe the day off."
He looked her incredulously. "You did."
Liz smiled and held out her hand. "Yep."
He took it. It was warm and soft and fit perfectly into his. If he could just hold onto that hand for the rest of his life, he thought, remembering and forgetting might come a little easier.
But he said nothing. When he didn't move, she tugged at his arm a little and steered them toward the car. They were walking side by side now as the late sun grew larger in their view.
"Let's go get some coffee Red." She never looked at him and never stopped walking. A few moments passed, and he looked down at their hands; they were still joined.
"I don't drink coffee." His voice sounded hollow and flat, an ill fit for his usual demeanor.
She stopped, and so did he. Liz turned to face him, her blue eyes looking at him meaningfully, searching his face. She gave a little nod of her head and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they glittered with unspent tears. Her smile was soft but impossibly sad. She squeezed his hand.
"Let's get it anyway."
Red smiled then, nodding his assent. He marveled at how Lizzie sometimes knew him better than he knew himself, how she could reach down into the darkest parts of him and expose them to sun. This woman who had endured so much, who had fought her way to a new life and had inexplicably chosen to share it with him. His Lizzie.
He leaned into the space between them, pressing his lips to hers. That hand he treasured was only released so he could touch her face.
Sometimes he forgot that this was her war too, and they fought it together.
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