Chapter 16
A moment to explain Justine's tears. The reader likely recalls Justine's affair with a man already engaged to another woman.
It was not an uncommon situation for girls like Justine (by which I mean, of course, poor girls with nothing but their backs to fall on). Consider that the girl had never known such splendour as that of the patrons in their fine black clothes and expensive cologne. Consider that this man called her his rose, brought her bon bons and cassis, told her he adored her and hinted, with unfathomably sad eyes, that the girl he was marrying was a cold, ungenerous thing who only wanted his money and his title – a claim which at once created the hope he might break off his engagement with just enough sincerity that Justine would never ask him to marry her for fear of being seen as some grasping guttersnipe. Then consider that in her sickbed dreams she had summoned him to her, and that her mind had comforted itself with visions of him. Is it any wonder that she missed him?
Her strong body had practically forgotten the abortion a few weeks prior; it was her mind that suffered. Had he worried about her? It had been so long since they saw each other (well over a week). Suppose he thought she had discarded him, the same as his fiancée? She practically seeped longing in every glance as she looked for him. She had rouged her cheeks, braided her hair the way he said looked fetching. Her attempts to end her short pregnancy had sapped away some of her arms and breasts' pretty plumpness; it was a pity the peaches had stopped. (Not knowing what else to do, she had nudged a note under her pillow, thanking her mysterious nurse and assuring them she was well again now.) She bit her lips to redden them and stretched her legs out in front of her; she often caught him looking at her legs, and his enjoyment of them had made her proud of them for more than how nimbly they could move.
La Therese was gone from their room – out to sing in the first act. The room would be full of roses when she returned; hopefully Justine's move there was a good omen, even if the singing lessons rather confused her. Perhaps La Therese was hoping for an understudy? Justine could hope: a leap into fame might close the gap between her patron and her enough for them to marry. She had often fantasised on this idea – that a sudden windfall might free her to marry her darling. Such a thought was heavenly enough that she forgot that her patron was a grown man with money to make his own choices.
She nudged her way through the crowd of tutus and men's laughter backstage, breathing the room's sharp smells; cologne, whiskey, sweat. Once or twice a hand found her waist, her leg, her bottom. The thought of another man touching her was repulsive; she shuddered away from it. She stood on tiptoe looking for his shiny dark hair, his smile, his rings and gleaming pocket chain. She huffed. Where was he? She could see only strangers, men, women, a saffron-haired girl on a lap eating bon bons.
The girl's teeth were startlingly white against rouged lips. Her light eyelashes dusted her cheeks, which were pink as peonies. Her laugh had the quality of glass clinking; another laugh joined, full and heady as whisky being poured into that glass. Her skirts, gossamer and numerous, flowed over a black-trousered lap, and runched up to her thigh where a large, strong-boned hand rested.
Justine knew that hand would be warm. Her heart crumpled into a ball.
He did not even look at her.
She felt her feet rush out for the second act. The lights blazed above her, the orchestra buzzed. She dropped out of time once, twice, who cared? The curtain dropped; a hand yanked her waistband. Before she could speak, she heard Giry's voice in a tone she dreaded.
"What was that? You danced like a dying fly."
"I was – " The words stuck to her tongue, biting it. Her face flushed; sweat seeped through her costume. How could she explain? How could she explain to Giry, who had never put a foot wrong in her life? The girl's face burned with shame. Her words came out in spurts, mangled by humiliation and sorrow. Giry held up her hands. "Never mind, just sit down and watch the dance. If you're not perfect tomorrow, you will be getting fined."
Another thing she'd have needed him for. Giry had once claimed that any self-respecting ballerina kept three lovers: one for love, one for money, one for connections. Justine had simply poured enough affection for three lovers into one dalliance. She'd been so stupid – stupid, stupid! The dancers blurred into the lights, into the curtains, into the sympathetic face looking down from the rafters.