Note: This chapter owes much to a certain lady of great grace and generosity, who is the kind of person who puts up with a friendly acquaintance's exceedingly clumsy ballet-themed interrogation on a weeknight. Thank you, my dear!
Chapter IV: Le Palais Garnier
The transporter technician's parting words ("Don't let Boothby catch you filching cherry blossoms!") followed Julian into the matter stream, across the North American continent, and over the Atlantic Ocean. It was still ringing in his tympanic membranes as he materialized in the terminal on the Rue Boudreau. It was a civilian hub, not a Starfleet one, and so the operator behind the controls was wearing an asymmetrical frock with matching leggings, and an assortment of bright, dangling jewellery.
"Welcome to Paris!" the operator said as Julian stepped briskly down from the transporter pad.
"Thanks," he said warmly. "Can you send back confirmation of my arrival?"
"Absolutely," said the tech. Actually, the word was absolument, but Julian's combadge was still active, and his Universal Translator was set for English. He went over to the panel and craned his neck to watch as the operator sent the confirmation, and the officer back in San Francisco acknowledged receipt. That was the moment when Julian's leave officially began, and he gave his communicator a quick double-tap. It chirped and then went dormant, translator and all.
"Merci bien," Julian said to the smiling technician. "Bon soir."
"Bon soir, Cadet!" came the reply, as Julian strode for the door. There were half a dozen transporter rooms built around a central atrium furnished as a pleasant place to await arrivals or to while away the time until a schedule departure. There were circular benches and low, upholstered chairs, and a dining area with replicators and tables. Like most modern structures in Paris, it was constructed with the city's architectural heritage in mind, and the roof was styled to look like a classical wrought-iron dome — even though the ornate girders were made of tritanium and the windows were near-indestructible transparent aluminum.
Usually Julian enjoyed looking up at the swirl of vaulted ribs, especially at this time of day when the sky was painted in glorious streaks of orange and gold. Today, however, the sight of the panes only reminded him of the broken window the summer he was nine. His father had insisted the Council maintenance team replace it with transparent aluminum instead of the more authentic glass. His father had never balked at replacing the authentic with the "superior". Julian shoved that thought away with almost violent resolve, and strode for the exit that opened on the street.
He had left San Francisco at 0945 hours, and he had arrived in Paris in the splendid hour before sunset. It was a recipe for circadian disorientation, but over the last couple of years Julian had learned to adapt. Shorter trips were easier than week-long ones, which required some genuine adjustment to the local time zone; he could carry on as if the night's dalliance was a drowsy afternoon, and Palis preferred to lie in whenever possible, anyway. Julian was used to keeping irregular hours, since as a senior medical student he also put in hours as a resident in the Academy Infirmary. The two of them would lie in until at least noon, local time, and then enjoy a leisurely breakfast and a quiet afternoon during what Julian's body was acclimatized to think was early morning. When he got back to campus in twenty-four hours time, he'd take a long nap to prepare for his duty shift on Sunday night, and that would be that.
It was a perfect arrangement, much gentler on Julian's circadian rhythms than many of their visits were. He'd been planning this trip for weeks, and he'd done a series of shift trades in order to secure the Sunday night slot. The last time he'd attended a Saturday performance in Paris, he'd been working at 0800 the next morning — with the result that he got practically no sleep at all in a thirty-six-hour period. With his academic courseload and his residency commitments, it had taken him a week and a half to dig himself out of that sleep debt, and he'd only done so at the cost of a racquetball practice. That hadn't been ideal at all, right before the sector championship, but his team had managed fine without him. Nawrell had taken point, as a matter of fact, and it was one of the reasons Julian liked her for team captain next year.
The Parisian streets were busy at this time of the evening, restaurants and cafés warming to their nightly traffic. People of every size, shape, species, and gender strolled the cobbled roads, and the music of many languages danced in Julian's ears as he walked briskly away from the low-hanging sun. Strictly speaking, he wasn't supposed to deactivate his combadge until he reached the Palais. In order to deactivate it, he had to file for special permission, which included giving the Medical Academy a list of the places he could be reached via alternative means. He was signed out at the Palais Garnier from 1900 to 2100 hours, then at Palis's favourite restaurant on the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin for two hours after that, and finally at her flat in the Fifth Arrondissement. If he had to be summoned back to the Academy — which could happen, in case of an emergency or an unexpected change in the Infirmary schedule — the dispatching officer would contact him according to the schedule he'd given.
It would have been easier, of course, if Julian simply signed out for the duration of the performance when courtesy absolutely demanded it, and then turned his combadge on the rest of the time. But he didn't like to do that. Cadets were still issued the previous generation of communicator, which didn't have an independent function for disabling the Universal Translator incorporated into the device. When Julian was in Paris, he preferred the flexibility of switching between languages as he pleased, without technology interfering in what he heard or how he was perceived. He and Palis were both fluent in French and English, and they switched between them organically in a sort of linguistic love-language unique to the two of them. The Universal Translator could never quite adapt to that.
Besides, there was something liberating about being off the Starfleet communications grid for twenty-four hours, even if Julian knew they could still reach him whenever they wanted. It was liberating, and made his brief leave feel more like a proper holiday. So he walked on, picking up a sentence of French or Spanish or English or Arabic here and there, and letting the other languages simply flow around him in a pleasant abstraction of sound. He always loved it when he could catch a phrase in Vulcan or Andorian, but tonight that didn't seem to be on the menu.
He rounded a gentle corner where once the broad streets had teemed with automobiles. Now, they were open spaces strewn with vendors' carts and public benches, traversed by people on foot or on skimmers, parents with toddlers in antigrav strollers, and the occasional antique bicycle. It was hard to imagine this beautiful, pedestrian-rich city choked with the exhaust of millions of internal combustion engines, but Julian had seen the footage of Old Paris and knew it once had been. He picked up his pace a little as the Palais Garnier came into view.
It was an enormous stone façade, an elegant assemblage of columns and carven ornamentation, topped by a green dome of oxidized copper. Statuary adorned the corners and the cupola, and the whole thing radiated a sense of nineteenth century decadence, history, and art.
As he had expected, there were flower carts in abundance, overflowing with roses, carnations, and other long-stemmed classics. Not a cherry blossom among them, Julian noted with satisfaction as he twisted his own little bough in his fingers and drank in its familiar fragrance. It was getting near to curtain time, and most of the ballet-goers were already inside. Julian mounted the steps and passed through the ornate doors. Past the first foyer, ushers in traditional livery stood with PADDs, greeting the ticketholders and directing them to the appropriate stairways and balconies. Julian planted his thumb in turn, and was given a set of instructions he did not really need — in English, not French, which was a small disappointment. He'd been hoping to acclimate his ear.
He didn't go to the main hall at once, but took a sharp left in the vestibule and made his way to the side door that led, through a series of passages and corridors, to the backstage area. There were a couple of attendants near the door, gatekeepers and intermediaries. Julian recognized one of them, and went to her at once.
"Salut, Madame Jehanne," he said warmly. "Comment ça va, ce soir?"
"Ça va bien, Monsieur Bashir," the silver-haired lady said warmly. No matter how many times both he and Palis had invited her to call him by his first name, she insisted on the traditional formality. She beamed at the flowers. "Pour Mademoiselle Delon?" she asked.
"Certainement," Julian agreed, offering them up. "Avec mon amour, s'il vous plaît."
"Oui, bien sûr!" she said, patting his hand as she took the flowers. She sniffed them extravagantly and winked. "C'est la saison!"
Julian couldn't help but laugh lightly at this, thinking of Erit saying exactly the same thing in a very different tone of voice on Thursday night. It was a pleasant thought to depart on, so he thanked Madame Jehanne warmly and let her go. The flowers wouldn't reach Palis before she was mustered backstage, but they'd be waiting in her dressing room when she finished. Satisfied, Julian went to find his seat.
(fade)
Palis was always considerate enough not to put Julian in the box with her parents. It wasn't as if he disliked them, and he didn't precisely fear them, but parents weren't Julian's strongest point and he enjoyed the performances far more when he didn't have to put on one of his own. Docteur Delon, especially, was a daunting personality — and the fact that he'd offered Julian a job that he had yet to accept outright meant there was unspoken pressure behind every one of their interactions. In the surgical suite during his internship at Delon's facility, Julian had always known what was expected of him and he'd delivered it with swift, efficient professionalism. In the drawing room or the opera box, it was a different story. Half the time, Julian would find himself fumbling for a response to a courteous question, and he was far too prone to stammer in front of the indomitable physician. Without Palis to smooth out the wrinkles in the conversation, things could get awkward very quickly.
So although the seats in the dress circle weren't quite as prestigious as those in the boxes, Julian was very glad to find his place among them. Palis had confided in him on the first occasion they'd tried this that they were actually a superior vantage point for most performances, as they provided a more symmetrical view than the boxes. Julian deferred to her professional expertise in that area, and he'd never been disappointed. The Palais Garnier was a splendid venue, and in an era of precise-magnification opera glasses, Julian doubted there was really a bad seat in the house. Tonight, he found himself seated between an elderly couple who seemed very much in love, fingers interlaced over their shared armrest, and a line of five prepubescent girls — three humans of various hues, a Vulcan, and a Tellarite — chaperoned by a harried-looking human woman at the far end of the row. The children were all positively alight with eagerness, decked out in their prettiest clothes; even the Vulcan girl's eyes were wide and shining as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose to the first stately bars of the overture.
"Don't bounce, Analise," the woman hissed at the girl nearest Julian. "It's distracting for your seatmate. Don't be rude."
The girl looked apologetically up at Julian, and he leaned in with a smile. "It's all right," he whispered. "Excited?"
She nodded enthusiastically. She had an electronic programme in her hand, and she brandished it. "I love the ballet! I'm going to be une danseuse when I grow up. I'm taking lessons."
"Splendid!" Julian nodded. "Do you know the pieces they'll be dancing tonight?"
"Most of them," the girl whispered back.
"Well, ma copine will be dancing the part of Aurora in the Rose Adagio," Julian said. He knew he was boasting, just a little, but he couldn't resist. He was extravagantly proud of Palis, and even though this was only an exhibition instead of the full ballet, Aurora was an extraordinary role. The piece in question was notoriously challenging, too, and Palis had been positively jubilant when she'd been chosen to dance it.
The girl consulted her programme, and her eyes grew wide. "Palis Delon is votre copine?" she asked breathlessly. "But she's magnifique!"
She lost some of her circumspect hush with that exclamation, and the woman cleared her throat pointedly from the far end of the row. The other girls, however, were all listening avidly. Analise had the good grace to shrug abashedly, but her eyes were dancing.
"She is," Julian agreed in his very best conspiratorial whisper. "But we'd better settle down: I don't want to get into trouble with your chaperone."
Analise wrinkled her nose. "She'd not my chaperone, she my mamman." She grinned again. "It's my birthday."
"Well, then, happy birthday," said Julian. He nodded at the stage, which was draped in a fairyland of silks and shadows and coloured lights. The overture was beginning to segue into the opening number. "Here we go."
Analise settled contentedly into her seat, but in the last few moments before the first dancers appeared, she stole a couple more awed looks at Julian, who could claim such lofty acquaintanceship with one of her heroes. For his part, Julian settled back and let the music fill his ears and his heart, determined to lose himself in the magic of the performance. He'd left his worries and his insecurities and his shame and his dread in San Francisco. Now he was here, in the Palais Garnier, and all he had to think about was the music. And Paris. And Palis.
(fade)
The performance was breathtaking, but far too short. Julian could have gladly sat through four glorious hours or more, watching the artistry of motion and colour. Lithe, skillful bodies swayed, pirouetted, executed gravity-defying leaps and crisp, precise catches. It was an exhibition of skill, athleticism and imagination, and the extraordinary abilities of the human — for almost everyone in the company was human — body. Even understanding the kinetics and physiology behind every movement, Julian was awestruck; and never more so than when Palis took the stage in the penultimate piece.
Fairy. Angel. Goddess. The metaphors out of Earth folklore all fell short of the mark. She was something greater than any of them, a nebula of splendour, a perfect prosopopoeia of grace. She flitted across the stage in the wake of her grand entrance, the tips of her pointe shoes seeming scarcely to touch it. Slender arms sculpted the forms of the dance, pale and exquisite against the shifting rainbow of the backdrop. When she tilted into her series of arabesques penchée, moving from suitor to suitor, her form was exquisite. She exuded youth and exuberance as she gathered her roses and handed them off to the danseuse playing the queen — the only supporting player on a stage that would have been awash with courtiers, playmates, and guests in the full ballet. Then came the most challenging part of the piece. Julian held his breath as Palis rose into her attitude derrière and allowed each suitor in turn to walk her through a stately rotation. She balanced in her pose with the cryogenic grace of a figure in a music box, executing a swift, perfect crowning port de bras between each hand-off. It was dizzying, and exquisite, and when she relaxed for a nanosecond before transitioning into her closing pirouette with her shining, theatrical smile, it was all Julian could do to refrain from springing to his feet to applaud prematurely.
The opportunity for the standing ovation came a few brief minutes later. The closing number was the gathering of delegates from Joséphine Louvois's 23rd Century masterwork, La Naissance de la Fédération. It was a perfect showcase for the entire corps de ballet, with its interlacing, parade-like march of the various diplomatic representatives. The pinnacle of the piece was the presentation of the ambassadors — the soloists from all the previous pieces, each of whom executed a long, soaring grand jeté, alternating stage right and stage left. La Naissance took some liberties with history: many of the worlds represented had not in fact been present at the first series of talks. Trill, for instance, became a signatory a decade later, and Betazed still later than that. But Julian couldn't deny it made for a spectacular display: the dancers in the colours of their respective planets, their costumes reflecting some stylized element of traditional garments.
Palis had been critical of the company's decision to end with the scene from La Naissance. She said it was better when performed by interplanetary companies, where the ambassadors could be cast from dancers of the appropriate species. L'Opera National was still very homogenous. A little like Nova Squadron in that respect, actually… but that thought was fleeting, and the Academy was quickly forgotten as Palis came back on stage. She was half a heartbeat behind the male danseur portraying Vulcan, with his leotard of russet red and his geometric robes, which were actually four vertical panels without any side seams, so as not to impede his leap. Palis, of course, was Earth; the stiff, cream-coloured Aurora tutu replaced with shimmering petals of green and blue; her sleek, contained hair bedecked with a riotous fascinator. It had to have been a costume change executed at warp speed, but not a ribbon was out of place and she was in perfect control of her body as she skipped into the preparatory leaps that gave her the height and momentum required for the jeté. Her landing was crisp and artful, and she took her place in the final movement of the dance with willowy ease. The orchestra rose to its final crescendo — and then it was over.
The applause was bountiful and enthusiastic, and Julian was one of the first in the audience on his feet. The little girls next to him hastened to follow his lead, Analise taking the opportunity to bounce to her heart's content. As the dancers swept their low bows in sequence, and then acknowledged the orchestra and the theatre's technicians and the choreographer, Julian clapped tirelessly and watched Palis's flushed, triumphant face. She looked positively radiant, and he was very much in love. In that moment, he wouldn't have traded places — or genes — with anyone in the Quadrant.
Then the lights dimmed and the curtain fell, and a moment later the house lights rose. Julian sat down again, while most of the other patrons thronged for the exits. He was in no hurry: he wasn't going anywhere without his beloved copine. Palis would be hugging her fellow performers, giddy with the conclusion of a successful performance. She'd have encouraging words for the junior members of the company, and congratulations to offer her peers. Then she'd let the costumiers retrieve the airy blue-and-green frock, and change her pointe shoes for a pair of supple leather ones so she could go through her cool-down regimen. After that, she'd return to her dressing room to shower and change into street clothes before coming out to meet him. There was no sense jostling around the doors, when he could sit where he was quite comfortably and wait until the way was clear.
When it was, Julian rose and meandered out. The theatre staff were already moving through the seats, collecting the programme PADDs that had been abandoned in here instead of turned in at the doors, and looking for any lost property. Julian knew a few of them by name, and called out quick greetings as he passed them. Then he stepped out into the ornate dignity of the foyer, still grinning contentedly. He'd known when Palis suggested he attend the recital that it would be a welcome diversion from his academic pursuits. He hadn't expected it to be quite this reinvigorating — and he hadn't even spoken to Palis yet!
As he rounded the last arch of the corridor that snaked up the side of the theatre space, his eyes picked out the familiar faces he'd known to expect. That was another reason to linger in the dress circle: it cut down on the time he had to make small talk with Palis's parents. They were waiting for their daughter, too, of course: standing at the foot of the grand staircase were Docteur and Monsieur Delon.
Julian approached with a smooth gait and earnest resolve. He wasn't about to show his nerves, especially when his heart was soaring. He held out a hand to the physician first, as they knew one another better. "Docteur Delon," he said warmly, as they shook firmly — a little too firmly, truth be told: the medical director and esteemed surgeon liked to assert dominance with his grip. As soon as he had his hand back, Julian offered it to Palis's other father. "Monsieur Delon. Bon soir."
"Bon soir," Maxime Delon said courteously. His grip was gentler than his husband's, but his palm was firm with muscle and his fingertips were calloused. He was a cellist with Spira Mirabilis, and it was he who had nurtured his daughter's artistic pursuits. Docteur Delon, on the other hand, had given Palis his sculpted jaw, his classically Gallic colouring, and his appreciation for excellence. "Did you enjoy the performance?"
"Very much," said Julian, perfectly truthful. Monsieur Delon always transitioned to English quite quickly when they spoke, and Julian couldn't tell if that was a judgement on his own French accent, or if the musician simply preferred the more widespread tongue. "Palis was in top form tonight."
"Yes, she was," agreed Monsieur Delon. "I was just saying, wasn't I, Raphael, that she is sure to win the premier role next season."
Docteur Delon nodded, more an acknowledgement than an agreement. "Auditions are bound to be more competitive than usual next year," he said. For Julian's benefit he added, a little condescendingly; "It is the septuacentennial of le Ballet de l'Opéra."
"Yes, I know," said Julian, trying not to sound supercilious but unable to let the man impugn his awareness of the landmarks of Palis's life. "I understand it's going to be a spectacular season."
"Assuredly," said Docteur Delon. While Julian could sometimes look at the other gentleman and see him as Maxime, he never thought of the surgeon by anything other than his full professional title. They had first met in the operating room, Julian a raw young resident assigned by his preceptor to shadow the facility's director during his surgeries one day. He hadn't been meant to assist, only to observe, but an unexpected complication during the replacement of a cybernetic lung had necessitated the use of every available pair of hands. Julian had stepped in calmly and efficiently, following orders with perfect precision. After that, Docteur Delon had seen to it that the young cadet assisted on all of his procedures. Three weeks later, Julian had rated an invitation to dinner in the Delon family home.
"If she does win a starring role, particularly in one of the flagship ballets, it will be a crowning moment in Palis's career," Docteur Delon was saying. He put just a little too much emphasis on the word flagship, so that Julian could not possibly miss his meaning. And just in case he had regardless, the man added; "But of course, to do so, she will have to be on Earth. Have you given any further thought to my invitation?"
He was talking about the post at his complex. Julian had earnestly hoped the question might not arise on this visit. He and Palis had discussed it during his last leave in Paris, but they hadn't come to any sort of decision. He needed to explore their options more thoroughly with her before he gave any sort of commitment — or refusal — to her father.
"I've given it a great deal of thought," he said. "I hope Palis has as well; then we can discuss it."
Docteur Delon's eyes narrowed. They were the same honeyed hazel as Palis's, but they did not share her warmth. He knew he was being put off, and he didn't much care for it.
Monsieur Delon stepped in. "How are your studies?" he asked. "You must be getting close to your final exams."
Julian nodded, glad of the diversion. "They start in five weeks' time," he said. "First the Medical Academy finals, then the licensing exams. I've been studying every available minute."
"Good," said Docteur Delon, coolly approving. "You're on track to graduate at the top of your class, are you not? If you do, you'll be able to have your pick of posts — in Starfleet, or outside it."
Julian's own father was driven by the need for success. He hadn't found it in his own life, so he had thrust all those hopes on his son. But for Docteur Delon, success wasn't merely a hope: it was an expectation. That expectation had propelled Palis to excel in her chosen field, and it was clear that Julian's relationship with her had brought his own prospects firmly under Docteur Delon's purview. Happily, there were no deficits there.
"Yes, I'm aiming for valedictorian," he said, aware he was boasting but not really caring to pull back. It felt good to boast of his accomplishments, and to forget for a while what he owed them to. "It's never a guarantee, of course: one of my classmates has been neck-and-neck with me. But I'm doing my best, and I think my latest research paper will stand me in good stead."
"Will it, now? What's your hypothesis?" Docteur Delon asked.
They talked about cellular exobiology and its applications to pancreas dysfunction in Tellarites for a while, which was fascinating for the two medical men but dreadfully dull for Maxime Delon. He wandered off down the foyer to talk to Madame Jehanne. Like most of the Palais Garnier attendants, she was as much a curator as she was a caretaker: it was a building of tremendous historical heritage, and the people who worked here were well-versed in the anecdotes of centuries. If Julian hadn't been so caught up in the eager dissemination of his findings, he might have gone to join Monseiur Delon. But the allure of an interested audience was simply too great: his classmates were all too busy with their own papers to care much for his, and he couldn't very well take it to the professors who were going to be grading it. Docteur Delon listened intently, asking a couple of piercing questions that were going to open up new lines of inquiry. Julian was just about to share his theory about islet cell propagation in a biphasic gel medium when he was interrupted by a dryly amused, musical voice.
"Papa!" Palis scolded. "Julian n'est pas ici pour que tu l'interroges! Il n'est plus ton stagiaire."
Both men turned to look at her. She was standing gracefully contrapposto, clad in an asymmetrical violet dress with tights and low-heeled shoes of the identical hue. Her luxuriant chestnut hair was freed of its high, glossy bun, and it fell in waves about her shoulders. One hand was on her higher hip, and the other cradled the sprig of San Francisco cherry blossom.
Julian went to her, his hand seeking her waist as he leaned in to kiss her upturned cheek. "Palis," he said, the warmth of his affection infusing his voice.
She wrinkled her nose playfully. "Mon trésor," she murmured. Switching seamlessly to English, she asked; "Did you enjoy the exhibition?"
"Very much," said Julian. He was speaking only for the two of them, his voice low and perhaps a little too suggestive. The sterner of her fathers was standing right there, after all, watching them. "You were magnificent."
"I thought so," she said charmingly, slipping past him to approach Docteur Delon. "And you, Papa? Did you enjoy yourself?"
"I enjoyed your performance, chérie," he said, cupping her shoulder and taking a peck of his own. "I didn't think much of your partner in blue."
Palis rolled her eyes playfully. "That's Dieter, Papa, and you know the only reason you don't like him is that he's German. He danced very well tonight," she chided.
"You wobbled when he had your hand," Docteur Delon argued.
Julian saw the flicker of affronted hurt in Palis's eyes, and knew he had to speak up. "I didn't see even the slightest wobble," he supplied, trying to sound uplifting instead of argumentative. Docteur Delon wasn't used to having his authority — or his opinions — challenged. But in this case, Julian was quite confident the older man was mistaken. If there had been a wobble, his own far keener eyes would have caught it. He might lament his parents' choices, and the burden they had thrust upon him, but he couldn't deny that he enjoyed reaping the fruits. Enhanced visual acuity was one of them. To Palis, he added; "You were exquisite. Like a porcelain statuette!"
She smiled radiantly at his praise. "That's the idea," she said, then immediately turned from him as her other parent came up from behind and caressed her elbow. "Mon papounet," she said warmly, using the term of endearment she reserved for Monsieur Delon. Papa belonged to the doctor.
"Ma Danseuse Étoile," sighed Monsieur Delon contentedly, as he embraced her from one side, carefully avoiding the branch of cherry blossoms. "And what are these?" he asked, inhaling their scent. "Heavenly."
"Julian brought them for me," said Palis. "All the way from San Francisco. Isn't that lovely?"
Palis spoke English with a cultured British accent, as most polyglottal French people did, but she invoked a distinctive French flavour when she spoke Julian's name. There was a softness to the lead consonant that was lost in English, and she spoke it with a swift little uptake on the final syllable. She did not pronounce it like the French equivalent, Julien, because the terminal consonant was silent, and therefore lost upon the ears. It came out Joo-li-eh. Instead, she pronounced it like the feminine version, Julienne: Joo-li-enn. Julian found it unspeakably charming. The name he had taken for himself, when he'd realized he had no right to the one he'd been born with, never sounded so beautiful or so right as it did when it trilled from Palis Delon's lips.
"Spoils from the City by the Bay," said Docteur Delon with dry appreciation. He looked around. The foyer was almost deserted. "I have reservations for four at La Tour d'Argent," he announced. "I hope you two will do us the honour of supping together?"
The joyful warmth suffusing Julian's chest took a sudden chilly draught. It wasn't that he minded dining with the Delons, not really. Stuffy as such meals could be, they weren't actually unpleasant. But they also weren't what he'd been envisioning this evening. And while his duty uniform might be sufficient for a recital at the Palais Garnier, it definitely wasn't adequate for La Tour d'Argent. Even his dress uniform really wasn't quite up to snuff. It was the sort of restaurant where he probably wouldn't feel comfortable in a Starfleet dress uniform that had fewer than four pips on the collar, or in civilian clothes made of anything short of Tholian silk.
Which was, now Julian troubled to take note, exactly what Docteur Delon was wearing. A whole suit of the stuff, which was rarer than Terellian diamonds. He felt his confidence waver.
He'd had Palis's back on the question of the wobble, and she had his now. "Oh, Papa," she sighed regretfully. "You know I can't eat all that heavy food right after a performance. Besides, Julian has made reservations for the two of us at Café Saartik. You and Papounet go and enjoy yourselves, and the four of us can do La Tour d'Argent next time."
Docteur Delon looked like he wanted to argue, but Palis was smiling one of her most winning smiles. She'd nestled against Julian, too, so that he'd put a reflexive palm around her far shoulder. Standing like that, they were the very picture of a couple united in purpose and desirous of their privacy.
"Besides," Palis said, with just the tiniest little pout of lips still faintly stained by her stage makeup; "Julian and I have things to talk about. We haven't seen one another in four weeks, you know."
Docteur Delon did know: four weeks ago had been the dinner at the house on the West Bank, when he'd made the job offer. He understood the implication, and he caved.
"Whatever makes you happy, chérie," he said. He looked at his husband. "We ought to be going, if you'd still prefer to walk."
Monsieur Delon wrinkled his nose. Palis had learned that habit from him, but Julian, ever biased, liked it better on her. "I'm not going to argue with you about transporters again," he said. "They're for emergencies only. We're walking."
Docteur Delon shrugged and shot a long-suffering look at the two young people. Then he took his husband's arm and they walked off, arguing good-naturedly like the old married couple they were.
Palis watched them go, waiting until they'd passed under the arch that led to the grand front doors. Then she tilted her head back against the hollow of Julian's shoulder, eyes wide as she tried to look up at his face. "Thank goodness," she said. "Dinner at La Tour D'Argent? Can you imagine?"
"Not really," Julian huffed, not quite chuckling in relief.
She pivoted, letting his palm trace across her back to rest on the opposite hip, and cupped the back of his neck so that she could draw him down to kiss her in earnest. They lingered over it, lips savouring the sweetness of reunion, and then she pulled back a little.
"It was kind of you to say such nice things in front of Papa," she said matter-of-factly. "It really wasn't my best performance."
Julian frowned. He hadn't been trying to be kind: he had meant every word. "You mean you did wobble?" he asked. "I didn't see it…"
"No, not the attitude derrière," she said. "That was our best yet: all the boys did splendidly, and I've never been steadier. It was the Bournonville."
His brows furrowed. Sometimes he got just as lost in the jargon of her profession as she did in his. More lost, truth be told, because at least she'd grown up in a doctor's house. He hadn't known a thing about ballet before dating a ballerina. "The what?" he asked.
"The grand jeté," Palis said. "In the finale. It was in the style of Bournonville. I was supposed to come down sharper on the landing. I don't think I had enough height. But I was flustered from the quick change, and really, still inside Aurora's head. It's a difficult part, actually: all the ambassadors are. Because you're playing a symbol, a personification of a whole world in one sense. But in the other sense, you're playing, well, an ambassador. A sort of stuffy old bureaucrat… but not really the bureaucrat. The bureaucrat's vision and foresight. Am I making much sense?"
"You could be," Julian said honestly; "but from my perspective, you might as well be speaking Klingon. Why don't you take me through La Naissance over dinner?" Then he remembered that despite signing himself out on the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, he hadn't actually been proactive in one important respect. He said apologetically; "I didn't really make reservations at Café Saartik."
"Neither did I," said Palis; "but that's where we're going." She took his arm just as insistently as Docteur Delon had taken Maxime's, and steered him towards the doors.
"Will they have a table?" Julian asked. "On a Saturday night?"
"Probably not," Palis said blithely. "But they'll squeeze us in somehow. Madame Saartik loves me."
Julian chuckled. "She loves you?"
Palis shrugged one slender, muscular shoulder and nuzzled her nose into the cherry blossoms she cradled in her free arm. "Oh, she wouldn't put it that way, but she loves me, all right. A girl always knows."
And so they left the Palais Garnier.
(fade)
French Translation Glossary:
"Merci bien. Bon soir.": "Thank you. Good evening." A little less formal than "merci beaucoup". "Bon soir" can be either a greeting or a farewell.
"Bon soir, Cadet": as above. The word "cadet" was adopted into English from French.
Fifth Arrondissement:one of the municipal districts of Paris, also called the Latin Quarter. The Sorbonne University is located within it.
"Salut, Madame Jehanne. Comment ça va, ce soir?": "Hi, Madame Jehanne. How are you this evening?"
"Ça va bien, Monsieur Bashir. Pour Mademoiselle Delon?": "I'm well, Monsieur Bashir. For Mademoiselle Delon?"
"Certainement. Avec mon amour, s'il vous plaît.": "Certainly. With my love, if you please." Unlike in English, "if you please" is standard, not stuffy, in French.
"Oui, bien sûr! C'est la saison!": "Yes, of course! It's the season!" Meaning the season for cherry blossoms.
une danseuse: a (female) dancer.
"Magnifique": "magnificent".
"Mamman": "mother". Diminutive, less formal than "ma mère".
La Naissance de la Fédération: The Birth of the Federation. A landmark 23rd Century ballet, presenting a stylized version of the events covered in ENT Ep. 4.22, "These Are the Voyages…".
danseur: a (male) dancer
"Papa! Julian n'est pas ici pour que tu l'interroges! Il n'est plus ton stagiaire.": "Papa, Julian isn't here for you to interrogate. He's not your intern anymore."
"Mon trésor.": "My treasure." A popular term of endearment.
"cherie": dear. A popular term of endearment.
"Mon papounet."/Papounet: "My daddy."/Daddy. A diminutive name for one's father.
La Tour d'Argent: a famous and historic restaurant in Paris. No longer expensive in the currency-free economy of the United Federation of Planets, but very exclusive.
Café Saartik: described in greater detail in the next chapter.
Ballet Terminology Glossary:
arabesques penchée: a position in which the ballerina is en pointe (on tiptoe) on one leg, with the other raised almost 180 degrees while she tips forward. Essentially, a vertical version of "the splits". The Rose Adagio from Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty calls for four of these in series, hence arabesques instead of arabesque.
attitude derrière: a position in which the ballerina is en pointe on one leg, with the other raised at a 90 degree angle, knee bent so that her calf is crooked behind her.
port de bras: any position of the arms. In this case, the ballerina performs the "fifth position", with both arms raised above her head in a "crowning" configuration.
grand jéte: the classic ballet "leap", in which the dancer soars through the air with legs extended, one before and one behind.
Danseuse Étoile: literally, "Star Dancer", the French equivalent of the rank of prima ballerina.
Bournonville: in the style of August Bournonville (1805-1879), a landmark ballet master and choreographer. A Bournonville-style grand jéte is particularly high-altitude.