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sincelastispokeandyoulistened · 6 years ago

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The overture rose in a sudden crescendo. The bellow of the drums and piano keys crashing down like sudden bouts of thunder. Or perhaps, the churning of the wheels of a steam engine across the countryside on its way to its ultimate destination, somewhere far, far away from here.

The theatre was dark and all the world was silent but for the orchestra, hidden deep down in the depths of the pit, each of them in waiting for the for the show to begin. All the while, the notes getting louder and more deliberate.

Until suddenly, they stopped and the theatre was quiet. The world had become empty, not a soul daring to breathe in anticipation of what would happen next. It was as if that very theatre in Moscow was witnessing the universe at the very beginning of time, And the Earth was without form, and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

And God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light.

The lights came up slowly to reveal a sparse stage, as if to remind the audience that, once they saw what they had came here to see, the world around her would be rendered meaningless. A single figure emerged from the wings, dressed all in white, her hands at her sides, open and innocent, with an expression of youthful beauty and naivety. She was nothing short of stunning; a Russian jewel more beautiful than of the treasures at the Winter Palace. Her long dark hair was tied loosely behind her as she moved across the stage with a grace that put the movement of the stars in the heavens to shame. She seemed as if she was not moving at all, but if the world was revolving around her, soaring from one end of the stage to the other and then back again. Her first moments on stage alone were brief, but in those moments, no one in the audience even blinked. For in those first moments of the universe God said, “Let there be light.” And so she appeared.

Francis Villiers sat off in the audience – third row, center – just as captivated as the rest of the crowd. He had arrived in Moscow merely a week ago on a train from Prague with only one particular task in mind. This evening at the ballet had been unplanned; a little event that he found himself unable to resist after the events of the previous night. He knew almost nothing about her, other than the fact that she was a prima ballerina for Mariinsky Ballet, one of the greatest ballet companies in the world. Before this evening, when he had been handed a playbill containing the names of the dancers and the orchestra, he had not even known her name. And now, seeing her again, it was a name he was certain he would never be able to get out of his head: Zephora.

Suddenly, the music turned and she was greeted on stage by a tall, dark man dressed like a prince, cloaked in a veil of mystery. They bowed to each other, her trepidation so palpable that Francis was certain his heart skipped a beat. He was unsure, in those moments, if he had ever been so captivated by a woman in his entire life. He was charming and handsome, with a combination of wealth and a silver tongue that had brought many women to his bed over the years. However, Zephora was different. It was as if he was now seeing her for the first time, in her element, like Aphrodite revealing herself to be a goddess to Anchises. And yet, hers was a face he had seen before, only two nights ago, when he had played the role of the tall, dark stranger who had appeared to steal something from her. It had been a fairly simple plan, almost whimsical in how easy it would be and how impressive the payoff that might result. Several weeks ago, a newspaper article noted an auction of a large estate in New York. The man who died had been somewhat eccentric, collecting odd items from across the world and spending exorbitant sums of money trying to find exactly the right piece to complete his collection. The article noted a few of the big names in attendance, along with how much they had paid to obtain just a taste of this man’s life’s work. The auction included a collection of Pollacks, Rothkos, assorted statutes, and any other name associated with unimaginable wealth. Down near the bottom, however, the author noted that the man had a particular affection for the hallmark of hedonism: The Fabergé egg.

“While his collection included five of the original Imperial eggs, his widow noted that there was one piece that he was missing: The 1902 Rothschild Fabregé Clock Egg. In 1971, Aronson attempted to purchase the piece for an unknown sum from a Russian, Sergei Orlosky, who then declined. The Rothschild Egg is now estimated to be worth more than three million dollars.”

It had taken a few weeks of research to discover that the egg was still in the Orloskys’ possession, tucked away somewhere at their lavish home in near Moscow. The Rothschild egg was a rather gaudy monstrosity, enameled in pink lined with delicate strings of golden garland and a simple clock in the center. The egg sat high on a base of the same rose and gold, and at the very top, a jeweled enamel rooster that flapped its wings when the clock struck on the hour. The egg was only one of twelve that had been made for anyone other than the Russian crown, which made it especially difficult to part with due to its rarity. Francis had no doubt, however, that in a few short weeks Sergei would find himself wishing he could have taken Mr. Aronson’s offer when he still had the chance.

***

He had chosen a moonless night on purpose; so only the stars would see the young man climbing over the high wall into the garden and up to the second story window. Downstairs, the dining room was bathed in warm light and the Orloskys were sitting down to dinner, chatting casually about politics and their daughter’s wondrous upcoming performance. Francis had watched them for the past three nights and the routine was always the same: At six, they dressed for dinner. At six twenty, Sergei and Nataliya came downstairs for wine or cocktails, and by seven, the family was seated at the dinner table and the dark upper floors of the house were empty. No dogs, no passing guards, only shadows were left to look after the treasures that those bedrooms held. Until nine o’clock, when dinner was over.

It was seven thirty. More than enough time to guarantee that no one would lag behind upstairs and interrupt the plan. Francis had been watching from the garden, with undying patience for his moment to strike. It would be quick and quiet, and by the time the family returned upstairs to find the Fabregé egg missing, Francis and his prize would be gone like a faded dream.

But it seems that he would be a dream that at least someone would remember.

Francis climbed up to the second story on the opposite side of the house from the dining room, hoping that any noise he did make would go unnoticed. In a few breathless moments, he was in Sergei and Nataliya’s bedroom, the coral enamel of the egg almost glowing in the darkness. His heart was racing with the energy of a man who had found his true calling. And now, he had found the prize. He picked it up cautiously, feeling the weight of a fortune in his hands, and stealing a glance back at the place where it used to sit. The sight that the Orloskys would discover when they finally retired to bed. Two steps from the door he caught a glint of something gold resting on the side table: A watch with no particular significance. In the darkness, he couldn’t discern the brand or the features, but what was the harm in taking just one little souvenir? Without hesitation, it found its way into the young thief’s pocket.

And just as quickly as he came, he was gone, back out into the dark hallway in the direction of the bedroom from which he had arrived. His mind focused on the checklist of what was to be done before he was back out into the safety of the cool Russian night air. Get back to the bedroom. Climb down safely with the prize. Close the window. Make no sound, leave no trace. Simple.

He was at the window when he heard the light click on in the hallway. A woman’s voice came drifting in from the hall, growing louder as she came closer. Francis froze, eyes on the slightly open doorway, weighing his options. He had no doubt that she would not be here long, she had likely come to retrieve something before returning back to downstairs. He knew that if he left, she would certainly hear him. All he had to do now was to wait, wait for her to pass and return downstairs before he could safely retreat out into the darkness. Without the moonlight flooding in, the room was dark and he was almost invisible.

The woman spoke again, quieter, as if to herself. Something about finding a bandage. She was close. The door to the bedroom slowly swung wide and the room became dimly lit by the light from the hallway. He saw her face for the first time then, pale and confused, unable to ascertain what she was seeing. As her expression shifted, Francis knew that she had seen him. She had seen him and the prize he held in his hands, unmistakable and pink. The two of them stood in suffocating silence, eyes locked on one another, for what seemed like an eternity.

This had never been part of the plan. It had been so simple, so perfect, and now, here he was, looking into the eyes of the woman that could end his entire life. But she wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t dashing back to the dining room to tell her family about the man who was robbing them of a fortune. No, she was standing there in knowing silence, watching him, almost curious about what he would do next. His mind clicked back in an instant knowing that he should leave. By the time she had gotten back downstairs and called the politsiya, he could be long gone. But somehow, he knew she wouldn’t.

Francis then flashed her a ghost of a smile and returned to the window, vanishing out into the night.

***

Francis’s eyes returned to the stage to see Zephora in her final moments as a dying swan. Her feathered skirt had once again become snow white; her expression betrayed her fear, knowing too well what was to become of her. As the swans dance around her, destroying the man who stole her humanity, she and her prince die in each’s arms, locked in a romantic embrace for all of eternity. Francis found himself wondering, in those moments, just what went through her mind as she returned downstairs to dinner with her family, after seeing a man disappearing out the window with her family’s prized possession. After she looked him in the eye, watched him flash a small smile to her in the darkness, and allowed him to take it. Perhaps, in those moments, Francis had become her swan’s Von Rothbart, taking away that little piece of her humanity.

The performance ended and the audience filed out of the theatre, huddled in little groups to discuss the performance in vivid detail. “Truly incredible,” One man said, in English, as those beside him nodded in agreement. There could be no doubt as to what he was talking about. A woman nearby was blotting her eyes as the man beside her quietly comforted her in French. It seemed that for this evening, the world had arrived in Moscow to speak one universal language.

As the crowd slowly thinned to a trickle, Francis lingered, waiting for one moment with the angel that had ascended from the stage. After more than an hour, the dancers had begun to leave as well, their feet bandaged, their make-up wiped away, and their jewels and feathered finery replaced with long coats to shield themselves from the chill. He waited patiently all the while, congratulating a few of the dancers as they walked out into the night. Then, she appeared.

It took only a moment for Zephora to catch his eye, though she looked very different from the woman who had graced the stage as a princess just a short while ago. And yet, no less beautiful. Her pace slowed as she noticed him, walking like a frightened doe, both curious and hesitant. For the entire evening, she had been in her element, confident and in control. Now, as she came to recognize the man whom she had seen only a few nights ago stealing a family heirloom, she found herself uncertain.

He offered her a knowing smile, the same one that he had given her the moment they had first “met.” He put out his hand, his shirtsleeve betraying a glint of a Rolex watch he had not been wearing the night before, “I wanted to say that I found your performance breathtaking.” He paused as she stood speechless, her hand drawn to his by the gravity of his presence, a force that was not her own. “I can see now why everyone is talking about this show.”

Her eyes flashed, almost amused, “Thank you.”

Francis knew the risk of revealing who he was to a woman who could topple his entire career. He was a man who excelled at the game he played because he knew the meaning of every move that he made. There were often risks, chances to fail, moments of utter uncertainty; but even then, when you weighed the benefits with the costs, some risks simply must be taken. She had not given him up that night, when she watched him in silence, and he believed that she would not do it now. She was curious, and there was something in her eyes that told him that she was just as interested in him as he was in her, even if she did not understand why. “Francis Villiers.”

“Zephora Orlovsky.” She said, straightening her back, “What are you doing here?”

“You’ve seen my work, so I thought I would come and repay the favor.” Francis’s smile never faded. He could still see the amusement in her eyes. “And I wanted to ask if you would care to accompany me for a drink.”

For the first time in their conversation, Zephora smiled. And there was light.

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