Encore by Monique Raphel High

do.” He glanced uneasily at his sponsor, whose fine profile seemed tightly drawn at this late hour.
    â€œWork? Now?”
    â€œYes. I could never settle down if I tried to sleep. Too much excitement.” He felt awkward about admitting what was on his mind. He had seen the loveliest creature in the world, an airborne sprite defying human limitations, and he wanted to rush home and commit her to paper. She was the sweetest, most mischievous fairy, a brilliant dancer. Svetlov had said so, too: “That is the first time I have seen a Sugar Plum with a sense of humor.” And although he had added criticism of her port de bras, Pierre had felt that he had done so only to preserve his reputation for tough judgment.
    Clearly, Boris had agreed with this approval. Pierre realized that the count had purchased flowers during the intermission, but that he had not thrown them down until the end. He had even written a few words on one of his visiting cards. Well prepared, Boris Vassilievitch: a bouquet in case he should become transported with enthusiasm. Pierre sorely regretted not having possessed his patron’s foresight. Thinking about the ballerina, Pierre’s former euphoria returned. “I have never seen anyone so wonderful as little Oblonova,” he said. “Don’t you think so, too?”
    Carefully appraising the young man, Boris replied: “Ballet is still new to you. But yes, I agree. She combines character with fluid grace. That is very rare. However, I shall have to take you to a performance of the greats. Pierre, Kchessinskaya is too staid these days, but you will enjoy our new ballerinas: Pavlova, Karsavina, Kyasht.”
    Pierre shook his head in sudden animation. With profound emotion, he countered: “No, Boris Vassilievitch. As works of art, perhaps I shall appreciate these ladies, but for me, no one will ever surpass the charm, the absolute beauty, of Oblonova. I—I could love her.”
    â€œOh? Tell me, Pierre—what do you really know about love? It seems to me you’re being somewhat childish. Talented, yes: Of course, she’s that. But—love?” His mouth turned down in a smile of irony, but he could feel his throat constricting. Boris smoothed his mustache in a mechanical gesture and looked out the coach window, past the blur of nighttime mist. “Love ...” he intoned pensively, almost to himself. “Come now, Pierre. One doesn’t love a woman from afar.”
    With sudden stubbornness the younger man resisted. “Then, I’ll arrange to meet her.” He glared at Boris. “Why should you care, Boris Vassilievitch? Clearly you already know all the ballerinas and could make love to any one of them!”
    Boris’s stomach turned. He pressed a hand to it, containing the crippling pain. Turning from the window, he stared directly at the young painter, his eyes intense points of metal, sharp and cruel. “Don’t be an ass, Pierre,” he said. “Let’s drop this discussion, shall we?”
    But the other refused to let go. Something in Boris’s tone, a verbal dismissal, had hurt his pride, and now he cried: “I see it now! You’re incapable of love, and so you envy me! You could not understand my feeling for Oblonova. In my place you would simply want her for a toy, to be displayed at your convenience. You fancy that artists are your friends, but you can’t grasp our fundamental soul, what makes us live and breathe! If you ever felt love, it would not be the love we feel but something else, something tarnished, a need to use. Well, Oblonova is not a mechanical doll that can be wound up for your pleasure. She is an artist, and only another artist can really be touched by her performance. If I could meet her, I know that she could love me, too. She would understand what lies in my heart, and she would identify with my conception of the world.”
    Boris now turned toward Pierre, and the young