I was trying to parse out what the girl in the seat next to me had meant, but I was interrupted.
Madame Taglioni took the stage. Her draping emerald gown swept across the floor, and even with her limp, she had the unmistakable movement of someone who had studied dance.
Although the headshot I had seen of her had to have been from fifty years ago, the woman now standing so comfortably in the spotlight looked remarkably young. Her hair was a bright white, pulled back into a tight dancer’s bun, but her face was un-weathered by age. She looked to be in her 40’s, tops.
“Thank you all for coming,” she spoke into the microphone, “Once again, my dancers and I are so honored to be able to share this with you.” Her voice was deep and rich, and she spoke slowly, not in the rushed way some people do when they’re on stage and nervous.
She smiled. “We’ve got quite a show for you tonight.”
As she spoke, shapes moved from the wings of the stage. Nearly 30 dancers quickly and gracefully lined up behind their leader. Young men and women, ages looking to be from 17-21. Quite a few were dressed in plain tulle tutus or pants, as brisk a white as Taglioni’s hair.
A few were in more complex outfits. A handsome young man all in lilac, wearing a crown that sparkled so brightly in the lights that I thought it must be made with real jewels and gold; A young woman dressed all in black, a large white ruffle around her neck, her face painted pale but her eyes smudged with charcoal.
But my eyes were only focused on them for a moment, before being drawn to the last figure to join the stage.
She walked lightly up beside Madame Taglioni, as the latter smiled at her proudly before speaking in to the microphone. “May I present to you, in this year’s 50th anniversary production of Le Papillon, from Madame Taglioni’s Ballet, your Farfalla—Emma Livry!” The girl sitting next to me let out a little excited gasp as Emma Livry stopped, turned, and curtsied at the audience.
Her costume was beautiful. Crème tulle and muslin, interrupted by patterned blue silk that ran up onto her silver lined corset, continuing to the large, elaborate butterfly wings that sprung from the fabric over her shoulder blades. She smiled as the audience cheered.
But, I didn’t trust it.
I realize that ballet is incredibly difficult. It’s more of a physical feat than the majority of sports. And therefore I know there must be a great deal of stress that dancers go to, to prepare for performances like this. Especially with the scale and fame of this particular performance.
But her face looked... pained. She held her curtsy completely still, and she kept her smile wide and gleaming, but even from my seat I could tell that it didn’t meet her eyes.
As the cheering died down, the girl with the goldfish ring leaned closer to me, and I bent to meet her. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? The wings?”
I nodded impatiently. If this girl was going to talk, I wanted to hear more about what she had said earlier. About hoping that Emma ‘made it’, whatever that means. Before I could ask, the girl kept continued.
“I hear they only get sewn in three weeks before the performance.”
I frowned. “What?”
“I know; they only give her three weeks to figure out how to dance with the weight of the wings. It must throw off everything, her spins, her jumps...” the girl tacked on a few more things to this list, but I had momentarily stopped listening.
Instead, I had turned back to Emma.
What I thought had been fabric on her shoulder blades, was something much worse.
The actual fabric of her dress scooped down in the back, perfectly displaying the beautiful blue wings that had been visibly sewn into the flesh of the girl’s back. Pink scar tissue intermittent with blue thread shone shiny in the stage lights, and I felt my stomach turn.
I glanced around at the faces in the audience, to catch any glimpse of horror or disgust, to match what I was feeling inside. But, I saw nothing but awestricken delight.
“You know, in their 32nd year, they only made it part of the way through Act One because Prince Djalma’s crown got caught on Farfalla’s wing and ripped the whole thing off!” Sickeningly, she giggled. “They had to give everyone refunds. But they haven’t had any trouble since. My favorite character is probably...”
The girl’s prattling was cut off, as Madame Taglioni began to speak again. “It has been my pleasure to watch Emma grow into this role. Although it was tough competition this year, there can only be one Farfalla.” The woman smiled fondly at the girl, like a cat leering over a mouse it had caught. “And Emma has certainly earned her wings.”
At this, the crowd broke out into uproarious laughter. I only felt more nauseous.
“This year, we are thrilled to have a very special guest.” There were whispers amongst the audience, as Madame Taglioni motioned to the right of the stage. “Here to pass the torch,” another smattering of laughter that I didn’t quite understand, “is last year’s Farfalla, Franziska Wilde!”
There was a creak of metal that reverberated throughout the theater. As the crowd began to applaud and cheer, a tall man dressed all in black began to push a wheelchair onto the stage. In it was a severely disfigured young woman.
She wore a light pink dress that covered much of her body, and a scarf around her head, but it couldn’t hide the extensive damage that had been done to virtually every inch of skin that remained visible.
Her face had the same sheen to it that the scar tissue on Emma’s back had. The light pink of poorly healed skin blended in with the blush of the dress. Wispy strands of brittle hair came down to her shoulders, one of which ended in a knotted stump where the arm had been removed.
Still, she smiled at the crowd, her face creasing like balled up paper. And, disturbingly enough, when she leaned forwards slightly, I could see them:
Small blue tattered shapes protruded from her back, and I recognized what they were—Farfalla’s blue butterfly wings, cut down to the root.
The man left Franziska next to Madame Taglioni and Emma, and stepped forward to lower the microphone to her height.
As she spoke, her voice sent a shiver down my spine. “Hello,” she started, with all the tone and texture of a metal fork against ceramic. “I’m so happy to be here.” She carefully turned her head to look at Emma. “There is no greater joy than to perform on this stage as Farfalla. I wish you luck.”
A resurgence of clapping at this, and as Madame Taglioni kept her serene smile, I could see Emma’s falter. She was looking at Franziska, frail and broken in the bright lights of the stage.
Her hand unconsciously moved towards the impressive wings on her back, as her eyes traced the ruined remains of the one’s on Franziska’s. There was something in her eyes, like she was witnessing something that brought her pain and understanding, all at once. Unfortunately, I'd pieced together what it was.
She was looking at her future.
Soon after, Act One of Le Papillon began.
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Credits
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