As I gently push past a number of other servers on my way to the private boxes, the strangest thoughts plague my mind. I feel like I’d enjoy taking Cassie to a place like this — not a hit, but to a classy show, a taste of the New York culture she’s been deprived of all her life.
I have to push the thoughts away as I approach my target’s location.
Jean Bouchard enjoys watching the fruits of his work as much as he enjoys tormenting his dancers. Rather than spending the performance behind the stage, he prefers to watch from one of the most expensive boxes in the theater. As I approached the box, I flashed my ID card once again for the guard posted at the door, who nods at me after seeing me hold up my bottle of wine significantly.
“Best hurry, you won’t be able to get in after curtain,” the guard warns, and I bob my head in acknowledgement, preferring not to speak if I can avoid it.
I step in and see Jean chatting with a couple of wealthy-looking women seated on either side of him. Jean is a thin man of towering height, with a shaven face and bald head that accentuates his already intense black eyebrows. An alien-looking figure, to be sure, but there’s an eerie cruelty to his smile as he fakes a laugh at someone’s joke that reminds me what kind of man I’m dealing with.
“Monsieur Bouchard,” I politely interrupt them, and the world-famous coach arches an eyebrow and gives me a vaguely annoyed look. I hold up the wine and address him in his native French, with an accent I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. “Complements of the theater, a bottle of Pétrus, for your enjoyment. We’re honored to have you this evening.”
At the sound of his language, his expression eases a bit, and he manages something like a sincere smile as he replies in kind. “I see. Return my compliments. You are dismissed.” He waves me off without a tip, and I bow my head politely, retreating out the door.
All I need do now is wait.
I step out the doors and make my way to the vicinity of the closest bathroom. The Bordeaux wine is authentic, and it’s a favorite of Jean’s, but I treated it with a potent, tasteless diuretic before resealing and delivering it. In a place like this, at a performance, I have very slim chances of getting Jean alone. During a performance like this, however, it’s more unlikely that the guests will be taking frequent bathroom breaks, so the restrooms should be relatively empty.
And as much as Jean will want to watch his star pupil on stage, he won’t have much choice but to answer the call of nature.
Within a few minutes, the music starts, and as I stand by one of the doorways to the regular rows, I can see the performers begin the show.
It’s Swan Lake. I chuckle to myself. A fine Russian ballet was appropriate for a job like this. As the ballet gets underway, my eyes are torn between watching for my target and watching the stage.
Before long, I see Sonya, bounding across the stage with the grace of a deer. It’s remarkable to see how she’s grown — she was a tiny child when I saw her last. Then again, I was but a teenager at the time.
Her movements are effortless, as if the music is at her command rather than the other way around. Through it all, I can see something missing from her expression. There’s a tinge of emotionlessness in her eyes, a lack of the fire I saw in her when she was younger.
As I watch her carry out a flawless performance in sadness, my mind wanders again back to Cassie, thinking about her background. Cassie has all the grace in the world, all the beauty of an angel, and all the innocence of a lamb, but how many times did I see her looking to be on the verge of tears at her own wedding? How much did her parents put her through before she ended up on that auction stage?
Cassie tasted so sweet, and I know the lust within me craves, demands to have my face between her thighs again and again. I wanted to ruin that perfect angel, but I can’t shake the thought of how much of her personhood was taken from her to make her what she is, just like Sonya.
Footsteps down the hall snap me out of my trance, and I realize, embarrassed, that I’d let nearly an hour pass watching the show. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jean’s form disappearing into the bathroom.
Without missing another beat, I start off after him.
The bathroom is long and luxurious, with mirrors all along the wall with the sinks. The lone sound of urination tells me that I’m fortunate enough to be alone with Jean. Quietly, I slip out my wire and keep it tight in one hand, moving to one of the sink mirrors to pretend to be adjusting my collar.
Jean finishes relieving himself and goes to wash his hands, the water creating some white noise in the long bathroom. As he does, I see him glance over at me.
“Fine wine,” he remarks curtly, “a rare thing in this country.”