Teatro Degollado

Sixteen Corinthian columns elevated the regal portico and held the grand pediment of the theatre. On the pediment, the figures of Apollo and the muses poised in pantomime calmly looked at the sight below. At their feet, deeply incised in the marble lay the inscription  “May The Rumour of Discord Never Escape.”

The day had settled and died. The twilight had ebbed and bled. The street lights were lit and illuminated the plastered posters “The Magnificent Lucia Perlata Dances Ravel’s Bolero”. The people filed below the grand pediment and into the gilded vestibule. The chandeliers vibrated with the multitude of steps, and the ringing of the women’s laughter filled the lofty vault. The hall was brightly illuminated with heavy chandeliers reflecting light into a myriad of dancing rays. The mosaics glittered a magic over the hall. Men in starched suits stood rigid and composed, women with satin and plumes stood gracefully leaning in to the chatter. 

“I'm glad Perlata is back, without her the ballets were lifeless.”

“I almost refused to come to them.”

“I only  hope she recovered from the incident.”

“Do you suppose that was an accident.”

“Well who could have done such a horrid thing consciously?” 

Lucia Perlata was finishing her makeup, her hair already in an impeccable braided bun. She finished her lipstick, she had done this routine many times. Always careful to preserve her skirt without any stain. Her mind wandered momentarily to that night, the images flashed before her;  remembering the knife in hand.  She stood up, and with her deep set eyes analyzed her reflection scrutinizing any imperfection. Satisfied at last she went to the barre standing on pointe. She was graceful. With thin wrists, a long neck and long legs. She did a quick barre composed of pliés and tendus. She was ready. 

The music began, Ravel’s Bolero. A systematic steady march from the snare drums started the action. In came the graceful Perlata dressed in a skirt of pure white in imitation of a greek chiton. The rhythm of the flutes was traced in her port de bras. Graceful and light. Playful with the arcadian environments of the ballet. Ravel’s Bolero is a steady piece, the same rhythm and melody repeated cyclically, meticulously staying steady while augmenting the magnitude. What begins as a composed soft whisper ends as a firm testament. What begins a secret dismissed, ends a veracity unearthed. Perlata executed the piece with perfection. Meticulous footwork. Her carriage and epaulement capturing the cyclical ebb of the piece. In her dancing was the insistence of the piece. The incessant want for release. Firmer and firmer became the wall of music. Louder and grander until the piece could no longer contain itself. Thundering the 35 instruments chanted the song of eternal truth.

A wall of applause erupted when the last beat of the music fell. The roar of applause concealed a fatal gunshot. The prima ballerina Perlata collapsed. Her white chiton dripping red. The crowd stared. Perlata was dead. Panic flared as people began to stand, forcing row after row to stand in an attempt to catch a glimpse. The yells made the theater heave, People were forced to leave. 

The moon was full and by now it had risen to crown the night. Gaping pure white, appalled the moon stared. In the pediment the muses stood staring at their feet “May The Rumour of Discord Never Escape.”