what you are.

[optimisticalities]

They met at a benefit for Friends of the Paris Opera Ballet in December, mid-Nutcracker run. Claude was dancing lead in the Russian dance almost daily and looked pretty unrecognisable on stage, all wrapped up in his fake beard and controlled helplessness. Rainier recognised him, though. Without any problems. Refilled his champagne flute and engaged him in an agreeable discussion about the inclusion of neo-classicism at a traditional company like the POB.

Normally, coryphées wouldn’t be invited to these kinds of things. The premier danseurs and étoiles were considered the standard bearers, the money makers of the company, but since he had been hand-picked by their borrowed Danish director for Études and debuted in this classical-style piece with great success, the administration had decided to pump the emerging starling story to its fullest. He was a curiosity at the party, definitely – the youngest of the lot and ranking far below any of the others.

Good thing his shoulders were broad.

Rainier commented on it (heavy expectations you’re carrying at the moment, let us hope your shoulders are as strong as they look), smiling at him warmly over the rim of his glass. Claude had laughed, commented pointlessly on genetic advantages and noticed how Rainier’s sideburns were rather edible, finely dusted with greys.

The man was at least fifteen years older than him, but Claude hadn’t been in a serious relationship since Gilbert died and he hadn’t gotten laid since September.

Besides, Rainier praised him in a really, really appealing way. Obvious offerings to his ego, but who was he to mind. At least they both acknowledged it. By the end of the night, Rainier had passed him his calling card and suggested a date.

Claude said yes and took it.


***


They went to the movies on the other side of New Year. Watched City Lights with Charlie Chaplin and a live band in a small niche movie theatre near Notre Dame. Claude had never been before. Had never seen a silent film, but liked the recognisable theatricality of its composition. Something Rainier made him analyse out loud like a kid in class while they made their way back to Claude’s flat.

And although Claude had told him at some undistinguishable point during the evening that he preferred not to have sex on the first date, they still ended up on his cheap, springy bed that creaked something horrible as Rainier jerked him off with a firm, warm hand.

The way they kissed felt like recognition in its most base, physical form and Claude realised, belatedly and slightly overwhelmed, that he’d missed it. Missed the sensation of being seen, as if he didn’t already spend half his time on stage in front of a crowd of hundreds.

Afterwards, Rainier was sitting with his back to the bare wall, one foot pressing up against Claude’s calf and a cigarette dangling from between his lips. He didn’t offer Claude one, probably aware that he’d have turned it down. Smoke didn’t go well with a dancer’s lungs. Like that, quietly, Claude watched him in the sparse light from the starry sky outside. The cold had frosted his window in pretty patterns along the edges.

Just a turn of his head, hands resting flatly on his bared stomach. His breathing was comfortable and slow. Rainier smiled, the same crooked smile, one corner of his mouth seemingly lighter than the other. Always.

“I think it’s preferable for the both of us, if I don’t review this.”

“Wow, was it that bad?” A halfway laugh.

“I could praise you forever, Claude. Wouldn’t know when to stop. I’d rather spend my time on more important things.”

“As an artist, I’ll have you know there’s nothing that pleases me more than a glowing review.” He rolled onto his side, facing Rainier, chin sliding into place against the crook of his arm. The smell of sweat and cum was pronounced.

“I think I might have to find another way than the written word.”

“I’ll take oral any day.”

Laughing loudly, a scruffy sort of sound that Claude really liked, reminding him of scarves and espresso shots in autumn, Rainier butted his cigarette on the windowsill. Crept back under the covers and kissed his way down Claude’s exposed left side. Neck, shoulder, ribcage and hipbone.

Rainier’s oral praise, Claude thought hazily in between a couple of very laboured gasps, was superior to any reviews he’d ever received, however glowing. He could see himself feed off of this. He could…


***


When he was promoted to sujet almost a year later, Rainier gave him a fully-fledged ballet-crawl as a celebration present. Five major ballet companies over the next six months; weekend trips to London, Copenhagen, Milan, New York and Saint Petersburg. The Nutcracker, Romeo and Juliet, Sleeping Beauty, Jewels and finally, Swan Lake with the Mariinsky over summer…

“I’m rehearsing for two parts, one of which is a lead, you don’t expect me to actually bend over in thanks, do you,” he’d joked, already plotting the dates into his phone. Rainier had been clever enough to check with his work schedule before ordering tickets, he could tell.

“Of course,” Rainier replied, hands behind his head as he leaned back in his larger than life armchair, all brown leather – and oh, how smugness became him, “that’s the least you can do, now that I’ve emptied my savings for you.”

At the time, Claude didn’t think too much about the comment and after a three-course take-out dinner, he did let Rainier fuck him, although he was getting up at six the next morning and going straight into private rehearsals for La Dame aux Camélias by eight.

Because Rainier paid perfect regard to him as he sunk into his arse, balls-deep, and never questioned his need to use a condom. Claude might not be a regular in the milieu, but he knew that considerations like these weren’t to be taken for granted.

You only had to tell so many no, before you learned, after all. Not counting every of his one-night-stands in addition.


***


You’re a god amongst men, Claude, it’s like… you’re not of this world at all when you jump, you’re so beautiful, you’re --, Rainier gasped into the back of his neck the night after his debut as Armand, hips working against Claude’s buttocks at an almost infuriating pace. Claude’s vision, in turn, felt woollen around the edges, his body completely worn out from the performance, but the muscles of his inner thighs still straining against the exertion of the pounding pleasure.

Between the two of them, Rainier was the vocal one in bed, he was the one with all the words. It wasn’t that Claude wasn’t loud, he just never moved past the more instinctual sounds. The groans, the moans and the unintelligible begging. With Rainier, the only thing he ever knew how to say when they had sex was yes.

Yes, he whispered, hoarsely. Felt his balls tighten up almost painfully, precome turning the sheets sticky beneath his stomach. Yes, yes, yes.


***


“So, did you like it?”

“I was, like, ten years old again, James. It was magical.”

James smiled broadly, obviously pleased. As soon as Claude had had the chance to look up the cast list for their Convent Garden visit and saw him listed for the trepak, he’d contacted his old friend whom he’d met in Italy a few times during their school years, when they had both made it tradition to join the Cecchetti summer intensives in Milan. Now the man was shrugging into a loose, comfortable sweatshirt, his hair shining from sweat.

Typical wig hair, didn’t they all know it?

Not to mention, the Royal Ballet’s Nutcracker did exactly what the title suggested at – cracked all the nuts. Claude was pretty impressed. For all Nureyev’s flourishes, this particular ballet had never joined his other productions on their masterful pedestals. He liked the very classical Wright-choreography better, not that anyone at the Opera would hear him admit it out loud. Probably not even under torture, he would like to keep his job, thank you.

“You have no idea how long I worked on those kicks. You’d have aced them from the get-go, of course, you were always an incredible jumper, but I’ve been cursed with these thin legs...”

They were rapidly transporting themselves back to the age of fifteen and long, hot days in the studios of La Scala. Childishly excited, Claude leaned in and draped an arm around James’ shoulders, tapping his cheek with one finger, softly. “Maybe you ought to walk me through the choreo someday, huh?”

“No way, before you know it, they’ll have you replacing me.” James was grinning from ear to ear; it was the last performance before Christmas and it was snowing outside. They hadn’t seen each other in forever, it seemed.

Well, it had been a couple of years…

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, the Opera doesn’t want to share his talent, I’m sure,” sounded Rainier’s voice off to the right where he’d parked himself wordlessly after they’d entered the dressing room. Pausing at the sudden tenseness in the room, James dodging out from underneath his hold, Claude frowned and glanced at Rainier over one shoulder.

Although his smile was polite enough, his features were mostly blank.

They left not soon after, Rainier and him. Returned to their expensive, bauble-decked hotel. Claude filled the Jacuzzi with bubbles and thanked the other man for the first one-fifth of his present with nicely soaked fingers and deep, generous kisses.


***


February went by too quickly in a blur of back-and-forth between Paris and London, hour-long private sessions with Wray who had, at the beginning of the season, personally chosen Claude to dance the lead in his new full-length ballet, premiering at Palais Garnier come May.

Claude liked his approach, how he spent their entire first meeting just watching Claude go through barre exercises to figure out his strengths and weaknesses. He didn’t ask, he looked. Commented on his stiff upper body (typical French schooling, he said and instructed Claude to try loosening up the line of his neck and shoulders more), praised his legs and his precise footwork. Once they began working on combinations, he was hands-on, leading him through every movement from start to finish. Nudging Claude’s feet into cleaner positions with his shoe, keeping him steady with a calming hand against his back.

“Say hello to your friend for me when you see him,” Rainier told him later as he pretended to be a cab and stole one of the pick-up spots in front of the airport main entrance where he’d promised to drop off Claude on Valentine’s Day, the day after his birthday which Claude had spent mostly at work, with classes until noon and a performance in the evening. A long moment followed where he wondered if Rainier was referring to Wray and if he were, Claude wasn’t sure he liked the term he’d used. It felt too familiar, not respectful enough. Rainier continued, “What was his name, Ian? Ja--something?”

“James?”

“James, yes.”

Someone behind them honked their horn multiple times, yet Claude was in no hurry to get out.

It occurred to him that the fact his flight wasn’t boarding in another hour might come in very handy now. “I’m not exactly embarking on a leisure trip, Rainier,” he said, pointedly. Turned slightly in his seat.

Staring straight ahead, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, a rhythm-less and restless beat, Rainier pursed his lips. “Such fun you seem to have at work, then.”

Was he really hearing this? Did those words just come out Rainier’s mouth?

“Fucking Hell, Rainier. Because I happen to love my job, okay? Not because I sneak off to London in plain fucking view to bang some guy I used to hang out with in the summers --” The sentence trailed off into an aggressive mumble and he ended up just shaking his head, throwing the car door open. Went around to the back and picked up his bag, swinging it over one shoulder with enough force to make him briefly stagger. “Shit, how much of an amateur do you think I am?” he managed to aim at the unresponsive back of Rainier’s neck before slamming the boot shut and stalking off.

In the afternoon, Wray began introducing him to his first solo, constantly returning to Claude’s shoulders, lowering them forcefully, fingers digging into muscle, again and again. You’re uptight, he observed. Relax.

Rainier didn’t call Claude that night and Claude sure as Hell wasn’t going to play ice-breaker for him.


***


Copenhagen wasn’t much to look at in late winter, grey and rainy and cold. Claude had never seen the Neumeier version of Romeo and Juliet before, though it had been in safe hands with the RDB. An overall spectacular performance. A staple in their company, he’d read somewhere. It had been created around the same time as La Dame aux Camélias, obviously, many of the lifts and the general style recognisable from experience. Neumeier knew how to portray drama in movement; Claude had enjoyed it, sitting in the charmingly red velvet seats, next to Rainier…

They discussed it while enjoying a drink in the bar of their hotel. Rainier thought La Dame aux Camélias was a far superior work, much more sophisticated and stripped of the awkwardness that became obvious in the various pas de deux between Romeo and Juliet. Protesting, Claude pointed out that the main characters were too different to compare, Romeo and Juliet needing their youth and simplicity while Marguerite and Armand required layers of complexity for their otherwise rather straightforward love story to unfold.

“Neumeier’s choreography tends towards the awkward,” Rainier complained and chugged down the rest of his mojito.

“Probably because he’s aware that love can be extremely awkward at times. You should know, too,” Claude answered and sipped his whiskey sour without too much of a hurry.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rainier gestured at the waiter. Ordered two Irish coffees without checking with Claude first whether he even wanted one this close to bedtime.

Claude sighed. “Nothing. Never mind.”


***


He wouldn’t have been able to make any intelligent comments on Ratmansky’s reconstruction of Sleeping Beauty, the performance that they attended at La Scala, not even if pressed. Sometime during the dream sequence in act two, Rainier’s fingers unzipped his trousers and stroked him through the coda, then through the climax.

The rest of the performance was a post-orgasmic blur. He might have nodded off once or twice.

Really, he felt quite horrible about it.


***


As part of his extended coverage on its creation, Rainier had been granted access to all their Orpheus rehearsals. Along with a petite, pretty photographer who crept along the edges of the studio like a half-transparent shadow, he observed Wray’s hands as they corrected the position of Claude’s arms, his legs learning their lessons more quickly than the line of his neck which the choreographer kept returning to. Here, he tapped his fingers against the crook between shoulder and neck, against Claude’s tight muscles as he clenched his jaw during a dévelopé à la seconde on demi-pointe. What have I told you? You need to relax, you look uptight. This line must be completely fluid, like water – you’re not tall enough to be able to afford anything that cuts your lines short. Relax.

So Claude forced himself to relax. Repeated the combination. Wray praised him with a ruffle of his hair that made him smile; that made him raise an eyebrow at their reflections in the mirror. Proudly.

Somewhere at the back, Rainier had been reduced to a black, blotchy silhouette.

“He touches you a lot,” he commented ten days later while they were preparing dinner, a duck salad that Claude had been looking forward to since some low point involving a stubbed toe the week before, because thank the Lord for protein.

The breast was beautifully pink in the middle and Claude cut it in thin, even slices that would look so damn fine on top of a grand selection of the greens of the season. “It’s his style, Rainier. He’s just very hands-on, it was the same when we worked together in London…”

A long silence followed. Rainier shook the jar of orange vinaigrette for the watercress and beetroot base hard, forcing the contents to mix, the resultant liquid syrupy and amber-hued. Claude sliced the last duck breast with great care, equally quiet.

“He’s queer, isn’t he?”

What? Claude turned to stare at the man, the red juices from the meat filling the groove running along the edges of the wooden cutting board. “I don’t know,” he replied, slowly, weighing every word. “He might be, it’s not something I’ve asked him, nor is it any of my fucking business. He’s my coach, for God’s sake.” Irritably, he started loading the duck on top of the salad. It didn’t look anywhere near as good in its final arrangement as it could have, but there you have it. There you fucking have it.

“He’s queer,” Rainier concluded, spraying vinaigrette all over the duck and the heap of reds and greens. It looked prettier now that it all sparkled faintly golden. “He’s queer and I don’t want you to work with him anymore.”

“You know what? I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you say that, because it’s fucking insane and I don’t do well with psychopaths, Rainier. Enjoy your salad, I’m going home.”

Grabbing his jacket off the coat tree on the way, he headed for the door without hesitation. Rainier was welcome to call him when he’d located his fucking mind somewhere out there. Shit. The loud crash of glass breaking against the countertop echoed between the walls, only adding a certain desperate pace to his steps.

Door, right ahead. Door.

Rainier’s fingers closed around his wrist, the hold muffled slightly by his jacket’s thick sleeve, but still harsh. Still demanding and utterly unapologetic. Claude tore himself loose, slammed the door open so hard that it rattled on its hinges and galloped down the single flight of stairs leading out onto the street.

Only once he had to stop, to wait for the next train at the nearby Metro station, unidentifiable in the Saturday night crowd, did he notice that Rainier had left sticky, bloody fingerprints on the green fabric.


***


They talked the issue over once (I’m not the cheating type, I want you to fucking trust me, alright?) and then they didn’t touch it again. Rainier wrote a great review on his debut in Orpheus and Claude accepted it as a held out hand, a gesture, recognition of his responsibility in the entire affair. The first step to changing a problem, right?

Right.

Mid-June they went to New York and enjoyed an amazing performance of Balanchine’s Jewels at the NYCB. Hitting a jazz bar in the area afterwards, they drank enough 75s to knock out a horse and joked about Claude’s chances with Balanchine’s style (poor, allegro wasn’t his strong suit). Followed by a pleasant discussion about the position of the male dancer in Balanchine’s repertory in general.

It felt as if things had returned to normal. Claude figured it had just been the stress of his spring schedule; he’d spent up to sixteen hours in the studio almost every day since New Year, after all. Maybe he should keep that in mind next season?

The singer, a black woman with a dark, husky voice, led the band through a slow, improvised interpretation of All the Things You Are. It had the air of a lullaby.


***


“Don’t tell me you aren’t screwing him, Claude, the way he looks at you --”

“He’s my friend, for fuck’s sake, Rainier, what do you want me to say?! He’s not even into men!”

“And what about Camille? Gaël? This flood of guys you spend your weekends with, huh?”

“Would you listen to yourself? Shit, can’t you see it’s your own fucking fault that I’d rather hang out with other people, you controlli--”

The blow came out of nowhere. Landed squarely across his jaw, his mouth, gracing his nose, but hard. Claude stumbled backwards, a vase getting knocked off his old-fashioned drawer and onto the floor at the collision, breaking into shards of glass. Everywhere. He stepped on something sharp that went straight through his sock, but the pain wasn’t as mind-numbing as the throbbing spreading all over the lower part of his face. His lips had split open, clean across. From his left nostril, the nasty-warm trickle of blood was blending into the chaos. Fuck. Did Rainier just --? Fuck.

They stared at each other. The seconds trickling by. Like water evaporating in the desert. Every time Claude inhaled, his mouth filled with the taste of copper.

Rainier looked down at his right hand, clenched into a pale fist, a slight smear of blood across his knuckles. Pinkish.

“You need to leave. Now.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears, when he spoke. Dull and flat. Emotionless. Claude was at the mercy of his emotions at all times, he’d never experienced himself this void before. Neither did he like it. “I don’t want to see you again, Rainier. I’ll stop by your apartment next week and pick up my stuff, I’ll leave the key. Don’t call me. Just go.”

And Rainier did. The door closing softly behind him.

Once at the emergency room, his injuries amounted to his lips which would stop gushing blood eventually, they assured him, a bruised jawbone, a cut in the sole of his foot and an unfortunate TFL strain from his crash. He’d need to rest for a couple of weeks, no heavy exercise until the pain was completely gone.

Easy for them to say, of course.

“I have to ask how you sustained these injuries, Monsieur Bérubé, it’s required by law,” the nurse told him, dabbing at his lip with a friendly smile and a firm hand.

“Took a tumble into my grandma’s mahogany drawer, it was just an accident,” he answered, realising too late that he had managed to serve her the same excuse every battered housewife in the country had told throughout centuries. She said nothing. Dabbed at his lip a couple of times more before straightening up.

“You dance ballet, you said?”

Nodding, he didn’t meet her eyes. As she found a fuck-load of painkillers for him to swallow, she hummed the Swan Lake theme under her breath. Didn’t get the tones completely right, not like it mattered…

They had planned on Saint Petersburg the following weekend, had tickets for a Swan Lake performance at the Mariinsky Theatre. Rainier and him. Guess that was out of the question.

The equation. The everything.


***


Rothbart was a role that he’d been really proud to be cast in. They’d had fun in rehearsals, all of them first-timers and all of them at ease with each other after years in the same performances. Valère and him managed to build up a fully-fledged relationship between Siegfried and Rothbart and Amélie fluctuated between them effortlessly. Their coach was pleased. Everything was set for a grand opening night.

Claude felt grateful for the work. Felt grateful for his aching legs, his bruised toenails, the impossibly heavy costume that necessitated focus to present perfectly.

It was an overall great performance. Some wobbles here and there, Amélie crying salty tears afterwards over her travelling fouettés, but the applause had been enthusiastic and genuine.

Then, the review came.

By Monday noon, everyone were casting furtive glances at him. No one mentioned it, in the breaks, in the cafeteria, in the showers, but their looks were eloquent enough on their own.

All other media had reported on the performance with relative positivity, ranging from forgiving fondness to jubilant delight. Yet, Rainier had criticised everything, from Valère’s old, “obvious” injury which really hadn’t been a problem whatsoever to Amélie’s blemished Black Swan coda, every criticism in the end coming back to Claude’s portrayal of Rothbart – or truthfully, reading between the lines, back to Claude himself.

Since he wasn’t scheduled to dance for a couple of days, he went downtown that night, went clubbing in the meat market way he’d never go near otherwise. Found some random guy his own age to jerk off in the first available toilet stall, saying nothing when he went on his knees afterwards to reciprocate. It was a fast and slobby fuck, not even that good. He never learned the man’s name and on his way back to his flat, he couldn’t help wondering whether it was his tensor fasciae latae that was still hurting him or something else. Something else entirely.


***


By the beginning of the autumn/winter season, it had become a running joke that any cast featuring Claude Bérubé in a solo role was doomed to receive no more than three stars in Le Journal du Dimanche, regardless of the actual quality of the performance.

However much of a running joke it was, of course, no one found it funny. Least of all Claude.


***


And at the concours in late October, he didn’t advance.

All his prominent and well-received performances came to this.

Naught.


***


He stood alone in front of the cast list that had been posted earlier in the morning. Everybody else had long since filtered out into their various studios for class and rehearsals, but Claude just remained there. Frozen, in front of the almighty paper.

He wasn’t on it.

He had originated the fucking role of Orpheus and he wasn’t even given a named role in the revival, least of all the lead, despite raving reviews, despite glowing praise, despite it being a fucking highlight of his career.

He was back in the corps. He was going backwards.


***

26.03.2010

To: clau.ber@pob.fr
From: bg@bgballet.lu

Dear Claude,

Having followed your career with some interest over the past couple of years, I am happy to inform you that BG Ballet Luxembourg is finally able to offer you a solicited audition, should you be considering a change of affiliation.

Our repertory includes mainly pieces in the neo-classical and contemporary auspices, including many works by John Neumeier, Jiri Kylian, inter alia, along with modern interpretations of some classical ballets, my own re-imagination of Coppelia included. As we are a very young company still struggling to find our feet, only few truly classical titles have been staged, but August Bournonville’s La Sylphide is in our repertory along with a few George Balanchine gems.

Although I can, of course, not conclude on the outcome of your audition at this point, we are inviting you with an eventual principal status in mind, whether through your stepping in as a soloist first or direct introduction as a principal. It depends much on your own preferences as well.

I have attached a few videos of select performances to give you a grasp of our style and scope. Please let us hear back from you ASAP.

Kind regards,
Benjamin Girard

Artistic director and principal dancer, BG Ballet
Luxembourg City
Luxembourg

***


The Grand Theatre had a softer feel to its stage than the Palais Garnier, he noticed, feet finishing in a perfect fifth position after his last grand jeté of the variation, exactly as Wray used to correct them with his brand-name leather-clad toes. Girard cheered and clapped, mumbling something to the coach sitting next to him who proceeded to scribble a few words down on her notepad.

Yes, it was a softer stage, not just in atmosphere, the wood itself felt bouncier beneath his weight as he walked towards the edge, Girard getting up and meeting him halfway, down in the stalls, next to the orchestra pit.

“Great, very good, fantastic – this time, I need to see your partnering, Heidi’s all warmed up in the wings…”

Earlier, Claude had guested morning class and seen Girard’s wife (who still worked under her German name, Dehne) lead the girls with quite the dramatic flair. They’d chatted while Girard had shown him around the premises and she’d immediately struck him as a rather soft woman, though adaptable rather than yielding. Her French still a charming work in progress.

Now he simply stared at Girard for a long moment, turning his head slowly to glance – slightly panicked – at the stage where Heidi was finding her position, dead centre, far back, a heavy pelt around her shoulders.

“You didn’t instruct me to prepare a pas de --” he began, voice dropping a pitch as he attempted not to sound as taken aback as he felt. He’d already decided he needed this job, this move, this chance. He wasn’t going to let a lack of preparation ruin it. No.

“No, no, don’t worry, Claude. I know you’ve danced Armand before and Heidi danced Marguerite back in Hamburg, you’re both returning to an old part.” Girard smiled, put a hand on his shoulder, comfortingly. Weirdly enough, Claude actually felt his breathing slow down gradually in response. Panic subdued, if not gone entirely. Pat, pat, pat and Girard added, “I’d like to walk you through the black pas de deux, yes? It’s been a while for the both of you, so take it from there. Any mistakes and I’ll stop the music, let you do it over. But don’t drop her or I will break your leg, understood?”

He laughed. Claude, too, found himself laughing.

Heidi was soft. Easy to carry and melted into his arms like butter. As they tried the difficult lift at the end of the PDD for the second time, she sunk down his chest in an almost liquid state and didn’t hit him in the face with her arm like Segal had done back home every single time, because she’d been only an inch shorter than him, her balance point always a trust fall on its own. Heidi remained level between his hands and before Girard got started on his general critique afterwards, she squeezed Claude’s upper arm gently and thanked him for the dance.

Smiling at her, he realised the upward curve of his lips didn’t strain the muscles in his cheeks quite so vehemently anymore. It became something more than just the physical gesture, the pain of moving. It became… just moving.

And fuck it, if Claude didn’t love motion in its purest form.


***


Returning from Luxembourg, he handed in his three-week notice to the Opera administration and was effectively off the stage the rest of the season, scouting affordable flats in downtown Luxembourg City. Come June, his contract with the BG Ballet was finalised, Benjamin employing him in the rank of principal from the get-go and what a get it was. What a go.

His new flat was dingy at best, probably more of a ramshackle affair and kept in a minimalist style less by choice than by necessity. Still, he truly enjoyed standing in front of his full-size mirror, getting dressed for the season’s open introduction gala that Benjamin hosted every year. He wasn’t scheduled to dance, wouldn’t be appearing on stage until spring, still training with the company coaches, getting introduced to a variety of roles and a style much more focused on his dramatic expression than the clean and classic requirements of the Opera. So far, Claude really enjoyed it, loved it, sweating out a lot of shit while working his arse off.

He didn’t mind the risk at this point, the risk of getting his hopes up. For the most part, his hopes had already been met.


***

Le Quotidien, May 2011
Culture in Luxembourg City by Jean-Marie Bader, junior correspondent.

Look! A Homerun
The Lady of the Camellias by John Neumeier, BG Ballet

”[…] Opening night marked the debut of newly employed principal dancer, Claude Bérubé, a Paris Opera Ballet alumni in the role of Armand, one he had danced previously to great praise in Paris. Thus, the leading couple were both seasoned in their parts, Madame Dehne likewise having danced it before and under the coaching of John Neumeier himself, too. Their experience showed. […]

The highlight of the evening was unquestionable the third act pas de deux which was executed not only with an incredible speed and passion, but marked by an almost palpable musicality. Neither of them tall dancers, Dehne and Bérubé both carried themselves with a larger than life emotional range, no gesture, no movement without inherent meaning. Here it came together, Bérubé’s almost overwhelmingly emotional portrayal of Armand and Dehne’s somewhat softer, up until that point always slightly guarded Marguerite. It seemed a natural consequence, if not exactly intended that her hair should come loose of its bun halfway through, symbolising the unravelling feelings of their meeting.

As dancers, they appeared to compliment each other perfectly, every highly demanding and difficult lift executed with ease and fluidity. There were times when Dehne, hanging far above the floor, looked like a mere extension of Bérubé’s body, her frailness and lighter hair colour aside. If Girard plans on retiring from the stage within the nearest future, he has obviously, in Bérubé, chosen a new star dancer who can not only fill the seats, but who can create the same kind of magic with his favoured muse.

[…] This performance was a major accomplishment from the still young company, setting precedence for what we as its audience might expect in the future quality-wise. On his own, Bérubé certainly proved himself a great match for their neo-classical scope and the many flowers and cheers he received at curtain call were fully deserved. Considering such a performance marking the beginning of his career with BG Ballet, one must wonder: Do they truly know what talent slipped between their fingers at the Paris Opera Ballet?”