My mother arriving, the first thing she did was take the letter from my hand and declare, "Oh, it's a pity Sophie won't be able to see you dancing! I remember she mentioned before how much she would like it."
"That was exactly what I needed to hear," I thought, pretty irritated. I left the room without saying a word, grabbed my cloak by habit, and left the Opera for the first time in weeks.
The sun struck me right in the eyes, and for a brief moment I was completely blind. And as I slowly recuperated my sight - surprise - there was a world outside. And this world was exectly the same it has been before.
Except it was a little warmer. I paced through the streets, without direction, without a goal, thinking and enjoying the heat and the blue sky.
"Oh, it's a pity Sophie won't be able to see you dancing! I remember she mentioned before how much she would like it."
I remembered I hadn't heard from the directors yet. Would it be possible to revert the scenario? Was it worth trying? Could that doctor be wrong? And did I actually want to dedicate myself to dance again?
And I remembered too, with a lot of sorrow, that I didn't have anything or anyone else to dedicate myself to...
I hadn't heard from Erik since that fatal night. I didn't try to contact him, either. I was too confused, not only because of the murders, but because of everything that was going on at the same time. It was just too much for me.
I couldn't decide anything about Erik while I hadn't decided anything about myself. That is why I needed so much time alone, I think.
I tried to concentrate only on the dance matter at that moment, and what options of life and work I'd have if I left the Ballet School for good. There had been another doctor before. The first one that came to me after the accident, when the theater doctor was not around...and he had more optimistic opinions...
Arriving to the Opera, as if she had guessed what was going through my mind, my always dedicated mother said she had plans of taking me to another doctor immediately, before the managers finally dismissed me, and before my sister arrived to Paris. I think that deep inside she could only see me as the ballerina she wished herself to be years before. But that was another of the forbidden issues between her and me.
Leaving the unnecessary cloak laying on the couch, I followed her, trying to keep up with her obstinate fast pace toward the doctor's residence.
The maid allowed us to enter the luxurious house, which was richly decorated, covered by thick light brown carpets. We sat in a large canapé in the waiting room, where dozens of porcelain vases filled the surface of tables and shelves. What was this doctor thinking when he decided to spend so much money on those funny looking vases?
"Wasn't there anything left for him to spend his money on?" I joked with my mother, who agreed silently, nodding. I could perceive her tension and aprehension. The doctor, whose face I could barely remember, was in the next room, leading an enthusiastic discussion with some other professional, while we waited restlessly.
"No! No, I don't think so!" said a young voice, whose enphasizing intonation echoed on the wood walls and the framed diplomas hanging from it. "That goes against all the fundamentals of our ideology!"
"Experience will teach you that life is very unbundant to all these commandments you claim to follow."
"It's not a matter of commandments to follow. There wouldn't be a reason for all the sacrifices we do, if we previously believed things couldn't be changed, or couldn't be different," said the always passionate voice, carried with a British accent.
"Young man, calm down. You have a lot to learn, don't be so sensitive. I wish I could agree with you, but what we do is a minimum before what there is to be done. Don't expect much more than mending a few things here and there in this world..." The voice of the doctor was more and more distinguishable, as he approached the waiting room.
"I can't understand how you, members of the Franceise Acadèmme could have gone so far with such a limited vision of the applications of medicine, and its efficiency..."
"We are not talking about..."
At the sight of my mother the doctor dropped the subject, restraining his greeting in a cold "Good afternoon." He didn't smile at the sight of us, but rather seemed to have inhaled an extra portion of air, as people do before starting a troubling activity.
His face was still unfamiliar to me, though he had seen me once or twice after the accident. He was a little older than my mother, who was fifty then, his blond hair fading into white and barely covering his head. I wondered why he looked so tired and grumpy. Maybe he would rather be shopping for vases...
"Good afternoon, Monsieur Larouch," I repeated after my mother, dutifully.
He had shaken her hand rather than kissed it, doing the same with me. I looked at my mother and we both wondered why he didn't greet ladies like any other man would. Did he think we were not hygienic enough for his noble, scientific mind and clean body?
Behind him was a young man, also dressed in white, who seemed far too young to be a doctor, and far too serious to be only a kid.
My mother stretched her hand in an almost comic compliment, the feather of her worn-out hat shaking with the movement.
"And the lad here is the doctor Jonathan Ferrat, from Great Britain, also professor at Strasbourg."
The young doctor seemed pretty displeased with the condescendant introduction, but didn't say a word, hiding it well before a polite smile. So he had already learned the ways of Paris, the ways of masking everything.
"How are you doing, ladies?"
"Oh, it was my brother-in-law he reminded me of, with his accent," I thought, oblivious to what was going on.
"Well, doctor," my mother addressed Monsieur Larouch rather bluntly, "we don't want to waste your time, so let me explain to you why exactly we are coming here."
The older doctor invited her into his office, and I opted to wait on the same couch on which I had been sitting. I didn't want to hear all the same story about how it had happened, what had been said, and what my mother thought was right. And least of all, the doctors final opinion.
In her usual determined way, she stepped inside the office, and I heard the heavy wooden doors closing behind her.
As I looked ahead, I noticed the young doctor had also chosen to stay outside, sitting on the other couch. The maid brought us some tea, and I initiated a conversation.
"What did he say your name was, Monsieur? Forgive me, but I guess I forgot it."
He stood, gently taking my hand and kissing it. "My name is Jonathan Ferrat. Would you mind telling me yours?"
I arose as well, imitating him, and smiled at his polite manners. "Margarette Giry. Also known as 'Little Meg'."
He laughed at my statement and sat back on the sofa.
"What brought you..."
"Where in Britain..." We both spoke at the same time.
"You go first," I said, amused.
"No, you, please," he answered.
"Doctor Larouch said you were English. From where in England do you come from?"
"London, Mademoiselle."
"Oh, London! London is such a lovely city. What can you possibly be doing here in Paris?"
He laughed again, and I noticed he had a really enchanting smile, his teeth white and well shaped, forcing a pleasing expression on his delicate features.
"Have you been to London?"
"Oh, yes, I spent almost six months there, around the time of my sister's marriage. She lives there, with her English husband. It is really an adorable place to live."
"You think so?" he asked kindly, as he passed his hands through his thin dark hair. "I think I prefer the weather here..."
Doctor Larouch entered the room with heavy steps, interrupting our talk.
"Let me examine you, young lady," he said, gesturing for me to walk inside the same office my mother had been in.
Behind the large desk, full with books and electric lamps, there was a bed covered with white sheets. I layed there, and his hands felt hard and thick while he was feeling my muscles, bringing to mind the odd picture of a torturer from older times. This little examination was enough to make my leg ache again.
"What did your other doctor say?" he asked cautiously.
"That she would never be able to dance again!" exclaimed my mother with the indignation of someone relating the most absurd lie.
"I'm afraid I'll have to agree with him, Madame. I'm sorry, child." The kindness he tried to imply in his voice was completely adverse to the indifference toward my problem, and its fake sound made me sick. I stood up, adjusting my dress without one word and left the room.
I kept my head high, with imponence, but inside I truly wanted to just sit down and cry. I should have imagined that even if his opinion was different from the other doctor, he wouldn't be willing to expose and test his methods and knowlegde confronting the offical physician of the Opera House. And maybe I had just allowed myself to be deluded by my mother's senile statements and questionings.
As I passed through the waiting room, waiting for my mother to finish her formalities and pay the doctor, Jonathan Ferrat approached me and handed me a paper card.
"Please come see me. I attend at Rue de Vogue, 56. It's written there. Don't give up, maybe I can help you."
I wondered how he knew of the situation. Had he overheard the conversation, or was it his habit stealing the unsatisfied clients of doctor Larouch? I nodded, and held the paper, telling myself there was no use in visting another doctor. Followed by my mother, I left the fancy house of the silly porcelain vases.
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