Firebird

SIXTEEN

I probably didn't help my cause by mentioning that if we were ever going to head out on an idiot's ride, Villanueva would be the place to go. There was no way Alex could back down after that. He was already going through a list of candidates to sit beside him on the mission. He'd need a pilot, of course. Not me, because I'd cause too much trouble. He didn't offer an explanation but just tried to laugh it off. “The bottom line, Chase,” he said, “is that if things go wrong, I wouldn't want to be responsible for something happening to you.”

And, to tell the truth, I'd have been happy to stay out of it. But I was afraid he'd get himself killed. “Look, Alex,” I said. “I think this is crazy. I won't hide that. Because we don't have enough to go on. We don't have a clue what we're looking for. But that doesn't mean I'll step aside while someone else goes in my place.”

He glanced at his calendar with the sort of expression that he uses to suggest I've forgotten who's boss. “Chase,” he said, “you don't have a say in the matter.”

“Sure I do. Leave me behind, and I won't be here when you get back.”

He barely blinked. “Then you'll have to leave, Chase.”

“This time, I won't come back.”

He took his time about answering. We were in the conference room. “Look,” he said, “this thing is just too dangerous.”

“Then call it off. At least until we know what we're doing.”

“How about if we put it off for a couple of days? Have you ever seen The Firebird?”

“Not really. They lost it forty years ago.”

“No. I'm talking about Igor Stravinsky.”

I'd heard the name. “The sculptor,” I said.

“He was a composer.”

“Sure. But no, I haven't. It's a ballet, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“I don't much care for ballets.”

“Doesn't it strike you as odd that Robin would give his yacht the same name?”

“As what?”

“The ballet.”

“Oh.” I guess I shrugged. “Not really.”

His gaze went to the ceiling. He was operating in the company of children again. “Chase-”

“It's a coincidence.”

“Father Everett told you he loved the classical composers. Naming his yacht Firebird was a tribute to Stravinsky.”

“Okay. So what?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe something more.”

“How do you mean?” I looked at him. “You're not suggesting there's actually a point in going to watch this thing, are you?”

“They're performing at Central this weekend.”

“Alex, I'm not anxious-”

“You'll love it,” he said. “I'm taking Audree. There are two tickets on your link. If you'd like to come along.”

Sometimes things just come together. I don't know whether we'd ever have gotten a handle on Robin and Villanueva had we not started with the dancers. The Central Theater, despite its name, is located on the oceanfront. I invited Hal Kaisson, an amateur musician and maybe the only guy I knew who would probably enjoy a nine-thousand-year-old ballet.

All right, I know what you're thinking. It just happens that I've no taste for ballet. But I told myself that the show must have had something going for it to stick around so long.

Alex asked me if I knew the story. I didn't really care that much and told him I'd figure it out as we went. “Ivan,” he said, “is a Russian prince.”

“What kind of prince?”

“Russia was an area, a country in northern Europe.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, there's an immortal who lives in a forest. Kashchei. He doesn't like anybody else going there, and he gets upset when Ivan wanders in.”

“Sounds pretty exciting so far.”

I got that disapproving stare again. “All right. Let it go. I think you'll enjoy the music in any case.”

It's not exactly Hamlet. But once it gets started, the music is pretty good, and the choreography blew me away. The forest is one of these enchanted places that is not only home to an immortal. Other supernatural creatures sway and flutter and cavort through the forest. One of these is the Firebird, which is apparently a demigod of some sort. It was portrayed that night by a dancer wearing red and gold when she wore anything at all. And when she moved across the stage, she seemed to do so in defiance of the laws of gravity. Ivan captures her but wisely relents and turns her loose. The Firebird responds by promising to help him if he needs help. Which, of course, he will.

The music, predominantly strings, was sometimes passionate, sometimes melancholy, always captivating. There were moments when it set my heart racing. All of it was familiar. It was just that I hadn't known this or that piece was from The Firebird.

Alex leaned over at one point and asked whether I was still feeling any reluctance about the show.

“It's okay,” I said.

He laughed.

As he travels through the forest, Ivan discovers thirteen princesses held captive by Kashchei. He falls in love with one and asks Kashchei to free her. (Apparently he's prepared to allow the others to remain where they are.)

Kashchei resists, and the inevitable conflict begins. The other magical creatures are called in to support their lord, and it's clear from the outset that Ivan has no chance. But the Firebird comes to the rescue and, honoring her word, drives the music so powerfully that Kashchei and his creatures are forced to dance until they are exhausted and fall asleep.

The Firebird now reveals the secret of Kashchei's immortality, an enormous but fragile egg that contains his spirit. Kashchei awakens, and he engages Ivan in a spectacular, largely airborne, duel. The music rises to a crescendo, and, finally, the prince breaks through the desperate thrusts of his opponent and drives his sword into the egg.

Kashchei crumples.

And Ivan is alone onstage. The magical creatures that had lived under the sway of their lord are gone. The princess for whom Ivan had fought appears, and the two embrace. In the final moments, as the music changes tempo, the Firebird appears again, to signal her acquiescence to the union. She is visible only to the audience. Then she, too, is gone, and the curtain comes down.

The applause shook the building.

“So what did you think?” Alex asked.

“Okay,” I said. “It was a good show.”

Audree, who spends much of her spare time with an amateur theatrical group, thought the staging was excellent. Alex commented that the woman playing the Firebird had been outstanding-and, of course, we all knew why that was-and Hal observed that yes, it was quite good, but that Stravinsky can't hold a candle to Rimsky-Korsakov.

In the morning, back at the country house, I asked Alex if he'd seen anything that might connect with Robin. We were seated outside, on the deck. It was another pleasant day, with a cool breeze coming off the river.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“And that is-?”

“The firebird is a phoenix, Chase. You already know that, right?”

“Not really.”

“It is.”

“So why does that matter?”

“You know what the phoenix is famous for?”

“Umm. Not really.”

“You can't kill it.”