The studio is dimly lit, smells of polish. Winter sunlight struggles through high windows to strike the mirrored wall, pale light scattering across the worn wooden floor. "Again, Anna. Concentrate!" The girl bites her lip, retraces her steps. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, translucently pale, she seems impossibly tiny in the empty room, a fragile spark of life and movement against the shadows. Her companion leans against the barre, watching. At the age of six she already moves with a grace and reassurance beyond her years; the grace that will later cause critics to describe the woman she will become as "living music".
"Remember" Alexei is saying, "remember always that your audience watches ... but to create true beauty, dance only for each other, each other and the music."
Her partner takes her hand. The dance begins...
Make it stop...
SWITCH
The practise dress has become a Romanesque dress of flowing white, the studio a stage. The boy has become (almost) a young man - dark-haired, dark, dark, eyes burning with energy, every movement suggesting leashed-in fire. Even en pointe, she barely reaches his shoulder in height, as she dances Juliet with a defiant fragility, a desperate, brittle joy. Together, they carry the Moscow audience to the height of joy, the depths of despair...
SWITCH
Grace almost abandoned, the girl runs headlong down the dusty, winter-lit corridors, back to the safety of the deserted, mirrored room. He will be there; he will know what to do. "Misha!" (misery in her eyes, fear in her voice) "He's gone! Alexei is gone ..." Wise-eyes, gentle, he holds her until the shaking stops ("Hush, Anna. I'm here. I'll always be here"). Anguish of first loss. Joy of first love.
Lastlove
SWITCH
Bright lights. Cold, sparsely furnished rooms. Dutiful, wide-eyed, she listens to the men who will turn their dancers' strength and grace into a weapon of the state. She is a good Russian. She questions nothing.
SWITCH
Snow falls, drifting across the square outside. Inside, firelight, vodka, red, red roses. At sixteen, the girl-woman becomes Mikhail's wife. They have always known it would be so. Laughing, he pulls her outside to dance spinning through the falling snow. The golden children have come of age and Moscow loves them more than ever.
Please...
SWITCH
Flashbulbs. A press of journalists surrounds two weary, dark-haired figures, flanked by four capable-looking men in dark grey.
"Mr Kowalski, what would you say were the main reasons for your defection?"
"Do you feel you and your wife will be happy in America?"
"What are your plans for the future?"
They smile at each other. "My wife and I have no interest in politics." "We just want to be free to dance."
"Is it true, Mrs Kowalski, that you were a junior operative in the KGB?"
"No more questions please." (Please)
SWITCH
Electric light bulbs glare around the dressing-room mirror. Anna is weaving the last white rose into her long dark hair, fidgeting with last minute nerves. She moves lightly back from the mirror, pirouettes, and returns, smooths back her hair again. As she fidgets, her eye falls on a single deep, deep red rose, which she lifts gently to her lips, a smile transforming her intent expression.
SWITCH
A scattering of press cuttings indicate that America has taken the runaways to her heart. The cuttings surround Anna on a dark green rug. Only the fire and one lamp light the room. Slowly, she sets out beside them earlier, Russian, clippings. She is alone. Again and again, her eyes stray to the clock above the fireplace...
SWITCH
The lamp is no longer lit, the fire burned down to embers. The remaining glow gently illuminates the curled-up, slight figure of Anna, who has fallen asleep, dark hair tumbling across her long white night gown and the green rug. There is the sound of an outside door being unlocked, voices, footsteps on the stairs. (Wake up) Anna stirs, cold now and confused ... "Misha?"
(Pleasestop)
The door is flung open, harsh electric light floods the room. There are three men with him. One is holding a gun.
(Stopstopstop)
Anna looks only at Mikhail and he at her ... the silver-haired man is speaking calmly, reasonably. "You do see, my dear Mikhail, that one simply does not turn one's back on DEMON. Particularly when one has - shall we say - the safety of a third party to consider..." His eyes are almost-silver and cold, terribly cold. She will never forget them. His gaze holds hers, and the strength she has begun to summon drains away. "Bring her here."
(Don't)
Mikhail's expression twists from despair to fury (Don't) as he springs towards his tormentor using every ounce of a dancer's strength. Between one second and the next, power and grace becomes huddled stillness. Stillness and blood.
"Silenced gun," she thinks, crazily, the cold voice of her old teachers flowing into her mind, freezing her scream. (Move) The old, killing reflexes take her across the room, reaching for his throat. The world burns, turns red, then black.
SWITCH
Moonlight filters through a large sky-light into a dark attic, where a slight figure in a harlequin diamonded body-suit stands applying the finishing touches to white face paint, crimson lipstick. Her eyes are black, expressionless, and blind, but her movements are graceful and assured as she swings the heavy black cloak around her slim shoulders. She runs her fingers gently over the velvet of the black face mask, hesitates, then places it over her eyes. Her smile is slightly crooked, very cold. Swinging herself easily up to the skylight, she is silhouetted for a moment against the dim glow of the New York city lights, then she disappears into the night.
Harlequin is 5'1" tall with a slight dancers figure; very erect and graceful. She has 'Classical' features; a thin face with well-defined cheekbones. Very dark brown hair which falls halfway down her back when loose but which is usually worn ballet-style. Large black eyes with an expressionless stare which makes them seem larger than usual, normally hidden behind tinted spectacles. She speaks America-accented English in a very cultured old-fashioned way.
In costume she appears fairly androgynous in a half-face mask and swirling black cloak. Although her voice is a deep contralto it is fairly obviously that of a woman. Her costume consists of a Harlequin suit and mask, plus gloves and a belt, and pouches for weaponry etc. She also usually wears a swirling black cape over her costume, with the hood thrown back. Below the mask her face is made up very white with deep wine-red lipstick, making her crooked, charming smile very noticeable. She does possess an entirely black costume which she uses on very secretive jobs.
Her 'trademarks' consist of her leaving either roses, musical boxes, or small cards bearing a black mask design on her victims or at the scenes of her 'crimes'. She likes to use musical boxes to lure victims to where she wants them, and is very fond of theatrical effects like smoke, flash powder, tape recordings and sleight of hand.
The Original Harlequin, Harlequin as finally played and Harlequin as Mind-Controlled by the Chileans in Champions terms.
Another Version of Harlequin, as played in a Champions game run by Keith Grainge.
Go to the Harlequinade Page, describing Harlequin's martial art.