Chapter 2 : The German Journalist''s Interview

## Café de la Paix, Paris - October 1935

The Café de la Paix was a Parisian institution, its terrace overlooking the Place de l''Opéra and the Palais Garnier itself. Éliane arrived precisely at three o''clock, choosing a table tucked away from the main thoroughfare. She wore a simple navy dress with white polka dots, a straw hat with a black ribbon, and gloves that reached her elbows—the picture of respectable French femininity. Yet beneath the demure exterior, her heart beat with an uncharacteristic nervousness.

Hans Schmidt was already there, seated at the table with a notebook open before him and two cups of coffee steaming in the afternoon chill. He stood as she approached, his movements precise and formal.

"Mademoiselle Dubois. Thank you for coming." He pulled out her chair, his hand brushing against the back of her neck for the briefest moment. The touch was accidental, perhaps, but it sent a shiver down her spine.

"The pleasure is mine, Herr Schmidt." She settled into the chair, arranging her skirt with careful movements. "I must admit, I was intrigued by our conversation last night."

"As was I." He resumed his seat, his pale blue eyes studying her with an intensity that felt both professional and personal. "Shall we begin with the obvious? Your debut as Odette/Odile. The critics are calling it the performance of the decade. How does that feel?"

Éliane considered the question, her gloved fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "It feels... complicated. There''s pride, of course. And gratitude to my teachers, to the company. But also a kind of terror."

"Terror?" Schmidt leaned forward, his pen poised over the notebook.

"That this might be the peak. That everything from now on will be measured against last night. In ballet, perfection is expected, but it''s also a prison. Once you achieve it, you must maintain it, forever." She spoke more candidly than she had intended, surprised by her own honesty.

Schmidt nodded slowly, scribbling notes. "You mentioned the added port de bras. That small deviation from tradition. Is that part of the terror? The need to innovate while honoring tradition?"

"Yes." She felt a surge of recognition, the same feeling she had experienced the night before. "Ballet is a language with strict grammar. Every step has a name, a history. To change even a gesture is to risk being misunderstood. Or worse, dismissed as ignorant."

"But you changed it anyway." His gaze held hers. "Why?"

Éliane looked out at the opera house, its golden statues gleaming in the autumn sun. "Because Odette is not just a swan. She''s a woman remembering what it was to be human. The traditional choreography focuses on her avian nature—the fluttering arms, the bent knees. I wanted to remind the audience that beneath the feathers, there''s a heart that remembers love."

Schmidt''s pen flew across the page. When he looked up, there was something like admiration in his eyes. "That''s exactly what I saw. And it''s why your performance was more than technical perfection. It was art."

They talked for an hour, moving from ballet to broader topics. Schmidt asked about her training, her influences—not just Petipa and Balanchine, but also literature, painting, music. He was particularly interested in her thoughts on German expressionist dance, on Mary Wigman and Kurt Jooss.

"You''re familiar with the German modern dance movement?" he asked, surprised.

"My father took me to Berlin in 1932. I saw Wigman perform *Witch Dance*. It was... raw. Unapologetic. Ballet is about transcending the body, making it ethereal. Expressionist dance is about embracing the body''s weight, its earthiness." She paused, realizing she was speaking with more passion than propriety allowed. "I''m sorry, I''m rambling."

"Don''t apologize." Schmidt''s voice was soft. "This is exactly what I want to capture. The mind behind the dancer. Most interviews focus on how many hours you practice, what you eat, who designs your costumes. I want to know what you think about when you''re not dancing."

Éliane felt a warmth spread through her chest. No one had ever asked her that before. Pierre asked if she was tired, if she was in pain. Her father asked if she was ready for the next performance. But what did she think about? The question was so simple, yet so profound.

"I think about freedom," she said quietly. "The freedom to move as I choose, not as the choreography dictates. The freedom to love whom I choose, not whom my family approves. The freedom to be more than Éliane Dubois, ballet star."

Schmidt was silent for a long moment, his pen still. Then he said, "And do you feel free?"

She met his eyes, and in that moment, the café noise faded away. There was only his question, and the truth she had never spoken aloud. "No," she whispered. "I feel like a bird in a gilded cage. Beautiful to look at, but trapped."

He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. The touch was electric, skin against kid leather. "Then let me show you something," he said, his voice low. "Not as a journalist interviewing a dancer. As a man who appreciates beauty, showing a woman who creates it."

Éliane''s breath caught. "What do you mean?"

"Montmartre. The artists'' studios. There''s a world up there that has nothing to do with opera houses and critics. A world where art is made for the sake of art, not for applause." His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a slow, deliberate caress. "Come with me. Now."

It was madness. She had a rehearsal at five. Pierre would be waiting. Her father would expect her home for dinner. Every rule, every obligation screamed at her to say no.

But Hans Schmidt''s hand on hers felt like a key turning in a lock she hadn''t known was there.

"Yes," she said, the word leaving her lips before she could reconsider. "Show me."

They took a taxi up the hill to Montmartre, the cobblestone streets growing steeper, the buildings shabbier but more colorful. Schmidt led her through narrow alleyways, past cafés where painters argued over glasses of absinthe, past street musicians playing accordions, past the white domes of Sacré-Cœur rising against the sky.

Their first stop was a studio on Rue Lepic, belonging to a sculptor named Jacques who worked exclusively in marble. The space was dusty, filled with half-finished figures emerging from stone like ghosts. Jacques, a bear of a man with clay under his fingernails, greeted Schmidt like an old friend.

"Hans! And you''ve brought a muse!" Jacques''s eyes swept over Éliane with an artist''s appraisal. "Dancer, yes? I can see it in the line of your neck. Like a swan."

Éliane smiled, charmed by his directness. "Ballet, yes."

"Ballet." Jacques snorted. "Too controlled. Too perfect. Look at this." He gestured to a block of marble where the rough shape of a woman''s torso was emerging. "See the imperfections? The places where the chisel slipped? That''s where the life is. Perfection is dead."

Schmidt watched Éliane''s reaction. "What do you think?"

"I think..." She stepped closer to the marble, reaching out to touch the cool, rough surface. "I think he''s right. On stage, every movement must be precise. A misplaced foot, a wobble—it''s failure. But here..." Her fingers traced a deep gouge in the stone. "Here, the mistake becomes part of the art."

Jacques beamed. "She understands! Most dancers, they come up here, they look down their perfect noses. But you—you have eyes that see." He turned to Schmidt. "Keep this one, Hans. She''s rare."

They visited three more studios—a painter who worked only in shades of blue, a printmaker who created intricate woodcuts of Parisian rooftops, a ceramicist whose pots were deliberately cracked and repaired with gold, following the Japanese art of kintsugi. In each place, Éliane felt a sense of liberation she hadn''t known she was missing. These artists created not for fame or money, but because they had something inside them that demanded expression.

In the printmaker''s studio, as they examined a series of etchings of the Seine at dawn, Schmidt stood close behind her, his breath stirring the hairs at the nape of her neck.

"Do you see?" he murmured, his voice a vibration against her back. "This is what I meant. Art without chains."

She turned to face him, and they were so close she could see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because when I watched you dance last night, I saw the chains. The weight of tradition, of expectation. And I saw the artist straining against them." He lifted a hand, his fingers hovering near her cheek. "I want to see what happens when those chains are removed."

Éliane''s heart hammered against her ribs. She was acutely aware of the printmaker watching them from across the room, of the fact that she was alone with a man she had met only yesterday, in a part of Paris no respectable woman should visit unchaperoned.

But she didn''t care.

"Show me more," she said.

The sun was setting when they reached the last studio, a garret at the top of a building with a view over all of Paris. The artist, a woman named Simone who created abstract mobiles from wire and colored glass, had already left for the day, but Schmidt had a key.

"Simone lets me use the space when she''s away," he explained, unlocking the door. "I come here to write sometimes. The light is best at sunset."

The studio was small, dominated by a large north-facing window. Mobiles hung from the ceiling, turning slowly in the draft, casting kaleidoscopic shadows on the walls. The air smelled of turpentine and cigarette smoke.

Éliane walked to the window, looking out at the city spread below. The Eiffel Tower was a black silhouette against the orange sky. Somewhere down there was the Opera, her dressing room, her life. It felt very far away.

"Beautiful, isn''t it?" Schmidt came to stand beside her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat of his body.

"Yes." She turned to him. "Thank you for today. I haven''t felt this... alive in years."

He smiled, a slow, genuine smile that transformed his serious face. "The pleasure was mine, Éliane. May I call you Éliane?"

She nodded, her throat tight.

"Éliane," he said, her name a caress on his lips. "I have a confession to make. The article for the Berliner Tageblatt... it''s already written. I finished it this morning."

She blinked, confused. "Then why...?"

"Because I wanted to see you again. Not as a journalist, not as a subject. As a man who met a remarkable woman and couldn''t let her slip away." He took a step closer, his eyes searching hers. "I know this is improper. I know you have obligations, a reputation to protect. But from the moment I saw you, I felt... a connection. Did you feel it too?"

Éliane''s mind raced with warnings—Pierre''s voice saying "Be careful," her father''s lessons about propriety, the unspoken rules of her world. But her heart, beating wildly in her chest, drowned them all out.

"Yes," she whispered. "I felt it."

He closed the distance between them, his hands coming up to cradle her face. His touch was gentle, reverent. "May I kiss you?"

It was the question that undid her. Not the assumption, not the taking, but the asking. In her world, men took what they wanted. Her father decided her career. The choreographers decided her movements. Even Pierre, in his devotion, assumed his place in her life. But Hans asked.

"Yes," she breathed.

His lips met hers, and the world fell away.

The kiss was not what she expected. It was not the frantic, clumsy kisses of the stage door admirers, nor the chaste pecks of family greetings. It was slow, exploratory, a conversation without words. His mouth was warm, his beard soft against her skin. One hand remained on her cheek, the other settled at the small of her back, drawing her closer.

Éliane''s hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his wool coat. She kissed him back, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence. It was like dancing a new role—unfamiliar, but her body knew what to do.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Schmidt rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.

"Éliane," he murmured. "What are we doing?"

"I don''t know," she admitted. "But I don''t want to stop."

He opened his eyes, and the desire she saw there mirrored her own. "We should. Before this goes further than we can come back from."

She knew he was right. Knew that every minute she stayed here, in this studio, with this man, was a step away from the life she had built. But for the first time, that life felt like a costume she could take off.

"One more minute," she said, and kissed him again.

This kiss was different—deeper, hungrier. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she opened to him with a soft sigh. The hand at her back slid lower, pulling her hips against his. She felt the hard evidence of his desire, and a corresponding heat bloomed low in her belly.

For a wild moment, she imagined letting this go further. Letting him lay her down on the dusty floor, letting him peel away the navy dress and the stockings and the gloves, letting him see the dancer''s body not as art but as flesh and blood and need.

But then the church bells of Sacré-Cœur began to ring, the sound drifting through the open window. Six o''clock. Rehearsal was over. Pierre would be looking for her.

She broke the kiss, stepping back with a gasp. "I have to go."

Schmidt''s eyes were dark with unspent passion, but he nodded. "Of course. Let me take you home."

"No." She straightened her dress, her hat, trying to reassemble the respectable woman who had entered this studio. "I''ll take a taxi. It''s better if we''re not seen together."

He didn''t argue, understanding the necessity of secrecy. "When can I see you again?"

Éliane''s mind raced. Tomorrow she had performances every night this week. Sunday was her only day off. "Sunday. Meet me at the Luxembourg Gardens. Two o''clock, by the Medici Fountain."

"I''ll be there." He caught her hand, bringing it to his lips once more. This kiss was longer, a promise. "Until Sunday, Éliane."

She fled down the narrow stairs, her heart pounding, her lips still tingling from his kiss. In the taxi back to the Opera, she stared at her reflection in the window—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly swollen. She looked like a woman who had been thoroughly kissed, and she didn''t care.

For the first time in her life, Éliane Dubois felt truly, dangerously free. And she knew, with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified her, that nothing would ever be the same again.