Left in their wake, I answered softly, “I’m counting on it.” I recalled his promise to spend the night in celebration of our anniversary already passed. It wasn’t looking hopeful.
Max Harkey reappeared and murmured to me, “Fine young man.”
“I know,” I said. I wondered if Toni di Natale’s flirtation with my lover was bothering me because she represented the kind of woman I might have been had I been a woman. One’s own obnoxious flaws seen in others can often provoke irrational dislike for them.
Among the remaining guests were two dancers from the ballet class I’d watched that morning, the two who’d stood at the same barre with Rafik—one the young man whose body resembled the most ideal incarnation of mine, and the other the blond ballerina who had continued her stretches while the other dancers left the studio. Tonight they stood together, apparently inseparable. They were drinking what looked like plain mineral water. I asked Max Harkey about them.
“The boy is Scott Molloy,” he said, “and the girl Alissa Kortland.”
I knew the terms “boy” and “girl” were often used throughout the dance world without disparagement, but coming from Max Harkey they still sounded pejorative. “I’ve seen them both on stage,” I said, “but I didn’t even recognize them.”
“Performance often brings out aspects of the personality not evident in ballet class or ordinary society,” replied Max Harkey. “By the end of the evening you may know more about them than you care to.” He made a small laugh. “I’ve seated you between them at dinner.” Then he added, almost to himself, “Interesting how much Scott Molloy resembles you in basic body type.”
I thought, Except for my love handles, you mean. Sometimes I wonder if I should just lose the weight—actualize myself, as it were— and open a Twelve Step weight-loss clinic.
Suddenly we all heard the rich sonorities of the grand piano filling the large reception room. The one remaining guest I hadn’t formally met had seated himself at the massive Bösendorfer and had launched into a dazzling piece of music that energized the air like a musical aperitif.
“Jason Sears,” whispered Max Harkey. “Brilliant talent. Recently arrived from London with Maestra di Natale. He hopes to gain entree to Boston’s concert scene.”
The pianist was a surprise to me. When I’d first seen him among the other guests I assumed he was a model who’d been invited as a kind of decoration, so super-groomed were his looks and demeanor. That Jason Sears was also a virtuoso seemed redundant. His fingers flew over the keyboard, nearly igniting it with a tour de force that urged climax upon musical climax. The piece was so unabashedly romantic that I found myself almost lightheaded from its sentimentality. Yet there was something about the shameless passion of the music that connected to me deeply, something I wanted to believe in and yield to, but was too embarrassed to admit. I watched Rafik and saw that he too was enthralled with the music, responding physically to every sound. Next to him Toni di Natale listened with the analytical detachment of a judge at a piano competition. Meanwhile Marshall Zander leaned against the wet bar smoking a cigarette and gulping his liquor. His vacuous face seemed impervious to the wild rush of notes, and my first impression of him changed. I saw that he resembled an evolved primate more than a canine. He might even be related to those big brutes, the Kong family.
Elsewhere Scott Molloy and Alissa Kortland stood side by side, still drinking mineral water and whispering to each other, unaffected by Jason Sears’s fiery performance. Then I noticed that Madame Rubinskaya had vanished from the room, as had Rico the houseboy. That young man sure moved fast. Then again, so had the old woman.
Five minutes and several thousand notes later, Jason Sears finished the piece with a grand flourish of crashing chords. He let the final sounds ring through the air for several long seconds before damping the strings into silence. It took most of us a few moments to recover from it all. Then we burst into applause that lasted almost as long as the brief piece itself had. When all the enthusiasm and the congratulatory comments had subsided, Rico the houseboy reappeared and announced that dinner was served.
Jason Sears approached Max Harkey and excused himself from dinner because he had an early flight the next morning.
“Besides,” he said, “I have horrible jet lag.”
Max Harkey replied, “It certainly didn’t show in your playing.”
“That’s just good technique,” said the pianist. He bade good-bye to the group of us, and then made a personal farewell to Toni di Natale, who was still hanging onto Rafik’s arm. “I’ll see you at the hotel later,” he said to her while eyeing Rafik dubiously.
I wondered, what else did this dashing young lion excel at? I half expected to hear about his prowess at differential equations. There seemed only one more superlative left to this paragon, and I couldn’t keep my eyes from wandering to that region of his anatomy where lurked the most superficial measure of a man. But the drape of his pleated trousers concealed all.
Toni di Natale said to him, “Get some rest, Jason.” Then she added, as if to counteract her obvious coolness, “The Liszt went well tonight.”
“Thanks,” he said, but his smirk showed more irritation than gratitude. Then he departed quickly.
The rest of us filed into the dining room. The table was a monolith of oiled mahogany that rested on six massive square legs. Tens of flames from two elaborate candelabras washed the room in warm light and caused the place settings of porcelain, silver, and crystal to glitter softly and give a welcome feeling to the room. Someone had raided the vault at Tiffany & Company.
We took our seats according to the place markers—hand-lettered cards edged with a Florentine stripe of marbled green and gold leaf. Max Harkey sat at one end and Madame Rubinskaya at the other. Along one side, starting at Max Harkey’s end, was Marshall Zander, then Toni di Natale, and then Rafik, at Madame’s end. On the other side were Alissa Kortland, then me, and finally Scott Molloy, also near Madame Rubinskaya.
Scott Molloy quietly asked me to change places with him so that he and Alissa Kortland could sit together. But I was certain that Max Harkey had choreographed his table seating with the same care he used when positioning his dancers on stage. So I replied to Scott Molloy, “I’m fine, thank you.”
Max Harkey overheard the surreptitious exchange and asked, “Is there a problem?”
For an awkward moment neither Scott Molloy nor I could answer. Then I said, “Not at all,” and I took my seat. Scott Molloy sat down too, but he turned his body slightly away from me, so that he angled more toward Madame Rubinskaya. Max Harkey made a small frown at the slight disturbance, but said nothing more about it. The meal began at last.
Rico served us, and his talent at vanishing and reappearing by magic was tested to its limit with eight guests. The first course was a cold soup, creamy pink and sweet and sour all at once. I commented on it, partly to ease my social discomfort, partly to compliment Max Harkey’s cuisine.
“It’s delicious,” I said.
“Is only borscht,” said Madame Rubinskaya with a small shrug, as if to emphasize the inanity of my remark.
“Mousseline de borscht,” corrected Max Harkey with a quick wink to Madame.
“Mousseline,” repeated Madame with the tiniest smile and nod back to Max Harkey.
“It’s her own recipe,” said Max Harkey, addressing everyone. “Top secret, too.”
Suddenly everyone else at the table was making suitable complimentary sounds about Madame’s excellent soup. I watched Rafik and Toni di Natale put down their spoons and applaud Madame and smile openly at each other. Their movements harmonized with the same natural ease that happens between siblings or lovers. On either side of me Scott Molloy and Alissa Kortland imitated their actions precisely and joined in the applause. Meanwhile, Madame Rubinskaya accepted everyone’s praise with austere cordiality. My original and sincere if simple comment had been blown out of proportion, and I felt like a bumpkin.
Once we all resumed our discreet sippin
gs and scoopings of the cool pink concoction, Marshall Zander said suddenly, “So what do you do, Stan?” His words came out a bit too loud and with an obvious effort to keep them from slurring from all the liquor he’d had, but he did succeed in turning everyone’s attention back toward me. I waited until every spoon was still with suspense before delivering my answer.
“I burn hair.”
“You what?” said Marshall Zander.
“I’m a hairstylist,” I answered. “On Newbury Street.”
Rafik interjected, “He is very good.”
Toni di Natale gave Rafik a playful nudge with her shoulder. “I’m sure he is,” she said. Then she asked me with her broad, fake British accent, “Mine is the devil to get right. Would you do it some time?” Once again she gave her wavy red tresses that well-practiced shake. I was already tired of Toni di Natale.
“And would you do mine too?” added Alissa Kortland, blatantly mimicking Toni di Natale’s accent du jour.
“And mine?” added Marshall Zander with a glazed, mooning stare.
“And leave mine alone,” said Scott Molloy with a scowl.
“I’d be glad to do you all,” I said. Some of them tittered politely at the double entendre, but the topic of my career was summarily dropped, as was any further inclusion of me in the conversation. The talk switched quickly to the gossip of the dance world, about which I knew little and for which I cared even less. The only other person who didn’t join in the conversation was Marshall Zander, who was gaping at me from across the table, and who was now quenching his thirst with Max Harkey’s fine wine. I certainly didn’t want to encourage him with friendly chatter, so I sat quietly and listened and observed everybody else.
The talk focused on dance activity in New York, of which Boston was apparently a mere province. It was all about dancers and recent performances, who was doing what with whom both onstage and off, who was really good, and who was a fake. But despite the clever remarks, the words generally rang empty, as though the guests were all playing prerecorded tapes for each other, showing off their verbal pirouettes. Throughout the sophisticated banter I watched their faces, which seemed to tell more than their words. Toni di Natale was obviously smitten with Rafik, who was in the thick of the dance talk. I saw her being entranced by Rafik’s mouth and the shapes it made when he spoke. I knew exactly what she was thinking too—how those lips might taste and feel, and the things they might do. I found myself gazing at my lover’s mouth and then at Toni di Natale’s infatuation with it. When I finally looked elsewhere around the table, I caught Max Harkey and Alissa Kortland exchanging unlikely glances that betrayed desire and submission on both their parts. Then to my horror I caught Marshall Zander studying me with the same intent. Our eyes met and locked for a moment and I thought, No!
Just then Rico entered the dining room carrying a Venetian glass charger in his strong young arms. Upon the large platter sat an edible dome of molded filets of meat, oven-crusted and succulent. It was surrounded by spearettes of asparagus, caramelized onions, and braised endive. All was arranged on a bed of broad flat noodles. A narrow wedge of the meaty dome had been cut away and laid flat to show the stuffing of pate and pistachio nuts.
Max Harkey said, “We must thank Madame for sharing another treasure with us—Escalopes de Veau Rubinski.”
Madame Rubinskaya replied, “The czar’s cook make this for my grandmother. She was the czar’s favorite ballerina.”
“Brava! Brava!” said Marshall Zander, and he applauded loudly. Everyone at the table joined him. Then Marshall stood up, still applauding, and gestured for the rest of to do the same. But we kept our places, wanting simply to eat and not to continue with the theatrical event that dinner had become.
When the applause stopped, Madame Rubinskaya added wryly, “You should instead give ovation to Rico. He goes all morning to find veal. Then he does everything exactly how I say. No question. I think maybe he will make good dancer too.” She laughed lightly at her own joke. Rico smiled in gratitude from the console where he was slicing the veal and filling our plates.
The meal proceeded in a grand manner, with the additional courses including a buttery gratin of sliced artichokes and duxelles, a sorbet, and a salad. The wines were French and Californian. All were of excellent vintages, and all played a major role in the culinary event far beyond that of a simple beverage, or so we were told.
But despite the refined airs, and the extraordinary food and wine, and the fabulous surroundings, I really wasn’t enjoying myself, especially since I had to watch Toni di Natale and Rafik sitting together across from me. Their whispered exchanges seemed rude enough, but the real test came in trying to ignore Toni’s sex-laden smirk when she passed Rafik the boat of creamy dill dressing, all milky white and viscous and suggestive.
Rico the houseboy offered me the only moment of comic relief by flirting in a direct and playful way that reminded me of a brief romance I’d had with a young Balinese. It had been a simpler kind of love than the one I now shared with Rafik—who at one point noticed Rico lingering over my shoulder long after a plate had been set properly in front of me.
Rafik said, “I think Rico likes Stan.”
To his simple taunt I replied too quickly and too loudly, before my higher self could edit and censor my words.
“What do you care?” I said.
Everyone was instantly silent, eager to witness a private quarrel in public.
“Excuse me?” Rafik asked, as though he had misunderstood me.
“You and Toni have been flirting all night.”
At that instant Toni di Natale removed her hand from where it had been resting affectionately atop Rafik’s forearm.
“Don’t be a child, Stani,” he said, then with obvious defiance placed Toni di Natale’s hand back onto his forearm and patted it there securely. But that didn’t bother me half as much as hearing him use my nickname so callously in front of the others. He knew it would provoke me. For some reason Rafik was purposely trying to hurt me. Nicole had been wrong about that. But it was neither the time nor the place to press him for his reasons, so I let it go for the moment. I did ask Rico for more wine though, and I made a point of grasping his arm and holding it tenderly when I made the request, and then again when he refilled my glass. Two could play at Rafik’s game.
The brief and tension-ridden exchange between us had caused various reactions around the table. Marshall Zander seemed inordinately pleased by it, as though a minor squabble increased my availability to him. Max Harkey seemed bored by it, as though homosexual misunderstandings were a tedious if necessary part of the dance world. Scott Molloy was intrigued by our male-to-male tiff in a vicarious sort of way, while Alissa Kortland studied Scott Molloy’s interest with a keen, judgmental eye. Toni di Natale seemed amused by the whole episode, and Madame Rubinskaya remained above it all, impervious, unnoticing, as though an awkward moment like ours never really occurred in polite society.
Dinner continued in an atmosphere of congeniality, however forced or mistrustful. When at last we’d finished and were sitting nearly comatose around the big table, Rico once again appeared at the perfect moment and cleared the plates noiselessly.
Max Harkey said, “Before we take dessert in the salon, I have some announcements about the spring program.” His voice assumed a pontifical tone as he continued. “As you all know, or at least most of you do”—here he eyed me politely—“I have just returned from London and I am delighted to bring good news.”
The relief in the air was palpable, as though some imminent disaster had been averted and everyone could once again breathe normally. Just then Rico entered the room. His face, usually playful and animated, now showed concern. He leaned toward Max Harkey and whispered into his ear. The result was that Max Harkey then excused himself to accept a telephone call in another part of the penthouse. With him gone, a strange constricting pressure also left the room.
“Sheesh!” said Scott Molloy. “When he mentioned the spring program I thought
sure the ax was going to fall.”
“What do you mean?” asked Alissa Kortland.
“I heard he wants to cancel our new piece with Rafik.”
Alissa Kortland began, “Not Uomo gio—”
“Please!” interrupted Rafik. “Do not talk about my work here.” He shot a quick irritated glance at me. Then he asked Scott Molloy, “Did Mr. Harkey say something I do not know?”
Scott said, “I’ve seen his reaction during our rehearsals. I don’t think he approves of your theme.” At this remark Marshall Zander tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. Scott Molloy scowled back at him and continued, “I think Mr. Harkey might be conservative about those things.”
Marshall Zander then burst into laughter that continued until he lost his breath and began to cough. Then he lapsed into a series of gurgling and wheezing and gulping noises. When he finally recovered himself, he took a big drink of the fine red wine and said to Scott Molloy, “You’re too much, kid. Too much.” Then he shook his head in disbelief at the young dancer’s last remarks.
Rafik continued the original conversation as though it hadn’t been interrupted by a near medical emergency. “I think Mr. Harkey would tell me if he changed his mind.”
“Don’t be so sure,” replied Alissa Kortland. “He’s been known to change a program on opening night. Anything is possible with him and his moods.” As if to prove her remark, she pouted like a child who’d been denied an ice cream.
Madame Rubinskaya spoke sharply. “Is enough now, all of you! If you cannot say to his face, don’t say at all.”
Marshall Zander retorted with a wine-swollen tongue. “The Geshtapo has shpoken.”
Madame Rubinskaya glared angrily back at him. I thought Marshall Zander might stick out his tongue at the old woman, but he didn’t.
Toni di Natale said, “I think it’s peculiar, the way you all treat him like a daddy.” Her high-Brit was really flying now. “Then as soon as he’s gone, you all go at him like a roomful of naughty children.”
Dead on Your Feet Page 5