“You mean a plan to include everyone in WeHo plus the entire Armenian population of Glendale. Okay. I get it. I do not approve, but I get it. Can I hug you? This is so great.” Dmitri nodded, so Andy hugged him. They’d been friends for six years. There had been other hugs. After a minute he let go. “Did you at least get some pictures?”
“Patrick’s niece.”
Andy interpolated the rest of the sentence. “Great. I want to see. Soon. Now I know you have work to do.” He opened the office door. As he walked away toward the chair where he’d left his street shoes, he said “Sneaky fuckers” over his shoulder.
Dmitri told Patrick about that later. Much later, after getting home from a rehearsal with Michelle. Their next event wasn’t until late in the month, but they were adapting one of their routines for an upcoming show at Chrome. He was tired when he got to the house. It still felt special coming home to his husband. Patrick said the same thing. “Maybe one day we’ll get used to it. Might take about ten years, though.” He heard Dmitri’s silent laugh, and leaned over for a kiss.
It was nearly two months before they found an evening to share those wedding pictures. Rory and Dana were invited, and their schedule was manageable. Patrick’s September was, as usual, a scramble to meet extended tax deadlines. Dmitri had ‘away’ competitions in August and September. And their friend Andy was fully occupied with two big things. One was his most recent show of photographs, and the other was a performance in Mating Dance: Milonga at Chrome. Patrick had a lot to say about both those things when they all went out onto the patio to enjoy the warm evening and an after-dinner drink. “Okay, so. Obviously my better half has been keeping me up to date on the tango lessons. I’m not going to mention that link in the review. All I’m going to say is, if it’s like that when you guys dance, what in hell is it like when you fuck?”
Rory and Dana completely cracked up. Dmitri had a hand over his face. Andy was blushing a little when he said, in an exasperated tone that might have been sincere, “We’re not fucking!”
“Well, you should be!”
The women were still giggling. Andy sighed, drank some wine, and said, “Listen. I told Dmitri, not in so many words, the dancing was so we could see each other without actually fucking. We’re not doing that. We’re not dating. He’s only been out for six months. I’m not an idiot.”
“Yes, you are,” Rory said. “Patrick, the idiot met Victor last summer.”
Dana chimed in. “When he did the lobby cards for that play.”
“I already knew Billy West, God rest him, and a couple other people in the production,” Andy said. He was obviously resigned to talking about this. He might even have wanted to. “Anyway yes, that’s the first time I met Mr. Garcia. Then he was at the Brewery last fall and we, you know. But it was a mess, and I didn’t see him again till this past March, and there is a lot to be worked out before anything else happens.”
“Uh-huh.” Patrick thought about that for a minute. “Do you have some kind of target date?”
“A year,” Rory said. “A fucking year of no fucking.” Everybody laughed. When she could be heard, she said, after a glance at Andy to collect a complicated expression that seemed to say ‘you might as well tell them,’ “That guy is learning how to be out, dating other people, figuring out who he is. And they’re going to revisit the question next March.”
“If he hasn’t hooked up with somebody else by then,” Andy said, and drank the rest of his wine. Patrick studied him in the flattering outdoor light and thought yeah, right. Then he looked over at Dmitri, who was also studying Andy, and had a moment of delight that his husband’s expression (while both appreciative and affectionate) was not at all covetous. Not till he turned his head and met Patrick’s gaze. Patrick wriggled, grinning into his coffee cup, and changed the subject.
November 2013
The lead-up to the Ohio Star Ball was nerve-wracking for everybody. Michelle and Dmitri were as prepared as they could possibly be. They’d been winning or placing in their events all year. Quite of few of their students (not to mention Andy, Rory, and Dana) were also going to Ohio, to cheer them on. Nobody was doing pro-ams. There was one reason, and only one, for anyone from Shall We Dance to be in Ohio.
The four Smooth routines were rehearsed to perfection. Kenji had produced a new ballgown for Michelle for the group final, a variation on the style she’d been wearing all along. This one was silvery gray, heavily decorated with rhinestones shading from iridescent white to gunmetal. She wore matching ornaments on her wrists and around her neck. Her strawberry-blonde hair was in a complicated updo sparkling with more rhinestones. Even her shoes sparkled.
That they would make the final, barring injury or other disaster in the first round, was hardly in question. Everyone from Shall We Dance thought they should win. Everyone believed they would win. And yet, during the awards, everybody was sick with nerves. It wasn’t until the emcee called the names of the runners-up, and it wasn’t Dmitri and Michelle, that they all started screaming. But the night wasn’t over.
The new show dance, set to ‘Cry Me a River,’ had been broken in at the first Mating Dance production in July. It was completely different from ‘Bolero.’ This one was slow and bluesy, with an edge. Those in the know would understand how much more difficult it was to create those lines and lifts at a slower tempo. Dmitri’s costume for this one was – also courtesy of Kenji – pinstriped dance pants and vest over a white shirt. He wore no tie, and his sleeves were rolled up and pinned. It was the most casual, most undressed, he’d ever looked on the competition floor. Michelle was in a slinky scarlet dress with a swirling tea-length skirt that was slit up to the hip. It was the dress of a woman who had no fucks to give. They were third to perform, in a field of six. The Shall We Dance group was cacophonous.
Then it was the wait for the rest of the performances. The wait through a period of general dancing. And finally, the awards. Sixth, fifth, fourth, third, and again the runners-up were somebody else. “Your winners, from Los Angeles, Dmitri Vasko and Michelle Matsumoto!” The emcee could hardly be heard.
It wasn’t only their students and friends. Dmitri was so well-known, after thirty-plus years as a professional dancer, that nearly everyone thought it was his turn. After the past two seasons of consistently excellent performances with Michelle, nearly everyone agreed it was his year. Not even those who’d come to support the other Smooth and show-dance couples could object to the results. When they came back to the table with their second trophy Patrick could see in his husband’s eyes that this was a night they would never forget. When they finally got away from the congratulatory mob, he made sure of it.
January 2014
Patrick stopped by his colleague’s office after lunch on the second Friday in January. “Hey Paul. How are you holding up?” He was leaning on the doorjamb, trying to convey sympathetic concern.
“Hi Patrick. I’m … okay. It helps to be busy.”
“I can imagine.” Paul’s face was tired and worn, and his thinning, receding hair had gone almost entirely gray since his FMLA leave began. Patrick had been about to suggest that additional bereavement leave was available. Now he realized that if he lost Dmitri, he wouldn’t want to be in their house alone for any longer than absolutely necessary. I’d probably be sleeping at the fucking office. “Let me know if you run out of stuff to do. I’ve got plenty I can shovel in your direction.”
Paul might have grasped the underlying intent of the words. They’d worked together for years. “It’s already picking back up. But.” He stalled. They hadn’t really socialized before, not as couples; it had been an office-only friendship. Patrick waited, hoping there was something he could do. “I could use some help at home,” Paul said finally. “I need to change a room. The room.” He didn’t elaborate.
Patrick knew Bob had died at home. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked something, then looked back up at Paul. “I’m free all weekend. Tell me when and I’ll be there.” He saw the glint
of tears in Paul’s eyes and thought Oh Jesus don’t do that or I will too. “How about ten o’clock? I’ll pick up some breakfast. Does that work?”
Paul took a deep breath. “That would be great. Thanks.”
Patrick nodded. “Great. See you then.” He didn’t ask if Paul wanted the door closed. Somehow he knew that seeing people, and hearing the ambient chatter of the office, was better than solitude. He patted the doorjamb, hoping Paul understood that the gesture was a substitute for a hug, and went back to his office. He scrolled to a number in the phone that was still in his hand and sent a text: Hi sweetheart I just talked to Paul Xiao and I may be spending most of the weekend with him. He’s back from the funeral etc and needs some help changing things at home. FYI if I were in that situation I think I might burn down the house. I love you, see you later. XOX
He didn’t expect a reply - Dmitri always had a packed schedule these days - but one came on the turn of the hour: Mon amour do not under any circumstances burn down the house or I will haunt you. Je t’aime aussi. Home by nine. Patrick laughed under his breath. Dmitri still never wrote, and rarely said, ‘I love you’ in English. He would take the words in whatever language he could get them.
The Space Needle snow globe on his desk caught his eye. In six months, Patrick realized, they would have their first wedding anniversary. Paul and Bob, together twice as long as he and Dmitri, had also married as soon as it was legal. The four of them drank a toast together, to equality, at the office’s end-of-summer party.
The thought, the recollection that Bob had already been dying, was too much. He had drunk champagne as if the glass were a middle finger raised to the cancer that had defeated four rounds of chemotherapy, three of radiation, and several experimental surgeries. Patrick closed his office door and lunged for the Kleenex.
It was a tough weekend. Patrick was five years older than Paul; death was no longer a mere concept. They had enough other things in common that this particular death was uncomfortably close to home. But, as he told himself repeatedly over those two days, this was not about him. This was his friend, who’d been listening to him bitch about ballroom for the past eleven years. He’d seemed to find it entertaining, and a welcome distraction during the long years of Bob’s illness. In any case, he’d certainly earned Patrick’s help. It wasn’t even that much work. It was the why of it that hurt. He told himself it was good to get a reality check. A little perspective on his own situation. He might feel like a ballroom widow half the time, but that beat the hell out of being an actual widow.
As if it wasn’t enough that Dmitri and Michelle were defending their championship, they were also producing Mating Dance, a spin-off of the Underground Cabaret. Patrick did not bitch about it at home, or in the studio. He bitched about it plenty in other places.
Dmitri did his best to be efficient. Elena was doing a great job; his attention wasn’t needed on a daily basis. He turned down work outside regular business hours during the week, kept his Saturday commitments to under eight hours, and kept every Sunday afternoon free. The pace as well as the scope of work meant he was constantly tired, often in pain, and nearly always hungry. He let Patrick manage his care, with weekly massages, physical therapy as needed, and a never-ending supply of nutritious food. He said, more than once, “I could not do this without you.” Patrick finally said he was running a tab. He meant it as a joke, but Dmitri stopped what he was doing and gazed at him. After a moment he said, very seriously, “If the cost is too high you must tell me.”
Patrick blinked, started to say something to wave that off, then closed his mouth and swallowed. “Sweetheart. Love of my life. I love you for who you are. I love you as you are. Don’t you ever think of stopping because of me. Don’t even consider the possibility.”
The subtext may have been ‘we’re in the homestretch now.’ It may have been ‘if you quit before you get that second title you will always regret it.’ The first was true, the second definitely wasn’t. Dmitri wouldn’t have achieved the first title without Patrick. Most competitors – especially those as late in their careers as Dmitri – would have happily retired after that achievement. Continuing the campaign was advantageous for the studio’s business, but it was self-indulgent. It was chiefly due to the knowledge that when he retired from competition with Michelle, he would close the door on the greatest partnership experience of his dance life. Patrick knew all that. Somehow, he always knew. “You know,” Dmitri said carefully, “that our partnership is the most important. Yes?”
Patrick heard the emphasis. He nodded. “Yes, honey. I know.”
New competitive students had flocked to the studio, and during any given hour there were half a dozen private lessons going on. The evening classes had a waiting list. Elena noticed that Dmitri’s colleague Julia hadn’t taken any time off for nearly a year, and gave her a call to talk about it. “Hi, Julia. I’ve just been running some reports on the last year’s activity for Dmitri, and I see that you haven’t had a vacation for a really long time. Do you want to schedule some time off?”
“I’d love to, but between the competition calendar and the nightclub, Dmitri is almost never available to take the evening classes.”
“Let me talk to him about that and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Is there a particular time you’d like to take off?”
“Now?” They both laughed. “But seriously. If I could have the last two weeks of March that would be awesome. Ray and I are shooting for the Columbia Star Ball and I’d like to have some uninterrupted time to work out our routines.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Elena felt a twinge of envy; Julia had come to ballroom in her thirties, and was now a few years off fifty. Her much-younger boyfriend-slash-partner Ray Daniels was an actor with a strong theatrical dance background, like Michelle’s. Watching their dance partnership from its very beginning had been bittersweet. Elena missed the intensity of competition. But she was a newlywed. She and Tony already had plenty to do, and plenty of compromises to make. She would keep this studio humming along, and enjoy what she had.
Dmitri was aware that his new manager looked at Michelle and Julia wistfully. He thought she had probably noticed Mateo too. The youngest teacher in the studio, Mateo de la Cruz was handling a social Rhythm class for Dmitri. He and his boyfriend Sam were in training for the Gay Games. Sam was also training with Julia for pro-am competition in the International Latin style, and Mateo was working with a woman named Yolanda. They would make their Rising Star Rhythm debut in February.
This was not the time to get involved. If Mateo and Yolanda worked out as partners, the question wouldn’t arise. If they didn’t, Dmitri might suggest that Mateo and Elena do a tryout. They were a good height for each other, and danced well together at the studio socials. Patrick noticed that, too. “Where’s the one he’s competing with?” He said it softly, even though the music was loud.
“Yolanda does not come to socials.” Dmitri knew his disapproval came through loud and clear. It was true that social dancing could impair a competitor’s technique. The emotional benefits, however, were legion. As even Patrick might agree, especially in a moment like this. Dancing with Dmitri, in the center of the floor, here where everyone knew they were partners, lovers, married. Where everyone wanted to see that.
It may have been Dmitri’s unspoken thoughts about Elena that prompted him to invite her and Tony to dinner. He knew she was surprised; the two of them had shared meals before, but never the four of them. She had been with the studio half a year now, though. He and Patrick were social with Michelle and Kenji, with Vince and Kelli, with Julia and Ray. Not to mention longtime friends Dana and Rory, Andy, and the studio’s other Gay Games couple, Vicky and Sharon. It was time to draw Elena into the family circle.
April 2014
Dmitri didn’t have to open the discussion with Elena. Mateo got there before him. He caught Dmitri at a time when he wasn’t with a student or Julia or Michelle, and Elena was out of the office. “Could I have a minute?”
Dmitri had noticed his youngest teacher hovering, and thought he knew what this was about. “In the office.” It was not quite a question.
“Yes please.” Mateo followed him in, closed the door, and wasted no time. “You know this thing with Yolanda isn’t really working out. If we don’t have a breakthrough at Emerald Ball, we’re going to call it. I talked to Elena. We thought we’d practice those same routines and then we’d like to do a tryout for you. But if you hate this idea tell me now, please.” He seemed a little worried about it.
“No,” said Dmitri. Mateo could probably tell he meant ‘no I don’t hate the idea.’ He wasn’t smiling, but then he hardly ever did, and the young man was observant. Also, Dmitri was aware, inclined to see him as a surrogate father. “Elena mentioned, last year, she might wish to teach part time. I knew she would wish to compete again.”
“She told me about her season with you. She said she was awful.” Mateo didn’t seem to be questioning Elena’s self-assessment.
Dmitri appreciated that she was humble, but she was too hard on herself. “No. Only too young.”
“I’m pretty young.” Dmitri shook his head. Mateo asked, “Why did you bring me in? I mean I’m still totally thrilled that you did, but I am so young, and I had no teaching experience, and what the hell.”
“Everyone must begin,” Dmitri said after a moment. “Was new class, social class. You were right for it.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “Everyone is attracted to you. They smile, they enjoy, they are energized. Is perfect for social class. But you have excellent knowledge. And you have beginner’s mind. You speak to them as a friend, you say not ‘do this’ but ‘let us try.’ They feel, this is possible.” Mateo was staring at him with an expression that was something between hero worship and pure love. Dmitri let some of his own affection show. He didn’t say anything else.
Change Partners (The L.A. Stories) Page 12