Ballerina

by Edward Stewart

  She was relieved. So relieved that she didn’t object when Danny ordered more wine, so relieved that she drank two more glasses. When she glanced at her watch and saw the time, she was shocked.

  ‘It’s almost one!’ she cried. ‘I’ll never make class tomorrow!’

  He fixed a gentle stare on her. ‘Do you have to?’

  She could feel wine and blood drumming in her cheeks, warning her. ‘We both have to.’

  His stare lingered one questioning moment and then he turned and signalled the waitress. When the cheque came Steph opened her purse.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ Danny said.

  ‘At least let me pay my share.’

  ‘This is your choreographer talking. Keep those hands in your lap.’ He added a tip, signed the cheque, and announced he was taking her home in a taxi.

  She knew he earned a soloist’s pay, a hundred fifty more than she did, but still he lived alone and had rent to pay, and if he ate out all the time he was probably just as broke as she was.

  ‘I only live a couple of blocks away,’ she said. When you had two half litres of red wine in you, when you’d just danced a successful world premiere and spent one of the nicest evenings of your life with someone you really liked, there was no difference between twelve blocks and a couple.

  ‘Then I’ll walk you.’

  He waved good night to the waitress and good night to the woman at the cash register. He reached to open the restaurant door. Steph brushed past him. For an instant his arm was very near her waist, almost touching. The night was cool.

  ‘Which way?’ he asked.

  ‘East.’

  He took her arm and they walked slowly. There was no traffic but they stopped at a red light anyway.

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘Steph?’

  ‘I think I’m drunk.’

  ‘You seem to be walking pretty straight to me.’

  ‘I’m not walking, I’m standing.’

  ‘You seem to be standing pretty straight.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve had twelve years’ training. Danny?’

  ‘Steph?’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to walk.’

  ‘Do you want a taxi?’

  ‘I want to stand here. Just like this. Right here. I want to go to sleep standing up.’ Leaning on you. But she didn’t say that.

  The light changed to green. His hand became firm on her arm; managerial. He was walking her. As though she were a child. Or a ballerina.

  The streets rolled gently, like waves. She liked Danny’s arm around her, steering. It kindled a feeling of security in her. She could feel her heart beating as though her chest were made of paper.

  They reached the building.

  ‘This is it,’ she said. ‘Home.’

  The night doorman was watching them from his chair, over the top of his early bird Daily News. She debated whether or not to ask Danny up. She thought of Chris awake and it seemed like an awkward idea and she thought of Chris asleep and it seemed just as awkward.

  ‘Danny, thank you for a beautiful evening and I’m sorry I’m drunk.’

  His hands were on her shoulders. ‘You’re not drunk, so don’t be sorry and thank you for a beautiful evening. See you in class tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘If I can see straight.’

  His hands slid off her shoulders. He was smiling at her, but she sensed she’d put him off not asking him up, and she sensed it was one of those instead-of-a-kiss smiles. She felt heavier without the weight of his touch. Something in her sagged.

  ‘Good night, Steph.’

  ‘Good night, Danny.’

  She turned to go into the building. He stopped her.

  ‘Wait a second, Steph.’

  And kissed her.

  A very quick soft kiss. Shy. His lips not quite centered on her. It was so last-minute, so all-of-a-sudden, she didn’t have time to respond. She opened her eyes and Danny was gone. And the doorman was smiling. Let him smile. She was smiling too.

  All the way up in the elevator, all through the fumbling with the door key, the realization sang in her: Danny Gillette aka Goldberg liked her!

  Wanted her!

  As she let herself into the apartment her mother rose from the sofa and advanced on her. ‘Congratulations. And where—have—you—been?’

  ‘Mom—what are you doing here? Where’s Chris?’

  ‘In there asleep—like you should have been two hours ago. I’ve been worried sick. Chris didn’t know where you were. Lester Croyden didn’t know where you were, your friend Linda didn’t know where you were, so don’t try to tell me you were with her.’

  Suddenly Steph was sober. All the giddiness in her evaporated. And with it the happiness.

  ‘You didn’t phone all those people!’

  ‘Damned right I phoned them. You expect me to sit home chewing my nails, wondering whether you’re dead or alive or spending the night with God knows who?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t pester all my friends. It makes me look like a fool.’

  ‘And you are a fool. A full day’s work tomorrow and you’re out all night.’

  ‘Which is why I’m going to sleep right now. Good night, Mom.’ Steph put down her bag, stepped out of her shoes.

  ‘Just a minute. I want to know where you were, who you were with, what you were doing.’

  ‘I was with Danny. We were celebrating.’

  ‘Celebrating how?’

  Her mother had no right to cross-examine her, not now when Steph lived in her own apartment and paid her own way. She was tempted to lie and cut the discussion short. But something told her that to lie now would be to give in forever. Besides, she hadn’t the strength to lie or the imagination. All she wanted was sleep.

  ‘We had dinner.’

  ‘You’ve been drinking.’

  ‘Mom, it was a celebration. We had a little wine and we laughed and we talked and we forgot what time it was.’

  ‘I’m very happy for Danny. And I’m very worried about you.’

  ‘Mom, I’m tired. I’m not up to an argument.’

  ‘Who’s arguing?’

  ‘You’re arguing. Chris is in there trying to sleep and the walls are very thin.’

  ‘So lower your voice and sit down and talk to your mother for one minute. I haven’t seen you in five Sundays, you know.’

  They sat on the sofa, side by side. Anna angled to face her daughter, Steph angled so as not to have to face her mother.

  ‘Are you in love with this Danny kid?’ Anna asked.

  ‘He’s not a kid and I’m not a kid.’

  ‘Are you in love?’

  ‘I like him.’

  ‘And he likes you?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I knew it.’

  ‘Do you expect me to be a nun all my life?’

  ‘I expect you to be a dancer. And once you’re a dancer you can fool around with all the Dannys you want.’

  ‘Mom, I’ve got to have some friends!’

  ‘So they can keep you out all night? So they can wreck your career?’

  ‘It’s my life! Let me live it!’

  ‘Twenty years I put into you. Half my life.’

  Abruptly, Anna had become pathetic. Steph did not need to look or even to listen. She had seen and heard it all before, the hurt tone, the bent posture, the eyes shimmering on the brink of tears, the voice that suddenly dropped to a pleading whisper. She had heard of attack wolves, cornered, baring this jugulars. Her mother, now reminded her of that bared jugular.

  The words flowed over her, familiarly.

  ‘I scrubbed floors and I ironed shirts and every penny I made I spent on you. So you wouldn’t have to go through what I had to. So you could have something in life. So you could dance. And now you’re telling me no thanks!’

  ‘What can I say, Mom? What can I do that’ll satisfy you?’

  ‘You could show some gratitude, that’s what you could do!’

  ‘I am grateful. You know I’m
grateful.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I don’t know anything. I don’t know you any more.’

  ‘Please, Mom. I’m tired.’

  ‘All I want is what’s good for you. That’s all I’m asking. Is that so much?’

  Anna took Steph’s hands. Steph could feel the old knives twisting in her.

  ‘I know,’ Anna said. ‘I did it. I fell in love. I threw everything away. I couldn’t take it if you did the same. Honey, sometimes I’m so scared. I have nightmares. I wake up shaking. I see you making the same mistakes I did. Honey, these are the make or break years of your career! A dancer’s got five, ten years- that’s all! Every day, every night, every hour counts! After all we’ve been through, please—please—’

  Steph couldn’t bear it.

  She pulled away from her mother. She opened her purse and then she held the front door open.

  Anna’s eyes followed her. ‘What are you doing? What’s that?’

  ‘It’s five dollars, Mom.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I love you and I’m dead tired. Take a taxi home.’

  eighteen

  Anna grabbed a cab on the corner of Central Park West and dumped herself into the back seat. All the way home terror and impotence gnawed at her.

  Steph’s making the same mistake I did. She’s so close to the top it’s got her dizzy and she’s going to throw her career away for a guy.

  Anna’s hands balled into angry little fists. Even though she’d cut her nails short they found flesh to dig into. Her head throbbed and she tried to fit the problem into some kind of context where she could cope with it.

  Why the hell can’t Steph learn from what happened to me? Twenty years ago I was exactly where she is ... almost.

  Anna sighed, and the cab driver’s eyes flicked up in the mirror.

  Who can reason with kids? If anyone had told me my career was about to blow up, I’d have said just what Steph said to me: ‘Drop dead.’

  If Anna had only known that that season twenty years ago was to be her farewell, she might have handled everything differently. It might all be different today. She might still be a dancer.

  Instead of a pushy mother....

  She clenched her eyes shut, squinting back what felt like tears.

  If only if only if only....

  It seemed to Anna Lang that if only was the story of her life.

  The company played at City Center in those days. There was no overtime pay and there was no air conditioning and it was hard to say which hurt more. A boy called Bobby Baylor was partnering Anna in Moonflower. He was scheduled to dance the spring gala. For two weeks Anna had racked her brain debating the best way to get him out of the role. It was one of those muggy New York afternoons when she finally hit upon a plan.

  The door to the director’s office had been left open a crack. Anna could see him at his desk in shirt sleeves. He kept jabbing a hand to blot the sweat from the neat black line of his goatee. Without the goatee, he would have been handsome.

  Anna made a fist and gave a single rap. ‘Got a minute, Mr Volmar?’

  He was marking cues in an orchestral score and he didn’t look up. ‘Not now, my dear.’

  Anna saw that he wasn’t alone. Dorcas Amidon, crisp as a Waldorf salad in her money-green dress, stood arranging set sketches on an easel. Dorcas served on the board and she had millions and Volmar let her help him in harmless ways.

  Anna hesitated. She hadn’t calculated on an audience. On the other hand, if she was going to make her move, she had to do it today, before the programmes went to press. She stepped quickly into the office and eased the door shut behind her.

  ‘It’s about the gala,’ she said.

  Volmar’s glance flicked up. ‘Well, what about it?’

  ‘Those turns in Moonflower bother me.’

  ‘Your turns are fine.’

  ‘Today I almost stumbled.’

  ‘Then forget the last piqué and take a half-beat preparation. Do whatever you have to. I trust you.’ Volmar gave a wave, like a magician telling her to vanish.

  But Anna didn’t vanish. She placed her hands firmly on the edge of his desk. ‘It’s not the preparation, Mr Volmar. It’s Bobby. He’s pointing me wrong.’

  ‘I didn’t notice. Well, tell him to point you right.’

  Anna was prepared for stubbornness. Volmar had stood up to the Nazis in Denmark and he stood up to his board of directors every spring. She wasn’t foolish enough to expect him to back down right away.

  ‘It’s not just the pointing. He’s catching me high. He lowers me too fast. I’m not comfortable with him.’

  ‘Comfortable? You’re in ballet, my dear—not a suite at the Ritz.’

  Anna was prepared for rudeness. Ash Wednesday, when she’d come to rehearsal with ash on her forehead, Volmar had shouted at her to wash her face. People said he was an atheist and she’d heard he was half Jewish and nothing he did surprised her.

  ‘He almost dropped me twice in rehearsal today. Mr Volmar, I need a partner I can trust. That adagio’s murder.’

  A sigh came out of him, grudging as a surrender. Most people said Volmar was a woman-hater, but most people weren’t as observant as Anna Lang. She’d seen his eyes sweep the curve of her hip, linger on the red of her hair, just as they were doing now.

  ‘Very well, Anna—whom would you trust?’

  She knew she couldn’t push Marty at him. Volmar was foxy as a landlord. She’d have to work him around to the idea. So she named a dancer she knew he disliked. ‘Somebody taller. Like Alfie. He’s good at catching.’

  Dorcas Amidon made a snorting sound. ‘Alfie has no elevation. He couldn’t handle the variation.’

  ‘And who’s going to teach him? Who has time?’ Volmar gestured impatiently toward the sketches and scores and unopened letters piled on his desk.

  ‘Martin Lang’s a good partner,’ Anna said quietly. He was good in other departments too, but for the time being she was keeping that to herself. Instinct told her Volmar wouldn’t like her red hair quite so much if he knew she’d married Marty five days ago.

  ‘Marty?’ Dorcas Amidon’s voice was incredulous. ‘For Moonflower?’

  ‘He’s covered the role,’ Anna said. ‘He knows it by heart.’

  ‘Anna, my darling.’ Volmar spoke gently now, as though to a child. ‘Leave the casting to me.’

  He’d never been this difficult before. She supposed he had to put on a show for Dorcas Amidon. He wanted Anna to beg? Okay, she’d beg.

  ‘Come on, Mr Volmar. I can’t do that adagio with Bobby.’

  ‘Don’t be so modest. You do it beautifully.’

  The words shot out of her before she had time to think. ‘I won’t do it with that idiot!’

  The air in the room seemed to darken. Dorcas Amidon’s head came around sharply and Volmar’s eyes were slivers of Baltic grey.

  ‘You’re refusing the part?’ he said.

  It wasn’t going the way Anna had planned. She was flailing. ‘Look, just give me Martin Lang. He knows how to partner. He makes me look good. He’d make Moonflower look wonderful.’

  ‘Moonflower is wonderful,’ Volmar said. ‘And you’ll dance it with Bobby.’

  ‘Not on your life.’

  ‘Then you’re fired.’

  Anna couldn’t have been more surprised if a jar of pickles had exploded in her hand. She hadn’t foreseen this. If only they’d been alone she could have kneaded Volmar like bread dough. She saw there was nothing left now but to play her trump. Volmar could fire a woman in a fit of pique but he’d never fire a top male dancer—there weren’t enough of them.

  ‘If I go,’ Anna said, ‘Marty goes with me.’

  She had him. She knew she had him. Dorcas Amidon stopped shifting sketches and the room was so quiet you could hear Volmar’s watch ticking in the jacket slung over the chair.

  ‘Then both of you go,’ Volmar spat. ‘And don’t waste any more of my time.’

  For one split second Anna couldn’t beli
eve she’d heard right. She didn’t believe any man, not even Marius Volmar, could be so stupid.

  The bus was jammed, wouldn’t you know. Anna fumed all the way across town.

  There wasn’t a straight man in the company who could partner better than Marty. No one else could lift Hildie Cavanaugh now that she’d put on ten pounds. Sandy Marco’s right foot was zilch since he’d fallen in Black Swan, so who did that leave for Spectre de la Rose and Filling Station? Marty Lang, that was who.

  Anna stopped at Tenth Avenue to pick up two mocha éclairs from the French bakery. Her hips didn’t need them but Marty loved éclairs. She got a bottle of California chianti from the liquor store and the butcher let her have credit for two rib pork chops. Meat prices in this town were murder, but Marty loved her baked pork chops with onions and sour cream.

  Balancing packages, she let herself into the run-down brownstone and began the five-storey climb. Anger drummed in her.

  Did Volmar actually think audiences were going to pay three ninety-five to see a gay boy twirl Lena MacDowell or watch Galina Nurevna grope her way through another Giselle? Nurevna was so blind they had to put red runway lights in the wings and half the Wilis crossed themselves before her turns. Without Marty, Nurevna would be doing Act Two on her knees.

  The apartment smelled of gas. The pilot light was out again, wouldn’t you know. Anna sliced up an onion and wished it was Marius Volmar and slapped the chops into a pie plate.

  Who the hell did Volmar think he was?

  Without Marty Lang, National Ballet Theater would collapse faster than a tent without a pole. Volmar would have to come crawling to get Anna and Marty Lang back. And Anna would make him pay twenty bucks over scale, the same as he gave Hildie Cavanaugh.

  Anna broke the news to Marty over supper.

  ‘We’re wasting our time with NBT. Volmar’s never going to give you a role.’

  Marty’s spoon stopped and fell back into the plate of cream of tomato soup. ‘What are you talking about? He’s given me plenty of roles.’

  ‘Sure—eight hundred Albrechts. You’re the only one who can lift Nurevna—or steer her to her lights. That’s not a role. That’s a seeing-eye dog with muscle.’

  ‘I’m already the lover in Lilac Garden.’

  ‘Then how come you’ve never done a Siegfried? Volmar doesn’t think you can handle prince roles, that’s why.’