Ballerina

by Edward Stewart

  ‘Have you ever seen Sanctuary?’ he asked.

  ‘Once,’ she said. It was a contemporary Dutch ballet, abstract and crystal-hard. The score was a jagged rush of dissonance and the movements matched. ‘I saw Pat McBride.’

  ‘You’re frightened. Don’t be. Save it for the performance.’

  ‘But I’m not fast enough.’

  ‘That’s why we’re going to start slow.’

  She had never heard a father’s tone in any man’s voice. She had never expected to hear it in his. She fought to stay in one piece, to stay solid.

  He led her gently into the role. First they worked out her solo passages, alone with the pianist. He explained the distortions of classical patterns. ‘It’s only a pas de bourrée—but one foot’s nailed to the floor.’

  Her fear melted in the patience of his instruction. He demonstrated lifts, taking her gently between his hands and lifting her as easily as a pillow. He’s strong, she thought. I never knew he was strong. 1 never knew anything about him at all.

  Sometimes he showed the movement and she watched. Sometimes he took her hand or foot, her neck or knee, and made her feel the movement. Sometimes he stood back and said, ‘Do your own treatment, let me see.’ And then he might say, ‘We’ll keep that and just hope the choreographer never sees it,’ or ‘That’s terrible,’ and they would both smile with the quiet gaiety of collaborators.

  When it was time to learn the pas de deux, he gave her Wally.

  ‘Just imagine you’re warming up at the barre. Wally, you’re the barre. It’s a simple battement tendu, pure classroom. But the barre is sinking and you mustn’t let go.’

  ‘But it throws my hip out.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  When the pas de deux was right, Volmar rehearsed the five soloists. Steph was as good as the others. Volmar had nursed and coaxed something out of her that she had never known she had in her.

  The day of the performance she was frightened. ‘I know I can do it, but I’m still frightened,’ she said. ‘That’s silly, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ Volmar said. ‘I’m frightened for the first time in thirty-two years and it feels absolutely wonderful.’

  She felt very close to him at that instant, very grateful to him, and sad that she had no way of showing it. I’ll show him tonight, she promised herself. I’ll show him in my dancing.

  At four o’clock that afternoon the spokesman for the musician’s local asked to speak with Marius Volmar.

  ‘The men have been working for seven months now without a contract,’ he said.

  ‘But not without pay,’ Marius Volmar said.

  ‘Just so you won’t say we didn’t warn you—this is the new deal.’ He was a short, bald man, and fat rimmed his neck like a goiter. He dumped a pound and a half of paper on Volmar’s desk. The pages were Xeroxed, the type single-spaced and tiny.

  ‘We want thirty per cent, retroactive to expiration of the old contract. Annual increases of eight, plus cost-of-living, for the three-year life of the contract. A maximum of five performances per week. Maximum rehearsal of—’

  Volmar lifted the pages of the contract in wads, peered between them as though a cat had defecated in a linen closet. ‘What’s your name?’

  The man smiled, showing crooked stained teeth. ‘Harnett. Seymour Harnett. Good to make your acquaintance.’

  Volmar ignored the hand. He detested hypocrisies and besides the nails were filthy. ‘We dance eight performances a week. You want to play five. What do we do for the other three—hire another orchestra? Pay you overtime, which is double your normal robbery, which amounts to hiring two extra orchestras?’

  ‘You do what you want, Mr Volmar. I’m just telling you what you’ll do if you want an orchestra after June 1.’

  ‘If you had your way, Mr Harnett, we’d never mount ballets to new scores. Our music costs would triple. We’d have to double ticket prices. We’d be wiped out.’

  ‘We got a right to a decent wage the same as any other American.’

  ‘You think those dancers are getting decent wages?’

  ‘They don’t have mortgages. They don’t have wives. They don’t have kids.’

  ‘Some of them do.’

  ‘The only thing those faggots are supporting is colour TVs and poodles and you damn well know it.’

  Volmar could feel his heart hovering on the brink of spasm. No anger, he warned himself: do not waste precious anger on this dog. Slowly, he spoke. ‘I don’t recognize your name, Mr Harnett. But I do recognize your bald head. You play triangle.’

  ‘And wood block. And tambourine. And xylo. Any percussion you can name.’

  ‘During Coppélia you spent most of the performance reading. Now and then you picked up your little steel stick and tapped your triangle. Now and then you forgot to. You’re not an artist, Mr Harnett. You’re not even a workman. You have no business corrupting the honest efforts of honest artists.’

  Indignation purpled Harnett’s face. Volmar raised a hand, staving off interruption.

  ‘But if I fired you—and I ought to have after Coppélia—the orchestra would go on strike. The stagehands would go on strike. The ushers would go on strike. The AFL-CIO would have garbage men picketing the theatre. We would not be able to perform. So I have a choice. I can wait for you to retire, on full-salaried pension. Or I can wait for you to have a heart attack, on company insurance. But then your place will be taken by another bald man from the same union—most likely your bald brother-in-law or your bald son—and he’ll play triangle just as badly as you do, picking his nose and missing his cues, wandering in and out of the pit when he wants a drink or needs to empty his bladder.’

  A jangle of shock seemed physically to strike Harnett. ‘You’re bald too!’

  ‘But I am not little, Mr Harnett. And I don’t earn three times what a dancer in the corps earns, or twice what a principal earns. And I don’t whine at having to work five days a week—or seven—and if I need to rehearse I rehearse till I’m right and I don’t expect to be paid for mistakes!’

  Silence slammed down between them.

  ‘You’re going to regret that, Volmar. I could have been on your side.’

  ‘You could never have been on my side, Mr Harnett. I deal with artists and I deal with humans but I have no dealings with livestock. Now do you want to take this rubbish with you or shall I throw it out myself?’

  ‘We’re going to fuck you, Volmar,’ the little man screamed. ‘We’re going to fuck you but good!’

  Volmar shoved the contract over the edge of the desk and let it thud into the wastebasket. ‘Be so good as to close the door when you leave, Mr Harnett.’

  Volmar had known for a decade of escalating union demands that this moment would come. It surprised him how little surprise he felt, how little anger. His heartbeat was perfectly normal as he reached for his telephone.

  He spoke first to Dorcas and then he said to the operator, ‘Belgian consulate, please.’

  Volmar went to her dressing room to tell her himself. ‘I won’t be here tonight, Stephanie.’

  She turned away from her mirror, an eyebrow pencil clutched in one suddenly rigid hand.

  ‘It’s a labour problem. The company may not survive. I have to go to Brussels this evening. My plane leaves in an hour. Forgive me.’

  Her mind raced to fear, and the fear became a deep sustained underbeat within her. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said softly.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to give these to you later, after you’d danced the way I know you’re going to. But I won’t be here, so please accept them now.’

  He handed her a basket of flowers. It was so huge she had to put both arms around it to hold it to her.

  ‘If you’re superstitious you’d better not read the note till afterward.’

  She turned to set the flowers down and when she turned back to him he brushed a kiss on her lips.

  ‘I’m counting on you, Stephanie.’

  It was a tiny kiss, quick a
nd light and barely there at all. She shut her eyes and out of some storybook memory came a fireside and two parents holding hands and the soft gold tick of a grandfather clock and the knowledge that nothing could ever hurt her.

  The kiss stayed with her when she warmed up and it stayed with her as she waited for her entrance. It stayed through the pas de deux and her variation and the coda, beating on her lips with the soft pleasing sting of brandy.

  Volmar kissed me!

  She knew she was dancing well. She could tell when Wally winked at her. She could tell when the conductor held a retard for her, courteously, unhurryingly, like a gentleman holding a door for a lady, and then went right along, not even grimacing at the faster tempo that suddenly came spinning out of her feet and felt exactly right.

  She could tell when her dresser patted a towel over her face and arms and kept pushing her around towards the stage. The audience called her back for five bows and she hardly cared: all she could think of was Volmar’s kiss and his flowers and the unopened card. She hurried back to her dressing room.

  More bouquets had arrived. She glanced at the note on a dozen pink gladioluses. Best of luck tonight and always. Danny Gillette.

  Sadness stirred in her. She pushed it away. She opened the note that had come with two dozen red roses. Merde. Sasha.

  She sat a moment, surprised and pleased, and then she found Volmar’s card and tore it open and almost cut a finger on the heavy paper. Congratulations, Stephanie, on a job beautifully done.

  The words wobbled in front of her eyes. He ... believes in me!

  There was a knock at the door and her mother came in, glowing like a Christmas tree. ‘Honey, you were terrific.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘Honest.’

  Steph plunked herself down at the dressing table, as bright as a marquee with its make-up lights bordering the mirror. She peeled off eyelashes and worked cold cream into the layers of make-up.

  ‘I just wish Volmar could have seen you tonight.’ Anna stared at all the bouquets and baskets heaped on the chair and spilling onto the floor. There must have been a dozen. Anna inventoried.

  Flowers from Lvovna: ten cents of daffodils but nice of the old bag. Flowers from Danny Gillette.

  ‘You still seeing Danny what’s-it?’

  Steph shrugged. ‘It’s been over a year.’

  Red roses from Sasha Bunin. Well, well. ‘Didn’t know you were friends with Sasha.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  Anna came to a hundred dollars of roses and lilies and gardenias and camellias. She looked at the card. Volmar? Her eyes narrowed. Marius had never so much as taken her out to a French restaurant or offered to bring a steak over for dinner and if he was throwing away hundred-dollar floral arrangements on Steph....

  ‘Nice of Volmar,’ she said. ‘Too bad he couldn’t have seen your extension in that lift. And your double fouetté—’

  ‘Oh, Mom, he saw those.’

  ‘How? Ship-to-shore TV in a 747?’

  ‘He’s been coaching me weeks now. He really cares about me.’

  Anna squinted. The note was not one of those over-the-phone-to-the-florist jobs: it was in Marius’ own handwriting. Congratulations, Stephanie, on a job beautifully done. That was payment in advance and it wasn’t the Marius that Anna knew.

  ‘Of course he cares about you,’ Anna said. ‘You fall on your ass and he falls on his.’

  ‘More than that. Mom—he kissed me.’

  Anna slid the card back into its envelope. Steph’s eyes were green and radiant. Emeralds. ‘Kissed you?’

  ‘For twelve months he’s been treating me like I wasn’t even here, and tonight he kissed me!’

  Anna got up quickly and paced to the shower and pretended to check whether there was soap and a towel. She didn’t want Steph to see her face because suddenly her face didn’t feel it could keep any secrets. That kiss nagged at her, nagged at her: how had Marius kissed Steph, on the cheek, on the mouth, long, short, or what, had he held her, had he touched her, where had he touched her, if that bastard touched her Anna didn’t want to know, Anna had to know.

  There were thoughts whirling in her no decent mother would want to admit to and she wished she could bury them under a ton of dirt. I’m jealous, she realized, I’m jealous of my own little girl, and she was ashamed.

  ‘You’re a dancer,’ she said, ‘not a kiss booth at a country fair.’ Her voice was wrinkled and old and hoarse and she couldn’t help it. ‘Stay away from that old goat. He could be your father.’

  Steph was staring, eyes big and baffled and embarrassed. ‘Mom, you don’t think—’

  He’s my old goat and twice the lover your drunken pop ever was, that’s what I think.

  Steph was smiling. ‘Mom, sometimes you’re too much.’

  It was Steph’s night and with one flick of her tongue Anna could take it away from her. I could tell her she stank tonight. I could tell her what happens to girls who put out for the director. Anna fought that tongue and it was one of the hardest fights of her life and she almost won.

  ‘Honey, you’re a dancer and a good one. Someday you’re going to be a great one. And you don’t need to make it that way.’

  Steph came to her and hugged her, careful not to smear cold cream on the dress Anna had bought at the Bendel’s sale and saved for the occasion. ‘Mom, you’re sweet.’

  Am I?

  ‘But he’s not like that.’

  Isn’t he?

  ‘And I’m not a kid.’

  She got into the shower and Anna looked at her. She had grown beyond girlishness and prettiness. She had real breasts, not a dancer’s breasts. Her face was sure in its femininity and her eyes were unashamed. Tiny ripples of envy and regret washed the skin at the back of Anna’s neck.

  That much was true. Steph wasn’t a kid any more.

  Steph bought all three newspapers the next morning.

  It was raining great slaps of water on the pavement, and she dashed from the newsstand across the avenue into an arcade of the Gulf and Western Building. Strangers had taken up positions around her, fellow exiles from the downpour.

  She thumbed excitedly through the Times. Twice. No review. That didn’t mean anything. Sometimes the Times was a day late.

  She searched the Post. There was a two-inch article, Dutch Revival, a photograph of Lucinda Dalloway in arabesque that certainly hadn’t come from Sanctuary, no mention of Stephanie Lang.

  The News showed Dalloway again, same arabesque: Steph’s name was in the credits, misspelled (Stephane Laing), and nowhere else.

  She felt a crushing disappointment. For a long while she had no will to move from the arcade. Finally she stepped into the rain. Tomorrow, she told herself. The Times will have something tomorrow.

  And it did: an interview with Aleksandr Fedorovich Bunin running five columns; a photograph of Sasha cradling his poodle Merde; and a half-page announcement of changes in the NBT programme that Steph had not even seen posted in the theatre.

  Sanctuary was dropped completely, Do I’s were cut to one, the abstract ballets were gone. In their place were Spectre de la Rose every night, Bunin and Dalloway; three Le Corsaire pas de deux, Bunin and Fowles; and four Don Q pas de deux, Bunin and Banska.

  The interview quoted Dorcas:

  ‘Ilonka is an artist in the grand style. She and Sasha have been dying to dance together ever since Sasha’s hairbreadth escape from Soviet tyranny. Empire have been absolute dears about loaning her to us.’

  Sasha was quoted:

  ‘Would not call it Bunin festival, no. Is romantic festival. These days people like what is romantic, yes?’

  And again Dorcas:

  ‘Romantic, Bunin—what’s the difference? The name “Bunin” is synonymous with everything romantic in ballet. Did you know that last year alone there were over 18 million paid admissions to ballet in the USA, 6 million more than to professional football? We’re on a definite upswing and a lot of the credit has to go to Sasha.’

&nbs
p; Steph searched, but there was no mention of Sanctuary.

  As Deputy Minister of Culture, Pierre Huygens had no choice.

  Marius Volmar was a distinguished guest of the government. If he wanted breakfast with the Deputy Minister, he got it. If he wanted two breakfasts, he got them. Or three.

  And so every morning for a week they breakfasted in the bar of the Hotel Bruxelles, always at a quiet corner table not visible from the lobby. Aside from occasional darts of Flemish or French piercing the screen of potted palms or the overzealous waiter offering fresh café au lait, they were undisturbed.

  Pierre Huygens had heard rumours, but they were contradictory. If he was to believe one source, Volmar had nothing more mysterious in mind than next summer’s NBT tour. If he was to believe another, Volmar was discouraged with America and wished to return to Europe.

  Whatever country he chose, Marius Volmar would be a catch. And so Pierre Huygens was patient.

  There were scattered hopeful hints: a disparaging remark about commercialism in America; an admiring reference to the depth of the stage at Theatre de la Monnaie. Pierre Huygens did not press. He tried to show no annoyance, no hurry. He sipped coffee, spread thin glazes of peach preserves on hot buttered croissants, waited for Marius Volmar to unlock his secret.

  At the sixth breakfast, Volmar changed his pattern.

  ‘How about the ballet tonight?’ he suggested.

  Ambition nagged at Pierre Huygens. Tonight was his anniversary and his wife Berthe would be broken-hearted. But Marius Volmar was worth an anniversary. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  The ballet was an oddity, one of Béjart’s nude mythologies, danced rather callisthenically to a mix of raga and Wagner. Volmar tactfully refrained from expressing an opinion.

  Afterwards they went to Mére Mathilde’s, Brussels’ best seafood restaurant. The filet of flounder stuffed with lobster was so light in texture, so delicately seasoned, the two bottles of Pouilly Fuissé were so perfect a complement, that for almost an hour Pierre Huygens forgot he was a very baffled and eager man.