Give Me Your Answer True

by Suanne Laqueur

  All my free time has been a slugfest compared to the action-packed hours we cram in before curtain. Disneyland and Universal Studios and the beach and Hollywood and tours and this attraction, the other attraction.

  Plus this is Gabriel’s home turf. Our reputation and his hustle precede us and we have a guest artist spot with the Anaheim Ballet School starting in January. I’m grateful for the delay and looking forward to working just one job for a couple of months. I’m exhausted after the Washington leg. On a whole lot of levels. But it’s good.

  I feel good.

  Take care and I’ll talk to you soon.

  Daisy

  December 25, 1997

  Dear Trey,

  I thought I would be blue being on the road during the holidays, but it’s actually been one of the most festive seasons I’ve had in a long time. The company takes excellent care of its own and nobody is left alone or out in the cold. We had an epic Thanksgiving dinner at Melisse and last night’s post-show supper was a total bacchanal, being both the first night of Hanukkah and Christmas Eve.

  Your package arrived at the theater about a week ago, but I held off opening it until today. How did you know I would love a copy of The Subtle Knife? You shouldn’t have. But I’m awful glad you did. Can’t wait to crack the spine and fall into the next part of Golden Compass. Funny, I’ve waited so long to read this and I know I’ll tear through it in two days. Books can break your heart that way.

  Looking ahead, Gabe and I start our guest artist stint with Anaheim Ballet School after New Year’s. The plan is to stage Rakewind for their spring recital. Phantom will load out in April and then it’s back to Chicago. I’m getting a little tired and wondering if it’s time to bow out. I feel homesick but in a confused way, like I’m not quite sure which home I mean. New York? Philly? A new home?

  Anyway, the theater is dark and the company is hosting another dinner tonight. Much booze and caroling and unveiling of Secret Santas. I hope you’ve had a merry little everything, king of tremendous majesty, and may the New Year bring much coming and trembling. (Not necessarily in that order.)

  Love and ungh,

  Dais

  Daisy closed the card and slid it into its envelope. Trey preferred email but it was Christmas, he’d get a card and be happy.

  She stood up and went to the window, drew back the heavy drape to look out at the bowl of Los Angeles. Strange to see the silhouette of palm trees at Christmas, a desert vista instead of snowdrifts. The holiday décor seemed so tatty and out of context.

  Her CD player whirred and changed discs. Nat King Cole began crooning “The Christmas Song.”

  Loneliness laid gentle hands on her shoulders. From a bookcase in her heart, she took down a photo album and thumbed through old snapshots of La Tarasque. Decorating the tree, handing up ornaments to Erik who hung them on the highest branches. The memory wreathed in the scent of wood smoke and pine and orange-spice cookies.

  Do you ever think of marrying me?

  She put her hand on the window pane and looked through her reflection to the city outside. Time and accomplishment had dulled the pain to an ache. Yet rare were the days when Erik didn’t float through her mind for one reason or another.

  Where are you?

  She didn’t often let herself lean into it. But now she pressed her forehead against the glass. Her breath drained from her lungs, fogging the sparkling clump of lights.

  I’m lonely tonight.

  I’m thinking of you.

  It still matters. I’m still sorry. And I still love you.

  “Come back,” she whispered. “Come back to me…”

  THE LOS ANGELES Times

  February 15, 1998

  “An Evening with the Anaheim Ballet”

  The program ended with Rakewind, the work of guest artist Marguerite Bianco. Set to Mozart’s haunting Requiem Mass, the ballet is a tribute to the victims of the 1992 shooting at Lancaster University, where Bianco did her undergraduate work.

  The ballet opens with the Introitus with Bianco center stage in the circle of a single spotlight. The stage then explodes with the Dies Irae, a rolling boil of non-stop movement and emotion through which Bianco slices, sometimes like a sword, other times like a ribbon.

  Rex Tremendae Majestatis features six dancers—one for each of the dead at Lancaster shootings—and Gabriel Ostin, who dances the same choreography but with his back to the audience. One might think this was done in ostracism. Or perhaps to see through the eyes of a disturbed and marginalized youth driven to the unthinkable.

  Confutatis Maledictis juxtaposes euphoria against darkness, community against outcasts. A clump of undulating bodies keeping Bianco and Ostin separated. The clump dissipates and silence is broken by the tentative notes of the Lacrimosa. The climactic pas de deux starts as a duet in unison and evolves into Bianco and Ostin’s breathtaking partner work against the corps carrying candles. At the final amen, the combined company constructs a multi-tiered cathedral of bodies, under which the couple embrace.

  Bianco’s choreography is fierce but never maudlin. She dances with the honesty of a storyteller. The ballet’s goal is not to garner pity but to create understanding. And this young artist triumphs on both fronts.

  MARCH 10, 1998

  Dear Dais,

  Was ist los, du Arschloch? So glad my customary greeting doesn’t get lost in translation.

  Dude, I bawled like a girl reading the review of Rakewind. Did anyone videotape it? Seriously, I cannot live much longer without seeing this piece. I feel like I’ve been with you the whole time it was being choreographed. Over the space of a year and across four cities. Now I’m dying to see it live. And hopefully a greater chance exists because starting April I’ll be on the same continent as you.

  Let me back up. Last November, my dad had to have heart surgery. I came home a couple weeks and long story short he’s doing well with good prognosis but it’s been hard on my mom. You know I got one sister out in Vancouver and the other in Oregon. Maurice and the Pompatus are pretty well entrenched in the Moncton community, but let’s face it: they move in circles their age and nobody’s getting younger. Still, it’s not their plan to move out West yet. If ever.

  Cue problem of What’s A Good Son To Do? And enter solution in the form of Andre Mejia, my old teacher from Ballet Canadiens. He now heads New Brunswick Ballet Theater and is seriously feeling my shit up. He’s offered me a guest artist spot for the spring and summer, with a possible principal contract for the fall season. Native son makes good and comes home. I’m not going to think it to death. It’s the perfect solution for the problem du jour and I’m ready to leave Europe anyway. My work here is done on a lot of levels and I know that’s cryptic and annoying, but one day I’ll explain it better. Or write my autobiography.

  Anyway. Enough about me. Dais, I’m so fucking proud of you. Everything you’ve done and everywhere you’ve been and your whole evolution into the artist I always know you were… The only thing that sucks is I’m not closer to see it. And in case I’ve been stupid enough to not mention it, I’ve danced in three companies in three countries and have yet to find a partner like you. We need to dance together again. Someday soon.

  Love and shit,

  Will

  September 6, 1998

  Dear Rita,

  Thanks again for finding time to see me before you left New York. Isn’t life ironic? I hang up my gypsy shoes and come home to the Big Apple and now you’ve pulled up roots and headed to the good life in Vermont. I hope it’s everything you wish for and more. And I hope you don’t mind me still writing. Even though you don’t answer back, it feels like you’re listening as I sort stuff out on paper.

  Gabriel left the Phantom tour as well. He’s living with a friend down in SoHo while I’m back at my place on West 86th. Squeezed in with Lucky, but she’s looking around for new digs. And she’s lovely to squeeze with. I missed her.

  Gabriel is still full of nerve and hustle, and I follow him from class to audition
to workshop to class to audition. Pounding the pavement in New York is a thankless business, especially as the balance in the bank account steadily dwindles.

  Last week, we auditioned for a relatively new company. They’re called Ballet Orchorale, only in their fifth year and just starting to pick up speed. They choreograph primarily to chamber music and have an affiliated string ensemble. The company has about thirty members right now. They just secured a huge grant from the Shubert Foundation and signed a lease on a beautiful studio space in Harlem. They do a month-long season at City Center, and then tour a lot of venues in the New York Metropolitan area.

  Gabe and I have been to see Orchorale in performance twice now and I love their range. They do some short works from the classical repertory, but their original ballets set to the string ensemble are amazing. Brilliant and breathless choreography. I can barely sit still when I watch. And when I was at the audition class in their new space, I had this strong, unexplainable sensation of being home. To the point where I’m jumping when the phone rings. I want to dance with this company.

  So say a little prayer for me that the phone rings soon with some kind of work. Until then, it’s off to class I go.

  Hope all is well in your new life. Take good care.

  Daisy

  THE VILLAGE Voice

  November 16, 1998

  “Ballet Orchorale at City Center”

  The second half of the evening was devoted to the premiere of Primo Vere, Ballet Orchorale’s tribute to springtime, when a young man’s fancy inevitably turns to thoughts of love.

  The ballet is set to the first section of Carl Orff’s chorale masterpiece, Carmina Burana. The opening sequence, “Fortune Plango Vulnera,” sets the tone of celebration and joy, anchored by the flying leaps and turns of Tunisian-born Anouar Bourjini.

  “Veris Leta Facies” heralds the entrance of Orchorale’s newest artist, the mesmerizing Marguerite Bianco. Formerly with the Metropolitan Opera Ballet, Bianco is by far the finest dancer to be seen at Orchorale, and clearly the company displays her as the greatest of its treasures. Bianco has a sinewy grace and frank sensuality, both qualities perfectly framed within her stunning technique. In tiny, skillful mannerisms—a slight overextension on her arms, a tiny arch of the back, and most of all, the remarkable use of her eyes—she subtlely reveals her prowess. Chipping away Bourjini’s resolve until he can do nothing but take her in his arms, which he does in “Omnia Sol Temperat,” a tender but chemical pas de deux.

  Primo Vere is an uplifting work, full of innovative choreography and inherent emotion. Anchored by Bianco and Bourjini, the result is a glorious tribute to love.

  April 19, 1999

  Dear Rita,

  I haven’t written in a while but for a good reason. Amazing things have been happening.

  Last fall, I entered Rakewind in Capezio’s A.C.E. competition (Award for Choreographic Excellence). In February, the fifteen finalists were announced and Rakewind was chosen. At the end of March we presented at the Dance Teacher Summit and holy shit, I WON. It’s a $10,000 prize but the recognition that comes with it has been priceless. Now the phone is ringing with people wanting me to come teach and do workshops and stage choreography. I still can’t believe it. It is, to date, the most incredible thing ever to happen to me professionally.

  The night itself was pure magic on so many levels. We performed at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. My parents came. Lucky of course was there. And best of all, Will was able to come. He joined New Brunswick Ballet Theater last fall and he arranged to take the time off and finally see this piece I’ve been telling him about for so long in letters and emails.

  Well, after the performance and the awards, it took me forever to get from backstage out into the house. My parents went ahead to secure dinner reservations (and a case of champagne), so I came out into the lobby myself. And off to the side, I saw Lucky and Will. They hadn’t seen each other in six years. I hadn’t seen them together in six years. They were hugging…

  Daisy put her pen down and rubbed her cold hands, smiling back at the memory of her two best friends caught up tight in each other’s arms. Lucky had wormed her hands between the lapels of Will’s jacket, slid them around and up between his shoulder blades. Curved over her, he looked hunchbacked. His hand was at the back of her head, buried in her curls. They rocked and swayed gently within the embrace but their stance was immutable. Only fire, flood or apocalypse could move them.

  Or Daisy. Who shamelessly wormed her way between them like a demanding child, gathering them into her arms and kissing each tear-streaked face.

  “I totally planned this,” she said.

  “Well planned,” Will said, dragging the heel of his hand across his eyes.

  It took a good half-hour for them to let go of each other, mop up and make their way to the restaurant. All through the late supper with the Biancos, Will and Lucky kept glancing sideways at each other with bright, emotion-ringed eyes. Daisy didn’t need to drop her napkin to know their legs were probably cozied up beneath the table. Outside the restaurant, she kissed and hugged them, suggested brunch the next morning.

  “But whatever you want. Call me. Whenever.”

  And she walked off with her parents, leaving Will and Lucky to sort the rest of the evening out on their own.

  She picked up her pen and went back to writing.

  The upshot is Lucky has gone to Canada four times in the past two months and although I haven’t seen any of their reconciliation personally, I can feel it when I hang out with her. She’s all lit up inside but her feet are still planted on the ground. I want to cry at the thought of them back together. It gives me hope that

  Her cell phone rang. Followed by her regular phone.

  “It’s me,” Lucky said on her cell. “Have you—”

  “Hold on,” Daisy said, and yanked the house phone from its cradle. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Gabriel said. “Have you seen the TV?”

  “What?” Daisy said. “Hold on.” She switched phones. “Hey, I have Gabe on the other line, let me—”

  “Turn on the TV,” Lucky said. “I’m coming over.”

  She hung up. Daisy wrinkled her eyebrows at the dead screen then turned her ear back to Gabriel. “What’s going on?”

  “Turn on the TV.”

  “What channel?”

  “Any channel.”

  “Did someone die?” She clicked the remote. The screen flamed to life and centered on the NBC news desk. The anchor’s earnest face filled the screen. To the right a graphic of the state of Colorado. Denver next to a star. A smaller dot beneath it, slightly to the left with the word Littleton.

  Across the top of the graphic flashed two words: School shooting.

  “I’m coming over,” Gabriel said.

  Daisy’s hand with the phone lowered into her lap. She stared at the screen, the news exploding from the open wound that was Columbine High School, spraying in green glass shards onto her living room floor.

  LUCKY STAYED ALL DAY. They ordered in and parked in chairs and on the couch, watching the news.

  “We should take a break,” one of them would say occasionally. They walked down to Riverside Park and back or over to Lincoln Center. Picked up ice cream or cigarettes and went back to the apartment.

  The phone rang and rang.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Francine said. “It’s so terrible.”

  “I’m not sure what I am,” Daisy said.

  “Don’t be alone. Is Lulu there with you?”

  “I’m practically sitting in her lap,” Lucky said loudly. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Call us,” Joe said. “Four in the morning, don’t worry. Wake us up. Come home if you need to.”

  “I will,” Daisy said and hung up, only to answer another ring minutes later.

  “Oh, Dais,” John said.

  “I feel sick.”

  “I hate conversations that start this way,” he said.

  “Are you alone?”

>   “I’m at the theater of all places. Oddly, I feel safest here. Who’s with you?”

  “Lucky.”

  “Stay together tonight. Don’t be alone.”

  “I will. You be safe too. Call me.”

  Colleagues from both the Metropolitan Opera and Orchorale called, wanting to know if she was all right. Friends she made on the Phantom tour. Calls came in from Cleveland, D.C. and Los Angeles.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m watching the news, I thought of you. It’s so terrible.”

  “I’m thinking about you.”

  “It must be like reliving it. Are you all right?”

  A crackling, delayed voice from across the ocean. “God, Dais,” Trey said. “Your heart must be torn apart.”

  How quickly her mouth formed I’m okay and wanted to push it out and not be a bother. She let it dissolve and looked for something more truthful as she leaned into their concern.

  “I feel terrible,” she said.

  Lucky paced from kitchen to bedroom and back, talking to Will on her cell. She passed him to Daisy after Trey hung up.

  “I wish I were there,” Will said. “I need to be with both of you.”

  “I know,” she said. “Oh, Will. Nothing is going to be the same for them.”

  Her heart waxed and waned like the moon. First it was dark and numb, shielding its face. Then a sliver of feeling broke through. Curved and stretched and expanded as she took in the children being shepherded by police across lawns and parking lots, their hands on their heads. The cutaways to witnesses. The uncertainty and chaos a palpable film across the television screen. Until her heart was wide open and wailing, tearing its hair and rending its garment, raising a voice filled with agony—how? why?—to the ends of the universe. Then it sank to its knees, retreated within. Curled down into a crescent then hid again.

  “Enough,” Lucky said. “No more TV. It’s the same damn thing over and over again.”

  Daisy lit candles and put on some classical music.

  “Is this good?” Lucky said, pulling Daisy’s much-worn copy of The Golden Compass from the shelves.