Ballroom: A Novel

by Alice Simpson

  The next Sunday he waits in vain for Sarah. It is the start of February, and he can’t forget what a terrible mistake he’s made. Seated on the banquette, he stares at the dancers inside until after eight. From the Ballroom’s dance floor comes the sound of Ella Fitzgerald singing “You Go to My Head.”

  How could he have believed the money he gave her would make up for the disaster? He wanted her to see him as generous. Particularly since he’s never taken her to dinner or the theater. It was a terrible mistake to let her come up to his apartment before he’d fixed it up: painted and bought new things, carpeting, drapes, and a sofa.

  Besides, he doesn’t even have a proper bed. How could he ever make love to her on his mother’s bed? Or the old sofa? He’d hoped to see her pale skin. Hold her. Instead he had made a fool of himself. He hadn’t known what to do. She had looked angry.

  She might have slept in his arms while he watched over her, touching the smoothness of her cheek. He would have placed his fingertip into the triangular crevice above her lips and whispered her name. Placing a finger on his own thin lips, he feels stirrings like hunger in his belly.

  Does he love her? What does love feel like? Dancing the perfect dance, a dance with no mistakes, no missteps, no loss of rhythm? Life is passing too quickly.

  He remembers his father’s easy laughter with his mother’s sisters, his charm when his mother’s friends visited, while she was neglected in private, treated like a domestic, her life lived primarily in the kitchen. When she came to live with Joseph, he permitted her to take that same role. She cleaned, cooked, and cared for his clothes, once again a servant taking her quiet place. He had neither his father’s ease nor his charm, nor could he ever betray his mother. Yet he resented her presence, and wondered if his father had felt the same. And always, that photo in his father’s desk drawer of a secret life lived with a woman with cupid lips.

  He loves the Ballroom like an old bathrobe, shabby yet comfortable. It needs a good painting, and the floors are sticky. They put cloths on the tables and painted the ceiling cobalt blue in the hope of attracting events other than the Sunday dances: private parties and weddings. He would marry Sarah at the Ballroom, on a Sunday night. Maria and Angel, Andrea, Gabriel Katz and Rebecca Douglas—even old Harry Korn and the others—would be there. He’d invite his sisters and their families. Ben and Joanie Thorp, too.

  Could he be happy dancing only with Sarah? Even if they were married, there was no reason that he couldn’t dance with other women. She might prefer to stay at home occasionally. Would she question him, ask him who he’d danced with? What if she was too talkative? Pestered him to move to a bigger apartment, or wanted them to live at her place in Brooklyn. There would be no place for his things. No privacy. No quiet nights on Perry Street, knowing where his things were. He could never live in Brooklyn.

  He will always be alone.

  If only she hadn’t invited herself to his place. If only she hadn’t pressured him. She spoiled things. Rushed him.

  Ella’s singing makes him feel young again, and he counts out the dependable fox-trot rhythm. The lush words and the tempo call him to dance. He steps into the darkened ballroom.

  Chapter 23

  Sarah

  In his class he would teach his pupils the laws of good behavior; he would warn them of concerning the evils of bad association; he would instruct them in the importance of regular habits and of keeping proper hours with which instruction he would reform many abuses that now exist at public entertainments.

  —Thomas E. Hill, Evils of the Ball, 1883

  After the incident at Joseph’s apartment, Sarah can’t face Joseph. She stays home the next Sunday night. She isn’t certain if she will ever go back to the Ballroom, and decides instead to look into private lessons. On Thursday, after her class, “Aging in the Twenty-First Century,” she walks from the subway to the Hungarian Ballroom, an eighteenth-century brick townhouse. She makes sure to arrive on time.

  The front hall contains only a desk and a tall fern. Behind the desk sits a woman, hair so tightly pulled into a topknot that she looks mummified. Her lids are heavy with false eyelashes and circled with black, like those of a silent film star.

  “I’m meeting Harry Korn for a lesson.”

  The woman waves her delicate, bony fingers toward two sliding doors.

  Entering, Sarah is at first blinded by the beams of dusty sunlight that stream through four tall French windows on one side of the room. Passing through the glare, she can see the extraordinary ballroom, its polished blond parquet and the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in carved gold frames. An enormous chandelier, its arms draped with hundreds of crystals, hangs from the ornate carved ceiling. The space and light are multiplied by the reflections of windows, crystals, and sunlight.

  “Have you ever danced before?”

  She has to squint to see him standing in a shaft of light, an unearthly apparition, an angel dressed completely in brown. Glittering dust particles encircle him, and in the spotlight, she can see the polished orb of his hairless head. Under crepey lashless lids, blue eyes stare at her without emotion. She can see the skull’s bony structure beneath his skin. Deep creases thrust downward from his flared nostrils to his thin-lipped mouth. The glistening hairs on the surface of his dry, wiry arms are revealed beneath a short-sleeved shirt. Like a sailor’s, his legs are slightly bowed. The shoes he wears are not dance shoes, but old spectators, polished to a crusty shine.

  “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Like a rigid soldier, he walks to a dusty boom box perched on the edge of the stage to insert a CD. Turning to her, he holds out his hand, and when she touches the palm it is hard and dry, yet warm.

  Harry begins leading her around the floor in a cha-cha, then a mambo, a fox-trot, a Viennese waltz, and a tango. In his arms Sarah feels a perfect tension, the balance between partners. It is difficult to breathe, to keep up. Little bursts of air, like moans, come from her chest. They dance past windows, rotate past the stage, and fleetingly Sarah sees their reflection in the mirrors and straightens her back. It all repeats itself, windows, stage, mirrors, windows, stage, mirrors. The music carries them, and Harry leads with an intensity of focus that propels them around the room. The lead is in his chest against hers, in the heel of his palm on her back, the pressure of his thighs. Sarah knows exactly what he wants her to do. A mixture of sweat and mascara is blinding her vision. Heat rises to her cheeks, and Sarah knows there must be red patches on her neck and chest.

  Beginning at the fringe of her forehead, beads of perspiration run down her temples. Her cotton sweater clings to her back, and she is embarrassed that Harry, who doesn’t seem to sweat at all, has to touch her.

  They are alone in the room, and it is thrilling to waltz with someone who knows how, who leads so perfectly. Covering the floor in long strides, in perfect time with the music, transformed, she is Ginger Rogers, and when she closes her eyes for a moment, he is Fred Astaire.

  In that precious hour it feels to Sarah as if they are one, moving through light and air. They have always danced together.

  “Not bad,” he says as they dance a cha-cha. “Look in the mirror, your posture. You bounce. You got a long way to go. Are you willing to pay attention and work?”

  “Yes, but I really just want to work on tango.”

  “Before you learn the tango, you got to understand the music.” His voice is stern. “Where’d you learn to dance this way?” he asks critically.

  “At Dance Time and Dance New York.” Her stomach churns. She longs for his approval.

  “I should have known. They’re only interested in money. They don’t teach anything. Cattle! They teach you like cattle. No feeling for the dances, the music, the body. It’s about love. It’s all one. You got to feel it here”—he punches his middle—“understand the movements. Here—” He pats his heart. “Listen to the music. Find love in the song. Every pore of your body has to feel. Dancing is emotion, inspired by memories.”

  He has beco
me agitated. “The hands, fingers, must be graceful. Arms form a perfect frame. Your face, a perfect expression of the dance. You got to pay attention to your partner.

  “Feel the lead in my chest,” he adds. “Not my arms. For God’s sake, breathe. Music is breathing.”

  During the last few minutes of the lesson, Harry demonstrates each correction before the mirrors. Sarah has never felt comfortable looking at herself in front of others. Once when they turn and she sees his reflection for a split second, she thinks that he looks like Robert Duvall. Before she knows it, the hour is over. Andrea was right; he is a good teacher. In the group classes she has taken, no one pays attention to her like this; the way she holds her head, her shoulders, her fingers. Harry notices everything.

  She decides to take lessons with Harry on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, and waits for him to dance with her as he had that first lesson. But instead, in the weeks that follow, he concentrates on small steps, making her dance in a small section of the dance floor in front of the mirror. They practice three dances. He teaches her the competitive international style of all the dances, a much more stylized way of dancing than American style. Harry corrects her posture, her frame. He reminds her to hold her head erect, push her pelvis forward, keep her knees relaxed. Always the same corrections. When he is hard on her and insulting, she struggles against tears, yet returns week after week. She wants to learn everything Harry can teach her; she realizes that Harry is the key, the key to Gabriel.

  Harry grows more cruel, critical of everything she does, complains of the placement of her hand, too high on the muscle of his upper arm, that the turn of her head is incorrect, or that she is losing the rhythm of the dance. The air conditioning at the Hungarian Ballroom is either broken or nonexistent, and Sarah is often exhausted at the end of her lesson.

  You don’t pay attention to anything I teach you,” he says angrily after several lessons. “Your dancing is just sloppy. You haven’t learned a thing. I think you’re just plain stupid.”

  “I won’t be spoken to this way,” she says, trying to pull away from his tightening grip.

  “You’re a terrible dancer. I waste my valuable time with you!” he shouts, beginning to shake her.

  “Stop it. You’re hurting me. Let go.” Red marks appear on her arms where he’s held her.

  “I don’t know why you dance.” His expression is sour and ugly, his stance leaden.

  “Then I quit.” As she runs out of the building, she hears him shout, “Who the hell cares?”

  On her way home, she decides that she’s fed up with Harry and everyone else at the Ballroom. She’s tired of waiting for Gabriel Katz to notice her, tired of wishing. Wishing, always wishing for things that are out of her grasp.

  At night she blocks out thoughts of dancing by watching old movies on cable, sometimes staying awake till the wee hours of the morning, imagining herself the heroine of every romance. In love with someone who will say the words that will make her feel loved and beautiful. But when she hears music, she longs to dance. Sometimes she dances alone in her living room, imagining herself gliding around the floor with different partners, her dance instructors, Stefan, Carlos, Harry, even Joseph. When she is brave enough, she imagines Gabriel.

  It is difficult to call Harry, but as the week passes, she explains away his cruelty; it’s her own fault, her own inability to understand the complexities of both the movement and the music. All that matters is that her dancing improves. Deciding she can handle things with Harry better, she promises herself that her only agenda will be to keep her eye on the goal—which is to dance with Gabriel.

  “Thursday at three. Sixty-five dollars. Don’t be late,” he says when she calls him.

  “I’m going to work harder this time, Harry. I want you to say I’ve improved. I want to show you that I’m listening.”

  “Whatever,” he says. “Bring cash.” He hangs up without a good-bye.

  When she is in Harry’s arms, it is again as if her body, her breath, are not her own. She yearns to please him, to dance perfectly for him, and yet battles fiercely to be free of him. His instruction is compassionless and still cruel. He tells her where to place her feet, her arms, her hands. He pushes and prods her torso with untoward familiarity.

  She signs up for advanced group lessons at Dance Time, where she overhears women in her classes discussing the competitions. Several are entering as “pro-am,” professional-amateur, which means they are paying to dance with their teachers. As she compares herself to these women, her head begins filling with possibilities. If only Harry will tell her that she is good enough to compete!

  She stops going to her adult care class altogether, concentrating solely on her dancing. She digs into her savings to pay for additional private lessons with Harry and, to develop grace and style, for ballet classes at the Broadway Dance Center, where she often runs into Angel and Maria in the hallways.

  She is certain that her dancing is finally beginning to improve. One afternoon in early February, after her lesson with Harry at the Hungarian Dance Hall, she offers to buy him a cup of coffee at the diner on the corner.

  “You know, Harry, I keep thinking that if you were to work with me three days a week, and the other days I took more ballet classes, I could compete.”

  He is putting sugar packets in his pocket. “You’re too old, and you watch too many of those movies. What are you, fifty? It’s too late. Maybe if you’d started twenty years ago. Besides, you don’t pay attention when I show you what you’re not doing right. You make the same stupid mistakes over and over.”

  “I’ve improved a lot lately, and I’m not fifty. I’m thirty-eight. How about a slice of that banana cream pie? Or carrot cake?” He had stopped to look at the turning cake display at the front door when they entered the diner.

  “Nah. I don’t eat that garbage. About ten percent, you’ve improved.”

  “Ten percent? Oh, come on. Did you ever compete?” she asks. “How about some fruit salad?” She thinks he looks hungry all the time. “Or an English muffin, a cruller or something? We could share it.”

  “Compete? Never interested me. I tol’ you, I ain’t hungry.” When Harry is cranky, his eyes tighten up at the outer edges. There is a hunger in his expression. “I don’t want anything.”

  “Do you think I’ve improved?”

  “Why are you always asking questions?”

  “Why won’t you tell me? I’ve been taking lessons with you a long time. You’re afraid I’ll stop taking lessons. Is that it? You need me.” She is angry that he won’t give his approval and feels a fierce need to hurt him.

  “I’ve got plenty of students. I don’t need your money. I told you; you need work, kiddo.” Now he is slipping packages of grape jelly into his coat pocket, as though she won’t notice.

  “Put the jelly back. Buy yourself a jar of grape jelly, for heaven’s sake.” She wants to needle him whenever she has the opportunity. She has to feel like her own person, out of his control and separate from him.

  “Mind your own business, missy.”

  “Several people have suggested I might even compete.”

  “Who? Santa Claus?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Where are you going to find a partner? Pay for one? It’s expensive to compete—the lessons, a dress, the shoes, entrance fees, and transportation. Do you know what the lessons will cost you? Don’t ask. You’re competing with a bunch of kids. Forget it. Get married.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Are you?” he retorts.

  “I was. More than once, actually.”

  “How many?”

  “As a matter of fact, three times!”

  “Three times?” His eyes open wide as he looks up from stirring his coffee. “What, are you meshuga or something?” He makes a tsssk sound that reminds her of her grandfather.

  “Since you’re so judgmental, have you even had a girlfriend?”

  “Why are you driving me crazy with all these questions?”
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  “I can’t believe you’ve never ever had a girlfriend.”

  “Maybe I did.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t discuss personal things with my students.” He hesitates and puts two fingers over his mouth as if to stop his words.

  “I thought maybe we could be friends.”

  “I don’t have no friends. I’m just your teacher. I don’t need no friends. Our relationship is purely professional. Besides, I don’t like the way you talk to me—and the cursing.”

  “Well, I don’t like the way you treat me either. You’re cruel.”

  He pushes the cup away, throwing the napkin he’s crushed into a tight ball in the cup. Standing up, he puts on his coat. She can see she’s gone too far, that he is angry. Or is it hurt? Has she pierced his steely armor?

  “I’m going home.” He looks broken. “I’m tired. Besides I got things to do besides chitchat with you about my love life.” He starts toward the door.

  He is so controlling, yet such a lonely, sad person. His anguish is palpable. She suddenly feels terrible about speaking to him that way. Besides, she doesn’t want to jeopardize her dance lessons. He is, despite his cantankerous personality, an incredible dancer. While dancing with him, she can completely forget his disposition.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to presume. I’ll drive you.” When she catches up with him on the street and tries to take his arm, he pulls away.

  “I’ve had enough of your snide commentary.”

  “Come on, Harry. I’m sorry. Don’t be mean. I’ll drive you home. Don’t you want a ride?”

  “Am I in the car?” he says, sliding in. “Just drive and don’t talk so much.” He looks out the window. They drive silently toward the Lower East Side. He turns on the Latin station and beats out the rhythm of a mambo on his thigh. “You got to listen to the beat. Do you hear it?”

  “I want you to come for dinner on Saturday.”

  “Dinner?” Harry says. “Nope, can’t make it.”

  “I’ll pick you up and drive you home.” She pulls up to the four-story tenement on East Twelfth Street. Harry gets out without even a thank-you, only a nod of his head. She wonders what his place is like. Wonders if he is married, despite what he says. Wonders why he stops when he gets to the front steps, and, like a Peeping Tom, peers into the first-floor window.