Ballroom: A Novel

by Alice Simpson

  “I don’t care very much for your huge ego, Mister Katz.”

  “You seem to want to play games. You’ve been teasing me for months at the Ballroom, and I wonder what you really want. I think you’re a fine dancer. I also think we certainly can enjoy each other in more intimate ways.” He’s stopped smiling. “I am, admittedly, attracted to you, and I believe it’s mutual. You’ve made things more complicated than they need be. It’s clear you want to dance with me.”

  Gabriel puts down his fork, pats his mouth with his napkin, and leans toward her. “Let’s be direct. Do you want to go to bed with me?” Then, leaning back, wine in hand, he waits for her answer. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” he asks sarcastically.

  “Are my sexual favors part of the arrangement?”

  “Are they favors?”

  She hates him. Hates his vanity, his condescension, and his cold blue eyes. But the more she hates him, the more the spark in her center is fired. She will do whatever it takes to be his partner.

  It is April, and yet it’s snowing. Past Gabriel’s shoulder, on the ice, Sarah watches as a couple, both dressed in blue, skates in waltz position at the center of the rink. Soundlessly, they skim across the surface, making small, smooth circles. They are idyllically paired. It is understood that they belong in that space. Amid a snowy haze, they spin effortlessly, everything about them in harmony and balance, like figurines in a snow globe.

  Waiting in Gabriel’s Cadillac, Sarah admires his dark, long-legged silhouette. He stops momentarily on the median as he crosses Park Avenue against the lights toward an all-night Duane Reade.

  Sliding back, she feels the contours of the black leather seat conform exquisitely to the small of her back, and luxuriates in the comfort of his car. It is as though some large being holds her in its hand. Running her palms over the supple seats is like stroking thighs: pliant, curved, masculine. Expensive, she considers. A car like his must have cost $60,000. Well, he is in diamonds. Lifting her arms upward, she looks at her hands, unadorned by anything other than this morning’s manicure, and envisions a life of dancing, diamonds, and riding in a Cadillac.

  She’d be pleased to ride beside him. She likes a man to drive. Going places. Maybe they’d marry after spending so much time together. Dance partners often marry. Turning on the radio, she tries to find a romantic station, settling for some cool jazz. With her eyes closed, she imagines herself as Mrs. Gabe Katz.

  Across Park Avenue, she can see that he is at the back of the cashier’s line. She wonders what might be in the glove compartment, whether it is locked. Her heart is racing. The latch gives easily to a slight pressure. Flashlight, gloves, maps—the usual. Set slightly deeper, under all the maps, is a slender gold box. With a sideways glance across the avenue, observing that Gabriel is in the middle of the line—slowly, so as not to disturb anything—she slides the box out. Delivered from the rush of adrenaline, her own perfume fills her nostrils. Sweat glues her thighs to the leather seats. She can hear the whistle of her own breath.

  She lifts the lid. Under a rustle of black tissue paper is one new pair of sheer black lace stockings. Expensive. French. Cascading like a waterfall, the diaphanous hose flutter and slip through her fingers. Sarah captures the rippled silk as it caresses one knee, before it reaches the floor. Gingerly holding them between fingertips, careful not to pull the fibers, she extends her arms to examine their astonishing length. Perhaps they just seem long. She is only five foot three. Whoever will wear them is long-legged, with expensive tastes. Rebecca Douglas is about five feet eight. Why are they in Gabriel’s glove compartment? Is he sleeping with her? Does he sleep with all the women he dances with? The beautiful ones he leaves the Ballroom with?

  Even standing on line in the drugstore, Gabriel looks elegant. Wishing she hadn’t found the stockings, she decides not to think about the answers. She has waited too long for this night. After carefully placing the sharply pressed edges together, wrapping the hose around the cardboard, and smoothing the black tissue, she places the cover on the box and buries it beneath the maps of the five boroughs.

  There is just enough time to snap the glove compartment closed and take several deep breaths before Gabriel thrusts himself through the glass door, held open by a homeless man. The lights are against him as he darts across Park Avenue, zigzagging through traffic, barely escaping the onrush of yellow cabs.

  “Assholes!” he shouts, reaching the car door. He slides into the car, wagging a bag in her face.

  “Are these what you want?”

  Reaching into the bag like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he holds up a box of condoms. As he swings it back and forth, Sarah feels a tight little knot in her stomach.

  The lady is not obliged to invite her escort to enter the house when he accompanies her home, and if invited he should decline the invitation. But he should request permission to call the next day or evening, which will be true politeness.

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

  From the moment Sarah first saw Gabriel dancing at the Ballroom, she has promised herself she will one day be good enough to dance with him, and now he is driving her home to Brooklyn. He asked her to dance at ten, and didn’t let her out of his arms until the last waltz at midnight. The music was slow and perfect. Everyone must have noticed. Sarah considers all that it has taken to get to this evening. Dance classes, Harry’s cruel private lessons, the glamorous reinvention of her hair, body, and wardrobe. Like bread crumbs strewn along a trail, which Gabriel has followed. It all proves you can make things happen, she realizes. She reaches over to touch his arm, warmed to his smile, as he takes hold of her hand and brings it to his lips. She feels a flutter of pleasure at the cushiony feeling of his mouth, his velvet tongue.

  “Tell me. Why did you wear that? Black doesn’t flatter you.” He breaks through her thoughts, catching her off guard.

  “Excuse me?” She begins to laugh, pulling her hand away.

  “That dress. It’s ugly. Unbecoming for someone your height.”

  “Ugly? It’s from Ann Taylor.” Smoothing the skirt of the dress, she is crushed that he doesn’t like what she is wearing. She feels the telltale color rising to her neck and cheeks.

  “Well, it’s not right for dancing, and doesn’t fit you well. If we are going to dance together as partners, I expect you to have appropriate dance clothes. No one dances in a sheath. Your legs can’t move. Look at how Rebecca Douglas dresses. Now she is what I call elegant.”

  “I wouldn’t take it upon myself to tell you how to dress. What makes you think you can insult me? And by the way, I’m not your dance partner.”

  They drive silently the rest of the way to Brooklyn. As he eases into the parking space in front of her house, Sarah sits patiently, remembering the girl in the car who waited for him to open the car door.

  From the moment she danced that first tango with him, she’s barely been able to think of anything other than his making love to her. He exudes sexuality like heat. She was certain he’d be attentive and passionate. She imagined he would stay the night. They would eat breakfast in her buttercup kitchen, so cheerful on sunny mornings. The finches would be singing in the garden, her daffodils and purple irises bursting into bloom. Perhaps he might stay for the weekend, walk with her along the Promenade. A couple. They would have lunch or dinner at one of the cafés, and back at her house, make love again, leisurely.

  All those dreams are gone now, ruined by his remarks about her dress. She decides that she will say good night to him at the door.

  He pushes past her into the living room, taking off his jacket and tie. “Is someone going to steal my car out there?”

  “Of course not.”

  He returns to the window several times, loosens the top buttons of his shirt, then stops to look at her mother’s porcelain bird collection.

  “A glass of wine?” she asks.

  “I don’t drink. Why do you have all this old-lady stuff? So much clutter.” She wishes he would put the
fragile swan back on the table, wishes he would leave.

  “They’re antiques, and I like them. You’re a very opinionated person.”

  He snickers. In three large strides he crosses the room, takes her in his arms, and begins fiercely kissing her.

  “You’re hurting me,” she says, laughing and pulling away.

  “What are you laughing at, Miss Dreyfus?”

  “You’re rushing me—and don’t call me that. It’s patronizing.” Her mouth feels swollen where he’s kissed her. “I just bought a wonderful Carlos Gardel album. I’ll put it on.”

  “Music? You think we’re going to dance?” He laughs.

  “Well, how about a glass of wine?” Has she asked him that already?

  “No music. No wine. No candles. No games. Come here.”

  “Please.” She chastises playfully, his tone both frightening and exciting her.

  There is electricity, a rush of anticipation, and a hunger to be swept away. She is light-headed with excitement and fear. She hears the seam of her dress tear and doesn’t care. She wants to feel the touch of bare skin, his against hers, but he resists her attempts to unbutton his shirt. No kisses; only savage bites. No words; only the sound of breathing. She can’t tell whose.

  There is no tenderness in him.

  When she looks into his face, there is nothing, only the empty, fierce expression of the tango in his eyes. No robin’s egg, only steel. Yet her heart is pounding, and her body is responding to him, waiting for whatever he intends, empowered and more alive than she has ever felt before. She has won; Gabriel Katz is hers.

  She thinks she hears the long, mournful cry of her tenant’s saxophone. Opening her eyes, she watches Gabriel, head thrown back, eyes closed in the pain of disappointment.

  His mouth is open, his lips pulled over his bleached movie-star teeth. When he strikes her hard across the face, she feels the stunning imprint of his hand, and red flashes appear behind her closed eyes. Immediately he is up and moving toward the door.

  “You’re a fuckin’ cock teaser.”

  Sarah hears the front door slam.

  Just like that.

  They dance a ferocious tango in a vast, mirrored room

  with no floor. In the embrace of a black panther,

  Sarah’s hand is draped intimately around his slippery

  shoulder. She is dressed in her little black dress,

  a green-eyed snake wrapped like a boa around her neck.

  “Heels together,” the cat insists, in a low whisper.

  The dance is joyless. “Heels together.” She knows

  that if her feet fail to come together, she will drop into the

  dark abyss. Encircling the room is a white balustrade,

  against which men lean in Elizabethan costumes with

  heads of goats, birds, fish, sheep, and mules.

  Each reaches out with beseeching fingers toward her.

  Catching her reflection in the mirrors, she sees

  that no reflection of her partner appears.

  And she begins to fall. The black panther reaches for her,

  grasping her wrists, but she slips from his hold,

  falling, falling into blackness.

  Sarah awakes in the dark of her bedroom, feels the sweaty damp of her pillow, nightgown, and body. Her throbbing wrists, which seemed so vivid a part of her dream, are a reminder of Gabriel’s violence. Throwing off her covers, she lies motionless under the ceiling fan, feeling the tingle of cool air against her sweaty skin. Did last night happen? What is left of her dreams? Her body aches.

  Without turning on lights, she steps into the shower, startled and soothed by the water’s icy force. Listening to the rush of sound, she turns her face up into the cold spray, so the steady rivulets will interrupt her disturbing thoughts with their motion. Nothing has been what she wanted after all. Under the water for a very long time, she watches the light of dawn appear through the window. At some point she sits down in the tub, aware of the awakening of all her senses; the cold, the hardness of the tub, the throbbing pain, and a realization of the reality of the night before. She is shocked at the cobalt bruises on both wrists. They are that much more startling against the redness of her skin from the icy water, and the memory of Gabriel’s violence.

  Is Gabriel one of the secrets of the Ballroom that no one speaks of? Everything he promised was a lie. He doesn’t want a partner.

  For several weeks, the color of her bruises changes like a sunset; the four strokes on her cheek remain the longest, fingerprints of his impotent seduction.

  Chapter 36

  Angel

  Recollect the desire of imparting pleasure, especially to the fair sex. It is one of the essential qualifications of a gentleman.

  —Elias Howe, The Pocket Ballroom Prompter, 1858

  Angel takes Maria by the 7 train out to the Queens Museum, at the site of Flushing’s 1939 World’s Fair, to show her the scale model of New York City. As they stand on the glass bridge overlooking the panorama of the city, it lies beneath them in perfect and dizzying miniature.

  “It’s a one-inch-to-one-hundred-feet scale. Every building built before nineteen ninety-two is here,” Angel explains.

  “Where’s my house?” she asks.

  Within the teeming metropolis of wooden skyscrapers and papier-mâché landmarks they search for Twelfth Street and her four-story tenement. They trace streets, Con Edison to the north, Stuyvesant Town and Peter Cooper Village to the east, Tompkins Square Park to the south. The Lower East Side is indiscernible.

  The light in the room dims and day turns to night as an airplane, like a dragonfly, takes off and lands on invisible wire. The lights in the buildings sparkle like fireflies against an ultramarine sky.

  “I’ve been looking at spaces in Chelsea and uptown. I want you to see them. I’m going to open the dance center in December.” He likes surprising her in the twilight. “Mike’s putting up some money to help. I’m going to speak to my pop, too. I have this idea. Just listen and don’t say anything. Okay? It’s May, and you’ll be graduating next month. I want you to think about you and me being business partners. Look at the business plan; tell me what you think. Then make up your mind.”

  Since that one night on the roof, he has realized that he needs Maria to tell him what is going on with Harry. The truth. Not something he imagines in the middle of the night. Though he can’t bear to go back, and won’t, there have been nights of imagining Maria and Korn together. Trying to understand. It is time to move forward, and he is proud of himself for confronting Maria with what he’s seen, forcing her to face it with him. If they are ever to have a life together, there can be no secrets. He has something real to offer her.

  “Make a new start with me, Maria. Be my partner. Move out of your dad’s place. Get away from the neighborhood. You know what I mean?”

  He means Harry. He wants her to get away from Harry, as far away as possible.

  Chapter 37

  Maria

  Treat them with such kindness and cordiality in the close that the recollection of their visit will ever be a bright spot in their memory.

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

  She’s planned it all out. Made notes like a script for the past month. What she will say, her tone and her manner casual. No matter what he says she’ll remain calm. Clear. Final.

  When he greets her at the door, there is an expression of bewilderment on his face.

  “You can’t dance in jeans. Not with me.”

  She has intentionally worn them. To make it clear she isn’t there to dance. Not tonight. Not ever. “I can’t stay long. I have something to talk to you about.” She walks carefully along the path of sixteen grocery bags into his kitchen and sits at the table, her back to the mirror. She doesn’t want to look at herself telling Harry it is over. “I’m not coming anymore,” she begins.

  Harry doesn’t respond, just fidgets with the dial on his radio. There is static as La Mega slides in and out of cla
rity.

  “Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  Ignoring her, he walks to the sink, pours a glass of water. How familiar his gestures are; the way he stands; the tilt of his head; how he holds the back of the chair; the way his fingers look in that motion; the way he reaches for a glass, turned upside down on a kitchen towel at the sink, holding it up to see if it is clean enough, even though he is the only one ever to drink from it. You get to know a lot about a person in thirteen years, she realizes. Especially in one room.

  She knows his dream because she is part of it. She’s hardly slept all night, dreading this moment. Understanding the sadness he will feel and knowing what she means to him makes it that much more painful. He wipes the glass, puts it back in place on the sink, and changes the lean of the mirror.

  “You need to find a new student. I’m grown up now. You’ve taught me everything I need to be a dancer, and I just can’t come up here anymore. I need to get on with my life, and I’ll be moving out of the apartment at the end of the week. Getting my own place uptown.”

  It isn’t like Harry not to say anything.

  “I mean it, Harry.”

  “I’m going to speak to your father,” he says.

  “About what?”

  “About me and you going to Buenos Aires.”

  “That’s not real, Harry. You mustn’t do that. You know that?”

  “I’ve waited all these years for you to be twenty-one. Now you are. It’s time. I’ve saved the money, and we can do it. We’ll be together. We’ve always talked about it. We’ll tell your father about us. You promised.”

  “No, you can’t do that. It’s our secret. Remember? You always said that? It was make-believe, Harry. My promising, that was a game. Like you asking me to go mambo with you when I was five. I could never do that. Could I? It was just a game. I’m grown up now, graduated, and I have real plans. I can’t go to Buenos Aires. I can’t. I have grad school, plans.” When she thought about all of this, she was certain she would cry, but face-to-face with him, she realizes that she needs to be strong. She fights back her tears.