Althea and the Dancers crowded inside the elevator and rode down to the lobby. The street outside was desolate. It was three o’clock in the morning.
“We’re too many for one cab,” Jane said. “We’ll have to split up.”
“I live just down the street,” said Althea.
“We’ll walk you to your door,” Michiko offered.
Just as she was speaking, an empty taxi drove past. Instinctively, Kurt hailed it. With a screech of the brakes, the driver pulled up to the curb. “Here we are,” Kurt said, efficiently ushering Jane, Hector, and Michiko into the back seat. “You all go on. I’ll see Althea home.”
Before anyone could react, he slammed shut the door of the taxi. Although Althea had wanted Kurt to walk her home, she resisted being presented with his fait accompli. She watched the gaudy yellow taxi drive off and disappear down Broadway.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
“I’m not quite sure,” he admitted. “It was an impulse.”
“You sent them on their way before I got to say goodbye.”
“I’m sorry,” Kurt apologized. He paused. “I hope you’ll still allow me to escort you.”
“Do I have a choice?” Althea asked. But she felt herself softening; she had forgiven him. “All right,” she said.
“Which is your building?”
“Number 321. It’s just past the middle of the block.”
They set off silently, walking side by side, not touching. Althea found herself thinking about Kurt with his Dancers, how readily they had obeyed him and climbed into the taxi. Had Paul submitted to Kurt like the rest of them, when he was a Dancer? she wondered. He must have, she decided, though it seems hard to believe.
“Have you found a dancer to succeed Paul?” she suddenly asked Kurt.
“Not yet. We shall have to hold an audition.”
“I imagine that Paul will be difficult to replace.”
“Not really. There is no lack of qualified applicants.”
“But no one like Paul,” Althea protested. What am I really trying to say? she wondered.
“Everyone is unique,” Kurt replied evenly, “but no one is irreplaceable.” He paused. “I don’t expect we’ll lose Paul. Whatever you may say about Savage Landscape, unlike The Toe Shoes’ Finale, it was a real dance. I’ve been thinking—what Paul gave us tonight was the ghost of a dance. But now we know that the desire to create a dance is there. Some time, after he has truly healed, he’ll give his desire flesh-and-blood: he’ll make a dance again, and we’ll perform it.”
He loves Paul, Althea realized. What he is saying is motivated by love.
Inspired by Kurt’s example, she felt her old love for Paul welling up in her. But it was too painful. At last, she was able to let the feeling go, as easily as an exhaled breath.
“Truly, Paul is fortunate,” she resumed. “He has so much to depend on—you, the Dancers, his life with Bryce especially. I’m glad for him, and grateful.”
She could feel Kurt’s eyes on her. “What you say is very fine and noble on your part,” he observed, “but I know that your candor is blended with falsehood.”
She stopped. They were in front of her building. “Here we are,” she said. “You’re right. Even now I can’t pretend to be disinterested. I loved Paul, or else I convinced myself that I did. I thought—well, I don’t know what I thought. It seems crazy now. He’s not my type. And I’m clearly not his.”
“A great deal of suffering may be caused us by those who are not our type,” Kurt said sagely.
“I was susceptible to him,” Althea said. “I don’t think I will be so susceptible again.”
“No?” Kurt wondered. “Perhaps not.” In the old gesture of courtesy, he extended his arm. “Let me see you inside.”
She took his arm. Sedately, they began to mount the short flight of steps to the front door of her building. A finger of wind coming off the river slid up the street. Althea’s kimono flapped against her legs. Wasting no time, she unlocked the front door. They entered a small vestibule. Another door was opposite, and Althea opened it.
“I can go on from here,” she said.
But she hesitated, drawn by his probing gaze. There was knowledge in it and acceptance. She let him kiss her. His kiss was chaste, even refined, and soon over. He took both her hands in his. “Althea!”
The lavender toe shoe, dangled between them, slipped from her fingers to the floor.
She was tempted, but the temptation was not enough. Slowly, she shook her head.
“I don’t need any more experience,” she said. “I need a future.”
“I see.” His face looked grizzled in the yellowish light of the vestibule. She thought his expression seemed gentle, even fatherly. “There are many possible futures,” he said. “I hope we will be friends, as well as artistic collaborators.”
“I will like that,” she replied.
* * *
Just before Bryce went to sleep, he thought of other New Year’s Eve parties, hundreds of them, perhaps, that were being given throughout the city that night. They must almost all be over by now, and the partygoers gone home to sleep off their revels, he reflected. I’m glad I was already at home and didn’t have to go anywhere, because I’m so tired.
He yawned. He was waiting for Paul to come to bed, but he fell asleep first.
Some time later, before dawn, he waked abruptly. He had been dreaming. His mind was still imprinted with the image of a wooded hillside. Under a white, occluded sky, the trees were stark and bare. Dead leaves littered the ground.
As he remembered the dream, a sense of desolation swept over him. He could scarcely endure the grief forced upon him.
Gradually he grew aware of his surroundings. In the darkness he made out
Paul’s sleeping form next to him. He partly wanted to wake Paul, yet hesitated to disturb him.
Quietly Bryce rose from bed and went to the window. The sky was still dark. He saw adhered to the windowpane a hardened streak of frost in a swirling pattern like Art Nouveau glass. The design blurred as tears filled his eyes. Almost blinded, he stared out the window.
“Bryce!”
The sibilant sound of his own name cut through him like a knife. He heard a lamp being flicked on; he noticed the light. So Paul is awake, he thought.
“Yes?” Bryce kept his face averted, so Paul wouldn’t see his eyes filmed with tears.
“What are you doing over there?” he heard Paul ask.
“Nothing. Just looking out the window.”
“Is there anything to see?”
Just as Paul was speaking, Bryce impulsively turned to face him. Now Paul will observe that I’ve been weeping, he thought.
Bolstered by pillows, Paul sat up in bed in a circle of lamplight. His sharp features appeared somewhat flattened, as if bruised by sleep. Slowly, Bryce began to approach him.
“I was dreaming,” Bryce began. I want to tell Paul about my dream, he realized.
But Paul did not give Bryce a chance to try. “I was dreaming, too,” he announced. “But I should warn you first: I shouldn’t be speaking to you.”
Bryce had come close. He stood next to the bed. Paul’s face wore a familiar, stubborn expression. Bryce comprehended that Paul was determined not to hear his dream, that Paul was afraid of it. That is why he is competing with a dream of his own, Bryce realized. That is why he is taunting me—to distract me.
Choosing not to oppose Paul, he let himself be distracted by Paul’s dream, as Paul wished.
“So why aren’t you speaking to me?” he asked.
“Because you ran away from me in my dream.”
“I did what?” Bryce picked up the cue, but he was speaking mechanically.
Paul smiled conceitedly. “You heard me.”
“Tell me how it happened.”
“We were in a woods. My foot was okay; I’d never had the accident. We were walking up a hill. Althea was with us. You went on ahead of us, and you never came back.”
Paul perceived a glint in Bryce’s eyes. “No, you got it all wrong,” retorted Bryce with spirit. “That was all in my dream, too. What really happened was that you left me up on that hill in the woods, and I got lost. I should be the one not speaking to you.”
Bryce pouted. Paul could tell that he was pleased with himself.
“I say you left, and you claim I abandoned you,” said Paul. “I doubt we’ll ever resolve it.”
“The score is tied,” determined Bryce. “We’re evenly divided.”
Without replying at first, Paul gazed at Bryce as he stood motionless in the shadow of the lamp, his dark eyes still gleaming with the tears he had not shed. Tears, thought Paul, that I refused. Well, laughter is better than tears.
Yet his voice, tinged by remorse, was gentle as he asked Bryce, “What time is it? Can you see the clock?”
“Five-thirty.”
“If this were the summer, it would already be dawn. The sky would be light; we’d be hearing birds.” Paul sighed. “But now it’s dark. Come back to bed. Let’s go to sleep.”
Bryce climbed in bed next to Paul. Paul turned out the light. They kissed good night. They lay side by side, listening to the silence of the room broken by the quiet hiss of the radiator.
“You may say what you like,” said Paul after a while, “but the toe shoes were beautiful. They cast an illusion. Most people took one with them; there are only a few left in one box. The truth is, I’m afraid, that they won’t look so good by the light of day. They’ll have lost their magic. I bet you that most of them will end up in the trash.”
“I think you’re right,” agreed Bryce. “But think of it this way: perhaps you can truly possess only what you have given away.”
There was a pause. “What are you thinking about?” Bryce asked.
“A hummingbird that once flew into a shed I’d built behind our house. This was back in Minnesota when I was a teenager. The hummingbird got caught inside. For two hours it flew under the ceiling although the door and windows were wide open the whole time.”
“Did it ever get out?” wondered Bryce.
“Eventually. I wasn’t there when it escaped at last. Thinking that my presence was probably contributing to the bird’s panic, I left the shed, but fascination kept drawing me back. One time, though, I returned to find the shed empty. I’ve never forgotten that hummingbird. Freedom was right there, but the bird couldn’t see it.” Paul paused. “What are you thinking about?”
“Just now, I was dreaming about you, and you were dreaming about me—”
“Were you really dreaming the same dream that I was dreaming?” Paul wondered, interrupting him.
Bryce shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s as if our dreams were cast from the same source. But the narratives change, and the interpretations differ.” He paused. “I was also thinking about the conversation at the end of the party,” he continued. “While we were talking and sipping the port, I felt a sense of security and safety like an atmosphere descending over all of us. It seemed that what we were saying about love and friendship—all the subtle thoughts and careful distinctions—mattered less than this sensation of well-being. It was almost as if we were being watched over by a god.”
“What kind of god is he?” wondered Paul.
“I guess he must be a young, irresponsible god. Because, as I come to think of it, I see that he wasn’t really watching over us. He had fallen asleep, while we stayed up to talk. Maybe, moved by the party spirit, he’d gotten drunk and was sleeping it off.”
“He wasn’t neglecting his responsibilities, because he wasn’t meant to watch over us.” Suddenly it came to Paul. “No, he was dreaming us the whole time. He is still dreaming us. He is the source you spoke of. Our twinned dreams are but reflections of his dream.”
So Paul had the last word.
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