“You don’t know that—”
“Shh. Please.”
“Sorry.”
“I decided that dancing at the Met would be an attainable goal—something I could pursue instead.” I shrugged. “Everyone needs a holy grail, right?”
“You have talent, Ana.”
“Just not enough.” I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “It hurts to realize that you can’t do what you’ve always dreamed of doing. You don’t understand. I will never be Giselle, or Kitri, or Odette, or anyone else—not anywhere important and not with the best partners of this generation.”
“You can’t say that for sure.” His voice was soft.
He knew I was right. “It hurts.”
“You were Juliet with an okay partner.” He brought my hand to his lips and smiled.
“Well, yes. That I was. I was Juliet, and my Romeo was this amazing guy who can jump and spin like no other I’ve ever met—he’s all over YouTube.”
“And that doesn’t make you happy?”
“It does, but sharing the stage with you in a lead role, that’s the exception to the rule of my dancing life. It will probably never happen again. If I get into the Rhine-Main Ballet, I’m sure I’ll be in the corps forever. And I want to be happy with that.” Or I will go nuts. “My way of coming to terms with eternity in a lower position is to shoot also for something else—something that’s exciting and that I can reasonably accomplish.”
“The Met?”
“Yes. Without that goal, I feel bitter and ungrateful about everything, and I hate that. I know I have some semblance of a gift and a handful of things going for me. I should be thankful.” I looked at him. “Am I making any sense?”
“You’re right about the gift part. You do have a beautiful gift. Your technique is good enough to keep you afloat in the professional world. Your gift is your stage presence. You could be in the corps—last row—and I would still have eyes for only you.”
Good enough to stay afloat? I had to laugh.
“Did you mind that I was honest?” He cringed. “I’m sorry.” He put the palm of his hand on my chest as if to touch my heart.
“I don’t mind. You’re right on target.” I chuckled. “I’d never thought about it that way. Your wording is perfect—I’m good enough to stay afloat.”
“Well, did you hear the ‘I only have eyes for you’ part?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Thank you for your unbiased opinion.” I shot a smirk his way.
“Let me continue to the best part. Your stage presence is a rare gift. Dancers either have it or they don’t. Of those who have it, some have a little, others have more, and then there are very lucky people, like you, who overflow with it.”
“Thank you?” I said sheepishly. I wanted more. I wanted all the way. I don’t feel very lucky.
I turned my head toward the rose bush and dried a tear. Its cream blossoms, about a dozen, had reached the end of their bloom cycle.
“You do know that success is overrated, right? Everyone’s always looking for the next thing—the next holy grail, like you put it.”
He was right. But that didn’t make me feel any better.
“I enjoy my success, but I don’t consider myself satisfied,” he said. “And I don’t think I will ever be. I go around looking for different projects and most end up in disaster—according to the critics anyway. People want to see me in the big classical roles again, and again, and again. So the experimental pieces that I enjoy and that challenge me and take me someplace new in terms of movement and interpretation are not at all well received. It is very disappointing.”
“Oh, poor little rich boy.” We both laughed. “Nice try, but every company in the world wants you, so hush. I’m sure you will figure it out.”
“I’m just saying that I understand you more than you realize.”
“You’re killing me. People love you—hard-to-please people.”
“People love you in Columbus.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“Having the most educated audiences judge your work and love you must feel amazing. Surely you read a good review and feel justified.”
“You got fantastic reviews for your Juliet—by good critics who came all the way from Atlanta. Didn’t you feel justified?”
“No. Columbus is small, and the Allen Ballet is small. And the Atlanta people came for you.”
“But they loved you too.” He sat up. “Come on, Ana. How justified is justified enough?”
“The Met,” I said. “Then I will be happy.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will.” I had to be.
“Why the Met?”
“Do you have a problem with the Met?”
“No—I love the Met. I’m just curious, is all. Why not Le Palais Garnier?”
“Because I’m American. If I were French, or at least European, I would probably have picked Le Palais Garnier to be my Holy Grail. I don’t know.” I shrugged. “The Met is pretty, and I grew up watching it on TV. And everybody who’s anybody has danced there.”
“I still think it’s a little random.”
“Don’t take it away from me. It’s not random. It’s what I want. You’re my boyfriend. You’re supposed to be supportive or something.”
“Okay.” His eyes widened.
“Good.” I finished my wine. “Then stop looking puzzled. If you have something else to ask me, ask me already.” Let’s get it over with.
“Since we are in the business of being sincere…”
Here it comes.
“We are dancing at the Met next spring.” He cocked his head and looked at me as if searching for a reaction.
“I know.”
“Is that why you came to Germany?”
“No.” I’m not taking advantage of you. “I saw the company calendar the night I told my parents I was moving in with you.”
“So the decision had been made?”
“Yes.” Pretty much.
He nodded in slow motion, and I reached for his hand. He was looking at the horizon again.
He held my hand and brought it to his lips, turning his full attention to me. The kiss was warm—his expression not as much. “Sorry. I just want to make sure you are here for the right reason. ‘Poor little rich boys’ feel funny about girls’ motivations sometimes.”
Ouch. “I loved you before you were famous, remember?”
“That is true.” He grabbed the wine bottle and divided what was left between our glasses. “Remember the dinner at Di Gregorio tonight?”
“Yes, with the artistic director.”
“Jakob Arnheim, yes.” Claus’s brows knitted. “I’ll go on my own.”
“Okay?” What was his idea?
“I thought you could take classes with us, watch rehearsals, and kind of— how do you say? Go with the flow. But if you want to perform with the company and be part of the next season, we will need a plan.”
“Sure.” That makes sense. The dinner is no longer a social event. It’s business. And it’s best that they talk without me there, so Claus can get a real feel for what I can expect moving forward. That’s good. I’ll meet him soon enough.
My eyes focused on the mountaintop—on Germania. Could I be strong like her? I would have to try. We did have one thing in common for sure. We liked crowns. It was a crown that she was lifting up for all to see.
We finished our wine in silence and traveled back in silence too.
Close to Wiesbaden, dozens of giant wind turbines stood absolutely still on a field, like a ready army waiting for the big battle. Then a few started moving in slow motion. Others followed. Soon all moved at a good pace. By the time we drove past them, they were spinning so fast that they looked dangerous and seemed unstoppable.
Was my life like that? Was stopping an option now, or was it all bigger than me and in motion and unstoppable?
Leaning against the window, I looked up at the massive white structures,
each taller than the water tower in front of my old building.
“They look much bigger up close, don’t they?” Claus looked up too.
“Yes, they do.” So much bigger.
Chapter 13
Walking to the theater for my first class with the company, I moved in spurts, like a little girl going to a new school. One moment, excitement propelled me forward, and the next, fear brought me to near paralysis.
I’d put my hair up while it was still wet, and the perfect bun helped me stand tall. The little teardrop earrings Mom had given me as a departure gift added to that feeling, and I was certain my day would be fabulous.
But now that we were on our way, my confidence was shaky at best.
Jakob had told Claus I could start as a guest and be an understudy during rehearsals until fall auditions—my chance to join the company for real.
“What if they don’t like me, Claus?” I stopped and covered my eyes. “They probably worshipped Hanna and will hate me when they figure out we are together.”
“Nonsense. Don’t worry about them.” He put his arm around me and gave me a quick kiss on the temple while pulling me along. “Plus, no one worshipped Hanna. She was very private and came across pretty standoffish.”
“Ugh. I’m so nervous.” I walked faster.
“Just go out there and have fun like we did in Georgia.”
“I have a hard time enjoying myself around girls who are better than me.” I chuckled realizing just how wrong I was. “That sounded petty—crap—sorry.”
“You’re competitive. Nothing wrong with that.” He looked at me and hesitated before adding, “Now the cursing, that doesn’t suit you.”
“Oh, Claus, you’ve said that before.” I rolled my eyes. Was crap really a curse word? “Who cares what I say and don’t say? Cut me some slack. This is a big day.” I palmed my fingers against my sweaty hands.
“I’ll try.” He grabbed my hand as we reached the end of the tree-lined streets of his neighborhood. “But it really doesn’t suit you.”
We waited for traffic to stop and crossed Bierstadter Straße, leaving behind silence, shade, and the fragrance of jasmine.
Downtown was architecturally pleasing and greener than most, but it was still a city center busy with buses, cars, shoppers, workers, and students.
At the Warmer Damm Park, even the ducklings seemed to be in a hurry as they swam after the mother duck who appeared to be after three ladies walking their dogs.
What if I don’t understand the class? What if I’m too crazed to memorize the combinations?
Men in suits walked mostly in groups and engaged in what looked like animated conversations. Only the tall magnolia trees and the swamp cypresses were still and at peace. Could I borrow their stillness? My eyes looked heavenward. Please let this work, God.
A woman’s voice singing an aria from Verdi’s La Traviata turned my attention to the huge Neo-Baroque-style theater.
“Violetta.” Claus pointed to a row of windows from where the music came. “‘Addio, del Passato.’”
“Is that what she sings when she’s dying?” Dad was the opera buff of the family, but I had seen that one.
“That’s what she sings when all the lies that had separated her and Alfredo are clearing up—but she knows that it’s too late now and that she’s dying.”
“That’s right.” They get to see each other, and he apologizes for not believing her. Then she dies—in peace. I let Claus lead me closer to the entrance. Only the Friedrich Schiller Monument stood between me and the opulent state theater now. I’d come this far. A dead poet and his odd-looking muse were not going to stop me.
Claus walked me to the door of a ladies dressing room, kissed my cheek, and winked. “I’ll see you in the studio.”
I nodded—my throat was too dry for words. Let’s do this.
“Hi.” My voice came out faint, but the beautiful young blonde who saw me walk into the dressing room had heard me.
“Hi.” She smiled, her big brown eyes offering a gentle welcome, as three women nearby looked up.
I got a wave and two eyebrow nods from the group—all with smiles. And then they returned to their original conversation in what sounded like Russian. Not too bad.
The dark-brown velvet of my favorite three-quarter-sleeve leotard caressed my arms as I finished getting ready. Looking at the blonde from the corner of my eye, I was convinced she was one of the principals whose pictures I’d seen on the website.
More people arrived, but they didn’t seem to notice me in the small dressing room that got crowded fast. I put on my warm-up pants and organized my ballet shoes for class to the music of at least three more languages: German, English, and Spanish.
Then a woman in street clothes came to the door and said something in German. Everyone stopped talking and started moving toward the door with big bags, water bottles, and extra warm-up gear. Following at least forty girls, I wished I’d already started my German lessons with our downstairs neighbor.
I walked into the studio and picked a spot far from the front and far from the pianist and hoped people wouldn’t wonder how I’d ended up in their class.
Claus walked in with a tall dancer whose olive-tinted complexion, deep brown eyes, and dark hair hinted at a Spanish heritage. Light stubble on his square face and a perfect cleft chin added to his handsomeness.
Next, Claus talked to the pianist, an elegant man in his fifties, and handed him what looked like sheet music.
I’d expected him to go to whatever his favorite spot was, but after putting his bag down near the piano, he came straight to me.
There goes the flying-under-the-radar idea. Dozens of eyes were on us.
Stretching his calf muscles, he winked as the corners of his mouth turned up. “The ballet mistress is not here today, so Jakob will teach. Still nervous?”
“I wasn’t.” No pressure. “I shouldn’t have taken such a long break. This will be a disaster. What was I thinking?”
“I feel nervous when the director comes,” the girl behind me whispered with an accent I couldn’t figure out.
We were both chuckling when Jakob walked in. He didn’t seem to notice me or our soft girlish giggles, and if he did, he didn’t look like he cared.
“I am Luciana Pilar,” the girl behind me muttered. “Luci. From Chile.”
“Ana—United States,” I said before turning my attention to the director.
Jakob showed us a simple foot and ankle warm-up, going through it quickly and without music. I had it memorized fast. We faced the barre to start, and the pianist played the first notes of Josu Gallastegui’s “Promenade”—the same music that had touched my heart during our opening night warm-up in Columbus. Is that what Claus gave the pianist? That was sweet. Looking at him from the corner of my eye, I mouthed a silent, “Thank you.”
He offered me an encouraging grin, and my cheeks warmed up. Now, to focus on the rest of the body.
As expected of a prominent ballet company, the room was crowded, the combinations elaborate, and everything was fast-paced.
“Preparación, let’s go, and the one, and the two, and the three, and the four…”
Sometimes I heard three languages in one sentence come out of Jakob’s mouth, but the fact that the names of the steps remained in French everywhere in the world helped me get through the exercises.
Jakob kept his verbal corrections to a minimum, often simply touching or pointing to a shoulder, upper back, or whatever part of the dancer was out of place.
For the second part of the class, the center, I was in group two with Luci. All three principal dancers were in group one along with other women who were probably the soloists. Claus was in group three with all the other men.
Being in group two was good because I had extra time to memorize the combinations, but it also meant that the best dancers—and Claus—would be watching me.
Each group took turns working on the first slow exercises—exercises designed to help us transition from
having the support of the barre to working without anything to hold on to. We now had to find our own balance as we got our whole bodies dancing.
In a way, each ballet class took us through a baby’s whole cycle of learning to walk. The barre was equivalent to the cruising stage.
Then in the center we did small, slow steps first, like a toddler taking two steps between two pieces of furniture. Still in the center, the movements became bigger and more ambitious—the toddler’s longer and more controlled distances.
After that came the diagonals which were often combinations so beautiful they were fit for the stage. That would be equivalent to the toddler becoming a confident walker—and runner.
But ballet positions are so unnatural, and balancing a whole body on the tips of one’s toes so difficult, that every day dancers have to start at the cruising stage again to position the body—reminding it of what it takes to go from mere body to an instrument of magic.
It was time for group two to do the first more ambitious exercise of the center, and Claus and all of group one were casually looking either in my direction or in the direction of my reflection in the mirror.
I’d done that a million times when someone new showed up in class. There were no evil feelings toward the new arrival, but there was always a palpable curiosity—a need to categorize her. There were only two categories: competition and not competition.
I cannot mess this up. They will forever judge me for what I do in the next sixty seconds. Even if I end up in everyone’s not-competition category, I want to at least look pretty.
Waiting to start, my breathing was even, heart rate normal. Claus had said that my stage presence was a rare gift. I had to use that. It would be silly to smile a big smile in class, but I could be serene and ethereal and make sure my arms and head positioning were impeccable.
Claus was looking at my reflection in the mirror. His forehead furrowed. Relax.
Jakob walked to the front of the room. “Preparación, and…” As soon as he said “and” the piano started.
Ethereal.
The combination involved pirouettes and big fondu développés. I bent the supporting leg slowly, melting, while placing my working foot pointing on the ankle. Big and light now. As I straightened the supporting leg, the working leg unfolded and extended high in the air. Good. After repeating that step in different directions and switching legs, it was time for pirouettes.
A Season to Dance Page 13