A Season to Dance

by Patricia Beal

  Our celibacy had started quite by accident just before a strong southern storm, when I had stopped his advance—a rare move for me, reserved usually for creeps and drunks. It had continued because of pride, when he’d left me in the guest room, and I’d decided not to work my way into the suite. And then it had come to define our relationship.

  When other couples went home to act married, we lingered at the park and fed ducks and pigeons. We couldn’t tell the pigeons apart and were not sure which were residents and which were visitors, but we knew the two mommy ducks and the two daddy ducks by name. They’d just had sixteen babies—eight per couple—and we hoped to name them too.

  We cooked often. Often badly. The rabbit cabidela had been especially dreadful, for the blood never turned grayish-brown as the recipe had promised. That night we ate spaghetti aglio olio at Di Gregorio instead.

  “Ah, bad recipe again, Signorina Ana?” the skinny waiter had asked as he led us to our favorite patio table before tidying my coral linen napkin and explaining the day’s specials.

  But how long should we wait? That was the nagging question. Was it time to take the next step? Luci was right—this wasn’t normal. She was the only one who knew what was really happening, and not happening, on quiet Blumenstraße.

  Once in the Czech Republic, we made a stop at the Pilsner Urquell brewery in Plzeň before continuing the journey to the capital. Claus was only mildly interested in the production process, and once he started talking to Jakob, I found Luci.

  “How are you?” Luci put her arm around my shoulder and led me outside.

  “He’s cute,” I said of the dancer she’d been talking to before I showed up. He was very young and had just started.

  “Cute and not into girls, I’m afraid.” She lifted her flimsy tasting-room cup in a mock toast. “My luck.”

  “German?”

  “Ja.” She lit up a Jin Ling. “And you, friend, have Claus.” She put her cheap animal-print lighter in her jeans pocket and blew the smoke out fast. “Gorgeous and straight, but you won’t sleep with him.”

  “Maybe we will here,” I said, just above a whisper, heat flooding my cheeks as I waited for her reaction.

  “You should.” She rubbed her naked arms and motioned to the bus with her head. “He is straight, right?”

  “Of course he is straight.” I laughed it off. “You should have brought a jacket. You look frozen.”

  “I know.” She flicked her cigarette butt. “How do you know that he is not gay?”

  “Ten years ago, remember?”

  “Ah … ten years ago.” Her voice trailed off as she walked up the steps. “People change, friend,” I heard her say as she disappeared toward the middle of the bus.

  A thud on the front window caught my attention. Jack, the only other American dancer in the company, was lifting Claus, who pretended to be splattered on the window. I covered my eyes and shook my head. When I looked again, Claus was already inside, flopping down next to me and giving me a kiss.

  Curling up on the seat, I turned toward him. Pilsner Urquell flavored our kiss as the driver started the engine.

  “Get a room,” I heard Jack say, walking past us.

  “Working on it.” Claus covered our heads with his leather jacket as I giggled.

  By the time we got our keys to the hotel room, we had twenty-three minutes to drop off our bags and take quick showers. The whole company was meeting a local guide at the lobby at four o’clock for a walking tour and sunset dinner cruise.

  We were staying next to the famous Old Town Square, surrounded by historic buildings, houses, and palaces of various architectural styles and colorful history.

  One landmark soon commanded my attention: the Church of Our Lady before Týn. Its soaring Gothic steeples excelled at directing the eyes to the heavens, and multiple small spires made the building the most unique and aesthetically pleasing sight on the square.

  A plain school building hid the base of the church, but while many might say the Týn School distracted the eye, to me it added visual interest. It was like seeing a bouquet of twenty-four red roses emerge impossibly from a bud vase.

  “Look at the two spires.” Our guide pointed to the steeples. “They look like they are the same, but they are not identical.”

  I turned to Claus and drew his attention to the spires. “I hadn’t noticed that the spire on the right was slightly thicker.”

  He glanced upward before kissing my forehead.

  “The two spires represent the masculine and the feminine sides of the world.” The guide shaded his dark eyes as he looked toward us and the afternoon sun. “This is a characteristic of Gothic architecture of the time.”

  I walked away, intrigued by the concept. Masculine and feminine … two sides. What was going to happen to our two sides tonight? Our room had one bed. Would Claus sleep on the small couch?

  On our way to the river, we walked past the Jewish Quarter, where a few synagogues, the old cemetery, and the Old Jewish Town Hall had been left standing by the Nazis.

  “The Nazis collected Jewish artifacts from all over central Europe and planned to display them here in an exotic museum of the extinct race.” The guide stopped before a gorgeous triangular city block. “The race is not extinct, so you see no exotic museum in front of you. Just Europe’s oldest active synagogue, the Jewish Town Hall clocks, and exotic Judah walking you through beautiful Prague.” He motioned for us to cross the street after him.

  Three city blocks later we were at the river and boarded the Natal, the boat the company rented for our dinner cruise. We set sail as the Vltava River changed from charcoal blue to glowing orange with the setting sun.

  After a simple but elegant full-course dinner that tasted as beautiful as it looked, I walked outside to enjoy the fresh air and see the city by night. Historic buildings bathed in soft yellow lights spread warmth and welcome along the river despite the cold evening breeze as I climbed to the upper deck.

  Watching the Czech flag fluttering at the stern, I could still hear the musicians in the dining room as they played a tender Bohemian folk song, the two violins more prominent than the wind instruments from the outside.

  The beautiful National Theatre with its rectangular golden dome reminded me of my grandmother’s massive music box with its amber crystals adorning the filigree along the sides. As a child, I’d spent hours dreaming in front of that music box, watching its delicate ballerina spin to the sounds of a Doctor Zhivago medley, and dreaming of ballet, of Russia, and of the wonderful man I would meet one day.

  Prague wasn’t Russia, but it was close. The Natal passed the theater now. The illuminated windows looked exactly like the amber crystals of the music box. Would a vintage ballerina with gold leotard and eternally disheveled tutu pop up to the sound of “Lara’s Theme” if I were to open the lid? My lips stretched with the thought.

  My eyes traveled to the other side of the river, and as I looked in awe at the sumptuous Prague Castle complex and its famous St. Vitus Cathedral, Claus joined me on the deck and handed me a glass of the late-harvest Czech Chardonnay we’d been sharing during the meal. Out here, as he embraced me, it tasted sweeter.

  We drank slowly amid soft kisses, and he held me close. My heart reveled in his nearness. It was natural, like breathing. And I knew I would never forget the wonder of that moment and the beauty of that old city.

  The smell of his cologne had me in a daze. Was it new? Woody undertones. Flower overtones. Violet?

  We finished the wine and set the glasses on the long wooden table behind us. The kisses deepened. My hands slid around his waist and felt the warmth of the soft cashmere. His touch became more passionate, urgent. I was overwhelmed by a sensation that was both familiar and exotic.

  Claus stepped out of my arms with a soft sigh and interlocked his fingers firmly with mine. His eyes—enthralled like Prince Albrecht’s eyes in Giselle— were on mine. That was my home, his arms, his scent, his kisses … we’d come home.

  “Sweet A
na.” He kissed my forehead.

  I rested my head on his chest and was surprised to see the upper deck full. Luci was in a large group and lifted her glass in my direction in a silent toast when our eyes met.

  When the boat docked, Claus and I were the first ones out, and we walked to the hotel ahead of everyone.

  He is interested in women. I squeezed his hand.

  He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it without slowing down the pace.

  I wish Luci hadn’t said anything. This is going to bug me now.

  Inside the traditional burgundy-and-gold room, Claus found Dvořák on the old radio. “This is perfect.” He put his arms around me, warm and sweet. “I love being in Prague. I love this music. And I love you, Ana.”

  “I love you too.” My skin tingled to the powerful sounds of New World Symphony. “Be with me, Claus,” I said, my breathing uneven. “I’m done waiting.”

  “I am with you.”

  “All the way. Be with me.”

  “Are you sure?” he whispered, his cheeks a lighter shade of the bedding behind him.

  I nodded and buried my face against his chest.

  With his fingers under my chin, he pulled me in and kissed me.

  Kissing him back, I felt his hands sliding to my hips. Claus Vogel Gert. Mine again. At last.

  As one movement ended and a new one started, I realized I’d been wrong. The composer was Dvořák, but the work was not the New World Symphony.

  The new movement was a lento. A simple melody. A pulsating accompaniment. I’d danced that before. The second movement of the String Quartet No. 12—the “American” Quartet.

  Is this a mistake? Is this, too, more of the same? A dance I’ve already danced? We can still stop.

  His kiss was so warm. His touch so perfect. His accent. The city…

  No. I can’t stop.

  We didn’t sleep. Instead, we watched the sunrise from the Charles Bridge, and his tender kisses were as precious to me as the pedestrian-only stone bridge in the soft light of the morning sun’s rays.

  Next to us, a father and son fed the hungry morning pigeons, and painters captured the structure’s splendor.

  Tourists trickled onto the bridge as the sun played hide-and-go-seek over Old Town in a sky filled with long, thin clouds. First, a young couple showed up, then a family. A group of ladies photographed the towers that protected the bridge and the thirty religious statues mounted to the balustrade.

  “Claus, look.” I pointed at the young couple. They’d stopped, and the guy was on one knee holding up a ring. “I hope she says yes.”

  Claus squeezed me tighter, and the other couple hugged too. “I think she said yes.” He kissed my temple, the scent of last night’s perfume still on his soft skin. Would he propose like that one day?

  Next to us, an old violinist put his open case on the ground. Would he play Dvořák for us?

  “Do you mind waiting here?” Claus’s eyes gleamed. “I want to buy something,” he said, pointing at a nearby souvenir kiosk on the bridge.

  “I don’t mind. He’ll keep me company.” I tilted my head toward the violinist, who was now looking at us and seemed ready to play.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  The violin fooled me at first with an elaborate melody that could have been Dvořák, but then it bridged to a familiar melody. Images of Maya Plisetskaya as the sultry Carmen, and of Lorie watching her, flashed before my eyes as the old man’s violin cried a gypsy version of Bizet’s Carmen—the “Habanera.” Was I like Carmen? Self-centered and overly sensual? I didn’t want to be. I wanted to be like Giselle—passionate but pure. Virtuous, not sultry.

  Claus returned and handed me not a ring, but a pair of small garnet earrings.

  “Do you like them?”

  “Thank you.” I forced a smile. How very noncommittal. “They’re beautiful.” But they are earrings—not a ring. Sleeping with Claus now was a mistake, wasn’t it? I did it again—what Lorie said. I gave him all he wanted. Now what?

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Um-hm.” A crisp breeze played with my hair, and my tight chest labored to fill up with some of that clean morning air.

  My eyes spotted the Natal as it sailed under the bridge, away from the city and toward quieter waters—the place where we’d stood now empty. Could I go back to that spot—to the night before on the boat and make a different choice?

  No, of course I couldn’t. Can’t go back… What’s done is done.

  There were no do-overs in life. I held up the deep blood-red earrings. Once you made a mistake, it was yours to carry forever.

  Jakob only wanted understudies for a quick run-through of a small portion of the program, so the next day my rehearsal was short.

  As I walked to the hotel, a light drizzle became a soft and steady rain shower. I couldn’t be alone in a small room, in a foreign place, watching the rain. No way. My life, which in Germany had been as close to enchanted as it’d ever been, had lost its spark overnight.

  Getting in an old cab, I shook the water off my small German umbrella, wondering how I would explain my desired destination to the driver. What was the name of the church with the statue of the Infant Jesus of Prague? Was it even a church? He had to be in Prague somewhere.

  “Infant Jesus?” I asked.

  The round man behind the wheel looked at me and raised his graying eyebrows.

  “Infant Jesus?” I asked again, biting my lower lip.

  He looked annoyed, like Grandpa when interrupted during a World Cup soccer match.

  Ooh, I have an idea. Opening my wallet, I showed him the card Mom had given me ages ago and that I’d carried with me my whole life.

  “Yes,” he said slowly with a nod.

  He started driving, and within two minutes there wasn’t a tourist in sight. Is this even safe? Where’s he taking me? “Is it far?”

  He shrugged but said nothing. Instead, he pushed a button on the radio and soon lively music filled the cab. Was that a polka?

  Loosening the death grip I had on the Infant Jesus image, I turned it around and tried to read the words. It was a prayer in Portuguese.

  My mom had always been a huge fan of the Infant Jesus of Prague, and every time we went to her hometown of Porto Alegre in Brazil, we visited her Igreja Santa Teresinha and saw the statue of the Infant Jesus that’s there.

  That church had never meant anything to me, but watching Mom arrive there was always neat—she was at home and in peace.

  Was it Saint Therese of the Child Jesus that made her feel at home? I was never able to understand who exactly that saint was. It wasn’t the woman from Avila—that much I knew.

  Maybe the serenity that overtook Mom came from the Infant Jesus image … or from God Himself. But wasn’t God everywhere? Why did she need a building to feel good?

  Could it be that it was the return to a place of peace, beginnings, and innocence that made her happy there? And could I get that same feeling by visiting the church here? Let’s hope so—that is if he is indeed taking me to the church. Should have gone to the one by the hotel.

  The driver parked by what looked like a church. Phew. I paid for the ride, and he gave me an image he’d removed from a stack he’d pulled from his glove compartment. He showed me the back of the card. It was the same prayer in Czech, I assumed.

  Was I supposed to keep it?

  He then showed me several images from a second stack. He turned each around, and I recognized German, Italian, Spanish, and French. But there were other languages too.

  “Portuguese. Brazil.” I said and let him add mine to his foreign collection before putting the Czech image in my wallet.

  He thanked me and I said bye—happy to be part of the Infant Jesus in-group.

  The rain had diminished, but heavy clouds swirled across dark skies. Inside, I dipped my hand into the holy water and blessed myself with the sign of the cross: In the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. I genuflected, bowing my hea
d before entering the main aisle, and then started looking for the Holy Child.

  To my surprise, the image was to the side of the pews. I had expected it to be near the front somewhere since He was so famous worldwide. It was also smaller than I had anticipated. The shrine was grandiose in elaborate gold, but the image itself was two feet tall, if that.

  Mom needed to see this. I grabbed a brochure from a pew rack and sat.

  The wax-wooden statue in the guise of a king came from Spain, I read. The right hand is raised in blessing. The left holds a sphere—our universe—in his hands.

  The legend tells that the Infant Jesus appeared to a monk, who modeled the statue based on the appearance. According to another legend, the statue belonged to Saint Teresa of Avila, the founder of the Discalced Carmelites, a Catholic religious order that placed special emphasis on prayer.

  Lifting my eyes to the Infant Jesus, I realized I’d been looking at various depictions of Him all day—statues that told the story of His life in reverse. At the bridge this morning I’d seen the silhouette of the lamentation first, when the sunshine was only a hint. Soon after, I saw Calvary. Then Jesus as an adult, also on the bridge. Here, the Child. Life in reverse. The image from the Jewish Quarter of the Hebrew clock that went backward came to mind.

  Why couldn’t I go backward too? And why was it so hard to admit I wish I hadn’t slept with Claus? And above all, why did I feel that way? It’d been great.

  Was it because I wanted our relationship to be more than physical? Of course I wanted that, but nothing had really changed and nothing was going to change—Claus would continue to love me the same and as much. There was nothing wrong with what we’d done. It was the natural development of a relationship in our day and age.

  Yet something was wrong.

  My head—that’s what’s wrong. I skipped to the end of the brochure. There was a museum dedicated to the Infant Jesus and a gift shop. Let’s check it out.