“Sorry,” Claus said, his voice throaty. His jaw tightened and his face dulled.
I nodded, lowering my head.
Peter went back to the grill, and the smell of hickory slowly dominated the air.
“So what are we dancing?” Claus cleared his throat. “Do you want to dance Praha? It’s ready, so it would be the easiest.”
“Dancing Praha anywhere, other than the Met, would be depressing.” And that’s a ballet about beginnings and two people in love. “Absolutely not.”
“Balcony scene?” Claus’s eyes narrowed.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Peter’s head snap in our direction. “No.” I cocked my head. Was he serious?
“That leaves us two choices.” Claus made a steeple of his fingers. “Pick any grand pas de deux or come up with something new. We have a little over a month, so that’s enough time to do either.”
I faced the strong fire in the fireplace and put my legs up on the chair next to me. “How about that Gallastegui music you’ve been listening to?”
His mouth twisted. “An intermezzo?”
“Ta, dada dada dada dada dada dada dada, pa. Ta, dada dada dada dada dada dada dada, pa.” I hummed the melody with precision, my hand making a circle with each “dada” and ending with an accent, like an old amusement park rotor ride.
He nodded and hummed along. “I’ve been obsessed with it, but it’s short— and it’s class music.”
“I don’t need a big splash. It doesn’t even need to be the closing act. I’m a soloist, not a principal.”
“We can run it by Brian. He may have a spot where people are rushing to change, so we can go in, have some fun, and buy them some time.”
“I’m perfectly fine with that. Quality, not quantity, right? We’ll make it special.”
Claus nodded and closed his eyes. His right hand moved much like mine had when I was describing the music.
My eyes rested on Peter as he prepared the steaks. He caught me looking and smiled with a wink.
“How about a music box?” Claus cocked his head. “The magnetic ballerina kind with the lit-up circle, a gold puffy tutu, a mirror. Your breathtaking bourrées, finger turns, promenades of all kinds. Good idea? Bad idea?”
“Ooh. Good idea.” Like my grandmother’s…
“Let me run with it a little and talk to Brian.”
I nodded with a grin. “I like that idea.”
“Good.” Claus smiled for the first time since he’d arrived.
As if he’d been waiting for his cue, Peter brought over a party tub with a selection of American beers on ice.
We each chose one and lifted our bottles in a silent toast. So the farewell was a good idea, and yes, we could deliver. Perfect. From my grandma’s music box to the onstage music box, everything dance would come full circle after this final piece. I would be free to start the rest of my life.
“The house is now open. The house is now open.”
The theater announcement elicited the usual butterflies and ignited a fight-or-flight response I’d learned to manage.
I looked like the music box ballerina of years gone by in my gorgeous tutu with its dark gold bodice of rich velvet and undulated white skirt layered in large-holed mesh. Red lipstick and a glamorous bun enhanced the look, and glancing at the mirror, I placed one hand on my shoulder and extended my opposite arm up, just like my grandma’s music box ballerina.
For five weeks, Claus and I had rehearsed daily in Atlanta and finished early each day so I could be home when Peter got off work. Evenings with my fiancé were filled with music, laughter, and wedding planning. Our relationship felt incredibly right—like I knew it would—like it once had been. We were back on track.
We’d decided to keep our original wedding date, November fifth, but we had dropped the idea of having it at the Callaway Gardens chapel and planned a home wedding instead.
For once in my life, I had it all.
I’d enjoyed it cautiously, though, knowing that my ballet glory had an expiration date. I hoped my last time on stage wouldn’t be defined by managing difficult emotions. But as tonight’s performance had approached, managing my emotions became harder and harder.
The class we’d had on stage in the afternoon had been easy on the body but hard on the mind. I’d started thinking things like, “How many pliés before I retire from professional dancing? Am I really within hours of my last grand battements? Last pirouette preparation?” Staying calm became a challenge, and I’d had to resort to counting—twenty seats in the center portion of the first row; nineteen on the second; fourteen lights hung from the mezzanine; seventy line sets in the theater; forty-four dancers on stage.
That had been my theater experience, until that moment, on my last day at the RiverCenter for the Performing Arts.
And then there was a knock on the door.
“Ms. Ana?”
I recognized the voice of the wardrobe mistress and opened the door. “Perfect timing.” I turned around to let her close my tutu and immediately felt her quick fingers on my back. “Thank you.”
“Are you coming to the stage area?” Her voice cracked, and I held both her hands.
What a sweet lady. “I will soon.” The intermezzo would be the second piece after the interval, but I didn’t want to spend the whole first half of the program in the dressing room. But I didn’t want to talk to people either, so I would have to find a happy medium. I put on my headpiece, a delicate gold tiara, and bundled up to keep my muscles warm.
I particularly didn’t want to be around Lorie, not when she had the opportunity to talk. When the Allen Ballet moved classes and rehearsals to the theater a week prior to the performance, Claus and I moved our operation there too. Peter showed up often, and Lorie avoided all three of us the whole time. But I didn’t want to give her a single opportunity to spoil my day.
The first notes of Les Sylphides came through the dressing room speakers. Time to go to the stage area. I wanted to watch a young dancer make her professional debut alongside Lorie. I’d noticed her in class. She was fifteen, had impeccable technique, a perfect ballet body, and the presence to go with it. How would her in-class elegance translate to the stage? That’s what I wanted to see. With a powerful stage presence, she would be a prima fast.
As I reached for the doorknob, I noticed a small envelope under the door. It contained a simple note.
YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN MY FAVORITE BALLERINA. GOOD LUCK TONIGHT.
– J.
“Oh, that’s sweet.” The wardrobe mistress, whose long name was difficult to pronounce, went by J. But what was her actual name? My mind was blank of anything except dance.
“It’s a full house,” a man I’d never seen before told me as soon as I got to the stage area.
“Good,” I whispered.
I didn’t expect to see Claus watching from the wings, but there he was.
The new girl was the first to catch my attention as I stood next to him.
Claus noticed my presence and pointed at the girl. “She’s fantastic. Look at her lines.”
“And graceful,” I placed my hands on my hips. “Great stage presence—she’s Lorie and me put together, stuffed into one tiny young body.”
“I think you’re right.” The corners of his mouth turned up.
She needs to watch her shoulder blades. There’s a little bit of tension, and it’s transferring to her arms. “Give her a couple of years, and she’ll be a prima here.”
“Right again.”
We watched the entire first half—the classical half—from the obscurity of the wings and spent the interval on stage, getting warm again and practicing along with two Arcangelo couples.
Soon, Lorie and her partner showed up ready for Closer, and they practiced a lift by the piano that had just been placed on the stage for their piece, set to composer Philip Glass’s haunting “Mad Rush.” She looked beautiful in a short white gown that emphasized her long legs and perfect lines, and with every passé, her lower body loo
ked like a perfect number four.
“Just so you know”—Claus held both my hands—”I’m scared.”
I tightened my lips, bobbing my head. “Me too.”
He wasn’t talking about the performance. Performances excited him and made him nervous, at best. Now life—life was scary, and we both knew it.
Claus was going home with broken dreams to an empty apartment. I was going home with broken dreams of my own but to a completely different life. How would I ever empty myself from the brokenness, and what dreams would take their place? I had no idea.
As I watched Claus pacing in slow motion in the wings, I wished things had ended differently for us. I hope something good happens for him. I hope he can find someone nice. He caught me staring at him, and I turned my attention to the dark stage.
Tonight was a turning point. Nothing would ever be the same. This was our last goodbye and last révérence. The heavy curtains opened and the second half of the program started.
Lorie and her partner moved as one in Closer, with intertwined legs and braided arms that rarely ever broke skin-to-skin contact in a twenty-minute romantic piece in which their blent shadows were a third character, with a story of its own, and in which movement and music alternated seamlessly from quiet to severe without ever lacking flow, like a Virginia Woolf sentence that started casually and was too beautiful to end.
They received an enthusiastic and well-deserved ovation. And then the stage was dark. The crew set up the music box floor and mirror, and Claus and I followed them to the stage to take our positions.
“I guess this is it,” Claus whispered in my ear as he squeezed my cold hands.
Yep, this is it, and we’ll make it beautiful—one last time.
When the amber and red circle under our feet lit up, my pose was that of the vintage music box ballerina: legs in passé, one hand on my shoulder, and the other arm up. Claus held the hand that was up in the air as butterflies flew in formation in my tummy—I was ready to start a dizzying series of finger turns and fast promenades.
Over the next fifteen minutes, I would be spun, supported, lifted, and carried with movements that were delicate and beautiful, transporting the audience into the purity of the relationship between the ballerina and her cavalier.
The circularity of Gallastegui’s “Intermezzo” would evoke the music box mood—for the ladies, the ballerina dream, and for the gentlemen, the love of ballerinas.
After the initial turns, we used the full length of the stage to paint a picture of the elegance and chivalry of the ballet world. Oh, how I was going to miss that world with all its customs and civilities—niceties now so lost beyond the doors of the theater and of the studio.
Balanchine’s words were in my head again. People who want to dance … people who have to dance. How was I going to stop?
The orchestra played faster as the end of the piece approached, and we finished back where we’d started, in the circle, repeating the opening series of finger turns and fast promenades. Were they my last ever?
The music ended gradually, amber lights dimmed slowly, and the stage darkened completely.
My intermezzo … Lord, please bless what comes next.
“Bravo!”
Claus led me toward the audience, and I was overwhelmed by a shower of flowers and multiple shouts of “bravo” from the standing crowd. My heart beat loud and fast as I curtsied in these last moments of my career.
The warmth of the public, of the orchestra, and of my fellow dancers in the wings filled my heart with gratitude and emotion, and I planted a kiss on my hands and shared it with everyone.
Brian met us on stage with more flowers as Claus caught a bouquet midair, reviving the fervor of the audience. He presented it to me and then held my hand for a final bow.
That’s when I realized we were probably holding hands for the very last time, and a painful lump formed in my throat. In front of me, my mom and dad cried as they clapped from their front-row seats across from the orchestra pit. Peter sat next to them, proud and handsome and beaming.
In two weeks I would be his wife.
And I couldn’t wait.
The heavy red curtains closed, and the crew moved in a frenzy to remove all the flowers and set up Arcangelo, with its uneven ground, hidden lights, dark curtains, and lustrous banner. The piece would wrap up the evening with soul-piercing baroque music.
Smiling at Claus, I squeezed his hand, then let it go.
“I still love you,” he mouthed without a sound before turning to the wings.
Walking in the opposite direction, I tried to enjoy the interest of the well-wishers with grace. Once everyone’s attention had moved to the new attraction, I sat.
Across the stage—in his own darkness—Claus sat too.
On the stage between us, eight couples entered and exited layers of darkness seamlessly and bathed in warm shades of yellow and gold. Their bodies, in minimalist dark unitards, tangled gracefully in intimate duets, filled with flexed feet, deep pliés, and bird-like arched arms that were beautifully contemporary yet impossibly classical.
It will be okay.
Alessandro Scarlatti’s “L’innocenza Paccando Perdeste” announced the end of Arcangelo and the end of the evening. The voice of God, in countertenor magnificence, promised a redeemer with a message of love and forgiveness that touched me—not because I understood the message, but because I believed in the promise. In that moment, I was at peace with everything that was going on. Hellos and goodbyes. The old and the new. The friends and the foes. Yes, it will be okay.
And as one couple was lifted into heaven by a silk drape while three others lay motionless on the dark stage floor, I noticed Claus was gone.
Chapter 22
If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you’re having second thoughts about tomorrow.” I approached Peter, who was on the back porch watching three workers set up our wedding altar and arch by the lake.
His frown became a genuine smile fast. “But you know better.”
Placing my arms around him, I felt the rest of his tension dissipate.
He kissed the top of my head. “If anything, I wish we were married already.”
We chuckled together. “Well, good.” His eyes were warm but held a hint of a shadow. What was bothering him?
“I want to play something for you, Ana.” Reaching toward his Gibson guitar, he somehow missed its neck, grabbing it on his second attempt.
My eyes stayed on his hand as I took a step back to give him space. There was a slight movement to his fingers that wasn’t normal. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
“Nothing. Must be nerves.” The corners of his lips turned up as he placed his long fingers on the fretboard and prepared to play, his hands now steady.
It must have been nerves, like he’d said. Big day tomorrow.
His eyes closed, and he started playing slowly.
There was a difference in his approach to playing, a reverence that I’d never seen before. I melted against the dark porch railings as I recognized the last movement of Bach’s Cantata 147.
This time tomorrow I will be getting ready for my wedding. Closing my eyes, I focused on the music—the music I’d selected to walk down the aisle to start the rest of my life. The better part of it, I hoped. No more competition. No more moving. No more chasing men. Just peace. And happiness. With Peter by my side, I could do anything.
When he finished, he rested the palm of his hand on the chords, stopping the vibration.
“Thank you.” It was perfect.
“You’re welcome.” He sat on one of two rocking chairs and put the guitar down. “I’m surprised you didn’t pick ‘Here Comes the Bride’ to walk down the aisle.”
I sat next to him and held his hand. “Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus” would be too much for a small backyard wedding. Don’t you think?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Maybe. I just don’t want you to miss out on anything. I thought every little girl rehearsed their wedding day t
o Wagner.”
I chuckled. “True. But the music needs to feel right.” Once a dancer, always a dancer—can’t take big steps to the wrong music.
He nodded. “If you say so…”
“I say so.” Of course the “Bridal Chorus” is wonderful, but it screams big church wedding. Which we would have had, if I hadn’t had the bright idea of moving to Germany. I breathed in the crisp autumn air. A gentle breeze brought the fragrance of English roses and peonies our way. Things are perfect just the way they are.
Peter brought my hand to his lips again.
“I can’t believe you learned Bach’s cantata so fast,” I said, breaking the silence.
“I’ve known it for a while.” His smile was small and tender. “It’s a hymn— ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ is the common English title. My mom used to sing it at church.”
“But it’s a wedding song. I’ve heard it a million times.”
“It became a wedding song, but it was not meant to be one.”
“What does it say? Do you know the lyrics?”
He shook his head with his lips pressed together. “Something about souls going toward light and people looking for truth. I don’t know. God giving them joy?” He shook his head again. “It’s been a while.”
My eyes filled up with tears. Had God planted the music in my head so I would choose it for my wedding?
“This God thing’s still bugging you, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know that ‘bugging’ is the right word.” I shrugged. “But there’s something there, and I have a feeling I can’t avoid it forever.”
Peter nodded.
“I feel like God’s after me, you know?” I don’t think he knows. “Like this wedding song—I didn’t mean to walk down the aisle to a Jesus song, but it kind of just happened.” It’s probably all in my head. “It’s probably just a bunch of coincidences.”
“I thought you knew it was a hymn.”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “Anyway,”—I did not want to discuss the subject any further—”hymn or wedding song, the music is beautiful and perfect. I’m happy.” I stood to look at the workers, who were almost finished building the arch. “It’s really coming together down there.”
A Season to Dance Page 22