The Friday after her birthday, he placed sixteen votive candles on the kitchen table. He could never give her a present, because the dance lessons were his present to her, and a secret. A gift might raise questions with her father. They danced in the flicker of candlelight.
On a bus to the Cloisters, a Sunday trip he made fairly regularly, Harry carried his newspaper, and, in a brown paper bag, a cold chicken sandwich. Generally he enjoyed riding the bus and reading, but when he opened the paper, he couldn’t concentrate. A clutter of conversation was filling his head, like several radio stations playing at the same time.
It infuriated him that Maria had gone dancing with Angel. Of course they had won. In all the years of dancing and teaching, Harry had never had such a student. She was his creation. It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t take her dancing. He’d taught her every step, every detail of her dance, and she had listened and learned.
He had always feared that someone would take her from him. Once he’d been twenty-two like Angel—young, handsome, the man with whom all the women wanted to dance. The temptations. The nights with the women who wanted to dance with him, make love and commitments. He wouldn’t allow himself those memories anymore. There was only Maria.
An elderly woman with numerous grocery bags sat next to him. She kept rifling through them looking for things. He gave her an evil stare. Turning, he looked to see if he could move to another seat farther back. The bus was full, and he was lucky to have a place. The smell of freshly ground coffee was making him hungry.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
He turned and looked out the window, as though he hadn’t heard her, and continued daydreaming.
Angel would try to take advantage of her. She was impressionable. What if Angel took her out to dance, and then forgot about her for some old woman with lots of money to pay for lessons? Then other men, maybe some old ones, would take her in their arms to dance. Harry had seen those lizards at Roseland. They were at the Copa, too. Machismos. Thinking only of sex. He should warn Rodriguez. What if he wrote an anonymous letter?
“I only wanted to buy a pound of coffee”—the woman next to him on the bus laughed and tried to move her bags away from his leg—“and ended up with all this.”
He pretended he didn’t hear her, continued looking out the window. Yes, he would write an anonymous letter.
Dear Mr. Manuel Rodriguez:
It has come to my attention that your daughter is dancing with a man who is . . .
Dear Mr. Rodriguez:
I know the man that is taking your daughter Maria to dance, and he’s a . . .
Dear Manuel Rodriguez:
Your daughter is in danger if she continues to dance with Angel Morez. He will take advantage . . .
The words of the letter kept changing, and there was much he wanted to say, but then, he didn’t want any trouble with Mr. Rodriguez.
“I just adore Zabar’s,” the woman continued. “I come downtown every week, supposedly for a loaf of bread or a pound of coffee and”—she paused—“then I can barely get home.”
He nodded his head, with barely a smile.
He’d die if he lost her. She was what he lived for.
“Te amo.” Her soft arms around his neck. He felt chilled at the thought of her fingers touching his face, wanted to tell her how much money he had saved, talk about Buenos Aires. She had told him that she wanted to go to college, so he had made new plans. They would go away when she graduated. That seemed an eternity. When she did, he’d ask to meet with Manuel Rodriguez, explain how much he loved Maria, how he wanted to marry her, reassure him that he’d always take care of his daughter and cherish her.
He was startled when the woman next to him reached across to press the exit strip, near Columbia University. “Excuse me,” she said, and got off.
When Mr. Rodriguez gave his blessing, Harry and Maria would leave for Buenos Aires.
Chapter 18
Maria
Never give all your pleasant words and smiles to strangers. The kindest words and the sweetest smiles should be reserved for home. Home should be our heaven.
—Thomas E. Hill, Evils of the Ball, 1883
Imagine,” her father says. “This summer you will be graduating from Barnard after only two years, and with so many honors—and soon, your masters. In business, too. You get an education, you get respect. You are the first one in the Rodriguez family to graduate from college. Maybe we’ll celebrate and take a trip to Puerto Rico to see the family.”
“You would really take a vacation, Papi? Take time off from work? Take an airplane?”
“Why not? Since you were born I have never taken time off. We deserve a vacation, don’t we? You’ve been awarded such a good scholarship to graduate school.” He is beaming with pride.
They usually eat at home—her father is so tired after work, and he prefers her cooking. But tonight he suggests they take the bus across town to Sevilla, his friend Bienvenido’s Spanish restaurant on Charles Street. They have a feast, mussels in garlic sauce and shrimp in green sauce made with olive oil, parsley, and garlic.
“You’re almost twenty,” he says as they eat dessert, guava with cream cheese and a flan. “How come you don’t meet anyone to go with?”
“I’m shy. Besides, you know, I’m either studying or dancing with Angel. Those are the only things I want to do right now. The rest can wait.”
“Is there any romance between you two?” Papi asks.
“No. I’ve got to study if I’m going to graduate with honors. The higher I graduate in my class, the better job I’ll get. You’ll see—I’ll make you really proud.”
“You don’t think about Angel no other way? He’s a good boy. Respectful—and he always brings you right home from dancing. He never finished high school. Like me, I guess. I look in his eyes, and I know he treats you with respect.”
“Sure he does, Papi. He’s a gentleman, through and through!”
“That’s what counts. He knows I know his father, and if he ever messed with you, I’d kill him.” Manuel laughs. “How come you’re blushing?”
“I’m not, Papi. We’re only dance partners. I swear. He’s always got a gorgeous girlfriend, you know that—and he’s smarter than you realize.”
“Maybe he’s not educated enough for you? Working in that blueprint shop like he does. Julio and Sylvia keep hoping he’ll go to college. You should encourage him to go back to school, you know? Like a friend.”
“I try, but he hated high school. He set up an awesome computer program for his boss, and now he’s the manager. His boss, Mike, just promoted him. Sometimes he talks to me about opening a dance school. He has wonderful ideas. His plans for the dance school could be my dissertation. It’s that good. I mean it.”
Papi shrugs. “Some future. A dance school.”
Chapter 19
Sarah
If you make an engagement to dance a future set with a lady, be punctual at the time the set is forming; you could not commit a greater rudeness than to be dilatory or forgetful.
—W. P. Hazard, The Ball-Room Companion, 1849
When Sarah Dreyfus arrives at Roseland Ballroom at a quarter to seven on Saturday night, she hesitates before paying the $12 admission—just in case Joseph offers to pay when he arrives. Though over the past two years they have frequently danced together downtown on Sundays at the Marc Ballroom, it is the first time he’s invited her to dance at Roseland. At seven she buys her ticket. Maybe he’s waiting inside.
Sarah loves the history of Roseland. It originally opened eighty years ago in 1919 in a dirty brown five-story building on Fifty-First Street, before moving to Fifty-Second Street off Broadway in 1956. Hundreds waited on line for the ballroom’s grand opening. Billie Burke, Flo Ziegfeld, and Will Rogers appeared. In the 1920s and ’30s hundreds of dance hostesses were available to any man sober, orderly, and willing to pay. In 1942 the price was eleven cents for a three-minute dance.
Hostess Ru
by Keeler was said to have met Al Jolson, her husband-to-be, at Roseland. But by the 1950s hostesses had disappeared; there were too many beautiful women freely available.
In those days, gum chewing and alcohol were banned, and men and women had to be properly attired. There were even rules about the depth of necklines, and how much back a woman’s dress could reveal.
Sarah’s read that Rudolph Valentino danced at Roseland, as well as James Cagney, George Raft, Mrs. Arthur Murray, the Astaires, Joan Crawford, Betty Grable, Ray Bolger, Anne Miller, and June Havoc. Sarah wishes it were still the 1940s. They might all be here tonight.
Leather banquettes for relaxing, under smoky mirrors, line the ruby walls. A fence made up of vines, leaves, and crimson-glass roses defines the polished, golden dance floor. On the stage a ten-piece Latin band plays “Besa Me Mucho.” Solitary figures wait and watch. Sarah heads downstairs to check her coat.
She has a special bag for her new dance shoes, and in the ladies’ lounge, as she changes into them, she admires the transformation of her legs from every angle. Shoes make all the difference.
“Don’t you dance at the Ballroom?” asks the hefty blonde sitting next to her, her shoes off and her feet up. “I’m Andrea.”
“Yes, I do. I’m Sarah.” Andrea is a dreary Kathy Bates look-alike, wearing a matronly blouse, a long green skirt, and worse, black practice pumps with socks, yet at the Ballroom she’s always on the dance floor. “Are you taking classes anywhere?”
“I’m mostly taking privates now. Do you know Harry Korn? The old guy—dresses all in brown? Polyester, like from the seventies! Teaches Latin and tango. I take privates with him at the Hungarian Ballroom over on the Upper East Side. He only charges fifty dollars an hour, but he really teaches you good. If you want his number I can give it to you. He’s old, but dancing with him is really something. Besides,” Andrea whispers, “I think he can use the money.” Without waiting for Sarah’s answer, she writes the telephone number on a piece of paper towel. Sarah tucks it into her bra. “If you call, tell him I gave you his number. Ya know, you have red spots all over you. Are you allergic to something?”
“I just get that sometimes. Maybe I’ll give him a call. I’ve never taken private lessons. I imagine you get plenty of attention?”
“Yeah. Harry gives you a full hour.”
“Are you here with anyone?” Sarah asks.
“Nah, I came alone.”
“That’s brave! Nice to see you, Andrea.” Sarah decides to wait in the powder room for Andrea to leave.
Tina accompanied Sarah the day she went to Randy’s Dance Shoes, a cramped store overlooking Seventh Avenue on Twenty-Third Street. Boxes of shoes lined every wall from floor to ceiling. Racks showed off samples: flat, soft-soled practice shoes, basic practice pumps, tap shoes, tango boots, a wide range of dressier dance shoes with heels of all heights. The shoes were primarily black, with an occasional flesh-colored pair, and satins that could be dyed to match any gown. Silhouetted against the fogged window, on a stepped rack, were the sexiest Argentine tango styles, with stiletto heels, strappy and naughty.
“Rebecca Douglas has at least five gorgeous pairs,” Sarah had remarked. “They’re so high, I don’t know how she dances in them all night.”
“She brings a few pairs with her and changes. It makes it less painful. She’s an eye doctor. Lotsa money.” Tina admired her own reflection in the mirror. “Takes privates three nights a week.”
“She’s got some wardrobe. I’d do anything for her clothes.”
“You could use a couple of flashy dance dresses, my dear. Have you seen Hernan, that South American she dances with? Is he a hunk?” Tina spoke to Sarah’s reflection. “And can he dance? The strong, silent type.”
“You know, I saw him uptown riding a bike. He’s a messenger. Do you think Rebecca knows?”
“You’re kidding! I can’t believe it. He can put his shoes under my bed anytime!”
“I swear. He was riding a bike and carrying a messenger bag.” Sarah picked up one shoe after another.
“A messenger? Well, he sure can dance, so who cares?”
“I suppose. Don’t you think she looks like Grace Kelly?” asked Sarah. “You think she’s sleeping with him?” Then, trying to sound casual, “Or with Gabe Katz?”
“No one ever tells at the Ballroom!” Tina winked. “You’re funny. You think everyone looks like some movie star. Don’t get involved with anyone you dance with. D’ya hear me?” She emphasized the statement. “Don’t even tell them your last name.”
“Like Joseph what’s-his-name.” Sarah decided not to mention she was meeting him Saturday night at Roseland. “I’ve been dancing with him for more than two years, and I can’t get him to tell me his last name. How old do you think Joseph No-Name is? Sixty-five?”
“It don’t matter,” Tina said. “Look at these! These would be great on you. Almost the color of your hair. Get yourself a wild dress to match.” With two fingers she held a shoe—an Arabian slipper of copper satin lace—at arm’s length like a precious object. Two slender satin straps crisscrossed the arch, fastened at the ankle with a rhinestone buckle. Sarah ran her fingers over the brushed kid sole. It felt like the skin on the inside of her arm. The heel, slender and high, seemed perfect in every way. It even smelled exotic. Slipping the shoes on, she tried some tango steps. Her own glass slippers. A perfect fit. All she needed was a prince. Her own Clark Gable, Cary Grant, Robert Taylor. Gabriel Katz looked like Robert Taylor, she thought. Although she preferred movie stars from the forties, she’d settle for someone more contemporary—like Antonio Banderas.
It is almost seven thirty. Realizing she’d better get upstairs to look for Joseph, Sarah checks her reflection one last time in the Roseland mirror. She’s bought herself the perfect skirt to match the shoes, a daringly short copper sarong that knots at her waist, which she coordinates with an iridescent body suit. Dangling amber earrings flash with reflected light, setting off her pale neck.
She never goes out in the sun, having decided that, getting close to forty, she wants to preserve the paleness of her skin. She hates the pink patches that reveal her moments of distress; appearing without invitation, they announce her emotions, which she prefers to keep to herself.
Clairol’s Sun Kissed Autumn and a shorter cut turn her hair into a blaze of curls. It’s the same color Carita Sante, this year’s Latin division international solo gold winner, wears.
Sarah concentrates on the imaginary string running up through the top of her head, feels her whole being reaching for the ceiling. One deep breath. Shoulders back. Stomach tight, and she’s ready to dance.
“Beautiful,” remark two men in their sixties passing Sarah as she climbs the carpeted staircase to meet Joseph.
It is dark around the borders of Roseland’s dance floor. When she looks into the shadowy half-light, men stroll back and forth as though they have somewhere to go. Seated on the banquettes, women in their seventies and eighties pose, repeated reflections of one another, eager and inviting, wearing too much makeup. Their wide, soft bosoms push up and over the bugle-beaded bodices of their cocktail dresses, forming deep, crepey cleavage. They have blown-out hair and painted nails, too long for plump hands that bear the weight of too many rings. Each stares straight ahead, waiting for an invitation to dance. They glitter with promise. Sarah feels the envious appraisal of old eyes as she circles, searching for Joseph.
A man steps out of the shadows. “May I have this dance?” He’s taken hold of her forearm. Sarah feels the strength of the large, liver-spotted hand, and looks up into a crooked smile over equine teeth. Perched above a furrowed forehead is a comical comb-over, beginning an inch from his left ear and swirling around the top of his head in a spiral, which seems almost glued in place. She can hardly take her eyes off it.
“I’m waiting for a friend.” She steps back. He is too close.
“While you’re waiting, we can dance.” He persists, stepping closer, his arm around her waist, pushing he
r toward the dance floor.
“No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”
“He’ll see you dancing, and he’ll be impressed. What’s your name, sweetheart? I never saw you here before.”
It is rude to walk away, to make a scene. It’s only one dance. Giving in to his persistence, she turns herself over to following his lead. He is a terrible dancer.
“Sarah,” she says, remembering Tina’s warnings.
“I’m Walter. Maybe you wanna gowout together sometime?” When he exhales Scotch, she pulls her head back. “How old do ya think I yam?”
“I’m not good at guessing ages.” Her neck aches.
“How old do I look? Take a guess, gowan.”
“I don’t know, fifty-six?” she lies. He is at least seventy.
“I’m sixty. How old are you? Thirty, I bet.”
He’s lying, too, she thinks.
“I never discuss my age,” she says with a laugh. “It’s only a number.”
Instead of following the flow of the dancers around the dance floor, he leads her in dizzying circles, showing her off like a prize to the straggle of strangers. Everyone is watching. Like a fireball, heat begins to rise from her chest, constricting her breath. Her throat feels parched. It is hard to swallow. She loses the rhythm of the mambo. Each attempt to catch the place where the beat began is fleeting, just out of reach. If she could only concentrate, start again. Why, she wonders, can’t she feel the rhythm?
Walter’s black-and-white tweed woolen sports jacket smells like a fifty-year-old stew of sweat and mothballs. Its fibers prickle against her skin, itchy and irritating. There are frayed and soiled edges around Walter’s blue polyester shirt collar and cuffs, and stubble on his neck where he’s missed shaving. Her back and neck strain. She keeps trying to lengthen the space between them. Dizzy, nauseated, she wants to walk away, but one must never walk away from a dance partner.
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