by Andrew Binks
“Let me ask one minor question here: has he even asked you to make the move?” Rachelle asked.
“Thank you, Ma’am!” Peter said. “You took the words out of my mouth.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm, or is it jealousy?” Peter and I were drifting. I hadn’t felt the same bond recently. Maybe we had had too many weeks on the road. He was odd, distant. Was I a threat? How could I be a threat? True, I had been promoted to second soloist just months before this tour, and he had stayed in the corps and we had it out over that—tears, the jealousy thing (although I had hoped he’d be a little more jealous for my own ego’s sake). After sharing a litre of Mogen David in some snowbound stop on the northern Ontario leg of our tour, where we performed in a cold gymnasium and slept in bunk beds, we breathed heavily from our respective bunks and stared up into the darkness. He actually found the nerve to speak, however drunk: “It’s politics; Kharkov has to show the board he doesn’t play favourites.”
“So Kharkov hates me? Is that what you’re saying? And he luuuuuuvs you?”
“No love lost, let me put it that way.”
Later, sober, I was more willing to consider it. But now, here in Montreal I, along with the whole company, was sure Peter was next on Kharkov’s list of conquests. Kharkov promoted me because he had to; he would promote Peter because he wanted to. Peter was a shoo-in for a long career.
“No, he hasn’t asked me. Not yet. It’s strange, but I feel like meeting Daniel is my chance to really find myself, as a dancer.” I actually believed this, then. Now, I’m not so sure I like what I’ve found.
It was Rachelle who persevered, “That’s bs. It’s the same bs I told myself when I married Gordon. Now look at me.”
“You thought Gordon could teach you to dance? He’s a… what the hell is he anyway?”
Gordon referred to himself as an engineer, but he was unlicensed jack-of-all-trades from plumbing to wiring. He’d wear his dirt-caked boots around the house. Rachelle would scream at him. He’d call us fairies. They’d slam the bedroom door and go at it—sexually—and Peter and I would turn up Jeopardy on the tv. It was almost like having a family.
“I meant being in love. Married. He would be my escape hatch.”
“Wasn’t he?”
Rachelle inhaled nicotine with every breath throughout her day when not dancing. She was sallow, her ridged teeth were tobacco stained, but every night, minutes before curtain in tights and tutu and tiara, she looked like the world’s loveliest princess. She had the perfect Company body; Kharkov loved tits and hated thighs. It was a tough type to find, but any female with an ounce of meat on her thighs didn’t stand a chance. Every company had its type.
“It’s a pretty good sex life when you get home from tour, from what I hear on my side of the hall.”
“If the sex weren’t so…”
“Stellar?”
“It can help you ignore other things,” she said. “That is something you should experience: Kharkov can be breathing down my neck all week, trying to crush me for the millionth time, and I think, Who cares? I’m going home to get fucked, wildly, unapologetically and furiously. And I know it pisses Kharkov off—royally.”
“I hate you.”
“Everyone needs an outlet. Looks like yours is going to be in Montreal. Anyway it’s not always perfect. What do you think hubby’s been doing for the past seven weeks while we’ve been taking Barnum and Bailey’s across the country?”
“Framing houses?”
“I don’t care what the fuck you say—men, gay, straight, when it comes to love they’re all assholes. With the exception of you two, my dear hearts.”
“Who said anything about love?”
“Just make sure you have a plan—a Plan B.”
“Plan bs. I need retraining according to him.”
“Him? I’m sure you’ve discovered something more apropos to call him.”
“Monsieur Tremaine.”
“Oh, s’il vous plait.”
“Okay, Daniel.”
“Daniel. My sweetie. Mon amour.” She smooched into the air.
“Great lips for a blow job. No wonder hubby sticks around.”
“You pig. Cochon.”
“Seriously. I can feel it—in my knees especially. Can’t you? The Company forces everything—arches, knees, ankles. I’m surprised I can still walk.”
“That’s ballet, for shit’s sake! I don’t believe a word of it. You’re just repeating a bunch of stuff he’s told you.”
I looked at Peter, who just stared open-jawed. People get antsy when they see someone genuinely happy. He finally spoke. “Maybe you just don’t have a natural turnout.”
“I think we’ve been down that road of me not having natural anything at this point, o perfect one.”
“If the ballet slipper fits…”
“Of course Captain Bohunk here—and notice how I emphasize the hunk, dear—and his knees of steel from years of shumka-ing.”
“You’re just not as sturdy.”
“True.” I had to somehow prop Peter up, as if I were betraying him, which was absurd: we were all in it for ourselves and no one else. “Now if only we could get you to keep your shoulders down when you turn.”
“So all of a sudden you’ve become Monsieur Tremaine’s secretary? My shoulders are just fine without your help.”
“Maybe you should relocate your tension.”
“To my butt, like you?”
“You have such potential.”
“Maybe Daniel is making you weak at the knees.” He sounded deflated now, and distant. I would miss him, no doubt about it.
Rachelle picked up the slack. “Poor thing! You’re letting this Daniel brainwash you. When you stop hurting, your joints I mean, you’ve stopped being a dancer. When your nuts have stopped hurting, which I’m sure they haven’t since we got here, he’ll break your heart. Trust me. Peter, tell him I’m right.”
“She’ll say anything to keep you.”
“Of course I will.”
“He sounds like a trophy, that’s about it,” Peter spoke, barely moving his lips.
“You’re saying he’s too good for me?”
“Get him to un-blank that stare of yours, then we’ll talk.”
“That blank stare is called concentration. Maybe you should try it.”
“Yeah? Well you should be concentrating on your audience—or maybe you are—yourself and your big ego.”
“Hey! No nut-cracking. Grow up. Both of you!” Rachelle turned to me. “The broken heart? It will make you a great dancer.”
That night I phoned Daniel from the stage door, between acts.
He said, “Just talking to you gives me a boner.” And I danced act two with as much of an erection as a dance belt will allow.
I was hooked like Juliet, believing nothing would keep us apart. Not even the warring dance factions of the West versus the East, the Vaganovas versus the Cecchettis. It was a dream, me fleeing the Place des Arts fortress in a cab, through the lighted boulevards of Montreal. Prokofiev’s music finally making sense. The ebb and flow of the lover’s pas de deux went over and over in my head all the way to Daniel’s place, where he met me at the door. He kissed me. “How was the show?”
“Fine. Peter was Paris. They loved him. He’s on top of the world.”
“He’ll go far.”
“He might,” I said, but Daniel was already on his way up the stairs and all I could do was follow his broad smooth back, semi-naked ass in loose pyjama bottoms, and wide feet up the narrow stairs to the rooftop for Campari and soda mixed with foreplay. Why had he said that about Peter? Was I too easy? Or stupid? But Daniel’s grasp reassured me. We had a hot nightcap and our own twisted pas de deux until the sheets of his bed were wet with sour Pierre Cardin–scented sweat. In the times to follow, it started with him heavy on my
chest. The pressure of his growing erection would press up between us. I can’t sit still when I think of it. (Evidently I have no trouble separating a broken heart from the sex.) Or he’d press his torso just below my rib cage, arch his back, raise his head and we’d wait and wait and drip and then he’d go tight and his thighs would tremble just before exploding—shooting up between us, onto my neck, the odd times stinging my eye. After, I wanted to own him; do something to show this was mine; write I love you with my tongue, tracing the silhouette of his back and spine, over his tailbone and into the softness of his dark barely hairy crack, down his thigh, back of the knee, vein-wrapped calf, the scar that had made him a legend, over heel to the rough part of his tarsal where the years of dancing could be counted by the shades and toughness of the skin. I wanted to devour him.
“Stay.” He had said the magic word.
“Where?” I had acted surprised.
“Here, in Montreal. The Conservatoire isn’t great, but it’s not the prairies.”
“It’s been on my mind—six weeks of forty below zero, then the tour—besides Kharkov has gone off me.”
“He’ll use you up. Now is your chance. I’ll find you work.”
Somewhere there was a Romeo waxing poetic to the sun rising in the east as I got back to the hotel. As usual, Rachelle had built a giant nest of pillows in one bed with herself, the not-quite-dead dying swan, unglamorously earplugged, eye-masked, propped sound asleep and snoring with the tv still flickering. Prince Charming, even beautiful in his sleep, was in the other bed, which we normally shared. I was exhausted, confused and getting tired of listening to myself around these two, knowing they weren’t convinced of my decision. My body ached, but I did something I hadn’t done in ages. I crawled under the covers and held Peter tight.
He whispered, “Kharkov kissed me.” Peter was awake.
“What?”
Peter turned. “He kissed me when I got back to the hotel. I was hoping for a new contract, to be honest, but he closed the door to his room and…”
“Fuck. That pig!” I surprised myself with my own feelings of jealousy. What was it I did not have? Peter always had admirers, and he never seemed moved by it.
“He was decent. Not piggish. Coy, I guess.”
“Then?”
“I left. I mean what do you talk about with a Russian masochist whose English is limited?”
“Sounds like you’re up next for soloist.” So thrived Kharkov, and his habit of making appointments with the certainty of being thanked in a big way. Two of the principals had spent several years of their prime thanking him. Kharkov would find Peter delicious.
Later that morning my resolve was even greater. It was true: Daniel was showing me the way to my dreams, and reminding me not to sit back on the comfort of a Company contract. At the same time, I had fallen for him and all that goes along with it; it joined me to humanity, the universe and everything in between. Walls fell and I discovered a hidden energy. I became a greater dancer than I had ever dreamed of—jumped higher, turned faster, balanced longer. There was a completion to my technique. I believed in myself, one hundred percent, for the first time. In laymen’s terms, if I were a secretary I’d type faster, burn through the filing system; a house painter, I’d end up with the Sistine Chapel in fifteen shades of neon; a bricklayer, I’d redo the pyramids with a smart Egyptian faux finish. It all became so easy, so effortless. My body was rubber for those weeks—pliable, solid, tensile—all with very little sleep. Supernatural. My knees? No idea. Ask any dancer who has had time to be in love. I shone in Company class, stood in the front, flew across the stage, intimidated the soloists and principals. I couldn’t get enough of dance, or love. Did Daniel feel the same? I was too busy with all this to have any idea.
At the height of it, I gave my notice and final bow to the Company’s repertoire. As Daniel said, “Why do they call it repertoire? It’s been done, over and over and over: Tybalt, Romeo, The Nutcracker prince, any prince, anything dusted off and redone, from Ashton to Balanchine.” So I stepped out of the royal storybook, to become a finer dancer. I traded that rush of a curtain call—opening my arms wide enough to embrace three or four thousand people, and then seeing, when the house lights went up, the faces whose collective breath I’d sensed throughout the performance, all of them cheering, as they stood in one motion—for a promise of even greater praise. Someday they would clap for me alone as I stepped forward out of the line. It was time to remind myself of that dream once again. So many times since then, I have forgotten the dream.
I vowed to excel and pay attention to my technique, establish a strong foundation and secure a long career, with Daniel’s help, not to mention his international connections. This was so much more than the limited choice I had become so used to. I had come so close to being satisfied as a big swan in a small lake.
I met Kharkov in a makeshift office in Place des Arts, after company class, while I was still soaked and high from whatever it was that was forcing me to go beyond my limits. Kharkov was wearing a tailored Italian suit that he’d obviously picked up in Montreal. Everyone had been shopping their heads off before going back to Canada’s breadbasket. “It’s time to move on,” I said.
Kharkov sat still, put his hand to his mouth. I could see the wheels turning. Finally he spoke. He told me I wasn’t serious. He threatened that if I paused now, all the young dancers nipping at my ankles would finally overtake me. (You don’t cross Kharkov, was a Company mantra.) “You aren’t dancing well, you know. But I liked you. I think you know that.” As with all the dancers, I hated his grip on us. In a flash he could praise you or put you down, leave you a crumpled heap of fucked-up-ness if you cared—the humiliation and manipulation, his temper, his mood swings. Ballerinas would be in tears one moment and hugging him the next. “Promise me you won’t come back. I’ve seen so many dancers go after something, fail, wind up so far away from where they first started, I’ll never understand—bank tellers, bored mothers, strippers even. And they somehow think I will take them back. This is final—enough of your stubbornness—the Company does not take lightly to this kind of thing. You are too young, too insignificant. Are you absolutely sure?” He needed to know. It always looked so much worse for Kharkov when he lost a dancer he hadn’t fired or whose dismissal hadn’t been discussed with the board. In fact he’d been known to strike deals of irreconcilable differences, so both could save face. “You have always lacked soul. There is nothing to see when I look in your eyes. I see nothing.”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Perhaps Monsieur Tremaine can teach you something.” He knew. “Now get out of here before I do something both of us will regret.”
I will never know what that something might have been. Would he have kissed me like he kissed Peter? I doubt it. Maybe he wanted to strangle me. That, we both would have regretted.
But I was full of the good dancing I was doing. I looked down at my thighs, my crotch, my feet, my hands hanging at my side, parts of me I only normally saw in a mirror. I was an asset—why wasn’t he begging me to stay? I hated myself for having a brief moment of self-doubt. Although I wanted to leave with as little fanfare as possible, it would have been nice to have him regret losing me.
It was time to dance and love as others had done. I needed to keep following my heart. It was there, tucked inside Daniel’s sternum. That’s where I saw my future. I saw with conviction the rejigging of my technique, establishing myself in the East, and most of all, endless love.
I met Rachelle at Dunn’s for one last cigarette and coffee. There, surrounded by busy waiters, customers lined up at the door and glass cases of cheesecakes, we tried our best not to get too sentimental. “I’ll write to you about it.”
“Just phone. How was Kharkov?”
“He squirmed. You know Kharkov.”
Rachelle mmmm’d like she didn’t believe a word. “Don’t take any shit. The dance world
doesn’t like outsiders.”
“The dance world is outsiders.”
“Not to sound negative, but I hope your prince is all he’s made out to be. You deserve it.”
She had her prince, and I wanted mine. “Take care of Peter.”
“You’re leaving a trail of broken hearts.”
“Peter? I think we sorted that out long ago.”
“He’s a sensitive boy.”
“Kharkov likes sensitive.”
“Sounds like he’s up next for soloist.” Rachelle was a perceptive girl.
“Did he tell you?”
“I heard you guys. I know all, see all. I am a woman, for God’s sakes. I just… I just don’t believe it.”
“Me neither.”
“No. Honestly. This isn’t you. It’s like you’ve been brainwashed. Yes, you’re dancing better because of all the endorphins in your systems, but it’s making you crazy.”
“Cake?”
“Oh God please no. My thighs are starting to squeak; I’ll have to start greasing them.”
When we were paying, I bought a whole cheesecake for later with Daniel. “It must be love.” Rachelle jabbed me in the ribs, her momentary seal of approval.
After the show that night, I packed my things and Peter, Rachelle and I opened a much-needed bottle of champagne.
“Altogether now, you know it by heart: Give me Veuve or give me death.”
“God, how many of my paycheques have gone up in bubbles since you two moved in?”
We drank it in a kind of noisy silence: Hotels doors banged, someone knocked on our door and an elevator bell kept dinging as if to mark the very last moments we would have together. But we sat, with our backs to it, in our own silence. “I can’t talk or I’ll cry,” Rachelle said, breaking the silence.
“You’ll probably get Tybalt,” I said to Peter.