by Meg Howrey
I ran into Yumi in the hallway.
“I just ate huge dinner,” she said. “And then they call me. Tell me Kim is out and I need to come. I tell them, Okay I come, but I puke up onstage.”
I found Mara in the dressing room I usually share with Tamara, slicking her hair back into a bun.
“Is it okay if I dress in here with you?” she asked. “My dressing room feels like a high school locker room. Everyone is screeching.”
“Is Mike coming?”
“I just left him like, five messages,” said Mara, jabbing pins into her hair. “I think he’s still at work. He works late when he knows I won’t be home.”
“Don’t worry about making the front perfect,” I said, taking the pins out of her hand. “Both headpieces will cover it.”
“Oh, right, right. God, what is this?” Mara asked, picking up an orange stuffed animal from the dressing table.
“It’s Tamara’s lucky bunny.”
“Jesus Christ. We’re in a company of children.”
“I would like to remind you,” I said, “of a certain teddy bear that gets taken on tour with a certain dancer. A certain dancer who, I might add, takes care to pack this said teddy bear in such a way that he has ‘room to breathe’ in her suitcase.”
“I’m nervous,” said Mara.
“Really?” I asked, surprised. “You’ve done it before. Didn’t you do it last time?”
“Once,” Mara said. “Big Swans only once. And I did Neapolitan Princess. Not Hungarian.”
“You’ll be fine. You’ll sail right through it.”
Mara gave me a level look through the dressing-table mirror.
“I don’t get all that many chances, you know. I’m not ever going to get promoted. I know that. I don’t even care anymore. I just want to have a few things to look back on where I knew I was really good. I don’t want to sail through it. I want … I want to own it. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I feel old,” said Mara.
“We’re not old,” I told her. “We’re in our prime.”
“Yeah?” Mara asked, twisting around in her chair to face me. “How good do you feel?”
I would have looked away, but that would have meant turning my neck. Mara and I confronted each other for a moment. There have been a lot of things that have come between us in the past ten years, but we are both, after all, women.
“Well, if that’s the way you feel,” I said, “don’t get nervous. Get even.”
“Okay,” said Mara. “Get even.”
“Get even,” I repeated.
“With who, exactly? You?”
“Why would you need to get even with me?”
Mara laughed.
“No, seriously,” I said.
“I don’t want to get into this now,” Mara said.
“Okay. Just get even with fucking ballet, then.”
“You’re the one with the problem with ballet.”
“Fine.” I pointed at Mara’s reflection in the mirror. “Get even with her.”
Mara squinted her eyes at herself.
“Oh, you,” she said.
When you put on stage makeup you are basically painting on a face that will transmit up to the second balcony. It’s great. You can white everything out and then draw whatever you want on top of it. I quickly assembled Beauty, stepped into my Big Swan tutu, layered every available knit over it, and popped a pair of puffy down slippers over my pointe shoes. Mara went down to the warm-up room, and I stopped by Gia’s dressing room to wish her merde. She was in that excited state of nervousness where you can’t get your eyebrows to match. I told her that she would be magnificent and I would send Andrea in to do her eyebrows.
“Will you watch?” Gia asked. “In the wings? Take notes for me? I was thinking to ask you before but I was … I was shy.”
Why do people pick me? I’m the last person someone who needs someone should pick.
“Of course,” I said.
In the hallway, I passed Roger.
“I’m on for Von Goblin,” he said.
“Oh, goodie,” I said. “I love your Goblin. Wait. Who’s doing Ivor?”
“Alberto.”
“Really? He knows it?”
“He knows the pas de trois,” said Roger. “He’s a little sketchy on everything else. I told him that when in doubt, just point at something, smile, and slap Siegfried’s ass.”
“Oh dear god.”
“Should be quite a show,” said Roger, who disappeared down the hallway shouting, “You ARE what dance IS! And dance IS what you ARE!”
Normally cast changes are typed onto slips of paper and stuffed into the programs, but there wasn’t time for that tonight. Theo, our production stage manager, had to make an announcement on the mike. The changes were so extensive and the list so long that the audience actually started to laugh a little. You could hear them through the curtain. I was in the wings, watching Hilel and Gia run through a few last things together. It’s a little ballet in itself: dancers before a performance. Hilel would sketch a lift with his hands. Gia would nod. They would do it. Then stand apart, nodding. Gia would walk in circles, hands on her tutu. Stop. Look at Hilel. Mime a pirouette. Hilel would nod. They would do it. Then stand apart, nodding.
I decided to stay in the wings and watch the Prelude. When Gia made her first brief appearance there was tremendous applause from the audience. I could see her shaking in Roger’s arms. It was so beautiful, how vulnerable she was. It was real fear though, so I don’t think she’ll be able to re-create it with the same simplicity. Once you start practicing emotions they look less cool.
Act I. Hilel as Siegfried got a nice entrance ovation. I watched Alberto scamper up to him and gesture either “Hello! Welcome! We are all having a good time and dancing! Please join us!” or “Thank god you are here, as I have been milling and mugging for what seems like an eternity! Do I slap your ass now?”
Things seemed to be going moderately well, so I retreated deeper into the wings to warm up until the music for the pas de trois began. Alberto, clearly grateful to have actual steps to dance, looked great. Galina came onstage as the Queen. It’s like she’s able to unhinge part of her jaw or something. No wonder Alberto got a little spooked. He nearly clipped Hilel with the crossbow.
The lake sets dropped in and the stage was bathed in blue. Hilel entered, woefully. Alberto entered, a full thirty-two counts early, and all but shoved the crossbow in Hilel’s arms, before fleeing, fleeing, the stage. He ran right by me in the wings, crying, “Shit, shit, shit,” then doubled back and we watched Hilel improvise.
“It’s okay.” I patted Alberto.
“I fuck up,” he moaned. “Did you see me fuck up?”
“It just looked like Ivor was really scared of the forest,” I assured him. “Hilel is fine.”
But then it was time for the swans to make our entrance, so I ditched the knits and slippers and had a dresser hook up my bodice. Mara was right behind me. On and on we came, one after another, like heartbeats, like thoughts, like memory, like grief.
It’s not really the audience that one is frightened of, onstage. One is chasing ghosts, shadows, time. One is using the word “one” because to say “I” is to acknowledge that I might feel differently about dance than other people. As Mara pointed out, I’m the one with the problem.
Worth it? How do you measure that, please?
How does Gwen measure that?
Gia almost fell. There must have been a slippery spot just at the edge of the wings, and she stepped on it and skidded. I don’t think she was far enough onstage that the audience saw it, but the six or seven of us who did see it all sucked in our breaths simultaneously. Gia’s face went whiter than her makeup, but she composed herself quickly into the stricken ethereal femininity of all the White Swans who have come before her. I watched her out of the corner of my eye. We were all watching, holding our breaths for her inside our narrow bodices. In moments like these, the fam
ily closes ranks. We want her to do well. We know how much it means to her, we know exactly how she feels. The empathy onstage was almost palpable. We danced our best, wanting to help.
She’s not there yet, Gia. She’s fabulously gifted, of course, but all the talent is still inside her body. She hasn’t yet learned how to think about this role in her own way. Phrases floated inside my head, things I could say to her. The kinds of things I said to Gwen.
Big Swans. Mara wasn’t my direct opposite, so I couldn’t really see her, but I could feel that we were in unison, and her spacing was perfection. At one point, when we were in a diamond formation, I saw her shoulder blades ahead of me, glistening sweat, every little tendon visible. She’ll never know how extraordinary she looked. How fragile. How noble. How perfect.
Intermission.
Mara was giddy with relief in the dressing room. Everything had gone well, very well, felt good. I hooked her into her Hungarian Princess tutu, fluffed out her skirts like a bridesmaid, took pictures of her with her iPhone. She rubbed Tamara’s lucky bunny and I touched the tape where the mezuzah used to be.
Act III, the birthday ball. Each Princess has a little retinue. I came on last and let myself be led to make my curtsy to Hilel. He took my hand and bowed over it politely, but without interest.
After our “Hey, we’re the Princesses! Check our shit out!” group dance, we all trouped off Stage Left, except for Mara, because her solo was first. I stood as far into the first wing as I could to get the best view.
The Hungarian Princess solo has a folk dancing flavor to it, and a lot of little hops on pointe. It’s also very fast. Mara was dancing like she got shot out of a cannon, just ripping through things, huge smile. I guess I can see why she’s never been promoted. There’s something withheld, an academic quality to her dancing that’s wonderful for corps work but not necessarily inspiring. Still, she is super strong. And very musical. Maybe if someone had just taken more of an interest? If she had been less willing to be useful? More demanding? There are roles that she’d be right for if she had just been given the opportunity and the right coaching. Phrases began forming in my head, things I could have said to her, long ago, that might have helped.
I was thinking about that when all of a sudden—in preparation for an easy jump—Mara’s supporting leg went out from under her, and she landed flat on her ass, hard. Even from the wings, I could hear the audience gasp. Mara scrambled up so quickly it was almost as if she bounced, and she launched herself right back in.
From the dancer’s point of view, falling isn’t the worst thing that can happen onstage. Falling is either a fluke or the result of going for too much, and as long as there’s no injury involved it’s embarrassing and a little shocking but it’s possible to laugh about it or shrug off later. A splashy fall isn’t as bad as knowing you gave a mediocre performance—that’s really the worst thing.
Except if you don’t get many chances to dance by yourself. Except if you’re just wanting one moment where you know yourself to be really, really good. I could tell from the way Mara was moving that she hadn’t hurt herself and after a moment she resumed smiling, but her eyes were dead.
Of course she fell. She fell because there was maybe a jewel from a costume that came off, or a stray hairpin, or something, and she stepped right on it and slipped. And because a million, a hundred thousand million pliés and tendus and a life spent sweating and aching and wanting and wanting and wanting could not stop her from falling. She fell because earlier in the evening Gia didn’t, and the stage demanded a blood tribute. She fell because life isn’t fair.
The audience started applauding her before her solo was over, and there were some cheers when she finished. I heard that, the cheer, and I sobbed out loud, a horrible sort of choked honk that scared me a little. I covered my mouth with my hand and watched Mara take her place upstage as the Spanish Princess came on. Mara was still smiling her leaden-eyed smile and breathing through her nose, the tight bodice of her dress holding in her heart so it wouldn’t fall too. And after Spanish Princess, and Neapolitan Princess, I came on and I danced … wonderfully.
I mean, absolutely flawlessly. My neck felt like it was jammed up into my right ear and I hadn’t stayed warm properly and I wasn’t paying any attention to what I was doing, and I have never danced that stupid thing better. I held every balance, and floated every jump. I could see the conductor leaning in to tell the strings to pause for me, but I wasn’t really listening to the music. The solo ends with a series of three slow turns in a diagonal coming downstage. As I prepared for the first one, I thought, “Fall,” because if I fell too, it would be the performance that Mara and I both wiped out in, and we would be even. But I didn’t fall, I just did an extra pirouette, and for the next one I thought “Fall” again, and I didn’t, and then “Fall” once more, and I whipped through four pirouettes, balanced like I was made of stone, and finished. I made my révérence to the Prince, who will never be mine, and stepped sedately back to the upstage corner. I passed Mara on the way and we looked at each other and I thought, You don’t know what it’s like either.
After the solos we all briefly danced with the Prince. I was lifted and promenaded and returned to my place. The Queen demanded that Siegfried make a choice. Hilel took his customary regretful bow over my hand. It’s not that I am not beautiful and worthy. I’m simply not special. I’m not the One.
Then Roger as Von Rothbart entered with Gia as Odile, the Black Swan. I was supposed to join everyone else with some “Who is she? Who is she?” gestures and then move to the far side of the stage, but I just watched everyone else do it. I knew who she was. I let myself be led by my escort to Stage Right, and I watched the betrayal unfold. It looked, as it sometimes can, better than the thing it betrayed.
Second intermission. We end at the lake, of course. Whenever I wasn’t onstage I wedged myself into the wings. I promised Gia I’d watch, and it’s important to see these things through to the bloody end.
You could tell she was almost cashed out, dancing on adrenaline. She looked almost enthusiastic about killing herself, eager to end the ballet and sit down. That might be the right way to do it, actually. Not mournful, or resigned, or pathetic. Excited.
Is that what you would feel?
I was in the wings the first time Gwen danced Odette/Odile. Of course I was. Where else would I be?
Forgiveness. That’s what the last act is about.
What is forgiveness all about?
You shouldn’t ask for forgiveness.
Because if you ask someone to forgive you, and they do, then that’s twice that you’ve taken something from them. First the betrayal, and then the absolution.
God, Odette can’t even die by herself. Siegfried jumps in after her.
Better to be dead than live with forgiveness, maybe.
Curtain call took forever tonight. The audience was kind.
In the dressing room, Mara did not allow me to say anything about her falling. When I asked her if she was okay, she said, “Fine!” as if nothing had happened. Then we talked about Gia and, for some reason, about some new wine store on Twelfth Street. Mara was furiously rubbing off makeup and tearing down her hair like she wanted to get out of the room and away from me fast. Perversely, I kept pace with her. I didn’t want to be in the room by myself. The intercom buzzed to let Mara know that she had a guest waiting for her by the sign-in board.
“Good night!” Mara said, still unpinning her bun. “Thanks for your help tonight!”
“Oh, I’ll go down with you!” I said, shoving my sweater on inside out and grabbing Kleenex.
Mike was waiting with a bunch of roses in his hand. He was wearing his suit, from the office, I guess. He looked like something from another planet, amid all the dancers—half-dressed visitors from yet another planet.
“You were awesome!” he shouted, hugging her. He actually jumped up and down.
“I fell,” she said softly. “Mike, I fell.”
“Wait, what?” he
cried. “You did? When?”
“Oh, honey!” Mara gasped, and started to cry.
“Wait, that thing where you sat down on the stage?” Mike pulled her to him and started rubbing her back. “It happened so fast I was sure that it was supposed to be there. It looked like you were doing a fancy trick.”
Mara started laughing and buried her head in Mike’s chest.
“I know you get mad that I think everything you do is incredible,” he said. “But I do. I really do.”
“Tonight I don’t mind,” I heard Mara say.
I left the theater and walked to the subway. There were people on the platform with Swan Lake programs in their hands. I moved to the far end, set my bag down on a bench, and my arm suddenly went numb. I remembered that I have an injury. I stood there for a moment, gently rotating my head to assess the damage. I would’ve liked the platform to open up and slowly lower me into another realm, but of course there were no violins and no painted moon and no one to go with me.
It’s been a lot of years now of worshipping in a church where the gods have left, and my neck is broken from praying and my knees are tired. I could have changed my life years ago. I could have been another person and I could have done other things. I did not. I was talented and I didn’t want to give that up. It wasn’t that I always loved dancing so much. But what I always liked, what my poor crooked soul still likes, is being a person who is talented. Talented at one of the most difficult and rare things to be talented in. Almost nobody gets to be a professional ballet dancer. Those of us who have made it here have watched nearly everyone we knew who was also trying to get here have to drop off at some point. We are the elite, and we have paid for the right to be. How could we possibly walk away from it when it is offered to us? I couldn’t then, and I still can’t now.