by Meg Howrey
“The whole ballet is about duality, anyway,” said Klaus.
“He’s so cute,” whispered Rochelle in my ear.
After this amusing and strategically complicated rehearsal, I went to see Irina for a massage.
“Iri,” I said. “You are a genius.”
“Of course,” she said. “Why?”
Klaus was in the elevator when I staggered out of my session a half hour later, and he suggested getting a bite to eat. He’d apparently just come from a shower. He had on the black leather jacket. He gave me a very charming smile. I said yes.
Over salad he told me all about himself. Klaus, as it turns out, is in love! The object of his affections is, of course, himself, and what a changeable and contradictory and endlessly fascinating person he has discovered himself to be!
He told me all his theories on dance and male dancing and the nature of the masculine artist. He likes to speak in what he calls “mythic terms.” He elaborated on his theory of Dream as Shakespeare’s expression of man’s duality, and how matter and spirit are in conflict in the soul. He has had two quite complicated love affairs, both of which were very “intense.” He writes poetry. He suggested I read The Fountainhead.
I made the sympathetic face, and the interested face, and even the impressed face. I did not say, “In the name of all that is holy, cease this incessant drivel, you pretentious ass.” I did not say, “Ayn Rand is fascist garbage.” I didn’t even say, “You smell good and that’s a great jacket, so please be quiet.” I made faces and he kept going. It was like feeding quarters into one of those tennis ball cannons that shoot the balls at you. I let them smack me in the forehead, and said nothing.
It started to rain. We had finished eating, and neither of us was supposed to be on tonight. I could feel the notion of extending the evening hovering over our table. Klaus had talked himself into a froth of heightened awareness, and I could sense his need to watch himself making love to me in order to round off his evening. I excused myself on the pretense of needing to ice my neck, which was true enough, and came back here.
I talked briefly on the phone with Keith, who is through to the quarterfinals in Morocco. I sent e-mails to my parents.
I sent a text to Gwen.
Please talk to me.
Gwen and I used to play a game when we were little girls. Not really a game as such, it didn’t have rules, no winner or loser, not even a name. It must have grown out of some other game. I don’t know exactly how it started.
We’d stand on opposite sides of the bedroom we shared and press ourselves to the wall as if we were pinned there. We’d watch each other, waiting to see who would move first. And that was it. That was the game. Sort of stupid, and you can stand against a wall even in fairly baroque positions for a really, really long time, so it wouldn’t have looked to anyone else like an action-packed game, but it was terrifically dynamic. At first it’s easy not to move because you know the person wants you to, but then it becomes weirdly hard not to move because the other person wants you to. It’s a hook and an embrace.
Move. Don’t Move. Move. Don’t Move.
What do you want me to do, Gwen?
14.
At work today, Nina had something up her ass and everything out of her mouth that wasn’t a deedle was some sort of thinly veiled jab.
“Klaus, you take her by the left hand. Or is that something Kate told you to change?”
“I think this recording is slow. But Kate probably likes it that way. She hates to move fast.”
“Kate, I know you’ll be wearing a dress, but you still need to keep your hips square. You can’t cheat everything.”
I guess my hand was going reflexively to my neck every time we stopped working, because suddenly she was all, “What’s the deal, are you injured?” She actually did an imitation of me, mock rubbing her own neck and affecting a babyish pout.
“It’s a pinched nerve, but I just got an adjustment and it’s a lot better,” I told her, in a very measured tone.
“Look, if you are injured, you need to let us know now so we can make arrangements,” she huffed.
“No, I’m good!” I chirped. “Just getting a little older, ha-ha!”
That was a tactical error.
“Oh well!” Nina trilled. “We can’t do anything about that! But if you’re not one hundred percent, it’s really not fair to Klaus, or to David. He’s already got a lot to deal with.”
“May I speak with you privately for a minute?” I asked.
I knew she wanted to say no and was weighing the odds of how much of a cunt she thought she could get away with being. And how much of a cunt I might turn into. Basically, it was a cunt-off.
Technically, all the power was in her court. The rest of the dancers in the room were all examining their feet, or the walls, or pretending to practice steps. I had no idea what I wanted to say to Nina other than “Get off my back, you shrew,” but I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t say anything. It just doesn’t work like that. But I also couldn’t let Nina continue. She was undermining my authority with Klaus.
“I’d prefer not to stop rehearsal,” said Nina.
“Well, we have stopped rehearsal,” I said. I put my hands on my hips and jutted my chin. The gesture for defiance.
At this moment, the door opened and Marius strode into the room. If he noticed the tension he did not acknowledge it.
“May I have a look?” he asked, drawing up a chair. “I want to see what you’re up to.”
“We’re having a little bit of trouble today,” Nina said, all low-cal-syrup regretfulness.
“Yes? What’s the trouble?” Marius looked at me, standing by myself in the center of the room, my defiance posture drooping a little.
“Kate’s having trouble with her neck.”
“You’re having trouble with your neck?”
“My neck is fine,” I said coolly. Inspiration came. “My mood is terrible, though,” I said brightly. “I was just about to throw a temper tantrum!”
“Oh, this I’d like to see,” Marius said. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
“I’m driving Nina crazy today.” I grinned, fake ruefully. “She’s at her wit’s end.”
Marius looked at Nina, who half laughed, uncertain. She doesn’t know how to play these scenes. But I do.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Marius. “Did you want to see some dancing?”
Marius folded his arms. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
I dropped a curtsy. Marius gave me a complicated look. I realized then that he’d read the situation perfectly. That it was something … some kind of test. Maybe he even told Nina to give me a hard time. The Machiavellian touch is not beyond him. Nina isn’t clever enough to push my buttons toward anything but frustration and bad dancing, but Marius?
As hard as it’s been to watch you diminish yourself.
“From the beginning, please,” he commanded.
“Full out,” I said in a low voice to Klaus. “Like it’s a performance. Anything less and I’ll throw you under the rails.”
The adrenaline kicked in where today’s Vicodin failed. I was not feeling any pain, but I danced way beyond what I should have, whipping my head around recklessly. Klaus started out a little tentatively, but soon he was mugging, he was pouting, he was storming. Stefan and Klaus did their WWF fight. Marius actually jumped up from his chair, laughing. He waved a hand at Nina.
“I don’t need to see any more,” he said. “This is all very good. Really, I don’t think you should rehearse much more. It will ruin it. Just try not to kill each other.” Marius headed to the door; turned to look back; shook his finger at Klaus. “I love it,” said Marius, “when I am right.” He looked at Klaus, gave another laugh, and then shot me one sliver of a glance, his face emptying of expression, before exiting.
Nina looked at the clock. “That’s it for today,” she said. “Thank you, everyone.”
I fished a towel out of my bag. I wanted to lie down. I wanted to collapse. But I couldn’t eve
n touch my neck until Nina left the room.
“See, that was what I was trying to get out of you, Kate,” Nina said, on her way out the door. “That’s why I was pushing you.”
I didn’t trust my neck enough to nod. I blinked amiably, since you should never spoil being right with being righteous. She left. I sat down slowly, not trusting my spine, and inched into a supine position. Stefan and Klaus and Rochelle exchanged relieved chatter.
“You okay, Kate?” Rochelle called over.
“I’m good,” I said. Actually, I did feel almost good. I felt sleepy.
Klaus playfully assumed the push-up position over me. I encircled his wrists with my hands. A little something passed between us.
“You’re sweating on me,” I said.
“At this point, what’s the difference?” He looked down at his T-shirt, drenched with the both of us. I brought a knee up and knocked him gently against his ribs.
“That’s my boy,” I said. “Well done.”
“Dude,” he said. “That was pretty awesome.”
“Don’t call me dude.”
“Yes, my lady. Hey. For a minute there I thought you were going to rip Nina a new one.”
“Mhmmm. Help me up?”
Klaus pulled me up. I felt a little metallic taste in my mouth.
“I think I bit my tongue,” I said.
I experienced a drowsy desire to … have sex, bizarrely.
“Rub my neck for two seconds?”
“This isn’t my fault, is it? I know I’ve been a bit rough.” Klaus turned me around and placed one hand on my sternum so he could pull me back into the tips of the fingers of his other hand, which traveled up and down my neck.
“It wasn’t me, was it?” he murmured. Actually murmured. Do they teach this sort of thing at hottie school? “I didn’t hurt you, baby, did I?” he asked softly.
No, it’s sexual, but also maternal, what I feel for Klaus. But no, not maternal. It’s more sort of … fatherly. Or something. I was confused, so I turned around and gave Klaus a kiss. He still had a grip on me, so it was slightly more than a peck. I made the gesture for fondness, cupping his face with my hands.
After rehearsal I headed down to Capezio for some new dancing duds. And who should I see there but Bryce, the little girl from the school who is my fan, looking at a rack of leotards. I almost didn’t recognize her in normal clothes and with all her hair down. I hid myself behind a rotisserie of leg warmers. I’m not sure why. I suppose I am a little uncomfortable with the idea of someone looking up to me. Also, she was with a woman who I assumed was her mom, and ballet moms can be a little hard to take. They gush and roll their eyes, and their own particular daughter is always very special and gifted.
I am guessing Bryce is about eleven, but I am not very good at figuring ages. At any rate she has that kind of body that happens around eleven or twelve. Just past the overgrown-puppy look that is so cute, and not quite into the awkward stage that can go on for years.
Bryce had on a blue cardigan sweater, a khaki miniskirt, and pink tennis shoes. I appreciated the outfit’s lack of sexuality. It looked like something Nancy Drew might have worn. Bryce’s light brown hair (a few years away from being highlighted red or blond, depending on her personality) is shoulder length and a little bit bushy. She should grow it a little longer so it won’t do that awkward triangle thing. Her skin still has that creamy look of youth, but she isn’t exactly beautiful. Her face is too changeable. Really pretty girls always look the same. She will be just lovely when she grows up, but these years of not being beautiful will get in the way of her recognizing it. When she is a teenager, she’ll wear too much makeup. Her mom, because it was her mom who was with her, is absolutely beautiful: tall and thin and expensively dressed in cashmere. I circled around the leg warmers. Bryce disappeared into a dressing room with some leotards. Her mother hovered outside the curtain of her cubicle, peeped in, was evidently rebuffed. She turned around, and our eyes met.
“Oh, hello!” she said, advancing with a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Jane Pritchett Ford. We met briefly last year at the Winter Gala. I’m on the board of the company. Congratulations, by the way. On Titania.”
Not just a ballet mom, but a power ballet mom. I didn’t, in fact, remember meeting Jane Pritchett Ford, but I made the gesture for “Ah, yes.”
“My daughter Bryce,” Jane pointed at the dressing room, “has convinced me of the utmost necessity of getting a new leotard for Friday.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sure the fact that you will be there is a factor. She has your shoes wrapped around her bedpost.”
On Friday we have a full studio run-through of Dream, and that means the little fairies will be rehearsing with us.
“I’ll just be doing Helena for that rehearsal,” I told Jane. “I’m still learning Titania.”
“Ah, well, you’ll make a great Helena too. But I’m really excited to see what you do with Titania. And what Marius has done with the whole ballet. It’s time for something new.” I liked the way she said it. I liked that she’s wasn’t asking me about Gwen, which was what I expected.
“I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” I said. “It’s … tricky. Like, in the play, Titania is a mess in the beginning. She’s just become a mother to the changeling boy. Oberon is jealous that she has shifted all her attentions away from him to the child. They’re fighting and it’s throwing everything in the natural world off-balance. ‘The nine men’s morris is filled up with mud!’ I kind of wish Titania would come on with some sort of frizzy hairdo and food on her clothes, all sweaty and irritable.”
“Like a new mother,” Jane said, getting it. “That’s very interesting. I mean, you’re very articulate about it. That’s unusual, if you don’t mind my saying. With dancers.”
“Oh, some of us can talk,” I said. “It’s just easier not to.”
Jane laughed.
“I should stop talking to you,” she said. “Because Bryce saw you earlier and I told her she should go up and say hello, and that was apparently just too incredibly gauche and mortifying and uncool. I think she’s afraid I will embarrass her. She’s hiding now in the dressing room. And when she comes out, please pretend this conversation never happened.”
I laughed and Jane smiled and mouthed “Thank you” at me. She went back to the curtained cubicle. I grabbed a few things off a rack and ducked into another dressing room. After a bit, I could hear Bryce and Jane leaving.
I sat down in the dressing room at Capezio, suddenly exhausted. And missing Gwen.
There must be tension before there is release. That’s what Marius said. Otherwise it is boring.
But it’s Gwen who provided the tension and the release. Without her it’s just … silence. I don’t know where I am. Before a storm, or behind it.
“It goes away,” Gwen said to me once, after a crisis. We were standing in adjacent dressing rooms, at some boutique in Soho. I was struggling into a dress Gwen had insisted I try on, something I would never have pulled off the rack for myself.
“What goes away?” I asked. We had just been laughing over a dress I had picked out, which, when on, had been so spectacularly awful that we had both cracked up when I had revealed myself.
“Take it off!” Gwen had shrieked. “Oh my god! Get it off your body!”
“It goes away,” she repeated, tapping on the wall that separated us. “Kate, it always goes away.”
“Yeah,” I said, to the wall. “Yeah, I know it does.”
Five months before, we had been on tour in Spain, and Gwen had refused to unpack her suitcase, or let me unpack mine, because everything was “unsafe.” A few weeks after that, we were vacationing in Ibiza and staying up all night in clubs, and Gwen, tanned, blissful, smiling, kicked off her shoes, and we danced all night. “Happiness!” she screamed, over the music. And then we were back in New York and the long baths and the talking to herself started up again, and I found myself holding my breath whenever I saw her with a pair of scissors in her h
ands, or a knife.
And then. And then. And then.
But that day in the dressing room, I stepped out of my cubicle in the dress Gwen had picked out for me and she held me by the shoulders and examined the length of my body, turned me around to face the mirror.
“You see?” She grinned, exultant. “I was right. It’s perfect.”
“You were right,” I agreed.
“Who knows you better than me?”
“Nobody.”
She pressed her cheek against mine hard, before letting go.
15.
I went early this morning to Dr. Ken’s office to look at my X-rays. It’s weird to look at your own skeleton. It’s so much smaller than you think and that’s sort of sad. Like a dog standing forlornly in a bathtub, dripping wet, revealed to be quite puny without all the fluff.
I didn’t know what I was supposed to be looking at, but Dr. Ken put an X-ray of a “normal” person next to mine so I could see the contrast.
“So, should I have that curve?” I asked, pointing to the civilian skeleton’s neck, which had an S shape. Mine was pretty straight. You would think that straight is better; it looks more stable. You can’t build anything on an S.
“Your life would be considerably less painful if you did,” Dr. Ken said cheerfully. “Now look at this.”
He slid another X-ray next to mine, and this skeleton had the same straight line of vertebrae as mine. Dr. Ken tapped it with his finger.
“This is a person who has whiplash,” he said, like he was giving me the punch line of a joke. “Fairly serious car accident.”
“I have whiplash?”
“Most people who are in the amount of distress you are in are given a neck brace and kept more or less immobile. I’m not really certain how you are dealing with the pain, in fact.”
I smiled modestly.
“My concern,” Dr. Ken continued, “is that you will go on working in this condition, and do permanent damage to yourself.” He explained how an S absorbs shock and how I have blown back my S so completely that it’s now slightly bowed in the other direction. That this is the actual problem, and the pinched nerve is just a symptom.