Except for me, I thought dizzily. I asked Rico for just one more glass of wine. Rafik gave me a tiny shake of his head, a discreet warning for me to stop drinking. I raised my empty glass toward him as though making a toast, a toast to our mutual defiance.
Toni di Natale continued, “From my experience with him, Max is perfectly approachable. All our interactions have been honest, straightforward, and adult.”
“Well, then,” said Alissa Kortland, still imitating Toni di Natale’s affected speech, “you’ve obviously gone beyond the daddy stage with him.”
“What?” said a startled Toni.
Alissa replied, “I see the way he looks at you, and you at him.”
“My dear, our relationship is strictly professional.”
“Then it’s just a question of who’s paying, isn’t it?” said Alissa.
Toni di Natale replied airily, “Why, Alissa, I believe you’re jealous.”
“Should I be?”
Toni di Natale giggled. “You silly girl! There’s not a thing between Max and me.”
Madame Rubinskaya said, “Stop! Is shame to talk like this!”
“Shame on the bloody lot of you,” I said and guzzled my drink.
Rafik said, “No more for you.”
I blew him a kiss.
Toni di Natale said, “Just for your information, Alissa, I’m engaged to Jason Sears.”
“Then why are you flirting with my lover?” I demanded.
Toni di Natale tossed her red hair and replied blithely, “Because Rafik is so adorable and because it’s fun. No harm, Stani.”
I replied flatly, “My name is Stan.”
Madame Rubinskaya shook her head in disdain.
When Max Harkey returned to the table, his face was ashen. He sat down and stared into space for a few worried minutes before speaking. The telephone call had obviously disturbed him, and everyone at the table attended him as they would the Delphic oracle.
“As I was saying before that unfortunate interruption, I had some good news to relate to you all. While I was in London I managed to engage the assoluta of choice for our spring program.” Max Harkey looked directly at Madame Rubinskaya at the other end of the long table. He went on, “Mireille Rubinskaya, Madame’s own grand-niece, was to join us in the title role for our revival of The Phoenix.” Madame Rubinskaya’s warm smile lapsed quickly into a confused frown. “What you mean ‘was to,’ Maxi?”
Max Harkey replied, “I’m afraid that’s the bad news. That telephone call was long distance from London. Our dear Mireille was injured during rehearsal this afternoon.”
“Bozhe!” said Madame. “How this happen?”
Max Harkey shook his head with profound regret. “Her partner …” he began, then had to compose himself before continuing. “It seems she made a bad preparation for a lift and, well, he just couldn’t get her up. She landed directly on her knee.”
I saw Rafik shiver in empathetic pain for the dancer and her injury.
Madame Rubinskaya said, “I will call her now.”
“You can’t,” said Max Harkey. “It’s too late.”
“Too late?” she said with increasing alarm.
“I mean the time,” he replied.
“Why?” she countered. “They call you.”
“It’s five hours later in London. Mireille is resting quietly now. They waited until after the surgery to call so they’d have a full report. You can call Mireille tomorrow.”
“How it can happen?” said Madame Rubinskaya.
Max Harkey answered sadly, “It just happens, you know that.”
Madame replied, “New ballet is not good. Too fast.”
Rafik asked Max Harkey, “Will she dance again?”
He answered solemnly. “It doesn’t look good. She’s probably got to stop for four months at least. One thing is hopeful, though. The ligaments are all intact.” Then he added as if talking to himself, “Thank God she didn’t hurt—” Then he checked himself, “—anything else.”
“So much for the revival of The Phoenix,” said Marshall Zander.
Toni di Natale added, “I suppose it saves me rehearsing a new score. Maybe I can have some fun instead.”
“Callous bitch!” said Alissa Kortland.
“Come off it, Alissa,” said Toni di Natale. “You don’t even know the girl.”
“It’s still bad luck when another dancer is injured, no matter who it is,” said Alissa.
“I’m glad to see your concern, Alissa,” said Max Harkey. “Because I intend to go on with the performance exactly as planned. Except that you will dance the lead.”
“What!” said Alissa Kortland in astonishment.
Max Harkey stared directly across the long table at Madame Rubinskaya. Then, keeping his eyes on the old woman, he nodded and said, “Yes, Alissa, you will dance The Phoenix.”
Madame Rubinskaya uttered a horrified, “No! It cannot be.”
Everyone at the table turned toward her.
“But it can,” said Max Harkey.
“You know, Maxi. You know very well. That role is for Mireille alone. It cannot be for other ballerina. You know the contract. It says for Mireille alone. And you promise.”
“I regret this news of her injury more than any of you can imagine. It is a personal blow to me.”
“Oh, Max,” said Marshall Zander. “It’s her damn knee, not yours.”
Max Harkey replied, “I’m afraid there is much more to this matter than Mireille’s knee. Nonetheless, the program will proceed as scheduled. The Phoenix will go on.”
“You cannot do that, Maxi,” said Madame Rubinskaya gravely.
“But I can,” he replied.
“You know. You promise!” she said.
“I know that the promise was not unconditional. The circumstances have changed, so the original agreement no longer holds.”
“How? How!” The old woman was almost screeching.
Max Harkey spoke to her with the calm surety of a son who has control of his mother. “Please, Ekaterina, not here.”
Madame Rubinskaya and Max Harkey fixed their gaze on each other. They said nothing. The showdown lasted twenty excruciating seconds. Then Madame pushed herself away from the table and stood up.
“You please will excuse me,” she said quietly. “All of you. I am very tired now.” She walked away from the table and left the apartment directly, not even getting her coat.
With superb diplomacy, as though Madame Rubinskaya had left to use the lavatory, Max Harkey said to the remaining guests, “Shall we retire to the salon for dessert?”
As we got up from our seats and headed for the salon where this travesty of etiquette was apparently to continue, I leaned toward Alissa Kortland and muttered, “It’s just like The Red Shoes. A ballerina goes down but the show goes on.”
“You’re horrible,” she said, and walked away arm-in-arm with Scott Molloy.
The numerous martinis and glasses of wine I’d been imbibing all night had finally taken their toll on my social graces and on my kidneys as well. So before going to the salon with the rest of the guests, I wandered through Max Harkey’s expansive apartment looking for a bathroom. I found one midway down a long hallway, quite far from the rest of the guests. Just as I was about to relieve myself I heard two people arguing loudly. It was Max Harkey and Marshall Zander. Their voices were coming from the open window of a nearby room that faced the same airshaft as the lavatory. With utter concentration I retightened my sphincter to avert the noisy splash. Tipsy as I was, I wanted to eavesdrop on the two men, and I nipped the gush of my water just in time.
Marshall Zander was threatening to withdraw his support from the ballet company if Max decided to cancel Rafik’s new work, a piece called Uomo giocoso. (So that was its name!) Max was arguing that he was in charge of the art, and Marshall the money, and that Marshall should mind his own business. Marshall demanded to know what Max had against Rafik.
Max answered, “When he yields to me unconditionally, Rafik can
have whatever he wants.”
“You love him, then,” said Marshall Zander with a pathetic whine.
“Don’t be absurd, Marshall. Rafik needs to be humbled.”
I wondered for a horrified moment if that was true. Was I supposed to be dominating Rafik?
“So you’ve appointed yourself the task,” said Marshall Zander. “You are certainly the best at putting people down.”
“Will you ever recover from my rejection of you, Marshall? That I consciously chose, in spite of your splendid sexual passivity and your ever-engorged trust fund, the youth and beauty of my girls over the intelligence and dedication you offered me? You more than anyone should know that my sexual preference is normal. It must infuriate you to see Rafik like that, with his blood at a constant simmer, just how you like them, and then find him involved with a hairdresser, no less. Hah!”
Then I heard a sudden loud crash—something large being thrown against a wall and shattering. The noise startled me and caused me to relax just the tiniest erg, just enough to let go of that little muscle that was holding back the white-water rapids. And then out it all came at once, cascading noisily into the hopper. When I finished, the two men were silent. Were they waiting for me to flush? Was one of them injured? Unconscious? Dead? I remained motionless for another moment. Finally Max Harkey spoke.
“That vase was worth a month’s salary, Marshall.”
“Then put it on your expense account, Max, along with your whores and the wardrobes you supply them.”
“That’s enough. You’re boring me.”
“We’ll see how bored you are at the next trustees’ meeting.”
“Don’t threaten me, Marshall. The company is endowed now, thanks to you. You shouldn’t have done such a good job.”
“We’ll discuss this later, Max.”
“As you wish. Our guests are waiting.”
I saw the light in their room go out, so I flushed the toilet, then rinsed my hands and returned to the so-called party.
When I got back to the main salon everyone was already seated within the rough semicircle described by the expensive furniture. On the long sofa sat Marshall Zander, alone. Flanking the sofa were two overstuffed easy chairs, one occupied by Max Harkey and the other by Rafik, with Toni di Natale settled cozily on the matching ottoman next to his legs. Opposite that arrangement Scott Molloy and Alissa Kortland occupied a loveseat together. The only seats available were various odd side chairs, none of which looked too comfy, and I was feeling like I needed a lot of comfort at that moment. But short of asking Toni di Natale to move and let me sit by my lover, or else sharing the sofa with Marshall Zander, I had no choice but to take one of those hard, straight-backed side chairs.
Rico had wheeled in a small serving cart laden with assorted desserts: a silver bowl full of chocolate mousse; an open-faced apple tart with warm caramel sauce; fresh apricots, grapes, pears, and kiwis; and finally, two cheeses. The cart also carried hot beverages and after-dinner liqueurs. If the Boston City Ballet ever had to close its doors, it was clear that Max Harkey—or rather his houseboy Rico—could easily manage a fine restaurant.
Rafik was talking to Max Harkey.
“Is it possible Madame will stop The Phoenix on this program?”
“She’ll come ’round to my way of thinking,” replied Max Harkey. “Don’t worry about that.”
“I don’t,” said Rafik. “I worry about my own work on the program.”
Max Harkey raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see,” he said.
Rafik continued, “I need Alissa in my piece, and it is too much for her to do both roles in the same program.”
Max Harkey set his jaw firmly. “I said we’ll see.”
Marshall Zander said, “It seems to be a simple choice of reviving something old or showing something new. And you know where my allegiance lies, Max.”
“Yes, I do,” replied the other man.
Marshall Zander continued, “Showcasing new work is the main reason I continue to support the company.”
“That’s enough, Marshall.”
“You shut the old woman up, Max, and now you’re shutting me up. Who’s next? The board of directors?”
“Perhaps you should go home, Marshall. You seem tired.”
“But I haven’t had my dessert yet, Max. You’re not going to withhold your fine hospitality, are you? Not after all I’ve done for you and the company?”
“Is this bickering necessary?” asked Toni di Natale. “Can’t we discuss the program without personal conflict?”
Scott Molloy said, “But it is all personal, so how can you avoid it?”
Alissa Kortland added, as though the intervening remarks had never been made, “I think I could do both roles on the same program. It would be no different from doing Odette and Odile.”
Rafik answered quickly, “No. They are too strenuous. One role will suffer because of the other.”
Max Harkey added, “Besides, my dear Alissa, you are not nearly ready to perform the two swans.”
“And I’ll never get there if you keep limiting me.”
“Alissa, I told you, you will be performing The Phoenix, and the limitation there is certainly not in the role.”
Alissa Kortland reddened and said nothing more.
Meanwhile I was wondering what had happened to propriety. First the artistic director and the chief benefactor of the ballet company were arguing publicly about some very private matters. And their candor was contagious, so now the dancers were chiming in with candid if feckless opinions. I figured, Why not add my own noise to the fracas?
“Which piece will attract a bigger audience?” I blurted.
All faces turned to me in astonishment.
Marshall Zander said, “Now there’s a consideration! The audience.”
I turned to Rafik. “Not that your work isn’t excellent, love. But if you can have only one of these ballets on the program, shouldn’t you consider audience appeal?”
Toni di Natale shifted slightly away from Rafik, as though sensing his growing anger.
Rafik glowered at me. “My work is not practical or political. It is personal. If you knew about my work, you would not say these things.”
“But I don’t know about it, do I? And whose fault is that? You’ve kept it all a big secret from me so far. So what am I supposed to think?”
“You should keep quiet when you don’t know,” said Rafik.
Scott Molloy added, “Rafik is right. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, why is it such a secret from me?”
Rafik answered. “Sometimes a work of art must grow in a private place, away from the eyes of others.”
“So now I’m just ‘others’?” I said. “You make it sound so damn mystical, Rafik, when it’s probably nothing more than self-glory. Highbrow art is usually just vanity anyway.” God, what was I saying? I knew how hard Rafik worked on his choreography. I only wanted to tell him that I loved him, but instead I was making harsh and critical remarks about his art, perhaps about his life.
Rafik replied, “Vanity is what you do in a beauty salon!”
“At least I focus my creative energy on another person, not on myself.”
“And why?” asked Rafik. “Why? For a bigger tip. That is vanity!”
God, I was drunk. How could I be so drunk and be thinking and behaving so abominably, yet still have the capacity to realize that I was drunk? I bit my lip, fighting back tears of frustration. Here I was among intelligent, creative people, and with my lover, and I was being a boor. I was utterly unable to assume the mask appropriate. There was only one thing to do to escape from this self-imposed misery: have another drink. I got up from the disciplinarian chair and asked Rico to pour me a double shot of the strongest liqueur.
I toasted the group at large. “Here’s to art and to tips!”
I gulped the syrupy liqueur all at once. Then I excused myself and left the party. Rafik did nothing. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t get u
p, he didn’t try to stop me. It was Toni di Natale, of all people, who helped me out.
“Let me call you a cab,” she said.
“Better to walk when I’m like this,” I mumbled back. “Burn some of it off. Just get me out of here.”
On the way out I once again noticed the gigantic shape of Max Harkey’s grand piano, now quite blurry. A musical score almost the size of a newspaper folio and with a colorful cover was lying flat on the music stand.
“Whazzat?” I asked her.
“The score to The Phoenix,” she said, then added somberly, “It’s the music that started the whole argument.”
Then to my surprise, she hugged me. I figured it was a holdover from her Italian upbringing. She murmured into my inebriated ear, “You are lucky to have Rafik.” Her words and her warm breath caused my ear to burn. “He is a very sexy man.”
I felt a tingling around my nipples, that sure sign of strong emotion. “Everyone else seems to think so too,” I said.
Rico arrived with my coat. He gave me a big friendly smile, but I was too drunk and too self-absorbed to appreciate it.
Outside on the street the sight of Big Red almost caused me to burst into tears. But I bit the inside of my lip and pinched the bridge of my nose to keep the tears at bay. I wasn’t about to be seen stumbling home with hot tears streaming down my cheeks, looking like any other jilted queen. When I got home, I found myself bewildered by what had just happened. I had somehow killed my dream of love. How had it happened? What demons lurked within me to accomplish such a thing? I stumbled into bed, and then, remembering that this was to be my anniversary night with my lover, I finally broke down and sobbed and wailed into my pillow. Even Sugar Baby did not join me that night.
4
Singing in the Rain
NEXT MORNING THE TELEPHONE BLASTED ME out of a fitful sleep, like a panic alert for a nuclear attack. Its tormented electronic bleating launched a dull unfocused pressure at the back of my skull. With a queasy stomach, all I could recall was the vast quantity and variety of alcohol and food that I had consumed just a few hours earlier. Groggily I hoped the phone call would be Rafik, eager to apologize for his role in the horrible misunderstanding we’d had last night. At numerous points during the night I’d awaken startled and anxious and tense. I’d get as far as punching his number, but then logic would take over and I’d hang up before the call went through. After all, what if he wasn’t home? That would be even worse than the torture of regret. So throughout the long, lonely night I tried to assure myself that we’d soon be frantically apologizing and forgiving each other. And everything would be back to normal.
Dead on Your Feet Page 6
