by A. K. Small
“What you don’t see is that the American has thrown a blanket over you. A warm and cozy one, but in the end, she’ll strangle you with it. Until you yank the blanket off and decide that you want this as much as her, you are just another rat who has worked for nearly a decade, eight hours a day, to almost make it.” With that, he slipped his hands in his pockets and walked away.
I wiped tears from my face and followed blindly behind him. As Monsieur Chevalier was about to open the doors back to the party, he stopped and said, “Marine, notre monde, this world of ours—the stage and studios and barres—is intense and lonely. There is no space for friendships, love, or even an old and perhaps sacred bond between twins. Nothing shadows the art of dance. It’s a union of body, mind, and music. Classical dance is known for being ruthless. Any retired company member would tell you that it is a one-man show. So commit to yourself and fight for your destiny, ma chère.”
I watched him disappear. After my heart quieted and my tears dried, I stepped back out into the cold.
The Witch, Louvet, and Monsieur Chevalier stood next to Serge Lange, the director of the opera itself and a god who descended upon the mortals infrequently. His red bow tie and snow-white hair shimmered in the night. He lifted a glass of champagne.
I grabbed a flute, then another. I yanked a few mini quiches Lorraine from a platter and swallowed them nearly whole. What had Chevalier meant? No space for old sacred twin bonds? Oli was the only reason I was here. But I didn’t have time to think through the question because Serge turned to Dominique Breux—a company soloist, the one whose picture hung in a frame inside The Ruler’s room.
“Congratulations,” Lange said, straightening his bow tie. “The Bolshoi grand prix has promoted you from sujet to étoile.”
Dominique let go of his flute. The splash and shattering made everybody jump back and laugh, even the First Division rats standing starstruck in a cluster.
“I wanted to surprise you here, in the antechamber of dreams where your career as a rat first began,” Serge continued.
There was stomping, whistling, and hooting. Valentine Louvet placed a crown atop Dominique’s head. One of the quadrilles I secretly idolized kissed his cheek. Watching these stars win worldwide competitions and ascend into the stratosphere, I felt like one of the pieces of glass littering the ground. Everything I’d ever done or danced, every move I’d ever made, seemed worthless.
“Marinette,” Cyrille said, making his way over to me. “Let’s discuss corrections.” He put his arm around my shoulder then looked down at me, beaming. Without makeup, his gray eyes shone bright.
I extricated myself from his grasp and said, “Tomorrow, okay?” I pushed my way through clusters of people chatting and found Luc with a bouquet of pink roses in his arms.
“They’re for you from your aunt and mother.” He handed them to me. “Don’t you love the term antechamber of dreams?”
You mean antechamber of sorrows, I thought.
But the champagne had gone to my brain and I felt warmer out in the cold. The roses pressed against my chest smelled fragrant. I liked the small cleft on Luc’s chin. I leaned over and with my free hand daringly placed my pointer finger on a patch of freckles, remembering how we’d hugged in the Board Room, how his steady heartbeat and soapy scent had soothed me. Luc sighed. If Oli had been here, I bet he would have loved Luc. We would have all been friends.
I said, “You have a constellation across your nose.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Good, I guess.” His skin was soft, baby soft.
“You guess?”
When the waiter walked by, Luc took a flute of champagne. He grabbed handfuls of appetizers and we shared them.
“How many drinks have you had?” I asked, after wiping my mouth.
“Enough to have had the courage to bring you these flowers.”
I laughed. The sensation of food piling up in my gut was divine. The mini sausages rolled inside my belly and the champagne fizz made me giddy. It is definitely the champagne, I thought, because deep down I am not in the mood to laugh. Luc’s green eyes reminded me of mint leaves. Unlike Cyrille, who looked down at me, Luc and I were almost the same height. I gazed straight into the leaves and into the constellation.
“Monsieur Chevalier thinks I’ll never be a great dancer,” I said. “He thinks Kate’s smothering me. I’m warning you, I’m not a good catch. That’s if you’re not gay, of course. And, I just ate a million pigs in a blanket. The nutritionist will fire me on Monday.”
“I’m not gay,” Luc said, then he added, “and you did win gold tonight in one major category, remember? No self-pity, please. Plus, you’re talking to the guy who lost his partner.”
At the thought of Claire, I felt even more drunk.
Luc slid his hand into the crook of my elbow.
“Do you think it’s true that ballet is a one-man show?” I asked.
“Think of all the dancers who marry other dancers. They’re fine.”
“Can I tell you something?”
But then Cyrille walked by, followed by Isabelle. Catching sight of Luc and me, he said without stopping, “Him over me?”
“You’re an excellent partner, Cyrille,” I said. “But right now what I need is a friend, someone who gets me beyond corrections and dance steps.”
Again, I laughed. I just laughed and laughed until my laughter turned to sobs. I hunched over next to a patio heater, the pink roses dangling from my hand, the whole antechamber spinning. The hot dogs expanded in my body and the champagne fizz turned flat.
“What’s wrong?” Luc asked.
He stroked my shoulder, then knelt down to wipe the tears from my face.
On the bus back to Nanterre, Claire was absent. The rumor of the burned tights spread. Various names were thrown around in hushed tones. A few of the girls cried. I sat next to Luc while Kate curled up alone in one of the middle seats. After I’d recovered from my courtyard meltdown, I’d waited and waited for The Witch to summon me and show me the garbage bag with Claire’s burned items. I’d even imagined faculty, standing arms crossed in a haze of silver smoke, stern looks on their faces, what they might say, or what Kate might say if she was summoned too. But no one fetched me. Dancers packed their ballet bags. Teachers led us to the parking lot, and just like that, the demonstrations were over.
The lighted dome of the Palais Garnier receded. Shutters on the streets had been closed, sidewalks emptied.
Luc held his headphones up. “Want to listen?” he said.
He handed me his sweatshirt, which I immediately slipped on. I breathed him in, leaned my head back, and let the jazzy beat of a pianist gallop straight through me. I made sure not to look in Kate’s direction. Every once in a while, Luc bumped my shoulder with his and I smiled at him.
twenty-two
Kate
I spent Sunday hiding in the language lab. Anytime the door opened, I stopped breathing and looked to see if The Witch stood in the hallway, arms crossed against her chest. By now, I was one hundred percent sober and the burning of the tights had not only come back to me but seemed to permanently plague my thoughts. Girls and boys had whispered about it nonstop coming off the bus and in the common room. Most believed The Ruler had done it because she’d arrived second in both categories and so had the most to lose.
No one bothered me on Sunday. But on Monday, after Middle Eastern history and before lunch, as I stood in the academic annex’s sunny hallway, reclining against the wall, eyes closed, thinking that I’d dodged not a silver bullet but a torpedo, that it was time to try and convince M to forget about what had happened in the palace’s dressing rooms, that I’d temporarily lost my mind the same way M had lost hers when she wouldn’t forgive me in the Grand Foyer, and that I was really sorry, not to mention upset at everything else I’d done, someone startled me.
“Mademoiselle Sander
s?”
I opened my eyes. Monsieur Arnaud, the housemaster, had materialized and was gesturing for me to follow him. I paled. I’d been discovered. Soon, he would be showing me the garbage bag with the singed stuff in it. I’d be gone in no time.
But then Monsieur Arnaud added, “You need to pack your ballet bag. You’ve been invited to l’Opéra Bastille.”
Fifteen minutes later, I stepped into a car. Stunned, I sat staring out the tinted window. As Nanterre disappeared, I still couldn’t believe the housemaster’s words. I wondered if this was some kind of ploy, The Witch’s sneaky way to drive me to the airport, where my father would be waiting. But no, the driver followed signs to Porte Dauphine, then wound through the Champs Élysées down Rue de Rivoli, farther east into city traffic, where he parked in front of the famous modern theater located just blocks from the Bastille.
Valentine Louvet was standing on the curb, a cashmere cape embroidered with a red dragon wrapped around her. She greeted me with a squeeze of the hands.
“Congratulations,” she said. “Maude Durée injured her ankle. Faculty felt you, as the senior gold medalist in the solo category, should be the one to understudy her. You will be expected to continue your day-to-day studies at school as well. A heavy load.”
I stood frozen, trying to process what all this meant, then, ecstatic, I jumped into Louvet’s arms.
The school director embraced me back and led me through the theater onto the mammoth stage, where I was introduced to the corps de ballet members and to Benjamin Desjardins, an up-and-coming soloist.
“Bonjour,” everyone said.
Aurélie, Laure, Adèle, Romaine, Maude, Julie, and Juliette. I shook hands, trying to remember names. The women wore vibrant leotards safety-pinned low on their chest, black skirts falling from their hips. Like The Ruler’s, all their ribs stuck out. They smelled divine, like bergamot and blood orange incense. Some re-wrapped their toes, others ate bites of apples, and one, a blonde with brown smoldering eyes, smoked a cigarette—onstage—while she quietly chatted with what looked like her twin.
After Louvet said goodbye, I ran into the wings, yanked off my street clothes, adjusted my ivory leotard, then slipped on my pointe shoes. I would have kissed the stainless steel curtain and every seat in the theater had I been alone. Instead, I did a few relevés, kicked my legs back to loosen my hips. I was dying to get started, to join the dancers onstage, to show them my technique, and to have my name, too, be thrown into the mix—Aurélie, Romaine, Kate—when one of the twins, Julie or Juliette, meandered over to me and said, “Watch out for the floor.”
I frowned.
“It’s rainuré,” she explained. “That’s how Maude twisted her ankle.”
Before I could ask what rainuré meant, two men walked out onto the stage, making me gasp. One was none other than Serge Lange from The Crowning but without the bow tie. He peered at us while stroking his white hair and he spoke quickly to the other guy, a bald man as tall as the sky and skinnier than a twig who turned out to be a Swedish choreographer. Lange pointed to me as I stood still near the wings.
“You are?” he said.
“Kate Sanders, understudy for Maude Durée.” My face grew scorching hot.
I tried to smile but then in a deep accent I could barely understand the choreographer asked, “Have you heard of Balanchine’s armless batterie, the up-tempo, unusual fifteenth-beat count?”
“No.”
I shook my head and wished M was here. She’d have heard of it.
The choreographer clapped twice. Dancers rushed to the stage then slid their feet into fourth and placed their hands behind their backs. When I stood waiting, unsure as to what to do next, The Twig said in a dismissive tone for me to go sit in the audience, that I should perhaps watch the first run-through, learn it, and then join, if I’d like. If I’d like?
Everyone seemed so laissez-faire here. Where were people like The Witch and her silver smoke? All I had to do was learn a run-through? Easy. I kept pinching myself to make sure that this moment was real, from the 2,745 seats in front of me to the sharp black steps that led up and down the stage to the way the women performed their variations with slight pouts. I found a seat in the third row and inhaled their company-ness.
As I waited for my turn, I couldn’t help myself and glanced over at Benjamin, the soloist, who sat to my right with a group of male dancers. He laughed, gesturing, telling some funny story. He seemed to be the life of the party. At once, he and the other guys noticed me looking at him. Twice in less than ten minutes, I grew so hot I nearly fainted, but then Benjamin not only waved in my direction, he shot me the most beautiful grin ever and made his way over to me, wearing only a pair of faded gray tights.
New bubbles—this time more translucent than pink—filled up not only my chest but my veins and my central nervous system. The void I’d been feeling since Cyrille had dumped me vanished, and so did the darkness, the blurry weeks of nausea, and the awful day when it had sleeted nonstop over Nanterre and the beekeeper had confirmed that the baby I’d carried was gone. Benjamin’s closeness and the immediate spark I felt between us made me believe in brand-new starts. As tall as Cyrille and as handsome and most definitely older, Benjamin asked me where I was from, said that he’d traveled to the States years ago. I didn’t say Virginia in case he’d never heard of it. I chose Washington, D.C.
“I love America,” Benjamin said, making me tingle.
Serpent tattoos coiled around his fingers and his body was incredible. I’d never looked at an older man this close before. But now that I did, I decided that except for Cyrille, the Nanterre rat-boys were mere overgrown children. Benjamin was experienced, his torso Rodin-like, his abs as tight as violin strings. The human version of a musical instrument. You could tell that he’d been using his body for years and that he trusted his bones, ligaments, and muscles the way a violinist depended on his bow. His eyes were blue, too, but unlike mine they were lake-dark and mysterious. But there was more. When I’d seen Benjamin take the stage last year, I couldn’t help but pause and gawk at him, like everyone else had, not only because of his classical skills and amazing body but because of his acting. He made you believe that he was every character he danced, more so than any other dancer I had ever seen.
After the run-through, one of the dancers, Adèle, grabbed my hand, pulled me up the stairs, and told me to follow.
“This will only take a minute,” she said.
We made a trip to the dressing rooms.
“Here.” Adèle pointed to a huge bin overflowing with dance clothes. “You might want to change.” She jutted her chin out toward my ivory leotard. “No one wears those here.”
“Oh, God,” I said. “I’m an idiot. I should have brought stuff but I didn’t have much time to prepare.”
Adèle smiled. “This bin is everyone’s. Really. Public property.” Then she said, “One more thing.”
I noticed her chipped front tooth and a few smile lines around her mouth. I imagined us having lunch together in the theater, becoming best company friends.
“You might want to wear makeup,” Adèle continued. “At least fake eyelashes. And, I saw you chatting with Benjamin while we were rehearsing. He is—” She paused, then added, “A little like this bin, if you will. Plus, Serge notices everything.”
Serge? I thanked her for the heads-up.
“Just be careful,” Adèle replied, then she hurried out.
I rummaged through the bin, and changed from my boring ivory leotard into the sexiest one I could find (I was going to make the best first dance impression): an eggplant-colored halter, black tights, and a gauzelike metallic skirt. I put two other leotards and striped leg warmers in my bag and reapplied lip gloss and mascara. I unwrapped my high bun, the rat’s trademark, and twisted my hair into a low chignon just like Adèle’s.
Later, when Benjamin nodded at me from the wings, when he s
at next to me at another break and tugged on my dangling earrings—accidentally tickling the back of my ear—and asked if I was old enough to play dans son bac à sable (meaning: in his sandbox) and if I knew what un drogué de la scène meant, I thought I might swoon. “What do you think?” I said, relishing the confirmation of this newly charged connection, and not once pondering his words, what he actually meant by stage junkie.
When we received additional corrections on our last break, I felt effervescent. I imagined Benjamin and me slow dancing center stage, how perfect we would be for each other. I silently thanked Adèle for showing me the wonderful bin, and the Goddess of the Universe for aligning the planets. I forgot about the burned tights and about M’s silence. Those little incidents seemed insignificant. Being invited to dance with company members, calling the opera’s director Serge, and flirting with a soloist was better than getting the gold medal. Bastille was a different world, like landing on Jupiter for an astronaut. Nanterre looked like a pinprick from this new vantage point.
Later, after rehearsal, I watched dancers leaving the theater as I waited for my car. I envied the way they kissed each other goodbye, the way some of the girls seemed attached at the hip, and the way a few dancers were, I’d found out earlier, married. I wished I could stay in Paris. The City of Lights used to feel dirty and crowded but now even the sidewalks looked glamorous. Night had long fallen. Stars illuminated the sky as commuters hurried by. Leaning against the theater’s bay windows, I lit a cigarette, still glowing from the day’s events. Sure, I hadn’t remembered all the steps. The Twig had yelled at me once, but for the most part I’d managed and I’d done a few strategic quadruple pirouettes in front of Serge, the real decision maker.
I was now hoping—no, praying—that Benjamin would make his way out before I left, that maybe we would wave at each other, when my wish was answered. He and some of the guys stepped out.
“Good night,” they said to each other, walking in separate directions.
