by Evie Blake
‘Who was that man?’ she asks Jacqueline.
‘Guido Rosselli. Did he not introduce himself to you?’
‘Oh, yes, he did . . . but . . . he is Italian; I was so surprised . . .’ She trails off, feeling a little foolish.
‘He may seem a little odd, Maria, but it is just because he is lonely.’
‘Why doesn’t he go back to Milan?’
‘He can’t, for the moment. His parents are dead . . . London is his home now, until he finishes his studies.’ Jacqueline pauses, looks sad. ‘He is like me: a war orphan.’
Maria feels a raw stab of pain for her friend. ‘I am sorry Jacqueline . . . I didn’t mean to upset you.’
But Jacqueline interrupts her, shakes her sadness from her shoulders and hugs her, showering her cheeks with kisses yet again. ‘Oh, I am so happy to see you,’ she says. ‘I have missed you all so much.’
Maria leans into Jacqueline’s neck, inhales her scent, and it brings back so many memories: times of her and Jacqueline dreaming as they drifted down the Canal Grande in a boat, the two of them lying on their backs, hidden from all, talking about dancing. She remembers how it made them feel. Yes, Maria thinks, fingering the memory of that time, the revelation of what dance turned her into.
For, when she danced, Maria felt free. Not the war, nor the suffocation of her mother’s love, the reasoning of Pina or the abandonment of her father could restrain her. Jacqueline had given her that gift, told her that, when she danced, she became a bird. And when they danced together, they were two birds soaring in sky.
As she and Jacqueline talk about dance together, Maria remembers why it is she has come to London. It is not just about learning to dance. It is about finding her liberation.
They are leaving for London tonight. For once in her life, Valentina is packed and ready, with the whole day to spare. She sits with her cup of coffee on the windowsill beside her, watching Milan busy itself in the street below.
Again, she has the urge to cancel her trip to London and stay here in Milan, where she can continue her life undisturbed. Surely they can exhibit her work without her presence at the opening? In an ideal world, she would like to take part in the curation of the show, but it is not strictly necessary.
Valentina chews her lip, thinking. Of course, she must go. She should not let fear of the unknown, because that is what she is feeling, get in the way of her career. This is an exciting opportunity. London is huge and, unless she actually calls Theo, she won’t even see him.
Yet this is what she is afraid of: her own curiosity, her need to hear his voice again, to find out what he is doing. Has he got over her? He had told her he loved her, and not just once. She could not do the same for him. That is what had broken them up: the fact she couldn’t say, ‘I love you.’
She had been so close to opening up to Theo in Venice, if only he hadn’t stormed off. Now it feels as if she has buried her feelings so deep inside herself that she may never be brave enough to express them. And yet her decision to go to London, made within a heartbeat, is not just because of the opportunity of the exhibition, but because of Theo. She has to admit it to herself. Hope, for some bizarre reason, beats inside her like a frantic bird – an insane sense that everything will be OK.
Valentina takes a sip of her coffee. The hot liquid calms her as she wraps her hands around the warm cup and breathes in. Could she get Theo back? For the first time, she lets the possibility occur to her. She shakes herself, reminds herself of her motto: nothing lasts forever. Look at her own parents, for example: their union hadn’t lasted, had it? Her father had left her mother when Valentina was a little girl, and she hasn’t seen him since.
Thoughts of her father remind of her something – an uncomfortable pinprick of memory that has been irritating her ever since it was revealed to her. Back in Venice, all those months ago, the police inspector, Garelli, had told her that her father would be proud of her. Garelli was the first person she had ever met who claimed to know her father, apart from her mother and brother, of course. She has always been adamant that she doesn’t want to know her father. After all, he has never made the effort to contact her, so why should she try to find him? Her mother says she has no idea where he is, as does her brother, Mattia. And so Valentina had not thought about her father much, not until that strange conversation with Inspector Garelli in Venice the night she and Theo had last been together.
Valentina puts down her cup of coffee. She gets up and walks over to her desk, pulling open the top drawer. She shoves her hand inside the mess of papers, pencils, rubbers and Post-it notes. The last time she saw it, she was sure it was in here. She bends down, pushing her hand right to the back of the drawer until she fingers a crumpled piece of card. She pulls it out and, sure enough, there is Garelli’s business card, somewhat moth-eaten but with his details still clearly printed on it. She glances at the clock on the wall. She is not meeting Antonella for six hours. She has plenty of time to call Garelli, talk to him before she goes. Of course, she could do it when she gets back from London, but now, all of a sudden, she just has to know what Garelli meant by his comment. How does he know her father?
Valentina taps her heels on the floor of Bar Magenta as she waits. She smoothes down her black-and-white striped dress with her hands, smiling inwardly at her choice of outfit. There will be no possibility of Antonella not finding her in the airport. As usual, she stands out: the dress is full length and figure hugging, with a long split on one side, all the way up to her thigh. She is wearing it with her black Carl Scarpa wedge-heeled boots and her tiny black leather biker jacket. The dress once belonged to her mother, who, in Valentina’s opinion, took more care of her clothes than her children. It looks as good as new. She sweeps her hand across her brow nervously and takes a sip of her Negroni. Maybe this is a bad idea. After all, less than six months ago, Garelli was after Theo, who was under suspicion for art theft. She hasn’t seen the policeman since, and assumes the case has been dropped. Still, it is a risk to stir it all up again. Could she be accused as an accessory, since she transported the painting from Milan to Venice? Maybe she should just leave it.
However, just as she is knocking back her drink and preparing to gather her things, Garelli comes into the bar. His eyes alight upon her immediately and he gives her a broad smile as if they are old buddies.
‘Valentina,’ he says, bending down and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘You look as pretty as a picture, as always. Let me buy you a drink.’
‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’
‘But you’ve just finished yours . . . I insist.’
Valentina takes a big gulp of her fresh drink. Now that Garelli is actually sitting opposite her, looking at her expectantly, she doesn’t know quite where to begin. In her confusion, she says nothing, scowling down at her drink instead.
‘Well, Valentina,’ Garelli finally says, obviously impatient. ‘How can I help you?’
She looks up at him, trying to summon the words. For some reason, she feels intensely embarrassed, ashamed almost, to ask this man, practically a stranger, where her father is.
‘Do you have more information on your Signor Theo Steen, perhaps?’ he says, cocking his eyebrow at her. ‘Although, I believe he is no longer in Milan . . . so not, strictly speaking, our problem anymore.’ He looks at her benignly.
Valentina feels a flash of annoyance. How dare he be so patronising? ‘No, I don’t want to talk about Theo,’ she says.
‘Oh?’
‘When I saw you in Venice, you said something to me . . . about my father,’ she splutters.
Garelli says nothing, just watches her squirming in front of him.
‘You said that he would be proud of me. And that you knew him.’
‘Yes,’ Garelli nods, ‘I did know him.’ He looks puzzled.
‘How did you know him?’
‘Why, we worked together, of course.’ Garelli takes a sip of his wine. ‘Has he never mentioned this to you?’
Valentina looks down at the
wooden table and grips the edge of it with one of her hands. ‘I don’t know him,’ she whispers, her embarrassment paining her.
‘Really?’
She looks up. Garelli is staring at her in astonishment. She plunges on. ‘He left when I was six years old. I haven’t seen him since.’
Garelli frowns. ‘That is not the behaviour of the kind of man I knew,’ he says.
‘Well, tell me, please, what kind of man he is,’ Valentina says, suddenly annoyed by Garelli’s sanctimonious manner, ‘because I have absolutely no idea.’
She takes too big a swig of her drink and almost chokes.
‘Philip Rembrandt is one of the good ones,’ Garelli says simply, scratching his head. ‘I knew him when your brother, Mattia, was small. Philip was devoted to him.’
‘But how do you know him?’
‘Did,’ Garelli corrects her. ‘I haven’t seen him in years. Not since he left Milan.’ He sighs. ‘I never meant to lose contact, but you know how it is . . .’ He looks wistful before gathering himself. ‘Valentina, we worked together—’
‘Was my father a policeman?’
‘No,’ Garelli says. ‘Not Phil. He was an excellent investigative journalist. He helped me out on a couple of big Mafia cases.’
She sits back against the wooden bench. This is news to her. Her mother had told her that her father was a professor at the university. There had never been any mention of him being an investigative journalist. The image she always had of a pipe smoking, rather disorganised arty writer is being turned on its head. Her father was an investigative journalist. She thinks of Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford as Woodward and Bernstein in the film All The President’s Men, uncovering the Watergate scandal. They were hyperactive, brave, clever and daring men. It is just too hard to believe that her own father had been like that. Surely her mother would have bragged about it, for a start?
‘Are you sure? I mean, it’s just not what I was told.’
‘Of course, I am sure,’ Garelli says. ‘We took down a guy called Caruthers together. It was a famous case at the time. He was one of the top Mafia heads, based in New York but operating here in Italy as well.’ Garelli looks up at her hesitantly. ‘What can I say, Valentina? Your father saved my life.’
Valentina is speechless; she stares at Garelli in astonishment.
‘Last year, I was just keeping an eye on you, for your father’s sake . . . I wasn’t sure about Signor Steen.’
‘You were trying to protect me?’
Garelli chuckles. ‘I suppose. Although you obviously didn’t need my help.’
She fiddles with one of her rings, nervous of asking her next question. ‘Why did you say my father would be proud of me?’
‘Because of your spirit, Valentina; you are just like your mother . . .’
She scowls at the mention of her mother. ‘If he liked her spirit so much, why did he leave her?’
‘I believe it must be more complicated than that,’ Garelli answers enigmatically. ‘Although, by then, I wasn’t working with your father anymore. I was living in Spain at the time and I hadn’t seen him since before you were born.’
‘She drove him away,’ Valentina growls, ‘just like she drives everyone away.’
Garelli pauses, his voice softening. ‘I don’t think that is quite the case.’
Valentina scrutinises Garelli. She has a feeling that he is holding back, but the inspector’s expression is impassive. He finishes off his drink. Valentina senses that she has revealed too much of herself to this man – a person she hardly likes. She feels exposed, awkward. She wishes now that she had never called him up. She should just forget all about this father thing. Her logic is screaming at her to let it go because, surely, if her father wanted to know her, he could easily contact her. Even so, she just can’t smother her curiosity.
‘I have to go,’ she says, indicating her suitcase and standing up. ‘I’m flying to London. Can we meet again when I get back? Will you tell me all about my father?’
‘Of course we can, but you know you could ask him yourself?’
She freezes. ‘Do you know where he is?’
She assumed that, since Garelli hadn’t been in contact with her father in all these years, he would have no idea where he is now.
‘We had to keep tabs on him . . . because of his history. As far as I know, he hasn’t moved.’
‘So, where is he?’
Garelli holds her gaze. She sees a smile spreading across his face.
‘London.’
‘My intention is to give an image of the various forces of life in an ever-changing interplay.’ Bruno Lempert speaks like a textbook, and she is finding it hard to follow his English. ‘To recreate these forces of nature requires a purified and polished reflecting instrument.’
Maria is aching to scratch her back, but all the dancers are sitting completely still. It is as if they are listening to the very word of God himself. Lempert raises his eyebrows and stares at them. His eyes are round with heavy lids but, despite their rich, deep-brown colour, they appear cold to Maria. She is a little frightened of her new dance teacher. He speaks in riddles.
‘That is what I need you, the dancer, to be. I need you to reflect, with your body, these different elements. When you are dancing, you cannot be yourself.’
He is staring, now, right into her eyes and Maria feels her cheeks colouring. She has an urge to flee the dance studio, but she can’t. All the trouble her mother and Pina have gone to, to get her here – and Jacqueline, too . . . How she wishes she were her teacher, not this austere man. But it seems that Jacqueline’s job is to travel to schools and teach the schoolgirls of London the new ballet: the bread-and-butter work. Maria’s teacher is none other than Lempert, the principal and founder of this new dance school, and colleague and friend of Kurt Jooss himself. He has danced in Jooss’s ballets. He knows what he is talking about and this small group of twenty young women and men are the chosen few. And yet, inside Maria, there is a small voice rebelling; for, when she is dancing, it is the only time she feels she is herself. If he asks her to give up that, then there is no soul left in her dance.
‘There is, of course, a process to go through to achieve this,’ Lempert continues. ‘To reflect these natural elements, we have to study their dynamic within your body, your mind and your soul. Then, through movement, we will externalise them.’
A blonde girl next to Maria sneezes and takes a hankie out from the sleeve of her leotard to blow her nose. Maria glances over at her. The girl is beetroot with embarrassment, and Maria immediately feels a wave of warmth towards her. They glance at each other and smile, before directing their attention back towards their teacher.
‘But first of all,’ he says, walking around them in a circle, so that Maria does not know whether to twist around and watch him as he moves or sit still, ‘we have to begin at the beginning, and that requires breaking down your body, freeing you from all habitual gestures.’
He is in front of them again as he claps his hands and, after a slight hesitation, the group rises. Maria shakes out her stiff legs.
‘Please raise your hand if you have already trained in classical ballet.’
Everyone puts up their hand apart from Maria, the blonde sneezing girl, a woman with a short black crop, who looks slightly older than the rest, and two out of the four men in the room.
Lempert grimaces, and again Maria feels her face heating up. The first class, and she is already embarrassed by her lack of training. How could she possibly think she could be of a similar pedigree to the others? She glances over at the blonde girl and they smile at each other again, in sympathy.
‘Please,’ Lempert says, directing the small group, ‘come and stand on this side of the room.’ He then ushers the other dancers to the back of the studio and, to her surprise, Maria finds herself standing, with her companions, in front of the others.
‘Now,’ Lempert says, hands on hips and directing his speech to the group of ballet dancers. ‘You are goi
ng to have to do a lot more work than these dancers because, with a classical dance training, your bodies have certain habits. Some groups of your muscles will only coordinate with other given groups. We are going to have to get your bodies to that degree of relaxation that you do not give in to your classical habits.’
‘Are you saying that classical ballet is wrong?’ A girl with red curly hair speaks up from the group of ballet dancers.
Lempert shakes his head. ‘Of course not, Alicia. How can anything be that simple? But classical ballet is entrenched in years and years of tradition. We at Ballets Jooss are trying to do something different. For instance, if you look at the subject matter of our ballets, how would you describe them?’
‘Revolutionary,’ says the short, dark-haired lady, standing next to Maria.
Lempert whips around. ‘Indeed,’ he says, ‘they are political, social, humanist . . . They combine the intellect and the heart. That is what we are trying to do here: combine spirit, mind and body. People, we want to communicate.’
Maria’s head is beginning to pound. This is all too much theory. She just wants to dance.
She has a flicker of memory: she is in the deserted ground floor of the palazzo with her mother, Pina and Jacqueline. Jacqueline is playing a tinny old piano that Belle had somehow unearthed, and Maria is dancing for them. It is like a golden loop of memory. The Venetian winter sun is streaming through the half boarded windows as dust motes spin up into the air around her bare feet. And her mother and Pina are watching her; yet, despite their looks of appreciation, it is not for them she dances, but for a ghost sitting beside them – her father, Santos Devine: adventurer and sailor.
To her relief, Lempert claps his hands, signalling for the group to come together again.
‘Now,’ he says. ‘Enough talk. Let us begin.’
To her surprise, Lempert makes them take off their dance shoes. The wooden boards are cool beneath her bare soles.
‘No dance,’ he instructs them. ‘I just want movement.’
He nods towards the pianist, up on a rostrum under a small gallery at the end of the studio.
