“Je t’aime toujours.” One more kiss, and then Dmitri let him go.
At the end of the night, the cabaret dancers pitched in to help Andy, Rory and Dana clean up the studio before heading out. Then Andy removed the hanging devices, stashing them away in his bag, and the three of them sat down to polish off the sparkling wine (the finger food was long gone). Dmitri switched the music from Leonard Cohen to Tchaikovsky, and joined them.
“Thanks for this, Dmitri,” Andy said. “And thanks for that beautiful performance. I would applaud again if I didn’t have my hands full.” He lifted his glass in a mock toast.
Dmitri inclined his head. “It is my pleasure. Also, I have several new inquiries for private lessons. An excellent evening.” A truly excellent evening, a way to promote the studio to people who would never otherwise have set foot inside it. To show them something they didn’t expect. Something they might talk about. That dance might never have happened without this event.
“It was fun,” Rory was saying. “Once I got over myself.” She was the subject of many of the photographs.
Dana nudged her. “You were the star. You’re not supposed to get over yourself.” Rory was wearing black jeans with a black tank top that showed off her arm and shoulder tattoos, as well as her cleavage. The tank was embellished with rhinestones spelling out City of Angels; Andy’s name and website were printed across the back. The room had been so warm, with so many people, that she’d taken off her denim jacket almost immediately, making her a walking advertisement. Dana looked overheated in a long-sleeved velvet top. “Meanwhile, I’m half melted. Thank God we’re walking home.”
“And I guess we’d better start doing that,” Rory said. “Was Patrick here? I missed him, if he was.”
Andy drained his glass. “He was here. He was taping the dance.”
“That’s right,” said Dana. “Dmitri, I was going to ask if you and Patrick would like to come for dinner sometime. Soon, while Andy is still staying with us.”
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
January 2008
It was New Year’s Day when they joined Dana, Rory, and Andy for dinner. All the serving dishes went right out so they could eat family-style. “You said you’d be ready to eat,” she said to Dmitri. “True?”
He’d done an event the night before. “Very true.”
“We had coffee and a contraband Danish a million years ago,” said Patrick. “This smells really good.”
“Why contraband?” Dana asked.
“Wait till you’re over fifty, and then you’ll know,” he said ruefully. “Starch is the enemy.”
Rory snorted. “Starch is already the enemy.”
“Anybody here object to champagne with this feast?” Andy said. It appeared that nobody did, so he popped the cork and poured. “Happy New Year, everybody.”
“So I have a confession,” Rory said to Patrick after they were well into dinner.
“What’s that?” he said, smiling.
“A question first. Are you actually related to Cher?”
He laughed. “Not as far as I know.”
“Because ever since I found out your name was Sarkisian, and you even look a lot like her, I’ve been calling you Cher Bear in my head.” Everybody but Dmitri laughed, and even he had his hand over his mouth. “You’re allowed to laugh, Dmitri,” Rory added. “No students here to impress with your gravitas.”
Patrick laughed harder. “He totally does that!”
“They will be disappointed if I am not stern,” said Dmitri. “I must play the part.”
“It’s my life’s work to crack him up. I’ll tell you a little secret.” Patrick leaned closer to Rory. She leaned in too, looking eager. “I used to do a really rip-roaring Cher thing at the drag club. Back in the eighties, when I could still rock a Spandex catsuit.”
“Do you have any pictures?” Andy sounded hopeful.
He nodded. “Nobody had cell phones, thank God, but a friend did take a snapshot one time.”
“God, I’d love to see that,” Dana said. “Have you seen it, Dmitri?”
“He moved in with me eighteen months ago,” said Patrick. “We have no secrets.”
“I also have Spandex catsuit picture,” said Dmitri. “From competition. Is good that is out of style now.” Andy looked like he wasn’t so sure that was a good thing.
Patrick said, “And the hair, oh my God. In those pictures? Mine looked like Brian May’s and Dmitri had a Mel Gibson ‘Lethal Weapon’ do happening.”
Dmitri grimaced. “Terrible. I had bad advice.”
“Well, you kind of look like him,” Rory said. “But I’ll bet he can’t dance. How did you two meet, anyway?”
“At a ballroom thing,” said Patrick. “My niece and her college partner were competing for the first time. My brother got stuck with a trauma at the hospital where he works, and his wife had to stay home with their youngest kid who was sick, so I volunteered, because it was unthinkable that no family would go. Or so I was told. And Dmitri was there. I stayed all night.”
“Did you notice him?” Dana asked Dmitri. He nodded, looking at Patrick.
“Did you talk, or what?” asked Andy. “I’ll bet that’s a don’t ask, don’t tell sport if there ever was one.”
“Very much,” Dmitri agreed. “We did not speak in the ballroom. After my events I went to the bar, instead of to my room.”
“And I followed him like a frigging stalker,” Patrick said cheerfully. “Over the next couple of years I saw a lot more of ballroom competition than I ever wanted to, frankly.” Dmitri came close to laughing again.
“I did some stalking too,” said Dana. “I’m glad I’m not the only one.”
Andy rolled his eyes. “She even enlisted me. Though honestly, the practice might come in handy. So I wanted to thank you again, Dmitri, for helping me out with the show. I’ve been telling all my dancing friends about you.”
Dmitri inclined his head. Patrick said, “I listened to that song a bunch of times, the one you had playing right before he danced. I had some ideas, but what did it mean to you? Because the show said something to me, but I’m not an artist so I’m not sure I was on the right track. I mean, I got a sense of celebration but it was also sort of melancholy.”
Andy glanced over at Rory, who raised her eyebrows and tipped her head like ‘not mine to answer,’ and thought for a minute. “Well, in the images, what started to build for me was the idea that Rory represents, maybe, a muse. Kind of the creative impulse, or possibility, that draws people to the city. What we’re all chasing. The show was really about that. But Rory played that song for me.” He paused for a minute. Everyone else was quiet, waiting. “It fit for me, because it’s about the cost of being an artist. That’s what I thought, anyway. It’s about how art will take you away from everything sometimes, and you can’t fight it. The homes, family, friends, lovers left behind.” He stopped again, possibly because his voice had gone husky. For some reason his eyes went to Dmitri, who was gazing back at him with an expression of total comprehension.
Dana reached across Rory and put her hand on Andy’s arm, squeezing for a moment, then let go.
“‘And twenty-seven angels from the great beyond, they tied me to this table right here in the Tower of Song,’” Rory quoted softly. “The angel might help you get there but she’s a vicious bitch, too, sometimes.” She leaned against Andy for a second. “So the song was subtext.”
“Yeah.” He smiled a little.
“An artist is always alone in that moment,” Rory said to Patrick. “That nanosecond burst of creativity is always you by yourself, or at most you plus the voice in your head. The angel, if you want to call it that. And since it’s only in your head, once you step away from the art you’re all alone.”
“That’s what I thought!” Patrick said. “I can’t believe I got it. I mean, I’m a CPA.” Rory laughed.
“Maybe that’s why artists are such desperate failures at life so much of the time,” Dana said. “Maybe
a lot of them can’t make, or keep, connections with other people because they want people to be like the angel, which is basically crazy.”
“Art is essential,” said Dmitri. “But human connection is too.” Much later, back at home, he and Patrick were feeling mellow from excellent food, ample champagne, and plenty of laughter – even from Dmitri, because it was impossible not to laugh with Rory in the room.
There had been moments of stillness, too. Moments of connection, and understanding, and something close to sadness. Andy would be moving out of West Hollywood to a live-work space north of downtown. All four of the others could see it was because he needed some distance. “When I was his age,” Patrick said out of nowhere, “I thought I was doomed to die alone.”
Dmitri knew he meant Andy, soon to be forty-one, astonishingly single. And he knew all too well how it felt to be alone, looking at happy couples. “You would not,” he said to Patrick now. “There were others ready to love you.”
Patrick gave him a sideways smile as they got into bed. “None of them would have loved me like you do.” Dmitri did something with face and body that said ‘of course not.’ Patrick laughed under his breath. “You left a lot of people behind.”
Dmitri pulled Patrick down, into his arms, close enough to kiss. He brushed his hand over Patrick’s face. “Twenty-five years.” That was how long it had been, from leaving the first American home - the first American lover – until he met Patrick. He would be forty-eight this year, the same age Patrick had been when they met. The thought of what the past few years might have been like if they hadn’t met made him flinch.
Maybe Patrick saw that. “I know. If one of Ruzanna’s parents had gone to the competition that night, I would never have known you existed. My perfect partner, and I would have missed you.”
Dmitri kissed him. “Is good her brother was sick.”
Patrick smiled. “Is good my brother got called in to cover that trauma. And because he was, nobody died. Everybody was fine, Ruzanna was happy, I got all the Good Uncle points, and then there was you. Jesus Christ, was I lucky.”
“I was.” Dmitri kissed him again.
That was their last quiet weekend for quite a while. At the end of the week, one of Dmitri’s ballroom friends asked if he would give a tryout to a student who wanted to go pro. Since Dmitri was currently without a partner, he agreed. Elena Hernandez came to Los Angeles from somewhere in the middle of the state. She was too short for Dmitri, and not even half his age. She was talented, and beautiful; she was a hard worker; she had acceptable technique. He didn’t truly believe they would be a successful partnership, but it was better than nothing, and at least he could make sure the girl was safe while she learned what competition life was all about. He told himself it was a way to remain active, to be seen on the competition floor, while waiting for the next, better-matched partner to come along. At his age, he didn’t have time to sit on the sidelines.
November 2008
Elena was out of control. Dmitri stood silently and waited until she wound down, occupying himself with a study of her lovely, furious face. The temptation to say ‘I told you so’ was very strong, but he’d never yet said those words to a student or a partner - despite even worse provocations than this - and he wouldn’t say them now. Once she seemed to be done yelling he said, quite civilly under the circumstances, “May I speak?”
She threw up her hands and turned away. “Sure. Yes. I know, you told me we weren’t ready, or I wasn’t ready. You told me. Say it again.” Her posture was eloquent of defiance and despair.
You are so young, he thought, amusement almost overtaking his annoyance. She had begged him to take her to the Ohio Star Ball, home of the world championships for the American Smooth style of ballroom, even though they’d never made a final, and even though she would face competitors there she had never seen before. The best in the world. Because she had promise, he had finally agreed. It had been a mistake. He was disappointed in himself as much as in her.
He wouldn’t tolerate the temper, however. The incivility. The lack of control. Forty-plus years of training, every year with its own disappointment: he understood wanting to lash out. It was never acceptable. He waited again until she turned around to face him. She flinched back a little and he smoothed out his expression, reminding himself to breathe. “It was a worthy experiment,” he said. “However, it is done. I recommend you go back to school.” He could see the protest forming, and held up a hand. “No. You have years to recover. I do not. We are done. You have ticket back to Los Angeles?” He knew she did. After a moment, she nodded. “I wish you well.” That was true. He would have said so even if it were not. He didn’t give her time to say anything else. With the tiniest, most formal of bows he left her room, then went down the hall to his own room, peeling off his competition tuxedo jacket on the way. Unlocked the door, pushed it open, and went inside.
“You look like you could use some vodka,” said Patrick.
Dmitri looked across the room at his partner, lounging attractively on the bed, and thought, my dear love. “All of it,” he said, hanging up his jacket and unfastening his tie. Patrick laughed, got off the bed, and came over to him. His eyes were full of rueful sympathy. He put his arms around Dmitri and leaned in for a kiss. Dmitri held him tight, burying his face in Patrick’s freshly-cut hair, and sighed. “Your hair.”
“It was too long, and I was bored. If it doesn’t grow out right I can get Shaya to fix it back in L.A.” Patrick’s hair was almost never trusted to anyone but his longtime stylist: it was thick, wavy, and temperamental. After a moment, he let go of Dmitri and went to the desk where a fifth of vodka was waiting, next to two shot glasses. “As you can see, I was prepared. I couldn’t hang around and watch the crash. How bad was it?”
Dmitri grimaced. “We did not make the semifinal. Elena did not take it well. I have told her we are done.”
“So what’s next for you?” Patrick poured them each a shot, hoping the answer would be ‘no more competition for a while.’ Dmitri and Elena had been working hard since January, with many hours of rehearsal every week and a ballroom competition somewhere every month. Patrick’s work didn’t always allow him to travel along. This time, with a very young, very inexperienced partner, Dmitri had been even more absent than in previous campaign years, which now that Patrick thought about it was every damn year they’d been together. And all for nothing. “This isn’t going to screw you up, is it? I mean, everybody knows you. They know this train wreck wasn’t your fault.” He handed Dmitri a glass.
Dmitri sat down on the side of the bed. “Is not good,” he admitted, “but not fatal. My decision to compete with her, eh, perhaps I should not have. Her instructor is my friend.” He shrugged, resigned. This was only the latest in a long string of failed partnerships. He was beginning to question his own part in the failures.
“It’s not you,” said Patrick, reading his mind. He remained standing, because he knew the light from the desk lamp was flattering, and with Dmitri done for the night he was hoping for a little playtime. But there was clearly still some talking to do. He sat down on the bed and put his free hand on Dmitri’s back, running it up to his neck. Not into his hair, because that was shellacked. “I’ve been going with you to these things for five years now. You’ve told me what to look for. I’ve seen who wins. And I’ve talked to a lot of people. You are not some kind of exception. Hardly anybody keeps a partnership going more than a few seasons. It’s fucking impossible, with the hours, the travel, the injuries, the expense. Even the couples who are married can’t keep it up for long.” He gave that a minute, because he knew Dmitri tended to brood. Now he would be thinking of the last three women, all excellent dancers. Irina, who had moved away to marry. Natalia, already married, had gotten pregnant. The third, Lizaveta, had torn her rotator cuff doing a performance with another partner. Patrick rubbed Dmitri’s back again. “Up to now, every time you’ve had a pro partner, you’ve been in the finals. It is not your fault that these things h
ave not worked out. You were doing a favor this time. Everyone knows. That kid might have gotten to grips with it, she has talent. She wasn’t ready. Everyone knows that too.”
After a moment, Dmitri tipped his head against Patrick’s. “I can only do what I do because of you. Thank you.”
“All I want in life is for you to be happy.” Then, because he knew it would make Dmitri laugh, or as close to it as he usually did, he added, “And to get in your pants.” Dmitri didn’t quite laugh, but he did turn his head for another kiss. “Why don’t you go wash that glue out of your hair,” Patrick said gently. “Want me to order some dinner?”
“Yes please.” After one more kiss, Dmitri set his empty glass down on the desk and stood up.
Patrick watched him cross the room to the bathroom, then stood up again himself to find the room-service menu. When he connected with the operator he said, “Hi, this is Patrick Sarkisian in 324.” He placed the order, then added, “Give us at least a half hour. Big tip if I don’t have to get out of the shower to answer the door.” The hotel employee on the other end gave a cough that might have been a laugh, and agreed. Patrick took off his clothes and followed Dmitri into the bathroom. A minute later, Dmitri laughed.
The first year without a campaign would have felt like vacation, if they weren’t working so hard to build the studio. By the end of 2009, with Dmitri in town full-time aside from the occasional performance or teaching gig, Shall We Dance was operating from eight a.m. to ten p.m., seven days a week. Dmitri’s Halloween social – always with free admission – was a popular alternative to (or refuge from) the legendary WeHo parade. Inevitably, promotion took up more time than either Dmitri or Patrick would have liked. Finding ways to frame group classes that would attract beginners and casual dancers, finding satisfactory instructors to offer private lessons (the backbone of any dance studio’s financial stability), and creating open-to-the-public events that would satisfy their students, friends and neighbors: these were all necessary parts of the business. With Dmitri at the studio from opening to closing, Patrick sometimes thought (but never said) that they might have been better off if he were still actively pursuing the Open Professional Smooth title. The one unalloyed good was that he wasn’t sharing his partner physically. Even though Dmitri’s dance partners weren’t his lovers, they consumed his energy in much the same way.
Change Partners (The L.A. Stories) Page 7
