Chris clutched Steph’s sleeve. ‘I can’t.’
‘What’s wrong with you, Chris?’
‘I just can’t go out there and face him.’
‘You’re not scared of Ray Lockwood!’
‘I don’t know what I’m scared of. But I don’t want him to see me like this.’
‘Use Lvovna’s trick. Splash some cold water on your face and you’ll be fine.’
‘Not tonight. Please. I can’t make chitchat and smile. I just want to lie down.’
Chris was begging with a child’s urgency and it baffled Steph and alarmed her. But instinct told her not to push. ‘Okay, Chris. You lie down and rest.’
Steph went back to the living room.
‘Everything under control?’ Ray asked.
‘Chris feels a little nervous about that new role and she’s substituting tonight, so she’s resting.’
Ray was watching her carefully and she couldn’t tell if he believed her. She felt like a louse and a liar.
‘She’s very sorry.’
Ray set down his glass and stood. He had hoped Steph might in some way help link him to Chris. But he saw it was pointless. And cowardly. People had to do their own linking.
‘I shouldn’t have come barging in,’ he said.
‘You didn’t barge in. Really you didn’t.’
‘Tell Chris I hope she feels better.’
They went to the door and he seemed thoughtful and hurt and Steph said, ‘Ray—you will phone, won’t you?’
‘Sure. I’ll phone.’
twelve
With each rehearsal of the pas de deux Chris found herself trusting Wally Collins, physically trusting him, in ways she had never before trusted another human being. She relied on him to catch her and to hold her and to lift her and to shape her every move. The more completely she opened herself to him, the more pleased Volmar became. After one of Chris’s not bad multiple turns he even muttered, ‘Good. You’re beginning to learn, my child. Beginning to learn.’
After rehearsal Wally kept inviting her to lunch, and she was afraid and kept saying no. The fourth time he wouldn’t even listen to her excuse. He looped an arm through hers and dragged her across Columbus Avenue to O'Neals’ Baloon.
It was Philharmonic matinee day. The restaurant was awash with ash-blonde and blue-haired grandmothers, oozing jewels. Wally must have made a reservation, because the waiter led them straight to a table in a corner of the rear room and asked what they would drink.
Wally looked at his watch—a cracked Timex. ‘Just enough time to metabolize a white wine spritzer before rehearsal. What about you?’
Chris shook her head. ‘I’d better not. Alcohol knocks me out.!
‘One spritzer, two straws.’
The drink came with two candy-striped straws. Wally set it midway between them and hunched forward, elbows on the table, to stare at her. ‘Whose life story first—yours or mine?’
‘I don’t have a life story.’
He had beautiful dark dancer’s eyebrows that could have projected emotion to the top balcony of the Met. They arched. Almost to his hairline. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. After a while he exhaled a neat ribbon of smoke.
‘Evanston, Illinois. Posh Chicago suburb. Father on board of General Motors, Exxon, Anaconda. Finishing school. Studied with Youskevitch and Eglevsky. Competed for scholarship to school, won scholarship, renounced it, signed on as paying student. That’s not a life story?’
Chris looked down at the napkin writhing in her lap. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Spies. Any of it true?’
She decided to trust him. ‘My parents didn’t want me to dance. They still don’t. I tried for the scholarship to see if I could make it on my own.’
‘And you found out you can. Congratulations.’
His stare was warm and persistent and she felt her shyness beginning to melt. ‘What’s your life story?’ she asked.
‘Ever heard of Hamtramck—a little slum three feet west of Grosse Pointe? Dad runs a thriving business there—undertaker. My little sister saw Red Shoes on TV and decided to be Moira Shearer. It was a rough neighbourhood. I walked her to ballet school. I was bored, I worked out with the girls, I got better than the girls. I wound up with a scholarship. I also wound up not talking to my dad.’
‘Why not?’
‘He wanted an all-American quarterback for a son. Instead he’s got Prince Siegfried from Swan Lake. That doesn’t go down too well in Hamtramck.’
Even though he was smiling she sensed that she had tiptoed near the edge of some hidden hurt. She did not step back. It was his turn to trust her. ‘Don’t you ever hear from your family?’
‘Mom phones now and then—collect. So it won’t show up on the bill.’
‘They never help you or send you money?’
‘I don’t need it. I make more than Dad.’
‘But before you were a principal?’
‘Not two cents.’
‘Then how did you live?’
He tossed a shrug off his right shoulder. The flesh on his collarbone glinted smooth and ivory. ‘Tended bar; pushed pot; made porn films. Your jaw just dropped into your butter plate. I like your tonsils.’
‘You’re joking. About pot and porn.’
‘Just trying to bulldoze through a few defences. You’re supposed to trust me, remember? Orders from Volmar. How am I doing?’ His smile glowed like a match held near a candle.
‘You’re making me laugh.’
‘We’re getting somewhere. Want to hear about my prison record?’
‘You don’t have a prison record.’
‘I used a slug in the IRT subway. They caught me, put me in the Tombs overnight. I’m still on probation.’
‘You really have an imagination.’
‘I don’t imagine a thing. It’s total recall. How else do you think I get through all those steps?’
She felt bathed in sunlight. She couldn’t believe anyone could be this kind to her, this interested. She clutched for words to cover the commotion of her feelings. ‘I feel badly—that you’re doing all the work.’
‘Andante Cantabile? You call that work?’
‘It certainly is for you.’
‘I could do it in my sleep. In fact, I have done it in my sleep.’ He saw the bafflement in her eyes. ‘You know what Volmar’s done, don’t you?’
‘He’s made a ballet with an easy part for me and a hard part for you.’
‘The opening andante—that solo adagio business I go through—it’s the crypt scene from Romeo. Where you wake up—the bit with the hands—Harlequinade. The pas de deux is Jason and Medea.’
She searched his gaze. This time there was no mischief bubbling from the green depth. He was telling the truth. Her voice felt crushed and small in her throat. ‘He stole it?’
‘In ballet never say “steal.” He borrowed. A little Ashton, some Petipa, a bit of Martha Graham. That whole thing with your eyes is Twyla Tharp. The assisted stuff is Jerry Robbins.’
‘But—that’s not right,’ she said softly.
‘Who’s going to put him in jail—you? Ninety per cent of the critics can’t tell the difference between an entrechat and an entr’acte. Half your choreographers borrow anyway. Someone’s going to scream that Volmar pinched a pas de deux from them that they took from MacMillan?’
Her heart knocked at her ribs. She swayed forward, managed to anchor herself to the arms of the chair. Wally didn’t seem to notice. It was as though his great shoulders and smile held him high above such shocks.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘if I hadn’t danced the roles, I wouldn’t know. You think the audience will know? They’re too busy timing balances and counting barrel turns.’
‘But somebody will know.’
‘Who?’
‘Somebody who—somebody who loves ballet. There’s bound to be somebody who loves ballet enough to know.’ If there weren’t somebody, if ballet were just a trick and a rip-off, then there might as
well be no God. Maybe someday she would be able to tell Wally that.
Maybe he understood it already.
His hand closed on hers, in full view of the restaurant. She didn’t care. She didn’t see anyone else caring either.
Suddenly, she was happy.
‘You know what you are?’ Wally said. ‘You’re an optimist. I hope you stay that way.’
After lunch Wally wouldn’t hear of their going Dutch but insisted on paying the whole bill himself. In the theatre, when they were alone in the elevator, he kissed her on the cheek.
Chris caught some of Wally’s ebullience and energy. All afternoon her nerves and muscles were vibrating. The 3 p.m. stage rehearsal didn’t tire her in the least. She didn’t need to go home for a nap, and all it took to get through the evening performance (she danced Prayer in Coppélia) was three tablespoons of honey on half a container of cottage cheese.
Afterward, changing back into street clothes, she stopped humming long enough to hear half-muted voices from another aisle in the dressing room.
‘I hear she can’t even hold a balance. Wally’s pulling her through everything.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me if Georgette commits murder. Volmar’s been promising her that premiere for three years; along comes Miss Muffet and grabs it.’
‘What do you expect? Her family’s got eight zillion dollars—they probably endowed the season.’
Chris fought to keep the day’s glow from going out. They’re not talking about me.
As she left the dressing room she had to cross the two girls’ sight line. The gossip stopped in mid-sentence, sliced off, and mascara’d eyes darted guiltily to cold cream jars.
They weren’t talking about me they weren’t they weren’t they weren’t!
In the elevator, she remembered Wally’s kiss, and the lump in her stomach dissolved.
When Chris said she’d invited Wally Collins to dinner, Steph almost dropped the entire blender full of Adele Davis high-protein pep-up drink.
‘For dinner? Here? What’ll he sit on, the thrift shop chair or the Salvation Army rocker?’
‘He’s the most unsnobbish person in the world. He doesn’t give a damn about furniture. All he’s got are two orange crates and a mattress and a Honda.’
For a moment Steph was speechless. It didn’t seem possible that Chris and Wally could have been having an affair. ‘Oh, you’ve seen his place?’ Steph said, trying to sound very matter-of-fact.
Chris’s gaze met hers with seamless innocence. ‘No. But he tells me about it.’
It wasn’t a particle of Steph’s business, but she was relieved. ‘What night is he coming?’
‘Next Sunday. That gives me all day to clean and cook.’
‘I suppose I can go to a movie that evening. Maybe Al and Linda are free.’
‘Oh no—you have to be here too. Wally’s bringing a friend. It’s going to be a real sit-down dinner party. With cloth napkins and wine and something very, very delicious for the main course.’
Steph had not seen Chris so happy since the night NBT took her. It was better than the funk she’d been going through. But there was something feverish and unreal about the glow. Steph was bothered. Life seemed to be all ups and downs for Chris, all hurt and happiness, with no safe middles.
‘But, Chris—you don’t know how to cook.’
‘I’ll buy a cookbook.’ Chris squeezed Steph’s hand excitedly. ‘Steph, he’s helping me so much—I have to do something special for him.’
In that phrase ‘something special' Steph detected something extra-special. ‘Chris, how well do you know him?’
‘That’s the whole point. I want to get to know him.’
‘And who’s this friend he’s bringing?’
‘Ellis Watkins.’ Chris added quickly, much too quickly, ‘He’s with the company. He’s not a very good dancer but Wally says he’s an awful lot of fun at a party.’
Steph had heard of Ellis Watkins. So had everyone else in New York ballet except—apparently—Chris. He was the sort of gay boy who made it into the corps on height alone. He couldn’t partner worth a damn because he wanted the audience to look at him, not the girl, and worst of all, he never looked at the girl himself. He’d be lucky to make it to soloist by age thirty, and without a gonad transplant, he’d never make it beyond. He was a nobody; yet somehow he’d latched on to one of the top American-born principals in the business.
An alarm rang in the back of Steph’s head.
‘Chris, as long as you’re going to so much trouble, why not pay off a few obligations? How about inviting Ray instead of Ellis? He did help us move. And we haven’t done a thing for him.’
Chris hesitated, and then she shook her head. ‘Ray wouldn’t enjoy an evening of dance talk.’
‘If he came it wouldn’t have to be dance talk.’
‘But he’s ... he’s a lawyer.’
‘What does that have to do with it? He eats, he talks, he’s nice.’
‘With him I have to ... measure up. With dancers I can burn the spaghetti.’
‘I think you’re wrong. I bet he’d love your burnt spaghetti.’
‘It’s too late. I’ve invited Wally and Ellis and they’ve accepted.’
Steph couldn’t shake her misgivings. ‘You’ve got a tough solo to learn. I wish you’d put this dinner off till after the premiere.’
‘Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll handle it. In fact I wish you’d go to a museum or something that afternoon.’
Reluctantly, Steph agreed.
thirteen
The day of the big dinner, Steph got back to the apartment just before six. She sniffed. A yumminess hovered in the air, tantalizing and unidentifiable. She peeked in the kitchen.
With the grim concentration of a child at finger paints, Chris was slicing handfuls of leeks and onions and potatoes on the butcher board.
Steph peeked through the oven window. A huge shoulder of boned meat had been tied and latticed with garlic- and anchovy-stuffed incisions.
‘Say—what’s cooking?’ Steph asked.
‘James Beard says it’s braised shoulder of lamb with ratatouille. He’d better be right.’
‘I saw that dress you’ve laid out on the bed,’ Steph said. ‘Wow you’re going to look terrific. Who else did you invite, Rudolf Nureyev?’
‘I just felt like wearing something nice,’ Chris said.
‘Nice and new,’ Steph teased.
Chris blushed.
‘Sure I can’t help with anything?’ Steph asked.
‘Thanks, it’s all under control.’
As seven-thirty approached Steph heard Chris making panicky last-minute noises with the plumbing in the bathroom. The kitchen was a maelstrom of ticking timers and half-washed pots and grocery-store litter that needed to be thrown out. Steph rinsed and hid, neatened and sponged, faked an orderly look.
At seven-thirty Chris was still in the bathroom.
Steph sat down with last month’s Dancemagazine, tried to be interested in the Atlanta Civic Ballet, and was furious at her heart for beating so fast, as though she gave a damn that the top American-born danseur noble was coming to dinner and was already two and a half minutes late.
The doorbell ding-donged at twenty minutes to eight.
‘I’ll get it,’ Steph shouted, hurrying to answer. She felt a disconcertingly teen-aged tingle at the back of her neck as she pulled open the door.
A tall young man stood grinning at her. He wore a white shirt of stretch cotton with an Adidas trade mark on the chest muscle, immaculately faded farmer’s overalls, and jogging sneakers. He was crisp and light-haired, well built—and alone.
‘Hello,’ Steph said. Despite her misgivings about the evening she put on her best smile. After all, this was her first guest; her first party. Well, maybe not exactly hers; the apartment’s.
‘Hi, I’m Wally.’ The tall young man thrust out a hand and Steph shook it. His grip was gentle in a way that suggested he was a strong dancer. ‘Sorry I’m
late.’
‘Not at all. Chris isn’t even ready yet. Come on in.’
‘Ellis was held up,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean mugged or anything—just held up.’
It was hard for Steph to believe: when she’d seen him onstage, he’d been a man, a prince. Here in her living room he was an awkward, speechless farm boy, shifting weight from one foot to the other. She wondered what the hell to say: I loved your pas de deux from Voluntaries, I hope I can catch your next Giselle, if you dare hurt my roommate I’ll wring your Achilles’ tendon?
At that moment there was a rustling sound, and Chris stepped into the living room, ballerina-pale in her vin rosé lounging pyjamas.
She froze, staring.
It wasn’t so much a rude stare as a childish one, as though she’d never imagined that sneakers and overalls and a cotton shirt could be put together in quite that combination.
It was Wally who spoke first. ‘Ellis was held up.’
‘Oh no.’
‘I don’t mean mugged or anything. Just held up.’
‘Oh.’
‘But he’ll be along, just as soon as he can make it. Ellis is a real laugh. You’ll like him.’ Wally brought his left arm out from behind his back. He handed Chris a bulging three-foot cone of florist’s paper. ‘Happy house warming, Chris. And you too, Steph. From Ellis and me.’
Chris unrolled the paper, careful not to rip. It held a dozen roses, six red, six white. ‘Oh my gosh.’
The paleness drained from Chris’s face, leaving only grey shock.
‘They’re beautiful....’
Steph waited for Chris to kiss him, or at least to thank him. Not a move. Not a word.
‘I never know the names of flowers,’ Wally said. Suddenly he was a gangly, apologetic twenty-year-old and Steph couldn’t help liking him. ‘So I always get roses. Hope you don’t mind.’
‘Mind?’ Steph lifted the flowers from Chris’s immobilized hands. ‘Look at that, Chris—twelve hothouse roses! Wally, you are a prince. Let me put these in water.’
As she hurried into the kitchen she heard Chris blurt something about the third lift in the più mosso. She hoped it wasn’t going to be an evening of braised lamb and shop talk.
Ballerina Page 12
