Ballerina

by Edward Stewart

  His lips shaped a smile. His teeth showed, jagged and undeniably his, but with the grey translucence of old china, as though the cleanings that had removed the red wine stains had taken off most of the enamel too. ‘Do you honestly believe what you’re saying?’

  She kept her voice cold and flat, but her eyes were fingernails ripping at the calm of his face. ‘Oh, I do, Mr Volmar. I do. I’m not clever and I never had an education, but I have eyes in my head and I can balance the figures in a cheque book. And I can add you up like two and two. 1 know exactly what you’re up to with Christine.’

  ‘Christine who? We have three in the company.’

  ‘Steph’s roommate and best friend, that’s who and you know it.’ She was shouting but she didn’t care. Let the eavesdroppers in the corridor hear: they knew it already. ‘You’re promoting Chris into roles Steph should be getting and you’re doing it to make Steph a jealous wreck.’

  ‘What do I care who’s jealous?’

  ‘You care because that’s the way you control your puppets.’

  He was motionless an instant. ‘Puppets? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Puppets! What else do you call them? Dancers? Boys and girls?’ Anna threw the words out like spit. ‘They come to Volmar to find out what kind of food they should eat; how long they should grow their hair; who they should room with; who they should sleep with; whether they should be straight or gay or a little bit of both. And you give them answers. Even if you don’t know or care, you give them answers. You’re the boss. You’re Einstein. You’re God.’

  ‘You make me sound like some sort of medieval alchemist.’

  ‘You’re a crooked psychoanalyst.’ She knew she was saying things that could never be forgiven. So what. He disliked her already, considered her a pushy ballet mother. Most people disliked her. She knew it and she was used to it. Life wasn’t a popularity contest, after all. ‘You get those kids to open up their heads to you and you change the wires around so they’re scared stiff and hooked on you and screwed up without you.’

  At first she had felt a certain caution in confronting him, but that was gone now. The words poured out. He was staring at her with such surprise, such helplessness, that she didn’t know whether to laugh or reach a hand to comfort him. She gave him two beats. There was no denial of anything she’d said.

  ‘I’m wise to you, Mr Volmar, and your tactics won’t work with Steph.’

  ‘Anna ... Anna....’ He sipped from the second wineglass. ‘I can understand that you’re worked up. Your child hasn’t made the progress we’d all hoped for. But aren’t you being just a little unfair to me?’

  ‘Unfair? Tell me about unfair?’ She stamped both feet on the floor. ‘I’ve seen the Volmar technique! I’ve seen you in rehearsal! You tell a joke and they’re laughing two minutes before the punch line—because if they don’t laugh you’ll bury them in the back line of the corps! You give company class and you can’t even demonstrate the movements but they all show up because Mr Volmar remembers who takes his classes and who doesn’t, and they can’t afford to displease Mr Volmar, not if they expect to dance a solo in his company; or keep the solos he’s given them; or stay a principal. And afterward they have to sneak off to a real class. They’re scared shitless! You’ve got them so stuffed with hooey about Volmar and New York and art, they feel lucky wasting eight years in the NBT corps when they could be in Atlanta dancing leads!’

  ‘My dancers are free.’ His voice was quiet now, subtly shadowed. ‘Any one of them can go to Atlanta, at any time.’

  ‘Damned right—and the suckers don’t even know it!’

  ‘I’ll release Stephanie from her contract any time she wishes.’

  ‘Big deal. She doesn’t need your permission.’

  ‘Whose permission does she need?’ He aimed a level, inquiring stare at her. ‘Yours?’

  ‘She takes my advice. What about it?’

  ‘I fail to see the difference between being a puppet and being a momma’s girl.’

  ‘The difference is, I’m on her side.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I’ve spent twenty years fighting for that girl and I’m not going to stop now.’

  ‘Anna ... Anna.... Do you ever slow down to think, or are you too busy kicking up dust storms? Did it ever occur to you that I might be on Stephanie’s side too?’

  ‘Then where are her solos? When are you making her a principal? How come Chris has got this fandango rhapsody and Steph doesn’t even have a Do I?’

  ‘Did it ever occur to you that what’s holding Steph back might be—her mother?’

  Anna could hardly believe he’d said it. ‘I’m the one thing that keeps her going!’

  ‘You drive her.’ Volmar nodded. ‘Undeniably you drive her. But there’s a difference between being driven and being motivated. Now the fact is, she has very little motivation. It shows in her technique.’

  ‘How in her technique?’

  ‘She can’t hold her turn-out, for one thing.’

  He was calm now. Anna could see it was a false, lying calm, like a lid pushed down on a boiling pressure cooker.

  ‘Steph has the best turn-out in this company—except for MacInness maybe, and she can outjump MacInness any day.’

  Volmar steepled his fingers thoughtfully. ‘Like you, Anna, I trust in Stephanie’s talent. I’m willing to go on working with her.’

  ‘Oh, you’re so generous with your praise, Mr Volmar. And your precious time.’

  Now came a hissing, whispered shout. ‘I am willing to work with Stephanie, but I am not willing to work with the ghost of Anna Barlow!’

  For a moment she could not answer. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means you will never be a ballerina again.’ Volmar’s voice had dropped from a shout to a cajole. She sensed trickery. ‘Stop trying. Hang up the toe shoes. Toss them into the Black Forest. Bye-bye, ballet.’

  ‘I’m talking about Steph, not me.’

  ‘I’m talking about you, not Stephanie.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘No, you can’t. That’s why you try so hard to take care of her. You’re a fine mother, Anna. I wish I had had such a mother.’

  She studied him carefully. There was a disturbing kindness in the smile that lined his tanned face. Suddenly there was no breath in her.

  ‘But you’re a ferociously lonely woman. It shows and it breaks my heart.’

  ‘We’re talking about Steph,’ she said through clenched teeth.

  ‘It breaks her heart too. You see, Anna, your daughter has youth. She has ability. She’ll take care of herself because time and nature are on her side. But who’ll take care of you?’

  The sudden gentleness of his voice stabbed at her.

  ‘Who’s on your side, Anna?’

  ‘I’m on my side.’

  ‘Are you? Do you even have the time?’

  Anna had not expected this. She retreated momentarily into silence, looking away from his eyes. ‘Steph’s on my side too,’ she said softly.

  ‘No, Anna. The debts of the children are never repaid to the parents. How could life go on? They’re repaid to the grandchildren.’

  ‘I don’t have grandchildren.’

  ‘My poor, poor Anna. You expect her to be your little girl forever.’

  Anna shook her head. She closed her eyes but she could not slow the reeling of her thoughts. ‘She’ll always be my daughter. Nothing can change that. Not even you.’

  ‘You’re your mother’s daughter, Anna, but does that make you a little girl all your life? For twenty years you’ve been a woman. Soon you’ll be an old woman. Why don’t you wake up?’

  ‘We’re talking about Steph.’

  ‘We’re talking about Anna Barlow—who could have lived her own life but instead chose to be a dybbuk in her daughter’s body.’

  ‘What’s a dybbuk?’

  ‘A dybbuk is a woman who wants a second chance. There are no second chances, Anna. Not e
ven by proxy. Don’t waste another quarter century looking for one.’

  ‘Can we please talk about Steph?’

  ‘Who was the last man to kiss you? Was it Marty? Was Marty the last man to hold you?’

  ‘This is crazy!’ she cried, but he went on.

  ‘And the last man to say he loved you was Marty too. I can see that. And there’s been no one since. In all those years. Poor Anna. Even you deserve a little better than that.’

  ‘Marty was my husband! Of course he loved me! Of course he said it!’ But had he? Anna couldn’t remember. She was losing direction. She felt she’d waded into a stream, seeking a shortcut to the other bank, and been swept into an undertow.

  ‘Do you remember the first time I saw you?’ Volmar said. ‘It was scholarship auditions for the company school. Do you remember the way I looked at you?’

  ‘How do I remember if I remember? That was a hundred years ago. I was a kid, a dumb kid.’

  ‘I remember it very clearly. You were a kid. Tall and redheaded. Soft-skinned. And I was a young man.’

  ‘I don’t want to remember!’ Anna whipped the shout out at him. ‘There’s no point!’

  ‘I wanted you. But I was shy. And when you married Marty I was jealous. I fired you. I thought you’d give him up and come to me.’

  Volmar looked up at her. He was the same man as a moment ago but now he seemed pathetic and hurt. Anna tried to answer. There was no protest, no voice in her. Her throat was dry and her palms were moist and her heart was thumping.

  ‘Don’t tell me this,’ she whispered. ‘There’s no use.’

  ‘When you came back I wanted you more than ever. And I tried to steal your little girl.’

  ‘I’m going,’ Anna said. ‘I’m not listening to this.’ But she didn’t move. Some weight held her in the chair.

  ‘You wouldn’t let me have Stephanie. I took Christine instead. And you’re right. I gave Christine roles she’s not capable of. But not to make Stephanie jealous.’ He leaned forward. ‘To make you jealous.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘You’ve always known.’

  Anna’s jaw dropped. Her hand fell. She tried to remember all the sharp and true and killing remarks she’d stockpiled but they all seemed blunt and dull and of no help. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she sighed. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘I know what I want and I’m a patient man. I want you, Anna.’

  ‘It’s too late.’ She shook her head. ‘Even if it was true, it’s too late.’

  ‘You’re not going.’

  She struggled to her feet, both hands clamped to her ears. She moved quickly toward the door, ignoring the dizziness that tugged at her. Her fingers fumbled with the push-lock doorknob.

  ‘I said don’t go!’

  He yanked her hands from the knob and now he held them, crushed together in his fist, and they no longer seemed to belong to her.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she screamed. ‘Are you drunk?’

  She saw Volmar’s hand poised in mid-air and then she felt a stinging slap below her ear. Suddenly the room spun ninety degrees and she was staring at blank wall. A moan built in her lungs and swelled in her throat. It spilled out low and wounded and long like the pleading of a dog caught in a leg trap. Her control deserted her now and she began to sob.

  ‘There, there ... my poor dear Anna....’

  He touched a fingertip to her tears and drew her head down to his shoulder and kissed her softly on each shut eye. The smell that came from him was a mix of soap and maleness and the clean mustiness of leather bindings on shelves. She could feel how strong and lean he was, surprising in a man his age. She could see how clean and neatly cut the nails were that rested on the sleeve of her forty-dollar dress.

  She allowed his hands to graze on her shoulders and her face and her cheeks.

  ‘I hate you,’ she whispered.

  He stroked her patiently, soothingly. ‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘Let it out. Don’t be ashamed. Don’t be afraid of it. Don’t be afraid of anything. You’re safe now, Anna, safe ....’

  Afterwards, Marius Volmar was not ashamed.

  Not when Anna Lang clung to him. Not when she said she had to see him again. Not even when he said he loved her.

  Everyone lacked something. The difference between Marius Volmar and most people was that he knew what he lacked.

  Conscience.

  Anna Lang thought she needed a mission and Stephanie Lang thought she needed a mother. Today he had shown Anna Lang what she really needed. With one simple act he had lifted her daughter’s reins from Anna Lang’s hands and taken them himself.

  It was better that way.

  Marius Volmar knew exactly what to do with reins.

  thirty-five

  Steph sensed Chris edging into another of her breakdowns. The signs were creeping back again.

  Early Sunday morning, before the rush off matrons with plastic laundry baskets and New York Times and loud voices, Steph was feeding dirty .clothes into one of the coin-operated washing machines in the basement. She felt something in the pocket of Chris’s blue jeans. She tugged out a stained, ragged envelope. To her astonishment, it held an uncashed NBT payroll cheque.

  ‘Chris, I found this in your blue jeans. I don’t think it could have survived another wash and spin-dry.’

  Chris stared at the pay cheque. It seemed to take her a moment to recognize what it was. An embarrassed smile came over her face. ‘I was wondering what I’d done with it.’

  ‘Wondering? I would have been screaming. Chris, that cheque is three weeks old. Those jeans were at the bottom of the hamper. Don’t you budget your money?’

  ‘I don’t know—should I?’

  A strange questioning look made Chris’s eyes look bluer and larger.

  ‘What’s the matter with you lately? Last night I came home and you were sound asleep and the door was unlocked. You leave the TV on when you go out. You forget everything—mail, toothpaste, groceries.’

  ‘Don’t be angry with me, Steph.’

  ‘Not angry—just concerned.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes....’ Chris let her shoulders droop. ‘No.’

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  ‘Promise you won’t say I’m a dope?’

  ‘Promise.’ Steph sat down at the kitchen table facing her. They stared at each other.

  ‘I think I’m in love,’ Chris said. ‘Does that sound awfully stupid?’

  It didn’t look like love to Steph. Love was pink cheeks and blushes and darting eyes. This was a wasting disease. ‘Does he feel the same way?’

  ‘I don’t know. We haven’t talked. He’s busy.’

  It sounded like another one of Chris’s gay treasures. ‘Want to tell me who the guy is?’

  ‘Sasha.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Even worse.

  ‘You promised you wouldn’t say it.’

  Steph’s patience deserted her. ‘If you get hung up on him, you’re not a dope—you’re a lemming! Look what he did to Ursula. He broke up Helena’s marriage. When he ditched Molly she had to go to Payne Whitney for depression and they had to feed her intravenously.’

  ‘I wish someone would feed me intravenously.’

  ‘Chris, he’s not even a Don Juan. He’s a pinball player racking up a score. Girls aren’t human beings to him. They’re rosin to grind his dance shoes in.’

  Chris was silent. There was no denial, but she veered back from the force of Steph’s warning. ‘I can’t help it,’ she said in a tiny, white voice. ‘I love him.’

  ‘Yes, you can help it! You can just stick to your dancing and let Sasha wreck other people’s careers—not yours!’ Steph squeezed her hand. ‘And remember to deposit your pay cheques—okay?’

  Chris tried.

  She deposited her next pay cheque. And when at long last Sasha spoke to her after class—‘You like picnic?’—she tried to say ‘No.’

 
But it came out ‘Yes.’

  ‘Today?’ His eyes were on her, warm and soft brown.

  ‘All right.’

  It was a sunny day, mild for February, and she’d thought he meant a picnic in the park. But instead they took a taxi to a brownstone in the West Seventies. He let her into a studio apartment that smelled of new paint.

  ‘Home,’ he announced. ‘You like?’

  There was very little furniture: a Victorian framed mirror; a king-sized mattress on the floor with candy-striped sheets; and Merde, the poodle, prowling circles around a bowl half full of dog food nuggets.

  ‘It’s very bright,’ she said.

  He threw open a closet door. She had never seen so many blue jeans in her life: there were dozens, stacked on shelves, dangling from hangers, piled on the floor—all shades from brand-new to washed-out.

  ‘How many?’ she asked.

  ‘Forty.’

  ‘But—why?’

  ‘Promise I make myself in Russia. I want blue jeans, I want dog, I want everything Soviet say no, you cannot have.’

  ‘Are you happy now?’

  ‘Why should I not be happy? In America I have everything. Except furniture.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Will be better with furniture. Maybe you help me choose?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’d like to.’

  He spread a tablecloth on the mattress. ‘Sit. We have picnic.’

  She sat on the tablecloth. He brought out a loaf of French bread, cheese and sausage, a straw-wrapped bottle of Chianti. He reminded her of a magician setting up his table.

  ‘I make you sandwich.’

  He was so near to her that she could feel how warm his breath was. She was trembling. She drew back.

  He gave her the sandwich and a plastic cup of wine. ‘Zdoroviye,’ he proposed. ‘To health.’

  She sipped, and just as she was smoothing down her skirt over her knees, the dog came bounding between them. Chris’s wine spilled.

  ‘Your bed!’ she cried.

  ‘Is all right, Merde, you have no table manners.’ Sasha struck the animal lightly on the nose. It ran immediately to a corner and sat cringing. Sasha brought a towel from the bathroom and sopped up the stain. ‘I would be crazy without Merde. When I have nightmares, Merde is here—to keep me from jumping out of window.’