‘Why are you angry with me?’ Chris whispered.
Steph stared at Chris’s wide-open eyes and then her lips sprang back from her teeth like a tiger’s. ‘Because I can’t stand any more of this, and I can’t stand any more of your goddamned self-pity!’
There was an instant of annihilation, of shock whooshing into the space where Chris had been, and Steph dashed from the dressing room and slammed the door and stood in the corridor feeling her heart hammer, trying to choke back the poison that was raging in her.
Her mind hopped in disconnected little lurches. A tiredness came bombing down on her, spraying an ashen fallout of hopelessness. Long after her breath had come back, long after the poison had spent itself, shame burned in her. Shame not at what she had done, but shame at feeling no shame for it.
She needed a darkness to pull over herself. She fled to the shadows of the prop bins, of the canvas flats with their broad brush strokes and patches, the electrician’s cables and the totem poles of dead lights. She listened to the theatre going to sleep for the night, the receding waves of voices, the distant slamming of iron doors, the soft creeping hiss of silence through the wings.
It was twilight here, peaceful and sad and somehow not part of the city. She sat on a stool, waiting for her thoughts to knit together.
She did not know when she became aware of the man and the dog. But gradually she knew they were there, fifteen feet away. The man was seated on a ladder. She sensed he was gazing inward at some hurt in himself. The dog seemed part of the man’s concentration. There was a flicker of a hand when the man leaned down to pet the animal. The face bent into a ray of light.
It wore a look of utter desolation and she saw that the man was Sasha Bunin.
He’s crying, she realized. There were no tears, no sound, but he was crying. And the dog heard him. She knew all the stories about Sasha and the girl friends he changed as often as he changed blue jeans, but she had never thought of him crying. She had never thought of him alone, eight thousand miles from home, with no friend but a dog.
It came to her that she had been wrong.
Not only about Sasha Bunin. She had been wrong to be jealous of Chris. Wrong to lose faith in herself. As she stared at the man who was staring into shadows, she felt her muscles stiffen and her will harden.
A fierce glow of certainty came into her.
I’m jealous and I’m frightened and I’m human, her blood whispered. But I’m something more.
I’m a dancer. Like him. No one will take that from me.
I will fight what is weak in me and I will win and I will dance.
She thanked Sasha Bunin silently and left the wings on tiptoes.
A thin rain of applause was still spilling through the speaker. Chris heard a knock at the door. She looked up, saw herself in the mirror, and realized she’d been crying. She grabbed the cold cream.
‘Come in,’ she called, glopping over the tear tracks.
She’d expected the dresser, but the door opened softly and Ray Lockwood stepped in. He had a girl with him.
Chris stood and tried to smile. ‘Hello, Ray.’
There was an instant of eye contact and then he pulled his glance just a little to the side. ‘Brought a friend,’ he said. ‘A fan of yours.’
An odd jauntiness radiated from him, filling the room with a faint unreality.
‘Claire Morgan, Christine Avery. Chris, Claire.’
‘I really adored your performance.’ She was a dark-haired girl with dime-shiny eyes and a small blunt thimble of a nose and she spoke with a Social Register drawl.
‘It was sensational, Chris,’ Ray said. ‘As always.’
He saw that Chris had lost weight. Every sinew and tendon of her birdlike body stood out in the glare of make-up lights. His throat filled with the old grieving ache.
‘I’ve never been in a dancer’s dressing room before,’ the girl said. ‘Mind if I explore?’
‘Go right ahead,’ Chris said.
The girl began prowling. She brushed the chair where Chris had laid her robe and brown and red silk splashed to the floor. Chris could almost hear a rasping sound as the girl drew her eye along the wall. A photograph attracted her and she went and snatched it off its hook.
‘Who’s this?’
‘My teacher. But it’s not mine—this isn’t usually my room.’
‘Lvovna?’ the girl said sharply. ‘You studied with Lvovna?’
‘That’s right.’
The girl stood examining the picture, frowning at Chris as though to superimpose her on it.
Ray’s toe tapped softly on the floor. ‘Claire studied dance,’ he said. He was looking at Chris as though he’d asked a question and was waiting for an answer.
‘That was years ago,’ the girl said. ‘And I never studied with anyone quite so well known as Lvovna.’
A swell of voices came gusting over the speaker.
‘At the moment I’m a market analyst with Kidder Peabody,’ the girl said. ‘The stockbrokers.’
Chris nodded.
‘Claire and I are engaged.’ The words came from Ray in such a low rush that Chris was not certain she’d heard right. She looked at him blankly. He was watching her, measuring the response in her eyes.
Her gaze went curiously from Ray to the girl and finally she said, ‘Congratulations.’
Her reaction bit physically into Ray. He saw that she had never cared and never would care. He took his fiancée’s hand. ‘We’ll be married this spring.’
‘You’re invited,’ the girl said. ‘And if it wouldn’t be too pushy of me to suggest a wedding present, I’d love the shoes you danced in tonight. Could you autograph them?’
‘Sure,’ Chris said quickly. ‘Do you want them now?’
‘Why not, while they’re fresh.’
Grateful to have an excuse to sit down, Chris unlaced her shoes and took the ballpoint pen that Ray was holding out.
‘Could you put the date,’ the girl said, ‘so we can tell our grandchildren it was the premiere?’
Chris signed the sole of one slipper and wrote the date and name of the ballet on the other. The slippers were still warm when she handed them to the girl. ‘They’re a little stinky, I’m afraid.’
‘We’ll give them the place of honour,’ the girl said, ‘stink and all.’
Without warning Ray bent to kiss Chris on the cheek. ‘You were beautiful,’ he said.
There was something desperate in his eyes and Chris couldn’t answer it.’
‘I think Chris needs to shower,’ the girl said. ‘And, Ray, you’ve got Max Factor on your mouth.’
They went and the thought stabbed Chris, I’m losing everything ... everyone.... Soon there’ll be nobody, nothing....
thirty-seven
‘What’s that?’ Dorcas said suspiciously.
Volmar had phoned to warn her he was dropping by, but not that he was dropping by with champagne. He handed it to her, smiling. ‘For you.’
‘And that?’ She nodded, not smiling, at the package still in his hand.
‘For us. Open yours first.’
She did not bother unwrapping the bottle. She pulled off a strip of paper to expose the label. The Taittinger brut gave her pause. ‘Nineteen sixty-three. And chilled. Damn it, Marius, I’m not confessing to any more birthdays.’
‘Am I asking you to?’
‘If I open this—and you know I’m going to—you’ll take it as an admission. You’ve always had the ridiculous idea that I was born on February nineteenth.’
‘What’s wrong with it is that it’s today.’
‘My dear, you’re not getting any older. But the champagne is. Why don’t we taste it before it turns to salad dressing?’
Dorcas summoned the Bolivian maid and dispatched her with a burst of Spanish in which Volmar could discern only the word champaña. Just as teacups never appeared at Dorcas’ without platefuls of cakes, the champagne glasses arrived with a bowl of lady fingers. Volmar opened the bottle, was pleased a
t the healthy pop of the cork.
He poured and raised his glass.
‘Not to me,’ Dorcas said. ‘Not to us. Not to auld lang syne.’
‘To Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.’
‘All right, I’ll drink to that. What’s the occasion?’
‘This is the occasion.’ Volmar slid the package across the coffee table.
Dorcas shook it, made a face. ‘An art book?’
‘Not even warm, my dear.’
She undid the wrapping paper, opened the loose-leaf binder, stared at the Xeroxed pages. Puzzlement rippled over her face and then a dim sort of understanding. ‘But it looks like his autograph.’
‘Most definitely.’
‘I’m a lousy sight reader. What is it?’
Volmar had completed his plans for the ballet. Every detail was fixed and glowing in his mind and he held in his hands his Sleeping Beauty’s reins. He was ready at last to share his vision with Dorcas. ‘Aurora’s Act One solo—dropped from the Petersburg premiere. Not a note of it, not a step of it, has ever been performed in public.’
Dorcas’ eyes scanned down the page, scepticism and interest mixing in them like a yin and yang wheel set spinning. ‘This is the full orchestration?’
‘The composer’s own. And'—Volmar leaned across the table and gave the pages a flip—‘the short score of the Act Three prelude and Aurora’s variation. Tchaikovsky’s scoring—not Stravinsky’s. We could restore the original.’
For an instant Dorcas’ gaze was dreaming and hungry. Her lips took a kiss of champagne. ‘What a coup that would be .... But Petipa’s choreography for the solo—it must be lost.’
‘Not lost.’ Volmar shook his head. A smile teased at the corner of his mouth. ‘Dazzling. He conceived a pas de deux danced by Aurora alone. The partner is invisible—imaginary—and yet he is there—visible—in Aurora’s reactions.’
Volmar stood, hands sketching the movements in air.
‘He supports Aurora. He lifts her. There is even a passage, a variation for the absent partner—which of course refers to Florestan’s Act Two variation. But the harmony is open, ambiguous. It works beautifully.’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘Several times.’
‘But how?’
‘Lvovna taught it to one of the girls.’
Dorcas stared at him one girlish instant, then hugged him. ‘Oh, Marius, this is worth having a birthday for. Will you play it for me?’
Dorcas Amidon was one of the two thousand New Yorkers rich enough to pay the maintenance on a living room big enough to house a nine-foot concert grand piano. She was also one of the two hundred New Yorkers who had been rich enough long enough to own a Steinway Model A concert grand. The last A’s had-been built before World War II, when the government conscripted seasoned piano wood for gliders.
Volmar lifted up the music stand and propped the Tchaikovsky open to page one. ‘This is going to be a very inaccurate impression. The harp—her preparation. Fortissimo brass, three chords—his entrance. His spotlight is empty, of course. Kettledrums, light soft strokes, set the adagio tempo. Melody in winds, it’s fascinating doubling, flute and bassoon unison, not octave.... she arabesques, he supports her—she has to overbalance, very few dancers can do it. Forgive me if I sing, there’s a countermelody here, cellos.’
He was no expert at sight-reading orchestral scores, but he managed a reasonable likeness. As the last notes of the pas de deux died away Dorcas was staring off at some far horizon.
‘A restored Sleeping Beauty. It could be the spring gala.’ A crisp practicality tiptoed into her voice. ‘We have the sets from the ’66 production—if they haven’t grown fungus.’
‘We can clean them up.’
‘And with new costumes for the principals—how many principals are there?’
‘If you count Puss in Boots and all the storybook characters, two dozen.’
‘We could pinch the courtiers’ gowns from Giselle and Swan Lake:
‘We’ll have to.’
‘Who do you see as Aurora?’
‘I was considering somebody new.’
She stared at him appraisingly. Under the company charter he had the final say in casting: she became acting director only during his absence or illness. ‘Do I dare ask who?’
‘You do not.’
‘We need names, Marius. A gala runs from twenty-five to two hundred fifty a seat. For that kind of money, people expect brilliance.’
‘Brilliance will be no problem. We’ll pack the production with principals.’
Dorcas nodded. He could see the notion ignite her.
‘Cameo appearances,’ Dorcas said. ‘Lucinda could do the Lilac Fairy. Sally Shelley for the Enchanted Princess.’ She smiled. She loved galas. ‘And for the Bluebird—Wally could do that brilliantly—’
‘There are several roles he could do brilliantly,’ Volmar said—including, he was careful not to say, the male lead—Prince Florimund. Let her think it could go to her adorable Sasha if that would make her an ally. After all, he needed her vote to get the project past the board of directors.
‘And Prince Florimund?’ Dorcas said.
‘My dear, we don’t have to cast the entire ballet this minute.’
‘We should know who our principals are going to be. There’s the publicity to think of.’
‘We’ll think of that in due course.’
‘You’re too casual, Marius. A gala is business. It’s practically high finance these days. We could make a fortune out of this. We might even be able to interest Public Television. If we had the right names....’
She didn’t finish her sentence. Volmar turned, following the direction of her glance. In the open foyer door stood Sasha Bunin, boyishly trim in his blue jeans and Adidas sports shirt, glowing as though he had just come from class or some girl’s bed.
Volmar had heard no doorbell, no maid. Obviously Sasha had been promoted: he now had his own key to Dorcas’ co-op.
‘Why, Sasha,’ Dorcas said, ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘He’s as quiet as Puss in Boots,’ Volmar said.
Dorcas bridled visibly at the remark linking Sasha to a subsidiary role in Sleeping Beauty. As though to show he was very much the premier danseur, Sasha gave a forlorn, Petrouchka-like shrug of shoulder and face that was worthy of Misha Baryshnikov.
‘I did not wish to disturb,’ Sasha said. ‘You are working?’ He plunked a kiss on Dorcas’ cheek that was downright proprietary in its nonchalance.
‘It’s grown-up talk,’ Dorcas said. ‘You’d better scram for a while.’
Sasha’s eyes lingered on the champagne, the two glasses. He smiled. Volmar felt a tremor of irritation, distant and suppressed, like the passing of a subway train twenty-two storeys below.
‘Very well, I shall scram and shower. It is nice to see you, Mr Volmar.’
An awkward silence followed.
‘He’s not living here, Marius. It’s just that he has an awful landlord and the plaster’s falling down and there’s no hot water in his place.’
‘His English has improved miraculously.’
‘Yes, isn’t he a wonder? Marius, for Prince Florimund, don’t you really think—’
‘I really think that decision comes later, my dear.’
Afterwards, Dorcas lit another cigarette, gulping down smoke as she paced.
She wanted Sasha to dance that gala. She sensed that Marius, perverse as always, was veering toward opposition. Persuasion would be required. She had to catch Marius like a fly, and the flypaper had to be scented with Chanel.
She cocked an ear to those inner whispers that had been her automatic pilot for fifty-four years. The silence of the apartment flowed over her.
It was a New York silence: honks and brakes of Fifth Avenue traffic, the whine of a jet passing four miles overhead, the whispering of water pipes in the walls, the footsteps of neighbours, muted through foot-thick ceilings, reminders that even at your loneliest you were never more than twel
ve feet from someone else in this city.
If she stood absolutely still she could hear Josefa in the kitchen, humming and clattering dishes; farther away, very faintly, she could hear Sasha’s tape recorder—the piano music he used for exercising at home. When she lived alone the apartment had had one sort of silence and now with Sasha it had another. She preferred the silence now. She liked knowing that he was in the house somewhere, running a bath or reading a book or napping. It gave a comfortable explanation to the sorts of noises old co-ops make.
Of course he wasn’t in the house as much as she’d have liked. He was young, and independent, and sensitive about appearances. She’d agreed when he wanted his own place.
For appearances, he said.
Appearances kept him out two or three nights a week. She minded, but not unbearably.
Suddenly it came to her: a dinner party.
She would invite a who’s who of money, arts, and glamour. Sasha would be the centrepiece. The guests would simply assume he was dancing the lead. The assumptions of the powerful, after all, had a way of becoming public policy. The ballet might not even be mentioned, but the party would amount to an announcement and Volmar’s presence to an endorsement. Rumour would spread through ballet circles and the media, the top-priced tickets would be snapped up long before the first mailing, and it would be impossible—short of a humiliating retraction sure to alienate the company’s major supporters—for Volmar to cast anyone else.
Eagerness pulsed through her. She slid aside the glass-paned door and stepped into the dining room, mentally roughing out table placement and seating. Her heart beat with the hot certainty of success.
‘Christine Avery, please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Christine darling, this is Dorcas Amidon? I’m giving a little dinner party on the ninth for Sasha? We’d be just delighted if you could drop by, eight o’clock sharp?’
Chris stifled a quick intake of breath. Sasha wanted to see her, after all these weeks of silence? Before she could stammer a yes, another thought shot through her mind. Why wasn’t Sasha phoning? Why so far in the future? And why did they have to meet at a party?
Her mind skimmed for an excuse. ‘I’m dancing.’
Ballerina Page 39
