“Thank you for asking us,” Francisca said to Reuben. “You’ve really got us hooked on the ballet. Do you know we came last week without you? Paid for the tickets and everything!” The woman laughed easily as she spoke.
“She’s right,” Bautista added, speaking to Cynthia. “Between the job and night law school, I’ve got about an evening and a half free every week. And it looks like we may be spending them right here—for one reason or another.”
“I’m delighted, Luis,” Cynthia said. “In my opinion there is no better place.”
“We’ve got a rather special program for Clifton Holt’s memorial,” Reuben said, as they went upstairs to the mezzanine. “The ballet being done in Holt’s honor is very beautiful. There will also be an added treat. Cynthia is going to speak.”
“Great! Are you nervous?” Francisca asked, turning to Cynthia.
“Well I am, a little,” Cynthia answered. “Speeches aren’t really my forte, and eulogies certainly aren’t.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Reuben said. “The Mayor is speaking first, so whatever Cynthia says, she’ll sound good.”
“The Mayor? Wow! Is he a ballet nut too?” Francisca asked.
“Publicity,” Cynthia replied.
“Publicity?”
“Publicity nut.”
“Oh, I see,” Francisca said, laughing once again.
The Frosts’ seats were on the aisle in the front row of the mezzanine and were, arguably, the best seats in the house. As NatBallet’s Chairman of the Board, Reuben held the four seats by right. Opposite them on the side aisle were those reserved for Peter Howard, the Company President, and in the corresponding location on the other side of the house were the Artistic Director’s seats. Arrayed behind them on the aisles were the seats reserved for the critics from the daily press, various magazines and television. Another twelve places were always reserved until the very last minute for other members of the Board and staff—and just in case Mrs. Reagan, or Colonel Qaddafi, or Nureyev, or a leading dancer’s mother, decided that NatBallet must be seen, and seen at the very next performance.
All in all, a substantial block of the choicest mezzanine seats—among the dance cognoscenti, sitting below in the orchestra was decidedly infra-dig—were taken up to meet the many high-powered demands on the Company. But in practice, many of these prize tickets were placed on sale at the box office just before the performance began. Reuben and Cynthia, for example, by no means attended all performances, and often used only two of their four tickets when they did. (The result was that many lucky tourists, unfamiliar with this Byzantine ticket allocation, went back to the hinterland to tell the neighbors that they “didn’t understand all this business about the National Ballet being always sold out. Why, we just walked in off the street at the very last minute and had the most beautiful seats you could imagine!”)
Before they reached the mezzanine door, Cynthia’s luck ran out. Andrea Turnbull and her son Mark were dead ahead of them. Reuben, Cynthia and Andrea were all stiffly polite, and no mention, of course, was made of the heiress’ recent threat. Only Mark, again in his punk raiment, was surly. He did not change his expression as he was introduced to Cynthia and the Frosts’ guests.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before,” Andrea said to Bautista.
“We don’t come that often,” Bautista explained. “Usually only when the Frosts invite us.”
“Are you in Mr. Frost’s firm?” Andrea asked.
“No, no. I work for the City.”
“Oh, politics. The Mayor’s office?”
“No. Police Department.”
“How interesting. But you’ve known the Frosts for a long time?
“Not really. Just since last year.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you.” The curious Andrea and her glum son went to the right and the Frost party to the left.
“Curious, isn’t she?” Frost said to Bautista. “She’s the one I told you about yesterday. And that’s the kid with her.”
“I figured as much,” the detective replied.
Bautista and Ms. Ribiero were by now used to the Frosts’ seating plan—Cynthia four seats in from the aisle, then Bautista, then Francisca, then Reuben on the aisle itself. It was a placement Reuben had devised after some trial and error, giving one Frost access to one guest, and allowing their guests to huddle together (if necessary) for security.
The foursome sat down, but since they were early, Reuben was soon up greeting the familiar faces around him. Peter Howard (by much-discussed prearrangement) was sitting with Teresa Holt. Frost greeted the pair and said meaningfully to Holt’s widow, “I’m so glad you could come, Teresa I think it’s going to be a fine occasion.”
As he chatted in the aisle, Arthur Mattison put his hand on Reuben’s shoulder and then shook hands. Mattison waved at Cynthia, oblivious to her strong feelings about his commentary on the Brigham Foundation, and looked Bautista and his date over with journalistic curiosity.
“Arthur, this is Francisca Ribiero and Luis Bautista. They’re old friends that we’re trying to convert into ballet fans,” Frost explained.
“Good for you, Reuben. Are you in the arts, Mr. Bautista?”
“No, I’m a detective for the City.”
“Oh, I see! Hanging out with the police, are you, Reuben?” Mattison asked.
“Mmn, we had some professional involvement a few months ago,” Frost answered.
“Well, at least you didn’t end up in jail. Good to meet you,” Mattison said, and departed, with perhaps some haste.
Just before the lights went down, Frost looked across at the other side of the mezzanine to see Arne Petersen and Jack Navikoff in Clifton Holt’s old seats. All very cozy, all one happy family, Reuben thought, as Cyrus Richter, the Company’s principal conductor, led the orchestra in the syncopated overture to Clifton Holt’s Jazz Café.
The ballet, made on three male dancers moving about in a smoky, checkered-tablecloth dive—was it New Orleans, the old Fifty-second Street in New York or just a spot in Holt’s imagination?—was a great success with the audience, as it always was. The individual turns of the dancers drew more and more applause as the routines they danced, to the music of Duke Ellington, grew more and more intricate.
Holt had always insisted that the cast of Jazz Café be integrated—either one black and two white dancers, or two blacks and a white. The mix did not matter, but the importance of it did. In this performance Regan Isham, a promising, regally statuesque black in the corps, paired off with Aaron Cassidy and Tom Dunning in the kaleidoscopic series of solos, duets and trios that made up the ballet.
Frost remembered Holt’s lament as he watched Cassidy bend and twist to the insistent jazz rhythms of the music. He did all the steps absolutely correctly; impeccably, in fact. But that was the problem, as Holt had frequently observed. Cassidy and his contemporaries, weaned on rock and blaring sound, simply did not have jazz in their bones and had to be meticulously taught each and every move. The result was “academically” correct, but lacked the spontaneity and sinuousness that was required. Dunning, a young corps dancer, had the same problem, though he tried—sweated and tried—to achieve the gritty, down-to-earth effect that Holt had sought in the work. Only Isham had the moves, and he took to Holt’s choreography as if it had been made on him. He made the steps look easy, and connected them up with an elastic and fluid languidity that made one understand what jazz was all about.
Jazz Café, one of the first ballets Holt had done for NatBallet, was a wonderful work, combining the traditional classicism of ballet with solid American rhythms. That was one of Holt’s greatest talents, Frost thought; the man had married unlikely opposites in an effective piece of stagecraft, moving the magical combination of jazz and classical dance beyond what those brilliant pioneers George Balanchine and Jerome Robbins had done.
Frost surreptitiously glanced at Francisca Ribiero beside him as the ballet unfolded. He had no doubt that Francisca had an innate sense of rhyt
hm—not because of some ethnic stereotype, but because of the graceful way in which she moved, responded and talked. (Frost had a secret hope that some evening his friend Bautista would invite the Frosts, on one of Bautista’s one-and-a-half nights out, to a discotheque. The idea of ear-shattering dance clubs did not appeal to him in general, but he was sure it would be quite marvelous to watch Francisca moving gracefully to the pounding sounds that these days passed for dance music.)
As the ballet progressed, Frost’s thoughts turned more and more to its creator. What a despicable man Holt had been! Yet here was a work that gave unalloyed pleasure and was, quite possibly, touched with genius. The proof was not just in his own mind, he thought, but in the public response to Jazz Café, now a staple in the repertoires of dance companies across the country. In fact, Frost concluded, his mind wandering, Jazz Café was probably a nice little nest egg. What were the royalties? Five hundred dollars a performance, perhaps. Fifteen companies doing the ballet six times a year—a conservative guess: let’s see, fifteen times six is ninety, times five hundred is $45,000. Not bad. It would keep Teresa in pin money.
Frost’s meanderings were brought to a halt as the ballet ended. Waves and waves of applause followed—they always did, but given the circumstances, they were deafening this time.
“Did you like that?” Frost asked, as he accompanied Francisca up the aisle.
“Oh, yes. It was fantastic!”
“Who did you think was best?”
“Hmm, they were all good. But the black boy was really with it! He’s got the moves!” Francisca squeezed Reuben’s arm as she spoke, moving a bit herself as she did so.
“What did you think, Cynthia?” Frost asked.
“Very good performance. Aaron and Tom will get there yet. But they’ve got to catch up to Regan. Clifton would have been proud of them all.”
“How about a drink?” Reuben asked. “Francisca, Luis?”
“Sure. Let me get them,” Bautista said. He quickly took orders and, with lynxlike precision, moved to the shortest line at the long bar in the lobby outside the mezzanine. He soon returned, somehow deftly balancing four plastic cups and dispensing them without spilling a drop.
“Thank you, Luis. You’re much more agile than I am,” Frost said. “Usually the intermission is half over before I can crowd to the bar.”
“It’s youth, Reuben, that’s all. Youth and a powerful thirst,” Bautista responded confidently.
“Cynthia, what are you going to do?” Frost asked, as the group drank its theatre-bar-minuscule drinks. “Are you going backstage now, or after the next number?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “If I go back now, I’ll only get nervous. But I suppose someone should be there to greet the Mayor.”
“Can’t Arne do that?” Frost asked.
“Good idea. In fact, there he is now. Let me ask him.”
Cynthia went across the lobby and spoke briefly with the Acting Artistic Director. She had made up her mind by the time she returned to her husband and their guests.
“Yes. Arne is going backstage. Which means I can watch Passacaglia, which I very much want to do.”
Cynthia’s plans decided, the group returned to their seats.
“This ballet is quite different,” Frost explained to Francisca after they were seated. “Very quiet Bach music, with a nice ensemble of eight dancers. It’s very special for us, too. Mr. Holt dedicated it to Cynthia on her birthday a few years ago.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Francisca said. “No one’s ever dedicated a ballet to me.”
“Oh, they will, Francisca, they will,” Frost replied.
“You’re a dreamer, Reuben,” she replied. “But who knows? Maybe.” She smiled, then laughed, then lapsed into a pose of close attention as the lights went down.
Passacaglia was the most serene of all Holt’s ballets, written after what he himself called his “jazz phase”—and written after the likes of Arthur Mattison had questioned in print whether he could do anything notable outside the American idiom. The result was classical dance at its most sublime—slow and flowing and utterly enhancing of the beautiful Bach score. It had been written at perhaps the best time of Holt’s tenure at NatBallet, after he himself had become fully reconciled to his career at the Company—no more looking back at the Hollywood days—and when, financially and artistically, it seemed certain that the Company would both survive and grow. And the hommage to Cynthia had been very touching. She had championed Holt, defended him against all criticism and insisted that he be given freedom to do just what he wanted as the Company’s Artistic Director. The public had never known that the ballet was a birthday present—Cynthia was, like all vain dancers, at least a trifle sensitive about birthdays—though the program that opening night in 1973 (and all programs since) had noted that it was dedicated to her.
The original performance of Passacaglia had occurred at the height of Holt’s immensely fruitful artistic collaboration with Veronica Maywood. (Only later would their sexual fling begin, and then abruptly end in bitterness.) But tonight, since Maywood was to dance Requiem to end the program, her nemesis, Laura Russell, danced her part. And danced it, at least in Reuben’s eyes, very well, bringing her characteristic image of ethereal softness to the role.
When the ballet ended, again to tumultuous applause, Reuben offered encouragement to his wife before she went backstage.
“Good luck, dear,” he said. “Just remember you’re talking about the man who dedicated Passacaglia to you and you’ll do just fine.”
“Say, Reuben, do you think it would be all right if I went with Cynthia?” Bautista asked. “I’d like to see the backstage.” Implicit in his request was a desire to see where Clifton Holt had been murdered.
“Of course. It’s a good idea,” Frost replied.
“Do you mind, Cynthia?”
“Not at all, Luis. I’ll be glad for the moral support. Where shall we meet up afterward?”
“I hate to say it, but why not at the stage door? We’ll wait outside for you,” Frost said.
“Fine. Kiss me.”
Frost did, and his wife and Bautista left.
Cynthia Frost and her detective companion went down the main stairs of the Zacklin to the ground floor, then moved against the crowd emerging for the intermission to the door at the front of the orchestra that led backstage. The usher standing by this door knew Cynthia well and unlocked it.
As the pair went up the metal stairs to stage level, Bautista announced that he was going to look around.
“Feel free,” Cynthia said. “If anyone asks, just say you’re with me. You can watch the performance from the wings. It’s sort of fun if you’ve never done it.”
“Okay. I’ll be around here when it’s over. And good luck.”
“Thanks, Luis. Thank you very much.”
The dancers from Passacaglia were now wandering around backstage somewhat aimlessly. The curtain calls were over, but they were not yet ready to return to the dressing rooms. They were not waiting in hopeful expectation that the applause would begin again, Cynthia knew. They were simply getting their breath back after their strenuous execution of Holt’s flowing, legato choreography.
How did I do it all those years? Cynthia asked herself. And how do they do it? The laws of nature dictate that one gasps for breath to provide the oxygen necessary for strenuous physical activity. But the laws of the ballet require that there be no gasping mouths and no heaving chests—the natural physical consequences of great exertion must be concealed. Indeed, not only concealed, but hidden behind a mask—usually a disarming smile—in keeping with the emotional tone of the work being danced.
This conflict of inexorable principles was to be resolved in one way, and one way only—in favor of beauty and artistry and totally against the body’s natural urge to fill the lungs. The result, somehow achieved through disciplined practice and a dedicated set of mind, meant that the gasping and heaving must be postponed—not wished away, but postponed—until the
dancer was offstage, until beauty and artistry no longer needed to be projected.
Cynthia and Luis were now seeing the dancers making their delayed obeisance to nature’s inexorable demands—gasping, heaving, retching, coughing or simply remaining quiet until their bodies, and especially their lungs, functioned normally again. Then too, there was the matter of flushing the echoes of Bach’s music, and the related counting of the steps by means of which they executed Holt’s choreography, out of their heads. Theirs was a form of ear-ringing tinnitus cured only by quietly walking around until something in their brains said “ERASE” and they could once again talk, think and breathe like normal human beings.
Cynthia went over to Laura Russell, who was standing in the wings talking to one of the corps dancers.
“A beautiful performance,” Cynthia said, addressing Laura, now swathed in a knee-length turtleneck and leg warmers.
“Thanks, Cynthia. I’m glad it was good, for Clifton.”
Cynthia then saw Arne Petersen and Moira Burgess quietly conversing while keeping anxious eyes on the door that led to the outside stage entrance.
“I take it Himself is not here yet?” Cynthia said to them.
“Correct,” Petersen answered, looking at his watch. “They called from his car about ten minutes ago and said he was on his way.”
“He’ll get here; he always does,” Cynthia said.
“By the way, who is that fellow you came in with?” Petersen asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have introduced you. He’s a friend of ours from the Police Department.”
“You have some strange friends, Cynthia. Oh, oh, here comes the Mayor.”
The Mayor appeared in the door, his detective bodyguard directly behind him. He looked around hesitantly, then spotted Cynthia and strode toward her. His bodyguard, meanwhile, recognized Bautista and shook hands with him. The two stood at the side and talked several feet from where the Mayor stood.
“Hello, Mrs. Frost,” the Mayor said, leaning over to kiss her.
“Hello, Norman. Do you know Moira Burgess, our public relations director, and Arne Petersen, our Acting Artistic Director?”
Murder Takes a Partner Page 13
