Inhaling the wind, Angel smells a simmer of curry and cumin, garlic and marijuana, listens to the distracting songs of too many salsas from apartments. Parked cars on the street compete for attention; there’s a lambaste of motorcycles, vibrating the night like farts.
From a spot near the edge of the roof, he can see across the street into Korn’s kitchen, and his pulse races with the feeling he had right before he discovered Alexis’s letters; a sixth sense, the same sort of intuition that the answer is about to be revealed to a question that he suddenly isn’t certain he really wants to ask.
The joy Angel feels dancing with Maria has always bonded them. He respects Maria’s father, hardworking and honest. She comfortably fits into his family, and they adore her. He is so close to showing her his completed business plan for Club Paradiso; he knows she will share his enthusiasm. She has been part of all that he dreamed for so long.
The one thing he feels sure of is that he will love Maria no matter what. No matter what he sees across Twelfth Street, he knows he can forgive her, that he will find a way to save her.
Angel watches as Maria enters Korn’s apartment, allows herself to be taken into his arms. He’s shocked that the two know each other. Korn stands facing Maria in front of a large framed mirror, which leans against a wall. She is wearing the same red blouse and black skirt she often wears for practice at Dance Time. Korn is speaking to her, and then, holding his arms open, she enters his embrace. Her cheek is against his, her hand intimately draped around his neck, and they dance in a slow rumba. Korn’s eyes are closed, his concentration apparent even across Twelfth Street. The two barely move in that confined room. He finds himself trying to name the dances: a meringue, then a slow tango, and another rumba. In dance after dance their reflection in the mirror creates a strange and awful duality. He feels a fury at the fervent familiarity, the push and pull of the teacher’s urgent hands, the willingness of his pliant student. A student. This is where she’s spent all these Friday nights. If they are only dance lessons, why is it a secret? Has he ever seen Korn at any of the places they dance? He remembers seeing Korn at the clubs, ten years ago, and more recently at the Hungarian Ballroom, where he and Korn give private lessons. He never comes to the Ballroom.
Angel recognizes all of Maria’s exquisite gestures; how she appears to dance with her eyes closed when she dances the tango, the litheness of her left hand barely touching her partner’s shoulder in a meringue. The way she stands paused between dances, straight and tall, listening for the rhythms. Even the way she brushes aside the damp wisps of hair that curl in the perspiration forming at her temples. They are all familiar—as if they belong to Angel, not Korn.
He is unable to turn away from the theater. It’s like watching two lovers on a golden stage that floats in a night sky.
When the stop-and-start dance lesson finally ends, Korn sits and pulls Maria onto his lap. Angel barely breathes. Korn’s back is to the window, and Angel wonders what words are exchanged between them. What did the old man ask that brings nods from Maria? Why is she caressing him so lovingly?
The observations and the ultimate questions he faces on the roof make him woozy, sick to his stomach. There is a terrible taste on his tongue. Despite the chill, he can feel clammy sweat under his jacket. He is overwhelmed by a rush of anger and despair.
With a deep intake of breath, Angel imagines he can move back to the far end of the roof, take a long running start, and with a gigantic thrust, fly full force across the chasm of Twelfth Street, toward that rectangle of amber light that is Harry Korn’s window. He wants to feel his body obliterate the space between. Between secrets and truth he can hear the shatter of glass.
Time slows to the saddest of rhythms for Angel. Even their good-bye is intimate. When Korn takes Maria’s face in his hands, he is close enough to kiss her, but Angel is certain that she pulls away from him. Korn stands at the door for what seems an eternity after Maria leaves.
Angel remains. He wants to see the small details of Harry Korn’s apartment, of the man himself. Korn moves to the sink to put his mouth under the faucet, and Angel imagines his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his crepey-skinned throat as he swallows. He’d like to look directly into Korn’s eyes.
He watches as Korn slides the mirror between the refrigerator and a wall. Moving the kitchen table into the middle of the room, he places two chairs exactly at each end of the table. In increments, he pushes them, correcting their position. Angel has never seen anyone need a table and chairs to be so perfectly arranged.
As Korn walks out of Angel’s range of view, turning off the light, the amber shadows lurking in the corners of the kitchen turn a murky gray. Korn moves into the next room, where a muted light goes on and Korn’s silhouette drifts in and out, ghostlike, behind a gauzy curtain. A long slash of light from what must be the bedroom pierces the darkness of the kitchen, crossing the checkered linoleum like a spotlight on a dance floor; colliding with the old-fashioned refrigerator, it forms a brilliant perfect triangle on its door. Other than that, the apartment appears to Angel as dreary as the man.
He wants to take in every detail, as if by doing so he can understand. Why is Maria in that apartment, dancing?
Angel wishes he could erase the past hours. His anger is gone, and what remains is more sadness than he can ever remember.
Closing his eyes, he imagines himself, rather than crossing the chasm, taking the steps necessary, three, maybe two, stepping up onto the facing of the building, raising his arms like a bird. Then, falling. Forward. Down. Past each floor. Fourth, third, second. Would he look into each window as he passed, discover other secrets? Would his life flash in front of his eyes? It would be several seconds before he hit the pavement. How many?
He has to get out of there. Turning to go, he is aware of movement in Korn’s bedroom.
Korn, in his underwear, pushes the curtain to one side, and as though lifting weights with both hands, pulls up the window as far as it will open. With his arms raised, a carved hollow is apparent beneath the bony delineation of his rib cage. As the night wind blows against his wiry, muscular frame, in the pale light that reaches his window from the streetlamp below, he looks to Angel as though he’s chiseled from a piece of wood. Two black voids for eyes; a deep furrow cuts a chasm between his brows. Jagged shadows define his jaws, with a grim gash for a mouth; a death mask staring into the night.
All his weight is on his hands, grasping the windowsill. Angel is certain that Harry Korn wants to lean forward and fall to the ground. He can see Korn’s open mouth gasping for breath.
Angel has never seen such torment in a face before and suddenly realizes that they share the same desolation.
Chapter 33
Harry
A man at the head of a dancing school would be of infinite assistance to the young men and women coming upon the stage of action.
—Thomas E. Hill, Evils of the Ball, 1883
Closing his bedroom window, Harry takes the scrapbook from under his bed, leans back on the headboard, dropping the slippers off his feet. Opening it carefully, he takes out the mementos and, one by one, gently holds each precious item to the light.
There is Maria when she was three months old, in the bathroom sink, her plump arms raised close to her face. Even then her dark eyes were animated. It is the first photo she gave him, when she was eight. The same eyes, the same mouth, the same expression. If only he could have held her, put his face into the dimpled creases of her soft baby skin, smelled her baby smell.
Every March, she gives him a picture for his birthday. She always wants to buy something for him, but he is adamant. Only a photo. By laying out in neat rows on the bed all the pictures she has given him over the years, he is able to see her entire life; see, in increments, her growing more beautiful in each brief moment, captured by the camera’s clear focus. First birthday, first holy communion, confirmation, graduation from junior high, sweet sixteen, graduation from high school. His favorite is a picture taken at t
he beach. With one hand resting on her hip, Maria poses like a Miss America contestant, perfect and majestically graceful.
Harry opens a yellow envelope and, slipping his finger inside it, moves it around until he feels the soft circle of the curl of her hair.
Searching for the red ribbon Maria wore on her sixteenth birthday, he breathes easily in the pleasure of finding it. It is as though she were near.
Soon she’ll be twenty-one. He’ll surprise her, buy the dance dress he has always promised her, that she has been waiting for. He will begin to look for her gown on Saturday. He’ll buy a tux and have it fitted. He has seen the shoes he wants at Randy’s. On the way to the market on Friday he will order their airline tickets. Then, in January, he will ask her father for permission to marry her and take her to Buenos Aires. He is filled with joy.
Chapter 34
Maria
Never speak upon any topic unless thoroughly conversant with the subject.
—Rudolph Radestock, The Royal Ball-Room Guide, 1877
Where do you go Friday nights?” She and Angel are caught outside the Ballroom in a rainstorm the following Sunday. The first day of April has waited, gloomy and portentous, for this midnight deluge to clear the heavy air.
“I told you a million times. Stop asking.”
Maria can’t believe he is doing it again. One drop of rain on her forehead, caught in her brow, gathers weight, runs down the side of her eye socket, along the side of her nose, and across her upper lip. The Ballroom door opens and two women step out, stopping to search their bags for their umbrellas.
“Tell me,” Angel insists when the pair walks away. “I want to know the truth. I don’t understand.”
“It’s really none of your business.” In the steamy downpour, so close to Angel, she can smell the cologne she gave him two years ago, which he continues to wear—Very Valentino, mixing with the grassy smell of spring rain.
Her hair hangs like thick, dark ropes, dripping water down her back and into the crease between her breasts. There are goose pimples on her arms. Her dress, weighted with rain, clings to her legs. Soggy with water, her ruined silver dance shoes suck the ground. Her legs are so weary they barely hold her. Angel has never spoken to her like this.
The door opens again, and Gabe Katz steps out with a young blond woman Maria doesn’t recognize.
“Damn,” Gabe growls at the rain, then sees Maria and Angel. “Need a lift?”
“No, we’re okay.”
“It was hot in there tonight. You two did quite a hustle. How’s the competition at the International this year?”
“Tough,” Angel answers. “So are we.”
“’Night.” Gabe moves off, holding the blond close under his oversize black umbrella. Once they are gone, Angel takes hold of her arms.
“You go to that Harry Korn’s. In your building. Upstairs. Don’t you? I saw you, Maria. I saw you dancing with him. In his kitchen. I know it was you. Don’t you think I know you?”
How could that be possible? How could he know? Was he hiding in the building? Where? A passing crosstown bus splashes fetid water onto them. She feels desperate, trapped between the terror of being caught and the need to admit the truth. He is her partner, her friend, someone she loves and respects. She wants to tell him the truth, to be free of the weight of this awful secret and shame. Her nights with Harry have gone on for too long. Year after year, everything the same. She’ll soon be twenty-one, but she still can’t let go. Sometimes the ticking of Harry’s Big Ben clock reminds her of all the time that has passed, and all the promises she’s made to the Virgin Mary, swearing each time is the last.
When Sarah Dreyfus steps out the door, she seems to realize that something is going on between them, pauses, gives a simple nod, then hails a passing taxi.
“It must have been someone who looks like me,” Maria says, even though she knows she can’t keep up this facade. “He’s got lots of students.”
The door keeps opening as the Ballroom empties.
“It was you, Maria.”
“I don’t know if you can understand. He’s my friend. My teacher. He loves me.”
She is crying; she wants to run—from Harry, Alphabet City, and most of all Angel. She feels so ashamed—of the act, and the lies. She looks into his eyes, searching for hope. Could he understand, forgive her? She watches raindrops bead and gather on his cheek, each droplet with a life of its own, sliding over his iridescent skin, bone, cartilage, hollows, lips, chin, and the late-night, blue-black growth of his beard. She can’t bear it any longer; she wants it to be over. It is all too much. She wants to be free of Harry. She tries to say the words.
“I can’t help it, Angel. I don’t know what to do.” She is sobbing, and he is holding her.
“You have a future, Maria, all your dreams to come true. He’s an old man. You have your whole life ahead of you.” He is wiping the rain from her forehead, her cheeks, and her shoulders. There is comfort in the touch. A silver halo outlines his head, a reflection of the neon from the window of the furniture store.
“When you’re ready to talk about this, I’m here. Come, you’re soaking wet. I’ll take you home.”
Chapter 35
Sarah
Converse about music and the opera, dancing and the ballet, concerts and the theater, new literary works and the last novel, dress and the fashions, and matters which do not require much thought. Avoid the weather, religion and politics, especially with a stranger.
—W. P. Hazard, The Ball-Room Companion, 1849
In her plaid linen suit, which accentuates her tiny waist, Sarah notices the admiring glances she gets as she approaches Gabriel, who is waiting at the bar of the Rockefeller Center Grill. It is finally spring.
It has taken her months of playing cat and mouse to get here. The first time she danced with Gabriel, that extraordinary tango, when he walked away from her after only one dance, she decided he would never have that advantage again. Since then she has been the first to break away, walk off with only a nod of her head. No “Thank you,” as though he’s done her a favor by dancing with her. Only a pleasant nod. She knew he’d forgotten her name when he finally handed her a pen and paper for her number, and reminded her to add her name. When he called to make a date, she put him off—her “busy schedule.” Then, last week, she coolly agreed to see him . . . for lunch.
I like a woman in a hat.” With his sure hand at the small of her back, he leads her to a table, window side, offering her the best view of the ice skaters.
Gracious, elegant, debonair. Debonair, she likes that word. It conjures suave Cary Grant, dashing William Powell, cocktails and dancing at the Starlight Roof. The perfect host, Gabriel recommends a wine, suggests the salmon, orders for her. Effortlessly, he talks about himself and his work, and then turns to questioning her.
“What about you, Ms. Dreyfus? Who are you?” he asks. Under the table his knee is touching hers. “Where have you learned to be such a good little dancer?”
She doesn’t know how to answer the first part of his question. Who she is seems at this moment somewhat unclear. What is clear is that she feels suddenly flustered. She doesn’t much care for being called a “little” dancer, but she doesn’t move her leg away.
“It’s all in the lead,” she responds. Then, asking casually, “Are you still looking for a dance partner?”
“Are you interested?” His gaze is constant. “You’ve been eluding me long enough.”
“Have I?”
“I think you like to play games, Ms. Dreyfus.” When he leans back in his chair, she notices his expensive watch and the fabulous snake ring, its sapphire eyes and pavé diamonds catching the light.
“What will being your dance partner require?” She leans forward.
“Practice,” he responds. “The right clothes.” His elegant blue tweed sports jacket and pale blue cashmere sweater match his frosty eyes perfectly. Without his tinted glasses, she can see radiating silver flecks, like the spots on robin’s eggs
. Bird’s wings flutter inside her chest.
“What happened to your old partner? Did she really get a job offer in Hollywood? Or did you do her in?”
“Yes.” He pauses, leaning forward. “I ate her.” He is staring at her quizzically. “Why would you suggest I did her in? Do I seem like that sort of person to you? Are you afraid of me?”
Across Gabriel’s shoulder, Sarah watches the skaters pass by; most skate alone, in tiers of ability. Along the edges, hands outstretched, ready to take hold of the railing, are the beginners. Graceless, with heads lowered, prepared to fall, they vigilantly watch their fickle feet.
“Perhaps you’re afraid of . . . men. Have you been married?”
“I have.” She has no intention of elaborating, as she neither wants to answer questions about nor listen to his judgment of her three marriages. She doesn’t like the way this is going.
“Will you ever want to compete?” she asks, to change the subject.
“Never.” He is emphatic. “I dance for pleasure. I want a partner to share that pleasure with. I have no patience for dancing with beginners. I have high expectations.”
“I wonder if you can meet my expectations,” she says with some sarcasm, pushing food around her plate. The salmon is dry.
“Most women jump at the chance to be my partner.” He pauses, savoring his duck. “What are your expectations? If we’re clear, anything is possible.”
“What does that mean?” She hates the arrogance in his gaze. “‘Anything is possible.’”
“Maybe you’ll find out what pleasure is, Ms. Dreyfus.”
When Hepburn and Tracy spar, each vying for the upper hand, it’s like a wonderful tennis match, romantically amusing. Somehow, here across the table from Gabriel Katz, it doesn’t feel amusing at all. His imperious manner is making her feel like a cheap conquest. She is indignant that despite being quite a good dancer, she has to barter favors. A part of her detests him.
Ballroom: A Novel Page 18
