Ballroom: A Novel

by Alice Simpson

  He sits down at the kitchen table, holding his temples with both hands as though his head hurts.

  “What kinda plans?”

  “What kinda plans?” he asks again, when she doesn’t respond.

  As she recognizes his dismay, her resolve to shield him from the truth disappears.

  “Angel and I, we’re going to be business partners. Open a dance center. You know, tango, ballroom, maybe a library, films and lectures. After I graduate. I didn’t want to have to tell you all of this. I would never want to hurt you, Harry.”

  “What about me and you?” He sighs with grief.

  “I’m too young for you, Harry.” She reaches across the kitchen table and takes his hands away from his head, holding them in hers. “Look at me. Look at yourself, really look.” She points to the mirror, but he won’t look up. His reflection looks fragile. “You need someone closer to your own age. Like one of those women you teach at the Ballroom. You’re sixty-five, and I’m almost twenty-one. It’s just not right, Harry. I want you to want me to have a good life. Say it’s okay, please. Wish me a good life. Let me go.”

  Refusing to look at her, he stands up and pushes the mirror back into the space next to the refrigerator.

  She didn’t mean to ask for anything, or to plead. She intended to state only that she couldn’t come on Fridays anymore. When he turns toward her, she’s afraid he will start saying the same old words again; his lullaby of promises and dreams, the turquoise dress, the shoes, the plans.

  Instead he sits down at the table, his head in his hands again, and looks at the linoleum tiles. The heel of his shoe mindlessly kicks at the missing chip where he starts each dance. His head turns from side to side, as though saying, No.

  She touches his shoulder, then bends down and kisses the top of his head. She longs to put her arms around his neck, beg him not to be sad.

  “You’re in love with that Angel Morez, aren’t you?”

  “This is about you and me . . . and it’s over.” Standing up, rearranging the chairs the way Harry likes, she walks toward the door. “I’ve got to go now.”

  Year after year, everything has been the same—the words, the mirror, La Mega, the steps, his touch. Week after week, even after she and Angel won the Latin ballroom championship, she has climbed the three flights of stairs to Harry’s apartment every Friday night.

  “I’m going now.”

  “You just got here. We didn’t dance.”

  Though she is certain of what she is doing, as she closes the door behind her for the last time, she hesitates.

  “Te amo.”

  Chapter 38

  Angel

  Guests should enter with spirit and cheerfulness into the various plans that are made for their enjoyment.

  —Thomas E. Hill, Evils of the Ball, 1883

  Go on, Angel, open it.” Maria seems embarrassed as she hands him a small white box.

  “Why are you giving me a present?” When she won’t meet his gaze, he is reminded of those first nights at Our Lady of Sorrows.

  “Because I’ve never given you anything,” she responds. “Because you’ve been so good to me. Stood by me. Go on, open it.” She is so still while he holds the white box, it seems she can’t be breathing.

  “I should be giving you a present. You’re graduating next week.” He shakes the box near his ear, listening to the sound of metal against cardboard and the rustling of tissue. “What is it?” Looking up, he notices a vein, small and blue, pulsing on her neck.

  She gives him a jab in the ribs as he unties the satin ribbon, smooths it, then slowly rolls it around his fingers. She grabs it from him and is about to toss it out the window.

  “Hey! No throwing stuff out the window.”

  “You’re driving me crazy, Angel. Since when are you so compulsive? If you don’t open it, I will!”

  “Smells like a new car.” He sniffs around the edges of the box, and she tries to take it away from him. Finally, taking off the cover, he takes hold of a heavy silver buckle in one hand and watches as a black alligator belt uncurls in a downward spiral. “Amore mío.”

  “Do you really like it?” Her face breaks into the most radiant smile of relief.

  “Si.”

  “I want you to know it’s over with Harry.” She pauses. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I thought so much about it. I don’t know if anyone—if you—can understand my relationship with him. I don’t know how it began, but it was something I kept secret for too long. Partly from shame, and partly from a fear of being found out.

  “School always comes easy to me,” she continues. “The most important thing is, I do it to show Papi that I can make something of myself. He wants me to be a success, and I want to succeed. For him and for me. That’s my head. But in my heart I want to dance. You know that. You understand that better than anyone. It’s what we share.

  “Since I was five, I used to go upstairs. I’d just sit outside Harry’s door and listen to his music. I wanted to learn to dance, more than anything in the world.

  “He made me assure him that I would come.” She looks down, wrapping the ribbon around her fingers. “Every Friday night, at the same time. He was obsessed with details and made promises to me, too. I was caught up in it, somehow; all the things a little girl wants, to be beautiful and to dance in a ballroom in a ball gown. I wanted those things and . . . I . . . I had to be there. Those Friday nights with Harry went on for so long, they seemed a part of my life. Then he got this crazy idea to take me to Buenos Aires to dance. I just went along with it. I think he really believed it would happen.”

  “He’s an old man,” Angel says.

  “I know.” Her hands are very still now as she speaks. “I can’t lie, there was something hypnotic, something magical, almost exquisite about dancing with him. You know what it’s like, dancing with someone special. It doesn’t matter what they look like or how old they are. I’d forget who I was. I’d forget that he was an old man.

  “You won’t tell Papi? Promise me, Angel. Please, tell me that you won’t tell my father. He would kill me. Promise me, please. I don’t think he’d ever forgive me. I’m all he’s ever had. Since my mom died, it’s just the two of us.”

  It surprises Angel to hear Maria mention her mother. She almost never speaks of her, which is a relief, because he has always known that her mother isn’t dead. Everyone knows about her mother but Maria. Years before, his parents told him that Vivianna Rodriguez had run off with a man she’d been seeing behind Manuel’s back. Manuel wouldn’t allow anyone to speak of her again, and Angel has been sworn to keep the secret from Maria. He’s wanted to tell her, because he doesn’t believe in lies. But it’s her father’s truth to tell, not his.

  “I won’t tell him.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I had to know. When you didn’t go out, and I saw that Korn lived in the building, I went up on the roof across the street.”

  “Harry taught me to dance. I couldn’t stop going up there. I didn’t know how to stop.”

  “You always knew how to dance. You said that he loves you, Maria. Do you love him?”

  “In a way, yes, I do. I’ve broken his heart, you know? I feel connected to him. It hurts me to see him in pain. He has this fantasy that someday I’ll be his partner. Just a crazy dream he has. I told him Friday that I can’t come anymore. I tried to be gentle with him. I told him that we can’t go to Buenos Aires, and that I can’t be his dance partner. I told him about the club, and you and I being partners.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He just listened. Didn’t say anything. That’s not like Harry, you know? He’s so opinionated. He stood there in the middle of his kitchen without speaking. I was really surprised. Maybe he finally realized that it is all impossible. He asked me if I love you.”

  “Do you?”

  “It is as though something opened up in me when he asked me that question. Something I’d never had the courage to ask myself before. When y
ou and I first danced, I was only fourteen, and since then we’ve always been, you know, strictly professional.”

  Taking the belt out of his hands and moving close to him, she weaves it in and out of the loops of his trousers, until her arms surround him. As though someone has opened the window to a garden, the scent of gardenias fills the air.

  It is no different from dancing, he tells himself. In the closeness of the car, he can feel her breath against his face, wants to kiss her mouth. Yet he knows that once he does, he will want to kiss her eyes, her nose, her throat, and then it will never end. The kissing.

  As she pulls the belt through and tries to close the buckle, her face is flushed. He takes hold of her fingers as they fumble with the silver buckle, and brings them to his mouth.

  “I’m going to say it. I’ve always loved you, Maria Rodriguez. Did you know that? I dream of you. Smell you. Taste you. You are a part of my skin. You are my music. My dance. My entire world. You are all I ever want.”

  He isn’t sure if he has said the words aloud or in his head, but he is kissing her, and she is saying yes with her mouth.

  Chapter 39

  Harry

  If a lady declines your invitation, and you should shortly after see her dancing with another, do not seem to notice it.

  —W. P. Hazard, The Ball-Room Companion, 1849

  If only the goddamned honking would stop, he could think clearly. It’s Ortega. Jose Ortega from 2B, in his car, sitting on the goddamned horn. The hell with everyone trying to sleep or eat or think. A truck has him locked into his parking space, and Ortega is playing his goddamn horn like a trumpet. One endless note, as relentless as the rain. Where is he going this time of night, anyway?

  Harry paces back and forth at his windows, overlooking Twelfth Street. A June storm smacks hard at the glass, as though it is hailing. Up close, infinite raindrops reflecting white, red, and yellow spatter the panes. In the downstairs distance, the streetlights, passing cars, shopfronts glare in sunbursts of colors. The heat of Harry’s body and his sighs have fogged the windows, and he makes ever-widening circles with the palm of his hand to clear a better view. He is jarred by the cool wetness of the glass on his skin. He can’t see the street. Won’t see Maria when she comes.

  Waiting for her the past two Fridays, Harry has become distinctly aware of the imperceptible changes of temperature and light. Aware of the pattern of traffic, the people that pass. It all begins to have a rhythm. A mad, angry jazz tempo. Music waiting for an interlude. For that simple recognition. The arch of her neck. The way her hair graces the slope of her shoulders. The familiar motion of her skirt against her legs in the wind.

  It seems like only moments ago that he waited and watched at the same window. Just like this. Waited and watched for her to come home with Angel from the Copacabana on her sixteenth birthday.

  It was the best night of my entire life, Harry.” Maria was breathless as she spoke that Friday night, after she came upstairs to his apartment, still wearing what she called her “good” coat. A red ribbon held her dark hair back from her face.

  “We won first place, me and Angel—at the Copacabana—and the spotlights were on us, all bright and starry, and such a big dance floor, and oh, Harry, after we won, we got to dance all by ourselves, just me and Angel . . . and everyone applauded for so long . . . and I wished you could have been there to see us win, and see us dancing in the spotlight. God, it was so great. Angel and me? We couldn’t believe Papi let us go! He’s still out, so I wanted to just quickly tell you about tonight. I’m wearing my new outfit so you can see how I look . . . and I can’t believe we won. Angel and me. You’d have been so proud . . . and it was so beautiful! I think it was the very best night of my whole life!”

  Her face was flushed, her mahogany eyes dancing with fire. With Angel. Harry felt broken. Like a jigsaw puzzle after you’ve finished it and pulled all the pieces apart. Sitting at his kitchen table, not saying a word, he just stared down at his cracked dance shoes.

  Taking off her coat and folding it over a kitchen chair, she stood quite still in front of the ornate gold mirror in her white satin dress. Harry saw a pair of angels.

  “Maybe you don’t need lessons anymore,” he said, struggling with feelings of betrayal. Maria had never missed a Friday night in eight years. “Maybe from now on, Angel can give you lessons.”

  “No, Harry, you’re my teacher. I need you to teach me.” When Maria moved toward him, her petticoats rustled like the flutter of wings.

  “If you don’t come every Friday for your lesson, if you’re not serious about being a professional, I can’t continue to teach you.”

  “Please, please, give me my lessons,” she implored, turning on the music. “I need you to teach me.” He felt relieved by the gentle sound of her voice, the comfort of her touch. “I want to be the best. To dance in the spotlight . . . with you. Tell me about my turquoise dress, Buenos Aires and how we’ll dance together.” She pulled him onto his feet. “One dance? Please, Harry?”

  When the song ended, she told him, “I’ve got to get downstairs, before Papi gets home.” All he was able to think about through the dance was whether she had told Angel about them. Angel might tell her father—and then what?

  “You didn’t tell nobody about us?” he asked. “You didn’t tell Angel?”

  “I keep telling you, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

  As Maria tiptoed down the stairs that night, the red ribbon fell from her hair. He wanted to call her name. He waited until she was in her apartment, then slipped down the stairs to fetch it. Picking it up, he rolled it around two fingers and touched it to his lips and quickly slipped it in his pocket. That ribbon was with the photographs she had given him over the years, in the scrapbook under his bed.

  Through the four years that have passed since that night, Maria still knocked on his door every Friday at seven thirty. They danced in the quiet solitude of his kitchen as he whispered his dreams of Buenos Aires in her ear.

  Ortega’s horn brings Harry back to the present, and the thought that his phone might be out of order. Maria might be calling, unable to reach him. Grabbing an umbrella, he rushes out the door.

  As he crosses the street, water seeps between the soles and uppers of his old dance shoes. His joints ache from the damp.

  Someone is using the pay phone on the street.

  “Listen, you mothafucka. I got no time for your shit. You get your ass down here. An’ bring the keys to my truck. NOW.”

  Harry slips inside the bodega. While pretending to be looking for a magazine, he keeps one eye on the phone, aware of the eyes of the Pakistani owner watching him to be certain he doesn’t slip something in his pocket. The man on the phone is pacing back and forth. Harry buys a Daily News. The caller is stamping his feet and gesturing with his arms as though the person on the other end can see him. Harry pretends to read the paper. It seems forever before the man gets off the phone.

  Outside, with rain pouring down the collar of Harry’s coat, soaking his back, he dials his own phone number. He listens for the connection. Looking about, seeing no one, he drops the receiver and runs across Twelfth Street toward his apartment. Running up the stairs, he passes Ortega.

  “I jus’ call the cops. I gotta move my car.”

  Harry pushes past, almost knocking him over. On the second floor, searching for keys, he realizes he’s left his umbrella in the bodega. On the third floor outside his door, he hears the familiar ring of his phone. His keys drop and clatter down through the banister to the floor below. Still in good shape, he takes two steps at a time to the top floor after retrieving them, barely noticing the footprints his wet shoes make as he crosses the grocery bags that line his path to the kitchen.

  “Hello? Hello?” he asks breathlessly into the phone. “Is it you, Maria?” He waits for the whisper of her response.

  He wants to tell her that on Monday he went for a fitting for his tuxedo. On Tuesday he bought new dance shoes at Randy’s. Two tickets for Bueno
s Aires, wrapped in paper and tied with red ribbon, are taped to the mirror. He wants to see her face when she sees them, sees him in his new tuxedo, silk shirt, and shoes. Then she will change her mind. Come back to him. Stay with him. She can’t have meant what she said.

  On the other end of the phone there is only the sound of rain, the shushing of tires moving through wet pavement in front of the bodega, and Ortega’s raucous horn. The sounds carried through the receiver are louder and clearer than he can hear on the fourth floor.

  You mustn’t ever stay.” Maria had made him promise.

  Harry has always kept his word. Always leaves the Ballroom before nine. Has never seen Maria dance with anyone else. Never seen her dance with Angel.

  On Sunday night, at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Ballroom’s front door, Harry, feverish and weak, hearing Maria’s laughter, forgets any promises he has ever made. Her voice is like a melody carried on the breath of winter air that follows her from the street. Caught in the flutter of her skirt, it swirls down the stairs, wrapped in the scent of gardenias. As Maria hesitates on the upper landing, her words in vibrant harmony with Angel’s are the chilly reminder to Harry that she isn’t alone. She is never coming to his arms again. Will never go with him to Buenos Aires. She has not kept her promise.

  Turning back and hiding in the shadow of the hallway, he mingles with a noisy group of dancers. He is feeling wobbly, as though his legs may not hold him. The red and green lights cast a sickly glow on everyone inside the Ballroom. He shouldn’t be here. But tonight he is determined to dance with her one more time.

  He slips into the Ballroom and finds a seat at a table in a dark corner. As Angel leads Maria toward the dance floor, Harry can’t help but notice Angel’s broad shoulders, the slippery sheen of his hair, the nobility of his dark silhouette. They hesitate, waiting for the music.

  Wearing a dress the color of tropical waters, she smiles at Angel with familiar tenderness that fills Harry with jealousy and rage. Jimmy the DJ has chosen Franz Lehár’s “Merry Widow Waltz,” and as it begins, Angel’s stance is splendid. Harry watches Maria move into Angel’s open arms. There is a slight tremble of Angel’s trouser leg with each rhythmic dip of his knee as he leads forward. They glide into the old-fashioned grace of the waltz.