MEN DANCING

by Cherry Radford

  ‘I’m sorry, you’d probably like a glass of wine after a day at work, but we try to avoid having it in the house during the week.’

  ‘Really? I don’t think I could get through my week without it. But tea’s fine, really.’

  Perhaps she felt the need to explain. ‘Well, my boyfriend’s a ballet dancer.’

  I felt a rush of misery together with the ear-ringing anxiety of being off script. And then before I could stop myself I was filling the silence with a quiet ‘Royal Ballet?’

  ‘Yes’. In a lowered voice, as if someone might overhear us, she asked if I knew of Alejandro Cortés.

  I couldn’t believe it – she was actually boasting. I nodded and said ‘Oh’ but couldn’t look at her, just stood there staring at the kitchen knives slotted into their shiny metal box.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ she said, carrying a tray with two red mugs and some biscuits. I needed to.

  I perched on the sofa, trying hard not to imagine Alejandro making love to her on it, as surely must have happened. I felt shaky, almost tearful. I ate one of the biscuits: oatmeal, butter, treacle. Delicious and obviously homemade. The glucose coursed through me. I resisted the temptation to ask if they were a good idea for her increasingly heavy dancer.

  I had to regain control. I opened my bag and started to clarify her crystal clear questionnaire. She was sent to retrieve her case, which, just as I’d imagined, was one of those designer ones that slots into a little box with a fruit on it. I bagged it up and promised to return it, wondering if it would look odd if I did so in person.

  Then, with permission, I went to sample the kitchen sink and tap water, taking ludicrous care even though she hadn’t come with me. For the purpose of my parallel research I scanned the room. Bottles of supplements lined up on the windowsill – perhaps he didn’t think her cooking was good enough to maintain him. Clothes hanging in an alcove over the boiler: a crimson t-shirt and demurely rose-adorned bra mixed with a Royal Ballet sweatshirt, a red singlet, some dark leggings. A blender and two tall glasses – one emptied and one half full – of what looked like the purple stuff Lisa had had in the cafe. A grinning sun-face clock pointing its yellow stubby hands at half past seven. I just had the bathroom to do and would then have to go. It looked like he wasn’t coming home. Perhaps he’d gone out with those nearby Cuban friends that he’d mentioned in an interview.

  Jessie came through with the mugs. ‘Would you like another?’

  I was already feeling rather drowned and nauseous, but I needed extra time. She shook her head at my apology for taking up her evening, and after another look at the tea selection, she made me a Camomile-and-something in a fresh cup.

  ‘I’ve just got the bathroom to do?’

  ‘Yes – just next door.’

  There were two doors ajar and a closed door further along. I presumed the second door was their bedroom. I cursed Jo’s study design for not including bedside tables, and myself for so unimaginatively following it. After all, that’s where many people deal with their contact lenses. And for my own research purposes... but no. It was hard enough going into the bathroom.

  I opened the door rather tentatively, a bashful voyeur. My jaw dropped open: an enormous bath, surrounded by a selection of half-burnt candles. I struggled to suppress the inevitable painful images. I quickly performed the sampling charade and snapped the box shut. I suddenly felt desperate for a pee, so I locked the door and tried to jolly myself along by imagining what Emma would say if and when I told her that I’d sat on Alejandro’s loo. But it was no good.

  What the hell am I doing here, I thought. I’m torturing myself. I need to get out before I start shouting at her, crying on her shoulder, or messing up her sleek kitchen and perfect life with one of those kitchen knives and an artery.

  I went back to the sitting room. She wasn’t there. I thought she was taking a long time over the tea, but then noticed two filled mugs on the table. I went over to the piano, as if just being near to it would raise my spirits. But it reminded me of how I would not, now, have any need to practise the accompaniment to Marius’ parts in Les Misérables. In fact, there was no need, now, to practise anything at all: almost my entire repertoire those days consisted of accompaniments to Seb’s musical theatre roles. With just a couple of old classical party pieces, as Jez called them, which had depressingly deteriorated over the years.

  The music stand on the piano was folded down, but on top of it was a book. Piano: The Adult Beginner. I flicked through: there were fingering numbers, ticks and dates up to a third of the way through. A pencilled admonition in Jessie’s rounded hand – practise left hand! – over a clumpy arrangement of Home on the Range.

  Jessie came in. ‘You play?’ I asked.

  ‘Sometimes. I used to have lessons, but I haven’t got round to organising anything since moving here. The book suggests it can teach you, but it can’t seem to cope with me.’

  ‘Well it depends what you want,’ I said, picking it up again. It had American note value names, a cheesy repertoire, and, on the back cover, promotion of the essential second and third inspiration-stalling books in the series – no doubt also at a scandalous ten pounds a pop.

  She came over to the piano, looking gratifyingly concerned.

  ‘If you’re happy to just plunk through some dumbed-down old Yankee favourites this is fine, but if you actually want to play classical music there are better tutors.’ And, I thought with a rush of simultaneous horror and excitement, better piano teachers.

  ‘Oh. Are you learning too?’

  ‘No. Not nowadays.’ I left a pause for emphasis. ‘But I’ve taught it.’

  This was true of course, but I didn’t let on that I’d only had three or four pupils: the small daughter of a neighbour when I was still at school; Mel at uni; an alarmingly talented Chinese doctor from the hospital whom I’d had to pass on to another teacher when he reached grade six; and Seb, of course, having lessons at school but fine-tuning with me to achieve distinction in his exams up to Grade Five, after which he decided to take up the drums instead.

  Jessie was flicking through the book nervously, and then looked up at me. ‘Do you still teach the piano?’

  I had her. A fish on the line. It was going to happen. But oddly, rather than thinking about the implications, I was trying to recall the name of the excellent tutor book I’d used with the doctor; an inspiring choice of classical themes and lots of well-arranged duets for teacher and pupil. Great fun. But not widely available; I’d had to buy it online.

  ‘Not for a year or so.’ More like five. ‘Just so busy, what with work and the kids. But I did enjoy it, I must say.’

  ‘Would you teach me? Even if you could only manage once a fortnight? Please?’

  My heart thudded. Then I walked over to the biscuits, held one up and grinned at her. ‘As long as you produce these each week,’ I said.

  ‘Great! That’s settled then! You must tell me how much you charge.’

  ‘Oh... well, it used to be fifteen pounds an hour,’ I said. We settled on the following Monday for the first lesson. She asked if the electric piano was okay.

  ‘Ali says it’s shit, although I don’t know how he can tell from the chopsticks I taught him. What do you think of it?’

  She pressed a button and I played a broken chord on each octave. It had an unnaturally light touch and a sickly sweet resonance. A bit like her really.

  ‘A real piano would be better. You could probably get a small one in if you moved the chair over. But it doesn’t really matter at this stage.’

  ‘That’s what I said. You can’t tell when you’re a beginner. I’ve never really heard it properly played.’ I could tell what was coming. ‘Would you play something?’

  I looked at my watch as if pressed for time. But I was going to have to perform sooner or later, so I thought I might as well do it when Alejandro was out. I hadn’t played for some weeks, and then only briefly, so the Bach might have been a struggle. I opted for the Beethoven, the slow mo
vement of the Pathétique. Seb’s favourite; he said it sounded like it should have lyrics. It wasn’t wonderful, nothing could have been on that instrument, and the foot pedal was light and kept travelling away from me. I got to the natural pause half way down the second page and stopped. ‘And so on,’ I said, embarrassed.

  But her hands were either side of her face with delight. ‘No! Go on!’ she said. So I did. It seemed to last for ages, probably because I was taking it too slowly, but I only made a few mistakes and was relieved to remember it all.

  She had her hands together as if she wanted to clap, was saying how much she liked it and asking who the composer was. But she was interrupted.

  ‘Bravo,’ said a voice behind me.

  I swivelled round on the seat. Alejandro was lying on the sofa in a rolled up pair of joggers, clamping a large bag of peas to his knee, the other leg thrown out carelessly to the floor.

  ‘Oh!’ I said, not being able to help myself, looking at him and then, my cheeks boiling, down at the floor boards.

  ‘This is Ali,’ Jessie said, somewhat unnecessarily. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your first name...’

  ‘Rosie.’

  ‘It turns out Rosie teaches the piano as well as finding out why people get problems with their contacts.’

  Alejandro was looking at me with narrowed eyes, as if looking into the distance, or back in time. ‘I think already we have met,’ he said. ‘On train. Yes, you give me coffee and tell me Fonteyn deserve sleep with Nureyev.’

  ‘No, that’s what you said!’ I said, blushing further with the revelation that he recognised me.

  ‘And then you give me chocolate balls...’

  We grinned at each other while Jessie stood there with her mouth open, looking from me, to Alejandro and back again.

  ‘And she thinks my Des Grieux is no good. Interesting woman – científica, teacher of piano, ballet critic and café lady, all in one.’

  I laughed, embarrassed. Looked at my watch. ‘Oh. I’ve got to get going. Thanks for your help with the study, Jessie, and the tea. I’ll see you on Monday at seven then?’

  Alejandro stretched out his arm from the sofa. I went over to him and he shook my hand, his other hand warm on my upper arm.

  ‘Thank you for helping Jessie. I told her go to your hospital, the contact lenses can be dangerous. Like you say. And thank you for concert. We will hear more, yes?’ I smiled, wondering how much practice I could do in five days, wondering when he was going to let go of my hand and if he remembered kissing it last time.

  Jessie showed me out. She was opening the outer door when she stopped and looked at me, putting her head to one side like a little bird. ‘Why didn’t you say you’d met Ali?’

  ‘I didn’t think he’d remember me,’ I said. ‘He must meet ladies on trains and planes all the time.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with such a sad look in her eyes that I was surprised to find myself feeling sorry for her.

  7.

  Jealousy: painful and consuming like I’d never experienced before. But in spite of it, or perhaps because of it, I was determined to teach her well. I’d channel all my negative energy into pushing her as far as she could go. As long as she wasn’t tone-deaf or half-hearted, I thought I could cope. Maybe even enjoy it. And of course I’d see Alejandro most weeks, even if briefly, and hopefully get used to that grin, that living sculpture of a body.

  I tracked down the tutor book and familiarised myself with it. Mugged up with my old ‘Teaching the Piano’ book. And started practising – real practising, like I hadn’t done in years: scales and arpeggios, finger exercises, detailed work on my old party pieces and a start on a couple of challenging new ones. My fingers started to feel warm, lithe and muscular – ten willing dancers with different strengths and characteristics. I’d forgotten what a physical pleasure it was to play the piano.

  ‘Heavens – what’s brought this on? You playing in the hospital concert or something?’ asked Jez, coming in to the room with Kenny.

  ‘No. Well... maybe I could. I’m going to be teaching this girl – a patient I got talking to. Is that okay? It’ll make me late back on Mondays.’

  ‘Really? Good for you. I’ll warn Dad it’s a night we might need him.’

  ‘Thought I better check I could still play myself,’ I said, turning back to the music. I had less than two days to become a competent pianist and an inspiring teacher. But Kenny’s bendy fingers were prodding the keys. ‘I want to play myself,’ Kenny said.

  Jez was nodding encouragingly and it was my chance to do something with Kenny that Daddy couldn’t do better. So instead of telling him he was too young, as I usually did, I dug out Seb’s old tutor with the elves jumping along the keys. I got him up to playing tunes with three notes and when Jez came back later the embryonic pianist was keen to show him our little duet.

  Seb came in, rubbing muck into his hair. ‘Can you take me to the station? Ollie and Si are... Hey, Kens is playing the piano! Let’s hear you then... start again.’

  So we did, and played several encores, until we were distracted by my phone buzzing a text. A number I didn’t recognise.

  I read it and felt my heart race. They were waiting to know who it was. ‘Seems the husband wants to learn too,’ I said.

  ‘Great! Look I’ll take Seb. I need to go to the garden centre anyway.’

  ‘Me too!’ said Kenny, never keen to let him out of his sight, and suddenly I was alone. I started playing, but my fingers suddenly felt weak, my brain muddled. I waited until I heard them drive off then opened my mobile and read it again. ‘Hello Rosi. You can teach me play the piano too? Ali.’

  I’d wondered, of course, if he might want to learn too – if he could see Jessie doing well with me.

  ‘I can teach you but you will have to find time to practise. Rosie,’ I texted, pleased with my composure.

  I waited for a few minutes, and then the phone buzzed again. ‘I will be excellent pupil. I practise. I take instruction well and like to please! I see you Monday. Ali x.’

  I thought for a moment he’d signed himself Alix, but no, there was a definite space: he’d sent me a kiss.

  ***

  Five to seven. I was walking slowly so that I arrived exactly on time, dazed and nauseous with nerves and offering up silent prayers: please, please make me able to do this. I couldn’t get it out of my head that one of the best dancers in the country should be having piano lessons with an accomplished musician, not an infatuated scientist with a poor grade eight and limited teaching experience.

  I was expecting Jessie to open the door, but there was Alejandro, damp and scented from a shower, greeting me with a kiss on each cheek before guiding me through into the sitting room with a hand on my back. He’s just a warm, tactile Cuban, I told myself, and this is how they are towards everyone.

  I commented on the smell of home-baking and the substantial Yamaha upright that had taken the place of their electric piano.

  ‘It’s an early birthday present to each other,’ said Jessie, coming into the room with a plate of her biscuits and asking me what I’d like to drink.

  I was left alone again with Alejandro, who was stroking his hand along the piano keys, producing a near perfect glissando that was speaking to my spinal cord. I opened my bag and took out the shiny new tutor book, the two practice notebooks – deep red for Alejandro, ditsy pink for Jessie – and a retractable pencil for myself.

  ‘Oh!’ he exclaimed, snatching the tutor and looking through it.

  ‘It’s a great book. Oh, and look what you’ll be able to play if you work hard.’ I took the book back and found the Theme from Swan Lake near the end.

  ‘Oh no, no, no!’ he cried, putting a hand to his face in mock despair and laughing, ‘you can’t make me play that!’

  ‘I thought you’d like it,’ I said, acting hurt.

  ‘I think you know very well I don’t like to do Swan Lake,’ he said, smiling. Had he guessed that I’d read all his interviews? I could feel my c
heeks starting to burn and was glad to turn my attention to the coffee Jessie was bringing in.

  ‘So who’s going first?’ I asked, keen to get started before my brain completely unravelled.

  ‘Jessie goes first and I watch.’

  ‘Absolutely not. You can’t stay in the room while I’m having my lesson, you’ll put me off.’

  She had a point there. How could any woman concentrate on anything while he was in the room? I watched him dipping his biscuits into his coffee, catch bits in his hand, pick them off his jeans. There was soon coffee on his crisply ironed white t-shirt. A spoon tinkled to the floor. I tried to recall what we’d said about dropping things.

  With Alejandro banished to the bedroom to deal with his emails, I sat down with Jessie. She said she wanted to start from scratch, so we tried some of the melodies for separate hands in the first few chapters. She played with flat hands and had spindly bendy fingers; I imagined them in situations to which they were more suited – caressing, encircling – and felt the now tediously familiar waves of misery and irritation.

  So I looked at her face; she was smiling, biting her lower lip in concentration as she tried to keep her hand position as well as count and read the notes for Ode to Joy. I’d forgotten the pleasure of watching someone discover the piano, the thrill of making music, however basic, actually happen. I asked her to play it again while I improvised an accompaniment underneath. When it was finished she clapped her hands together.

  Alejandro had sneaked in for a listen. ‘Bravo girls! But is my turn now. Already you have forty five minutes.’ He pulled Jessie up from the stool and sat himself down.

  Or tried to. I stifled a nervous laugh as he struggled to fit his thighs under the piano. I told him to get up and showed him how to adjust the stool, but it didn’t go down very far. He sat down again, wedging his legs under and groaning, and then with a ‘Is better if I...’ he splayed them obscenely wide, knocking his knee against my thigh and asking ‘is okay?’ It was definitely not okay, and judging by the tongue-between-his-teeth grin I guessed he knew that.