by Andrew Binks
“You’re jealous.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” And with his tone of voice I knew someone was hurt. “I’m just curious about your principles. But in the meantime, if you don’t meet anyone, you can stay at my place whenever you want, you know, for whatever, to be close, cuddle, get your rocks off. It won’t destroy your principles.” Kent held the pizza in trembling fingers, and I wanted to hug him. I don’t know why. I wasn’t sure if he was nervous or upset, if he’d had too much coffee, or if he found the pizza too hot. “So much for holding out for true love.”
“Is it worth it?”
“I’m starting to think most people try not to be in love. It’s terrifying. It requires energy. They get hitched and they get mean.”
“You sound pretty jaded for someone with so little experience.”
“Do you think that once you create love you can never destroy it? It won’t go away? That’s what I believe. Call me naive.”
I told Kent about the Winnipeg guy who wouldn’t quit bugging me, but he’d already had him, it turned out. I suppose he was working his way up the street. I was learning not to show my surprise. “I didn’t really like him.”
“You’ll have to learn to say no. You can’t mercy fuck everyone.”
“Are you implying something here?”
“I don’t need your mercy.”
“You won’t get any.” I hated myself. The more I wanted to hold him, the harder I seemed to get.
“I was there, you know—had my pick of the National Ballet, was Zaitsev’s bumboy for months until he found out that other celebs were dipping into his candy bowl.” Kent licked his fingers. Looked up at me. Wanted to see how I’d take the news. “I was like you, couldn’t say yes, couldn’t say no.”
“Zaitsev? He’s a legend—my hero for a while. God, I am a dope.”
“You’re young.”
“You’ve come down in the world and I’ve never even gotten up.”
“Maybe I’m the sorry one, not believing there are genuinely good people in the world, like you.”
“Good isn’t a word that I would use right now. It’s all formidable, trés sexy, beau…”
“Let’s go find true love.”
“I’ll be your escort, but I’m through with the love crap, for today anyway.” Kent licked his fingers, and then I licked them, too. He leaned across and we kissed and then laughed. We decided to go to Le Cirque. Kent had wanted me to go. Get picked up. Sleaze around. He said it would be good for me to have some dirty, rough sex and up my total. We walked through the stone archway out of the Old Town and along the battlements to a door. Our breath hung in clouds; more snow was definitely on the way. I could smell it.
We had gotten there way too early—the dance floor was empty—so I ordered a beer and Kent bought a chaser of some syrupy liqueur with gold flecks in it. Patrice was doing the weekly magic act he performed every Sunday night at Le Cirque while lone men stood in the shadows. They could have been the straight ones, the daddies, as Kent called them. No one clapped for Patrice except me. He shrugged, said something to us as if no one else could hear. I didn’t understand him. I figure he was pissed off to see I had come with a friend.
My eye was drawn to a well-built guy, something I’ve never gone after because I figured I didn’t stand a chance. This one was in jeans with a faded crotch, a shirt and pullover probably knitted by his wife. I imagined him in a penthouse overlooking the St. Lawrence—a big bed for me. He definitely spent time at a gym. He was aloof. So what? It was probably his first time there. That, we had in common. “I think I’ve found true love.”
“Go for it.” Kent delivered another shooter and then went into the shadows.
I made eye contact. I figured everyone was watching to see how this would play out. I felt bad for the ones who weren’t as lucky. I got my coat from the coat check, enough done, enough said, I didn’t have to wait all night. It was obvious he was interested. He would follow. I walked by and he leaned into the wall. I went down the stairs and opened the door onto the square. It had started to snow. Other than that, it was empty and quiet. I listened for him to follow. I waited, but no one came out the door.
I couldn’t go back. Everyone in that meagre crowd would know. After a few more minutes the wind had changed and the snow started blowing in from the river. I wondered why, with all this beauty—the wind, the crisp air, the snow blowing past the streetlamps—I was trying to drag a stranger home from a smoky club. Was it the idea of another lonely night with nothing to look forward to but a bad ballet class in the morning?
But a touch on my shoulder stopped that chatter: a light tap, and a startled, hopeful, ready-for-it look. He had to be a local. He was small, with a face like pudding. You know: pale skin, dark eyes. A soft nose and an upper lip twisted slightly in the middle. “I’m Philippe,” he said.
He wasn’t what I had been looking for. I remember purposely ignoring him in the bar. Making sure not to catch his eye. He’d seen whom I was in pursuit of, but wasn’t going to give up. I wondered how people in that position had the perseverance. I failed to realize that I was no different.
There is a kind of thrill of going to a place like Le Cirque and not knowing what grab bag you will come out with, if any, and I suppose it is that thrill of the unknown that drove Kent, and that finally pushed me to invite this guy back to my place. In my kitchen we unscrewed a gallon bottle of wine and talked in French, English and Franglais, mostly short sentences about the weather. We both loved snowfalls, before Christmas especially—not in April specifically, or any later than April—bad or good wine, candles, softness, holding, hungry sex throughout the night and sleep. Thank God Philippe loved to sleep. He got on his knees, hands on my thighs, not to do anything other than to woo. He was gentle and a better bet than what I’d hoped for.
Most of the time I stayed over at his place. He said he just wanted to love me, but I couldn’t love him back. He spoiled me, and I pitied him. He wanted what we all want and what I wanted so badly. I gave over to being an object of his affection, and the one to later break his heart. I often thought of Kent. Who was he with? Was he thinking about me? Missing him started to feel like homesickness.
I used to wonder why adults said Christmas was a hard season. How could presents be unpleasant, or the ballet, and the pantomime, and a million other distractions until Santa arrived? But soon Christmas stirred up a sore stomach because of its quiet brevity. Christmas would have been better in my absence, for two people with nothing much to say. My parents performed their own pantomime at every Christmas party and I had a supporting role that involved a lot of smiling. During university years, excuses were easy to come by, and welcomed with well-rehearsed concern. And then, with the Company, well, it was our busy season.
As Christmas approached, the crowds grew until every night was like a busy Saturday. I thrived at the club, and wilted at the ballet studio. One day my moonlighting was no longer a secret.
“It’s good you have these other talents…” said Madame Talegdi. I felt a rush of embarrassment. Of course she knew. And she was right; anything to pay the rent, after lifting Bertrand (who was starting to thicken around the middle by the way) as Pinocchio for free, for her psychotic ego. As long as the pre-showtime booze and painkillers kicked in by 9 P.M., I’d be fine. I found comfort in knowing that my tight muscles looked great, naked, on a box, in perpetual twilight, even if they were worth shit to me as a dancer. Of course I was of no use in that studio. My toe was blue from The Nutcracker choreography she was setting on us. “…because,” she continued her subtle assault in the flat matter-of-fact way she used when delivering an insult, “you will never be a really great dancer,” while we all sat in our warm-ups eating our lunch in the kitchen off the studio. Bertrand picked up on her digs and asked me how my job was going with a nudge and a wink, but with Madame’s nasty comment, I helped fill in the blanks.
“The job is a bitch,” I said. “Une beetch. Chienne. Travailler comme un stripper c’est difficile, toujour les femmes essayent de me touché.” I didn’t know how bad my French was, but I tried to hit all the key words. “Les femmes aiment les gars comme moi. You must come and watch some night. Le spectacle est fun avec les filles et gars semi-nudes, tits and ass, poitrines est derrières.” Madame turned about fifteen shades of blueberry while Bertrand bent over and pretended to adjust his ballet shoes. He trembled with laughter. Louise clenched her jaw; the corners of her mouth turned up.
Chantal and Maryse stopped eating their celery and carrots and looked into their Tupperware. I had nothing to lose. I could smack my head on Madame’s wall for the rest of my life, but I had learned from Kharkov when to play and when to give in. It was time to use the secret weapon. The truth. “Of course I will never really become une étoile comme Jean-Marc, even though, like Jean-Marc I have les relations avec la directeur de Chez Moritz, et what do you know, Jean-Marc fait la meme chose avec vous, Madame. Jean-Marc est comme une amant pour vous. Je ne peux pas gagner ici. No one can, personne non plus, pas comme Jean-Marc. But no one loves me like you love Jean-Marc, Madame. Tu dois aimer la sex avec lui. I would. He’s very sexy. Trés sexy, Jean-Marc. Yes Madame Jean-Marc this and Jean-Marc that. Jean-Marc is the end of the fucking world. Three cheers for Jean-Marc, the second fucking coming. Fucking merci Jean-Marc!” And Jean-Marc looked like a stunned horse, as usual. I went on: “He’d make a great stripper, with that bulge.”
But Madame cut me off. “Shut up you, shut up now and leave here or I will call the police. How dare you insult my girls, my dancers or Jean-Marc.” Madame came after me swatting me on the head, and then drove me hard in the gut. She had it in her to do much worse. I couldn’t breathe, but I grabbed my things. The truth was out. The girls ran across the hall to the washroom and I heard Madame’s shouts echo down the hall. I changed in the stairwell and left.
Once upon a time I had wanted to like Madame. If she had been more generous she could have made us all great dancers. But the ego can do horrible things to remain intact. Bertrand and Louise had also grown tired of her after their summer and being exposed to something greater in Montreal. They had outgrown her. Staying there would never have worked for them. Madame could only take them so far. I hoped for them that real exposure would take them to the next level.
Meanwhile the Chez Moritz had another guest—not a circuit girl nor a drag queen—this one only to watch the show. I grew up with Marilyn Monroe in my soul even if she was wary of my type. Her beauty cast a spell over so many and her pain made us forgive. How many fruitcakes have told me that Marilyn Monroe was their real mother? Somehow it never adds up with the lie they tell me about their age. I swear to you that that Christmas, Marilyn Monroe dropped by the Chez Moritz. I saw her from the stage. There was a fuss at the front door. I thought maybe Vasili was giving someone the heave-ho. But a bubble of blonde was the focal point, being swarmed. Soon men in dark coats and sunglasses were shifting chairs at the back and Vasili was helping seat them. I wanted to believe what I was seeing. Steve was at her table, waved me down after my set ended. “You must meet my friend, Marilyn Monroe.”
“I thought she was dead.”
“It was all a lie to get her out of the public eye. Don’t speak to her. She can’t speak English.”
“She hasn’t aged much.”
“Men buy her things: minks, jewels, cheekbones, the perfect nose. She’d like you to dance for us.”
Other than batting her eyes to get me going, she didn’t pay me any attention. She and her gang made sure they were being noticed. I just danced in the shadows with not much commitment. I was not the centre of attention by any means. When Louis joined the group, the men moved into a tight circle around him. Louis smiled too much. I’d never seen him smile like that. He dabbed his brow. He seemed nervous, and it wasn’t to do with the size of my cock. Steve watched me with his back to them like a cat waiting to pounce on a moving target. Since no one was watching him watching me, he decided to add a little spice to his evening and stir up some trouble. He was smoking, chewing his gum, one eye on his booth, checking the room to make sure no one was going to run out of music and, during all of this, sitting close to my crotch and staring longingly at my dick.
I started to get hard. I had to stay in a squat, which pleased Steve even more with this private show happening between my thighs. I was Pavlov’s dog, having been trained in the basement washroom. Marilyn was too busy sipping from a straw to notice. And her entourage popped their heads out of the clutch momentarily to catch an eyeful of tit. So this little porn-fest went on while I was trapped with a hard-on. Steve made this look like a conversation; between big chews of gum he talked about Marilyn, saying she ducked out of the stripper circuit early, before she got to be known as one.
I wanted to interrupt, find out what was going on with Louis and the men—it looked like he was about to be lynched—but he went on, “Now she really thinks she is Marilyn.” He rested his hands on my knees all the while taking in the view, which seemed simple enough, but it was torture. “And she wants everyone else to think so, too, and treat her like Marilyn.” He said she wouldn’t last, just like the real Marilyn—she’d never be satisfied—showing up at clubs around Quebec for some attention and the odd newspaper photo op. Her Montreal mob husband had created a monster. It’s funny that fine line between having a talent and having huge amounts of attention for nothing in particular. You have to work hard at both. At the end of the song, I left the table with my jeans tight over my crotch.
Later, when Steve had told all the girls in the change room about my woody, it got not much more than a chuckle. Steve’s Guy didn’t laugh. But all I could think of was Louis’s smiling sweating face and wrinkled brow.
Madame Talegdi brought me in for performances of her Nutcracker, since we were locked into a performance schedule. This meant playing the Mouse King and more small roles—from Drosselmeyer to the Christmas Tree—than anyone double-cast in the Company could imagine in their worst dancer nightmares. After tripping over all of the junior school dancers in their homemade costumes onstage and having Madame barking and stamping at all of us, even the youngest, I was ready to toss in my dance belt for good.
At night it was the Chez Moritz disco version of The Nutcracker. Marcel had better costumes; tits and bums unbound and glazed in coloured glitter like overgrown sugarplums. My sheer white leotards hid nothing. The roles were better too: I got to be the Nutcracker and the Prince. Marcel let me make up most of my own choreography so I twirled and fouettéed my way into the Christmas spirits of the audience—who, probably along with their kids, saw me by day in Madame’s sloppy recital.
We were all relieved that the final performance was done. “No New Year’s this year,” Marcel shouted over the chatter. I looked up, not sure what he meant by it. “Louis wants just the girls for New Year’s.” There could have been some good money for New Year’s for all of us. “I’ll see you on the second. We have a new show to get going.”
Out west, Nutcrackers were followed by the obligatory family visit. But with a little cash and pre-Christmas tip money, I got it together to make my own plans to help me get through the time following Christmas by booking a last-minute flight to the tropics. Five nights, Quebecair, nothing included, paid for with a fist full of tips. I needed something to look forward to. I’d leave on Boxing Day. Keep it a secret from my parents—and from angel-face Philippe.
Before he headed up to Rouyn-Noranda for Noël with his huge family, I told Philippe I didn’t want to continue. “It’s me, I’m just not ready for a commitment.”
“We can still be friends.”
“I just don’t think I have time.” It occurred to me that any time spent with someone I didn’t care about created a horrible feeling of claustrophobia, as if my life really was being wasted. He gave me a little music box he’d bought at an antique store, insis
ted I have it, and a small box of cookies. I was such a shit. I said goodbye at my front door as he got a cab to the bus depot to be with his family in time for mass. Christmas Eve wasn’t a time of year or of my life that I wanted to lie; I couldn’t pretend any longer. I had bought a monstrous tourtière, but a silent meal between the two of us would have been farcical compared to what he would have with his family. I sat in the silence, eating the cookies, watching flakes of snow glisten in the chill outside my window as the tiny music box played “Waltz of the Snowflakes” from The Nutcracker. I suppose I should have at least appreciated someone who liked me so much.
At noon on Christmas Day my parents called, and while we talked I stared at the tourtière wondering how to dress it up. Vegetables? Cranberry? What did these people do? My mother was choked up as always, whether I was there or here. “Will we be seeing you over the holidays?”
“I don’t think I can get away.”
“Your father said you might surprise us.”
“I wish I could.” I knew he only said this to keep her from going on about me not coming home. My presence was the last thing they needed for a merry Christmas. I could hear my father talking in the background. “He says to say merry… oh for heaven’s sake, this is ridiculous, just wait.”
There was the obvious shifting and shunting of phone from hand to hand and then my father’s voice in deep, stark contrast to my mother’s. “Hi son, do you have someone there to spend Christmas with?”
This shocked me, but what the hell. “Yes, I have a neighbour coming over for dinner. We’re having tourtière, since I’m living in Quebec now.” But I’d lost Dad at the word neighbour, it was too much of a reminder of who I was: a person, not a projection. I picked up the slack. “You two have a merry Christmas and I’ll see you in the New Year. I promise.”
