Ballerina Read online

  ‘How old is the Lang girl?’

  ‘Seventeen, eighteen—I am not the Bureau of Records.’

  ‘She could dance La Vestale.’

  ‘But why? It would prove she could do it, nothing else.’

  You had to be cautious with Lvovna. She was like one of those maddening boxes in which you try to tip the tiny metal ball into the tiny hole without reaching under the glass. One false tilt and she could escape you.

  ‘What would you have her dance then?’ Volmar asked.

  ‘In time, when she has suffered, Odile/Odette; Giselle—stop making faces; Fille Mai Gardée; any of Tudor’s neurotics; she could do Baryshnikov’s Nutcracker; I don’t like it, but she could do it.’

  ‘Then you see her as a ballerina.’

  ‘All my girls are ballerinas. I do not train corps.’

  ‘You mention two Tchaikovsky heroines. You think she has the affinity?’

  ‘I mention a Baryshnikov-Minz heroine,’ Madame corrected. ‘I mention a Petipa-Ivanov heroine.’

  ‘Petipa did some wonderful choreography for Sleeping Beauty.’

  ‘Everything he did was wonderful. Without Petipa there would be no reason for Tchaikovsky.’

  She was an impossible woman with impossible opinions, but Volmar was not going to be goaded. Since his heart attack eight months ago he had had to ration his anger. ‘The Lang girl has an affinity for Petipa, perhaps? Watching her balances and arabesques, I thought of the Rose Adagio.’

  ‘I have eight girls who could do Rose Adagios. But where do you find the princes?’

  At last the little ball was circling the hole. Just one careful little tilt.... ‘Why not a Rose Adagio without the prince?’

  ‘Why not a Beethoven violin concerto without the orchestra?’

  ‘There are Bach unaccompanied sonatas,’ Volmar said. ‘And there is a Petipa adagio without the prince.’

  Her eyes darted an alert glance at him through the heavily blacked eyelashes.

  ‘The pas seul,’ he said. ‘The solo. Sleeping Beauty. Act One.’

  ‘But that is an exception. It’s an experiment. Besides, no one knows about it.’

  ‘You know about it. You could teach it to the Lang girl,’ he suggested softly.

  Madame gave a shrug as instant and instinctive as a horse’s tail flicking off a fly. ‘She is too young. She is not an artist yet.’

  ‘She’s too young to understand it—but if someone were to show her the steps—very distinctly—she could imitate it.’

  Madame stared down into her stakanchi chai, the hot tea in a glass that she drank at all hours and which, he knew, after 7 p.m. had vodka in it. ‘Always you want to chop people and twist them and rearrange them. Why not let her finish growing?’

  ‘It wouldn’t stunt her growth.’

  ‘There is an impossible penché—very deep—unassisted—do you know what that does to the calves?’

  ‘She’ll do extra exercises to warm up the calves.’

  ‘But what is the point? Even Petipa had to withdraw the dance. Besides, she won’t be a ballerina for two, three years.’

  ‘If she can do the pas seul,’ Volmar said, ‘I’ll restore The Sleeping Beauty. Miss Lang will be a ballerina next year.’

  The silence thickened and shimmered.

  ‘The complete Sleeping Beauty?’ Lvovna said.

  ‘Complete.’

  ‘But Tamarova is sitting in Copenhagen with two of the numbers in a bank vault.’

  ‘If Tamarova sees the Lang girl dance the pas seul, she’ll give me the missing numbers. I can guarantee it.’

  Volmar could not read Madame’s expression. It seemed resentful and kind, smiling and sad, all at the same time. When she spoke he realized there was nothing kind in it at all.

  ‘Tamarova gives nothing. One day she will go to hell for her selfishness.’

  ‘My dear,’ Volmar said, ‘you hate her. But I know her. Teach Miss Lang—and we will have our Sleeping Beauty.’

  For a long while Lvovna sat shaking her head. So long that her head seemed to be shaking her. She must have something left, Volmar thought. Vanity, at least.

  ‘You don’t recall the pas seul any more?’ he said.

  ‘Of course I recall it,’ she bridled. ‘I saw Petipa himself teach Tamarova’s mother. She was a dancer. If she hadn’t died ... it would still be part of the ballet.’

  Volmar heard the sadness in Madame’s voice as her mind roamed that fairyland of tsars and tutus that she called Russian history. He paused, settled back in his chair, and let slip the cruelest temptation of all.

  ‘And of course, the programme will say that Vera Alexeyevna Lvovna reconstructed the choreography from memory.’

  Madame Lvovna asked Steph to remain a moment after class. ‘Stephanie, you have been good student.’

  Madame had never told her that before. Steph’s heart gave a tiny leap of joy. She bowed her head. ‘Thank you, Madame. Thank you very much.’

  ‘You have earned reward. Come to studio 4, three o’clock this afternoon. Wear rehearsal clothes and be warmed up.’

  Steph was warmed up and hardly able to control her excitement when Madame limped into the room on the dot of three. In one hand Madame clutched her silver-knobbed cane and a manila folder of music manuscript. In the other she clutched the rehearsal pianist’s shirt sleeve.

  ‘Izzy, this tempo, please.’

  Madame counted two measures. Izzy crouched forward on the piano stool. He squinted a long moment at the spider-scrawl notation. Finally he played, hands scrambling to catch sheets that fluttered loose at the turn of a page.

  Steph had never heard the music before, and obviously Izzy had never seen it before. It sounded like Tchaikovsky, but several of the chords were peculiar. Madame interrupted.

  ‘Something wrong—that poco accelerando is too poco. Izzy, I think it is you.’

  ‘I’m only playing what’s written.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Play it again.’

  He played, and she listened critically.

  ‘Ah, you see? This time was much better.’

  ‘I didn’t change a thing, Madame.’

  ‘No? Then leave it alone more and maybe it will be perfect.’

  The lyrical, flowing adage ended in a very fast coda. Madame let the last notes die away. Her eyes rested on Steph and there was—stoicism in them. Madame is risking something, Steph realized. She is taking a chance on me.

  Madame inhaled deeply, as though preparing to dive from a very high board. ‘We start piqué, chassé, piqué, chassé—very precise, very delicate—feet pointed, high. You are dancing on bells.’

  Steph tried to dance on bells.

  Madame frowned but let it pass. She let the jetés croisés and the cabrioles pass. But when it came to the first balance she clapped her hands for silence.

  ‘You call that balance? Who taught you that?’

  ‘You taught me, Madame.’

  ‘I never taught you balance like that. You went to Zhemkuzhnaya when I had grippe?’

  ‘Never, Madame.’

  ‘You are using muscle. Zhemkuzhnaya trick. Is ugly. Pony balances like that and that is why pony has pony derrière. Balance with your centre, everything from the centre.’

  Steph had no idea what Madame wanted of her but she knew it was a reward and an honour and she wanted desperately to show respect. On the other hand Madame was being unfair. Madame was asking the impossible.

  ‘But, Madame,’ Steph pleaded, ‘there’s a retard, and I’m leaping into a balance.’

  Madame stared at her as though nothing ought to be impossible for an artist. The voice dripped patience. ‘Darling, I do not ask God to retard gravity, I do not ask you. Come down light, deep slow plié, do not be afraid, all of foot on floor. You are not using whole foot. That is problem. Why God give you foot? There are seven places you can balance on that foot. When foot says this is right—not before—come up very slow. Let balance rise from centre. Always trusting foot. Foot never
lies.’

  Madame’s hands shaped a balance, materializing like a spirit at a stance.

  ‘Do not stretch balance, balance stretch you. When balance reaches fingers and toes, let it go one inch further—into space—and you have your retard.’

  They took the leap and the balance eight times. On the ninth attempt Madame sighed and said it would have to do for now. Madame was not pleased.

  ‘Tomorrow, here, three o’clock.’

  She went to collect her music, muttering Russian. Izzy asked to study the score overnight.

  ‘Is my only copy,’ Madame snapped, and took it with her.

  The next day’s rehearsal was even worse.

  ‘No, no, no, no, no!’ Madame cried. ‘If I want girl running backward I get eight-year-old.’

  ‘But you told me pas de bourrée backward on the third diagonal.’

  ‘Stop counting diagonals, what do I care diagonals? You are young girl, princess, you do not even know diagonals, you know only you yearn for love, you yearn for love so strong your love is there with you.’

  Beneath her white face powder, Madame’s face showed traces of red. Steph felt stupid and clumsy, a pig in toe shoes. She had betrayed Madame’s faith.

  Madame placed a hand on Steph’s cheek, provisionally forgiving. ‘He touches you—we see him touch because you shiver like girl always shivers when love touches her first time. Stephanie—for this you are virgin. I do not know if you are virgin; is better you remember virgin than be. You are thinking this love and because you are thinking so strong, yearning so strong, he is there. He seizes you—first time man ever seize you, is delicious, is awful—lifts you—you resist but not resist. He carries you backward. You scared, you happy. Everything is yes, no. Your toe drags. Toe very important, tells whole story. And then pas de bourrée backward!’

  ‘But how does he lift me if he’s not there?’ ‘That is the point!’ Madame exploded. ‘That is why the dance!’

  Steph’s eyelids clenched, stung and mute and hurt. She realized she was not an artist, never would be. Madame would not shout this way if there were any hope at all.

  ‘You show us how!’ Madame cried. ‘Your centre goes up, it is all in the centre! Your shoulders relax, your centre goes backward, far far far. Eyes very important, here eyes must steal from feet. You must be silent movie, head back, mouth almost open, wanting him to kiss.’

  ‘But if I fall—’

  ‘Of course you fall, but you bourrée faster than you fall and everyone watches your eyes and no one know how you do it. Now that is what I want and if you are dancer and not elephant you give it to me!’

  Steph tried.

  Madame watched. Madame breathed deeply.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, more softly now, ‘enough groaning cat in heat. This is not Fire Pillar. Not Bronx girl. This is princess.’

  Steph shook her head. She felt tears threatening. ‘I’ll never do it.’

  ‘You will do it because I tell you to. Tomorrow, three o’clock.’

  At the third rehearsal Madame blocked out the coda. It was a fiendish whirl of jumps and turns, with leaps becoming faster and longer, stopping dead in a penché.

  ‘A true penché, Stephanie. Leg well extended up behind you, head and throat lifted. It must be absolutely secure, absolutely beautiful. You are leaning on his shoulder.’

  He, of course, was not there, though Madame said Steph must imagine him, a prince kneeling in extended fifth. Imagining did not make the dead stop or the penché or the one-legged balance any easier.

  ‘Madame,’ Steph pleaded, ‘how long do I hold the penché?’

  ‘Forever.’

  The dreadful fact was that Madame sometimes meant what she said. Steph felt her bones caving in to despair.

  ‘Izzy,’ Madame commanded, ‘play her the re-mi-fa, re-mi-fa.’

  Izzy played the soft, tinkling, next-to-last phrase.

  ‘That is your penché, my dear. Two counts, over and over as long as you wish. And when you no longer wish, you look the conductor straight in the eye, boom. Give him one count warning. He will follow.’

  Uncertainty still gnawed. ‘But, Madame, how long do dancers usually hold the penché?’

  Madame stared at her. ‘Why should you care about usually? For this you create your own usually. Is great opportunity, my dear.’

  ‘But, Madame—’ Steph swallowed. ‘What would you recommend?’

  Madame snorted. ‘Am I couturier? Am I dressing you? Have you no taste of your own?’

  ‘Madame, if you could suggest a length—it would give me courage.’

  Madame sighed deeply. ‘If I give you courage now, next week you ask me more courage and maybe next week I am dead. No. The courage comes from you.’ And then Madame smiled mischievously. ‘But I would not mind eight counts. And I would not mind eighteen. Try to surprise me. Tomorrow, three o’clock.’

  Turning to go, Madame stopped, remembering something Petipa had told Tamarova’s mother, the most important thing of all.

  ‘And, my dear, as you lean into the penché—kiss him.’

  seven

  Anna got home from work to find the refrigerator door open half an inch. Chilled air was steaming into the kitchen. No wonder the Con Ed bill had been sixty dollars last month! She knew Steph was working late with Lvovna, so it had to be Chris’s fault. She shut the door, made sure it was sealed, and marched to Chris’s room.

  She knocked.

  The shades were drawn and at first she could see nothing. The air hummed softly. Her nose caught the cool chemical smell of air conditioning, a faint sweet jab of cologne. The room felt eerie and deserted but Anna sensed she was being watched.

  Her eye picked out a movement on the bed. A hand gripped the post, a figure slowly sat up. Anna felt her way through shadowy obstacles, raised the window shade with a snap that sent dust spinning in the evening light. A canvas tote bag lay agape on the floor, spilling toe shoes and make-up and money.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Anna said. ‘This place is a pigsty.’

  Chris sat at the foot of the bed, half clothed. One hand pressed a pillow to her stomach and she seemed to be holding her head, up with great difficulty. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.’

  ‘How long have you been sitting here?’

  ‘Just a while.’

  ‘Have you been out of the house at all today?’ One glance at the grey circles under her eyes and Anna knew she hadn’t. ‘What about toe class? What about interpretation class? Do you know how many girls would die just to get into that school?’

  ‘It’s no use.’

  ‘What’s no use?’

  ‘Me—dancing....’

  Anna bent, scooped junk back into the tote bag, slammed it onto the rocker. ‘It’s no use paying good money for lessons and not going.’

  ‘A scout from Delaware Ballet came to class yesterday. He offered contracts to Sandy Stone and Ginny Webster. Last week a man from Santa Fe Opera signed Margie MacInness.’

  ‘And maybe a man from the Kirov was there today and where were you?’

  ‘Nobody wants me.’

  Anna wheeled. She wasn’t going to put up with whining, not in her house. ‘Look in that mirror. Do you see a dancer? Do dancers slouch? Do dancers mope? Brush your hair. Put on a pretty blouse. Hold your chin up. Smile. Dancers are supposed to be beautiful. You’re a mess.’

  Chris rocked slightly, as though the words had hit her with physical force. Her gaze came up, slow and scared. ‘Mrs Lang, you know ballet. Tell me honestly. Am I any good?’

  Anna hesitated. She was furious enough to tell the truth, but she didn’t want to lose a boarder. Even if they accepted the Empire State Ballet offer, Steph wouldn’t be getting principal’s pay for a year at least.

  ‘From what I can see, you’re better than some, you’re worse than some.’

  ‘They’re better than me. All of them.’

  Anna stared at the soft questioning face poised on the brink of tears. Slowly, surfacing through
the angry stream of her thought, came the realization that the girl meant it. Anna forgot about the refrigerator door.

  ‘Now wait one minute. Lili Swinburne—prima ballerina with National. No ankles. Miss Wobble. Lara Collins—ten years she’s been a principal with Empire State. Can’t count beats so she dances modern and her feet stink. Nora Parsons—hasn’t danced with her own company in eight years, but they print her name in the programme and she pulls down three thousand a shot doing guest appearances. Her waist is up around her neck, who can partner her? They have to import six-foot Danes. How do you think those girls got to the top—because they were good? Because they didn’t give up. They didn’t cut classes. They didn’t sit with the shades pulled down feeling sorry for themselves.’

  ‘They had talent,’ Chris said quietly.

  ‘They covered the roles, period,’ Anna shot back. ‘They learned the repertory, period. They were there when Allegra pulled a tendon or Gelsey caught flu. Period. And if that’s talent, you got it coming out of your ears. Start using it.’

  Anna sat down on the bed. She reached a hand to smooth Chris’s tangled hair. With those huge blue eyes and the droopy bee-stung mouth, the girl looked like a broken-hearted doll.

  Chris took a long, deep breath. ‘You’re right. I’ve got to keep trying.’ She stood. She picked up a pair of blue jeans from the floor, folded them, and laid them neatly in a drawer. ‘Please don’t tell my mother I don’t have a job.’

  ‘Look, Steph doesn’t have a job either. It doesn’t happen overnight. We’re all in the same boat.’

  Before the demonstration, Lvovna whispered to Marius Volmar outside the rehearsal studio. ‘I have been cruel to this girl.’

  Volmar smiled. ‘You’re learning, Verushka.’

  ‘Don’t joke. She is not yet artist. Someday she will be. But you gave me no time. No choice. For today, I have been Gestapo, KGB. I do not approve. Fear is worst teacher.’

  ‘You show strength.’

  ‘Cruelty is not strength. Now promise: do not smile when you say hello, do not smile when she dances, above all do not smile in the final penché. Do not let her know you like anything about her. What you will see this girl do is beyond my understanding and very far beyond her ability. You must keep her terrified or she will never get through it.’