Authors: Alice Simpson
“Rebecca Douglas has at least five gorgeous pairs,” Sarah had remarked. “They’re so high, I don’t know how she dances in them all night.”
“She brings a few pairs with her and changes. It makes it less painful. She’s an eye doctor. Lotsa money.” Tina admired her own reflection in the mirror. “Takes privates three nights a week.”
“She’s got some wardrobe. I’d do anything for her clothes.”
“You could use a couple of flashy dance dresses, my dear. Have you seen Hernan, that South American she dances with? Is he a hunk?” Tina spoke to Sarah’s reflection. “And can he dance? The strong, silent type.”
“You know, I saw him uptown riding a bike. He’s a messenger. Do you think Rebecca knows?”
“You’re kidding! I can’t believe it. He can put his shoes under my bed anytime!”
“I swear. He was riding a bike and carrying a messenger bag.” Sarah picked up one shoe after another.
“A messenger? Well, he sure can dance, so who cares?”
“I suppose. Don’t you think she looks like Grace Kelly?” asked Sarah. “You think she’s sleeping with him?” Then, trying to sound casual, “Or with Gabe Katz?”
“No one ever tells at the Ballroom!” Tina winked. “You’re funny. You think everyone looks like some movie star. Don’t get involved with anyone you dance with. D’ya hear me?” She emphasized the statement. “Don’t even tell them your last name.”
“Like Joseph what’s-his-name.” Sarah decided not to mention she was meeting him Saturday night at Roseland. “I’ve been dancing with him for more than two years, and I can’t get him to tell me his last name. How old do you think Joseph No-Name is? Sixty-five?”
“It don’t matter,” Tina said. “Look at these! These would be great on you. Almost the color of your hair. Get yourself a wild dress to match.” With two fingers she held a shoe—an Arabian slipper of copper satin lace—at arm’s length like a precious object. Two slender satin straps crisscrossed the arch, fastened at the ankle with a rhinestone buckle. Sarah ran her fingers over the brushed kid sole. It felt like the skin on the inside of her arm. The heel, slender and high, seemed perfect in every way. It even smelled exotic. Slipping the shoes on, she tried some tango steps. Her own glass slippers. A perfect fit. All she needed was a prince. Her own Clark Gable, Cary Grant, Robert Taylor. Gabriel Katz looked like Robert Taylor, she thought. Although she preferred movie stars from the forties, she’d settle for someone more contemporary—like Antonio Banderas.
I
t is almost seven thirty. Realizing she’d better get upstairs to look for Joseph, Sarah checks her reflection one last time in the Roseland mirror. She’s bought herself the perfect skirt to match the shoes, a daringly short copper sarong that knots at her waist, which she coordinates with an iridescent body suit. Dangling amber earrings flash with reflected light, setting off her pale neck.
She never goes out in the sun, having decided that, getting close to forty, she wants to preserve the paleness of her skin. She hates the pink patches that reveal her moments of distress; appearing without invitation, they announce her emotions, which she prefers to keep to herself.
Clairol’s Sun Kissed Autumn and a shorter cut turn her hair into a blaze of curls. It’s the same color Carita Sante, this year’s Latin division international solo gold winner, wears.
Sarah concentrates on the imaginary string running up through the top of her head, feels her whole being reaching for the ceiling. One deep breath. Shoulders back. Stomach tight, and she’s ready to dance.
“Beautiful,” remark two men in their sixties passing Sarah as she climbs the carpeted staircase to meet Joseph.
It is dark around the borders of Roseland’s dance floor. When she looks into the shadowy half-light, men stroll back and forth as though they have somewhere to go. Seated on the banquettes, women in their seventies and eighties pose, repeated reflections of one another, eager and inviting, wearing too much makeup. Their wide, soft bosoms push up and over the bugle-beaded bodices of their cocktail dresses, forming deep, crepey cleavage. They have blown-out hair and painted nails, too long for plump hands that bear the weight of too many rings. Each stares straight ahead, waiting for an invitation to dance. They glitter with promise. Sarah feels the envious appraisal of old eyes as she circles, searching for Joseph.
A man steps out of the shadows. “May I have this dance?” He’s taken hold of her forearm. Sarah feels the strength of the large, liver-spotted hand, and looks up into a crooked smile over equine teeth. Perched above a furrowed forehead is a comical comb-over, beginning an inch from his left ear and swirling around the top of his head in a spiral, which seems almost glued in place. She can hardly take her eyes off it.
“I’m waiting for a friend.” She steps back. He is too close.
“While you’re waiting, we can dance.” He persists, stepping closer, his arm around her waist, pushing her toward the dance floor.
“No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”
“He’ll see you dancing, and he’ll be impressed. What’s your name, sweetheart? I never saw you here before.”
It is rude to walk away, to make a scene. It’s only one dance. Giving in to his persistence, she turns herself over to following his lead. He is a terrible dancer.
“Sarah,” she says, remembering Tina’s warnings.
“I’m Walter. Maybe you wanna gowout together sometime?” When he exhales Scotch, she pulls her head back. “How old do ya think I yam?”
“I’m not good at guessing ages.” Her neck aches.
“How old do I look? Take a guess, gowan.”
“I don’t know, fifty-six?” she lies. He is at least seventy.
“I’m sixty. How old are you? Thirty, I bet.”
He’s lying, too, she thinks.
“I never discuss my age,” she says with a laugh. “It’s only a number.”
Instead of following the flow of the dancers around the dance floor, he leads her in dizzying circles, showing her off like a prize to the straggle of strangers. Everyone is watching. Like a fireball, heat begins to rise from her chest, constricting her breath. Her throat feels parched. It is hard to swallow. She loses the rhythm of the mambo. Each attempt to catch the place where the beat began is fleeting, just out of reach. If she could only concentrate, start again. Why, she wonders, can’t she feel the rhythm?
Walter’s black-and-white tweed woolen sports jacket smells like a fifty-year-old stew of sweat and mothballs. Its fibers prickle against her skin, itchy and irritating. There are frayed and soiled edges around Walter’s blue polyester shirt collar and cuffs, and stubble on his neck where he’s missed shaving. Her back and neck strain. She keeps trying to lengthen the space between them. Dizzy, nauseated, she wants to walk away, but one must never walk away from a dance partner.
“What happened? You’re losin’ the beat, Sarah. Come on . . .
and a one and two
. . .”
He counts out the mambo beat.
“That’s it. You got it now, sweetheart.”
Whenever she faces the entrance, she searches for Joseph’s silhouette, backlit against its brightness. The band plays one Latin song after another. Finally catching Walter off guard, she slips out of his grip and quickly walks away. He reaches to grab her arm.
“I need to sit.”
“Come on, sweetheart, one more dance. It won’t kill you.”
Another mambo, and her head is throbbing from the heat and the repetitious rhythms.
“I really think I need to rest a while.”
He won’t let go. “Ah, come on. Just till it finishes. Your boyfriend will wait. You’re real good, Sarah. How come you don’t come here Thursdays?” He repeats the same steps. “You sure are sweating.” He laughs. “Relax. What are you so nervous about? You’re as red as a beet. You know, sweetheart, if you’d relax you wouldn’t sweat so much.”
Clearly Joseph has stood her up. She has no idea how to reach him; despite having danced with him for two years, she doesn’t know anything about him. Not even his last name. She feels alone and vulnerable. She’s sorry she has come.
A hand takes hold of her arm. She pulls away.
“I hope you haven’t waited too long?” With an elegant bow, Joseph takes her hand to lead her onto the dance floor.
“I just got here myself,” she lies.
After they dance, they find a small table and order drinks.
“To the evening,” she toasts.
“So, what interesting things have you been doing this week?” he asks.
“Last night I went to the theater to see
Long Day’s Journey into Night
.”
“Strong subject matter.”
“Did you see it? Pretty disturbing. Talk about dysfunctional families!”
“Epic. It’s an extraordinary piece of theater,” he says. “O’Neill’s own family. The
Times
gave it an excellent review last week. I’d be interested in your opinion.”
She hasn’t had anything to eat, and the drink goes right to her head. She considers Joseph, his formality, his eagerness to talk, while she prefers to dance. She hasn’t paid $12 to have a conversation.
“Ah, a rumba.” She stands up. “My favorite dance.”
With the right partner, the rumba is a very erotic dance. But Joseph dances without any sensuality; his movements are mechanical, and she knows every step he leads. No surprises. At the Ballroom she’s watched him dancing, week after week, in his uniform of gray pants and navy blazer, and she knows that he looks presentable and shabbily elegant, with his aging-movie-star looks. She wonders if she could develop him as a potential dance partner; they could dance together on Saturday nights at Roseland, at least until she makes some progress with Gabriel Katz. She has often considered whether she should go to bed with Joseph. Would he finally tell her his last name?
Curious to see if he’ll respond, she leans in to him closer than usual, putting her arm around his neck, and feels the tightening of his muscles as he pulls away. He wants to keep his distance.
It is when the song ends and they return to the table that Sarah sees Gabriel across the room, dancing a Viennese waltz with an elegant woman. In his pressed blue blazer, gray pants, and silk shirt, he definitely looks like a movie star. Yes, Robert Taylor. The same heart-shaped face, and the widow’s peak. Even his eyebrows enhance the valentine.
As they pivot, Sarah recognizes his partner: Rebecca Douglas, her perfectly coiffed and highlighted hair in a French twist, like Grace Kelly. She is wearing a low-cut red dress, fitted to below the waist, where it turns into sheer, star-studded silk chiffon that flows with her movement. The stars flicker in the spotlights as Gabriel maneuvers her around the room, and she keeps pace with Gabriel’s long-legged strides. As they whirl by, Sarah notices the flawless frame they make, the balance of give and take between partners.
The long, manicured fingers of Rebecca’s left hand rest on Gabriel’s upper arm. Sarah is certain she can hear Rebecca’s heels touch, as they should, each time she brings her feet together. In red shoes, their heels higher and thinner than Sarah can imagine dancing in, she moves on tiptoe. Gabriel’s head is held high, his expression arrogant. Turning, moving swiftly in long steps, taking full advantage of how few people are dancing this Viennese waltz, they are the most beautiful couple on the dance floor. All eyes are on them. Sarah longs to be the woman in Gabriel’s arms.
“Care to dance, Sarah?” Joseph asks, breaking through her reverie.
“Let’s wait. It’s not my best dance.”
Gabriel probably called Rebecca early in the week to invite her to Roseland. He probably picked her up, took her somewhere elegant for dinner, and paid for her Roseland ticket. At the end of the evening he will drive her home in his black Cadillac. Yes, she decides, she must develop Joseph as a regular Saturday-night partner at Roseland. So that Gabriel will see her.
Turning to Joseph, she says, “I’m having a lovely evening. We must do this again.”
“Are you really? Are you free next Saturday?”
“You ought to give me your phone number.”
“I don’t enjoy talking on the phone,” he says quickly. “I’m on the phone all day, and happy not to speak to anyone in the evening.”
“I only thought . . . that if anything should happen.” She pauses. “If I were to get sick and not be able to meet you, you’d be waiting. You might think I’ve stood you up.” She notices his tense expression relax as he considers this possibility. “Since I don’t know your last name, I wouldn’t be able to find your—”
He abruptly stands and holds out his hand. “A fox-trot. ‘My Funny Valentine.’ Shall we?”
Before making a visit, you should be perfectly certain that your visit will be welcome.
—Thomas E. Hill,
Evils of the Ball
, 1883
S
arah is waiting for him as he leaves the Ballroom the next night. “I’ve noticed you walk home. Do you live nearby?”
“On Perry Street.”
“May I walk with you? Keep you company?” she asks as they walk along Fourteenth Street. “I imagine you live in a prewar building. Is it one of the Art Decos?”
“Yes, it is from that period.” He can’t say no to her walking with him.
“That would suit your Adolphe Menjou looks! I’m familiar with the area, actually. I had a great time last night. We should do that again.”
Each time they pass a subway entrance, he hopes she will say good night, but she continues with him all the way to Perry Street.
A
s the elevator rises slowly to the fifth floor, he’s aware of the odors of tomato sauce, garlic, onions, and oregano. He is unable to control the rapid blinking of his eyes. Once they reached his building, she invited herself in, despite his protestations.
“It’s all my mother’s old furniture, I’m just about to renovate. I’m sorry the place is kind of a mess,” he says as he opens the door.
“No need to apologize.” She laughs. “Do you have a fireplace?”
“I’ve intended to throw away that arrangement.” He picks up a vase of faded roses on the console, taking them into the kitchen. “I’m going to paint. Do it myself. Just need to get to the paint store. You know, I get home from work and I’m just kind of tired. I thought I’d get a new sofa, too. Maybe blue leather like my Barcalounger. Would you like a cup of tea? A glass of water?” He takes the week’s newspapers off the chair, carrying them into the kitchen. “Sorry for the mess.”