Dancer (33 page)

Watched
All in the Family
then cabbed to Judy and Sam Peabody's to see Nureyev (cab $2.50). Nureyev arrived and he looked terrible—really old-looking. I guess the nightlife finally got to him. His masseur was with him. The masseur is also sort of a bodyguard. And I didn't know this before I went over there, but Nureyev has told the Peabodys that if Monique Von Vooren showed up, he would walk out. He says she used him. But he's terrible. When he was so cheap and wouldn't stay in a hotel, Monique gave him her bed, and now he says
she
uses
him.
He's mean, he's really mean. At 1:30 the Eberstadts wanted to leave and I dropped them off (cab $3.50).

—
the Andy Warhol diaries,

S
UNDAY
, M
ARCH
11, 1979

3

PARIS, LONDON, CARACAS • 1980s

Monsieur was still sleeping and the city was quiet in the way I had loved since I was young. I stood by the window and took in the smell of the Seine, which was occasionally foul but on that morning quite fresh. The pastries were baking in the kitchen and the two scents merged together in the air.

At nine in the morning the bells from Saint Thomas d'Aquin were carried on the wind along the quays. The kettle boiled for the fourth time as I waited for Monsieur to wake. He generally did not sleep in beyond nine, no matter how late he arrived home. I always knew whether he had a companion with him since there would be jackets and other clothes strewn on the chairs. On that morning, however, there were no guests.

I took the kettle from the stove top and heard Monsieur rumbling as Chopin came to life on the record player in his bedroom.

When I first began my duties, years earlier, it was Monsieur's custom to come out from his room wearing only his undershorts, but I had bought him a white bathrobe for one of his birthdays, which, in appreciation, he had begun to wear every morning. (He had dozens of silk pajamas and many fine Tibetan robes, none of which he ever used, but he gave them to house guests who had not expected to stay over.)

I rinsed the teapot with a little hot water, spooned the tea, and put the kettle back on the stove over a low heat. Monsieur appeared and greeted me in his customary manner, grinning broadly. The simple things in life still pleased him, and there was seldom a morning when he didn't go to the window and take a deep breath.

I always thought that, for a young man of infinite means—he was forty-two years old at the time—there should be nothing but happiness, but he had days when the sky was indeed upon him and I would leave him alone to brood.

That morning, he yawned and stretched. I put the tea and pastries on the table, and Monsieur announced that he would be leaving the apartment later than usual. He said he had a visitor, a shoemaker from London, who he wanted to keep a secret as there were other dancers in Paris who might steal his time.

It was unusual to have morning visitors and I worried that perhaps there were not enough pastries or fruit, but Monsieur said he had met the shoemaker many times before, he was a plain man who would desire nothing more than tea and toast.

I knew about Englishmen since my aunt had for twelve years after the War kept house in Montmartre for a celebrated theater actor. The English had always struck me as polite, but I had grown to prefer the Russian way, demand and apology, which Monsieur displayed quite openly. He would, for example, raise his voice significantly over a meat dish that was overcooked and then afterwards express sorrow for his ill humor. I had even grown to enjoy Monsieur's tantrums, plentiful as they were.

Monsieur had laid a number of his old dancing shoes out on the floor when the shoemaker arrived. I answered the door to a small bald man who carried his overcoat draped over his arm, a suitcase in his other hand. He was about a decade older than me, in his late fifties at least.

—Tom Ashworth, he said.

He bowed and said he was here on instructions. I reached for his overcoat but he did not seem to want to part with it. He smiled apologetically and hung the coat on the stand himself. Monsieur paced across the floor and embraced the shoemaker who stepped back in embarrassment. His suitcase hit the coat stand and it rocked on its legs. I managed to suppress a laugh.

The visitor had a ruddy face, his eyebrows were full and bushy, and he wore crooked spectacles.

I retreated to the kitchen, leaving the door slightly ajar so I could see into the living room, where Monsieur and the shoemaker had taken their seats. The visitor fumbled with the lock on his suitcase and then opened it to an array of shoes. His demeanor loosened as he took the shoes out one by one.

I had guessed that, as an Englishman, he would take his tea with milk and perhaps sugar. I carried a tray out into the living room. I had forgone my own breakfast pastries in case he might want one, but he hardly looked up, so engaged was he by the shoes. They chatted in English, each leaning forward to hear the other. Monsieur had, it seemed, formed a deep attachment to certain older shoes and the tenor of the conversation was such that he wanted the old shoes to be repatched.

—They live on my feet, said Monsieur, they are alive.

Mister Ashworth said he would be delighted to repatch them to the best of his ability. I closed the kitchen door, began making an inventory of what I would need for the evening's dinner party: capon, spices, carrots, asparagus, butter, milk, eggs, hazelnuts for pudding. Monsieur had invited twelve guests and I would have to check the stock of champagnes and liqueurs. I generally cooked with a country flavor that had been passed down through my family. It had been for this reason that Monsieur had hired me, preferring, as he did, strong hearty meals. (Four generations on my mother's side had cooked in a country inn in Voutenay, outside Paris, but the inn was a victim of the victory in 1944, burned by the Germans in retreat.)

It was always my pleasure to travel to the markets around Paris in search of the finest ingredients. In general the freshest vegetables were found on rue du Bac. There was a butcher on rue de Buci whom I always visited for the best meats—he spoke a guttural Parisian that reminded me at times of Monsieur. For spices and condiments I had made the acquaintance of a Bangladeshi man in the Tenth Arrondisement who ran a tiny store in an alleyway off passage Brady.

I normally went on foot but that particular morning—since Monsieur was with the shoemaker—I asked whether I could use the car, which he had crashed and dented often. (He was a terrible driver and one of his crude New York friends, Victor Pareci, often made unpleasant comments about Monsieur's penchant for rear-ending.)

I accomplished my chores without difficulty.

Arriving back at the apartment with the provisions, I was surprised to see the shoemaker sitting alone. He had spread newspaper on the carpet so as not to soil it with glue. I greeted him in my faltering English. He explained that Monsieur had already left for rehearsal.

The shoemaker had arrived on an early flight from London, and, thinking he might be hungry, I offered an early lunch. He politely declined.

From the kitchen, preparing the evening's meal, I watched as he went about his work. He fitted the shoes on his hand like a glove and used a sharp knife to cut them. It seemed as if he were gutting a wildfowl. His stitching was confident and fast. At one stage, while waiting for glue to dry, he peered over his spectacles around the room. Monsieur was a connoisseur of fine art with a penchant for nineteenth-century male nudes. They appeared to disturb the shoemaker. He stood and examined the marble torso in the middle of the room. He tapped it with his fingers and was startled when he looked up and caught my gaze.

—Monsieur has a wonderful eye for art, I said.

The shoemaker stammered and retreated to his work. Thereafter he did not look up, but by mid-afternoon he was having some difficulty with one of the shoes. He grit his teeth and shook his head. I brought him some tea and asked if he were troubled. He looked at a watch which he kept in the pocket of his waistcoat.

—I've a lot to do, he said.

He had an odd smile which, as it spread across his face, seemed to relax him completely. He sat back and sipped his tea, consulted his pocket watch once more, then sighed and said he feared he would not get his work done before his flight.

—I don't suppose you know of an agreeable hotel? he asked.

—Monsieur will insist that you stay here.

—Oh I couldn't do that.

—There are two spare bedrooms.

He seemed quite undone by the notion of staying. He rubbed the back of his neck and repeated that he would prefer to stay in a small hotel, that he didn't want to intrude on Monsieur's privacy. He closed his suitcase and left for Montmartre where I had told him of a small pension.

Monsieur arrived home from rehearsal at five o'clock in the afternoon. I drew his bath for him. He adored it piping hot.

While changing out of his dance clothes, Monsieur asked about the shoemaker. He was unperturbed when I explained the situation and just went about his business.

While he bathed I cooked him a steak, almost raw, which he always ate a few hours before each night of dancing.

Halfway through his steak, he lifted his knife and pointed it at me.

—Phone Mister Ashworth's hotel and tell him that I will leave a ticket for the performance tonight and later he should join us for dinner.

It flashed across my mind that there would be thirteen people at the table. Monsieur had grown increasingly superstitious since I had known him, something he had acquired from Madame Fonteyn. I opted against saying anything since I knew it was quite likely that, as the evening went on, Monsieur would invite others to join him also. (I had providently bought enough capon to feed seventeen people.)

I made the call. The hotel clerk grumpily informed me that there were no phones in the rooms and that he could only take a message, since he was the sole person on duty. I beseeched him to go to the room, even invoking the name of Monsieur, but the clerk was unimpressed. There was nothing to do but go to the hotel myself.

I hurried through the last of the dinner's preparations, made a flask of hot tea with honey for Monsieur, took a taxi to Montmartre. It was summer and the day was still bright. A tiny park sat opposite the hotel and I glimpsed the shoemaker working in solitary comfort on the grass. I was a little taken aback, since he wore a hat and seemed very much younger than before. I crossed the street. He flushed crimson when he saw me approach and began gathering the shoes into a pile, stuffing the pair of scissors into his jacket pocket.

—Mister Ashworth.

—Tom, he replied.

—Monsieur has asked me to give you a message.

He flushed a further shade of red when I told him of the invitation.

—Oh, he said.

He removed the scissors from his pocket, took off his jacket, spread it on the grass, motioning for me to sit down. The fashion of the day was still towards short skirts but I was thankful that I wore a longer housedress, since nothing could be more embarrassing than sitting on the grass, on a man's jacket, wearing a short skirt, and trying to maintain good posture.

He stammered that he was honored I had come all this way to bring the invitation, that he would be delighted, if his attire was suitable, to attend the dinner, but for personal reasons he never went to the ballet.

—It has to do with a rule of my father's, he said.

I waited but he said nothing more. He stood up from the grass and extended his hand to help me up.

I returned to the quai Voltaire to prepare for the evening.

Capon is an exceedingly delicious bird when cooked correctly. I had learned the art as a young girl. To season it properly one needs nothing more than rosemary, thyme, and the juice of a lemon. One simply lifts the skin away from the breast, applies the seasoning, and allows the bird to do its work in the oven. To complement the dish I made scalloped potatoes and prepared asparagus to be lightly steamed.

The dinner was not due to begin until near midnight, but Tom arrived early. A crooked crease had been ironed in his trousers and his tie was knotted tightly on his neck.

—I am so sorry, but I didn't catch your name, he said.

—Odile, I replied.

He held out a bunch of daffodils for me and said: Well, Odile. It is already beyond my bedtime so you must forgive me if I appear a bit giddy.

If I am to speak honestly, I must say that at the time I simply thought him a nice man, free of pretension, not attractive in any traditional sense, but certainly interesting. I took the flowers, thanked him, and asked him to make himself comfortable until the other guests arrived.

While standing in the kitchen I kept the door ajar and watched him perch awkwardly on the couch. He said he was unaccustomed to wine and he held the glass as if it might damage him.

The usual two waiters, Pierre and Alain, arrived at eleven-thirty. They were aspiring actors. They took one look at Tom and, in their rudeness, discounted him immediately. They performed the last of the preparations, polished the candelabra, set the silverware, rinsed the wine goblets, while I put the finishing touches to the appetizers and dessert.

When the guests began to arrive I was disturbed to see that Monsieur was not among them. It was not unusual—often Monsieur arrived late to his own dinner parties—but my feelings were for Tom, who was distinctly ill at ease in the presence of the guests. The party was composed of a number of dancers, an Argentinean dance critic, a film star of some sort, a business manager, and a couple of society ladies, including Mrs. Godstalk, a New York woman who made sure she was quite a regular at Monsieur's parties. She was in her mid-fifties but she dressed in the provocative manner of a young woman, her bosom always spilling out from her gowns. She was, as far as I knew, married, but I had never heard her mention her husband.

She remarked on a painting she had bought for Monsieur, saying something about its formal balances. She mentioned the price and Tom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The Argentinean critic agreed that the painting in question had perfect tonal components.