Dancer (37 page)

—Of course I am.

—Let me tell you the story, then!

—The stage is yours, said Victor, and he blew Monsieur a kiss.

—Well, said Monsieur, the reason he wore the hat was he believed he was going to meet his wife.

—But you said she was dead.

—In the afterlife, said Monsieur.

—Oh God, said Victor, the afterlife!

—He was found in his house with a hat on his head. He was writing to his daughter. In the letter he asked her to say hello to me. But that's not the story. That's not the point of my story. It's something different. Because, you see, in his last words he wrote …

—What? said Victor. He wrote what?

Monsieur stuttered and said: Whatever loneliness we have had in this world will only make sense when we are no longer lonely.

—And what sort of bullshit is that? said Victor.

—It's not bullshit, said Monsieur.

—Oh it's bullshit, said Victor.

They were silent and then Victor's head drooped. He was like a balloon that had lost its air. He reached for a new packet of cigarettes and his fingers shook while he fumbled with the wrapping. He opened the package and took a cigarette out, got a lighter from his shirt pocket, flicked it into life.

—Why are you telling me this story? said Victor.

Monsieur didn't reply.

—Why are you telling me this story, Rudi?

Victor cursed, but then Monsieur knelt at the foot of Victor's chair. I had never seen Monsieur kneel to anyone before. He put his arms around Victor's knees, laid his head against the crook of his arm. Victor said nothing. His hand went to the back of Monsieur's neck. There was a muffled heave and I was sure Monsieur was crying.

Victor looked down at Monsieur's head and began to mention something about a bald spot, but the comment fell away, and then he gripped the back of Monsieur's neck even tighter.

Victor must have remembered me in the kitchen since he looked up and caught my eye. I closed the door and let them be. I had never before heard Monsieur cry in such a way. It made my hands tremble. I went to the courtyard where Monsieur's dance clothes were drying on the washing line. I could still see their silhouettes inside the house. They had their arms around each other and their shadows made them look like one person.

The following morning began bright and smog-free. I cleaned the house thoroughly and then arranged for the young dancer, Davida, to come over. He arrived in a pair of clogs and greeted me with a kiss. His hair was nicely combed back. He seemed to be an honest young man, so I took him aside.

—Would you look after him? I asked.

—I have a cousin who's a doctor, said Davida.

—No, I think you should look after him.

—Who will pay me?

—Monsieur will pay you, I said.

Over the next two days I prepared a week's worth of meals, crammed them in the small freezer for Victor and Davida. Everything was in order—Monsieur had promised to pay Davida and also to bring him to the Paris Opera House, in future years, where he could have classes and develop his talents.

Everything was kept secret from Victor but I had a feeling he knew what was going on. He walked around the house wearing his earphones even though they were unplugged.

On our last morning I packed Monsieur's bag and arranged a taxi to take us back to the airport. We sat around for a long time, waiting for the car to arrive. Victor talked a lot about the weather, what a great day it was going to be for the beach. He said he couldn't wait to put on a new pair of swimming trunks he'd bought in São Paulo.

—I'll look like I'm smuggling grapes, he said.

When the taxi drew up Monsieur and Victor shook hands and hugged at the doorway. As Monsieur walked down the driveway Victor reached into his dressing gown pocket. I heard the flick of a cigarette lighter. Monsieur turned around.

—You should stop that, said Monsieur.

—Stop what?

—Smoking, you asshole.

—This? said Victor, and he puffed on the cigarette, blew a big cloud of smoke in the air.

—Yes.

—Oh what the hell, said Victor, I haven't got my cough right yet.

4

LONDON, BRIGHTON • 1991

Moderate rolling in of right foot on deep plié, severe on left. Mild right tibio talor and sub-talor, severe on left. Acute knocking of knee. Left lateral tipping of the hip. Arch in lower back, head dips forward. At the bottom of the plié the line is completely gone. Giveaway is the white knuckles on the barre. By twelfth plié he has overcome the pain. On examination, severe tension and contraction in left quadriceps, moderate in right. Acute fraying of the meniscus. Work in arnica to lessen inflammation. Cross fiber friction and twenty-minute effleurage at least. Lengthen quadriceps to allow bend. Rolling and broadening, hip extension, torso twist, scapula stretch etc. Bandage between rehearsal and performance. Figure-eight wrapping with cross on side to push left knee straight.

*   *   *

I had no idea who to tell. It was impossible to think of anyone who might understand. I had not made many friends since moving to Monsieur's home in London. There had always been Tom, but now he was gone.

It came out of the blue, like one of those winter showers that chills you to the bone. One day you're content and the next day it is all swept from beneath your feet. I looked around but couldn't recognize even the simplest items, the oven, the clock, the small porcelain vase Tom had bought for me. There was a note explaining his actions, but I could not bring myself to read beyond the first two lines. He seemed to be still present, as if I might turn around and find him sitting in his chair, reading a newspaper, yet another hole apparent in his socks. But he had taken his shoemaking equipment and a suitcase. For hours I cried. It was as if he had sent my whole life supperless to bed.

When I was a schoolgirl in Voutenay I was called Petit oiseau. I was small and thin, and adults always remarked on my hooked nose. I used to sit and watch my mother cooking in the kitchen, where we both took refuge in the simplicity of recipes and food. But there was nobody to care for. Monsieur was away and not even the gardener was around.

In the quarters Tom and I shared, he had kept a box near his side of the bed. Tom had been contemplating retirement and was making a final pair of shoes for Monsieur. For the presentation box he had used mahogany and nailed a brass plate on the front, although it had not yet been inscribed. I opened the box, took out the shoes and carefully snipped them apart with a pair of scissors. The satin cut easily and then I placed the pieces back in the box. I knew my senses were derailed but I hardly cared.

Monsieur always kept money in the bottom drawer of his bedroom cupboard. He used it to give to visitors who had run out of cash and were in need of a taxi home. I left a slip of paper saying I was taking an advance on my salary. My hands were shaking. I phoned the usual number for a taxi, checked the house to make sure all the lights were out, the windows were shut tight, the appliances turned off. Soon a loud beeping sounded outside the house. I tucked Tom's box under my arm, set the burglar alarm, and went out the front door.

I recognized the driver, a young man who wore an earring and a goatee. He rolled down his window and said: Who's the victim today then, eh?

He was a little surprised when I opened the door and slid into the backseat alone, placed the mahogany box on the floor. I had often escorted Monsieur's guests to their taxis but rarely took one myself. The driver tilted his rearview mirror, looked at me, and then turned in his seat and slid the glass panel open.

—Covent Garden, I said.

—You all right, love?

From my handbag I took a handkerchief monogrammed with Monsieur's initials. I dabbed at my eyes and told the driver I was fine, that I just needed to get to Covent Garden as soon as possible.

—Right-y-o, love, he said. You sure you're okay?

It was not rudeness that caused me to switch seats so he could no longer see me in the mirror, but that I simply couldn't bear the notion of the young driver watching me cry.

He drove quickly but the journey seemed endless. It was summertime. On the street girls wore tiny skirts and young men sported tattoos. The taxi lurched from side to side. Drivers behind us tooted their horns, furious they had been cut off. A motorcycle driver even kicked the side panel of the door.

By the time we got to Covent Garden the fare was in double digits.

I had recovered sufficient composure to ask the driver to wait for me outside the shoe factory. He shrugged. I stepped out of the car and was about to go inside when the thought of seeing Tom made my legs wobble. I had not felt this way since my graduation dance in Paris years before. What had I become? I was sixty years old and had just ripped up my husband's present to Monsieur. Surely, I thought, I was just suffering through a terrible dream.

I heard the whoop of a siren and turned around to see a police car instructing the taxi to move on. The driver was gesturing at me. Everything was happening in far too much of a hurry. I walked quickly along the outside wall to Tom's window and, without looking in, I left the box on the windowsill, turned around and climbed back in the taxi.

—Brighton, I said to the driver.

I could see the surprise on his face. Brighton? he said.

Behind us the police car siren whooped a second time.

—Brighton by the sea, I said.

—You got to be kidding, love.

He began driving slowly down the street.

—I'll take you to Victoria Station, you can get a train from there.

I opened my handbag and passed forward one hundred and fifty pounds. The driver whistled and stroked his goatee. I added another fifty and he pulled the taxi over to the curb. I had never before spent so much money so needlessly.

—You going for a little flutter then, love? asked the driver.

—Please, I said in my sternest voice.

He straightened up and got on his radio, talked to his dispatcher and within fifteen minutes we were on the main carriageway. I rolled down the window and, quite inexplicably, felt calm. The breeze drowned out the noise of a cricket match on the driver's radio. It seemed that I had carelessly stepped into a day not meant for me and soon it would be over.

In Brighton posters of Monsieur were tied to the lampposts all along the promenade.

Monsieur looked young in the photograph. His hair was long and he had an impish grin on his face. I wanted to walk up to the poster and embrace him. A young lady on the promenade held a stapling gun and was readjusting a few of the posters that had slid down the posts. It was Monsieur's final performance in England and there were rumors it might be his last.

I had asked the driver to find a nice bed-and-breakfast facing the sea. He stopped outside an old Victorian house and kindly offered to go inside to inquire whether there was a vacancy. I was glad to see that not all young Englishmen had lost their manners. He came out smiling and, after he had taken my hand to guide me from the taxi, he offered to return some of the money.

—You paid too much, dear.

I surprised even myself when I shoved yet another twenty-pound note into his hand.

—What I'll do is I'll buy the missus a nice dinner, he said.

He beeped his horn as he left.

It was certainly not his fault but I burst into tears.

The room was elegant, with a picture window that looked out to the sea. Children were laughing and kicking in the surf and I could hear a distant brass band playing in one of the pavilions. Still I was reminded of Tom, even in the simplest of items: the twin beds, the ornate vase, the painting of the piers. I had no explanation as to what had happened. Tom had, over the years, been mildly unhappy at having to live in Monsieur's house, but we had furnished our quarters to Tom's liking and he had seemed to settle in. He was not perturbed by the few occasions when I had traveled with Monsieur to other countries, nor even by the fact that I was sometimes called upon to look after Monsieur's needs in Paris. Indeed, Tom said he liked the time alone, he could get his work done. And while it was true that we were perhaps not as intimate as other married couples, there had certainly never been a time when I had called into question our devotion to each other.

I stood in the room. Perhaps the only word for my emotion was raw: I felt raw. I closed the curtains and lay down on the bed and, although it is not in my nature, I continued to weep aloud even while I heard other guests in the corridor.

I awoke thinking not of Tom, but of Monsieur's posters fluttering in the wind by the sea.

Monsieur was not due to dance in
The Moor's Pavane
until the following night. I thought about going to see him at his hotel but didn't want to compound his problems with my own. In recent times I had been angered by what the newspapers were writing about him. He had an ingrown toenail and a problem with his knees, but the newspapers never wrote about that. At one show some members of the audience had asked for their money back when his leg muscles cramped. In Wembley the music had stopped in the middle and they said Monsieur had frozen, waiting for the orchestra, but there was none since the music was taped. In Glasgow there was nobody to meet him at the stage door and a photographer had taken a picture of Monsieur alone and dejected, when, of course, that wasn't true to his spirit at all. Some of his steadfast admirers now refused to go to his performances, but his shows still sold out and the ovations were plentiful, even if the newspapers said they were addressed to the past. People liked to make sly comments behind Monsieur's back but the truth is that he was as dignified as ever.

The next morning I decided that, despite the circumstances, I would make the best of my day. I ordered breakfast in one of the seafront establishments. The waiter, a young man from Burgundy, made a strong café-crème especially for me. He whispered that the English may have helped win two world wars but they knew nothing of the coffee bean. I laughed and found myself doubling the tip. I felt strangely giddy when I thought about my rapidly disappearing money. Even so, I bought a sun hat and rented a deckchair, carried it to the strand, put the hat on in order to obscure my eyes.