Flight of the Swan (8 page)

“Now you go with them,” she said. “You must join our corps de ballet.” The girls laughed, immediately at ease, and the four of them went off, chattering away like magpies. The governor shook hands coldly with the young man and then turned his back to him. He asked Madame if the accommodations at the Malatrassi were adequate and then politely put himself at her service before he walked away.

“Estrella Aljama studies at Lady Lane School, in Norton, Massachusetts, the same finishing school as Diana Yager,” the young man explained to Madame. “They are each other’s best friends.” Madame nodded and looked interested. “Do you know what
estrella
means?” the young man went on. Madame said no. “It means star; the poet named his daughter after the star on our flag. Since the Americans have forbidden us to fly or even to own the Puerto Rican flag, he named his daughter for it. Don’t you think that’s wonderful?” the young man observed ironically. Madame stared at him, baffled. “I find the lame poet heart-wrenching. He’s not at all funny,” she murmured.

“We don’t get visitors from a country like Russia every day, where everything is being torn down in order to build a brave new world,” the young man went on. He took out a silver flask from his vest and discreetly poured some of its contents into Madame’s glass, then took a short nip himself. “I think what you’re doing in your country is extraordinary. You got rid of the czar and his boyars at a single stroke. But here the American governor and the sugar barons are still very much in power.” He took a sip from his glass and looked at Madame with interest. “I hear you sympathize with the Russian Revolution. Is that true?”

“I was a ballerina at the Imperial School of Ballet in St. Petersburg, and the czar was my patron,” Madame answered noncommittally. “A revolution is something terrible. I hope you never experience it.”

The young man shrugged. “You could be both, an ambassador of the czar
and
a Bolshevik agent! Or perhaps neither. Whatever you are, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he said, bowing. I was so flabbergasted I couldn’t move. There was no way I could approach them unnoticed.

“Tell me more about the lame poet,” Madame said, purposefully changing the subject.

“I know him well,” the young man answered. “He’s published several books of verse. He’s a toothless lion, though.” And he explained how Juan Manuel Aljama, after swearing he would never adopt the enemy’s citizenship, had decided to do so when he had to have his leg amputated. He traveled to New York, to Mount Sinai Hospital, to have the operation done there, because he didn’t trust local doctors.

“You’re very critical of your country, aren’t you, Mr….?” Madame asked. The young man’s tuxedo and starched shirt with diamond studs didn’t exactly label him as working class.

“Diamantino Márquez,
mucho gusto
.” The young man shook her hand. “I’m a journalist and a poet, and I also play the violin. Forgive me for being sarcastic, but ours is a tragic case. We’re the only Latin American country that never became independent: the little caboose at the end of the train, held up by American troops at the close of the Spanish-American War.”

A shock of dark hair fell over Diamantino’s forehead as he gesticulated angrily. He reminded me of a painting by Caravaggio I saw in St. Petersburg, in which an irate Christ, whip in hand, evicts the unholy merchants from the Temple. He was still wet behind the ears and here was Madame, the star of the Imperial Ballet, listening to him in awe!

It was getting late and Madame anxiously began to look around for Diana Yager. She would be dancing in less than an hour and still had to put on her makeup and costume. She stood on her toes craning her neck to see, and I took advantage of it to reveal myself, stepping out from behind the urn. Madame signaled for me to follow at a discreet distance.

“Well, thanks so much for sending your car around this morning to pick us up, Mr. Márquez. Please excuse me, I have to go now.”

“It wasn’t my car; it was my godfather’s. I was living at his house until recently because my father passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. And who was your father?”

“Don Eduardo Márquez, Aljama’s best friend. He died six months ago. Thankfully, before Aljama’s betrayal.” His eyes glistened when he said this, and his voice trembled with anger.

“How old are you, Diamantino, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Twenty. But I feel a lot older. In fact, I could easily be your lover.”

Madame was caught completely off guard, and so was I. The idea was outrageous, considering she was almost twice his age. But I could tell she felt powerfully attracted to him because of the dark circles under his eyes and the shadow of a beard on his cheeks. “And have you equally been invited here tonight to be observed, and thus to prevent disaster?” Madame said archly.

“Oh, unexpected things may happen, unexplained accidents that are never solved. But let’s talk about something more pleasant, Madame. What did you say you were dancing tonight?”

Two minutes later Madame was half running, half flying up the stairs behind Diana Yager to the governor’s private apartment on the second floor. There she would change into her swan costume. I ran after her to help her dress, carrying her makeup case. The garment was made of real swan feathers, and it fit her like a second skin. I pulled the hooks at the back closed and helped her tie her hair into a chignon under the delicate white feather headpiece, which had to be fastened with bobby pins. Then we went downstairs again, where the gaslights in the garden had been turned down and rows of people were already sitting in front of a wooden platform, conversing animatedly. The troupe of dancers stood at the back, half hidden among the giant ferns and peace lilies that fluttered in the night breeze, waiting for Madame’s appearance.

Madame stood for a moment next to the platform, took a deep breath, and put her hands around her waist as she collected herself. This was the most important moment of her performance, when she willed herself into becoming what she was going to interpret. Movements had to come from within; they couldn’t be mechanical. Madame had danced
The Dying Swan
hundreds of times, but she always conjured up its vision in her mind before performing it.

A violinist, a cellist, and a harpist sat under a frangipani tree, its white blossoms filling the night air with their perfume. A cool evening breeze came up and made Madame’s skin crinkle like old silk over her arms and across her exposed chest as she bourréed across the stage to Saint-Saëns’s haunting music. The melody began to spin its silver thread into the tropical darkness as she slowly glided over the floor and fluttered her arms, just like a swan struggling to continue its flight. Her body was a ray of light wavering in the darkness. Eventually she fell forward and lay still, her arms stretched over her head in a gesture of surrender. The lights were extinguished, and Madame rose to the applause and received a bouquet of roses from the governor. The last measures of the tone poem lingered in the air.

All of a sudden a bolt of lightning flashed over our heads and a noise like a gunshot rang out. Gray clouds that were accumulating on the horizon collided like powder kegs over the fortress’s ramparts, and it began to pour. The red ribbon tied around the bouquet dissolved in a crimson stream of water, staining both the governor’s white linen suit and Madame’s feather costume. They looked as if they were spattered with blood. Madame shuddered and crossed herself at the bad omen.

Everybody ran for cover under the arched gallery of the restored stables that opened onto the garden, but as Madame hurried offstage, her feet gave way. The crimson stain spreading over her dress
was
blood, after all. Someone had taken a shot at her, but the bullet had only grazed her. We all rallied around, crying out in concern, and helped her down the stairs. Diamantino Márquez, like everyone else, had disappeared. Only one person stayed behind in the garden: the lame poet leaning on his crutches, completely heedless of the downpour. “You’re a poet in your own right, Madame,” he said, clapping slowly as the rain streamed down his face. And he bowed deeply as Madame went by.

W
E TOOK MADAME TO
a nearby hospital run by the Sisters of Charity. The nuns rushed about with sail-like bonnets on their heads and bandaged Madame’s arm. They insisted on dressing it with gauze, although her wound was no more than a scratch. Dandré went with Molinari and several bodyguards to La Fortaleza’s police station to report the accident. The next morning I rushed out of the hotel to buy the local newspaper, but to my surprise, there was no mention of the attempt on Madame’s life. No shot had been fired at the reception; no panicked guests had run out of the garden gates or hidden under the darkened shrubbery the night before. It was all kept quiet.

I was astounded that something like this could happen, when I ran into Molinari on the street. He appeared suddenly from behind a building and loomed over me like a threatening shadow. “Could I have a word with you?” he said quickly, taking me by the arm as I was about to go back upstairs. He reminded me of the devil because of his black suit. He smelled of camphor and mothballs, like my stepfather, and I had a hard time breathing whenever he drew near me. We went into a coffee shop around the corner and he ordered ham-and-cheese
bocadillos
with
café con leche
for both of us. I was terrified, but I wasn’t going to let on.

“I want to know what that stuck-up prig talked about with your mistress last night,” he said. “She shouldn’t be seen with him.” I felt relieved it wasn’t
me
Molinari was after. “They were talking about the weather,” I said defiantly. He looked at me and smiled. “I like you. You’ve got spunk. Let’s make a deal: you want to get rid of Diamantino Márquez and so do I. We should be allies from now on.” I gulped down my coffee and
bocadillo
, “Fine,” I said, pretending to agree with him. “As soon as I hear something interesting I’ll let you know.”
“Trato hecho,”
he replied, winking at me as he squeezed my hand.

The attempt on Madame’s life made her so nervous that Dr. Malatrassi, the father of the hotel owner, had to be summoned to her room. He prescribed
bromuro
and valerian pills for her, and chamomile tea for the dancers. The whole company was on edge. Novikov refused to walk Madame’s dog and wouldn’t go out of the hotel at all; Custine began to give the dancers their daily exercises in his bedroom, after moving the bed out into the hallway. Smallens practiced his scores at the hotel’s piano bar. The Malatrassi was buzzing like a beehive.

From my room, which was next to Madame’s, I could hear her arguing with Dandré about what should be done. The commissioner of police had come by earlier and left a message that he wanted to see Dandré. Did he know what had happened? Would he be able to help us? If it weren’t for the nick in Madame’s arm, she would be hard put to convince him there had been an attempt on her life. They couldn’t agree as to who was behind the shooting: the reactionary sugar barons, who pegged Madame as a Bolshevik, or the radicals who saw her as the czar’s ballerina, a relic of Imperial Russia. Madame believed it was the former; Dandré the latter.

While they quarreled loudly in the bedroom, I went on with my duties. Dandré was always ordering me about, to keep me away from Madame, but I didn’t mind. Ubiquitous Masha had to be everywhere. I ran upstairs and began to draw Madame’s bath. I washed her underwear, polished her shoes, and ironed the dress she’d be wearing that morning. Then I had to go down to the kitchen to bring them their breakfast tray. I was anxious to finish my chores and go out as soon as possible. The atmosphere on the island seemed charged with danger, and I wanted to find out why.

I already knew why the governor’s wife hadn’t been present at the reception the night before. One of the waiters at La Fortaleza had informed me of her mysterious illness: Mrs. Yager lived like a recluse in the upstairs rooms of the governor’s mansion and never came downstairs to any of the parties because she had a neurotic fear of the tropics. She lived in terror of being stricken with TB, typhoid fever, or malaria, all of which were rampant in Puerto Rico—especially among the poor. Whenever she went out, Mrs. Yager wore white cotton gloves to the elbows and a veil covering her face so as not to pick up germs. The situation didn’t help the governor, who was a snob who seldom mixed with anyone.

T
WO DAYS LATER JUAN
Anduce joined Madame’s troupe. The company needed to be replenished with new toe shoes, so on the second day after our arrival Dandré had put an ad in the paper asking for a cobbler to come to the Hotel Malatrassi, and three of them turned up. Juan didn’t speak any Russian, but he spoke English quite well, and Dandré picked him. Juan had large, coarse fingers, but he had a magician’s touch with shoes. Madame herself taught him how to block the dancers’ toe shoes, dipping them in rosin in order to strengthen them before shaping them into cylindrical molds of paste, then upholstering them in pink silk and sewing ribbons on them. He was so successful an apprentice that Madame used to say to me, “Thanks to Juan, our company literally dances on clouds.” She broke in a new pair of slippers at every rehearsal, and during a performance sometimes used up to three pairs.

Juan and I immediately became friends and he invited me to visit his workshop, La Nueva Suela, which was on Calle San Sebastian, near the Plaza del Mercado. It was a shed where he had a charcoal stove, a hand basin, and a shower—everything crowded into one room. The shoe repair was two blocks away from La Casa de las Medias y los Botones, and the first time I visited Juan I asked him why that store was always so full of people. I had just passed it on my way over and was surprised to see a crowd already at the door when it was still early.

Juan looked at me, a curious expression on his face. “That’s something you only understand when you live on an island, my duck.
Sanjuaneros
are always giving carnivals and costume balls and dressing up as something or other, because they’re always trying to get away.”