to penetrate me, while I sat on the toilet telling myself the pain would lapse.
“One week. It’s been over one week,” he said. “You’re afraid to let go. You will never be free as an artist or a dancer if you can’t let go. You will be nothing more than an uptight Anglo from the prairies.” Then he left.
We were good with silences—connected enough to not need to speak. In spite of this little obstacle, I felt something was about to change with some kind of proposal. Then, with the little piece of polished rock he would give me, we would become the toast of the Montreal dance world. Our names, John and Daniel, would be on everyone’s lips. I would be his protegé. He would be my master.
Sitting here on the stairs, even now, body as it is, bereft of tears, blood and sweat, it seems absurd to wonder how he saw me. What is a bad decision? What’s the difference between a bad decision and adventure, or a good decision and boredom? Do all decisions make themselves? I haven’t thought of him wistfully for months, almost a year. I haven’t pined. You don’t believe that? And I can’t even remember the last time I got one hundred percent sentimental over him and had a good old-fashioned wine-soaked wallow. The cornerstone of lust holds up those castles in the sky.
It was after I bought Egyptian cotton sheets and pillowcases at Ogilvy’s, and the salesman made a fuss over the thread count, something I’d never heard of, that Daniel became scarce. He was busy coaching, and when I pressed him for a rendezvous, he stopped returning my calls.
I’m no stalker, but love does strange things. I didn’t want to sit in our café alone, wondering if he’d drop by, staring at a bunch of other sallow-faced intense couples. I didn’t want to feel like my ass (the gluteus maximus part) was turning to putty either. I picked another café nearer to the Conservatoire, where he did most of his work, and drank endless refills of café au lait en bol and ate just one more croissante au beurre and listened to ballet brats complain about their bony knees or flat arches, and wondered just how much butter it would take to turn my obliques into love handles. I didn’t want to forget what I was: a dancer, not just someone in love. It was every part of my life. It was me. I couldn’t live without it. But it seemed the magic was slowly leaving my body.
I looked for him at Eddie Toussaint, but years ago they had banned him from their studios for artistic differences. Les Ballets Jazz was on a Central American tour. I finally got up the courage to inquire to the tight-lipped receptionist at the Conservatoire. She told me he dropped by sometimes, but only to use the space. She thought maybe he’d gone to New York, on invitation or on an emergency. Was it a family emergency and he couldn’t get in touch with me before he left? Did he leave a message? Had there been some miscommunication? Was he too preoccupied to even talk to me? As Rachelle said, “If you believe that, you’ll buy this watch.”
When I asked Hugues, again, if there had been a message, he said the same thing, “Pas de message,” imitating my harsh English accent. He was as helpful as his face was angelic. I knew he knew something, but he probably figured this maudit anglais didn’t deserve a decent answer. He seemed permanently secretive. He said there was no word, not even from a friend who fed Daniel’s cat. He had a cat?
“I talked to someone who talked to someone else who said d’ey saw him, said d’ey t’ought ’e was back,” Hugues finally said.
“He’s back?”
“Didn’t you know he might have a job as a répétiteur in New York?” Hugues grinned. “You know him. ’e ’as lots of friends, you ’ave to share ’im, and you ’ave to enjoy him when ’e is around.” After that, Hugues didn’t speak English so well.
Add to this foundering romance the fact that there seemed no plan of attack for my physique, and I lost my footing. I had avoided the Conservatoire long enough. I started taking drop-in classes, hoping it would eventually lead me to him and be noticed at the same time. I could wait no longer for some kind of dream of a mentorship with Daniel. I couldn’t dance in a bubble. I finally decided to audition for the Conservatoire, but no one took much notice, and one of their uptight répétiteurs had the gall to suggest I take a simpler class. I had gone from professional soloist, well second soloist, in the West to corps in the East. Dancers return to the basics occasionally, it does us good, so I took my training in hand and surrounded myself with summer students following a pounding drill by a Chanel No. 5–marinated, Gestapo torturess. The Conservatoire studios were legendary, but paid the price for their nastiness. Although their teachers had produced fine dancers, the best had gone off to New York and companies in Europe.
“Your technique has been forced,” the torturess said. “You will ’ave to start over. You will ’ave to relearn.”
Then another frustrated emaciated has-been picked up where the torturess left off, in a men’s class. Between pliés we did the usual sets of push-ups, with her on our back, chin-ups with her pulling down on our ankles, and pliés with each of us sitting on a partner’s shoulders, to make us solid. “Your plié is completely wrong.” She pinched my lower back with her claws. I can still feel it.
The third blow came from a faded legend. Not a Daniel, but someone who owed his reputation to all of the years that had passed. The other dancers called him the “Sugar Plum Fairy” under their breath. He was an overgrown, over-the-hill, alcoholic boy whose shape changed between each binge and purge of booze and pizza, gravy-soaked frites and Frusen Glädjé, hold the waffle cone. He whined, “You just aren’t serious enough.”
I’d heard about his definition of serious: he went down on his knees to keep his job. But all he did was pray and cry and beg. I refused to beg, but returning to the basics for a while wouldn’t hurt my technique. I had to trust what Daniel had said. So I ate less, drank more coffee, warmed up earlier, stayed later, took every class on the schedule. And I made sure to keep my appointment with Madame Ranoff, the artistic director, to make it clear what my plans were.
Madame’s office was dark. The collected years of history crowded the atmosphere, robbed the air of oxygen, turned living beings to chalk. Madame looked as transparent as the ghosts in the photographs on her wall. Her old skin was waxworks smooth, her smile small, tight and forced. Every time she opened her mouth her dentures clicked. She had been making tough, do-or-die decisions for years to keep her dancers working. She was another who had danced with the Original Ballet Russes. And like the truly intimidating legends—Graham and Makarova—she had a rock-hard soul. Single-mindedness, time and obsession turned people like Madame Ranoff and the Sugar Plum Fairy into legends.
I didn’t tell her I had cut my ties, or about my training in the West. I was a fool to think I could marry into the Montreal dance world. She must have known. They all must have thought I was an opportunist. When a dancer leaves a company, the news spreads like syphilis. And when a dancer takes up with the likes of a Daniel Tremaine there will be a price to pay. Besides, it had always been the West against the East. The West was viewed with disdain and mild curiosity, as was the East by the West, perhaps with a little more envy. “You must start over,” she told me. “How long have you been dancing?” I thought she was being sarcastic or exaggerating but she meant every word as blankly and blandly as her lifeless face muttered it.
“Almost six years, and I used to swim…” My voice trailed off. She couldn’t care less.
“You should be better than this,” she said through a burgeoning fake smile.
“But Madame, I was soloist, second soloist, with the Company.”
“The Company,” she sighed. “They have a unique way of doing things. Not that I disagree, but they have their own set of laws.” She precisely applied condescending laughter to underscore her comment: “You must forget what you learned.”
I
