He ignored me the rest of the class, thank God, but I couldn’t stop looking at those big hands that had touched me, the broad feet that had walked in my direction, the same feet that had danced all the great roles at so young an age on international stages, and at the way he flicked his famous wrists as he dreamily explained something into the air. I suppose that blasé, unimpressed look was how he got dancers to push themselves; the dancer’s ego is a frail and determined thing.
After class, in the bright hallway, while the others wandered ahead, I sensed him behind me and though I wanted to flee, something inside shouted, Stop for God’s sakes! Linger! And I listened. Daniel Tremaine stopped me with a touch to my elbow. “You have a nice line,” he told me, then he dropped his voice, “but the Company is destroying your technique and your body.” Then he put his hand on my shoulder, looked into my eyes and smiled, daring me to be shocked, “You ’ave a nice ass,” he said.
It seems my heart, as a muscle—pounding out beats and measures—is hardwired to that muscle between my legs. I had never felt so obvious. But I had never met a Daniel Tremaine. “Thank you.”
“Would you like some private coaching?” But I couldn’t speak. “I mean here, after class?”
Was I the only one who noticed the upper right corner of his mouth twist when he spoke English, and how it was met by a twitching at the corner of his right eye—as if it was painful to speak?
The rest of the day I wandered the tight neighbourhoods of the plateau, narrow streets of walk-ups pressed in on top of each other, iron stairways extending to the street, all punctuated by small cafés. But any place I came across seemed empty unless I could imagine myself there with him. My mind dipped in and out of what a professional coaching session with this man would involve—Daniel Tremaine having his way, a million different ways, with me. Why me? Second soloist? And only then, to fill the ranks.
After class the next morning, I lingered while he talked to his fawning fans—mostly Company members who would have killed for a coaching session—and a few notables such as the mayor and dance critics who were observing class. Daniel was a national treasure for Montreal. I continued to stretch until the room thinned out.
“Why don’t we start with some jumps; I can see you are a jumper.” This was true, although being a good jumper means you have to work on the weaknesses, and it forced me to perfect my turns. So I started with simple changements, to get some real height and momentum—and to hopefully impress. He stood close and calmly placed his hands on my shoulders, pressing against my lift, a logical action, but then he told me to stop. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Changements?”
“Your fifth position is forced.”
“I’ve always done it that way.”
“How are your knees?”
“Tender, but…” One of Martha Graham’s principal dancers told us we would never have a day without pain until we stop dancing. I had lumped all of my aches and pains under this noble disclaimer.
“You’re forcing your fifth.”
“The Company likes it that way.”
“Why?”
I paused.
“See, you have no idea. Do you think people in the audience are going to notice? No, of course not. It hurts me to watch. I mean, your jump is good enough to distract you or anyone else from your bad technique. Your knees must stay over your metatarsals. Does that not make sense?”
I just stared at him. Of course he was right but it’s like smoking, you know it’s bad for you, but…
“Are you listening to me? Stop staring. Your knees are made to bend forward, not sideways. Turnout originates from the hip. Why are you forcing your fifth? Jump, in first, and do not force it.”
As I jumped he walked around me, placing his hand on my lower back, on my stomach, on my upper chest. “How does that feel?”
I could have really told him, but all I said was, “Off balance.”
“Of course. The rest of you will have to get used to doing it properly, not overcompensating. Soon it will be easy. Soon you’ll understand a sauté.”
We worked on several sequences from corner to corner, a bit of “Bluebird” from Sleeping Beauty, but to do it properly would be another story. Daniel walked beside me as I moved, occasionally taking my hands and throwing them skyward. “Think of your landings. Think of the in-between.” But soon my legs turned to rubber. Why the hell were we doing a variation no one would ever give me a shot at?
“I want you to think of all of this tonight, when you sleep. I want you to see your body rearranging itself, changing the foundations, shifting to its core. But don’t be mistaken, this won’t happen overnight.”
I left Place des Arts and vowed to keep my mouth shut as far as Daniel Tremaine was concerned. I had a hot bath, a nap, strong tea and an early dinner and went for Company warm-up. All I could think about was his firm touch. I worried that my dancing would be sloppy, but I was light. I was nimble. I was fuelled by something unexpected. The evening flew.
The next day, in class I became aware of others. They must have known about the coaching. I stayed at the back.
After, I lingered again, and when the groupies had dissipated Daniel approached me. He rolled his eyes at the departing stragglers. “Did you think about what I told you?”
I nodded, but my voice caught in my throat.
“Good. Let’s learn a bit of Le Spectre de la Rose,” something the Company was planning as part of next season. Again, a long shot for me, or was it? He walked me through the first bit, showed me the choreography, miming everything on a small scale as if having a conversation with himself, complete with arm movements. Soon I was flying across the studio. We worked mostly on the entrance and the grand jeté, and the grand jeté en tournant, but he seemed more concerned with my arms. Then he took hold of my waist on each jump, lifting me beyond what I was capable of. As I focused on the ceiling I’m sure he was focused right bang on my crotch. This required the utmost concentration.
Finally, I came to rest on terra firma. I searched his expression to decipher what he thought of my jumps. But I was preoccupied with the why of this. Why was he coaching me? Had Kharkov requested it? Was I due for another promotion? Or was it rather what I suspected—did he have, as my friend Rachelle liked to say, his compass pointing in my direction? I couldn’t tell.
“Your legs are now throwing your arms off. You have to take risks now, and the arms have to go higher. Everything has to go up. Do you understand? You might as well be doing this with a walker. And for God’s sake, do something with your eyes; they’re absolutely blank. Look a little like you are enjoying it.” But I was terrified. And I wanted so much to enjoy it. To be coached by one of Canada’s great teachers, to imagine that one day “Bluebird” and Le Spectre de la Rose could be mine, was too much.
“My back?”
“Your everything.”
I didn’t have the strength for what he wanted.
“It will take a while to get your landings back. That’s all. You’ve lost your centre of gravity. Now
