“So Kharkov hates me? Is that what you’re saying? And he luuuuuuvs you?”
“No love lost, let me put it that way.”
Later, sober, I was more willing to consider it. But now, here in Montreal I, along with the whole company, was sure Peter was next on Kharkov’s list of conquests. Kharkov promoted me because he had to; he would promote Peter because he wanted to. Peter was a shoo-in for a long career.
“No, he hasn’t asked me. Not yet. It’s strange, but I feel like meeting Daniel is my chance to really find myself, as a dancer.” I actually believed this, then. Now, I’m not so sure I like what I’ve found.
It was Rachelle who persevered, “That’s bs. It’s the same bs I told myself when I married Gordon. Now look at me.”
“You thought Gordon could teach you to dance? He’s a… what the hell is he anyway?”
Gordon referred to himself as an engineer, but he was unlicensed jack-of-all-trades from plumbing to wiring. He’d wear his dirt-caked boots around the house. Rachelle would scream at him. He’d call us fairies. They’d slam the bedroom door and go at it—sexually—and Peter and I would turn up Jeopardy on the tv. It was almost like having a family.
“I meant being in love. Married. He would be my escape hatch.”
“Wasn’t he?”
Rachelle inhaled nicotine with every breath throughout her day when not dancing. She was sallow, her ridged teeth were tobacco stained, but every night, minutes before curtain in tights and tutu and tiara, she looked like the world’s loveliest princess. She had the perfect Company body; Kharkov loved tits and hated thighs. It was a tough type to find, but any female with an ounce of meat on her thighs didn’t stand a chance. Every company had its type.
“It’s a pretty good sex life when you get home from tour, from what I hear on my side of the hall.”
“If the sex weren’t so…”
“Stellar?”
“It can help you ignore other things,” she said. “That is something you should experience: Kharkov can be breathing down my neck all week, trying to crush me for the millionth time, and I think, Who cares? I’m going home to get fucked, wildly, unapologetically and furiously. And I know it pisses Kharkov off—royally.”
“I hate you.”
“Everyone needs an outlet. Looks like yours is going to be in Montreal. Anyway it’s not always perfect. What do you think hubby’s been doing for the past seven weeks while we’ve been taking Barnum and Bailey’s across the country?”
“Framing houses?”
“I don’t care what the fuck you say—men, gay, straight, when it comes to love they’re all assholes. With the exception of you two, my dear hearts.”
“Who said anything about love?”
“Just make sure you have a plan—a Plan B.”
“Plan bs. I need retraining according to him.”
“Him? I’m sure you’ve discovered something more apropos to call him.”
“Monsieur Tremaine.”
“Oh, s’il vous plait.”
“Okay, Daniel.”
“Daniel. My sweetie. Mon amour.” She smooched into the air.
“Great lips for a blow job. No wonder hubby sticks around.”
“You pig. Cochon.”
“Seriously. I can feel it—in my knees especially. Can’t you? The Company forces everything—arches, knees, ankles. I’m surprised I can still walk.”
“That’s ballet, for shit’s sake! I don’t believe a word of it. You’re just repeating a bunch of stuff he’s told you.”
I looked at Peter, who just stared open-jawed. People get antsy when they see someone genuinely happy. He finally spoke. “Maybe you just don’t have a natural turnout.”
“I think we’ve been down that road of me not having natural anything at this point, o perfect one.”
“If the ballet slipper fits…”
“Of course Captain Bohunk here—and notice how I emphasize the hunk, dear—and his knees of steel from years of shumka-ing.”
“You’re just not as sturdy.”
“True.” I had to somehow prop Peter up, as if I were betraying him, which was absurd: we were all in it for ourselves and no one else. “Now if only we could get you to keep your shoulders down when you turn.”
“So all of a sudden you’ve become Monsieur Tremaine’s secretary? My shoulders are just fine without your help.”
“Maybe you should relocate your tension.”
“To my butt, like you?”
“You have such potential.”
“Maybe Daniel is making you weak at the knees.” He sounded deflated now, and distant. I would miss him, no doubt about it.
Rachelle picked up the slack. “Poor thing! You’re letting this Daniel brainwash you. When you stop hurting, your joints I mean, you’ve stopped being a dancer. When your nuts have stopped hurting, which I’m sure they haven’t since we got here, he’ll break your heart. Trust me. Peter, tell him I’m right.”
“She’ll say anything to keep you.”
“Of course I will.”
“He sounds like a trophy, that’s about it,” Peter spoke, barely moving his lips.
“You’re saying he’s too good for me?”
“Get him to un-blank that stare of yours, then we’ll talk.”
“That blank stare is called concentration. Maybe you should try it.”
“Yeah? Well you should be concentrating on your audience—or maybe you are—yourself and your big ego.”
“Hey! No nut-cracking. Grow up. Both of you!” Rachelle turned to me. “The broken heart? It will make you a great dancer.”
That night I phoned Daniel from the stage door, between acts.
He said, “Just talking to you gives me a boner.” And I danced act two with as much of an erection as a dance belt will allow.
I was hooked like Juliet, believing nothing would keep us apart. Not even the warring dance factions of the West versus the East, the Vaganovas versus the Cecchettis. It was a dream, me fleeing the Place des Arts fortress in a cab, through the lighted boulevards of Montreal. Prokofiev’s music finally making sense. The ebb and flow of the
