84 Ribbons

84

Ribbons

84 Ribbons:

Copyright © 2013 Paddy Eger. All Rights Reserved.

www.PaddyEger.com

Published by Tendril Press™

www.tendrilpress.com

PO 441110

Aurora, CO 80044

303.696.9227

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

All images, logos, quotes, and trademarks included in this book are subject to use according to trademark and copyright laws of the United States of America.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Tendril Press and Paddy Eger. The material in this book is furnished for informational use only and is subject to change without notice. Tendril Press assumes no responsibility for any errors or inaccuracies that may appear in the documents contained in this book.

ISBN 978-0-9858933-2-3

Library of Congress Control Number:  2013943617

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2  First Publishing: 2014

Author Photo by: Yuen Lui

www.YuenLuiStudio.com

Lynnwood, WA

425.771.3423

Cover Photo by shutterstock.com:

Art Direction, Book Design and Cover Design
© 2008. All Rights Reserved by

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To  all who love ballet.
May it fill your heart and soul with joy

Dance is the hidden language of the soul.

          — Martha Graham

M
arta circled the narrow corridor outside the Olympic Hotel’s Grand Ballroom. She shook out her hands and adjusted her leotard again, pulling the leg bands out and letting them snap against her tights. After ten years of lessons, recitals, and training, today’s audition would decide her future.

The ballroom door opened. A slender man dressed in black leaned out. “Hello, girls and boys. I’m Damien Black. Hand me your audition paperwork and pin on the number I give you. We’ll begin shortly.”

Marta pinned on number seventeen, her age. A bit of good luck? If you believed such a thing. Today would be the final test. She’d received no call backs or invitations to join the ballet companies from earlier auditions. Feedback would have helped, but they only sent rejection letters.

Miss Holland, her dance teacher, worked with her before and after each audition, helping her iron out small problems with lengthening her arm extensions and improving her timing. Now audition season ended. Ballet companies moved forward to settle into new seasons. She’d given each audition her best. Today provided one last chance.

Five minutes passed before Damien Black opened the door and signaled the dancers into the ballroom. “Form a line,” he said.

Judges sat at two long tables. As the lines formed, they began pointing to dancers, whispering to each other and writing on the audition applications.

Marta stood in fifth position and finger-combed her curly brown bangs, pressing them against her forehead. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears as she portioned out a performance smile and swallowed hard to calm herself.

She glanced to either side. Every dancer remained statue still. She lifted her rib cage and tightened her back muscles to control her twitching. How could the judges possibly write so much before any dancing began?

After they lowered their pens, a petite, wrinkled woman rose from the table. Her red lipstick clashed with her pink blouse and her blue eyeliner. She leaned heavily on a carved wooden cane as she spoke. “I am Madame Cosper, director of the Intermountain Ballet Company. With me are Damien Black, ballet master, along with Mrs. Scott and Mrs. Zachary, distinguished ballet patrons.”

Madame Cosper’s harsh voice, narrow face, and odd outfit matched the directors at her previous auditions. All taught with such intensity, so unlike her dance teacher back home who smiled all the time. At least Damien Black acted friendly enough.

Madame Cosper thrust her chin forward and squinted. “Today’s audition will assess seven elements including basic style, floor exercise form, your ability to quickly learn choreography, rhythmic sense, interpretation of the
Sleeping Beauty
waltz as a group performance
and
as a solo, in addition to your prepared solo.” She made an abrupt turn to point her cane like a sword. “You, number six. Get rid of that gum!”

A low chuckle spread through the assembled dancers as the gum chewer deposited his wad in a nearby trash can and returned to the line.

“Quick, quick!” Madame’s voice reminded Marta of a drill sergeant. “Spread out. Six people to a
barre
. We don’t have all day!”

Marta wiped her damp hands on her leotard before she took hold of the cold metal
barre
. She shook out both legs and stood ready to begin. Why, after years of dancing, did she continue to feel nervous?

“Let’s begin. First position, and one, two, three, and four.”

The pianist, seated to one side of the room, shifted from background music to
barre
exercise music in 4/4 time. Marta kept her free arm curved, pulled her spine straight, and tucked in her derrière as she lowered into a first position
demi-plié
and rose. She repeated her movement, this time dropping into a
grand
plié
before she rose onto
pointe
, held her
relevé
four counts, then lowered her body to a neutral stance. Next, she moved to a
plié
in second position.

“Number three, you’re dropping your arm,” Madame said. “You, boy number ten, tuck your shirt into your tights. Ack! Sloppy. Pay attention, boys and girls. Remember,
barre
exercises are part of your evaluation.”

Miss Holland had taught Marta that the trick at auditions meant dancing well without standing out. After all,
corps de ballet
dancers performed as background until they earned
solos. Even so, Madame Cosper expected perfection.

After
barre
exercises, the hopefuls moved to floor exercises. Marta stood between two blondes with perfect ballet bodies, perfect arms, and perfect hair. She fingered her curly mop and sucked in her bottom lip as she watched and listened to Madame’s directions. Previous ballet company judges appreciated her flowing arms, lyrical head movements, and precise footwork. Would that be enough to compensate for her difficulty remembering long sequences of choreography?

Half an hour later, while the dancers rested in fifth position, Madame paced and explained the group audition piece. “We’ll teach you a waltz from
Sleeping Beauty
, a portion of our fall program. You’ll dance it three times: the first two as rehearsals, the third we’ll score as your group performance evaluation.”

Madame walked through the steps, moving her hands to demonstrate foot movements like Miss Holland and other instructors did. She barked the combinations over and over as the hopefuls executed the steps.

After twenty minutes of practicing she said, “Stop. We’ll begin your two rehearsals now.” She nodded to the pianist.

Marta’s insides tingled. She touched her mom’s necklace that hung on a silver chain beneath the neck of her leotard imaging her mother’s presence. As the music began, she took a refreshing breath and glided into the waltz.

Balancé, balancé,
relevé
, dip,
bourreé
left,
boureé
right, repeat, repeat. The crescendos and orchestrated hesitations pulled Marta into the music. She executed each step, adding elongated flourishes to show her ability to finish each move before beginning the next.

Madame clapped to emphasize the beat. She mouthed the steps, then marked an agitated beat with her cane against the wooden floor.

“Stay on the count, boys and girls. Lift higher, extend your arms.”

When the second rehearsal ended, the dancers leaned forward, panting and resting with their hands on their knees.

“Adequate. I see little evidence of happiness. This is a waltz. Show your joy. Finish every move before you begin the next.”

Well, at least I did
that
right, Marta thought.

“Now, begin the scored waltz.”

Marta adjusted her leotard and began, completing each combination of steps. For the turns, she focused on a spot above the judges’ heads, lifted her rib cage, and whirled around and around, elevating her arms to improve her balance. As the piece ended, she bowed and held the pose. Thank heavens she’d avoided crashing into the guy who threw his arms around like a fish out of water. He was all over the dance space, causing a number of near misses. No one needed or wanted that kind of attention.

“Mediocre at best.” Madame scowled as she paced before the judges’ table. “It’s a quarter after eleven. Return by a quarter of one, sharp. We’ve allotted each of you ten minutes for performing this dance and your solo. We’ll post your audition times on the door. Mark the beginning for your solo music distinctly. Leave it in the box by this door with your audition number clearly printed on the top. Dismissed.” Madame pounded her cane one last time, then pointed its black-cushioned tip toward the exit.

Like Marta, every dancer wore a sheen of sweat. She wondered if any of them shared her concern of remembering the performance piece after so few rehearsals. She began a silent walk through, marking the location of each step and the position of her arms.

“You! Number seventeen,” Madame Cosper said. “What are you doing?”

“Walking through the waltz, Madame”.

“Move along. The judges need to meet without your snooping.”

“Yes, Madame.” Marta scooted out of the room in time to see dancers dressed in street clothes heading out the door in clutches of two or three. Traces of laughter lingered as the exit slid closed. A few mothers dressed in tailored suits herded their daughters and sons toward the hotel’s formal dining room. Ugh. How could anyone eat during auditions?

Marta stowed her ballet shoes and slipped a flowered jumper over her leotard. She exited the hotel and headed downtown, treating herself to a quick window shopping tour along Seattle’s posh Fifth Avenue.

The August sun soothed her damp, tired body as she strolled north along the gently sloping street. She remembered the waltz movements and hummed the music as she passed two theaters: the Music Box and the Coliseum. She completed a simple turn as she stopped to read the coming events posters.

Since the age of ten, she’d hoped to be a prima ballerina with a prestigious ballet company like Ballet Russe or Sadler Wells. She saw herself  performing in Seattle, dancing perfectly with flowing arms and effortless turns. Her partner’s skills would showcase their ability to dance in unison. Together they’d be honored with half a dozen bows before she received a bouquet of purple roses.

The street noise brought her back to where she’d stopped. She walked on. Window dressers worked on mannequins, removing the flowered tops, colorful swimsuits, and big beach hats like she’d seen in the summer issue of
Seventeen
. Autumn plaids, fitted wool jackets, and brown penny loafers lay nearby. Breezy summer fashions of 1957, like her carefree life, changed before her eyes. Next month she’d either be dancing for a ballet company or looking for a job. Both prospects scared her.

Back in the ballroom hallway, Marta placed her sheet music in the designated box and read the notice attached to the door
: Stay quiet. Do not leave as the order may change. Be prepared to dance five minutes before your assigned time.

Her name appeared fourth. Perfect! She’d ride the ferry home in time to go to the dance studio and share her audition with her mom and Miss Holland.

She paced the hall but kept watch as dancers entered the ballroom. She listened as their music started and stopped. As each dancer exited, none glanced sideways or spoke to the others. A handful of hovering parents wandered the hallways, trailing dancers, asking, “Well?”

A twinge of sadness settled in. Sign-up week at the dance studio back home kept her mom too busy to come to Seattle. Previously she’d driven Marta to and from auditions. They’d discuss the judging and make predictions on the outcome. So far they’d been wrong. Marta had not been offered a position. Maybe going alone was best. Wearing her necklace, loaned for this occasion, kept her mom close but gave Marta a chance to take charge of herself.