Ballroom: A Novel (17 page)

“Where do you stay?” she asks. She can’t get an idea of who he is.

“I gotta place down there.”

That is the end of the conversation. He never asks her anything.

T
ony’s friends treat him with great deference, it seems to her, for someone who isn’t cultured, educated, or even very bright. She reminds herself that the important thing is that as a dance partner he is kind, patient, and helping her improve.

“Don’t go getting stuck on Tony,” Tina warns her again in the ladies’ room. “He’s going to give you a month or so, and then, boom, it’ll be like he hardly knows you.”

“That’s crazy. We’re buddies. It’s nothing serious. We don’t argue or even discuss much. We just dance and have fun. It’s very casual.”

“I’m telling you, I’ve known Tony for at least twenty years, and it’s always the same. Lots of the women he teaches to dance turn out to be really great dancers. He’s got a great eye. Smarter than he lets on. Knows how to pick ’em, so you should be flattered. He doesn’t spend time with just anyone. But after a month, bada-bing!”

Since the beginning of February, when she first met Tony, everyone wants to dance with her at the Ballroom. Tonight, she’s barely missed a song. She’s almost certain that Gabriel nodded at her in greeting during a rumba.

If she isn’t with Tony, someone is quick to grab her and pull her onto the floor—a kinetic cha-cha followed by a languid tango; a quirky quickstep that suddenly becomes a whirling Viennese waltz. She’s partnered with strangers and acquaintances nonstop. It’s been the best night of her life. Only Gabriel eludes her.

She dances a rumba with Joseph, and he tries to hold on to her, but when “Don’t Let This Moment End,” her favorite hustle, begins to play, she wants a more exciting partner.

It is almost ten when she makes her way to the ladies’ room. The mirrors reflect her flushed cheeks, her hair and face dripping with perspiration, and the crimson map on her neck and chest that gives away her stress. At the sink, the ice-cold water on her wrists helps cool her down. She pats her face and neck with cold, wet paper towels.

“You’re a wonderful dancer.”

“Thanks,” Sarah replies. “Andrea, isn’t it? From Dance Time? By the way, thanks. You told me about Harry Korn when we spoke at Roseland.”

“Yeah, I seen you at a coupla places. You’re dancing with Tony D these days. Right? Lucky you. He’s a sweetheart.” She glances at Sarah’s feet. “Oh, my God. What great shoes!”

“Thanks. They’re Spanish lace. I bought them on Twenty-Third Street.” Rarely has Sarah bought anything so luxurious. Next month Tina’s going with her to help her pick out a new dance dress.

“How much were they?”

“$165.”

“Wow! Pricey. Are you taking classes anywhere?”

“I finished Intermediate Tango with Carlos.” Sarah dabs cold water on the embarrassing spots on her neck. “I’m in school.”

“You a teacha?”

“I’ve gone back to school. I’m tired of moving from one career to another. I’m studying adult care, so I can work with the elderly.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s cool, but how come you wanna teach old people?”

“I enjoy them, and I guess I’m patient. It’s a good career, especially for the future.” Sarah hates to admit that she’s never gone to college; everyone assumes she has.

As Andrea puts her right shoe back on, a gust of powder explodes at her feet. Spraying herself with a strong cheap perfume from a bottle that is on the sink, she drops a quarter into the ashtray.

“Yeah, those are great fuck-me shoes!” Andrea laughs, running her fingers through her hair. “See ya, Sarah. Think I found a live one!”

With each step, a cloud of powder puffs out of her black dance pumps.

I
t’s almost eleven when Tony D grabs her, and they dance every dance for the next half hour. He is such a fine dancer, with the assertive lead she prefers. When she dances with him, he is transformed from a short, pudgy bear into a smooth partner who leads her effortlessly from one dance to another. He has a mellow, velvet voice and knows the lyrics to all the songs. He sings to her as they dance.

“Ready to leave soon, sweetheart?” he asks. “I’ll give you a lift home. You’re too pretty to go home alone.” He always says sweet things like that. Tina doesn’t know what she’s talking about. They’ve been dancing together for more than a month, and having a great time.

At midnight, in his car, she snuggles up to him, grateful for all he’s taught her. It is just then that Gabriel comes out of the Ballroom and crosses the street with a beautiful young woman.

Tony is hugging her, and for the first time he presses his thick, cushiony lips on her mouth. The skin on his face is soft and flabby.

“I’m gonna make you the best,” he reassures her, and turns on the radio. “Just don’t never compete. They’ll take you to the cleaners. You’ll pay through the nose and win some ribbon that don’t mean a thing. Just go dancin,’ sweetheart. Have a good time.”

His hands are fumbling to touch her breasts, and Sarah is certain that Gabriel sees them through the car window, even though she immediately pushes Tony’s hand off. The last person in the world she ever wants to see her kissing Tony is Gabriel. She prays he hasn’t seen them.

“Not here. We’re in front of the Ballroom.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. You’re a real nice girl. I don’t mean no disrespect.”

Gabriel passes right in front of the car, so close he could touch the hood.

“There’s that Katz. What a jerk,” Tony says. “Don’t you
never
go with him. He ain’t a nice person.”

He puts the key into the ignition and starts the motor.

“He’s a very good dancer, don’t you think?”

Tony’s big hands are clenched, as though he wants to punch someone.

Gabriel opens the door of his fancy Cadillac and helps the woman in. Sarah studies how she first sits, then gracefully swings her legs, one slightly higher than the other, toes carefully pointed, into the car after her, as if she is being filmed, all the while smiling and gazing up at Gabriel. Sarah wonders if they are going somewhere for cocktails. Somewhere uptown and elegant.

“He’s a big phony. He’s
not
a nice person. Take it from me.”

“What makes you say that?” It surprises Sarah that no one likes Gabriel.

“Just don’t get mixed up with that louse. He ain’t
no
good, Sarah. I’m tellin’ you.”

As Gabriel’s car pulls away, she decides that Tony is jealous. Gabriel is tall, elegant, and handsome, and a better dancer than Tony.

If a lady should decline to dance with you, and afterwards dance with another gentleman, do not notice it; there may be reasons too delicate to inquire into, which may have influenced her actions—personal preferences and the various emotions of the heart.

                
—Elias Howe,
The Pocket Ballroom Prompter, 1858

W
hat’s she doing that’s so secret Friday nights?” Angel asks his friend Gino. It isn’t the first time he and Gino have talked about this. Angel always presents it like some sort of mystery to figure out, not letting on that he is interested in Maria.

“You been saying this for more than five years. I can’t believe she won’t tell you.”

Sitting in the car sipping coffee from paper cups and wiping the fog off the inside window when they can’t see, Angel wonders if he’ll find out anything. It is the second Friday night they’ve parked in the shadows across the street from her building. The last week in February, and March is coming in like the proverbial lion.

They’ve been buddies since Washington Irving High School. Now Gino works as a cameraman for FOX-TV. He always talks about going to film school, but never made it through more than his first year in college. Women always seem to get in his way. He’s been married twice, and his life is more about chasing beautiful women than ambition. With his deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and distinctive Roman nose, which gives him a look of arrogance that implies a commanding personality, Gino has no trouble attracting beautiful women. But Angel knows he is a pushover. “Take things slow. Play it cool,” he’s warned him, but Gino just loves women too much.

“Like, why don’t you just ask her?” Gino says now.

“She won’t tell me. I’ve tried.”

Gino picked Angel up from work at five thirty, bringing coffee, a couple of submarine sandwiches, and a dozen assorted Dunkin’ Donuts, in case they made a night of it. When Angel called Maria at six on her home phone, she answered. He and Gino are going to wait until she goes out and then follow her, like two detectives on a TV show. They’ve agreed to use Gino’s car, since Maria would recognize Angel’s.

“Gino, you look like a mobster!” Gino showed up unshaven, wearing black chinos, a black turtleneck under a pea jacket with its collar turned up, and a black woolen cap over his long black hair. Dark except for his one vanity, piercing aqua eyes. Contact lenses.

“Hey, man, it’s cold sitting in the car all night!”

“What are friends for?” Angel zips his leather jacket up over his sweater, pulls on his wool cap. “It’s supposed to snow.”

“Great!”

At seven o’clock Manuel Rodriguez comes out, walks across the street toward the subway.

“Her father’s heading over to play dominoes with the guys. My father’s in the game too. They been playing since I was a kid,” Angel explains to Gino. “Friday nights.” He watches the lighted living room window. No lights go off in the first-floor apartment. Maria never comes out of the building.

“You think she’s home?” Gino asks.

“The lights are on.” Just as Angel says that, the lights in the Rodriguez apartment go out.

They wait. Finally, at eight, the front door opens.

“Shit, it’s Ortega and her Chihuahua,” Angel says. “She’s on the second floor, I think.” She stands at the top of the steps, her nightgown hanging out from under her coat, holding the shaky little dog, looking about to make sure no one is hanging around before letting the dog down on the sidewalk in front of the steps. While she waits, she dances to keep her bare feet warm.

“Hurry up, do your stuff.” After the dog squats, she coos, “Now make pee-pee.”

The dog, eager to get inside, follows her commands, is picked up, kissed, and cradled like an infant. Mrs. Ortega looks around again and slips inside the front door, without picking up after the dog.

At nine Angel calls Maria on his cell phone. He can’t figure it out. Why doesn’t she answer? He tries again an hour later.

“Papi? Are you okay?” she answers sleepily. “How come you’re calling again?”

He quickly hangs up. A light goes on in her room, on the first floor.

“Gino, she’s home,” he blurts out, getting back into the car. “Look. That’s her room. The one with the light on. You see her go by?”

“Nah, I never took my eyes off the front door. You sure? How do you know that’s her bedroom? You told me you’re, like, just dance partners. You sure you don’t have a thing for her?”

“I been in their apartment a million times, Gino. I pick her up. Bring her home. I’m like family. It’s only a one-bedroom apartment. Her father sleeps on the couch in the living room. She’s got the bedroom.”

“There a back door?” Gino lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke out the top of the partly opened window.

“I told you, Gino, don’t smoke in the car. If you wanna smoke, go outside.” Angel opens all the windows to air out the car. “There’s no back door. Where the hell was she?”

“I dunno.” Gino throws his cigarette out the window. “Like, maybe she never went out. I don’t get why you care about where the hell she is on Fridays. She ain’t your girlfriend or anything.”

“I just do.”

They sit in the car until Maria’s father returns home. They watch the television go on, his shadow behind the shade, moving around, changing the station, and getting something to eat. Finally he turns off the television, and the room is dark.

After Gino drops him off at home, he can’t get to sleep, just keeps thinking about Gino’s remark, about how maybe she never went out. Then why didn’t she answer the phone? If she were visiting a neighbor in the building, what would be the big deal? Occasionally she goes to the Ortegas to use their sewing machine, working on her costumes, but that’s no secret.

Then he remembers the first Friday evening he and Gino staked out her apartment. At about six thirty he saw this strangely familiar old guy go into the building. It was Harry Korn, who gives dance lessons at the Hungarian Ballroom. He was carrying a bag of groceries, and had keys to the door. Shortly after Korn went in, a light went on in a top floor window.

It seemed odd to Angel that Maria’s never mentioned that Korn lives in her building. Maybe he was a good dancer when he was young, but he has to be close to seventy. Always wearing the same brown clothes and that dumb hat. Someone once told Angel that Korn’s a good teacher, but nasty. Angel wonders why anyone would take lessons from him. Such a creepy guy.

Never press your society upon persons who seem indifferent to you.

                
—Rudolph Radestock,
The Royal Ball-Room Guide
, 1877

D
id you forget that we were going dancing last Tuesday?” Sarah asks.

Tony, his expression vague, is standing in the doorway of the Ballroom with his buddies. He shrugs and turns to talk to his friends.

Harry leaves around nine, and no one asks her to dance for the rest of the evening. Jimmy J the DJ isn’t there, and a substitute is playing too many quicksteps and hustles. It seems, at one point, he plays mambos for forty-five minutes.

When he finally plays two rumbas, she is so eager that she asks a stranger to dance. He leads her so tightly that she stumbles over his feet.

“Could you try to follow me?” The song is “Beautiful Maria,” her favorite rumba.

“Sorry,” she responds, even though she isn’t.

“You’re not following,” he repeats.

“You’re holding me too tight.”

“What are you doing?” he demands. “International?”

She counts six corrections he makes, which infuriates her. She wishes that you could walk away from a partner. Then again, it’s only one song. If there is one dance she knows, it is the rumba. The next man she asks dances off beat and keeps his distance, with a limp lead.