Ballroom: A Novel (24 page)

I
like a woman in a hat.” With his sure hand at the small of her back, he leads her to a table, window side, offering her the best view of the ice skaters.

Gracious, elegant, debonair.
Debonair
, she likes that word. It conjures suave Cary Grant, dashing William Powell, cocktails and dancing at the Starlight Roof. The perfect host, Gabriel recommends a wine, suggests the salmon, orders for her. Effortlessly, he talks about himself and his work, and then turns to questioning her.

“What about you, Ms. Dreyfus? Who are you?” he asks. Under the table his knee is touching hers. “Where have you learned to be such a good little dancer?”

She doesn’t know how to answer the first part of his question. Who she is seems at this moment somewhat unclear. What is clear is that she feels suddenly flustered. She doesn’t much care for being called a “little” dancer, but she doesn’t move her leg away.

“It’s all in the lead,” she responds. Then, asking casually, “Are you still looking for a dance partner?”

“Are you interested?” His gaze is constant. “You’ve been eluding me long enough.”

“Have I?”

“I think you like to play games, Ms. Dreyfus.” When he leans back in his chair, she notices his expensive watch and the fabulous snake ring, its sapphire eyes and pavé diamonds catching the light.

“What will being your dance partner require?” She leans forward.

“Practice,” he responds. “The right clothes.” His elegant blue tweed sports jacket and pale blue cashmere sweater match his frosty eyes perfectly. Without his tinted glasses, she can see radiating silver flecks, like the spots on robin’s eggs. Bird’s wings flutter inside her chest.

“What happened to your old partner? Did she really get a job offer in Hollywood? Or did you do her in?”

“Yes.” He pauses, leaning forward. “I ate her.” He is staring at her quizzically. “Why would you suggest I did her in? Do I seem like that sort of person to you? Are you afraid of me?”

Across Gabriel’s shoulder, Sarah watches the skaters pass by; most skate alone, in tiers of ability. Along the edges, hands outstretched, ready to take hold of the railing, are the beginners. Graceless, with heads lowered, prepared to fall, they vigilantly watch their fickle feet.

“Perhaps you’re afraid of . . . men. Have you been married?”

“I have.” She has no intention of elaborating, as she neither wants to answer questions about nor listen to his judgment of her three marriages. She doesn’t like the way this is going.

“Will you ever want to compete?” she asks, to change the subject.

“Never.” He is emphatic. “I dance for pleasure. I want a partner to share that pleasure with. I have no patience for dancing with beginners. I have high expectations.”

“I wonder if you can meet
my
expectations,” she says with some sarcasm, pushing food around her plate. The salmon is dry.

“Most women jump at the chance to be my partner.” He pauses, savoring his duck. “What
are
your expectations? If we’re clear, anything is possible.”

“What does that mean?” She hates the arrogance in his gaze. “‘Anything is possible.’”

“Maybe you’ll find out what pleasure is, Ms. Dreyfus.”

When Hepburn and Tracy spar, each vying for the upper hand, it’s like a wonderful tennis match, romantically amusing. Somehow, here across the table from Gabriel Katz, it doesn’t feel amusing at all. His imperious manner is making her feel like a cheap conquest. She is indignant that despite being quite a good dancer, she has to barter favors. A part of her detests him.

“I don’t care very much for your huge ego,
Mister
Katz.”

“You seem to want to play games. You’ve been teasing me for months at the Ballroom, and I wonder what you really want. I think you’re a fine dancer. I also think we certainly can enjoy each other in more intimate ways.” He’s stopped smiling. “I am, admittedly, attracted to you, and I believe it’s mutual. You’ve made things more complicated than they need be. It’s clear you want to dance with me.”

Gabriel puts down his fork, pats his mouth with his napkin, and leans toward her. “Let’s be direct. Do you want to go to bed with me?” Then, leaning back, wine in hand, he waits for her answer. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” he asks sarcastically.

“Are my sexual favors part of the arrangement?”

“Are they favors?”

She hates him. Hates his vanity, his condescension, and his cold blue eyes. But the more she hates him, the more the spark in her center is fired. She will do whatever it takes to be his partner.

It is April, and yet it’s snowing. Past Gabriel’s shoulder, on the ice, Sarah watches as a couple, both dressed in blue, skates in waltz position at the center of the rink. Soundlessly, they skim across the surface, making small, smooth circles. They are idyllically paired. It is understood that they belong in that space. Amid a snowy haze, they spin effortlessly, everything about them in harmony and balance, like figurines in a snow globe.

W
aiting in Gabriel’s Cadillac, Sarah admires his dark, long-legged silhouette. He stops momentarily on the median as he crosses Park Avenue against the lights toward an all-night Duane Reade.

Sliding back, she feels the contours of the black leather seat conform exquisitely to the small of her back, and luxuriates in the comfort of his car. It is as though some large being holds her in its hand. Running her palms over the supple seats is like stroking thighs: pliant, curved, masculine. Expensive, she considers. A car like his must have cost $60,000. Well, he is in diamonds. Lifting her arms upward, she looks at her hands, unadorned by anything other than this morning’s manicure, and envisions a life of dancing, diamonds, and riding in a Cadillac.

She’d be pleased to ride beside him. She likes a man to drive. Going places. Maybe they’d marry after spending so much time together. Dance partners often marry. Turning on the radio, she tries to find a romantic station, settling for some cool jazz. With her eyes closed, she imagines herself as Mrs. Gabe Katz.

Across Park Avenue, she can see that he is at the back of the cashier’s line. She wonders what might be in the glove compartment, whether it is locked. Her heart is racing. The latch gives easily to a slight pressure. Flashlight, gloves, maps—the usual. Set slightly deeper, under all the maps, is a slender gold box. With a sideways glance across the avenue, observing that Gabriel is in the middle of the line—slowly, so as not to disturb anything—she slides the box out. Delivered from the rush of adrenaline, her own perfume fills her nostrils. Sweat glues her thighs to the leather seats. She can hear the whistle of her own breath.

She lifts the lid. Under a rustle of black tissue paper is one new pair of sheer black lace stockings. Expensive. French. Cascading like a waterfall, the diaphanous hose flutter and slip through her fingers. Sarah captures the rippled silk as it caresses one knee, before it reaches the floor. Gingerly holding them between fingertips, careful not to pull the fibers, she extends her arms to examine their astonishing length. Perhaps they just seem long. She is only five foot three. Whoever will wear them is long-legged, with expensive tastes. Rebecca Douglas is about five feet eight. Why are they in Gabriel’s glove compartment? Is he sleeping with her? Does he sleep with all the women he dances with? The beautiful ones he leaves the Ballroom with?

Even standing on line in the drugstore, Gabriel looks elegant. Wishing she hadn’t found the stockings, she decides not to think about the answers. She has waited too long for this night. After carefully placing the sharply pressed edges together, wrapping the hose around the cardboard, and smoothing the black tissue, she places the cover on the box and buries it beneath the maps of the five boroughs.

There is just enough time to snap the glove compartment closed and take several deep breaths before Gabriel thrusts himself through the glass door, held open by a homeless man. The lights are against him as he darts across Park Avenue, zigzagging through traffic, barely escaping the onrush of yellow cabs.

“Assholes!” he shouts, reaching the car door. He slides into the car, wagging a bag in her face.

“Are these what you want?”

Reaching into the bag like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he holds up a box of condoms. As he swings it back and forth, Sarah feels a tight little knot in her stomach.

From the moment Sarah first saw Gabriel dancing at the Ballroom, she has promised herself she will one day be good enough to dance with him, and now he is driving her home to Brooklyn. He asked her to dance at ten, and didn’t let her out of his arms until the last waltz at midnight. The music was slow and perfect. Everyone must have noticed. Sarah considers all that it has taken to get to this evening. Dance classes, Harry’s cruel private lessons, the glamorous reinvention of her hair, body, and wardrobe. Like bread crumbs strewn along a trail, which Gabriel has followed. It all proves you
can
make things happen, she realizes. She reaches over to touch his arm, warmed to his smile, as he takes hold of her hand and brings it to his lips. She feels a flutter of pleasure at the cushiony feeling of his mouth, his velvet tongue.

“Tell me. Why did you wear that? Black doesn’t flatter you.” He breaks through her thoughts, catching her off guard.

“Excuse me?” She begins to laugh, pulling her hand away.

“That dress. It’s ugly. Unbecoming for someone your height.”

“Ugly? It’s from Ann Taylor.” Smoothing the skirt of the dress, she is crushed that he doesn’t like what she is wearing. She feels the telltale color rising to her neck and cheeks.

“Well, it’s not right for dancing, and doesn’t fit you well. If we are going to dance together as partners, I expect you to have appropriate dance clothes. No one dances in a sheath. Your legs can’t move. Look at how Rebecca Douglas dresses. Now she is what I call elegant.”

“I wouldn’t take it upon myself to tell you how to dress. What makes you think you can insult me? And by the way, I’m not your dance partner.”

They drive silently the rest of the way to Brooklyn. As he eases into the parking space in front of her house, Sarah sits patiently, remembering the girl in the car who waited for him to open the car door.

From the moment she danced that first tango with him, she’s barely been able to think of anything other than his making love to her. He exudes sexuality like heat. She was certain he’d be attentive and passionate. She imagined he would stay the night. They would eat breakfast in her buttercup kitchen, so cheerful on sunny mornings. The finches would be singing in the garden, her daffodils and purple irises bursting into bloom. Perhaps he might stay for the weekend, walk with her along the Promenade. A couple. They would have lunch or dinner at one of the cafés, and back at her house, make love again, leisurely.

All those dreams are gone now, ruined by his remarks about her dress. She decides that she will say good night to him at the door.

H
e pushes past her into the living room, taking off his jacket and tie. “Is someone going to steal my car out there?”

“Of course not.”

He returns to the window several times, loosens the top buttons of his shirt, then stops to look at her mother’s porcelain bird collection.

“A glass of wine?” she asks.

“I don’t drink. Why do you have all this old-lady stuff? So much clutter.” She wishes he would put the fragile swan back on the table, wishes he would leave.

“They’re antiques, and I like them. You’re a very opinionated person.”

He snickers. In three large strides he crosses the room, takes her in his arms, and begins fiercely kissing her.

“You’re hurting me,” she says, laughing and pulling away.

“What are you laughing at, Miss Dreyfus?”

“You’re rushing me—and don’t call me that. It’s patronizing.” Her mouth feels swollen where he’s kissed her. “I just bought a wonderful Carlos Gardel album. I’ll put it on.”

“Music? You think we’re going to dance?” He laughs.

“Well, how about a glass of wine?” Has she asked him that already?

“No music. No wine. No candles. No games. Come here.”

“Please.” She chastises playfully, his tone both frightening and exciting her.

There is electricity, a rush of anticipation, and a hunger to be swept away. She is light-headed with excitement and fear. She hears the seam of her dress tear and doesn’t care. She wants to feel the touch of bare skin, his against hers, but he resists her attempts to unbutton his shirt. No kisses; only savage bites. No words; only the sound of breathing. She can’t tell whose.

There is no tenderness in him.

When she looks into his face, there is nothing, only the empty, fierce expression of the tango in his eyes. No robin’s egg, only steel. Yet her heart is pounding, and her body is responding to him, waiting for whatever he intends, empowered and more alive than she has ever felt before. She has won; Gabriel Katz is hers.

She thinks she hears the long, mournful cry of her tenant’s saxophone. Opening her eyes, she watches Gabriel, head thrown back, eyes closed in the pain of disappointment.

His mouth is open, his lips pulled over his bleached movie-star teeth. When he strikes her hard across the face, she feels the stunning imprint of his hand, and red flashes appear behind her closed eyes. Immediately he is up and moving toward the door.

“You’re a fuckin’ cock teaser.”

Sarah hears the front door slam.

Just like that.