Flight of the Swan (10 page)

Her right foot began to beat impatiently on the floor and I signaled to the young man that he had to leave, but a photographer squeezed in the door and began taking “flashlights”—as the recently invented flashbulb photos were called. Madame was furious. “How dare you!” she said, wrenching the expensive camera away from him. Quick as lightning, she ran to the window and let it drop four floors below. “I’m not going to let a provincial little twit like you snatch my image and publish it for free in your magazine when I’m paid thousands of dollars in Paris and New York to pose!”

I was screaming and dragging Rogelio out the door—fortunately he was at least six inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than I—when the young man, who was hanging on to the doorjamb, turned around and begged: “Please sign my shirt cuff, Madame. I promise I’ll never wash it.” Instead of getting angrier, my mistress burst out laughing. And she signed the cuff before the secret service took Rogelio away.

A
FTER THE INTERVIEW MADAME
rallied her troupe around her at the Malatrassi and gave each one of us something to carry—a wicker basket full of costumes, makeup cases, wigs, and all the ballet paraphernalia—toe shoes, rosin bottles, chalk. “Here, Lyubovna, you take my jewelry case and guard it with your life. Here, Custine, dear, you take Poppy’s leash and walk him down the street all the way to the theater. Edgar and the other musicians, hurry, bring the violin, the viola, and the harp down to the lobby. Mr. Molinari, you’ll be in charge of the cash register.” Madame was wearing her amber necklace as usual and twirled the beads around her fingers nervously as she stood on the sidewalk waiting for us. I didn’t feel comfortable with that arrangement, but something prevented me from informing Madame of Molinari’s little cross-examination the day before. I thought I’d wait and see what was going to happen with Diamantino Márquez.

As we walked down Calle Fortaleza the heat was unbearable: sticky and viscous. Several of the girls wore bathing suits and cotton skirts, but they were still perspiring and complaining about the temperature. Madame didn’t mind. She was as fresh as a handful of mint. “Isn’t this heat wonderful, Masha?” she asked me as we walked out the hotel door. “This way we’ll save time, because we won’t have to warm up before we start rehearsing.” All the houses had balconies and Madame loved the colors of their exteriors: garish yellow, blue, red, as well as many other hues.

Every morning of Madame’s life was like this: she arrived at whatever theater she was going to dance in like a tornado and left in the afternoon like a hurricane in full gale. As soon as she got to San Juan’s Teatro Tapia, she ordered all the windows and doors opened, to let in light and air. There was a strong smell of brine, as the building was near the wharf. Teatro Tapia was small, but it was nicely decorated, with burgundy velvet opera stalls all around the first tier and matching red velvet chairs and curtains. Smallens had placed an ad in the local paper and several musicians turned up. He hired them, and they squeezed into the orchestra pit as best they could. A number of musicians played outside the pit, sitting in the wings.

The theater dated from the eighteenth century. It had been built by a Spanish governor as a magnificent birthday present to his wife, who wanted to be an actress and who loved balls. The seats could be removed and a wooden platform slid cleverly from under the stage, covering the entire orchestra section to create a ballroom. Operas and dramas were performed there from time to time, but ballet was totally unknown on the island. It was a new art, and as such, our troupe was ambiguously described by the local press as a “group of demoiselles who go about onstage in semi-transparent skirts, with neck, arms, and legs daringly bared, and who perform athletic feats.” But Madame didn’t give a damn and neither did I.

We inspected the stage inch by inch, looking for holes or loose boards. The smallest knot in the wood, the tiniest up-ended nail was enough to twist an ankle and make us land like broken dolls on the floor. The carpenter began to hammer away to repair the wooden boards, and we chalked the places where we were supposed to stand at the beginning and at the end of each performance. Then the floor was swept clean and rosin dust was sprinkled over it.

We slipped on our toe shoes, tied the ribbons to our ankles, and began the exercise of the day, holding on to whatever was available—a chair, a wicker basket full of costumes, a theater flat. This was my favorite part of the morning, when I felt the power of dance throb beneath my feet. Our bodies became columns of energy; our legs rose up from the hip, strong and straight as iron beams; our feet were pink phalluses pointing toward the ceiling. At that moment I felt completely fulfilled. We didn’t have to envy men anything; we had everything they had, only better, for in ballet, women always performed the leading roles. We worked all morning. The rehearsal couldn’t begin until every single one of us was warmed up like a steam engine, practically whistling and raring to go. Once the class was over, however, slowly, like somnambulists entering a dream, we followed Madame out on the stage. Then we assembled around her to begin rehearsing the performance.

There was nothing we wouldn’t do to please Madame. We were all celibate, in spite of the young men milling around us backstage at the end of each performance. We simply shunned them. This was something unheard of in a troupe of young ballerinas, but our company was special. We went without eating for days to keep our bodies slim and light. Hunger was cleansing, it purified us from desire. Pain meant we were working hard; we were doing things correctly. A ballerina is supposed to feel pain in order to make her art transcend the mundane, and so we put ourselves in Madame’s hands.

Then a dreadful thing happened.

We had begun rehearsing when Madame suddenly stopped dancing midstage. I was standing a little bit to the right of her and saw her dark eyes flash with pleasure. She had picked out someone standing at the back of the empty theater, someone with very dark hair, dressed in a white linen suit and wearing a mourning band on his arm. Everyone stopped dancing and stared out into the darkness. My heart leapt to my throat: it was Diamantino Márquez. He smiled broadly and carried a violin case in his hand.

“Could you by chance use an extra violinist in your orchestra? I’d be willing to work for modest pay,” he asked, a debonair look on his face.

Madame’s face lit up. “We certainly could,” she answered across the rows of empty chairs. “Come right up and join us.”

Diamantino walked jauntily down the aisle and up to the stage. Madame ordered Smallens to accommodate him in the orchestra, next to the piano and the flute.

As soon as Madame began to dance to Diamantino’s violin, she was transformed. I had never seen her dance like that, her sweat-slick body curling and uncurling, her body turned into a sign that could only be deciphered by another body’s mute language. She forgot all about our sacred mission. Under Diamantino Márquez’s appreciative gaze, Glazunov’s
Bacchanale
burned sublime.

M
ADAME WENT EVERYWHERE WITH
Diamantino, and she insisted that I go with them. She still hadn’t fallen completely under his spell and was worried about what people might say. I was, as usual, blindly devoted, and went innocently tagging along. Diamantino insisted he wanted Madame to experience life on the island as it really was, and Madame fell for it, hook and line. We went to the casino in the evenings, to church on Sundays, to the meetings of poets and artists in the cafés of Old San Juan in the afternoons. Madame spoke French and English as well as Russian, but when they went out together, Diamantino often spoke to her in Spanish, as if Madame could understand him. At first, Madame found this amusing and enjoyed trying to guess what he said, but later it became a nuisance because the meaning of entire sentences escaped her. Fortunately it didn’t matter because I could understand Spanish and I translated.

I suspected one of the reasons Madame felt drawn to Diamantino was because of her secret Jewishness. Her mother had feared pogroms in Russia because Poliakoff, her daughter’s father, was a Jew. She commiserated with the
independentistas
because she understood how they felt. “You lost your country, but I’ve never owned mine,” Diamantino would say. “You’re not the only one,” Madame would answer in a low voice. “Think of the Jewish people.”

“This island has been in chains for four hundred years; first because of the Spaniards and now the Americans,” Diamantino would grieve. And Madame would try to console him: “Being so near to the United States is like living next to a boiling cauldron. Every time the heat goes up and it boils over, you get scalded.” They went on and on about island politics until I had to stuff my fingers in my ears because I thought I was going to go mad.

Gone was our privacy, our marvelous days together when we enjoyed the small satisfactions of intimacy and catered to each other’s needs. No talk of war, politics, or money had ever crossed our lips, only pleasing words about art, beauty and love. I realized that, with Diamantino present, I had lost Madame for good.

The evening of our first performance I had to make a huge effort to pretend nothing was amiss. Teatro Tapia was completely full and I picked out Diana Yager and Estrella Aljama sitting conspicuously in the first row. They were next to the governor, and were dressed in glittering gowns with orchid corsages pinned to their breasts. All of San Juan’s bourgeoisie was present, and the gowns were again ablaze with jewels. Madame tore herself from Diamantino long enough to peek from behind the curtain, and gave a sigh of relief when she saw the large audience. When Mr. Dandré left for New York, he had taken most of the funds remaining from our performances in Cuba, and we needed the money from that night’s show to tide us over until his return. Everything went smoothly at first. The music was adequate, and Smallens didn’t have to whistle to remind the musicians of how the melody went, as had happened before on several occasions when provincial orchestras had played for us in the small towns.

We danced Glazunov’s
Bacchanale
, one of the few ballets I truly dislike, because it’s so chaotic, asserting the supremacy of tumultuous passion over reason’s wise counsel. In it Dionysus is devoured by the wild bacchantes when he comes to take Ariadne away from the isle of Naxos. On stage, of course, this didn’t actually happen; we merely pantomimed the drinking and the carousing. Many people found the story line shocking, but the ballet was very successful in Paris and New York, where audiences are more sophisticated and enjoy this sort of spectacle, not unlike what happens in their harlot megalopolises. Molinari joined us and his caustic commentaries were immediately forthcoming. He pointed out that cannibalism, after all, was relatively common in Western religious practices, and that Christ was devoured in the white communion wafer at the end of each Mass, be it Orthodox, Catholic, or Episcopalian. We all burst out laughing but were secretly terrified.

Clad in semi-transparent silk, Madame let her billowing veil drop, threw rose garlands at Novikov/Dionysus, ducked and twisted with almost animal vigor, and even went into kissing clinches with him. Novikov lunged at her like a satyr, following in leaps and bounds. Then a buzz rose from the back of the theater and rippled forward until it reached the front row. The satyr’s costume was, unfortunately, very revealing; it clung to Novikov’s masculine form like skin. The girls and I were the dancing maenads, and when we attacked Dionysus, cries of “Disgusting!” were heard from the crowd. People began to get up angrily and leave the theater. At that precise moment, however, Novikov fell through a trapdoor on the floor and disappeared. The audience clapped vigorously as the character’s integrity was restored, and the god was chastised for his sinful behavior. Diana Yager and Estrella Aljama both looked relieved.

The second part of the program was more sedate. Madame’s
Dragonfly
had nothing more risqué than a strapless chiffon costume which billowed around her like a cloud and a pair of narrow diamante wings which trembled at her waist. The night was crowned with another perfect rendition of
The Dying Swan
. Halfway through it, however, the lyrical atmosphere was shattered by several gunshots. I ran to the back door of the stage to find out what was going on and opened it a crack only to see the empty, cobblestoned streets and the silent piers. Since the dry law had been passed, many bars in town had closed, while others had turned into shooting galleries.

Our troupe danced three evenings in a row, to dwindling audiences. Madame couldn’t figure out what was wrong. There were no more protests about indecent exposure; we judiciously altered Dionysus’s costume and now he danced with a short tunic over his leotard that concealed his conspicuous physique. Madame speculated that the revenue from the rum sales was an important part of the
Sanjuaneros
’ income, and now they couldn’t afford to throw away money on entertainment. In any case, by 6:00 p.m. the streets were empty and most restaurants and bars in San Juan were closed. Prohibition, which had been hanging like a shroud over the capital for months, finally smothered it.

During the day people were seen running to empty their rum casks on the wharves and at the beach to get away from the police. A cloud of sweetish, rum-soaked vapor hung over the city. Others were going around drunk from the fumes and mourning for the thousands of dollars they had literally poured down the drain. On the fourth night no one came to see us dance. Teatro Tapia remained ominously empty.

Huddled in front of the stage’s back door, we argued for over an hour about what should be done. Molinari had collected seven hundred dollars in cash, the profits from the first night’s performance, but part of that money belonged to the theater, and we needed the rest to survive until Dandré came back. The agent was mad as a hornet, and kept threatening us that Bracale would wreak vengeance when he heard his profits were wiped out.

Madame tried to appease him. “Dandré never dreamed we could be left out in the cold, unable to earn our keep. You must be patient,” she pleaded. I rolled my eyes at her gullibility, but I didn’t want to make things worse. I clearly remembered other situations when Dandré had left us in the lurch. I was trying to convince her that we should stick it out at Teatro Tapia and wait for the weekend, when audiences might be larger, rather than venture into the interior of the island, when that interloper, Diamantino, stepped in.