The Four Temperaments (29 page)

OSCAR

O
scar liked
having the baby in the apartment. This surprised him, because at first he was opposed to Ruth's plan, though he dared not say so. Since Gabriel started his new job, Isobel was spending the weekdays with them. Ruth couldn't bear the thought that Gabriel would hire some stranger to take care of her, not while Ruth was so nearby and available. “She'll always know that you're her father,” she reasoned. “But why can't she spend the weekdays with her grandparents? At least until she's older.” Gabriel was reluctant at first, but finally decided that it would be
better for Isobel—
a point he hammered home to his mother, so she wouldn't think he was doing this for her—if she were to spend her days with someone she already knew.

So that's what they decided, his wife and son. Mornings, Ruth took the subway downtown to pick up Isobel; together they rode in a taxi back to the Upper West Side. In the evenings, the trip was reversed: a taxi brought granddaughter and grandmother downtown, and Ruth returned alone by subway. One or two evenings a week, when Gabriel went out, Isobel spent the night with her grandparents. Oscar, fearful of the noise, the disruption, the awful and sobering responsibility of having Isobel there with them so much of the time, had no say in the matter.

But when she toddled over to greet him at the door, his heart lifted at the sight of her and at the feel of her small, sturdy arms as they encircled his leg. She strewed her toys, spilled her juice, wailed easily—like any other toddler. But Oscar still found himself enchanted. He marveled at how her vocabulary increased by the day. She said “oof” for dog—repeating the sound of its bark, he realized—and uttered a soft, uncannily feline “meow” when she saw a cat. And he could not get over the way she was transfixed by the sound of his practicing, and would sit quietly, in a Zen-like pose with legs crossed and fingers touching her knees, as he played. None of his children did that. Ruth told him how her singing seemed to calm Isobel when nothing else would.

People always said you enjoyed your grandchildren more than you did your children. It was true. When the boys were little, Oscar was still so consumed by anxiety about his career, still plotting and working to shape the trajectory it would take. Looking back, he saw himself as constantly worried: about money, about his music, about Ruth's happiness, about his own. Not that he ignored or neglected his boys; quite the contrary, they were a large part of his thinking and activity. But they were also a part of his worry, woven tightly into the scratchy fabric of his anxiety. He worried about where they went to school, their musical education, their choices in friends and girls, their various annoying or alarming habits. Accidents, choking, drowning, drugs, cigarettes—the worries, no less troubling for their being so common, shared by so many parents. With Isobel, however, he discovered that he was much less worried. He had no program for her, no agenda. Instead, he was able to live in the present with her much more fully than he could with his own children. And, to his surprise, he was happy there.

During the day, he had begun taking her to a playground in Central Park, and pushing her down Broadway in her spiffy Italian-made stroller while he did a few small errands. If she were still there when he left for the theater, they had a ritual for saying good-bye. First, they sat together in the living room while he read her a story. Then a kiss good-night; she puckered her baby lips and kissed him right back. It was the memory of that kiss that he took with him to Lincoln Center the night the ballet was scheduled to perform
Concerto Baracco.
He was not apprehensive about the music itself, for he had played it before and had been practicing it steadily since the summer. But he had looked at the casting notice for the week, and Ginny's name was there, as one of the soloists.

He had not seen her much since the fall season started. The first couple of times they ran into each other he hadn't recognized her because of the hair that was suddenly and radically blond. Oscar thought the effect was stunning. He didn't know whether Gabriel still saw her. What he did know was that she continued to exert some terrible fascination for him, a fascination that flew in the face of common sense, of morality, of just about everything Oscar knew to be true, lasting and good. At last, he had managed to find the self-control to stay away from her. But what he did and what he felt were two different things.

He went to his locker to hang up his things and quickly hurried to the orchestra pit. He had spent a little longer than usual saying good-bye to Isobel, reading her three stories—well, they were short, he told himself at the time—instead of the usual one. And he was slow walking to the theater, as if what awaited him there were something he wished to delay. The other musicians were already there; he nodded to the conductor and settled first his handkerchief and then his instrument comfortably under his chin. There was still noise—of voices, of the rustling of paper and the shifting of bodies from the audience above him. He could hear too the dancers backstage, the clip-clop of their pointe shoes as they nervously pawed the floor or performed a few quick relevés. Then the lights dimmed and the noise was momentarily suspended.

The curtain went up and Oscar felt rather than saw the glow of blue light. He ceased to be aware of the dancers or the audience, and thought only about the music, the music that was both his obligation and his privilege to play. “Think” was the wrong word, however, since he entered the music more completely, more fully, than he had ever done in his life. Or was it the other way around—had the music entered him? Oscar gave himself over—to Bach, to the violin, to the sounds that he created and the ones created around him. The other violinist, a short, serious man named Howard Chan, seemed to anticipate his timing perfectly. They had practiced together earlier in the week, but tonight they played with an even greater, and almost startling, synchronicity.

The first movement, “Vivace,” was short and pungent. The long, slow movement—“Largo ma non Tanto”—was the one in which Ginny danced alone; he was familiar enough with the ballet to know that. Oscar had always found it to be one of Bach's saddest and most exquisite creations. Just when you thought it was over, that the last, mournful notes had been played, it unexpectedly revived, and the tender sadness was there all over again. After the “Largo,” Oscar adjusted his violin for the “Allegro,” which was filled with brittle, fury-tinged joy. When it was over, and the applause came, he was startled. The conductor was smiling, obviously pleased with the way the musicians had played, and as the applause continued, he nodded to Oscar, who understood the gesture and walked to the flight of stairs leading to the stage. Howard Chan was right behind him.

Ginny was already there, thin chest heaving with the exertion of her performance, sweat slick as oil on her face, neck and arms, sweat soaking her costume and molding it to her body. She held an elaborate spray of flowers in one hand; the other she extended to Oscar. Her grip was firm and unapologetic. While the audience continued to cheer, he raised his head to look at her. The blond hair—he had never seen it this close—made her seem aloof and ethereal. His eyes searched for her scar, almost invisible under her heavy stage makeup. Still, he remembered just where it was and could almost feel it in his imagination.

Ginny looked at him for a moment before turning her attention to the audience. Oscar sensed a change in her, as if she had moved out of the pedestrian realm in which he lived and into some bright, unfamiliar country he had only glimpsed but never visited. But Ginny was no visitor there; she was the queen. That was what he guessed all those months ago, and that was what he knew now. Did he love her? Did it matter? He gently disengaged his hand and followed Howard toward the wings. Oscar turned to watch as another bouquet of flowers was presented to her, even larger and more elaborate than the first. The audience went wild as Virginia Valentine bowed her head and curtsied again.

GINNY

P
artnering only
looked easy. From the audience's point of view, it was just a guy in tights, lifting and catching, catching and lifting. If you threw in a little spinning and support during a tricky turn, you would have had the whole thing in a nutshell. But Ginny knew that it was far more complex than that. There were lousy partners, great partners and everything in between. She made Althea laugh when she said that partnering was like sex: everyone had the equipment, but not everyone knew what to do with it.

Ginny had had her share of partnering horror stories: some held her too tightly, and when the ballet was done, she found bruises on her thighs or upper arms; some were so self-involved—marking time until their own variations—that they barely gave her any help. There were others who were scared; she had felt their fear even though
she
was the one getting tossed through the air, praying to Jesus all the while that they would be there to catch her. Then there was the one who actually dropped her on the studio floor.

But Ginny's newest partner, Josh Cleary, was superb. Josh was tan and blond; he came from southern California and would have looked great on a surfboard. Instead, he tagged along to his big sister's ballet classes and it turned out he had a lot more talent than she did. The sister gave up pretty soon, but Josh stuck with it and now here he was, a dancer with New York City Ballet, and the best partner Ginny had ever had.

They started rehearsing
Barocco
together a few weeks ago, and Ginny was enthralled. He knew just how to reach, just when to turn, just where to stop. When he lifted her, she was soaring; when he caught her, she was a bird flown safely home. She briefly wondered what he might be like in bed, though as soon as she had the thought, her mind darted away from it, as if she'd been burned. No more of
that,
she told herself, at least not any time soon.

She thought about the baby. She didn't want to, but the images came to her anyway. The baby growing inside her. At first, it was the size of a grain of sand, then a grain of rice. Then it grew to be the size of an almond, a plum, a mouse. Finally, it was a completely formed baby girl—in Ginny's fantasy, it was always a girl—and Ginny would give birth to her. Then Ginny would be a woman holding a baby, looking at her in the way Gabriel's wife had looked at their daughter. But those images competed with others: the long, luxurious penchées in the slow movement of
Concerto Barocco,
the series of partnered pirouettes that ended in a deep, melting backbend.

The rehearsals with Josh had brought Ginny to a different place in her dancing, a place she had been wanting to go since she started but never quite got to before. It had something to do with the ballet they were working on; the choreography of
Barocco
was so rich, so complex. Afterward, she would lie in bed marking the steps with her hands, trying to burn them into her mind, so she could dream about them at night.

The day of the performance came quickly. Ginny had been dancing all season long, good parts too, but the thought of doing this ballet had her keyed up more than usual. She arrived at the theater early so she could spend a long time getting ready. There was a bouquet already waiting; she opened the card and saw her mother's neat, careful penmanship. The card was signed with a whole row of
X
's. Rita. Ginny set the flowers near the door and then started on her hair. Althea stopped by when she had just stuck the last of the hairpins in. “You're going to be great,” she told Ginny and gave her a hug. “Here, I want you to wear these,” she said, handing her a small gold box. Inside was a pair of tiny diamond studs.

“Althea!” Ginny said.

“For luck,” she said. “They always worked for me.” Ginny looked down at the earrings and remembered another gold box, the one with Gabriel's bracelet inside. She kept the bracelet with her, stuffed way down at the bottom of her dance bag, but she never put it on.

After Ginny finished her hair, Althea offered to give her a quick barre, so she could be really warm and limber when it was time for the curtain to go up. And when it did, she wanted to cry, it was all so beautiful, the row of dancers in their sparkling white tunics, the blue, blue light, the way the music seemed to be calling her, begging her to dance. Even though she had been through all this during the dress rehearsal, the actual performance was different. A performance was like a circle, and if the audience wasn't there, the circle was incomplete. Even though they were no more than a blur of faces beyond the lights, she could feel them out there and it made all the difference.

Oscar was playing that night. No surprise there. But even his playing sounded different. During the slow movement—although the musical term was “largo,” for a dancer, it was always the adagio—Ginny actually felt pierced by the sound of the violin. It was as if Oscar was giving her the music. In return, she gave him her dancing; even though she was partnered by Josh, with his steady hands and perfect grip, she was really dancing for Oscar, and with him too. Apologizing to him and to Ruth, Penelope and Gabriel. And to her baby. Apologizing for everything she had done, and everything she had to keep on doing.

When the ballet was over, there were three curtain calls. She curtsied to the audience, her entire body bathed in the glorious baptism of sweat. During one of the curtain calls, Oscar and the other violinist came up to join her on the stage. It was Oscar who took her hand. They stood there, fingers locked tightly for a moment, and then it was over. The two men left the stage. She was given another bouquet, and Josh came out to take a bow too.

Althea stood in the wings, and when Ginny and Josh walked toward her, she hugged them, arms straining to encompass them both.

“That was something,” she said simply. But for Ginny, the words were more than enough.

“Thank you,” Ginny said, “for everything.” She could almost feel the diamonds on her ears sparkling.

As they walked toward the dressing rooms, Josh asked if she wanted to have dinner with him. She hesitated for a second and then said yes. He squeezed her hand and smiled. They agreed to meet and twenty minutes later, there he was, eager as a big golden puppy. Ginny pushed open the stage door with her shoulder, and he feigned shock. “Why a true gentleman never lets a lady open the door,” he said, and even though he was from southern California, not southern Louisiana, he sounded just like Wes. Ginny burst out laughing, and not only did she not mind, she was actually kind of glad when he put his arm around her shoulders.