Ballroom: A Novel (6 page)

The
tick-tock
of the metronome could no longer keep time with his rapid heartbeat. Taking hold of the arm, he stopped its motion, and then replaced the cover. Sliding the oak doors closed as he left the study, he looked back into the room one last time, dazzled by the rays of the setting sun.

W
hen Joseph’s mother had come to live with him twenty-six years ago, after her sister Theresa died in Chicago, he had thought it would be temporary, that she would ultimately get her own place. Part of him wished she would go, but another part of him was afraid to be alone. They got along well enough, and she was quiet company. After work he’d find her in the living room, sitting on a chair, staring out the window onto Perry Street, fingering her rosary. Familiar dinners awaited him; she washed and mended his clothes and kept the apartment neat. They didn’t talk much. He could sit and read the
New York Times
.

Fifteen years ago, when her younger brother Theo died, Joseph realized she was never moving and gave her the bedroom, while he slept on the sofa.

Every Sunday his sisters, Consuela and Yvonne, both unmarried schoolteachers, took turns coming in from Jersey to pick her up for dinner at the Hoboken Diner and a movie at the Rialto while he went dancing at the Ballroom.

When her health deteriorated three years ago, there had been emergency trips to St. Vincent’s Hospital in the middle of the night. In the ambulance, listening to numbers being called out—the measure of her vital signs—as the doctors ripped off her nightgown to intubate her, he’d had to look at the time-ravaged body that she’d always carefully hidden from him, private places he was not intended to see. The thought of her death terrified him, sleepless, alone in the apartment.

“Joey, bring the wool bed jacket from the middle drawer,” she would demand. “My hospital room is cold. It was Theresa’s, God rest her soul. Pick up a chocolate milkshake at the coffee shop—and just a little syrup—and get me an
Inquirer
at the Associated Market. Make sure it’s not last week’s.”

Searching through the drawers of her dresser, touching her underwear, made him sick to his stomach. The personal scent of her clothing was too intimate.

When her flesh-colored underthings hung by wooden clothespins above the bathtub, he closed the shower curtain. He hated the huge cups of her brassieres, her thick elastic stockings, the girdles with bands of rubber going this way and that to contain her considerable stomach. He didn’t want to think about her body.

Once at Ben and Joanie’s, he had noticed Joan’s underwear hanging on padded satin hangers inside the fancy shower curtain. Black lace roses encircled the bra cups, small and dainty places for her breasts. A tiny bow was perched between the cups like a small bird. Her black lace bikini panties were cut deep in front like the letter V, reminding him of a blackbird in flight. There, in the pink-tiled bathroom with the door locked, he touched her bra, looking at his fingers through the mysterious lace, put his face to her panties and smelled something like musky seawater. He’d wanted to put them in his pocket.

The true gentleman is one who has been fashioned after the highest models. . . . His qualities depend not on fashion or manners but upon moral worth—not on personal possessions but upon personal qualities.

M
aria!” Angel calls from under the awning at the subway station at Fourteenth Street across from the Ballroom. It is half past eight.

“Hey, sugar! Ready to dance?” With a big hug and generous grin he takes her bag, puts his arm through hers, guides her into the coffee shop. She seems luminescent and smells of gardenias, a symbol of innocence.

“Mambo Mama!
Dios mío
, you’re beautiful in red.” As he helps her off with her coat, he admires her
café con leche
skin. Her head turns toward him, her dark eyes dancing at his compliment. Once he dreamed that he’d made love to her in a heart-shaped bed, and that she wrote “Te amo” on his stomach with her Real Red lipstick.

“You look hot yourself!” she replies. He’s gelled his hair back and wears a black collarless silk shirt with black crepe pleats.

“If I could blush, I would!”

“I’m having a real hard time concentrating—with school and exams. I keep thinking about Dance International. I want to win so bad, Angel. We’ve worked so hard. We’re so good.”

“We’ve got till July. We’ll do great. You know we’re the best. You got to pay attention to school, too. Grad school,” he says with awe. “Hey, top of your class at Barnard. Soon Hunter. The business world is yours for the taking! You could be president of a bank, or AT&T, or anything.”

“Do you really think so? Sometimes I think I’ll never get off Twelfth Street.”

“We could even have a dance school,” he teases.

“I know we’ll win gold. Sometimes I think about what if . . . what if we don’t win? I’ve been thinking, maybe we should hire a coach again.”

“If we need lessons, I’ll pay for ’em. Work’s goin’ good,” he says, sipping his coffee. “Mike’s gonna make me manager and give me a raise. Friday, he took me to lunch an’ told me. Didn’t even have to
aks
.”

“You
should
be manager. You work so hard, and Mike respects you. And—don’t say ‘aks,’” she reminds him softly. “It’s
ask
.”

“Friday, you want to go to Lincoln Center and look at dance tapes?”

“You know I’m busy on Fridays.” She bristles. “Why do you even ask?” Her mouth hardens. The light leaves her eyes.

Ever since he’s known her, she’s had this secret thing she does on Fridays. He knows so much about her—except that one thing. When her father finally allowed them out dancing, she used to make excuses, but after a while Angel didn’t believe her. It was
always
Fridays.

“What do you do on Friday nights?” he asks.

“None of your business,” she says, real icy.

“What’s the big secret?”

“I’m busy,” she responds in a condescending tone. That was that.

“Would you marry me, if I’m the manager?” he teases. “Would ya?”

“You’re incorrigible!” She reaches over and runs her hand down his cheek. “Ooh, like a baby’s butt. Register for college and stop teasing me.” At least she never stays angry. That is one of the things he admires about her. But he is determined to find out where she goes on Fridays.

“One day, I just might. Then what’ll you do?”

“Come on, dance partner, it’s almost nine. Time to dance.”

They pay up and head to the Ballroom.

“A mambo,” he states before he opens the door.

“I’m beginning to believe you are really psychic, Angel.”

“I told you, I am.”

Jimmy J is playing “Mambo Magic.”

In requesting a lady to dance, you stand at a proper distance, bend the body gracefully, accompanied by a slight motion of the right hand in front, you look at her with complaisance, and respectfully say, will you do me the honor to dance with me.

                
—Elias Howe,
The Pocket Ballroom Prompter
, 1858

G
abriel surreptitiously glances through his tinted steel-frame glasses as he dances an Argentine tango. He notices several new women, watches how they move. Details are important to him—clothing, legs, skin—and he observes more than anyone might guess. A keen sense of smell allows him to have an even deeper awareness of the room. Carefully and deliberately moving his submissive partner along the outer paths of the dance floor, Gabriel pursues scents, inhaling through flared nostrils and exhaling through an open mouth as he dances to a familiar tango, Carlos Gardel’s “La Cumparsita.”

Gardenias. Maria Rodriguez, the unattainable prize. Dark, sultry, and elusive, in the center of the floor with Angel Morez; they are in complete connection. She is feline, with sleepy bedroom eyes; he longs to touch her satin skin, to feel her move against him. She refuses to dance with him, and he hates being refused. They would certainly make a perfect silhouette. Given the chance, she’d be his; he is certain he sees it in her eyes whenever she moves near him.

He smells violets that come and go as he glides across the floor. It is an Asian woman with long, silky-straight mahogany hair, in a black dress. She reveals gorgeous, slender legs and looks at him flirtatiously over her partner’s shoulder before disappearing into the circling crowd. Gone, but he’ll catch her. He feels lucky tonight. Jimmy J plays the soulful Mariano Mores singing “Uno,” with the reedy, organ-like sound of the bandonion and the plaintive cries of violins.

W
atching his reflection in the mirrors, Gabriel admires his height, the fit of his jacket, his choice of tie, his hair, thick and dark, just beginning to gray around the temples, altogether a very refined image matched with his perfect carriage on the dance floor. Looking around, he’s satisfied, as always, that he is not only the best dancer but also the tallest and most elegant man at the Ballroom.

Rebecca Douglas’s pale, refined cameo profile wears an appropriate expression of bored disdain. Despite her aloof demeanor, she is responsive to his slightest suggestion. He holds her closely in his arms like prey. He’s chosen her for the early part of the evening because she is the Argentine tango partner who establishes his mastery on the floor. All Gabriel feels is the light touch of her left arm slung across the back of his neck, her poised fingers dangling casually over his left shoulder. He feels every vertebra of her spine beneath his palm as he easily persuades her direction. Rebecca’s thigh is sandwiched between his, and she leans against him in an exaggerated café-style tango. Each time Gabriel catches their reflection, he sees a sleek, stealthy black panther gliding in long strides around the room.

The slender straps of Rebecca’s stiletto heels slither around her ankles and up over shadowy black-stockinged legs. She dances on tiptoe and follows willingly. Everything about her is expensive: shoes, dress, jewelry, and attitude. Her perfectly highlighted blond hair is in an elegant upsweep, created to look slightly tousled. He knows they look perfect together. If only he was attracted to Dr. Rebecca Douglas. But she has no scent at all.

When the song ends, he releases her and stands against one of the columns. Backlit, in shadow, he is able to look around. He twists the snake ring on his finger for luck as he searches the dance floor for someone new. The choice is his. A couple of dances, a few compliments, then move on. Leave them hoping.

The Asian woman stops dancing and gives him a slight smile. Her violet perfume is naive. He moves into her space, too close, enjoying her discomfort.

“Gabriel Katz.” He bows in an exaggerated manner. His glance stops at her feet to admire her strappy black and red tango shoes. He always notices shoes. Gallantly he holds out his hand to her for a merengue, “La Mega.”

“May I?” He takes her in his arms without waiting for her answer. “Haven’t seen you here before. You’re a good dancer.”

“Soo Young,” she replies, smiling at his compliment, and he knows from the slight flicker in her eye that she is interested.

“Where’d you learn to merengue so well?” The violets are heavy in his nostrils, in his throat. He can taste her.

She shrugs. In his arms she is smooth, young, and yielding. When the DJ transitions to a mambo, he holds her in his embrace to make certain she stays.

“You’re a
very
sexy dancer. You know that?”

“Am I?” She demurely lowers her gaze, puts her fingers to her mouth.

“I’d like to take you dancing. Somewhere special. Give me your phone number before I leave, if you’re interested. I’m looking for a new dance partner.”

“Do you dance professionally? What’s your name again?” she asks, giggling slightly.

As if you’d forgotten, he thinks.

“Gabriel. Gabriel Katz. I prefer to dance with one partner. My regular partner moved to London last month. We were together . . . let’s see, five years. By the way, where do you live?” Upper East Side, he’d bet.

“East Fifty-First Street. How about you?”

Right by the Queensboro Bridge. He’s done it again! “Near Forest Hills. I pass right by your street. If you’re still here when I leave, can I give you a lift home?”

“Maybe.” She pulls away.

“Don’t you trust me?” he whispers, his lips near her neck. Drawing in his breath, he adds for effect, “Your perfume drives me wild. Violetta di Parma?”

“Why, yes! You know your perfumes!”

“I’m not sure how long I’m going to stay. I’ll look for you.” Walking her off the floor, he bows again elegantly. Before he’s taken even a few steps, Tina Ostrov slips her arms through his, pulls him onto the floor to rumba.

“Keeping out of trouble?” She gives him a squeeze. They both laugh, but he watches furtively to see if what’s-her-name, the Asian, dances and with whom.

“You know me.”

“When are you going to settle down, find a wife, Gabriel? You can’t do this forever, you know. Come meet this friend of mine, Sarah Dreyfus.”

“Is she good looking?” he asks.

“Yes . . . and Jewish.”

“Save her for next time.” Tonight is about Soo. He is exhilarated by the lure of a new woman, the intoxicating expectation of conquest and the knowledge that no one at the Ballroom knows he is married.

At the end of the evening, Gabriel looks for Soo. She is dancing with fat Tony D. He waits and watches, leaning against a column. At the right moment, a break in the music when she stands alone, he slips up behind her and takes a firm hold of her upper arm. She’s startled. Caught off guard.

“Want a ride home?” He is close enough to kiss her. “It’s on my way. I’d like to get to know you.”