Dancer (38 page)

Late in the morning I noticed a young woman standing near the water's edge. She was holding her skirt and dipping a toe in the surf. Her legs were long and beautiful. She went farther into the sea and stopped when the water reached to her thigh. Then she bent forward, whipped her long shining hair over her shoulder and soaked it briefly in the sea.

Then, much to my surprise I caught sight of Monsieur standing near the young woman. The waves were rolling up to him. I wondered who she could possibly be. Emilio sat close by on the beach, cross-legged, watching the proceedings.

I rose quickly to leave, but Emilio spied me and called my name. He stood up and his long ponytail swung. He greeted me with a kiss on either cheek and expressed his pleasure on seeing me in Brighton.

—Oh, I just wanted to see Monsieur's show, I said.

—I'm glad someone wants to, replied Emilio.

At that moment Monsieur spotted me and waved at me to join him. Emilio made a comment about the king summoning his courtiers and I had to smile a little. Emilio had resigned so many times from Monsieur's service that he had even put another masseur on call to work on those days between resigning and being rehired.

I bit my lip and went down to the water, where Monsieur was standing with the young lady.

—Let me introduce you to Marguerite, he said.

I realized then that she was one of Monsieur's dancing partners. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and smiled. Her eyes were a beautiful blue. I thought how wonderful it must be for her, at such a young age, to dance with Monsieur in the twilight of his career, but then I felt a sudden surge of anger since Monsieur had not even inquired after the reason for my appearance in Brighton.

—Odile will help solve your problem, I heard Monsieur say.

—Oh no, said the young dancer. I'll be able to arrange something.

There were children playing by the sea, using their shoes to scoop up water for sandcastles and moats.

—Odile wouldn't mind, would you?

Monsieur was staring at me. I mentioned that I had been distracted by the bright sunlight. He sighed and said the problem was quite simple. Marguerite, he explained, had invited some family members to the performance that evening. They were driving down from London. Her sister had an eighteen-month-old child and no-one to baby-sit.

I nodded and said: I understand.

—There, said Monsieur. Problem solved.

I flushed but stammered that it would be my honor to help.

—Six o'clock, said Monsieur.

Years ago an uncle told me that if I were to be a little bird, it would always be the one with the broken wing. That evening I had prepared a meal for a table of twelve and, even though I say so myself, the food was exquisite. The only variation was for my uncle's dish—I had laced it with spice and he spent the evening teary-eyed and coughing.

I wished at that moment to lace Monsieur's dish, to say something that would make him stand back and sputter. But he appeared sicker than usual. With his foot problems and other ailments, he was having difficulty walking, and the thought of him stepping onstage to dance, upset, was distressing.

—I'd be delighted to help, I said.

Monsieur nodded and hobbled away down the beach. The young dancer looked back over her shoulder, smiled, and mouthed her thanks. Monsieur whistled at Emilio, who rose and followed them.

The water lapped at my toes and I felt a migraine coming on. Beyond the promenade I dipped into a café to order a glass of water for my tablets. Only moments later did I realize I had also ordered a slice of Battenberg cake, Tom's favorite.

I left the cake untouched and returned to my room.

The sound of seagulls woke me and I saw on the bedside clock that it was almost six. I hurried to the hotel and pushed through the groups of admirers in the lobby waiting for Monsieur. I approached the front desk where, after a series of phone calls, I was directed to the penthouse floor.

Obviously there had been a mistake because when I knocked gently on the door it was Monsieur's voice I heard, loud and impatient, saying: What?

Emilio opened the door and I glimpsed Monsieur on the massage table. Emilio was wearing thin rubber gloves. I noticed even from a distance that there were welts on Monsieur's body and there was a little blood on the table's paper sheet, near Monsieur's feet. I stammered my apology, turned away, and the door closed quickly behind me.

I heard Monsieur curse.

—Lock the door! he shouted.

Downstairs, I was redirected to the young dancer's room. The child was sleeping, bottles of milk had been prepared, a change of clothes neatly laid out, and there was even a pram in the room so I could rock him back and forth if he woke. He was a beautiful little boy with thin wisps of dark hair.

I bade good-bye to the family and settled in one of the easy chairs.

I have always detested hotel rooms. I had no desire to watch television, nor to tune in the radio. I found myself thinking of Tom, how I had shredded the shoes and how he might feel when he opened the box. It was impossible to stop the tears. Feeling claustrophobic, I bundled the baby in a light blanket, put him in the pram and brought him downstairs in the elevator.

It was still bright outside. Many young lovers were on the promenade and some clairvoyants had set up along the beachfront. A few people stopped and cooed at the baby in the pram, but when someone asked me the child's name I realized that I didn't know. I hurried along with my thoughts of Tom.

I was convinced that there were no other women, although his old landlady still sent him Christmas cards. And there had been no alcohol involved. Maybe there was another explanation. I wished I had taken his letter with me and perhaps, I thought, my actions had been far too rash.

Down the promenade I heard some loud swear words. When I looked I found myself just yards from a gang of young troublemakers leaning against the seafront wall. Their heads were shaved and they wore Union Jack suspenders and red boots up to their ankles.

I considered turning the pram around and walking quickly back to the hotel but I feared they might see my panic and try to steal my handbag. I pushed the pram through but curiously they didn't seem to pay much attention. A few stars were out now and the sea was darkening. The baby woke and began to cry. I tried to soothe him and by the time he fell asleep again the darkness had descended.

I turned to see one of the young skinheads shimmying up a lamppost. He reached into his rear pocket and I caught the flash of a knife as he began to cut the poster of Monsieur down. He was shouting something terrible about homosexuals while his friends laughed and pushed each other around. My heart beat fast. I looked for the sort of people I'd seen earlier in the day—men in boating hats and middle-aged women in sandals—but there were none in sight. There was no way to take the baby carriage along the pebbled beach, and to get up to the town there were a number of steps I would be forced to climb.

There was nothing else to do but walk back through. My legs trembled, my mouth felt dry, but I held my carriage erect and sang a nursery rhyme to the child.

The skinheads parted a little to allow me a passage. But the one who had torn the poster was jumping up and down and pretending to wipe his backside with Monsieur's image. I could hardly control myself. I felt my knees buckling. I pushed on until the pram got caught on a gap in the concrete and the wheel stuck. I wrenched the pram out from the crack but my feet tangled and I fell back on the ground, grazing my knee. The skinhead started laughing and dropped the torn poster near the wheel of the pram. I caught sight of half of Monsieur's face, his ease, his happiness. I scrambled to rise as one of the troublemakers called me a particularly nasty name. I was trembling, yet I grabbed the torn poster and stuffed it in the pram beside the child.

The skinheads shouted after me as I ran and ran down the promenade away from them. I stopped only when I could no longer hear their foul mouths. Then I leaned against the railing and tried to soothe the child who was screaming now, loud wrenching cries.

At that moment I knew that I hated my husband Tom more than any other person I had ever met in my life.

Two days later, when I got back to London, I found Tom dozing in a chair in our quarters with his hands in his lap. He looked wretched. His shirt was sloppy with stains and I could smell beer off his breath.

I ignored him and began to change into my night clothes, sat on the edge of my bed to remove my tights. Tom woke groggily and looked around as if unsure of where he was. But then he straightened when he saw the grazed cut on my knee. He didn't say a word, just went to the bathroom and came out with a damp tissue. He sat beside me on the bed and raised the edge of my nightdress and started to clean the cut. Little bits of the tissue tore off where the scab had begun to form.

—What happened, love? he asked.

I got into my bed and pulled the covers high, turned my face away. My knee stung from where he had tried to clean it.

Later I could hear Tom rummaging in the bathroom cabinet and then the kitchen. He came back into the bedroom with what smelled like a poultice. I pretended to sleep while he lifted the covers and applied the pungent mixture to my knee. I remembered then something Monsieur had said to me just after his fiftieth birthday—he had seen a photograph of himself standing alone onstage after receiving a curtain call, looking tired, and he had murmured:
Some day this hideous moment will be the sweetest memory.

When he was finished, Tom pulled up the covers carefully and patted the edge of my bed. He said good night in a whisper, but I didn't stir. I could hear him removing his shirt and taking off his shoes, then lying down on his bed. The odor of his socks began to mix with that of the poultice. I smiled then, thinking to myself that, no matter what, his socks would have to be washed.

*   *   *

Ronde de jambe par terre to see range of motion of joints. Severe restriction. Erratic rolling. Hop is acutely pronounced and bones are jammed. Left foot can hardly brush the floor. Acute pain when metatarsals are touched, even when foot is held at central shaft. Key is to move metatarsals like fan, twist from side to side, effleurage gently between rays. Drain blood blisters and immediately remove welt between second and third digit on left foot.

BOOK FOUR

RUSSIA • 1987

November 5, 1987

The thought of plane touching down next week. Landing on the ice, finally skidding to safety. He might be arrested on his stopover in Leningrad. Ilya says there will be no scheming, yet I am not sure. They could take him away for his seven years and who could stop them? I woke up perspiring. After breakfast I put on my coat and walked to the department store on Krassina. Everyone was walking around in the warmth. There were rumors of a shipment of toaster ovens but none came. In the afternoon Nuriya showed me the painting she has made for Rudik—crows along the Belaya and a single white seagull flying above the cliff. She wrapped the painting in butcher's paper and said she would find a ribbon for it. She cannot contain her excitement, but at her age it is hardly surprising. Equal, I suppose, to my nervousness. Nuriya went to bed early and we could hear her tossing and turning. In Mother's room I tried to tell her that Rudik will be coming in a few days. For a moment Mother's eyes lit up with moisture as if to say:
But how could that be?
Then they fluttered closed again. How peaceful she looks when she sleeps and yet how terribly tortured when awake. The doctor has given her a couple more months. But what use is a couple of months when she has nothing to live for and no real body in which to live it out? Her mind continues to slip away. Ilya said perhaps Mother has stayed alive to see Rudik. Then he asked me if I am not old enough yet to forgive. Forgive? Does it matter? There is the simple reality that there is no soap and the handle of the toilet is broken.

November 6

There is much to do: darn the tablecloth, clean the window ledges, fix the table legs, let down the hem of Nuriya's dress, boil Mother's nightgown. Ilya was asked to do odd jobs at the Opera House. It is good news. More money.

November 7

Revolution Day. Blizzard across Ufa. The cold keeps us inside. The snow was three feet high in the graveyard and Ilya could not go out to prepare Father's plot. A forty-eight-hour visa seems worse than allowing Rudik no time at all. The flights alone will take a whole day.

November 8

I watched Mother's lips. It is an effort in mind-reading. Perhaps Ilya is correct that she has kept herself alive these last few years just for one more look at him. But you cannot cure three decades in a moment. The thought is pure stupidity. We have heard they are arranging a special room at the Rossiya Hotel. It is said that they have refrigerators which make ice cubes. Who would want them? In the afternoon the snow relented. A trip to the department store yielded no new nightdresses, but the second attempt to boil Mother's was more successful. Deep in the cupboards I found an old gown with the faded imprint of tomato stains from the shingles. She has kept everything, even Rudik's shoes. The toes are still scuffed and the backs are broken from the way he always stuffed his feet in.