The Cranes Dance (21 page)

Klaus was waiting for me in the studio, doing push-ups.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” I put my bag down and considered Klaus’s arms, which are, frankly, very appealing.

“Klaus, I’m thinking we should play around with the first sections,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, popping up. “You’re the boss.”

So we started working. He’s a strong little critter, this Klaus, and he’s got the technique for sure. And the ambition. I see what Marius was alluding to. But Jesus, he was boring. He trotted out all the standard-issue male ballet stuff: the proud chin lift, the doleful chin lowering, the arrogant arm sweep, the dejected arm droop. It pissed me off. I’m dragging myself to
rehearsal through injury, fatigue, and a mounting anxiety level that’s damn near choking me, and this kid thinks he’s too cool to get into character?

“I think we need to ramp up the acting,” I said to Klaus. “It might work better if we start really getting into it.”

“For me that always happens in performance,” said Klaus.

The old “It will be there on the night” gambit. I’ve heard it before.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, as airily as I could manage. “That’s sort of like planning out how witty and sexy you are going to be on the date while you are still in the shower. I’m fabulous in the shower, then suddenly I’m at the restaurant and all I can think of to say are things like ‘Ranch dressing tastes good.’ ”

Klaus hesitated, clearly not sure whether I was funny or a complete dork. He probably doesn’t go on dates. Most likely he just shags whatever ballerina is nearest to hand. There’s probably a sign-up sheet in the corps girls’ dressing room.

“I’m kidding,” I said. “I’m always witty and sexy.”

“Just tell me what you want,” said Klaus. “I don’t know what you want.”

Ah, we had come to this. Since the dawn of time has man said thus to woman.

I thought of our massage therapist Irina, and her special Soviet tactics for man handling. Klaus is not Russian, but he’s young and stubborn, so … close enough. It was worth a try, anyway.

“What I love,” I said, “is what you are doing in that first moment. When I come on and throw myself at you, you’re doing this thing where it’s like you see how crazy I am and
then you turn to the audience, like
Oh Jesus, not her again
. It’s great. That’s why I wanted this time to rehearse. So you could keep finding moments like that for yourself, without everybody telling you how it should be.”

This was utter fabrication: Klaus was indeed turning his head to the imagined audience when I ran in, but only because he had been told that is what he does on that count.

“Cool,” said Klaus.

“Let’s do that again and work through the next bit,” I said.

And by golly, it worked. He actually did it. I told him that it was nice to be working with someone who has such great musicality, and he stopped rushing the tempo. “I love the way you are walking like a football player,” I said, and shazam, Klaus lost the tight-assed noble gait. Cunning and deft, I played both sides of the court. I hit my shot, then leapt over the net and hit Klaus’s for him, then scampered back over the net to thank him for having sent me such a perfect return. Then we played the point again and, like magic, there it was, just what I wanted. How come I never thought to use this system before? I caught myself employing a slight Russian accent. We moved on to the moments when he suddenly falls in love with me.

“It’s good the way we are starting to exaggerate our height difference,” I said, when Klaus was still pretending to be tall. “We need some shtick.” After I was done explaining to him what shtick is, I came up with a really cute thing for when he tries to embrace me. I made him bend his front leg so he was basically sticking his nose into my breasts.

“Can I change stuff like this?” Klaus asked anxiously.

“It’s okay,” I assured him. “Marius wasn’t totally happy with
what he had choreographed, I could tell. If he doesn’t like it he’ll change it, but he’s going to like it. It works.”

After two hours, Stefan and Rochelle, who are the first cast for Lysander and Hermia, joined us. Rochelle is tiny and adorable, perfect casting for Hermia, and Marius had fun with our little fight scene. We just marked through it today, on account of my neck, and then Klaus, Stefan, and I worked on the part where they both declare their love for me and end up fighting each other. Stefan is the tallest boy in our company, so their fight looked legitimately hilarious, not just ballet funny. I was exalted with my successful foray into manipulation, and kept on making suggestions in Klaus’s name. At one point, instead of doing the classic male dancer fight move (an incredibly lame pushing of another guy’s shoulder and then a spreading of one’s arms as if to say “Do you want a piece of this tunic, my friend?”), I told Klaus to do cartoon fisticuffs while Stefan held him off with one hand on Klaus’s head.

“I can’t even look at you,” said Stefan to Klaus. “You’re going to crack me up. Great idea, man.”

I had Klaus propose that he do a professional wrestling–style drop on Stefan. This seemed to me very Shakespearean.

“No way,” laughed Rochelle. “Marius will never let you guys do that.”

“It’s too over the top,” said Stefan.

“That’s why it will work,” I say. “They are so insane that they can no longer do ballet. They are reduced to brute animals. And the audience gets to see that you’re not just ballet dancers, you’re dudes. Marius will love it. He’s very into accessibility these days.”

“The whole ballet is about duality, anyway,” said Klaus.

“He’s so cute,” whispered Rochelle in my ear.

After this amusing and strategically complicated rehearsal, I went to see Irina for a massage.

“Iri,” I said. “You are a genius.”

“Of course,” she said. “Why?”

Klaus was in the elevator when I staggered out of my session a half hour later, and he suggested getting a bite to eat. He’d apparently just come from a shower. He had on the black leather jacket. He gave me a very charming smile. I said yes.

Over salad he told me all about himself. Klaus, as it turns out, is in love! The object of his affections is, of course, himself, and what a changeable and contradictory and endlessly fascinating person he has discovered himself to be!

He told me all his theories on dance and male dancing and the nature of the masculine artist. He likes to speak in what he calls “mythic terms.” He elaborated on his theory of
Dream
as Shakespeare’s expression of man’s duality, and how matter and spirit are in conflict in the soul. He has had two quite complicated love affairs, both of which were very “intense.” He writes poetry. He suggested I read
The Fountainhead
.

I made the sympathetic face, and the interested face, and even the impressed face. I did not say, “In the name of all that is holy, cease this incessant drivel, you pretentious ass.” I did not say, “Ayn Rand is fascist garbage.” I didn’t even say, “You smell good and that’s a great jacket, so please be quiet.” I made faces
and he kept going. It was like feeding quarters into one of those tennis ball cannons that shoot the balls at you. I let them smack me in the forehead, and said nothing.

It started to rain. We had finished eating, and neither of us was supposed to be on tonight. I could feel the notion of extending the evening hovering over our table. Klaus had talked himself into a froth of heightened awareness, and I could sense his need to watch himself making love to me in order to round off his evening. I excused myself on the pretense of needing to ice my neck, which was true enough, and came back here.

I talked briefly on the phone with Keith, who is through to the quarterfinals in Morocco. I sent e-mails to my parents.

I sent a text to Gwen.

Gwen and I used to play a game when we were little girls. Not really a game as such, it didn’t have rules, no winner or loser, not even a name. It must have grown out of some other game. I don’t know exactly how it started.

We’d stand on opposite sides of the bedroom we shared and press ourselves to the wall as if we were pinned there. We’d watch each other, waiting to see who would move first. And that was it. That was the game. Sort of stupid, and you can stand against a wall even in fairly baroque positions for a really, really long time, so it wouldn’t have looked to anyone else like an action-packed game, but it was terrifically
dynamic. At first it’s easy not to move because you know the person wants you to, but then it becomes weirdly hard not to move because the other person wants you to. It’s a hook and an embrace.

Move. Don’t Move. Move. Don’t Move.

What do you want me to do, Gwen?

At work today, Nina had something up her ass and everything out of her mouth that wasn’t a deedle was some sort of thinly veiled jab.

“Klaus, you take her by the
left
hand. Or is that something Kate told you to change?”

“I think this recording is slow. But Kate probably likes it that way. She hates to move fast.”

“Kate, I know you’ll be wearing a dress, but you still need to keep your hips square. You can’t cheat
everything
.”

I guess my hand was going reflexively to my neck every time we stopped working, because suddenly she was all, “What’s the deal, are you injured?” She actually did an imitation of me, mock rubbing her own neck and affecting a babyish pout.

“It’s a pinched nerve, but I just got an adjustment and it’s a lot better,” I told her, in a very measured tone.

“Look, if you are injured, you need to let us know now so we can make arrangements,” she huffed.

“No, I’m good!” I chirped. “Just getting a little older, ha-ha!”

That was a tactical error.

“Oh well!” Nina trilled. “We can’t do anything about that! But if you’re not one hundred percent, it’s really not fair to Klaus, or to David. He’s already got a lot to deal with.”

“May I speak with you privately for a minute?” I asked.

I knew she wanted to say no and was weighing the odds of how much of a cunt she thought she could get away with being. And how much of a cunt I might turn into. Basically, it was a cunt-off.

Technically, all the power was in her court. The rest of the dancers in the room were all examining their feet, or the walls, or pretending to practice steps. I had no idea what I wanted to say to Nina other than “Get off my back, you shrew,” but I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t say anything. It just doesn’t work like that. But I also couldn’t let Nina continue. She was undermining my authority with Klaus.

“I’d prefer not to stop rehearsal,” said Nina.

“Well, we
have
stopped rehearsal,” I said. I put my hands on my hips and jutted my chin. The gesture for defiance.

At this moment, the door opened and Marius strode into the room. If he noticed the tension he did not acknowledge it.

“May I have a look?” he asked, drawing up a chair. “I want to see what you’re up to.”

“We’re having a little bit of trouble today,” Nina said, all low-cal-syrup regretfulness.

“Yes? What’s the trouble?” Marius looked at me, standing by myself in the center of the room, my defiance posture drooping a little.

“Kate’s having trouble with her neck.”

“You’re having trouble with your neck?”

“My neck is fine,” I said coolly. Inspiration came. “My mood is terrible, though,” I said brightly. “I was just about to throw a temper tantrum!”

“Oh, this I’d like to see,” Marius said. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

“I’m driving Nina crazy today.” I grinned, fake ruefully. “She’s at her wit’s end.”

Marius looked at Nina, who half laughed, uncertain. She doesn’t know how to play these scenes. But I do.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Marius. “Did you want to see some dancing?”

Marius folded his arms. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

I dropped a curtsy. Marius gave me a complicated look. I realized then that he’d read the situation perfectly. That it was something … some kind of test. Maybe he even told Nina to give me a hard time. The Machiavellian touch is not beyond him. Nina isn’t clever enough to push my buttons toward anything but frustration and bad dancing, but Marius?

As hard as it’s been to watch you diminish yourself
.

“From the beginning, please,” he commanded.

“Full out,” I said in a low voice to Klaus. “Like it’s a performance. Anything less and I’ll throw you under the rails.”

The adrenaline kicked in where today’s Vicodin failed. I was not feeling any pain, but I danced way beyond what I should have, whipping my head around recklessly. Klaus started out a little tentatively, but soon he was mugging, he was pouting, he was storming. Stefan and Klaus did their WWF fight. Marius actually jumped up from his chair, laughing. He waved a hand at Nina.

“I don’t need to see any more,” he said. “This is all very good. Really, I don’t think you should rehearse much more. It will ruin it. Just try not to kill each other.” Marius headed to the door; turned to look back; shook his finger at Klaus. “I love it,” said Marius, “when I am right.” He looked at Klaus, gave another laugh, and then shot me one sliver of a glance, his face emptying of expression, before exiting.

Nina looked at the clock. “That’s it for today,” she said. “Thank you, everyone.”

I fished a towel out of my bag. I wanted to lie down. I wanted to collapse. But I couldn’t even touch my neck until Nina left the room.

“See, that was what I was trying to get out of you, Kate,” Nina said, on her way out the door. “That’s why I was pushing you.”

I didn’t trust my neck enough to nod. I blinked amiably, since you should never spoil being right with being righteous. She left. I sat down slowly, not trusting my spine, and inched into a supine position. Stefan and Klaus and Rochelle exchanged relieved chatter.

“You okay, Kate?” Rochelle called over.

“I’m good,” I said. Actually, I did feel almost good. I felt sleepy.

Klaus playfully assumed the push-up position over me. I encircled his wrists with my hands. A little something passed between us.

“You’re sweating on me,” I said.