Dancer Read online

  Oh Rudi, I feel tired with this medicine. When this rain stops I will go out the door. I might even go out before, just to feel it on my face. I suppose I’m not so afraid of dying, Rudi, I wonder much more about what might have happened if I’d lived it all in slow motion. Aha! One dexedrine, two dexedrine, three dexedrine, floor.

  Love—Victor

  P.S. I heard rumors there’s a stallion called Nureyev that’s making a stir in the horse world. Is this true? Ha. I bet he’s hung like a Russian!

  Kisses!

  * * *

  We landed later than scheduled so Monsieur was furious. He stormed out of the baggage area. We passed the line of armored guards and got into a taxi. Monsieur negotiated with the driver in broken Spanish. The afternoon heat was just as I had imagined. The green mountains rose in the distance but the city was full of smog.

  I kept thinking of poor Tom at home alone in London.

  The taxi swerved around potholes until we reached the older colonial district where we got stuck in traffic. There were white brick houses with laundry strung up between the windows. Old men were on the street in collarless shirts. Children played in front of cars and ran off when the traffic moved. A woman at a flower stall caught Monsieur’s eye and he jumped out of the taxi to buy flowers. She wore a dress of yellows and reds. Monsieur gave her ten American dollars and kissed her on both cheeks and, when we pulled away, she caught my eye as if begging to live my life, sitting as I was in the backseat of a taxi with Monsieur. In truth, she could have had it. Monsieur was well aware that I was not happy to be accompanying him. To be away from Tom was very difficult, but Monsieur had pleaded with me to come, if only for a week or two.

  —We need champagne, Monsieur said as the taxi inched forward.

  The driver turned and grinned. With a complicated series of hand gestures he said he would be delighted to purchase champagne, that he knew a fine store. The driver swerved the car down a narrow laneway and pulled to a halt in front of a warehouse. Monsieur gave him money and he came out, moments later, carrying two large bottles. It was growing dim but the heat was still heavy and it made me sleepy, not to mention that the flight had been long and arduous. I had heard that Monsieur had made a fuss in first class, but now he touched my hand, thanked me once again for making the journey, apologized he wasn’t able to get me a seat beside him on the plane.

  —What would I do without you, Odile? he said.

  At the house Monsieur tipped the driver generously, then walked up the driveway, pulled the bell rope. The ringing pierced the quiet but nothing happened. Monsieur banged on the tall wooden door. He was sweating and two ovals had appeared at his underarms. He let out a string of curses and said: I should have told him I was coming.

  Between us we had a single fountain pen but no paper. Monsieur ran his fingernail under the label of the champagne bottle. Old trick, he said. He peeled the label off. It tore midway. He leaned against the wall of the house, sighed, and wrote: Victor, I will find a hotel and come back. Rudi. I folded the label, bent down to slip it in beneath the doorway, nudged it forward with my fingers. I stood and adjusted my dress, which had begun to cling in the heat.

  A sudden blast of music came from the house. In fact, the whole place jumped to life. I went to the gate and called for Monsieur, who was already some way down the street. The door behind me opened.

  A small figure stood in a silk dressing gown. His face was thin, a pair of headphones covered his ears, and the coiled black cord dangled down by his knees. He must have ripped the cord from the stereo when I pushed the note under the door.

  —Mister Pareci? I asked.

  He squinted at the torn champagne label. I had met him many times before, but he looked so different.

  —Mister Pareci? I asked again.

  He shuffled out onto the doorstep in an enormous pair of yellow slippers. He used the jamb to support himself, coughed once and looked down the street.

  —Oh my God, it’s Rudi, he said.

  He stumbled back inside while I waved at Monsieur to return. He seemed annoyed at first but then pushed past me into the house.

  —Victor! he shouted. Victor!

  The house was a dreadful mess. Clothes were strewn all over the floor. Plates of half-eaten food had been left on the couch. Light trickled through the faded blue curtains. A ceiling fan spun. The mirrors were ornate but cracked. Vinyl records lay on the floor and Monsieur moved to lower the volume of the stereo.

  —Victor! he shouted again.

  The red light of the video player was blinking. A pornographic film was frozen on the television screen. I stepped over to turn it off.

  —Look at you! shouted Monsieur.

  At the top of the stairs Victor was trying to step into a pair of trousers. He had discarded the dressing gown. He had put on a bright red shirt, unbuttoned. His chest was thin and his skin pale. He coughed hard when his foot went into the trouser leg and he almost toppled over, but just managed to steady himself with his hand against the banisters. I felt a sadness for Victor but not enough to change my mind as to his true nature—I had seen him play the jester far too often.

  Monsieur skipped up the stairs and kissed Victor on both cheeks. Victor let out a string of vile obscenities, saying: Where did you steal the flowers, Rudi? Where have you been? Tell me everything!

  He sounded happy and tired at the same time, as if the happiness were trying to catch up with the exhaustion. They came down the stairs together, arms around each other.

  —You remember Odile? Monsieur said.

  —Oh yes, said Victor. Wasn’t I at your wedding?

  —Yes.

  —Oh I apologize, I apologize.

  At my wedding there’d been an altercation in one of the bathrooms with one of Tom’s fellow shoemakers.

  —You’re forgiven, Mister Pareci.

  —All I did was ask him to tie his lace, said Victor. I just couldn’t resist.

  He put his head to his shoulder like a naughty child, awaited my reply.

  —Mister Parceci.

  —Oh please don’t call me that, I feel like such an old fart.

  —Victor, I said, you are forgiven.

  He kissed my hand. I told him it was my intention to make him comfortable and set him on the road to recovery while Monsieur found another housekeeper, a local woman, to take my position. I explained that it was not my desire to remain in Caracas forever. He blushed then, ashamed, and I cursed myself for my bluntness. He buttoned up his red shirt. Two more of him would have fit inside. He slipped his feet back into the yellow slippers and moved to a chair in the living room, flopped down, short of breath. He lit a long thin cigarette and blew the smoke to the ceiling as I made my way into the kitchen.

  —Rudi, he shouted, come hug me.

  Then, to include me, he added: You know, Odile, I’m the only person in the world who can order Rudi around!

  I commenced cleaning, first the champagne flutes. There was no soap. Victor was living without scourers or washcloths or domestic cleaning appliances of any sort. I began to make a mental note of all the things I would need. I washed the glasses and placed the bottle of champagne on a tray, brought it out to the gentlemen.

  —Oh, I’m so in love with you! shouted Victor.

  Monsieur popped the bottle and I poured.

  —Marry me this instant, Odile!

  Monsieur began rifling through the records on the floor, looking for classical music. He looked up and said: You’re a philistine, Victor.

  —I’m all salsa these days.

  —Salsa?

  Victor began a dance, which winded him quickly, and he sat back down.

  —Maybe you shouldn’t have too much champagne, said Monsieur.

  —Oh, shut up! said Victor. I have a cold, that’s all.

  —A cold?

  —Yes, a cold. Tell me, Rudi. Will you spend the rest of your life here with me?

  —I dance in São Paulo on Friday. Odile will be with you until I help you find someone loc
al.

  —São Paulo?

  —Yes.

  —Oh bring me with you.

  —Maybe you should rest, Victor, take it easy.

  —Rest?

  —Yes.

  —I’m dying! he shouted. Who wants to rest? Let’s drink champagne! For God’s sake let me see the label. I bet it’s piss! He always buys piss, Odile! He’s the world’s richest cheap man.

  Monsieur covered the half-label with his hand. Victor got to his feet unsteadily and went searching for the half that had been written on. He found it finally in his dressing gown pocket and sighed theatrically. He licked the back of the label and pasted it over his heart.

  —Oh you’ve always been so cheap! said Victor.

  I ran the tap to drown out the voices and cleaned the remaining glasses, held them up to the last of the sunlight. A vision of Tom flitted across my mind. He would be at home, watching television, repairing shoes. I missed him already. In the back courtyard the long-leafed plants were shivering in the breeze.

  —Oh let’s not talk shit, I heard Victor shout. You didn’t come here to talk shit, did you? Tell me, Rudi. Are you in love?

  —I am always in love.

  —Love loves me, said Victor, in a voice that sounded curiously like Monsieur.

  They laughed. The bottle was emptying fast. Victor held it in the air and read the half-label again.

  —It’s cat piss, he said in a fake French accent. They milk the strays on Boulevard Saint-Michel just for this.

  Victor turned up the South American music on the stereo and in the room they danced briefly while I continued to clean. The dusk had fallen and the cool breeze of the evening brought some relief. I could hear Victor recovering from the exertion and finally, when I finished my chores, I excused myself to bed.

  I was terribly surprised, after waking the next morning, to see Monsieur on the living room couch, sleeping, with Victor in a chair beside him, mopping Monsieur’s brow with a white cloth. I had been sure it would be the other way around. Monsieur was suffering from a fever, it seemed. When he got up, however, he took some pills and the fever dissipated. He performed his morning stretches, said he had some phone calls to make.

  —Reverse the charges, said Victor.

  Monsieur had friends in every part of the world, including Caracas, and I was convinced he would find a housekeeper within a couple of days. The house was brighter with this knowledge and I managed to find enough food in the kitchen to prepare a breakfast of fruit and toast.

  When the breakfast was finished, however, Monsieur announced that he and Victor would take a day-trip to the beach, and in the evening they would both go to São Paulo for the ballet.

  —Please have our bags ready, said Monsieur.

  To my surprise it was Victor who noted my sadness. He put his arm around my shoulder. He kindly drew a small map of the various marketplaces in the city and the location of a chemist shop where I could buy migraine tablets since I had forgotten mine. He stressed that I should not carry a lot of money. Then he rattled on about a delinquent boy who had long fingernails.

  When they left I washed the sheets, hung them out on the branches of the pomegranate trees in the courtyard.

  They returned after three days. Monsieur looked very tired, not his usual self. He instructed me that we would stay in Caracas for another week, until everything was sorted out for Victor. The thought of another whole week disturbed me greatly, but Monsieur said he genuinely needed my help. I continued to clean and cook. In the afternoons, while Victor slept, Monsieur was driven to the opera house since he wanted to work with the local dancers. Each evening he brought students, boys and girls, back to the house where they sat around, chatting and laughing. Victor was happy with all the clamor. In particular he latched on to a dancer named Davida, a very dark and handsome young man. In the evenings they took walks together. Later, while Monsieur slept, Victor and Davida curled up on the couch and watched videos. (The videos were shocking. I kept a stern face when I walked past the television set, though I must admit that on occasion I peeked.)

  The time passed quickly and I didn’t dwell on Tom’s absence as much as I had expected.

  At the end of the second week, just before our planned return, the three of us—Monsieur, Victor and I—were alone in the house. Monsieur had not yet found a new housekeeper and I had grown nervous that he had forgotten all about his promise. I began to fear the unthinkable, that I might even have to resign. I went to bed with a terrible migraine.

  The following night I was cooking a local dish—empanadas—and Victor was instructing me on its intricacies, how to fry the corn-meal, how to spice the beans. He sat in the middle of the living room, directing from a distance, having taken his huge array of medicines. Despite the obvious toll the sickness was taking on his body, Victor was quite energetic, having slept most of the afternoon.

  Afterwards they began drinking wine and telling stories but Monsieur seemed slightly more introspective than usual. I had noticed that Monsieur himself was almost at the end of his medicine but could find no other reason for the cloud that seemed to have descended upon him. He stood by the window, stretched, his head to his knee. He took his foot from the windowsill, tucked his hands between his elbows and his rib cage. Then, for some reason, he began recalling a moment long ago when he had received a letter from a lady friend in Russia. The story was long and detailed and Monsieur looked out the window as he spoke, until he was interrupted.

  —You’re not in love with women now, are you, Rudi?

  —Of course not.

  —You were about to disappoint me!

  Victor poured himself another glass of wine. He coughed and said: Oh this cold. I guess I won’t shake it until August at least.

  —Will I continue the story or not? asked Monsieur.

  —Oh, yes please, continue, please please.

  —He died.

  —Who died?

  —Her father.

  —Oh no! Not another story about death! said Victor.

  —Wait, said Monsieur, his voice catching in his throat. When he died he was wearing a hat.

  —Who was wearing a hat?

  —Sergei! He always wore a hat but never indoors. In Russia that is rude.

  —Oh! And Russians aren’t rude?

  —You’re not listening to me.

  —Of course I am.

  —Let me tell you the story, then!

  —The stage is yours, said Victor, and he blew Monsieur a kiss.

  —Well, said Monsieur, the reason he wore the hat was he believed he was going to meet his wife.

  —But you said she was dead.

  —In the afterlife, said Monsieur.

  —Oh God, said Victor, the afterlife!

  —He was found in his house with a hat on his head. He was writing to his daughter. In the letter he asked her to say hello to me. But that’s not the story. That’s not the point of my story. It’s something different. Because, you see, in his last words he wrote …

  —What? said Victor. He wrote what?

  Monsieur stuttered and said: Whatever loneliness we have had in this world will only make sense when we are no longer lonely.

  —And what sort of bullshit is that? said Victor.

  —It’s not bullshit, said Monsieur.

  —Oh it’s bullshit, said Victor.

  They were silent and then Victor’s head drooped. He was like a balloon that had lost its air. He reached for a new packet of cigarettes and his fingers shook while he fumbled with the wrapping. He opened the package and took a cigarette out, got a lighter from his shirt pocket, flicked it into life.

  —Why are you telling me this story? said Victor.

  Monsieur didn’t reply.

  —Why are you telling me this story, Rudi?

  Victor cursed, but then Monsieur knelt at the foot of Victor’s chair. I had never seen Monsieur kneel to anyone before. He put his arms around Victor’s knees, laid his head against the crook of his arm. Victor said nothing. Hi
s hand went to the back of Monsieur’s neck. There was a muffled heave and I was sure Monsieur was crying.

  Victor looked down at Monsieur’s head and began to mention something about a bald spot, but the comment fell away, and then he gripped the back of Monsieur’s neck even tighter.

  Victor must have remembered me in the kitchen since he looked up and caught my eye. I closed the door and let them be. I had never before heard Monsieur cry in such a way. It made my hands tremble. I went to the courtyard where Monsieur’s dance clothes were drying on the washing line. I could still see their silhouettes inside the house. They had their arms around each other and their shadows made them look like one person.

  The following morning began bright and smog-free. I cleaned the house thoroughly and then arranged for the young dancer, Davida, to come over. He arrived in a pair of clogs and greeted me with a kiss. His hair was nicely combed back. He seemed to be an honest young man, so I took him aside.

  —Would you look after him? I asked.

  —I have a cousin who’s a doctor, said Davida.

  —No, I think you should look after him.

  —Who will pay me?

  —Monsieur will pay you, I said.

  Over the next two days I prepared a week’s worth of meals, crammed them in the small freezer for Victor and Davida. Everything was in order—Monsieur had promised to pay Davida and also to bring him to the Paris Opera House, in future years, where he could have classes and develop his talents.

  Everything was kept secret from Victor but I had a feeling he knew what was going on. He walked around the house wearing his earphones even though they were unplugged.

  On our last morning I packed Monsieur’s bag and arranged a taxi to take us back to the airport. We sat around for a long time, waiting for the car to arrive. Victor talked a lot about the weather, what a great day it was going to be for the beach. He said he couldn’t wait to put on a new pair of swimming trunks he’d bought in São Paulo.

  —I’ll look like I’m smuggling grapes, he said.

  When the taxi drew up Monsieur and Victor shook hands and hugged at the doorway. As Monsieur walked down the driveway Victor reached into his dressing gown pocket. I heard the flick of a cigarette lighter. Monsieur turned around.