Dances, p.7
Dances, page 7
During the curtain calls, both Jasper and I get standing ovations.
Backstage, the energy is high. Ryn runs up to me, still in her cat costume—she played Puss-in-Boots’s temperamental girlfriend tonight, as well as one of the Lilac Fairy’s attendants.
“Oh my God,” she says after kissing my cheek. “You were incredible tonight. We were all trying not to scream from the wings.”
Truthfully, Ryn would make a much better Aurora than me. I would love to see her do the Rose Adagio—her balance rivals Viengsay Valdés’s. Balance has always been a weak spot of mine, but Ryn makes it look easy.
“You were incredible,” I say. “You’re really funny, Ryn.”
Jasper is next to us, bloodied and grinning. I apologize again and he laughs, sloshing water around his mouth and then drinking it, having no place to spit his own metallic blood, diluted. He winks at me. “Who cares?” he says. “School’s out for summer, babe.” He saunters off.
This was the last performance of the spring season. The company is touring to Paris in June. Kaz let me have a guest artist contract with La Scala, so I will be in Italy then. In July, the company does its short summer season in Saratoga Springs, and I am Hermia, Jasper my Lysander. Then a small group of us—Ryn and Jasper included—are going to Wyoming for the company’s annual artists’ residency with Dancer’s Workshop.
Kaz comes over and puts his arm around my waist, pulls me into his side. He kisses my cheek. Then he gives me his signature stare, a deep, somewhat mischievous look right into the eyes. I never know what to do when he does this. I arrange my face into a mysterious smile, like we both know the secret, and I fight not to let my eyes drop from his. I have no idea what he is about to say, what notes he will give me. I know I’ve danced well tonight, but I don’t know whether it has been enough.
“Well done, my beauty,” he says, finally. “Tomorrow will be a big day for you.”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, confused. All I plan to do tomorrow is a photo shoot with Ryn and then physical therapy.
“Yes, darling. We’ll announce it to the press tomorrow.”
Ryn seems to get it before I do. She stands behind Kaz, bouncing and emitting a quiet squeal.
“Announce what?” I ask.
“You know what I’m saying,” Kaz murmurs.
And suddenly, I do. He is promoting me. It comes to me in waves: I am going to be a principal. I have made it to the top tier of the company. This is what I’ve been dreaming of since I was a little girl. This has been what tonight was all about.
And then, at last, this: I am now the first Black female principal in the history of the New York City Ballet.
My legs are shaking, the muscles exhausted. Kaz lets go of me and steps away as a flock of dancers who’ve overheard swarm me. Before they close in, I crane my neck, looking for Jasper. He is nowhere to be seen. Some tenuous feeling spreads in my chest. Cecilia is staring at me, openly glaring. There is clapping and congratulations. All this embarrasses me. Usually, we get promoted in groups—Kaz has made me into a spectacle. My body is hot and tired, and I feel exposed and bloated. I escape to the dressing room that I share with two other dancers; it is mercifully empty. Ryn follows me in and I begin scrubbing my stage makeup off with baby wipes.
“So we’re definitely going out tonight to celebrate, and don’t give me that crap about being exhausted.”
“I am exhausted,” I say. I wonder if Jasper is still in the theater, if he has heard the news.
“You want a bump?” Ryn asks me, but she doesn’t wait for an answer because she knows it is no. Coke fueled Ryn through her years in the corps, when you’re busy all the time, doing anywhere from ten to fifteen shows a week. But since she became a soloist a year ago, she only uses when she wants to go out post-performance.
I pop three ibuprofens as Ryn wipes her nose.
“You coming home tonight or are you staying at Jasper’s?” she asks.
“Home, I guess. I haven’t seen him since curtain call.” I try to make that sound breezy, like I don’t care one way or the other, like I’m not hoping he walks through the door right now with the congratulatory bouquet of flowers he ran out to get as soon as he heard the news.
“He’s a dick, Cece.”
“I know. But he’s my dick.” I force a smile.
We both giggle.
“I’ll meet you out there,” Ryn says, rolling her eyes.
She musses my hair as I pull off my plastic crown, and then practically skips out. I pause, look at myself in the mirror. My costume is a pale pink, darkened now with sweat, with glittering roses at my arms and on my tutu. I stand and hold a hand to my face, comparing the reflection to the real thing. I wonder if there is surveillance in this room, if someone is watching me on a screen somewhere and snickering. I recognize that this thought is crazy, and with the discipline I’ve honed over my entire life, I do not allow myself to look around for places where a camera might be hidden. I do, however, allow a nervous glance at the open door behind me.
Watching myself—and the doorway—in the mirror, I rise up into an arabesque, my arms in high fifth above my head. My costume is heavy, cooling with the sweat that drenches it. I’ve managed, in this brief moment, to find perfect balance; it feels nearly weightless, stillness with no effort. The lights in the dressing room are much dimmer than the lights onstage, but I still shimmer pinkly. I see myself—pink satin and black skin. I come out of my pose and bow deeply to my reflection, holding my own eyes until I can’t anymore.
Intermezzo
For my fourteenth birthday Luca and Galina gave me a copy of The Dancer’s Way: The New York City Ballet Guide to Mind, Body, and Nutrition. I packed this along with the Italian book from Paul in my dance bag on the day of my audition for the School of American Ballet’s summer intensive. Both Galina and Luca assured me that I was ready, and I wished I had felt as confident about it. I knew I looked good on paper—the Espositos’ school was renowned, and I’d won a few competitions over the years. And I had performance experience—The Nutcracker, obviously, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Swan Lake, Coppélia, and a bunch of abstractly titled contemporary pieces.
Everything was riding on my SAB audition. I’d called Paul that morning, and was surprised when he picked up. He sounded tired, burned out.
“Got stuck at work until three last night,” he said.
A year ago he’d been promoted to station chef at the restaurant where he’d been working since he dropped out of school. I once asked him if he’d decided to become a famous chef instead of a famous artist, and he told me to shut the fuck up. I wasn’t trying to be smart, though. Now, I tried not to say anything about his job at all.
“Good luck at your audition today,” he said. “Or merde—that’s what you dancers say, right?”
He sounded so far away. No one in my family ever said it plainly to me, but all the same, I’d come to understand that my brother was an addict. I didn’t yet know what his drug of choice was—it was more than pot or alcohol—and I couldn’t ask anyone. There was no one thing, nothing in particular that happened to make me see the truth; rather, it came to me with the same kind of onset as my own self-awareness. A subconscious thing becoming conscious. And I would save him—I knew I could—but he never let me near him anymore. When he was so far away, I had no opportunity to step between him and his darkness. I couldn’t turn his head back to his art.
“Do you have time this weekend?” I asked. “We could go see a movie or something. The Book of Eli’s supposed to be good. I won’t even make you pay.”
He didn’t laugh, so I did it for him.
“Sorry, Cece,” he said, and he sounded so weak, so tired. “I’ve got work. Maybe some other time.”
“That’s what you always say. Come on. I haven’t seen you in forever. People don’t even think I have a brother.”
Paul coughed a smoker’s cough. “I know, I know. I’m a pretty shitty brother, huh? We’ll chill real soon.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“When, Paul?”
“Shit. Look, Cece, I gotta go.”
“Don’t hang up.”
He hung up.
So along with my books and my pointe shoes and my bobby pins and my nerves, I carried my anger with me to the audition. I was there alone, and I envied the girls whose mothers hovered over them, embarrassed them. I envied the girls whose mothers knew how important all this was. I got a lot of stares—some merely curious, and some hostile. I was used to this. I saw only one other Black girl. She was tall and muscular, and her eyes kept flitting to me just as mine kept flitting to her, and we both saw each other looking, and I silently wished her merde.
It was cold that morning—the January air crept into the cracks in the building, so I was careful to warm up well. Despite my anger at him, I couldn’t just push Paul from my mind for the sake of the audition. I listened to my iPod Touch as I warmed up—a Christmas present from Paul. He’d loaded it with all of his favorite classical music and then mailed it to me. I didn’t actually get to see him for the holidays. The atmosphere around me was tense. Everybody was looking at one another, evaluating, judging. But aside from subtly craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the other Black girl, who I hoped was outstanding, I tried to stay focused on myself. Since I couldn’t banish my brother from my mind, I tried to at least banish the anger. If I was going to feel looked at, scrutinized—which I did—then at least I could imagine it was Paul doing the looking.
I warmed up more gracefully and carefully than I normally would. I brought my leg up, flexing and pointing my foot languidly, articulating each movement. I brought my leg around behind me, arching my back as much as I could, opening my chest to the ceiling. All throughout the audition, I conjured Paul’s gaze. It quieted my nerves, quieted the anxiety of the other dancers around me. The ballet mistress called out the combinations quickly, testing our attention, our memory. I imagined each of her commands flying across the room like bullets, sinking into my flesh, programming my muscles. I imagined drawing colorful lines in the air with the articulation of my arms and legs as I moved. I was full of magic.
The audition was over quickly—it seemed as though it had been no time at all. When I stepped outside I felt ejected onto the grimy sidewalk, into the blaring of taxis, the roar of traffic, the distant rumble of the subway, smell of exhaust and sugared peanuts and hot dogs and burned soft pretzels, overflowing trash, urine, gray slush. Immediately, I missed the sweat, the clanking piano, the sweet piney scent of rosin. A forbidden city to which I was desperate for admission.
II
ADAGIO
It is vaguely disappointing, traveling. You get all dazzled at first, but then you start to see that a city is just a city, and people are just people, and the world is just the world. This summer day in New York is not all that different from a summer day in Milan. I am jet-lagged. I wear big cat-eye sunglasses to hide the bags under my eyes. I try to make this look glamorous by adding a dark plum lipstick and a chignon. I no longer feel that I can just walk out barefaced. The gaze is my shadow, larger than ever.
My interviewer is late. I try to remember which publication this is for. Time? Elle? No, I’ve done those already. Danielle, the company’s publicist, has been hounding me to hire a manager. I’m close to caving. I wake up to more emails than I can handle. This morning I got one from some filmmakers in LA who want to make a movie about me, and I’m still not convinced it’s not a hoax. New York magazine, that’s it. New York magazine, New York magazine, New York magazine. I repeat this in my head so I don’t forget. Maybe they’re here already, watching me, observing and taking notes. Here we find Celine in her natural habitat. Look how awkward she really is.
My cellphone buzzes. I look down at the screen—it’s Irine. She wants to know if I’m back in the States yet. I haven’t gone to one of her company classes, and I’ve been using Milan as an excuse to avoid her. Even now, even after my promotion, she still doesn’t seem convinced that I belong at NYCB, and I don’t know why, but it’s making me crazy. Either she’s right and somebody’s going to figure it out, or she’s wrong and everything that’s happened so far hasn’t been enough to show her. Maybe it hasn’t been enough to show anybody. I slip my phone into my purse. A passerby does a double take but does not stop. Watch Celine, on edge even in her natural habitat. She is a nervous species, skittish, a prey animal.
Only I’m not in my natural habitat. I’m not sure what my natural habitat is, but it isn’t this. I’m used to scrutiny but not celebrity. People recognize me on the street. In Italy, people came up to me after performances, tears in their eyes, took my hands in theirs. I’ve been on the covers of Dance Magazine and Pointe. I have interviews scheduled with The Washington Post, USA Today, The Telegraph, Forbes, Rolling Stone, Harper’s Bazaar, and O, The Oprah Magazine. Not to mention the television appearances. And they all ask me about the same things—diversity in ballet, my diet, Jasper, my inspirational message. And Misty Copeland. They can’t help asking me about Misty Copeland. I am in her petite shadow. I never saw this. Hell, I could never even see that pink costume against my skin. I only saw dance.
A tall, thin brunette is approaching my little outside table. I think it must be her, because she is walking with purpose. Quickly, I try to recall the name from the email. Brittany? Tiffany? Katie?
“It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, extending a hand. “I’m Mandy.”
I take her hand and shake it, say, “I’m Celine,” and feel instantly ridiculous.
Mandy settles into the seat across from me. She’s got a great neck—long and slender. I wonder if, to other people, it looks like she’s the dancer, and I’m…what? The token Black friend? I reach up to take my sunglasses off, but then change my mind.
“Is it okay if I record you?” Mandy asks, setting her iPhone on the table.
I smile and gesture magnanimously.
“Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to chat with me,” Mandy says. “So, two months ago, at only twenty-two, you became the first Black ballerina at the New York City Ballet. Tell me about that moment.”
The answer to this question is far too complicated for words, but words are all I have. I have never been good at sound bites. It’s not that I can’t produce them, it’s that I’m sure I’m coming off as disingenuous as I’m being. I do my best—mostly, I stick to the facts—and Mandy seems satisfied.
“So,” Mandy says, “the Kazimir Volkov told you personally? Is that right?”
I strive for a self-deprecating laugh. “That’s right. That’s not usually how it’s done, of course, but Kaz has pretty much watched me grow up.”
This is the truth, but I am telling a distilled version of the truth. I am letting Mandy believe that Kaz is like a father to me. I’d like him to be like a father to me. But Kaz’s near-constant gaze is much more complicated than that. And certainly not paternal.
“Tell me what it’s like to work for Kazimir Volkov. He’s been somewhat controversial since his instatement as artistic director. Some say he’s too classical for City Ballet. What’s your perspective as one of his dancers?”
One of his dancers. I feel strangely protective of Kaz. NYCB purists like to hark on his Russophilia, his predilection for full-length shows. They like to argue that he isn’t truly neoclassical. Classical ballets are often full-length productions, with elaborate staging, symmetrical structure, and delicate technique. Neoclassical ballets are abstract, storyless, with minimal staging, and a focus on athleticism. Balanchine, the founder of our company, is the father of neoclassical ballet, so Kaz’s love of classical elements is somewhat scandalous.
“Kaz is brilliant,” I say, delicately shrugging one shoulder. “I love how he manipulates, and sometimes even discards the horizontal line. And yes, I think he is classical in a sense—he values narrative and lyricism. But I do think it’s reductive to just call him ‘classical.’ He plays with gender roles and androgyny in ways that are new and exciting, and he’s always looking to make new shapes with the body.”
“What’s it like to dance one of his works?”
“Exhausting,” I say with a laugh. “Kaz isn’t a fan of idleness on the stage. He likes us dancing the whole time.”
“How would you say he compares to Balanchine?”
This is a loaded question. I need to tread carefully. “Can anyone be compared to Balanchine?” I chuckle airily. “Honestly, they’re two completely different artists. Visionaries. Balanchine was all about the body, the woman, the steps. Kaz is about—well, the body too, I guess, but—” I grit my teeth. I sound dumb. I lengthen my spine, an invisible cord traveling through my vertebrae, up through the top of my skull, up beyond the clouds. “Kaz is about plasticity, humanity. Audacity.”
I am particularly proud of my use of audacity. Such a striking, dramatic word. Mandy must love it.
“Tell me a bit more about how you got here, Celine. When did you start ballet?”
“When I was five.”
“What made you fall in love with dance?”
My brother’s face shimmers out of a protected corner of my mind. I got us tickets, my little dancer. That’s the stage you’ll be on one day. I push him back in. “It started, for me, with the music. I’ve always been…sensitive to it. My mother would tell you I cried the first time I heard Chopin.”
My mother would say nothing of the sort.
But Paul would. Come in here, Cece. You don’t know nothing until you’ve heard Scarlatti.
“And you went to the School of American Ballet?”
I nod, and then, remembering the iPhone, say, “I got into SAB’s summer course when I was fourteen, and at the end of that summer, I was invited to enroll in winter term.”
