Colum McCann - Dancer

They drifted in without introducing themselves and went to sit at the table. I had the sneaking feeling that Iosif had maybe gone to see them in order to protect himself, that he had finally betrayed me in a tangible way, after all our tiny intimate betrayals over the years.

Am I being arrested? I asked.

They said nothing. I felt sure they were going to march me out of the room. Each lit a cigarette — taken from my pack — and blew smoke at the ceiling. They had perfected their drama. They asked me how long I had known him, if he had ever mentioned the West, who he talked about, why had he betrayed his people.

You know he’s failing, don’t you, Citizen?

I haven’t heard anything.

Miserably.

Really?

They threw glass at him in Paris.

Glass? I said.

They wanted to rip his feet open.

Why?

Because he was terrible of course.

Of course.

I began to wonder how he had performed in Paris, since it was indeed possible that he had been booed or relegated to the corps. Perhaps Rudi’s style of dancing was anathema to the French, and it was conceivable that he really had failed. After all he was young, just twenty-three; he had been dancing only a few years.

They kept examining my features, but I held my face tight. Eventually the talk got around to the gatherings in my old room.

Your salon, said the woman.

There was no point in arguing.

She closed one eye: We need the name, address, occupation of everyone who came.

I wrote the names down. It was a pointless exercise since they knew them all anyway — when I was finished they looked the list over and told me, with wry smiles, whom I had forgotten. They had been watching me, it seemed, for quite a long time.

Write it again, they said.

Pardon me?

Your list.

My hands shook. They had me write down a second series of names and addresses — all those people who had ever spent time in my house, whether or not they had chatted with Rudi. I ferociously protected the corner of my mind in which my father sat. I had a vision of him at home in Ufa, in the shadow of the refinery, limping to the door to find yet more agents and yet more trouble arching through his life. But they didn’t ask about him. It began to dawn on me that they were trying to find out if I could exert any influence on Rudi — to perhaps phone him and convince him to return — but they already saw that it was doubtful.

Finally they asked if I was prepared to publicly denounce Rudi.

Yes, I said, without a moment’s hesitation.

They seemed vaguely disappointed and lit themselves another cigarette each. The man tucked a pencil behind his ear.

You will write a letter to him.

Yes.

You will tell him that he has betrayed his Motherland, his people, our history.

Yes.

Do not seal the letter.

I won’t.

Your behavior is very precarious, the woman told me.

I replied with a measure of dignity that I would certainly mend my ways.

Do not mention this to anybody, the man warned.

I nodded.

Do you understand me?

He was almost frightened — one foot wrong could have an effect on the rest of his life too, his wife, his children, his apartment.

Yes, I understand.

We’ll be back.

The woman turned and said: As for me, I would not have spat on him even if he had been on fire.

She glared, waiting for me to react.

I nodded and said: Certainly.

When they left I stood with my back against the door and waited for the elevator to begin its descent, and then for some reason, rather than cry, I laughed until I was exhausted, laughed as the pulleys clicked through the system of steel and rollers, laughed as I heard the pneumatic hiss, laughed as I heard the final stop, laughed, all the time remembering that night at the Kirov and the notion of sleeping with Rudi, or having slept with him, through Iosif. It struck me that I hated Rudi the way you can hate someone who makes love to you and leaves, in other words, with a certain grudging admiration or envy for the fact of having left.

My friends were terrified to be seen with me ever again. Their political diligence and reliability had been called into question, and they would always, now, have files. They too would listen for the elevators. I thought about how my life had been pared down over the years, peeled away layer by layer.

One night I found Iosif staring at a bottle. He curled his upper lip into a snarl, told me he had six shirts drying on the balcony and they needed ironing.

No, I said.

Iron the fucking shirts! he shouted.

He lifted his fist to my face, and held it centimeters from my eyes.

At the window — when I hauled the shirts in from the line — I could hear him behind me, pouring another glass of wine for himself.

I took the only option I felt might clear my head — the train, to visit my father in Ufa. It was late September by the time I got my visa. The journey took three days because of the connections. Exhausted, I couldn’t find a taxi, or even a horse and cart, so I walked through the city, asking people for directions. Tatar and Muslim women were out walking with their children. They glanced at me and looked away. I couldn’t help wondering how a city like this could have made a dancer like Rudi.

I finally found my father’s street. It was lined with old wooden houses where the bright shutters made an argument against the nearby tower blocks. I negotiated the muddy ruts, pondering how in the world my father managed such a difficult walk with his cane.

He came to the door and almost giggled when he saw me. He was looking remarkably well, although he had let his hair grow past his ears, which gave him a faintly mad look. He wore a suit and a tie with a few food stains. His shirt buttons were done up to the neck, but the tie was open as if it and the shirt had different intentions for the day. One of the earpieces of his spectacles was broken and he had looped a piece of string around his ear to keep them from, falling. Still, the only real evidence of serious aging were the few capillaries that had burst in his face. Yet I thought the burst vessels looked oddly handsome on him.

When we hugged I could smell the mustiness of his hair.

We sat down to Beethoven, and he made tea on the tiny stove. There was a portrait of my mother by the bedside. My father had met a young artist who had copied a photograph of her, using charcoal. How diligent the artist had been to her beauty, I thought, and now it seemed she would remain forever beautiful.

He caught me looking at the portrait and said: It’s our function in life to make moments durable.

I nodded, unsure of what he meant. He drank his tea. I hesitated to tell him about Rudi, knowing the news had not yet been made officially public, but finally I blurted it out.

Rudi’s in Paris.

Yes, he said, I know.

How do you know?

He looked around as if there might be somebody else in the room. I have my ways, he said.

He shuffled to the cupboard: It calls for a small celebration, don’t you think? I haven’t yet celebrated.

I don’t think so.

Why not?

They’ll sentence him to death.

What? he said. They’ll send a death squad to Paris?

Perhaps.

The thought of it sobered him up. He moved his mouth around as if he were tasting whatever idea it was that had come to him.

We’re all sentenced to death, he finally said, with a certain amount of glee. At least he’ll have a better one than us!

Oh, Father.

He always was a clever little cockroach, wasn’t he?

Yes, I suppose he was.

From the cupboard he produced an old bottle of vodka, which he opened with a flourish, draping a white cloth over his arm for style.

To the clever little cockroach, Rudolf Hametovich Nureyev! he said, holding his glass in the air.