Colum McCann - Dancer

The truth of it is that I bleed as much as anybody, probably even more so.

You curse me, but I am, in fact, protecting you and of course Mother. You should be thankful. To be away from home is to be away from everything that made me. And to be away from everything that made me, when it dies, is my own death. Darkness touches darkness everywhere.

Perhaps you will choose not to understand this.

But you should listen to me when I tell you how devastated I was, especially for Mother, who is never more than a step away from my mind.

You choose to say that my life is a circus now. Nothing is simple, Tamara, not even your attempts at simplification. Why did I do it? It was never my intention to leave, I could have stayed, but if you tread water long enough it is possible you might never learn to swim. I meant nothing by it. Politics is for fat men with cigars. It is not for me, I am a dancer, I live to dance. That is all.

And you ask, with a snort, what is my life now? Yes I am fortunate. I have a house, contracts, masseur, managers, friends. I have danced on almost every continent. I had tea in the White House with President Kennedy before he was shot. Margot and I danced at the inauguration of Johnson. At the Vienna State Opera House we got eighty-nine curtain calls. The ovations often last a half hour. I am gloriously happy, but sometimes I wake in the mornings with an awful sense of it being over and never having meant that much. I have no desire to be served up as a sensation, a nine-day wonder. I go from country to country. I am a non-person where I became a person. I am stateless. So it is. And so it has always been, even I suppose since our days in Ufa. It is dance, and dance only, that keeps me alive.

Goethe says: Such a price the gods exact for song, to become what we sing.

Sometimes things fly across my mind with no real meaning or purpose that I can decipher. Do you remember the beer seller who used to operate her stall at the bottom of Krassina? She had a face like a mule. She had just three beer mugs, and she used to shout at the men to hurry up and drink. She slid the abacus beads very precisely. You took me there one afternoon and you told me that you could tell the time of day by however much of her had disappeared. I did not understand until you showed me the shadow from the umbrella, how it used to slice her. At midday she was dark since the sun was high in the sky. By the end of the day all of her could be seen since the sun was so low. You were able to tell the time by her shadows.

I will tell you this — I often envy the freedom that you had to marry Ilya. Yes, freedom. You must understand that I desire choice. And yet that choice is denied to me. My life is tied up in opera houses, hotel rooms, dining halls, luncheons, rehearsals. In any case I am indeed sorry that I missed your wedding celebrations. I have been to similar occasions in the West and have thought of you. You surely looked beautiful. Give my regards and congratulations to your new husband.

Of course I do not care that he is a janitor, why should that disturb me? You should have more faith in me. Without janitors, without electricians, without plumbers, the world would surely be taking a shit in a bucket in the dark.

At this moment I am at the country house of a friend for three or four days. It is the first time, except for when I have been injured, that I have neither danced nor rehearsed in ten years. I need the space, since I have not taken a breath in a very long time. My friends are kind — they give me great companionship. Perhaps I have changed, but it is only for the good. I do not suffer fools gladly. Most of all, and most important, my dancing is transformed. I have built a great coliseum on the foundation of what I laid in Leningrad. The success with Fonteyn has been staggering. She has gone through some very trying times in recent years, not least since her husband was crippled. Yet Margot, when she dances, is a genius. I have seen her coming down the steps of her own house on pointe. She constantly amazes me, despite her age. When she is onstage nothing touches her, and together we are hand and glove. The world is our witness.

Up to now I have worked relentlessly and the world has taken its toll, so it is time to briefly replenish. I am here to take stock.

The land is generally flat, although we are in the hills. In some ways I am reminded of the landscape of Crimea. A friend of mine looks after me, cooking meals, taking calls, keeping the journalists away. When I hear phones ringing, I think of Mother. I hope she is strong. At times my anger is unstoppable. I would speak my outrage to the world except I know what would happen. If I spoke up she would be further marooned.

And I will tell you immediately that what rumors you hear of me and other men are completely untrue. I have many friends — it is as simple as that. Do not believe those who try to derail me, miserable cockroaches.

You should be proud of me, and if I could talk to you face-to-face you would certainly dismiss all the lies that are told in my name. I recall long evenings in Ufa, sunlight, factory horns, the dirty air. You see, I have not forgotten my homeland, but I will not be sentimental. There are secret police who still follow me, and I live in fear, but I will not let it affect me, I’ll live through it in order to say: I have lived through it.

I do not regret anything. Regret is for simpletons.

I dream sometimes of Mother and bringing her to the West, where she could live in comfort. (You too if you desire.) I have been in touch with politicians, but they say their hands are tied. I have employed lawyers to look into the possibility. They take the money, of course, but I fear it is useless. Bloodsuckers! We have to stand strong and not let fate be thrust upon us. As for Mother, I hope she is being strong. She once cut his fingernails in front of us, do you recall? He was embarrassed to be seen like this, having his nails cut, so he hurried her along, yes? She cut his finger and he wore a bandage for days. Then he hid the bandaged hand in his jacket pocket.

Tamara, if these words reach you, tell Mother that I think of her endlessly. Inform her that her son dances to improve the world. And whisper my name to the grass where Father is.

That is all.

Eleven hours of rehearsal, one hour of slow barre work. Impossible to achieve the correct phrasing. You must desire the patience of a stonecutter. Chisel away until everything fits. After dressing room nap, another hour rehearsal with Rosella. In performance nobody — nobody! — noticed, not even Françoise.

Twenty encores, but so what, who cares? Remember: Perfection is the duty.

In an interview Petit says there are certain things that defeat themselves if they are said. That dance is the only thing that can describe what is otherwise indescribable. Yes.

The note from Grace Kelly hung from the lightbulb above the mirror.

Edith Piaf was watching from the veranda. Jean Cocteau smiled from the shadows. Marlene Dietrich was stretched out on the divan. There was talk of Leonard Bernstein on his way from his hotel, perhaps even an appearance by Picasso. Someone began quoting lines from Proust. All for me!

Walked back to the hotel with the bodyguards and heard a roadsweeper on the quays, humming Mozart. I thought that nothing will surprise me anymore, not even my dreams.

The de La Rochefoucauld house — fifteen types of champagne, more caviar than ever seen before. Orchids on the tables. Gold candelabras. Everyone was whirling around, the room had no corners. The talk was of choreographers, critics, audiences, but it swung finally to philosophers, all Western, including Derrida, so they left me disadvantaged. There is much to catch up on. Otherwise they will buffoon me. My reply was based on Sasha’s idea that dance says what nothing else can.