Colum McCann - Dancer

to the underground room at the Anvil perhaps, or the Iranian consulate, where the great coke parties take place, or the rear basement in the Snake Pit, or a park-facing room at the Plaza, or the dark elevator to the Toilet, or the Algonquin for tea, or the pig parlor in the Triangle, or a table at Clyde’s, or the rotten piers off the West Side Highway, the city in all its squalor and opulence belongs to Victor, he knows its streets, its avenues, its doormen, its bartenders, its bouncers, the distance it takes to walk from one joint to the other, and when it should be done, Victor never wears a watch but he knows the time of day anyway, down to the minute, no matter where he is, who he’s fucking, what he’s drinking, however stoned, however tired, however famous the company, because it may be time to move on, the cobwebs grow on you, who knows what might be happening down the block, the center of the world shifts and changes, and it is Victor’s job to be there, I’m the Greenwich Mean Time of Queerdom!

and he is off on the express, the number 4, to Fifty-ninth and Lex, walking through the Upper East Side, the Jewish ladies with their poodles, or the poodles with their Jewish ladies, he can never tell which, Victor swinging his ass outrageously when he passes them on the sidewalk, hitting the leaves hanging from the curbside trees— how bucolic! — the light fading, streedamps flickering into life, and he smokes with furious rolls and pulls, sending out plumes above him, another cigarette behind his ear for immediate firing, he smiles at the doormen in their white gloves, thinking there might be a new fashion in their regalia — Victor the door-whore, Victor the foot-man, Victor the man who invites you in! — and he skips across a marbled hallway, rather gauche he thinks, takes the elevator to the penthouse where the first cocktail party of the evening is in swing, a preballet affair, not exactly Victor’s gig, he is seldom even out this early, but this is the house of a prospective client, he has been recommended by Rudi, and he has already given them a price, so he sashays into the mahoganied room where for an instant he stands beneath the giant chandelier and tries to announce himself with silence, but the room doesn’t ripple towards him, there’s no whispering over the rims of glasses, no awe, no clamor, how disappointing! so he pitches his bright shirt in among the dark dresses and the bow ties, leans over to deliver an exaggerated air-kiss, shakes a hand, picks a handful of hors d’oeuvres from a silver tray, the waiters slightly baffled by the sight of him, wondering if Victor is a gate-crasher or a celebrity — the sort of man who might pull the scaffold out from under the party or be the scaffold itself — but as Victor cruises the room a few heads turn in his direction, and, encouraged, he bounces on the soles of his feet towards the hostess, who surprises even herself by the size of her shriek, Darling! she snaps her fingers over the heads of three bow-tied men, the drink produced with startling speed, vodka and grapefruit, plenty of ice, and she takes his arm and brings him through the crowd, introducing him, the great Victor Pareci, a friend of Rudi’s, delighting everyone he meets, just in the way he catches their eye or shakes their hand or touches their shoulder, a greeting that is genuine but fleeting, so his friendliness has no responsibility, nobody is forced to talk to him, yet they do

at least thirty invitations arrive each week to his Lower East Side apartment, and even the postwoman — with her hard Harlem accent, her tough beauty — arranges her shift so her lunchtime coincides with bringing Victor his mail, she likes to sit with him in his bright kitchen, opening envelopes together, regarding and discarding, Victor honey you get more letters than Santa Claus! she says, and Victor smiles and replies, Ah yes, but that’s because I know where all the bad boys live

and Victor, more interested in the maverick corners of the party, where he knows there’ll be a little outrage, breaks away from the hostess, kissing her hand as he leaves, and advances on a small group — an aging writer, a bored young artist, a fattening ballerina — who nod and smile as he sits on the floor beside a low glass table and says, Excuse me while I practice a little resurrection! and from his pocket he produces a small bag, which he opens carefully, spilling the contents out on the glass, and then he chops out two lines with the blade of a tiny pocketknife, rolls a fifty-dollar bill, snorts the lines deeply, looks up at the ceiling, Gracias! and then doles out six more lines, places the rolled-up bill in the center of the table, Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines! and the young artist immediately leans across to scoop up the first line, then the writer, then the ballerina, who is somewhat coy but manages to snort more than anyone else, while the party swells with chatter, the hostess looking over and saying, Oh that Victor! and soon most of the room is looking in his direction, such delicious notoriety, he stands on the metal edge of the table and takes a bow, his throat tingling with joy, the small immediate hammer of energy through his body, he is just about able to balance on the table, a grin splayed across his face, finally jumping down to the floor to a little round of applause, knowing he has loosened the party enough so the myth will continue on the strength of this display alone, although Victor wishes Rudi were here, for nobody in the world can make an entrance quite like Rudi, everything quickly tense with possibility, charged, electric, Rudi ratcheting up his volume so he is twice as loud as anyone else, the night Rudi suspended himself naked from a million-dollar chandelier, the party where Rudi shaved his genitals with Andy Warhol’s razor, Warhol later selling it to the highest bidder, the day Rudi prepared a meal for his friends and mixed a little semen into the hollandaise sauce and called it a secret Russian recipe, the gallery opening after which Rudi made love with three boys in a bathtub filled with lotion-slickened marbles

everyone with a Rudi story and each one more outrageous than the next — and probably untrue — so that Rudi is a living myth, not unlike Victor, cared for and coddled and protected by the mythmakers, a life not lived with any reason in mind, just an obeyance to light, or the lack of it, like a seed swelling in its own husk, both of them needing constant motion, since if they stay in one place too long they will become rooted like the rest, so that sometimes Victor thinks he too is dancing, always tapping his foot or shaking his head from side to side, his fingers twirling the end of his black mustache— the reason I wear a mustache, gentlemen, is so I can smell last night’s sins! — and before you know it he has moved on, Victor ahead of himself, as if to say, Oh look at me over there, and no one can fill in the jigsaw, although there are rumors he learned all his movements from Rudi himself, that he sits in on rehearsal, watches constantly, which is another lie but one that Victor allows since it means people are talking about him, want to chat with him, own his recklessness for the night, and Victor obliges, half-listening but all the time watching the door until he sees the fur coats unfurled by the servants, hears the glasses clink, the excuses made, and Victor knows it is time to go, his rule, always be among the first to leave, down the stairs, not waiting for the elevator, and outside in the humid evening Victor follows a couple into their black limousine, the couple startled as he slides in behind them, chops out a line on the bar table, the woman is horrified, the man attempts cool, Good evening, are you on your way to the Nureyev? to which Victor winks, Of course not, ballet bores me to tears, and the man gives a smug grin, Ah yes, but this is modern dance, to which Victor responds, Still faggots and divas, aren’t they? and the man recoils, wondering what sort of creature has crawled into his life, what faggot, what diva, and Victor, magnanimous to the end, offers the lady the first line, but she stares at him, her husband also refusing though not without a small wince, so Victor snorts the coke himself, grins, puts some on a handheld mirror, and shunts himself along the leather seat, leans forward to offer it to the driver, who shakes his head in bemused thanks, no, and Victor slaps a palm theatrically to his head and cries, Oh! I’m so alone! but then he kicks off his shoes and puts his feet on the opposite seat, saying, But if you see Rudi; please say hi from me, which the man thinks is a joke and he gives an extended chuckle, causing Victor to stare him down, until the man is so uncomfortable that he says, This is our car you know, and Victor says, Of course it is! and then turns to the driver, Kind man! Drop me off in the Black Hills! and the driver, clueless, is finally directed to the Dakota apartments overlooking the park and the couple are stunned not so much by the famous address as by Victor, the aura, the taste he leaves in the air, and he passes the driver a ten-dollar bill, hops out, feeling the charge of cocaine through his body, jumped up, sprung, loaded, waves good-bye to the limousine, and he heads straight to the gold-plated entrance