Colum McCann - Dancer

I am doing yoga. I am doing yoga, Rudi. I hear you laughing.

Before he left Aaron taught me to meditate so perhaps this is the first time in my life that I’ve learned to cross my legs. The first time I tried it I swore I’d break apart, a bad Venezuelan pretzel. I always thought that if God (what a bore) wanted me to touch my toes he would have put them in my crotch, but He’s not so benevolent, it seems. But the yoga’s good for me. I tell myself over and over, This is good, this is good, Victor, you are not a complete asshole, do your yoga, do your yoga, you are not a complete asshole, well perhaps just a tiny bit. Before Aaron left (well, before I kicked him out) we used to wake early and go out onto the balcony, where we set up. Aaron was sad that it wasn’t an east-facing balcony. We’d meditate for perhaps an hour and then we’d have breakfast. Orange juice, croissants and grapefruit, no vodka allowed! Aaron was a health food nut. He kept trying to get me to put on weight. The fridge was stocked with polyunsaturated margarine, pickles, yogurt, chutney, gherkins, peanut butter, coconuts, high-calorie chocolate milk shakes, everything. He was tall and sandy-haired and magnificent beyond compare. Rudi, my friend, his cock may not have been a poem but the cheeks of his ass certainly did rhyme. He saw you dance once in Connecticut, and said, I quote, that you were graceful, provocative and sublime — why do all the Anglo boys like their ridiculous words?

My doctor on Park Avenue told me that Caracas would be my death warrant, what with intestinal disorders, cheap medicine, bad hospitals, dirty air et cetera et cetera. But I have been here five months now and have steadily improved. What I do is I take a half-hour taxi ride to the coast. I sit on a deck chair on the beach and meditate and in my head I envision the cells and then I go blam blam you little fuckers blam blam, trying to pretend they’re the uptight bouncers who didn’t let me in free to the Paradise Garage at the end, blam blam, you’re gone, blam blam, you should work at Saints for godsake, blam blam, look what ugly shoes you’re wearing, blam blam, there’s shit on your lip. And then I open my eyes and there’s blue water (bluish) lapping up on the golden (yellowish) sand. What fun. Then I verbally abuse my lesions and tell them to rot in hell. I am a forty-two-year-old man playing games in his head. Why not, life has played games with me. This morning, before the rains, I went to buy myself a blanket and met a mestizo woman who looked more like Mother than any other woman on earth. Maybe, as you say, there’s a double for us all somewhere. I went home, curled up on the chair and fell asleep dreaming.

I miss New York and all the places and everyone and everything and especially the Lower East Side, it was so disgusting, so wonderful. The only thing I regret is not having enough regrets. For instance, not saying good-bye to the garbagemen. I’d have loved to have seen their faces when they saw my furniture out on the street. They must have sung an aria. Oh this fabulous yellow divan! Goodness me, what a pretty cock ring! Oh my, what a delicious-looking dildo, I do declare!

My life has been one room after another (cubicles mostly) and now I am more or less stuck in this one since if I go out on the streets of Caracas it is quite likely I’ll get rolled and not in the desired way.

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.