Colum McCann - Dancer

— Victor! he shouted again.

The red light of the video player was blinking. A pornographic film was frozen on the television screen. I stepped over to turn it off.

— Look at you! shouted Monsieur.

At the top of the stairs Victor was trying to step into a pair of trousers. He had discarded the dressing gown. He had put on a bright red shirt, unbuttoned. His chest was thin and his skin pale. He coughed hard when his foot went into the trouser leg and he almost toppled over, but just managed to steady himself with his hand against the banisters. I felt a sadness for Victor but not enough to change my mind as to his true nature — I had seen him play the jester far too often.

Monsieur skipped up the stairs and kissed Victor on both cheeks. Victor let out a string of vile obscenities, saying: Where did you steal the flowers, Rudi? Where have you been? Tell me everything!

He sounded happy and tired at the same time, as if the happiness were trying to catch up with the exhaustion. They came down the stairs together, arms around each other.

— You remember Odile? Monsieur said.

— Oh yes, said Victor. Wasn’t I at your wedding?

— Yes.

— Oh I apologize, I apologize.

At my wedding there’d been an altercation in one of the bathrooms with one of Tom’s fellow shoemakers.

— You’re forgiven, Mister Pareci.

— All I did was ask him to tie his lace, said Victor. I just couldn’t resist.

He put his head to his shoulder like a naughty child, awaited my reply.

— Mister Parceci.

— Oh please don’t call me that, I feel like such an old fart.

— Victor, I said, you are forgiven.

He kissed my hand. I told him it was my intention to make him comfortable and set him on the road to recovery while Monsieur found another housekeeper, a local woman, to take my position. I explained that it was not my desire to remain in Caracas forever. He blushed then, ashamed, and I cursed myself for my bluntness. He buttoned up his red shirt. Two more of him would have fit inside. He slipped his feet back into the yellow slippers and moved to a chair in the living room, flopped down, short of breath. He lit a long thin cigarette and blew the smoke to the ceiling as I made my way into the kitchen.

— Rudi, he shouted, come hug me.

Then, to include me, he added: You know, Odile, I’m the only person in the world who can order Rudi around!

I commenced cleaning, first the champagne flutes. There was no soap. Victor was living without scourers or washcloths or domestic cleaning appliances of any sort. I began to make a mental note of all the things I would need. I washed the glasses and placed the bottle of champagne on a tray, brought it out to the gentlemen.

— Oh, I’m so in love with you! shouted Victor.

Monsieur popped the bottle and I poured.

— Marry me this instant, Odile!

Monsieur began rifling through the records on the floor, looking for classical music. He looked up and said: You’re a philistine, Victor.

— I’m all salsa these days.

— Salsa?

Victor began a dance, which winded him quickly, and he sat back down.

— Maybe you shouldn’t have too much champagne, said Monsieur.

— Oh, shut up! said Victor. I have a cold, that’s all.

— A cold?

— Yes, a cold. Tell me, Rudi. Will you spend the rest of your life here with me?

— I dance in São Paulo on Friday. Odile will be with you until I help you find someone local.

— São Paulo?

— Yes.

— Oh bring me with you.

— Maybe you should rest, Victor, take it easy.

— Rest?

— Yes.

— I’m dying! he shouted. Who wants to rest? Let’s drink champagne! For God’s sake let me see the label. I bet it’s piss! He always buys piss, Odile! He’s the world’s richest cheap man.

Monsieur covered the half-label with his hand. Victor got to his feet unsteadily and went searching for the half that had been written on. He found it finally in his dressing gown pocket and sighed theatrically. He licked the back of the label and pasted it over his heart.

— Oh you’ve always been so cheap! said Victor.

I ran the tap to drown out the voices and cleaned the remaining glasses, held them up to the last of the sunlight. A vision of Tom flitted across my mind. He would be at home, watching television, repairing shoes. I missed him already. In the back courtyard the long-leafed plants were shivering in the breeze.

— Oh let’s not talk shit, I heard Victor shout. You didn’t come here to talk shit, did you? Tell me, Rudi. Are you in love?

— I am always in love.

— Love loves me, said Victor, in a voice that sounded curiously like Monsieur.

They laughed. The bottle was emptying fast. Victor held it in the air and read the half-label again.

— It’s cat piss, he said in a fake French accent. They milk the strays on Boulevard Saint-Michel just for this.

Victor turned up the South American music on the stereo and in the room they danced briefly while I continued to clean. The dusk had fallen and the cool breeze of the evening brought some relief. I could hear Victor recovering from the exertion and finally, when I finished my chores, I excused myself to bed.

I was terribly surprised, after waking the next morning, to see Monsieur on the living room couch, sleeping, with Victor in a chair beside him, mopping Monsieur’s brow with a white cloth. I had been sure it would be the other way around. Monsieur was suffering from a fever, it seemed. When he got up, however, he took some pills and the fever dissipated. He performed his morning stretches, said he had some phone calls to make.

— Reverse the charges, said Victor.

Monsieur had friends in every part of the world, including Caracas, and I was convinced he would find a housekeeper within a couple of days. The house was brighter with this knowledge and I managed to find enough food in the kitchen to prepare a breakfast of fruit and toast.

When the breakfast was finished, however, Monsieur announced that he and Victor would take a day-trip to the beach, and in the evening they would both go to São Paulo for the ballet.

— Please have our bags ready, said Monsieur.

To my surprise it was Victor who noted my sadness. He put his arm around my shoulder. He kindly drew a small map of the various marketplaces in the city and the location of a chemist shop where I could buy migraine tablets since I had forgotten mine. He stressed that I should not carry a lot of money. Then he rattled on about a delinquent boy who had long fingernails.

When they left I washed the sheets, hung them out on the branches of the pomegranate trees in the courtyard.

They returned after three days. Monsieur looked very tired, not his usual self. He instructed me that we would stay in Caracas for another week, until everything was sorted out for Victor. The thought of another whole week disturbed me greatly, but Monsieur said he genuinely needed my help. I continued to clean and cook. In the afternoons, while Victor slept, Monsieur was driven to the opera house since he wanted to work with the local dancers. Each evening he brought students, boys and girls, back to the house where they sat around, chatting and laughing. Victor was happy with all the clamor. In particular he latched on to a dancer named Davida, a very dark and handsome young man. In the evenings they took walks together. Later, while Monsieur slept, Victor and Davida curled up on the couch and watched videos. (The videos were shocking. I kept a stern face when I walked past the television set, though I must admit that on occasion I peeked.)

The time passed quickly and I didn’t dwell on Tom’s absence as much as I had expected.

At the end of the second week, just before our planned return, the three of us — Monsieur, Victor and I — were alone in the house. Monsieur had not yet found a new housekeeper and I had grown nervous that he had forgotten all about his promise. I began to fear the unthinkable, that I might even have to resign. I went to bed with a terrible migraine.