Colum McCann - Dancer

The following night I was cooking a local dish — empanadas — and Victor was instructing me on its intricacies, how to fry the corn-meal, how to spice the beans. He sat in the middle of the living room, directing from a distance, having taken his huge array of medicines. Despite the obvious toll the sickness was taking on his body, Victor was quite energetic, having slept most of the afternoon.

Afterwards they began drinking wine and telling stories but Monsieur seemed slightly more introspective than usual. I had noticed that Monsieur himself was almost at the end of his medicine but could find no other reason for the cloud that seemed to have descended upon him. He stood by the window, stretched, his head to his knee. He took his foot from the windowsill, tucked his hands between his elbows and his rib cage. Then, for some reason, he began recalling a moment long ago when he had received a letter from a lady friend in Russia. The story was long and detailed and Monsieur looked out the window as he spoke, until he was interrupted.

— You’re not in love with women now, are you, Rudi?

— Of course not.

— You were about to disappoint me!

Victor poured himself another glass of wine. He coughed and said: Oh this cold. I guess I won’t shake it until August at least.

— Will I continue the story or not? asked Monsieur.

— Oh, yes please, continue, please please.

— He died.

— Who died?

— Her father.

— Oh no! Not another story about death! said Victor.

— Wait, said Monsieur, his voice catching in his throat. When he died he was wearing a hat.

— Who was wearing a hat?

— Sergei! He always wore a hat but never indoors. In Russia that is rude.

— Oh! And Russians aren’t rude?

— You’re not listening to me.

— Of course I am.

— Let me tell you the story, then!

— The stage is yours, said Victor, and he blew Monsieur a kiss.

— Well, said Monsieur, the reason he wore the hat was he believed he was going to meet his wife.

— But you said she was dead.

— In the afterlife, said Monsieur.

— Oh God, said Victor, the afterlife!

— He was found in his house with a hat on his head. He was writing to his daughter. In the letter he asked her to say hello to me. But that’s not the story. That’s not the point of my story. It’s something different. Because, you see, in his last words he wrote …

— What? said Victor. He wrote what?

Monsieur stuttered and said: Whatever loneliness we have had in this world will only make sense when we are no longer lonely.

— And what sort of bullshit is that? said Victor.

— It’s not bullshit, said Monsieur.

— Oh it’s bullshit, said Victor.

They were silent and then Victor’s head drooped. He was like a balloon that had lost its air. He reached for a new packet of cigarettes and his fingers shook while he fumbled with the wrapping. He opened the package and took a cigarette out, got a lighter from his shirt pocket, flicked it into life.

— Why are you telling me this story? said Victor.

Monsieur didn’t reply.

— Why are you telling me this story, Rudi?

Victor cursed, but then Monsieur knelt at the foot of Victor’s chair. I had never seen Monsieur kneel to anyone before. He put his arms around Victor’s knees, laid his head against the crook of his arm. Victor said nothing. His hand went to the back of Monsieur’s neck. There was a muffled heave and I was sure Monsieur was crying.

Victor looked down at Monsieur’s head and began to mention something about a bald spot, but the comment fell away, and then he gripped the back of Monsieur’s neck even tighter.

Victor must have remembered me in the kitchen since he looked up and caught my eye. I closed the door and let them be. I had never before heard Monsieur cry in such a way. It made my hands tremble. I went to the courtyard where Monsieur’s dance clothes were drying on the washing line. I could still see their silhouettes inside the house. They had their arms around each other and their shadows made them look like one person.

The following morning began bright and smog-free. I cleaned the house thoroughly and then arranged for the young dancer, Davida, to come over. He arrived in a pair of clogs and greeted me with a kiss. His hair was nicely combed back. He seemed to be an honest young man, so I took him aside.

— Would you look after him? I asked.

— I have a cousin who’s a doctor, said Davida.

— No, I think you should look after him.

— Who will pay me?

— Monsieur will pay you, I said.

Over the next two days I prepared a week’s worth of meals, crammed them in the small freezer for Victor and Davida. Everything was in order — Monsieur had promised to pay Davida and also to bring him to the Paris Opera House, in future years, where he could have classes and develop his talents.

Everything was kept secret from Victor but I had a feeling he knew what was going on. He walked around the house wearing his earphones even though they were unplugged.

On our last morning I packed Monsieur’s bag and arranged a taxi to take us back to the airport. We sat around for a long time, waiting for the car to arrive. Victor talked a lot about the weather, what a great day it was going to be for the beach. He said he couldn’t wait to put on a new pair of swimming trunks he’d bought in São Paulo.

— I’ll look like I’m smuggling grapes, he said.

When the taxi drew up Monsieur and Victor shook hands and hugged at the doorway. As Monsieur walked down the driveway Victor reached into his dressing gown pocket. I heard the flick of a cigarette lighter. Monsieur turned around.

— You should stop that, said Monsieur.

— Stop what?

— Smoking, you asshole.

— This? said Victor, and he puffed on the cigarette, blew a big cloud of smoke in the air.

— Yes.

— Oh what the hell, said Victor, I haven’t got my cough right yet.

Moderate rolling in of right foot on deep plié, severe on left. Mild right tibio talor and sub-talor, severe on left. Acute knocking of knee. Left lateral tipping of the hip. Arch in lower back, head dips forward. At the bottom of the plié the line is completely gone. Giveaway is the white knuckles on the barre. By twelfth plié he has overcome the pain. On examination, severe tension and contraction in left quadriceps, moderate in right. Acute fraying of the meniscus. Work in arnica to lessen inflammation. Cross fiber friction and twenty-minute effleurage at least. Lengthen quadriceps to allow bend. Rolling and broadening, hip extension, torso twist, scapula stretch etc. Bandage between rehearsal and performance. Figure-eight wrapping with cross on side to push left knee straight.

I had no idea who to tell. It was impossible to think of anyone who might understand. I had not made many friends since moving to Monsieur’s home in London. There had always been Tom, but now he was gone.

It came out of the blue, like one of those winter showers that chills you to the bone. One day you’re content and the next day it is all swept from beneath your feet. I looked around but couldn’t recognize even the simplest items, the oven, the clock, the small porcelain vase Tom had bought for me. There was a note explaining his actions, but I could not bring myself to read beyond the first two lines. He seemed to be still present, as if I might turn around and find him sitting in his chair, reading a newspaper, yet another hole apparent in his socks. But he had taken his shoemaking equipment and a suitcase. For hours I cried. It was as if he had sent my whole life supperless to bed.