Ballroom: A Novel (3 page)

Angel’s always liked working at the blueprint shop, and over the years he’s learned to read architectural plans. It began as a placement by his school counselor, just an after-school way to make money, and he’s stayed.

Angel cares about the people he works with, and has even computerized the accounts. They are like his second family, and his boss, Mike, depends on him.

Sometimes during the afternoons, when business is slow and the music plays, he dances right there, taking turns with Lana and Latiqua, the twins at the front desk. All the guys, even Mike, watch and applaud.

Whenever he has any time off, he takes the subway uptown and spends hours at the Lincoln Center dance library, watching dance tapes, studying movement, taking in all the details of gesture and motion until they are part of him. It is all he wants.

What he most likes about watching the tapes is that he can stop them, play them back and forth in slow motion. If he can learn each dance, understand it in his bones, he can teach it better. He has to know not only his own steps but also the woman’s; how to lead and how to follow.

While he’s waiting for the train, music is in his ears; rhythms are in his chest. His legs repeat Latin motion,
and—one-two, one-two-three—and
. His feet roll from side to side in time with his tongue, which is clicking cha-cha noises in his mouth. His posture and frame are like a matador’s. Jaws clenched, he feels the flare of his nostrils, the fierceness of his eyes—intense and concentrated, his entire being in harmony with the spirit of the sound. He hears rhythm in the roar of the train as it screeches through the tunnel.

T
he music playing was “Nostalgias,” an Argentine tango, the first time Angel danced with Maria. It was a Saturday-night dance at Our Lady of Sorrows in January 1993, and Maria had just turned fourteen. Angel and his girlfriend Alexis shared a table with Manuel and Maria. Maria was tall for her age, with dark, shy eyes. He was twenty; too old to dance with her, really, but to be polite he’d asked permission from her
papi
.

“This song makes me feel so sad,” she’d whispered, her gaze upon the floor.

“Pay attention to the movement in my chest,” he explained. “Think of each step as the last. You’re doing just fine. If it helps, close your eyes. Pretend you can’t see. It will help you to follow.”

“The steps are complicated.” She closed her eyes.

“You’re doing fine.”

The next song had been a mambo, and with Mr. Rodriguez’s okay they danced again. He began with basic steps, then more complicated steps, which she mimicked. Soon she began to relax, to hold her head up and her shoulders back, to smile, even laugh. She came alive to the music.

“You got a thing for her?” Alexis asked.

“Girlfriend is one thing, and dancing’s another,” he responded.

That had been a lie. In the weeks, months, and years that followed, as he danced with her at church dances under Manuel’s watchful eye, he wished she were older so he could dance with her all the time. When his fingers brushed her skin, when her body was pressed against his, something awoke in him that none of his girlfriends, not even Alexis, could kindle. As they danced, he could barely tell where he ended and Maria began.

At sixteen Maria blossomed into a young woman, her hair a mass of undulating mahogany curls, her ardent eyes shaped like almonds, her mouth a ripe plum. In his embrace, he was certain he could feel the beating of her heart. Her father gave them permission to compete that year.

Four years have passed, and theirs is a partnership of mutual respect, hard work—and passion for the dance. They agree to dance only with one another. Secretly, there is no one with whom he’d rather be.

In asking a lady to go with you to a ball, it is customary to present her with a bouquet of flowers.

                
—Rudolph Radestock,
The Royal Ball-Room Guide
, 1877

T
he cell phone’s ring startles her.

“Hi, sugar.”

“Angel!”

“Can you believe I’m still at Lincoln Center Library? Looks like it might rain. Meet you at Union Square. Eight thirty. We’ll just have time for a coffee. Where are you?”

“At Dance. I got here at ten.”

“I’m envious. What a way to spend a Sunday.”

“I worked on spins. Think I’ve got them down.”

“How’s Times Square? Still there? You’re not too tired to go to the Ballroom?”

“Me? Never.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Is this an obscene call?” She laughs.

“Tonight!”

“Mambo Mama. Just for you.”

“Mm, my favorite dress. I love a women in red.”

“See ya,” she teases. “
Partner
.”

The balls of her feet are on fire. She is exhausted. Letting her hair down, she takes off her practice shoes and sits on a folding chair to gaze out the windows overlooking Broadway. She has been practicing the rumba since ten in the morning. Eight hours working on her part of the routine, the tease-and-run, with its flirtations, the soft hip motions and spins. She needs to be sure on her feet. As she lifts one of her legs into the air, her calf muscles ache from the straight-legged international style.

Evening approaches, and Times Square’s signage, a vivid flicker of ruby, citrine, and sapphire, lights up the darkening city sky and reflects in the practice room mirrors as she dances in the room to the Brazilian sound of João Gilberto.

At the windows, she pauses to look down upon the quickening thrust of the street. Lines like colored ribbon stretch at TKTS for cheap theater seats, guides hawk bus tours, and the sidewalks are a to-and-fro crush. Yellow cabs, trucks and buses, at crisscross standstill, blast the air with their horns, and the throb rises to compete with Maria’s boom box. It’s almost time for curtains to rise, for stage lights to come on, for theater to begin. She feels elated by Broadway’s pulse, which reminds her of the Ballroom. It also reminds her that it is time to get home, make dinner for Papi, and get ready. Dance in the spotlight. It has been exhilarating to dance day and night, to have holiday time off from studying before school begins again.

Maria wonders whether, if her mother were still alive, she would appreciate her dancing as much as her accomplishments at school. Papi always turns his face away when Maria asks him questions about her, so she no longer asks.

Every September their families and friends, Angel’s buddies from work, come to watch her and Angel compete at the United States Dance Championships, International Latin division. Angel creates their organic choreography, uses movement to advance a story rather than as a decoration or distraction. Creating sexual tension is part of the drama whether it is a
paso doble
—a dance based on a bullfight in which the man is the matador, his partner the bull—a mambo, or a tango, in which they must each have distinct personalities. He wants the audience and the judges to observe that their dances are about to connect emotionally with what is happening between them.

Maria has developed ways to dramatically play off Angel’s onstage machismo, to project vulnerability or a wistful fire beneath an icy exterior, depending on the tale they are telling. What she really feels is how connected they are, loving the hours they spend practicing almost as much as performing, perfecting their timing until they resemble the synchronous motions of a clock. In her prayers, she never forgets to be thankful she has Angel for a partner.

In their four years as partners, she and Angel have risen to second place in DanceSport International’s Latin division, with rumba and samba their winning dances. They’ve earned it. With classes and practice in ballroom and ballet on Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, driven by a shared work ethic and discipline, they are determined to win gold this year. When Angel doesn’t have students, they dance at the Latin Quarter, the Copacabana, or Sigh Street on Saturday nights. Sunday nights they dance at the Ballroom.

It is always in the back of her mind that she and Harry might cross paths at the Ballroom. She prays that he will keep his promise and leave before nine; that she will never pass him on the stairs and be forced to pretend she doesn’t know him. She is afraid that she might catch his glance. Harry’s eyes, once azure, now fading to pale gray with maps of broken blood vessels, see her as though he is blind.

At Barnard she takes on her studies with the same purpose she brings to the dance floor. She wants to dance and graduate with honors; prove to Papi and herself that she can succeed at both. Soon she will be twenty-one, ready to move out of Alphabet City and uptown. Away from Harry.

One thing for sure is pizza is an extremely informal meal and can be approached as such.

No hard fast rules other than be polite and neat.

                
—Society for Culinary Arts & Letters forums, www.egullet.org

C
rossing Tenth, Joseph heads toward Fourteenth Street. Voluminous gray clouds, large and looming, splash across a threatening sky. The winter air has the stillness and grassy scent unique to those moments before a city downpour. He’s forgotten his umbrella. In an instant, amid the crash of thunder and lightning, he is caught in a deluge, everyone running for cover as he leaps across puddles to make it into the pizza place.

“Hey, Joe! Just in time,” calls the pizza man. “Same old?”

“A slice with pepperoni and a small Coke, please.”

“Ya got it!” He slides a slice into the oven.

“So, ya goin’ dancin’ tonight?”

Joseph nods. Hates his business being announced to the world. Luckily, there are just a few teenage girls in the corner who don’t look up. When the place is crowded, he can eat his pizza without talking to the pizza guy. The rain blasts the windows and the backward “Free Delivery” sign glows orange against fogged glass.

“Bet you’re a good dancer. You been goin’ there about ten years. Right?”

The teens leave, just as four men who look as if they’ve been driving trucks a very long distance come in and stand next to him.

“That son of a bitch sure stiffed us,” says one. “The four a us supposed to split twenty bucks. After we haul that shit across country. Man, that’s bullshit.”

“Whadda you guys have?”

“One large, extra cheese, half mushroom, half pepperoni, and four large Cokes.”

“Tell me, Joe, there lotsa women where you dance?” The counter man puts the cup of Coke on his tray. “Good lookin’, I’ll bet.”

“I suppose.”

“Do ya meet a lot of ’em?” He gives Joseph a sly look.

“A fair amount.” Joseph shrugs. The truckers look him over, catch each other’s eyes.

“I got a great memory. Always pepperoni and Coke. Remember you comin’ in here about nineteen eighty-nine. That’s when my kid was born. You had more hair then. Right?” Joseph resents that the guy thinks they’re buddies. That he calls him Joe. Reminds him that he’s losing his hair. He figures that he and the pizza guy are about the same age. Although with the guy’s height, his full head of thick gray hair, chiseled features, and a build that could only be acquired by pumping iron, women would certainly want to dance with him.

“So, Joe, when ya goin’ to Rome? Ya must be close to retiring. Am I right? I sure got a way of remembering, don’ I?”

“You know, I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Ray, like the name of the place! ’Cept I’m not
that
Ray. Man, if only I was! Wouldn’t be here, that’s for sure. I’d be dancing like you. A few more seconds. Sorry. Those ladies’ll wait!” His laugh seems loud and ingratiating.

“How’s your daughter?” Joseph asks, restless for his slice. He hates to be late. He must be there by seven. Watch everyone come in. Like a show is beginning, and he is the audience. To make sure she is there.

“Nah, I never had no daughters—three boys. The youngest, Danny, he was the one born when you first came in—nineteen eighty-nine.”

Joseph has never been stuck here so long. In this downpour his shoes will be wet, not to mention his jacket and pants, when he gets there. Sarah will be dancing. He won’t find her.

“Here ya go, one pepperoni slice, Joe. Enjoy!” He rings up the sale. “Maybe sometime I’ll come with ya. Close up the place early. You’ll introduce me to the ladies. What do you say?”

“Sure,” Joseph answers. He couldn’t be serious. Yet a guy like that would probably have a fine time. So friendly. Remembering everyone’s name. Things they said about themselves. Showing real interest in people. He wonders if Ray can dance, but he wouldn’t ask. Wouldn’t encourage him. At a table by the window, Joseph eats his slice and watches the storm.

He looks forward to Ray’s Pizza when he goes to the Ballroom, the spicy bite of the tasty pepperoni, the thick, melted real mozzarella, the garlicky tomato sauce, flecked with red peppers and oregano, that reminds him of his mama’s gravy. He eats too fast, and the cheese burns the roof of his mouth, a sign that it is going to be a lousy night. Damp, sticky, his mouth burned, and worst of all, late. He can smell sour sweat and knows that it has permeated his jacket. Maybe Sarah won’t even be there. He checks his watch: almost seven, and he still has to get across Fourteenth Street. But the storm has subsided. The sky is clear. The people huddling under canopies are beginning to move along the street.

“Thanks for the slice,” he calls out. Next week he’ll try another place, where the pizza man is less familiar.

“Yea, Joe, knock ’em dead!”

A
t seven, Joseph is one of the first to arrive at the Ballroom. Jimmy J, the DJ, is playing a slow fox-trot, “In My Solitude,” and Joseph wishes Sarah were there.

On the banquette, changing into his dance shoes, buffing each one shiny before lacing them until they feel as secure as gloves, he taps his left foot to the music. He nods to women who pass. Where is Sarah?

The flashier dancers, like Maria Rodriguez and her partner, Angel Morez, Gabriel Katz, Rebecca Douglas, Tina Ostrov, and Tony DiFranza and his Queens crowd, will show up late. In the twenty years Joseph has been coming to the Ballroom he’s never spoken more than a few polite words to them. He prefers it that way. He just comes to dance. The only person he talks with is Sarah.