Dancing Daze (16 page)

Today we’re watching Claire in full ballerina mode, and we arrive at the Budapest Ballet’s rehearsal rooms at ten past nine, as arranged. I press the intercom, while Clover whips off her pink boots and changes into her ballet flats. She’s wearing two pairs of red tights (to keep her legs cozy) and my black-and-white Sonia Rykiel top over the red skater dress she wore on the plane, teamed with my silver belt. For someone with such limited outfit choices, she looks pretty fab.

A small white-haired woman meets us in the hallway. “Ladyshelf alert,” Clover whispers in my ear.

“What?” I whisper back.

“Her boobs and her tummy meet in the middle. Look.”

“Clover!” I hiss, but she’s right, and it sets me off into fits of giggles.

The woman is peering at us both through half-moon glasses and tapping a lace-up shoe on the stone floor. Her eyes are dark and sharp, like a blackbird’s. “The magazine girls?” she asks, her penciled-in eyebrows lifting. “You are writing about Claire Starr, yes?”

“That’s right,” Clover says, sticking out her hand politely. “Clover Wildgust and my assistant, Amy Green.”

The woman ignores Clover’s hand. “I am Madame Pongor, from the Ballet Academy. I was asked to look after you today, as my English is excellent. This way, and quickly. You are late, and Monsieur Elfman, the ballet master, does not take kindly to being interrupted.”

We follow her down the corridor to a door at the end. Classical music is playing inside the room beyond. When it stops, Madame Pongor twists the door handle and opens the door, slowly and carefully.

The large, bright room is full of dancers, the girls in leotards and tights, the boys in T-shirts and tights or sweat shorts. A wiry older man with long silver hair tied back in a ponytail is standing at the top of the room. This must be Monsieur Elfman. He’s wearing a black polo shirt and black trousers and is holding a long stick in his hand. He nods at us. “Enter,” he says in heavily accented English. “Sit.” He points his stick at a wooden bench that runs along one wall. “Thank you, Madame Pongor.” He gives her a little bow, then turns his attention back to the dancers. “Journalists, necessary evil,” he tells them.

I spot Claire at the back of the room. She is standing beside Péter and attacking one of her nails again. I catch her eye and she waves at me and mouths, “Hi.”

Monsieur Elfman looks at us again. “Ballroom scene,” he says simply. “Juliet dances . . . Ready, Juliet?”

Claire nods. “Yes.”

“Places, please, everyone,” Monsieur Elfman says. He bangs his stick on the floor. “Chop-chop.”

The dancers move around the room, and suddenly they are no longer young girls and guys in practice clothes; they are lords and ladies at a posh Italian ball, all chins in the air and haughty looks. It’s an amazing transformation. Clover takes out her notebook and scribbles down some notes for her article.

“Music.” The ballet master taps his stick yet again, and the pianist starts to play.

Claire transforms in front of our eyes. She’s Juliet now, not Claire Starr. As the music plays, she starts dancing, sweeping across the room on her tippy-toes, raising her legs to impossible heights, jumping, spinning. She makes it look so easy. When Péter walks toward her as Romeo, there’s such instant chemistry that the room practically crackles.

“Tender, Romeo,” says Monsieur Elfman. “You are bewitched, mesmerized. At the moment, you look like a bull in heat.”

Péter softens his expression and relaxes his neck and shoulders, which makes him look completely different. It’s amazing to watch.

“Good, Romeo, that’s perfect,” Monsieur Elfman says. “Now Romeo is leaving the ballroom, Juliet. Follow him with your eyes.”

The ballet master watches Claire carefully for a few minutes, then taps his stick again and gives a dramatic sigh. “Stop! Claire, Claire, Claire, you must be vulnerable, yes, confused? Dig deeper. You need to show more emotion. Let the audience feel how you feel. You are fifteen and about to be married off to an older man whom you do not love. So you are sad, yes? Then
bang
! Romeo enters your life. You are intrigued by this boy. He is young and handsome and he gives you hope. Your expression changes. You are now flirty, playful. I should not have to explain this to you again. . . . Zsuzsanna, show Claire what I am talking about, please. Claire, watch carefully.”

Claire looks upset and embarrassed. “Can I try again?” she asks the ballet master. “I think I understand now.”

“I thought she was great,” Clover whispers to me.

I nod silently. I can’t believe Monsieur Elfman is picking on Claire in front of us. I wonder what he’s like when he doesn’t have an audience.

“The whole scene from the top,” Monsieur Elfman says, ignoring Claire’s question. “With Zsuzsanna as Juliet this time.”

Claire moves to the side of the room and watches as the dancers take their places once more. A blond girl with icy-blue eyes steps confidently into the center of the room to take Claire’s place. So this is Zsuzsanna, Claire’s tormentor.

“Claire!” the ballet master barks at her. “Pay attention.”

Claire has been staring down at the floor, but now she looks up, her cheeks flaming, and murmurs, “Sorry.”

Clover and I exchange a look.

“Yikes,” Clover says softly. “Poor Claire. I’d love to say something to that man.”

“Don’t, Clover. It will only make things worse.”

Zsuzsanna dances the role perfectly. Her face is all sad at the start of the scene, and then, when Romeo enters the ballroom, she beams and bats her eyelashes at him. It isn’t subtle, but Monsieur Elfman seems satisfied. “Good, Zsuzsanna. You understand, Claire?”

Claire nods silently. One of her cheeks is distorted and it looks like she’s biting down on it, hard. Zsuzsanna is smiling at her smugly, and Claire stares down at the floor again.

After the rehearsal, there’s a lingering smell of exertion and sweat in the air as the dancers collect their things and layer on extra clothes. A lot of them are putting their hoods up or wrapping towels over their heads and around their shoulders to keep them from getting cold, which makes them look very odd. Roland joins us to take some action shots of Claire and Péter dancing together in their rehearsal gear. As he talks to Clover about the shoot, I stand at the side of the room with Claire, waiting for the other dancers to leave. Péter is chatting to Monsieur Elfman.

“You OK?” I ask Claire in a low voice. “I can’t believe that elf creature picked on you like that.”

“No, he was right,” Claire says. “I don’t seem to be able to tap into how Juliet is feeling in the ballroom scene. Yes, I could pull faces like Zsuzsanna, but I want the emotion to be real, not put on.”

“Did you say something about me?” Zsuzsanna asks, suddenly appearing in front of Claire.

Claire shakes her head, looking panicked. “No, of course not.”

“Who is in charge here?” Zsuzsanna asks me, practically pushing Claire out of the way and glaring at me with her steely eyes.

“Clover,” I call. “Clover!”

Clover spins around. “What’s up, Beanie?”

Before I get the chance to say anything, Zsuzsanna cuts in. “You should take photograph of real Hungarian dancer like me. You saw me dance. I am much better than Claire Starr. She is dancing Juliet in Dublin only because she is Irish. If we were dancing in Hungary, I would be Juliet, not her.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Clover tells her politely. “But we need only Claire and Péter today, not the chorus.”

Zsuzsanna’s eyes flash. “I am a senior soloist. How dare you!”

“I am so sorry for insulting you,” Clover says, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m afraid I’m really busy, so I can’t stop to talk, but it was nice meeting you.”

Zsuzsanna’s nostrils flare a little. “My name is Zsuzsanna Hommer. Madame Pongor has my number.” (Man, she’s stubborn.) “You ring me for interview later, yes? I very famous in Hungary. I have been in many Hungarian magazines.”

“Bully for you,” Clover says. She presses her foot against mine. Like me, Clover knows exactly what this girl has been up to, and how cruel she’s been to Claire.

At that moment, one of the other dancers calls to Zsuzsanna, and she wafts her hand at her. “OK, I coming. You will ring, yes?”

“Absolument.”
Clover trills her fingers at Zsuzsanna. “Bye-bye now. And
póg mo thóin.
”

Zsuzsanna’s eyes narrow. “What did you just say?”

“It means ‘break a leg’ or ‘
merde’
in Irish,” I explain quickly. It most certainly does not. It means “kiss my bum,” which is pretty rude!

Zsuzsanna nods and
finally,
walks away.

“That bun-head is scary,” Clover says, shaking her head.

“Tell me about it,” Claire says, sounding defeated. “And I have to deal with her every single day.”

“She’s not as good as you are, Claire,” I say desperately. “You know that, right?”

Claire just shrugs.

“Is anything wrong, Claire?” Clover asks. “If you want to talk . . .”

Claire starts picking at the side of a fingernail. “No, I’m fine, honest. I’m just nervous about dancing Juliet, that’s all.”

Péter appears beside us then. “Sorry about that. I needed to talk to Monsieur. So, ready for our photos, Claire?”

“I guess so,” she says, still sounding a bit down. “I hope I don’t make a mess of them.”

Clover squeezes Claire’s shoulder. “You’ll be great,” she tells her. “I’ve asked Roland to shoot you in all your hot and sweaty glory. I want our readers to be able to see your passion and your dedication. So lots of action shots. Take it away, Romeo and Juliet.”

But Claire surprises us. Away from the critical eyes of Monsieur Elfman and Zsuzsanna, she’s a different dancer. Like a butterfly who’s just discovered her wings, she flies through the air, jumping fearlessly into Péter’s arms with some strong, confident gazelle-like leaps. Roland catches it all on film.

“Bravo!” Clover cries. “Fantastic! Keep it up, guys, we’re nearly there.”

After a few more shots, Clover stops Roland and they look at some of the photographs together. Then Clover claps her hands. “We have exactly what we need. OK, guys, that’s a wrap!”

Claire’s face is shiny. She smells of fresh sweat, and her chest is still pumping from all the exertion. “I have duet practice with Péter now,” she says a little breathlessly, “but I’m around later this afternoon if you’d like to hook up. We could meet outside the academy at four, if that suits. Grab a coffee or something. I know you have some more questions for me, Clover.”

“Coola boola, babes,” Clover says. Then she shakes her head and smiles. “And how amazingly awesome were you? You can dance, girl!”

“Isn’t she incredible?” Péter says, his chest still heaving from all the lifts. “You’ll make a stunning Juliet, Claire.”

Claire winces. “I just wish Monsieur Elfman agreed with you both. Now, we’d better not keep Madame Irina waiting. See you guys later.”

And with that, we’re left alone in the empty rehearsal room for a few seconds, until Madame Pongor, the woman from earlier, bustles in.

“You get what you needed?” she asks.

“Yes, thanks,” Clover says. “Seeing Claire rehearse was a real privilege. Thanks for letting us watch. We really appreciate it. She’s such a fantastic dancer. I had no idea.”

Madame Pongor actually smiles, making her look less like a witch and more like a kind old granny. “She is good, yes. Beautiful fluid movements, wonderful expressive face. Such potential. She just needs more confidence onstage, more spark. In fact, she reminds me of Olga Varga in her early days. You hear of Olga, yes? Prima ballerina with this company many, many years ago. One of the best dancers the academy has ever produced.”

“Of course we know her. Claire worships her,” I say. “She has a picture of Olga on her bedroom wall back in Dublin.”

“Olga would like that,” Madame Pongor says. “She is Irish too, you know.”

“Are you sure she’s Irish?” Clover asks. “The name doesn’t exactly sound Irish.”

Madame Pongor laughs. “It’s her stage name. Her real name is Ethel Murphy-O’Connor.”

Clover’s eyes open wide, and I can almost hear the cogs in her brain turning. A famous
Hungarian
prima ballerina who is actually
Irish.
That’s one big scoop, all right!

And then something occurs to me. “Madame, does Claire know that Olga — Ethel, I mean — is Irish?”

Madame Pongor shrugs. “Ethel came to the academy as a young woman, like Claire. No one spoke much English back then, so she had to learn Hungarian very quickly. When she joined the ballet company, she changed her name to Olga Varga. I think most people assumed she was from Budapest, and she never contradicted them.”

“Does she still dance?” I ask.

“No, she retired in her late thirties, married a Hungarian art dealer, and had a son. But she still lives in Budapest.”

“You don’t happen to know where Ethel lives, do you?” Clover asks. “I’d love to interview her for my article.”

Madame Pongor pauses, then says, “Ethel was never fond of the spotlight. She has a quiet life now. She does not go out so often.”

“I understand,” Clover says, looking disappointed.

“But do you think she’d talk to Claire?” I ask. “About what it was like when she was starting out, being Irish in a Hungarian ballet school, not speaking the language and everything. Claire’s really nervous about dancing Juliet, and I think it might help.”

Madame Pongor looks at me, considering this. Eventually she says, “Ethel is a kind lady, and she always supported younger dancers in the company. Yes, I think she would do this. And she might even give an interview to an Irish journalist, you never know. I will ring and ask her if you can visit.”

Clover and I exchange an excited look.

“We’re in like Flynn,” Clover whispers to me. “Nice work, Batgirl.”