Dancing Daze (17 page)

It took us a few minutes to persuade Claire to come with us to find Olga Varga, aka Ethel Murphy-O’Connor. At first she just didn’t believe us. “Olga Varga can’t be Irish,” she said. “It doesn’t make any sense. I know Olga still lives in Budapest, but Madame Pongor must have gotten it wrong. I’ve read dozens of articles and interviews with Olga, and she’s never mentioned Ireland — not once.”

I explained what Madame Pongor had said about Ethel learning Hungarian early on and then changing her name.

Claire shrugged. “I think it’s highly unlikely, but hey, nothing to lose, right? It’ll be an adventure if nothing else.” But she still sounded thoroughly unconvinced.

We follow Madame Pongor’s directions. She wrote them down for us and kindly drew a small map so that we wouldn’t get lost. Ethel’s apartment is only a short walk from the rehearsal rooms, but it’s freezing outside, so we walk quickly, our feet crunching over the cleared but icy sidewalks, our breath lingering in the air. We stop outside (another) tall gray building with a wooden door.

“I think this is it,” Clover says, checking Madame Pongor’s notes again. “Yep. Number thirty-seven Múzeum Utca. Do you want to do the honors, Claire? Apartment seven.”

“Sure.” Claire presses the intercom for apartment seven and we all wait nervously, stamping our feet to keep them warm.

“Igen?”
a voice says.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Ethel Murphy-O’Connor,” I say politely into the intercom. “Is she in?”

There’s a brief pause. “Are you one of the Irish journalists whom Maria — sorry, Madame Pongor — rang me about?”

Clover and I exchange an excited look. The voice is 100 percent without a doubt Irish.

“Keep going,” Clover whispers to me.

I take a deep breath. “Yes. My name is Amy Green. I’m from a magazine in Dublin. I was hoping I could talk to you about —”

“Ach, I’ve thought carefully about giving you an interview, and I’m afraid your journey has been wasted. I value my privacy too much. I’m sure you understand.”

“But you
are
Ethel Murphy-O’Connor?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “But I’m sorry, I must go.”

“Wait!” Claire practically yells into the intercom. “Please? I have to know. Are you really Olga Varga?”

“Yes, but that was a long time ago, a past life. Are you from the magazine too?”

Claire is almost hyperventilating with excitement. “No! I’m Claire Starr. I’m a dancer with the Budapest Ballet.”

“I’ve heard all about you from Maria, Claire Starr,” Ethel says. “And I’ve seen clips of you dancing on the Internet. I didn’t realize you were all arriving together. I think you’d better come in. But no interview, understand? And no photographs. This is completely off the record.”

Claire looks at me and Clover. We both nod firmly.

“No interview,” Claire promises.

Clover puts her hands on Claire’s shoulders and says in a low voice, “Maybe it’s better if you go alone, Claire. We can stay down here and wait for you.”

“Clover’s right,” I add. “And good luck.”

Claire looks petrified, so I squeeze her hand, which is shaking like a leaf. It is scary meeting one of your heroes, all right.

“Don’t be daft. Come on up, the lot of you,” Ethel says through the intercom, making us all jump. We hadn’t realized that she was still listening. “It’s brass monkeys out there. Third floor, second door on the right.”

The door buzzes loudly. Claire pushes it open and we troop in quickly, glad to get out of the cold. The hallway is paneled in dark wood and smells of furniture polish. We step into the small, slightly murky lift, and Claire presses the button for the third floor. She’s biting her lip and can’t keep still, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. By the time we get outside Ethel’s apartment, it’s not just Claire’s hands that are shaking. Her whole body is twitching, and she looks like she’s about to pass out.

“You OK?” I whisper.

She nods. “It’s just . . . do you think this woman really is Olga Varga? I still can’t believe it.”

Clover puts her hand up to knock, but before she gets a chance, the door swings open. And standing in front of us is the most attractive older women I’ve ever seen. She’s in her late fifties or early sixties, and she’s wearing beautifully cut black trousers with a ribbon bow at her tiny waist, a white cashmere roll-neck sweater, and matte-black heels. There’s a dramatic cherry-red velvet scarf wrapped around her long, elegant neck that matches her red lipstick, and her silver hair is coiled on top of her head in a fancy chignon. Her huge navy-blue eyes sweep over us with interest.

Claire is staring at her as if she’s seen a ghost. “Olga Varga,” she says and gasps. “It’s really you.”

“Why, yes, my dear,” the woman says. “But please call me Ethel. And do come in.”

We step into the living room of her apartment. It’s stunning: large and airy, and the white walls are covered in huge, bright abstract paintings that I can’t stop gazing at. One of them looks just like a Rothko with its three huge squares of color in red, yellow, and orange. But it can’t be an original, ’cause they’re worth millions. There’s a bronze sculpture of a dancer on a wooden plinth in front of one of the three dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows. A huge vase of stargazer lilies stands on the floor in front of another window, making the room smell deliciously sweet. It’s like something out of an interiors magazine.

“Wowzers!” Clover says with a whistle. “Beautiful apartment, Ethel. You have fab taste. I’m Clover Wildgust, by the way, and this is Amy Green. And you know Claire already.”

“I do, and thank you for the compliment,” Ethel says. “Now, do give me your coats, or else you’ll boil in here.” She holds out her arms and we peel off our layers and hand them to her. She puts them over the back of a chrome-and-white-leather armchair. Every movement she makes is graceful, like a swan’s.

“Take a seat,” she says, waving at the matching white-leather sofa. “Anyone like a tea or coffee?”

“Oh, no, thanks, we’re fine,” Claire says quickly. I think she’s afraid that she’s dreaming, and that if Ethel leaves the room, the spell will be broken.

“But thanks for the offer,” Clover adds.

All three of us sit on the enormous sofa. Ethel pulls an armchair around a little until it faces us and sits too, her back poker straight. Gran would have swooned at her posture. She was always telling me to stop slouching.

“So you’re the Irish Ballerina,” Ethel says, smiling warmly at Claire and leaning forward a little. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

“Thanks,” Claire says, her cheeks turning red. “And these are my friends from Ireland. They’re over to do a feature on me for an Irish magazine.” Claire makes a face. “So embarrassing.”

Ethel throws her head back and gives a surprisingly deep and fruity laugh. “Awful, isn’t it? I hated it too, believe me. And all the stupid posing for photographs. ‘Look strong but vulnerable, Olga.’ ‘Let’s dress you up as a black cat, Olga.’ ‘Pretend you’re a warrior, Olga.’ Such nonsense. All I wanted to do was dance.”

Warrior? That sounds familiar. Smiling to myself, I press my foot against Clover’s, and she gives me a tiny smile back.

“Yes, exactly,” Claire says. “When I was younger, I thought I’d love all the publicity and being in the spotlight, but actually I’m finding it really difficult at the moment. And the other girls hate the fact that I’m getting all the attention. Especially when they don’t believe I’m good enough for the part in the first place. . . .” She trails off and starts scratching at the side of her nail.

Ethel looks at Claire, her eyes kind. “Yes. It’s very hard. But you must try to filter all that noise out of your mind and focus on the dancing. If you listen to what other people say, you will drive yourself crazy. It sounds to me like some of the Hungarian girls are making your life difficult. Is that the case, my dear?”

Claire says nothing and just stares down at her hands. There’s a large drop of blood at the side of one of her fingers. She must have scratched the skin so hard that she made herself bleed. She takes out a tissue and wraps it around the finger.

“Claire?” Ethel says gently. “Can I get you a bandage?”

Claire blushes furiously. “I’m sorry . . . it’s nothing.” She looks like she’s about to cry.

Ethel says nothing for a moment and just sits there, watching Claire carefully. Then she says, “Would you like to hear how I became Olga Varga, girls?”

“Yes, please,” Clover says, sitting up. She drags her bag onto her knee and whips out her notebook.

“Clover!” I hiss.

“Sorry, sorry,” she tells Ethel, putting the notebook back. “Force of habit. This is strictly off the record, don’t worry.”

Ethel looks at Clover. “I imagine you’d like to mention the visit when you are writing about Claire. To put her journey in context, perhaps. But I live a quiet life now. I work in the office at my husband’s gallery, and I look after my grandchildren. I’m sure you’d write a lovely piece, but I don’t want other journalists looking for me. I hope you understand, my dear.”

“Of course,” Clover says. “It’s just unusual. In my experience, most people are dying to be interviewed.”

Ethel smiles. “I can imagine. But I’ve always hated the limelight. And I managed to keep my private life just that when I was dancing by being careful about what I said. I’m loath for anyone to start digging up the past now.”

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us,” Clover says. “I promise. So, please, do tell us your story.”

Ethel settles back in her seat and cups her long hands in her lap. “I came to the academy as a young girl, just like you, Claire. My family was originally from Wexford, but we moved to London when I was eleven, and I started ballet lessons, as there weren’t any Irish dancing classes locally and I loved to dance. When I was seventeen, my ballet teacher put me forward for auditions for the Budapest Ballet Company. I was on the young side, and my technique wasn’t strong enough, so they asked me to attend the academy for a year, and after that, if I improved, they promised me a place.

“As you can imagine, my parents weren’t exactly thrilled. It was the early seventies and no one knew all that much about Eastern Europe back then. But I nagged and nagged and finally they gave in.”

Claire gives a tiny laugh.

“Does that sound familiar?” Ethel asks her.

“Totally,” Claire says. “My folks were dead set against it. But I managed to talk them around too. I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be.”

“Good for you. So I joined the academy and I worked my heart out, getting up early to practice every morning and dancing late into the night. Most of the teachers had no English, so I asked Maria — Madame Pongor — to give me Hungarian lessons every day in exchange for English lessons, and those helped a lot.”

“Madame Pongor, really?” Claire asks. “She’s scary.”

Ethel smiles. “She’s a pussycat underneath that gruff front. And she’s passionate about ballet. Eats, sleeps, and breathes it, even though she’s never danced professionally herself. She’s a good person to have on your side. We are great friends to this day.

“Anyway, a year later, when I was eighteen, the academy offered me a place in the company. At first it was very difficult. The ballet masters were tough, and the girls . . .” She winces and shakes her head. “They did not like a Westerner in their company, dancing with their boys, taking their roles, and some of them made my life hell. Picked on me, told lies about me behind my back, even physically hurt me by kicking me in class.”

Claire holds her hands together in her lap and blinks several times as if she’s trying not to cry.

“It was because I was a threat to them, you understand?” Ethel continues. “Because I was good. And because they knew I had the potential to be great. So I had two choices. I could let them beat me — I could go back to London with my tail between my legs — or I could prove myself. So I changed my name to Olga Varga to show everyone how serious I was about being in the company. Nowadays having a Western name is no disadvantage, but back then it marked me as different. Then I worked harder than any other dancer. I got up earlier, I went to bed later. I danced until my toes were bruised and bleeding and then I danced some more.

“I listened to the music,
really
listened. I read the stories behind the ballets: the history. When I danced a role, I
became
that person. I inhabited the character’s body. I knew my technique wasn’t as perfect as some other dancers’, but I also knew that I had more heart than they did, more passion, more drive. Once the ballet masters started to realize how much I gave to every role, they gave me bigger and bigger parts, until finally I had danced all the lead roles — in
Swan Lake, Giselle,
and
Romeo and Juliet,
just like you will, Claire. For you, Juliet is just the start of a wonderful career.”

“And the bullies?” Claire asks.

Ethel looks her in the eye. “Yes, that is the right word, ‘bullies.’ I proved how good I was, how determined, and eventually they backed off. They realized that I wasn’t going anywhere, and gradually we began to respect each other.”

Ethel leans forward and takes Claire’s hand. “How badly do you want this, Claire? Are you willing to risk everything, to put your heart and soul, your very being, into dancing Juliet?”

“Yes,” Claire says. “But the girls. They pick on me all the time. There’s this one girl who pulls my hair and kicks me and says things behind my back, things I don’t even understand.” Tears start to fall down her cheeks and she wipes them away with her free hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Have you told your friends about this?”

“I don’t really have any friends over here, not anymore. My roommate, Lana, was too heavy, so she had to leave the academy.”

“What about your family?”

Claire shakes her head.

Ethel looks concerned. “You must talk to someone about this, Claire, understand? And you’re not alone. It happened to me too, remember? I got through it, and you can too. Other dancers lash out because they feel threatened. You have such potential, and they’re jealous. But you must rise above it. You can’t let them get to you. When they realize they cannot break you, they will back off. And if the kicking and the hair pulling don’t stop, you tell the person responsible that you will report her. And if she pays no attention, you come and tell me. And together we will talk to Maria and the head of the company, OK? You cannot let this ruin your career, Claire. And as for the language barrier, you will learn. I will teach you Hungarian. Including all the best juicy swear words.”