House on the Lagoon (21 page)

Classes were over for the summer and now we could practice every day at the studio; the rehearsals were going well. Professor Kerenski was obsessed with the choreography, which he was doing himself. We wouldn’t be dancing a complete ballet. This was impossible, not only because they were too long, but because we didn’t have enough dancers to take the principal roles. We would interpret segments of works in an original Kerenski version. André spent hours listening to the music and thinking about the dances. “Choreography is the toughest trial a dancer must face,” he would say. “The steps must come from the soul if they are to achieve the stature of art.”

Soon we all went to the dressmaker who would make our costumes—a fat lady who lived on Victoria Street—and she took our measurements. Professor Kerenski supervised every detail; he was afraid the rhinestone crowns, the wired sequined wings, and the muslin petticoats which were so popular with Ponceños, who loved to wear elaborate costumes at every opportunity, might inhibit the dancers and make their movements stiff or awkward. He made it clear that the tutus of the girls in the corps de ballet in
Swan Lake
were to be exactly the same; otherwise, the mothers of the girls would start to compete, insisting that their little girl should have “the most ethereal wings” or “the most bouffant skirt,” and this would spoil the uniformity of the line.

Professor Kerenski had assigned the role of Odile, the white swan, to Estefanía, and I was to dance Odette, the black swan; we’d wear tutus made from real feathers. This decision created a conflict: feathers were expensive, and our parents didn’t want to spend a lot on our costumes. It took a lot of convincing to make them come around. Estefania and I would both wear silk masks, delicate ovals with slits for the eyes. The most spectacular costume of all, however, would be worn by Tony in
Firebird.
Professor Kerenski had designed it himself. It was to be in the style of Marc Chagall, who had sketched the costumes for Stravinsky’s ballet at the Metropolitan Opera House. It had a gilded bodice with a flame-colored feathered cape and a mask with a golden beak which completely covered the face. Tony’s friends from Machuelo Abajo had all chipped in to pay for it.

The first half of the evening would consist of five scenes from
Swan Lake.
Estefania and I would each dance a solo in the first scene; the second one was to be a duet; in the third and fourth scene each one of us would dance with Tony; and the last would be a trio. The corps de ballet would be made up of beginners and was entirely Tamara’s responsibility. Every single student in the school would take part, to keep the mothers happy. The second half of the evening would be taken up by
Firebird,
in which Estefanía, Tony, and I would dance again. Professor Kerenski gave me the role of Prince Ivan, and Tony the role of the Firebird. Estefania was to be the captive princess who is saved at the last moment by the Firebird in the adagio.

Tony was no mere prop; he proved to be a natural dancer. He was as agile as a deer and had the stamina of a basketball player. In his entrechats he soared almost four feet off the ground, higher than Kerenski ever did; and every time he made a grand jeté he seemed about to take off over our heads like a bird. He had an ingrained elegance and would hold us delicately by the waist, so that Estefanía and I had no trouble performing our arabesques and pirouettes. Professor Kerenski was pleasantly surprised, so he choreographed a more complicated interpretation of the
Firebird
than he had initially planned. Two weeks before the performance, when we began to rehearse at La Perla Theater, Tony’s friends from Machuelo Abajo would come to see him dance every afternoon. Each time he did a difficult step, they cheered and applauded as if it were a basketball match and he had put the ball through the hoop. In spite of Tony’s success, Estefanía and I would have preferred to dance with Professor Kerenski, and we couldn’t help feeling let down about it.

When a new advanced student enrolled at the school, Kerenski studied her personality to see which side to bring out when he assigned her the part she would dance at the recital. Estefanía was, in his opinion, a jarreté dancer: she had a lyrical, sensuous way of moving. With her red hair and milk-white skin, she was perfect for the romantic role in the adagio, when the ballerina is supposed to melt like a snowflake in the arms of her partner. I was an arqué dancer, brilliant and rhythmic, more suited to energetic solos and Mediterranean allegros con fuoco. Raven-haired and olive-skinned, I danced with so much energy Professor Kerenski was impressed. “I like your fiery spirit, your sense of independence on the stage,” he once told me. “I hope you never lose your style, because it’s what makes you so special.” He didn’t know that when I danced I wasn’t expressing any particular style. I was just trying to forget my troubles at home.

The last month before the performance, Professor Kerenski spent hours rehearsing
Firebird
with us. He had created something very special, and we were euphoric that he should have invested so much time in us. After the recital, the new choreography would always be associated with our names. We thought it was his way of making us the keepers of his legacy. Stravinsky’s music was like a typhoon. It pulled us in its wake as it rushed us toward the unknown. The mystery of nature seemed to throb in its sway.

Estefanía was often late for rehearsals, so Professor Kerenski, Tony, and I usually began without her. When she finally got to the studio, Tony and I had already practiced the main scenes, so we left early. Abby was after me not to be late for dinner, and Tony had to take care of his mother, who was in a wheelchair, until his father came home from work. Estefanía would stay on with Professor Kerenski, and they always practiced late. He would rehearse Tony’s part in
Firebird
with her, teaching her all the secrets of the adagio.

The night of the recital, the entire school came out of the studio at seven o’clock and walked down Aurora Street. No one in Ponce was surprised to see us in our black leotards and pink practice slippers walking single-file down the street, carrying our tutus in hangers before us so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. Ponce is a city that loves spectacles, and people wouldn’t miss them for anything. That’s why houses there are like small theaters, with wide balconies opening onto the street. In the early evening, people sit chatting and gossiping, and as we went by that evening they waved and said they’d see us at the performance, which would begin at eight o’clock.

Professor Kerenski couldn’t pay for a live orchestra, so the recital was performed to recorded music. Tamara operated the record player herself from the empty orchestra pit, and the music came out of two large speakers directed toward the audience. That week, tickets were sold by the hundreds. All the well-known families in town had at least one student at the ballet school, so everybody who was anybody was coming to the recital. Professor Kerenski, in keeping with his ideals of social justice, had also distributed a good many free tickets among the people of Machuelo Abajo, so Tony’s friends and relatives could come and see him dance.

By a quarter to eight, La Perla Theater was packed; and everyone was dressed in formal evening wear. The relatives of the well-to-do students, in shimmering gowns and tuxedos, sat on the right side of the theater, where windows were left open and a cool evening breeze came in. Tony’s relatives and friends sat on the left, where seats were cheaper because there were no windows, which made it hot. But they didn’t seem to mind. Tony’s friends were smiling, pointing this way and that to the lighted Murano chandelier—a gift from the Italian government when Adelina Patti came to sing in Ponce, accompanied by Louis Gottschalk, almost a hundred years before—or to the fresco of the Seven Muses, all dressed in pastel togas and wearing green laurel wreaths on their heads. Conspicuous among them was Terpsichore, the nymph of dance.

The first half of the show was as smooth as silk, without any problems. Estefanía and I danced Odette and Odile as if dancing on air, aided by our black-and-white feathered tutus. Tony was matchless as Prince Siegfried, outfitted in a magnificent blue silk jacket with gold buttons that his family had also paid for with contributions from his neighbors. The corps of beginners, aware that Tamara was close by in the orchestra pit and was keeping an eye on them, behaved very well and danced with perfect synchronicity. The audience was delighted, and at the end of the first act there was an explosion of applause.

The second act began with a mishap. The sets for
Firebird
were more complicated than those for
Swan Lake.
Professor Kerenski had wanted to use Chagall motifs for the backdrop and had superimposed two images one on top of the other: a quiet forest would be set on fire—the trees would erupt in a blaze of light—to create a feeling of vertigo. On the stage’s outer edge, an inferno of red chiffon was illuminated by footlights. It fluttered in the wind, blowing this way and that, thanks to two large fans hidden behind the stage. The music started and Estefanía began her solo. She was supposed to jump over a barrier of flames, but her right shoe got caught in a red chiffon strip and she lost her balance and fell headlong to the floor. Tamara had to stop the record player, the curtain came down, and it wasn’t until fifteen minutes later that the show resumed. Fortunately, Estefanía didn’t injure herself seriously—just suffered a bruised elbow.

Professor Kerenski couldn’t be found anywhere. When Estefanía stumbled, everyone seemed to be calling for him, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air. Tamara had to come from the orchestra pit to handle the emergency. The music started up, and once more we responded to Stravinsky’s merciless onslaught. It was like dancing at the very tip of a flame. Estefanía performed her solo without further mishaps, and I confidently danced my own part. Then we both waited, holding our magic feathers in our hands, for the arrival of the Firebird.

I closed my eyes and remembered Professor Kerenski’s words: “If you let the music flood you when you dance, one day you’ll attain enlightenment.” Slowly I let myself be drawn by the throbbing sounds; the music flowed around me like honey, like milk, like a swarm of bees. Stravinsky’s hurricane enveloped me, as it did in the studio during rehearsal. When I opened my eyes, the Firebird was emerging from a forest of flames, dancing toward us. With every step he took, he defied the force of gravity, so high in the air did he soar. His costume was magnificent: his legs were sheathed in gold and looked like columns of fire; his arms were wings dipped in blood; his golden mask was the mask of life and of death. But what impressed me the most was the enormous spiral shell which lay curled between his legs.

First came the piece “Burning with Thirst,” which the Firebird danced with me; then Tamara played “Unending Hunger” on the gramophone, and the Firebird turned to Estefanía. During the next fifteen minutes I performed a series of glissés alongside the Firebird. Then I did a set of pirouettes, ending in an elegant pasé, as we had rehearsed at the studio. It all went very well; it was clean and controlled dancing, the kind of performance Professor Kerenski expected of Tony and me. It wasn’t until the last pasé, when the Firebird had to clasp me tightly around the waist to lift me up on his right shoulder, that I noticed the scent of crushed geraniums that came from his armpits. It was impossible to turn to look at his face; the mask hid it completely behind its shield of gold.

When I finished my part, there was a short burst of applause. I did a grand jeté and exited toward the side. I didn’t go backstage, however. My throat was tight with anxiety as I watched the stage from the wings. Estefanía, totally ignorant of the Firebird’s true identity, began the adagio with passionate brio. She was in top form, dancing with masterful ease; she looked happy and relaxed in the Firebird’s arms. We were all supposed to know the choreography of the other dancers by heart, so that in case of emergency we could serve as understudies, and it didn’t take me long to realize that the sequence Estefania was dancing was something totally new. I had never seen it before. It was much more complicated choreography than anything we had rehearsed at the studio. More than classical ballet, it looked like a mating dance, a splendid rendition of the attraction the female wields over the male.

Estefanía and the Firebird were one with the music; it filled them completely. Estefania wove her snow-white arms around the Firebird’s neck, and his flame-red cape spilled over her shoulders and enveloped her in its blaze. When they finished dancing, I was on the verge of fainting, and the theater seemed about to collapse from the thunderous applause. I lost track of how many times the red velvet curtain rose and fell as Estefania and the Firebird took their encores. They had completely forgotten about me. No one asked me to share in the standing ovation, so spectacular was the last duo.

Yet I had earned my place in the limelight, so I walked boldly out onstage. I took a quick bow standing next to Estefanía and the Firebird, but I could see it wasn’t me the audience was applauding. I blushed, took another bow, and exited immediately. Estefanía and the Firebird took three more curtain calls, and finally the curtain came down for the last time and the stage went dark. But some people went on clapping. Suddenly a long whistle rose from the left side of the orchestra, where Tony’s friends and relatives were seated, and the theater went silent.

“God bless our great Tony Torres,” someone cried out. “Today he’s brought great honor to Machuelo Abajo!”

At that moment an invisible hand pulled a lever backstage and the floodlights came up again; the curtain rose. Estefanía and the Firebird were still standing in the middle of the stage. Only the Firebird had taken off his mask and Professor Kerenski was kissing Estefanía on the mouth; he was kissing her and she was letting him kiss her, as if there was nothing she could do to prevent it. The audience, which had begun to file out of the theater, stopped in its tracks and stared at the couple onstage. At least ten seconds must have gone by while Estefanía and Professor Kerenski stood there kissing, deaf to the booing, whistling, and stomping which soon reached a crescendo as people began to turn back—especially Tony Torres’s friends, who were furious, crying out that
The Firebird
had been a sham, that Kerenski had deceived them, that the ballet had been a cruel impersonation: Tony had never been given a chance to dance the second act.