Page 37 of Barre Fight
She didn’t say anything, she just stared up at the building, apparently unbothered by the prospect of lateness.
“It’s just a theater.”
“It’s not just a theater, it’sthetheater. Didn’t you dream about this place as a kid?”
“I—no. Did you?”
She finally looked away from the building and seemed to give herself a little shake. “No.”
“Okay, so it’s just a theater.” Justin couldn’t have dreamed up a place like this as a kid if he’d tried. Growing up in the country, the huge airy ANB studios on the wharf seemed improbable enough. But the idea of coming to work every day at this theater, in the middle of a teeming, exhausting metropolis on the other side of the world, it wouldn’t have occurred to him to dream about that. He wanted out ofHillstone, but at the time, Sydney was about as far away as he could fathom.
“Come on, class is starting in a few minutes,” he said, touching her upper arm lightly. Again, the soft, plush weave of the coat. Despite the frigid air around them, he could have sworn he felt her body heat warming the fabric. He dropped his hand and shoved it back in his pocket, then turned and strode back to the stage door, this time with Ivy in tow.
The underbelly of the theater was a warren of concrete corridors that gave no hint of the resplendent red velvet beauty that awaited them all upstairs. Searching the crowd of his colleagues, he hailed down Ricky, who directed him to the dressing room down the hallway that had been assigned to the principal men. Ivy waited outside as he claimed a seat at the lit mirror and grabbed what he needed for class. Then they both followed the crowd of dancers down the winding hallway and into a large rehearsal studio that was half underground, with windows high in the walls permitting some weak afternoon light to filter in. Peter was already at the front of the room, along with the few members of the artistic staff who had made the trip. An accompanist sat at a glossy baby grand Steinway. Ivy took her usual seat in front of the mirror, and class began.
Peter took it easy on them, giving them plenty of slow pliés and ports de bras to ease their jetlagged bodies back into movement. Justin found he wasn’t nearly as stiff as he expected to be after the long flight and a fitful sleep, and it occurred to him that might be because he’d spent his morning walking around the city. He’d never tell Ivy so, but she might have done him a favor by dragging him out into the cold to eat bagels and look at bare trees. His hip felt tender, but nothing he or Shaz would worry about, and by the time barre ended his body felt surprisingly pliant. Peter gave them all a good long time to stretch, and let the women know pointe shoes were optional for center today.Justin heard Kat let out a long, thankful-sounding sigh, and they all arranged themselves in the middle of the room for adagio.
When class ended, Peter briefed them all on the schedule for the next few days. They’d have two days to rehearse on the stage upstairs, and then on Friday night, it was curtain up. They’d have performances almost every night next week, with the closing night gala at the end. Besides morning class, performances, and a few press interviews for select principals, their time was their own.
“But I expect you to remember that you are representing ANB everywhere you go,” Peter said seriously, looking around the room. “We are here to make the best possible impression as a company.”
Justin nodded along with the rest of his colleagues, even though they all knew that warning was directed mostly at him. Peter dismissed them, and the dancers who weren’t needed for rehearsal this afternoon trooped out of the studio. According to the schedule the company had emailed out a few days earlier, Justin and Alice would rehearse tomorrow afternoon. He was free for the rest of the day.
Well, not free, he thought half an hour later, as he followed Ivy down the steps off a crowded bus onto an equally crowded footpath. He was free to go wherever Ivy wanted to go, which this afternoon was to the Museum of Modern Art. Unfortunately, everyone else in the city seemed to want to go to the same museum, and the glass-walled lobby was hardly less mobbed than the street. Justin took a deep breath, trying to dispel the all-over itch that had come over him halfway through the short bus ride from the theater. As they stood in the queue for tickets, he reminded himself that if this was the price he had to pay to come on tour, to keep his career alive, it was a bargain.
Ivy handed him a ticket, her face shining with anticipation just as it had this morning. She unfolded a museum map andstudied it, then gave a decisive little nod and walked away, leaving him to trail after her, dodging a group of rowdy school kids who were being corralled by an exasperated-looking teacher. He needed to look where he was going, but he was distracted by the huge metal sculptures that hung from the ceiling of the giant atrium, rotating slowly above their heads as they made their way further into the museum. One whole side of the building seemed to be made of glass, and out the huge windows he could see an orderly sculpture garden, almost empty thanks to the cold, a striking contrast next to the busy street beyond.
“Do you think you can stay out of trouble for an hour or so?” Ivy asked, as they rode an escalator to the second floor.
Justin frowned, remembering Peter’s words this morning. “I think I can handle that. Why?”
Ivy shrugged. “Figured you might want to wander around on your own a bit. Or that modern art might not be your thing. So if you want to go sit in the cafe, and wait for me, or something…” She trailed off as they stepped off the escalator.
“Oh. I guess I could do that,” Justin said, feeling a little let down for no good reason.
“It’s just, I’ve got things I want to see here, and you probably won’t enjoy them,” Ivy said quickly. “Wouldn’t want to drag you along if you’d rather just hang out.”
“No, for sure,” Justin agreed vaguely. Except that the giant mobiles hanging from the ceiling had looked pretty interesting. Why did she assume he wouldn’t be interested in modern art?
“Okay, so I’ll just come find you in the cafe,” Ivy said, looking relieved and pulling her map out again. “I won’t be long.”
“Take as long as you want,” Justin said. “You seemed pretty keen to get here, and there’s no point in rushing it. We’ve got nowhere else to be.”
Ivy fumbled slightly with the map and looked up at him. “Okay,” she said slowly, drawing the word out. She studied the map for a moment. “The cafe’s that way, and around to the right. I’ll see you in—I’ll see you when I’m done.”
She dismissed him with a nod, then walked around the corner with her eyes back on the map. He watched her walk out of sight, then stood alone near the top of the stairs for a moment, hands in his pockets, not sure why he felt somewhat disappointed. It wasn’t a huge deal, he told himself, and he was hungry—the bagel had gotten him through class, but he should refuel at some point soon. He turned and made his way slowly in the direction Ivy had pointed him, and followed signs to the cafe.
He ordered a chicken sandwich for himself, and another coffee. In his experience, American coffee paled in comparison to what he drank at home, but caffeine was caffeine, and jet-lagged beggars couldn’t be choosers. He was about to pay for his meal when he remembered that Ivy was probably getting hungry, too. She hadn’t danced this morning, but they’d spent plenty of time walking around. He’d already met Hungry Ivy once before, and she shouldn’t be unleashed on New York City. He smiled to himself at the sudden mental image of a petite, high-heeled Godzilla rampaging across Manhattan, tearing down buildings in a desperate search for sushi. Then he hastily ordered a second chicken sandwich.
He sat and ate, watching the customers at the tables around him. Mothers feeding squalling babies in prams, art students sketching in notebooks, tourists scrolling through their cameras and snapping selfies. The cafe was loud and crowded, though, so he ate quickly, drained his coffee, and then set off to find a quieter place to wait for Ivy. As he strolled through the galleries, he stopped in front of the works that piqued his interest. There was a giant sculpture made of thin, shining sheets of silver metalthat looked like it might have been made by the same artist who made the mobiles in the atrium, and an abstract painting of a blooming flower bud in watery blue and shades of pink and mauve, the colors of a sky just after sunset. The art department at Hillstone High had been small and pitifully underfunded, but even Justin knew a Georgia O’Keeffe painting when he saw one.
He kept moving, going wherever his eye took him and avoiding the most crowded rooms. Then he rounded a corner and stopped dead at the sight that greeted him. The painting was simple but magnetic, and he barely noticed his feet carrying him towards the empty bench that sat a few meters in front of it. He eased himself onto the bench and kept staring, taking in the few colors—deep blue, spring-grass green, flushed-skin pink—and the unusual sense of perspective. The hillside was painted in two dimensions against the sky, but the circle of women was deep and three-dimensional, as if the artist had wanted to make them real and rounded against the spare outdoor backdrop. The painting was huge, swallowing an entire wall, and it made the women’s circle feel like a globe, like their outstretched arms spanned the entire world.
He didn’t know how long he sat there in the quiet gallery, cataloging the details he found as he looked and looked. One woman had blurry, unfinished feet, and another had a curved black line down the middle of her lower back, suggesting muscle and movement. Two of the women were reaching for each other, but their hands didn’t quite touch, so that the circle was ever so slightly broken. Another woman stood on one leg, her half-pointed foot suspended against the sky, and she cast her eyes down as though she was watching it move through the air.
“It’s called ‘The Dance,’” a voice said from behind him, and Justin jolted in surprise. He turned and found Ivy standing behind the bench, looking bemused.
“It’s something else,” he said. An understatement. Looking at it felt like watching familiar choreography, like he could stand up and join in at any moment and his body would remember what to do. He’d never seen the painting before, but it felt oddly, comfortingly familiar.
