As for me, the boys saw me, they asked for dates, but Julian made it clear I wasn't available--I was his. He told everyone we were lovers. Though I persistently denied this, he would tell them in private I was old-fashioned and ashamed to admit we were "living in sin." He chidingly explained in my very presence, "It's that old southern-belle tradition. Gals down south like guys to think they're sweet, shy, demure, but underneath that cool magnolia exterior-- sexpots--every one!" Of course they believed him and not me. Why should they believe the truth when a lie was so much more exciting?
I was happy enough though. I adapted to New York as one native born, rushing about as every New Yorker had to--get there fast, don't waste a second, there was so much to prove before someone else with a pretty face and more talent showed up to knock you off the board. But while I was ahead in the game, it was wild and heady stuff, exhausting and demanding. How grateful I was that Paul kept sending me a weekly check, for what I earned at the dance company wouldn't have paid for my cosmetics.
The three of us who shared rooms 416 required at least ten hours of sleep. We got up at dawn to limber up at our home barre before breakfast. Breakfast had to be very light, as was lunch. Only during the last meal of the day,, after a performance, could we really satisfy our ravenous appetites. It seemed I was always hungry, that I never had enough to eat. In just one performance in the corps de ballet I lost five or six pounds.
Julian was with me constantly, shadowing me too closely, keeping me from dating anyone else. Depending on my mood or state of exhaustion, I was resentful of this, and other times happy to have someone around who wasn't a stranger.
Madame Zolta said one day in June, "Your name is silly! Change it! Catherine Doll--what kind of name for dancer? An inane, unexciting name--it doesn't suit you at all!"
"Now you wait a minute, Madame!" I snapped back, abandoning my attitude position. "I chose that name when I was seven and my father liked it. He thought it suited me fine, so I'm going to use it, stupid or not!" I longed to tell her Madame Naverena Zolta Korovenskov wasn't exactly what I'd call a lyrical name either.
"Don't argue with me, girl, change it!" She used her ivory walking cane to pound on the floor. But, if I changed my name, how would my mother know when I reached the top? She had to know! Still that wretched little witch in her outdated, silly costume could narrow her fierce dark eyes and lift that cane and brandish it so I was forced to yield, or else! Julian slouched nearby and grinned.
I agreed I would change the spelling of my last name from Doll to Dahl. "That is better," she said sourly, "somewhat."
Madame Z. rode my back. She nagged. She criticized. She complained if I was innovative and complained when I wasn't. She didn't like the way I wore my hair and said I had too much. "Cut it off!" she ordered but I refused to snip off even an inch, for I believed my long hair a great asset for the role of Sleeping Beauty. She snorted when I said this. (Snorting was one of her favorite means of expression.) If she hadn't been a wonderfully gifted instructor we'd have all hated her. Her very dour nature forced the best from us, for we so wanted to see her smile. She was also a choreographer, but we had another too who came and went and supervised when he wasn't in Hollywood, in Europe, or off in some remote spot dreaming up new dancing scores.
One afternoon after class, when we dancers were playing about foolishly, I jumped up to dance wildly to a popular song. Madame came in and caught me, then exploded, "We dance classical here! No modern dance here!" Her dry, wrinkled face screwed into a dried, headhunter's belt ornament. "You, Dahl, explain the difference between classical and modern."
Julian winked at me, then fell backward to rest on his elbows and cross an elegant ankle over a knee, as he delighted in my discomfort. "Succinctly, Madame," I began with my mother's poise, "the modern form of ballet consists mostly of groveling about on the floor and posturing, while classical stands up on its toes, whirls, spins, and is never too seductive or awkward. And it tells a story."
"How right you are," she said icily. "Now get you home to bed and posture and grovel there if you feel the need to express yourself in such a manner. Never let me catch you doing such before my eyes again!"
Modern and classical could be blended and made beautiful. The tightness of that small shrew enraged me, and I screamed back, "I hate you, Madame! I despise your ratty old gray costumes that should have been thrown away thirty years ago! I hate your face, your voice, your walk and your talk! Find yourself another dancer. I'm going home!" I flounced off toward the dressing room, leaving all the dancers standing in shock staring after me.
I ripped off my practice clothes and yanked on underwear. Into the dressing room stalked the grimfaced witch, her eyes mean, her lips pressed tightly together. "If you go home you never come back!"
"I don't want to come back!"
"You will wither away and die!"
"You're a fool if you think that!" I snapped without regard to her age or respect for her talent. "I can live my life without dancing, and happily too--so go to hell, Madame Zolta!"
As if a spell had been broken that old hag smiled at me, and sweetly too. "Ah . . . you have spirit. I was wondering if you did. Tell me to go to hell, it is nice to hear. Hell is better than heaven anyway. Now, seriously, Catherine," she said in a kind tone, kinder than I'd ever heard from her, "you are a wonderfully gifted dancer, the best I have, but you are so impulsive you abandon the classical and toss in whatever comes to your mind. I only try to teach you. Invent all you want, but keep it classical, elegant, beautiful." Tears glistened her eyes. "You are my delight, did you know? I think you are the daughter I never had; you take me back to when I was young and thought all life was one big romantic adventure. I'm so afraid life will steal your look of enchantment, your childish wonderment. If you can hang onto that expression, you'll soon have the world at your feet."
It was my attic face she was speaking of. That enchanted expression that used to so enthrall Chris. "I'm sorry, Madame," I said humbly. "I was rude. I was wrong to scream, but you pick on me all the time, and I'm tired, homesick too."
"I know, I know," she crooned as she came to embrace me, then rocked with me back and forth. "To be young and in a strange city is hard on the nerves and confidence. But remember, I only needed to know what you are made of. A dancer without fire is no dancer at all."
I'd been living in New York seven months, working even on the weekends until I fell into bed dead tired, before Madame Zolta thought I should be given a chance to dance a lead role with Julian to partner me. It was Madame's rule to alternate lead roles, so that there would be no stars in her company, and though she'd hinted many times she wanted me for Clara in The Nutcracker, I thought she just used that to dangle before me, like a rich plum I'd never be allowed to eat. Then it became a reality. Our company was in competition with much larger and better-known companies, so it was an absolute stroke of genius that she was able to sell a television producer on the notion that people who couldn't afford to buy ballet tickets could be reached by television.
I called Paul long distance to tell him my great news. "Paul, I'm going to appear on TV in The Nutcracker.
I'll be Clara!" He laughed and congratulated me. "I guess that means you won't be coming home this summer," he said rather sadly. "Carrie misses you an awful lot, Cathy. You've only paid us one short visit since you went away."
"I'm sorry, I want to come but I need this chance to star, Paul. Please explain to Carrie so her feelings won't be hurt. Is she there?"
"No, she's finally made a friend and is 'sleepingover.' But call again tomorrow night and reverse the charges, and tell her yourself."
"And Chris, how is he?" I asked.
"Fine, fine. He gets nothing but A's, and if he can manage to keep that up, he'll be accepted for an accelerated program and can finish out his fourth year of college while starting his first year in medical school."
"Simultaneously?" I asked, marveling that anyone, even Chris, could be that smart and
accompl
ish so much.