Ballroom: A Novel Page 5

  “We could even have a dance school,” he teases.

  “I know we’ll win gold. Sometimes I think about what if . . . what if we don’t win? I’ve been thinking, maybe we should hire a coach again.”

  “If we need lessons, I’ll pay for ’em. Work’s goin’ good,” he says, sipping his coffee. “Mike’s gonna make me manager and give me a raise. Friday, he took me to lunch an’ told me. Didn’t even have to aks.”

  “You should be manager. You work so hard, and Mike respects you. And—don’t say ‘aks,’” she reminds him softly. “It’s ask.”

  “Friday, you want to go to Lincoln Center and look at dance tapes?”

  “You know I’m busy on Fridays.” She bristles. “Why do you even ask?” Her mouth hardens. The light leaves her eyes.

  Ever since he’s known her, she’s had this secret thing she does on Fridays. He knows so much about her—except that one thing. When her father finally allowed them out dancing, she used to make excuses, but after a while Angel didn’t believe her. It was always Fridays.

  “What do you do on Friday nights?” he asks.

  “None of your business,” she says, real icy.

  “What’s the big secret?”

  “I’m busy,” she responds in a condescending tone. That was that.

  “Would you marry me, if I’m the manager?” he teases. “Would ya?”

  “You’re incorrigible!” She reaches over and runs her hand down his cheek. “Ooh, like a baby’s butt. Register for college and stop teasing me.” At least she never stays angry. That is one of the things he admires about her. But he is determined to find out where she goes on Fridays.

  “One day, I just might. Then what’ll you do?”

  “Come on, dance partner, it’s almost nine. Time to dance.”

  They pay up and head to the Ballroom.

  “A mambo,” he states before he opens the door.

  “I’m beginning to believe you are really psychic, Angel.”

  “I told you, I am.”

  Jimmy J is playing “Mambo Magic.”

  Chapter 13

  Gabriel

  In requesting a lady to dance, you stand at a proper distance, bend the body gracefully, accompanied by a slight motion of the right hand in front, you look at her with complaisance, and respectfully say, will you do me the honor to dance with me.

  —Elias Howe, The Pocket Ballroom Prompter, 1858

  Gabriel surreptitiously glances through his tinted steel-frame glasses as he dances an Argentine tango. He notices several new women, watches how they move. Details are important to him—clothing, legs, skin—and he observes more than anyone might guess. A keen sense of smell allows him to have an even deeper awareness of the room. Carefully and deliberately moving his submissive partner along the outer paths of the dance floor, Gabriel pursues scents, inhaling through flared nostrils and exhaling through an open mouth as he dances to a familiar tango, Carlos Gardel’s “La Cumparsita.”

  Gardenias. Maria Rodriguez, the unattainable prize. Dark, sultry, and elusive, in the center of the floor with Angel Morez; they are in complete connection. She is feline, with sleepy bedroom eyes; he longs to touch her satin skin, to feel her move against him. She refuses to dance with him, and he hates being refused. They would certainly make a perfect silhouette. Given the chance, she’d be his; he is certain he sees it in her eyes whenever she moves near him.

  He smells violets that come and go as he glides across the floor. It is an Asian woman with long, silky-straight mahogany hair, in a black dress. She reveals gorgeous, slender legs and looks at him flirtatiously over her partner’s shoulder before disappearing into the circling crowd. Gone, but he’ll catch her. He feels lucky tonight. Jimmy J plays the soulful Mariano Mores singing “Uno,” with the reedy, organ-like sound of the bandonion and the plaintive cries of violins.

  Watching his reflection in the mirrors, Gabriel admires his height, the fit of his jacket, his choice of tie, his hair, thick and dark, just beginning to gray around the temples, altogether a very refined image matched with his perfect carriage on the dance floor. Looking around, he’s satisfied, as always, that he is not only the best dancer but also the tallest and most elegant man at the Ballroom.

  Rebecca Douglas’s pale, refined cameo profile wears an appropriate expression of bored disdain. Despite her aloof demeanor, she is responsive to his slightest suggestion. He holds her closely in his arms like prey. He’s chosen her for the early part of the evening because she is the Argentine tango partner who establishes his mastery on the floor. All Gabriel feels is the light touch of her left arm slung across the back of his neck, her poised fingers dangling casually over his left shoulder. He feels every vertebra of her spine beneath his palm as he easily persuades her direction. Rebecca’s thigh is sandwiched between his, and she leans against him in an exaggerated café-style tango. Each time Gabriel catches their reflection, he sees a sleek, stealthy black panther gliding in long strides around the room.

  The slender straps of Rebecca’s stiletto heels slither around her ankles and up over shadowy black-stockinged legs. She dances on tiptoe and follows willingly. Everything about her is expensive: shoes, dress, jewelry, and attitude. Her perfectly highlighted blond hair is in an elegant upsweep, created to look slightly tousled. He knows they look perfect together. If only he was attracted to Dr. Rebecca Douglas. But she has no scent at all.

  When the song ends, he releases her and stands against one of the columns. Backlit, in shadow, he is able to look around. He twists the snake ring on his finger for luck as he searches the dance floor for someone new. The choice is his. A couple of dances, a few compliments, then move on. Leave them hoping.

  The Asian woman stops dancing and gives him a slight smile. Her violet perfume is naive. He moves into her space, too close, enjoying her discomfort.

  “Gabriel Katz.” He bows in an exaggerated manner. His glance stops at her feet to admire her strappy black and red tango shoes. He always notices shoes. Gallantly he holds out his hand to her for a merengue, “La Mega.”

  “May I?” He takes her in his arms without waiting for her answer. “Haven’t seen you here before. You’re a good dancer.”

  “Soo Young,” she replies, smiling at his compliment, and he knows from the slight flicker in her eye that she is interested.

  “Where’d you learn to merengue so well?” The violets are heavy in his nostrils, in his throat. He can taste her.

  She shrugs. In his arms she is smooth, young, and yielding. When the DJ transitions to a mambo, he holds her in his embrace to make certain she stays.

  “You’re a very sexy dancer. You know that?”

  “Am I?” She demurely lowers her gaze, puts her fingers to her mouth.

  “I’d like to take you dancing. Somewhere special. Give me your phone number before I leave, if you’re interested. I’m looking for a new dance partner.”

  “Do you dance professionally? What’s your name again?” she asks, giggling slightly.

  As if you’d forgotten, he thinks.

  “Gabriel. Gabriel Katz. I prefer to dance with one partner. My regular partner moved to London last month. We were together . . . let’s see, five years. By the way, where do you live?” Upper East Side, he’d bet.

  “East Fifty-First Street. How about you?”

  Right by the Queensboro Bridge. He’s done it again! “Near Forest Hills. I pass right by your street. If you’re still here when I leave, can I give you a lift home?”

  “Maybe.” She pulls away.

  “Don’t you trust me?” he whispers, his lips near her neck. Drawing in his breath, he adds for effect, “Your perfume drives me wild. Violetta di Parma?”

  “Why, yes! You know your perfumes!”

  “I’m not sure how long I’m going to stay. I’ll look for you.” Walking her off the floor, he bows again elegantly. Before he’s taken even a few steps, Tina Ostrov slips her arms through his, pulls him onto the floor to rumba.

  “Keeping out of
trouble?” She gives him a squeeze. They both laugh, but he watches furtively to see if what’s-her-name, the Asian, dances and with whom.

  “You know me.”

  “When are you going to settle down, find a wife, Gabriel? You can’t do this forever, you know. Come meet this friend of mine, Sarah Dreyfus.”

  “Is she good looking?” he asks.

  “Yes . . . and Jewish.”

  “Save her for next time.” Tonight is about Soo. He is exhilarated by the lure of a new woman, the intoxicating expectation of conquest and the knowledge that no one at the Ballroom knows he is married.

  When the ball breaks up, your lady takes your arm, and if it is a private ball, you together make your parting salutations, and conduct her to the ladies’ dressing room. When she is ready, see her safely home.

  —W. P. Hazard, The Ball-Room Companion, 1849

  At the end of the evening, Gabriel looks for Soo. She is dancing with fat Tony D. He waits and watches, leaning against a column. At the right moment, a break in the music when she stands alone, he slips up behind her and takes a firm hold of her upper arm. She’s startled. Caught off guard.

  “Want a ride home?” He is close enough to kiss her. “It’s on my way. I’d like to get to know you.”

  “Sure.”

  “My Caddy is parked around the corner.” He makes certain that they pass the Queens crowd, his arm around her waist. Out of the corner of his eye he looks for Tony D, hoping he notices.

  In the comfort of the black leather seats, driving up Park Avenue, Gabriel senses that Soo Young is relaxed. While he makes small talk, he keeps repeating her name to himself, smiling when he realizes that it sounds like “so young.”

  “Why are you laughing?” she asks.

  “Laughing? I was just thinking about meeting you. You make a man feel comfortable. Like he can really talk to you. Most women act as if they have a chip on their shoulders. How often do you go dancing? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I moved to New York recently. From Chicago,” she explains. “You’re really good, I noticed.”

  “As I mentioned when we met, I’m looking for someone really special for my partner. Someone with style. That knows how to dress. We’d have to practice. I could make you into quite a dancer. That is, if you’re interested.”

  “Oh, yes, I would definitely be interested. How often would we go dancing?”

  “Several nights a week, and of course weekends. No performances, though. If you’re looking for that, I’m not your man.”

  “Have you performed?” she asks.

  “If that’s what you’re looking for, get yourself a dance instructor.”

  He can’t believe his luck when he finds a parking space in front of her building.

  “Here’s my card. If you’re interested, give me a call.”

  “Oh, you sell diamonds?”

  “Do you like diamonds?” Again he notices the hungry glint in her eyes.

  She laughs.

  “What do you do?” he asks.

  “I’m on Wall Street.” She slips the card into her purse, hands him back one of hers. Stepping out of the car, he kisses her card before putting it in his breast pocket. She waits for him to open her door.

  “I’d actually like to ask your advice about several investments I’m considering.” He takes her hand and walks her toward her building. “I’d love a cup of coffee before I drive home. I feel as though I might fall asleep at the wheel. Would you mind?”

  Chapter 14

  Angel

  Ladies are permitted to command the most unlimited services of their partners; but they should impose this task upon him in such a manner to make it delightful, rather than onerous.

  —W. P. Hazard, The Ball-Room Companion, 1849

  Angel loves Maria in red. Red dresses are a tradition in his family. Papa buys his mother one every year, which she wears on her birthday.

  Papa bought her the first dress on her thirtieth birthday, when Angel was fourteen. With her burnished auburn hair done up in curls and her makeup brighter than usual, Sylvia Morez sat at the kitchen table, putting on her highest red sling-back heels. She stretched each leg to smooth her panty hose, boldly admiring them. She’d spent the day at Rosa’s Beauty Parlor. Papa gave her $100 so she could do her hair, a manicure and pedicure. He even told her to take a taxi both ways because it was her birthday.

  “I have to sit very still until my party,” she said with a laugh, perched on the edge of the chair, “so I keep myself beautiful. You guys will have to do everything! My love slaves.” She buffed her nails against her low-cut dress.

  Angel turned on the radio. Her head began to move from side to side to the beat of the song, like the baseball doll perched on the rear window of Papa’s car. Next, her bare shoulders, dusted with the sheerest glitter, rolled in wavelike motions while her elbows brushed against her slender waist in one, two—one, two, three time. Mama could never sit still when the music playing was a salsa.

  Each finger was adorned with one of her collection of gold rings, and she wore the bracelets Papa had given her over the years. While making little pouty movements with her mouth, she bit into her lower lip. Everything about her was in syncopation with the music. It made Angel laugh. Papa winked at him.

  She stopped for a moment and smiled. Her blushed cheeks were like high polished apples. As she stood up, patting the gardenia Julio brought for her to wear above her ear, her hips moved in one direction as her strapless top moved in another. Angel thought she was shaped like a graceful red vase.

  “What are you both laughing at?” she asked. “Me? Come on, Julio, dance with me.” She stood, but not still. Papa moved one foot in time to the music and stirred his café con leche. Shaking his head, his father said, “Dance with your son, Mami. Fourteen years old, and he’s already the best dancer in the family.”

  “Come, Angel, we’ll dance.” She beckoned with one finger.

  As they danced, her face was flushed, her dark eyes flashed, and she laughed and laughed. Angel thought she was gorgeous for thirty. Julio tried very hard to look serious.

  “You know, when I was young, I danced with the best dancers. On weekends, I could dance merengue all night,” she said.

  The photo of his mother in the bamboo frame on their bedroom dresser was taken when she was a teenager at Luquillo Beach in Puerto Rico. Rather than a gardenia, she wore a hibiscus in her wavy black hair. Dressed in a sarong, her curves in all the right places, leaning against a palm tree, she looked like a movie star.

  Dancing close to Julio and puckering her lips, she blew him a kiss across one open palm.

  “I don’t know why I married your papa. He won’t dance. Not just with me. With nobody.” She complained about Julio, but everyone knew, especially Angel, that she adored her husband. “He knows how, I swear. He’s got great rhythm. Just won’t dance.”

  Julio reached out to pinch her backside as she shimmied by, and he laughed too. Grabbing Julio’s hand, Sylvia tried to pull him out of his chair, but he just kept stirring his coffee.

  “Look, Julio,” his mother called to her husband. “Look at our baby boy. Fourteen, and already he’s six-foot-two. With those dark eyes—he’s a lady-killer. Like you, Julio, before you got so fat. The dancing, he gets that from me.” She took Angel’s face in her hands, looked into his eyes. “Dios te bendiga. God bless you. I always bless you, even if you don’t ask,” she whispered. “The best, our Angel,” she said to Julio. “Is he gorgeous, or what?”

  As the song ended, she slid onto a chair, breathless, arms gracefully outstretched to check that she hadn’t damaged her manicure.

  “Si, mi amor.” Julio poured himself another coffee and added spoon after spoonful of sugar.

  “Enough sugar.” She pushed the sugar bowl away. Laughing, she reached over to pat Julio’s stomach, and as he reached for a cookie, she smacked his hand.

  “Always kind, respectful . . . and what a smile! Could light up a room, my mama used to say. She was
crazy about you, Julio. You always made her laugh.”

  Angel took two cookies, waiting for her to smack him, but of course she didn’t.

  “Sylvia, your mama worked hard to take care of you,” Julio added.

  “We were so poor,” she continued, “after my papa ran away with the cousin. Julio would walk me and my two brothers right to our classroom to make sure the boys went inside.” She hesitated, as though picturing it.

  “After school, your papa helped me with my mathematics. I remember his notes, so careful and neat. When he finally asked Mama if he could marry me, he promised her that he would never let me work. I used to think that Mama was in love with him herself.”

  Julio heaved a heavy sigh, put down the cup. “After we got married, and you were born, after ’Nam,” he said, “I came to New York to make money, to get a better job than anything I could find in Puerto Rico. I lived with Uncle Tito, in the Bronx, slept on his sofa. Got a good, steady job at Fischer’s Auto Parts. Mr. Fischer trusted me to do his books. Kept giving me raises. I worked hard to prove I was somebody.” His father sat up straighter, puffed up and proud. “In those days, if you were Puerto Rican, they thought you must be on welfare. I wanted to show them it isn’t true.”

  Sylvia nodded approvingly, rubbing her hand on Julio’s back.

  “Your papa, he helped Tito pay the rent and sent half his money to me. He worked very hard, but then he got very depressed from missing me and you. Couldn’t sleep or eat. He went to Mr. Fischer to ask him to lend the money to bring us to New York, so we could all be together. He promised his boss to make it up.”

  “I did, too,” Julio insisted. “Paid back every penny. Worked so hard. Went to school nights. That’s why when Fischer retired five years ago, he turned the business over to me, because his own son is not as good a business person as me. And he isn’t interested in auto parts. He went to medical school.”

  “Papa kept his promise to my mama. I never worked my whole life. He’s been a good provider. So what if he doesn’t want to dance?” Suddenly his mother snuggled onto her husband’s lap and, taking his hand, pressed his fingers to her lips. In her pointy red sling-backs, shiny red toenails peeking out, she kicked up her legs like a showgirl. “He still makes me laugh.”