Long over due - just another petal of me. |
A pair of toe shoes hang suspended now by faded pink ribbons-- tattered and threadbare. Toes worn to scraps of fabric barely covering the hard wooden tip, arches broken, split at the seams. but once, oh once, they supported her as she danced. Giselle, Clara, Coppélia, Juliet, and Sleeping Beauty -- she danced them all across stages and worlds. These were the shoes she wore when she danced behind iron curtains and later, graced nations. Whether a ten-shilling ticket holder or before royals she danced to the music of dreams, danced to each, danced her soul. Photos, some faded to sepia, line the wall. Caught mid grande Jette or pirouette, lifted high or balanced in a perfect arabesque, each capturing the sheer essence of poise and elegance. Telegrams, aged, or hand-written missives extol her performances. Prima, indeed she was-- in all ways not simply within a role. On and off the boards she was velvet steel. Always calm, no tantrums for her. She danced out her demons. No one saw, however, the goddess backstage. When the lights were dimmed and the audience long departed, no one ever saw the tears that streamed, as he gently massaged misshapen feet, legs, calves shaking with tremors. Only he lifted her, cradled her in a steaming tub, tucked her under warm blankets. Only he cajoled her into slivers of fruit, a cup of tea. No one but he knew her courage-- fighting sinew and muscles that cramped as she practiced every day for dances imprinted in every cell. The world knew her face, her name, and worshipped her with yellow roses and acclaim. No one knew of him let alone his name. He never cared. Her escort, her rock, her love-- she was his reason every bit as much he was hers. Long after that farewell dance, after the last rose was tossed to the stage, after the world forgot their darling he was still there for her. He knew her and loved her more than the masses ever did or could. Now they had time for slow waltzes beneath the trees hearing only imagined music for a few steps, she could dance. Now they traveled and saw the places where she'd only seen the insides of a theater, no longer missing out on Sacre Cour or San Marcos Square. Now they nibbled art and snacked on architecture, leaving the soaring to the buttresses of Notre Dame. And when like a lovely flower, she wilted away, he was there, her ever-faithful love to gather up her fallen petals and preserved them in the book of his mind. You'd know her if you saw her picture. But his name, except for some of us, has been lost to the dying notes of a piano. Know him now: dear, dear, Hans. Half a foot shorter than she, one arm twisted. He looked as if he'd been pieced together from a pile of mismatched body parts--all of them broken or discarded. Except for his eyes. Sword silver and sharp. Except for his smile. Tender and always for her. Except for his mind. Facile, intelligent, and able to keep all the myriad details in focus. She always said that he was her perfect partner. For twenty-five years after she left to dance among the stars, he lived quietly. His small flat was an homage to his love, to her dance, to her life. Most of the money they'd saved went quietly to sponsor those who loved to dance. It never mattered if they were brilliantly good; only that they truly loved the ballet and would work to be the best they could be. He would come to performances and sit in the very back row. A yellow rose, her favorite, left behind to show he'd been there. Hans died in his ninety-seventh year. Quietly, in his sleep, he left to dance with his love. He took her shoes with him, the rest of the memorabilia he'd discarded. It was for him, only, you see. Seventeen of us stood in the pouring rain as a bone-chilling wind wrapped us in the minister's words before blowing them to the trees. Sisters in that moment although we were but strangers called to say a final goodbye. Two went on to rise to the pinnacle: to be prima. The rest of us took different paths, lost touch. We were all touched by Hans and his love. And they dance on. In our garden, a yellow rose bush is showing signs of spring. Soon, it too, shall dance once more. |