84 Ribbons: A Dancer's Journey Read online

  84

  Ribbons

  84 Ribbons:

  Copyright © 2013 Paddy Eger. All Rights Reserved.

  www.PaddyEger.com

  Published by Tendril Press™

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.

  All images, logos, quotes, and trademarks included in this book are subject to use according to trademark and copyright laws of the United States of America.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Tendril Press and Paddy Eger. The material in this book is furnished for informational use only and is subject to change without notice. Tendril Press assumes no responsibility for any errors or inaccuracies that may appear in the documents contained in this book.

  ISBN 978-0-9858933-2-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013943617

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 First Publishing: 2014

  Author Photo by: Yuen Lui

  www.YuenLuiStudio.com

  Lynnwood, WA

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  Cover Photo by shutterstock.com:

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  To all who love ballet.

  May it fill your heart and soul with joy

  Dance is the hidden language of the soul.

  — Martha Graham

  Marta circled the narrow corridor outside the Olympic Hotel’s Grand Ballroom. She shook out her hands and adjusted her leotard again, pulling the leg bands out and letting them snap against her tights. After ten years of lessons, recitals, and training, today’s audition would decide her future.

  The ballroom door opened. A slender man dressed in black leaned out. “Hello, girls and boys. I’m Damien Black. Hand me your audition paperwork and pin on the number I give you. We’ll begin shortly.”

  Marta pinned on number seventeen, her age. A bit of good luck? If you believed such a thing. Today would be the final test. She’d received no call backs or invitations to join the ballet companies from earlier auditions. Feedback would have helped, but they only sent rejection letters.

  Miss Holland, her dance teacher, worked with her before and after each audition, helping her iron out small problems with lengthening her arm extensions and improving her timing. Now audition season ended. Ballet companies moved forward to settle into new seasons. She’d given each audition her best. Today provided one last chance.

  Five minutes passed before Damien Black opened the door and signaled the dancers into the ballroom. “Form a line,” he said.

  Judges sat at two long tables. As the lines formed, they began pointing to dancers, whispering to each other and writing on the audition applications.

  Marta stood in fifth position and finger-combed her curly brown bangs, pressing them against her forehead. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears as she portioned out a performance smile and swallowed hard to calm herself.

  She glanced to either side. Every dancer remained statue still. She lifted her rib cage and tightened her back muscles to control her twitching. How could the judges possibly write so much before any dancing began?

  After they lowered their pens, a petite, wrinkled woman rose from the table. Her red lipstick clashed with her pink blouse and her blue eyeliner. She leaned heavily on a carved wooden cane as she spoke. “I am Madame Cosper, director of the Intermountain Ballet Company. With me are Damien Black, ballet master, along with Mrs. Scott and Mrs. Zachary, distinguished ballet patrons.”

  Madame Cosper’s harsh voice, narrow face, and odd outfit matched the directors at her previous auditions. All taught with such intensity, so unlike her dance teacher back home who smiled all the time. At least Damien Black acted friendly enough.

  Madame Cosper thrust her chin forward and squinted. “Today’s audition will assess seven elements including basic style, floor exercise form, your ability to quickly learn choreography, rhythmic sense, interpretation of the Sleeping Beauty waltz as a group performance and as a solo, in addition to your prepared solo.” She made an abrupt turn to point her cane like a sword. “You, number six. Get rid of that gum!”

  A low chuckle spread through the assembled dancers as the gum chewer deposited his wad in a nearby trash can and returned to the line.

  “Quick, quick!” Madame’s voice reminded Marta of a drill sergeant. “Spread out. Six people to a barre. We don’t have all day!”

  Marta wiped her damp hands on her leotard before she took hold of the cold metal barre. She shook out both legs and stood ready to begin. Why, after years of dancing, did she continue to feel nervous?

  “Let’s begin. First position, and one, two, three, and four.”

  The pianist, seated to one side of the room, shifted from background music to barre exercise music in 4/4 time. Marta kept her free arm curved, pulled her spine straight, and tucked in her derrière as she lowered into a first position demi-plié and rose. She repeated her movement, this time dropping into a grand plié before she rose onto pointe, held her relevé four counts, then lowered her body to a neutral stance. Next, she moved to a plié in second position.

  “Number three, you’re dropping your arm,” Madame said. “You, boy number ten, tuck your shirt into your tights. Ack! Sloppy. Pay attention, boys and girls. Remember, barre exercises are part of your evaluation.”

  Miss Holland had taught Marta that the trick at auditions meant dancing well without standing out. After all, corps de ballet dancers performed as background until they earned solos. Even so, Madame Cosper expected perfection.

  After barre exercises, the hopefuls moved to floor exercises. Marta stood between two blondes with perfect ballet bodies, perfect arms, and perfect hair. She fingered her curly mop and sucked in her bottom lip as she watched and listened to Madame’s directions. Previous ballet company judges appreciated her flowing arms, lyrical head movements, and precise footwork. Would that be enough to compensate for her difficulty remembering long sequences of choreography?

  Half an hour later, while the dancers rested in fifth position, Madame paced and explained the group audition piece. “We’ll teach you a waltz from Sleeping Beauty, a portion of our fall program. You’ll dance it three times: the first two as rehearsals, the third we’ll score as your group performance evaluation.”

  Madame walked through the steps, moving her hands to demonstrate foot movements like Miss Holland and other instructors did. She barked the combinations over and over as the hopefuls executed the steps.

  After twenty minutes of practicing she said, “Stop. We’ll begin your two rehearsals now.” She nodded to the pianist.

  Marta’s insides tingled. She touched her mom’s necklace that hung on a silver chain beneath the neck of her leotard imaging her mother’s presence. As the music began, she took a refreshing breath and glided into the waltz.

  Balancé, balancé, relevé, dip, bourreé left, boureé right, repeat, repeat. The crescendos and or
chestrated hesitations pulled Marta into the music. She executed each step, adding elongated flourishes to show her ability to finish each move before beginning the next.

  Madame clapped to emphasize the beat. She mouthed the steps, then marked an agitated beat with her cane against the wooden floor.

  “Stay on the count, boys and girls. Lift higher, extend your arms.”

  When the second rehearsal ended, the dancers leaned forward, panting and resting with their hands on their knees.

  “Adequate. I see little evidence of happiness. This is a waltz. Show your joy. Finish every move before you begin the next.”

  Well, at least I did that right, Marta thought.

  “Now, begin the scored waltz.”

  Marta adjusted her leotard and began, completing each combination of steps. For the turns, she focused on a spot above the judges’ heads, lifted her rib cage, and whirled around and around, elevating her arms to improve her balance. As the piece ended, she bowed and held the pose. Thank heavens she’d avoided crashing into the guy who threw his arms around like a fish out of water. He was all over the dance space, causing a number of near misses. No one needed or wanted that kind of attention.

  “Mediocre at best.” Madame scowled as she paced before the judges’ table. “It’s a quarter after eleven. Return by a quarter of one, sharp. We’ve allotted each of you ten minutes for performing this dance and your solo. We’ll post your audition times on the door. Mark the beginning for your solo music distinctly. Leave it in the box by this door with your audition number clearly printed on the top. Dismissed.” Madame pounded her cane one last time, then pointed its black-cushioned tip toward the exit.

  Like Marta, every dancer wore a sheen of sweat. She wondered if any of them shared her concern of remembering the performance piece after so few rehearsals. She began a silent walk through, marking the location of each step and the position of her arms.

  “You! Number seventeen,” Madame Cosper said. “What are you doing?”

  “Walking through the waltz, Madame”.

  “Move along. The judges need to meet without your snooping.”

  “Yes, Madame.” Marta scooted out of the room in time to see dancers dressed in street clothes heading out the door in clutches of two or three. Traces of laughter lingered as the exit slid closed. A few mothers dressed in tailored suits herded their daughters and sons toward the hotel’s formal dining room. Ugh. How could anyone eat during auditions?

  Marta stowed her ballet shoes and slipped a flowered jumper over her leotard. She exited the hotel and headed downtown, treating herself to a quick window shopping tour along Seattle’s posh Fifth Avenue.

  The August sun soothed her damp, tired body as she strolled north along the gently sloping street. She remembered the waltz movements and hummed the music as she passed two theaters: the Music Box and the Coliseum. She completed a simple turn as she stopped to read the coming events posters.

  Since the age of ten, she’d hoped to be a prima ballerina with a prestigious ballet company like Ballet Russe or Sadler Wells. She saw herself performing in Seattle, dancing perfectly with flowing arms and effortless turns. Her partner’s skills would showcase their ability to dance in unison. Together they’d be honored with half a dozen bows before she received a bouquet of purple roses.

  The street noise brought her back to where she’d stopped. She walked on. Window dressers worked on mannequins, removing the flowered tops, colorful swimsuits, and big beach hats like she’d seen in the summer issue of Seventeen. Autumn plaids, fitted wool jackets, and brown penny loafers lay nearby. Breezy summer fashions of 1957, like her carefree life, changed before her eyes. Next month she’d either be dancing for a ballet company or looking for a job. Both prospects scared her.

  Back in the ballroom hallway, Marta placed her sheet music in the designated box and read the notice attached to the door: Stay quiet. Do not leave as the order may change. Be prepared to dance five minutes before your assigned time.

  Her name appeared fourth. Perfect! She’d ride the ferry home in time to go to the dance studio and share her audition with her mom and Miss Holland.

  She paced the hall but kept watch as dancers entered the ballroom. She listened as their music started and stopped. As each dancer exited, none glanced sideways or spoke to the others. A handful of hovering parents wandered the hallways, trailing dancers, asking, “Well?”

  A twinge of sadness settled in. Sign-up week at the dance studio back home kept her mom too busy to come to Seattle. Previously she’d driven Marta to and from auditions. They’d discuss the judging and make predictions on the outcome. So far they’d been wrong. Marta had not been offered a position. Maybe going alone was best. Wearing her necklace, loaned for this occasion, kept her mom close but gave Marta a chance to take charge of herself.

  The hall clock read one-thirty. Ten minutes before her audition began. Marta straightened her practice skirt and completed her warm-ups. She mentally danced her selection one last time and took deep breaths to quiet the gathering butterflies.

  Damien Black opened the door. “Mr. Dankin? Miss Sel, Sel-birth?”

  Marta smiled and stepped forward with the other dancer. Her turn began in minutes. Why had he called two names?

  He ushered Mr. Dankin into the ballroom and stepped into the hall. “We’ve changed the dance order,” Damien said as he scanned the list. “You’ll be last.”

  Her insides dropped like an elevator moving from the top floor in the Bon Marche to the bargain basement. She gritted her teeth and nodded; her skin warmed like she’d stepped into a furnace. Now she’d be wandering the hall for more than three hours. She wanted to scream. Instead, she dropped a dime in the pay phone and dialed.

  “Good afternoon, Holland Dance Studio. This is Elle.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  Marta explained the change of schedule while attempting to stay calm.

  “You know what they say; save the best for last.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Keep your spirits up,” Her mom said. “You’re a talented dancer.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’d better get back. See you at home.”

  h

  The hour hand crawled around the clock as one by one dancers entered and exited the ballroom. She stretched, replayed the dances in her head, and paced the corridor.

  At a quarter of five the music inside the ballroom stopped once again. She swallowed hard, retied her black practice skirt, and fingered the trickle of sweat above each ear. The ballroom door opened. Could the exiting dancer hear her heart pounding like a snare drum?

  Damien scanned his clipboard. “Miss Sel-birth?

  Marta followed him into the ballroom. Light flooded one section of the polished floor. The judges watched her stop to rosin her pointe shoes.

  “This is Miss Sel-birth,” Damien said. “After the group waltz she’ll dance “The Sugar Plum” from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker.” He turned to Marta. “When you’re ready, signal the pianist.”

  Marta moved past the judges to stage right. She positioned herself, nodded to the pianist, and waited for her musical cue.

  The waltz music rushed through her, filling her with energy. She moved from one side of the room to the other, letting the music overtake her thinking. Each step automatically blended into the next. Her arms remembered every position and nuance.

  During her dozen dizzying pirouettes, she slipped once, but covered the slip with a tiny hop. As she ended the selection, she held her pose for five seconds, then straightened to fifth position and watched the judges mark her evaluation form. The pianist sat quietly, waiting to play her individual piece. Back at the Bremerton studio, she’d walk in circles to relax; during an audition, such actions underscored an unprofessional dancer.

 
Madame squinted and set down her pen. A scowl ran from her brow to her chin in one long crease that sideswiped her nose. She spoke to Damien, then both resumed writing.

  “You may begin your personal selection,” Damien said.

  Marta moved to stage left. When the Nutcracker music began, she became the sugar plum fairy, gliding through each measure. As her solo neared the end, she adjusted her tension and took a deep breath. Her relevé to pointe prepared her to hop forward, using her flowing arms to distract her audience of judges from the strain of bearing her body weight on the tip of one pointe shoe.

  When the pianist played the last chord, Marta held her ending pose, again for five seconds, while she slowed her breathing through semi-closed lips. After curtsying, she straightened, collected her music from the pianist, and stood before the judges.

  Minutes passed. She relaxed, moving from exhilaration to total fatigue. Madame’s face wore a stony glare of displeasure; maybe she preferred the alternate choreography with head whipping fouetté turns. As the other judges finished writing, they shared impersonal smiles with Marta.

  Damien’s head popped up. “Did you take all your training in Bremerton?”

  “Yes.”

  “What traditional ballet solos and ensemble pieces have you danced?”

  “I’ve danced “The Sugar Plum,” as well as many Nutcracker character dances. I’ve also performed several sections from Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake, including the cygnets.”

  “Ah, yes, the swans. Any others?” he asked.

  Marta’s mind went blank. “Ah, didn’t I write them on my form?”