RETURN TO SWAN LAKE

a novel by Gary Canup

Chapter 5

"I thought you danced well today," her mother told her in the back of the chauffeured limousine as they rode home from practice at Madame Jenkins' studio that night. "As did Madame Jenkins. She tells me you have as much potential as any young dancer she has seen in the last fifteen years. That is high praise indeed. Of course, to become her student, you will still have to pass the audition. And she bestowed at least as much praise upon that Baker girl. Frankly, I don't see much merit in that girl's dance. Too ungainly. She doesn't have anywhere near your natural athleticism. But if Madame puts her on the same level as you then you must work hard to excel over the Baker girl and to prove to Madame which of you is the superior dancer."

As they passed through a neon glow, Jan's face, which had been masked in darkness, pinkened temporarily to reveal her staring expressionlessly out the backseat window before darkness masked her again.

"Madame did have one minor criticism, however, regarding your performance. There is still far too much visible evidence of modern dance in your style. Madame Jenkins is a ballet purist and a traditionalist and she is right, there is no place in classical ballet for the contaminating influence of modern dance. Sometimes I think you're just being stubborn and rebellious and don't even try to modify your style. To become a student of Madame Jenkins you must do your utmost to weed out every last vestige of the effects of modern dance. We'll have to work on that before the next practice."

"Surely you don't mean tonight," Jan said with exasperation.

"I most certainly do mean tonight. There are several hours yet before bedtime."

"But I have other things to do."

"Such as?"

"I was going to phone Davy tonight. We're planning something."

"First things first, young lady. Your phone call to the urchin can wait."

"Don't call Davy that."

"That's what he is, isn't he?"

Jan stared sullenly out the window.

"I'd like you to iron out these problems before next practice, or at least begin to, to impress Madame with your earnestness and dedication. I don't know why you feel it so necessary to be with that public-school brat anyway."

"Mother, we've been over that before."

"I imagine his face to be all smudged and his fingers all sticky. He's such a waste of your time."

"He's my friend, Mother. Can't you understand that?"

"Can't you make friends in ballet school?"

"I have but I want friends outside of ballet for a change. Those girls are so boring. All they do is talk ballet. Actually the most interesting one among them is the one you so derisively refer to as that Baker girl. The others are as boring as — "

"As what?"

"Never mind."

"As I?"

"I wasn't going to say that."

"I think you probably were."

"Besides, there aren't any boys in ballet school."

"Boys," Mother said, shaking her head and peering out the window with disdain.

"I'm at that age when I want to be around boys, Mother. Surely you remember how it was. You just have to accept that."

Mother leaned forward and tapped on the glass. The chauffeur lowered the transparent sound-proof partition.

"Yes, madam?"

"Do you like ballet, Anthony?"

"Absolutely adore it, madam."

"If my daughter by any chance has ever told you that she wants to do anything so commonplace as teach modern dance when she grows up, don't you believe her. She yearns for a future in ballet. She has never wanted to be anything but a famous ballerina. Do you hear me, Anthony? Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Anthony replied.

"You may raise the partition now."

The chauffeur did so.

Mother sat back and smiled at her daughter with self-satisfaction.

"By the way, Mother, you were very rude to Davy the other day."

"To whom?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

"Oh, am I being scolded by my own daughter? So why the tone of surprise? Am I not equally rude to all your little friends?"

"That's not funny. Davy's a sensitive boy and I don't want you trying to chase him away with your rudeness."

"Need I remind you to whom you are speaking, young lady? If I'm nice to the urchin you will have to make certain concessions too, like working hard at your dancing when it is required of you. It's a give-and-take world, young lady. A world of mutual backscratching. Everyone must compromise."

"You mean if I work hard you'll let Davy come over occasionally without offending him?"

"I'll consider it. We'll see how hard you work first."

Jan stared out the window again.

Mother grinned at her cunningly. "Don't think I don't see what's so special about this boy. I notice his resemblance to the one with whom you shared a history tutor last summer in Paris, the one with the blond hair and the pretty face. The one who died in that car crash with his parents? The one with whom you were in love?"

"I like Davy for himself," Jan insisted.

"Of course you do, dear. And I'm really a man and have been all my life. I knew his parents, Janice. It was a tragedy what happened to them, but he was a lad of substance and his parents were individuals of breeding and you must not dream that you can substitute this middle-class urchin for your loss."

"Stop calling him that!"

They pulled up in front of the mansion. Floodlights lit up the facade and multi-colored lights illuminated the spurting waters of the fountain. Anthony got out and opened the door and Jan stormed up the walk to the portico and Mother reproachfully followed. Eddie let them in. Ordinarily at this time of night they would have been prepared and served a light but nourishing dinner, just the two of them seated in the elaborate dining room at one end of the long polished table, but tonight they went upstairs to the studio, which had been finished only yesterday, and Jan changed back into leotard and point shoes. Her hair was still the way she usually wore it when she danced ballet, pulled sleekly back and braided and wound in a coil pinned at the back of her head. She briefly warmed up at the barre, observing her form in the mirror. Resting her hand lightly on the barre, standing erect with her heels together and her toes pointing outward and her arms a little out at the sides, she performed a series of graceful deep knee-bends, her free arm daintily extended. Next she lifted her right heel gracefully onto the barre and slowly bent forward until her forehead touched her knee and she felt the muscles stretching in her thighs and hips. Then she performed the same movement to limber up the muscles of her left leg.

"That's enough warm up," Mother said. "Now concentrate on purity of balletic movement. Picture in your mind the movements of a great classical ballerina and consciously force your own movements to conform to that ideal. Extinguish every trace of movement that is tainted with modern dance."

"What movements should I do?"

"Start with the basics. Perform them in isolation. First the entrechat."

Jan assumed a position in the middle of the floor. She performed an entrechat while Mother watched with disapproval. "Again. Do a series. Concentrate."

She practiced the entrechat, then the fouette, the pirouette, and the rond de jambe.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Mother said. "You look like a penguin with joints of glass."

"I'm tired, Mother. I've been dancing all day."

"When I was your age I danced all day and all night long without ever getting fatigued. Try a pair of fouettes to a glissade and a leap and an arabesque."

Jan attempted the sequence of movements and fell down.

"Oh, for Christ's sake! I hope you have a good excuse for such a clumsy display of bafoonery."

"I told you, Mother, I'm tired."

"Tired? What does it mean? Come on, try again."

Jan stubbornly continued to sit on the floor. "I've been dancing since morning, Mother. And I haven't even had any dinner."

"And you won't until you show some progress or at least a will to try."

"I told Davy I'd call him tonight."

"Show me some progress and I'll let you call your precious urchin."

"Do you promise?"

"Of course. Now try the sequence again. Concentrate. Focus on eliminating all those loose, undisciplined, Duncanesque movements. Tighten up your form. Get serious and precise."

Jan tried the sequence again, and many others after that. Mother watched with menacing scrutiny and delivered grudging praise. Two hours later, the girl was performing more to the woman's satisfaction.

"Better," her mother finally said, turning and starting to leave the studio. "Much much better. You may now call your precious substitute."

But by now it was way too late to call Davy, and Jan was too exhausted to talk anyway. She stripped off her leotard and point shoes and without even showering or dining climbed into bed and slept like a stone.