* * *
*
Dara didn’t have time for the escalating Clara drama. She had bigger problems.
She had the contractor, who seemed to grow larger every day. Not his girth, which was not insignificant, but his presence. He was never not there, from when Dara arrived until, it seemed, after she left—Marie taking his hand and slinking up the spiral staircase with him to her attic hovel.
* * *
*
That night, Benny and Gaspar worked late, their arms sunk deep in polyplastic. Derek was nowhere to be seen.
“You two should go home,” Dara told them finally.
They looked at her dubiously, pulling the masks from their faces.
“I won’t tell him,” she added discreetly. “Go home.”
Benny nodded knowingly, but Gaspar, sliding his mask back on, added, under his breath, “He comes back sometimes. You know.”
Dara let out a tangled cough and wished suddenly that she had a mask too.
* * *
*
It was after eight. Dara had sent Marie and Charlie to the Ballenger Center to meet with Madame Sylvie and the set designer and prop master to get approvals on the Christmas tree preparations. Neither appeared too eager about their task. They increasingly seemed to avoid each other lately. Shouldn’t Dara go, they both said, not me?
“You know all the important things,” Marie said glumly. “And I have plans . . .”
“I have a private session tonight,” Dara said. “Faites votre devoir. Do your duty.”
Marie looked at her, her shoulders drawing back in surprise.
“You sound just like her,” she said, her voice suddenly small. “Mother.”
Dara paused. “No, I don’t,” she said. “You better get moving.”
And so Marie left.
If Derek returns, Dara thought smugly, he’ll be out of luck.
* * *
*
I hope I make you proud,” Corbin kept saying, blinking nervously.
“I hope so too,” Dara said, eyes on his port de bras, his arms droopy, weak. The simplest things were always the hardest.
She’d promised some extra time to Corbin, her struggling Nutcracker Prince. He came back to the studio late, his face ruddy from the cold, and pled with her.
How could she say no? It was a challenging role. He had to do battle and to woo and, in that famous moment when the Nutcracker costume, attached with cables, is whisked away to reveal the Prince behind the festive carapace, he had to make sure he wasn’t swept away with it.
But, as always with the Nutcracker Prince, the big moments were never the problem. It was the small, the elemental things. The port de bras. The movement of the arms, fluid, elegant.
“Watch those hands,” Dara said, shaking her head. “I want to see a pocket of air between the thumb and fingers. And straight spine, please.”
“Yes, Madame Durant,” he replied, half-breathless.
* * *
*
He lifted his arms again and immediately over-rotated, his shoulder blade jutting unnaturally. Chicken wings, Charlie had said earlier that day, watching him. Tsk tsk.
“Can you—might you show me?” he said.
Dara shook her head dismissively. Because you didn’t touch students. Not past eleven or twelve. Other than rotating or softening a hand. It was a shame because the boys in particular would benefit from it. Many had a tendency to be too hard, too rough. To compensate, overcompensate for the fact that they were boys who were dancing, who stretched tights over their bodies and strapped on dance belts. It was so difficult anywhere, anytime, to be a boy who wanted to dance.
Charlie knew that.
At one time, teachers used to touch all the time, used to manhandle. Their mother used to tell them her former teachers would be appalled to know it was now considered unsuitable, worse. épater la bourgeoisie, she used to mutter. They’re the ones with the filthy minds.
And poor Corbin seemed so fretful, seeking. Again, it was like he wanted to be touched, his need so great it ached. Show me. Might you show me.
Instead, Dara began to demonstrate.
“Your arms as an extension of your back,” she said, moving her arms, turning her wrists. Airy, light, from first position to second, third, fourth to fifth, her arms ending above her head, her breastbone lifting, his eyes on her. “Like wings.”
“Yes, Madame,” Corbin said softly, watching.
“You must understand, Corbin,” she said, “that you have wings.”
His eyelids fluttered a moment and then stuttered to a stop. He watched her. He watched her shoulders out, arms in, wrists and hands out once, twice, three times in succession. He watched with those heavy-lidded, drowsy eyes of his, their pupils tight and bright now.