I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [26]
“Boss, it’s only once a week that I have to go to Mass and Communion, and it’s only in the morning and at night that I have to say the Rosary, and it’s only three times. That’s what Sister Carmelita said.”
“Well, the French nuns in Montreal taught me differently. Better.”
“Sister Carmelita said if I did it, Jesus would give me any wish I picked.”
“Well, I don’t know about what Sister Carmelita said, but I’ve been saying the Novena all my life, and I know how to do it. Nine, that’s how many times you say the Rosary, not three. Besides, it doesn’t hurt to do more. Doing more is good for you, and you only get your wish if it is good for you.” (She knew the escape clause.)
I was nine and a half and, back at SAB, already attending the intermediate class, where many of the students were adults, hoping to become performing artists. Once you start to perform, the ANXIETY DREAMS begin. A typical one:
The Overture’s playing, and in your dressing room you can’t get into your tights, or can’t find your costume or dancing shoes.
But before you become a performer, you have the Glory Dreams. A recurring one for me:
In an assemblé (a vigorous leap, the legs glued together and to one side), I would cross the entire room in slow motion. Floating, soaring, landing feather-light. Then, I’d take off again and in one grand jeté (legs in a split, arms flung skyward), I would cross Central Park.
In a grand jeté. Drawing by David Levine, 1985 (image credit 3.3)
I fed on these delicious GLORY DREAMS, night after night, then replayed and embellished them in daydreams. Then it came to me. I knew what favor I wanted Mary to ask her Son to impart. “Jesus, help me to fly.”
Sister Carmelita’s version of the Novena was discarded for the Boss’s Montreal version—and play it safe, throw in a few extra Rosaries here and there—plus work on the flying costume.
Black tights, white socks coming up to below the knee, black ballet shoes, a black long-sleeved shirt. Tights and shirt held at the waist with a shiny black leather belt. A Lone Ranger mask, purchased at a local five-and-dime store, added a sinister touch. The Boss had acquired a new oilcloth for the kitchen table, a royal-blue one. With the shiny surface up, spilled foods could easily be wiped clean. The discarded oilcloth, I pilfered from the garbage can. Its underside was off-white, and marked with the designs for Boss’s button game.
Late at night, I took the Boss’s sewing scissors and shaped the rectangular oilcloth into a batlike cape with a neck hole cut on one edge, so I could stick my head through. That way the cape would drape off my shoulders and down my back. Neat. How I pranced and swirled in front of the bathroom mirror, posturing and delighting in my creation. The off-white with its button-game pattern on the lining of the cape dramatically highlighted the silhouette of my costume, black mask and all.
The hardest was to make the sword. Swoboda’s sword was an icon that I kept in my bedroom closet, but it was adult length and dragged on the floor behind me when I put it in my belt, so I made my own. I found an old broomstick on the street and, using gloves and several dishcloths to protect my hand, heated red hot the tip of a pencil-sized piece of iron over the kitchen stove. I used the red-hot tip to burn a hole through one end of the broomstick. This in-depth branding required multiple ministrations. The heated tip would cool quickly, and it took several days of sneaking into the kitchen in the wee hours to heat the iron and drive the hole through the handle.
I then used a pair of pliers to unbend a wire coat hanger. I threaded the coat hanger through the hole in my broomstick. Then I opened up my copy of The Three Musketeers and replicated the illustration of the hand guard on d’Artagnan’s sword. It took several hours of trial and error, but it worked. Many late nights were devoted to whittling the broomstick down to a smaller length and flattened blade with a sharpened point. I collected the shavings on spread-out newspapers, bundled them up, and stuffed them into my