Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [86]
In late August, Wait Until Dark made it to Hong Kong’s cinemas. It was petrifying, watching a blind Audrey stumble around, stalked and terrorized like prey. I’m glad Mother didn’t have to watch. Fear isn’t romantic.
Listen, kid, you want to tell this story? I’m getting to the Ron part. Didn’t you learn in your writing school that stories need history, plot, suspense? Character flaws? Otherwise the beginning muddles to the middle and you thank god it’s The End.
Southern Connecticut State was a bore, but it was better than high school.
The boys were less frantic. I majored in something. All I cared about was dance. My feet, though! They felt way too big, having ballooned to a seven and a half.
Fall of sophomore year, Ron Andrews danced into my life.
His troupe was performing “Dance Nostalgia.” Astaire routines. Porter, Kern, Gershwin. Ron did this solo soft-shoe number. The grand finale was him leaping onto a straight-back chair, tipping it over, and sliding toward the apron’s edge on his knees. I jumped up, shouted, “Bravo,” not caring what anyone thought. Maybe I started something, or maybe he was just that good, because the whole audience rose in a swell, cheering.
Later, backstage, Ron stood there, a towel round his neck. In his T-shirt and tights, one leg cocked on a stool, he looked like a blond William Holden. People congratulated; voices rose in a frenzy. He wasn’t very tall, but there in the center of all that adulation, he was a giant.
When we were introduced, I couldn’t help gushing, “You were incredible. Absolutely, amazingly marvelous!” He smiled, nodded in acknowledgement, and that was that.
Back at the dorm that night, I cried myself silly. It was such a weird sensation. I mean, I didn’t know the guy to save my life, and crying wasn’t my thing.
The next day, I went along to audition for their troupe’s summer stock.
I was a good, but not brilliant, dancer. The point was, it didn’t matter a whole lot whether or not I performed. Other students had rehearsed for weeks, desperate to make the cut.
My friend Sara co-opted me as her “male” partner. I’d agreed, but that was before Ron. Of course, I couldn’t very well back out now, not when the show had to go on.
“Smile, will you?” Sara hissed, just before we made our entrance. “Don’t be such a dog face. Think Astaire.”
We did “Dancing in the Dark.” Sara was this tiny brunette, graceful as sin. In her white ball gown, fitted to her gorgeous figure, she was stunning. I was in tux tails, my hair pinned tightly in a net, a mustache pasted on for effect, feeling absurd. Sara was a strong dancer, but she hammed things up too much. Every dip swooped a bit too low, every turn was overdone. Friends applauded, but I knew we weren’t much above passable.
Later, while removing makeup, I looked up in the mirror and saw him. He wasn’t as young as he appeared onstage. He pressed both hands down on my shoulders and studied my face. “Do you ever dance the lady’s part?” His voice resonated. Baritone.
Nodding and shaking my head simultaneously, I stammered, “Sometimes.”
“Come on, then.” Taking my hand, he led me onstage. In my tux shirt and tights, I looked ridiculous, but Ron didn’t seem to care as we stood side by side, arms outstretched, my hand in his. I was the taller, and nervous.
“Dancing in the Dark” came on.
“Follow me,” he commanded.
My feet flowed. It was better than magic, because all of me danced, guided by heaven and his lead. When the music faded, it segued to “In the Mood.” His hands gripped my waist and he swung me in the air. A perfect partner, confident without being bossy, leading without stifling my movements. When we finished, the applause went on for a long, long time.
Onstage, I smiled at him, exhilarated, my heart pounding from exhaustion. Ron had barely broken a sweat. He pulled me toward him in a final twirl. “What’s your name?” he asked. His eyes were a deep blue-green, as deep as the ocean, only deeper.
I quit school and followed him to New York. He was thirty, the senior member in the troupe.
“A dancer?!” my father screamed over intercontinental