Chapter 12
I let Claus’ shopping basket fall to the elevator floor and pushed the top button. My face and chest were hot, despite the slow start of the German spring season. My hands and arms ached from the weight of carrying the basket the four blocks between the store and Claus’s apartment but I couldn’t be happier.
I’d gone to Aldi all by myself and returned with everything we needed for our first picnic on the Rhine. On the agenda—discussing the company’s schedule and his upcoming return to regular classes and rehearsals. He hadn’t said anything about my potential in the company. Maybe this would be the day we would talk about it.
He was hanging pictures when I pushed my way in. The only one of Hanna that remained was the White Swan. Next to it was a full-body shot of me at seventeen in a red-and-white short tutu, a simple B-plus leg position—the position dancers take before starting most combinations—and arms up framing my I-will-conquer-the-world expression.
“What do you think?” Claus worked on the bottom row with an extra nail clenched between his lips, as though it were a miniature cigarette.
His antique gold frames with beige linen made my friend-of-Paquita picture look especially glamorous. Gorgeous even.
Lorie had been Paquita, of course. Back then, I’d thought that watching her shine while playing one of her best friends on stage was going to be a temporary thing, and I’d made the best of it.
Ten years later I was still at it—and still trying to make the best of it, but through the years that took more and more effort. Friend of Paquita, friend of Kitri, friend of Swanilda, friend of Giselle … but then came Romeo and Juliet and everything changed. I was the lead—she was the friend.
Was that why she did what she did?
Nope, I wasn’t going to think about her anymore. Or about Peter.
My thoughts turned back to the photo in front of me. My body was the same, but the face was so much younger in the picture—the brain was much younger too. Something in me just wanted to smack that girl on the side of the head—her and her prima-ballerina dreams—along with perfect-love dreams too.
He put the last picture in place and stepped back.
“Don’t you like it?”
“I do.” He was trying—I needed to make an effort too. “I like it. I just hadn’t seen that Paquita picture in a long time.”
“How about the others? Too unusual?”
The other three pictures were the same size and had the same frames as the portraits above them. “Unusual? Yes.” I stepped closer. “But perfect.” They were side-by-side masquerade ball shots of our Romeo and Juliet.
He was obviously more interested in the emotion of his ballet pictures than in arches and extensions, as I had already suspected from the photos of Hanna that I’d seen.
In the first picture, a masqueraded Romeo shows off to Juliet, who plays the mandolin. She’s infatuated with him, and when he stops in front of her, she cannot meet his gaze. She looks at the mandolin instead. Click.
The second shot shows the moment Juliet’s life changes. The guy she’s supposed to marry and her dad lose interest in her dancing, and she starts dancing for Romeo, who surprises her center stage. He is touching her for the very first time, and her upper body freezes. Click.
The third picture is of Romeo and Juliet’s time alone at the ball. He has just ripped off his mask, which remains in midair in the photo. Great shot. His arms are open, and Juliet runs to him. She still doesn’t know he’s a Montague.
All three moments are innocent, pure, and hopeful. Is that how he viewed me? I liked that.
I wrapped my arms around Claus and squeezed him tight, hoping his soul would feel embraced too. “They’re perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He followed me to the kitchen as I opened the small fridge and put away the extra cheese, the cherry tomatoes, and the basil I’d bought for a salad.
“Look at you.” He poked around the basket.
“Next time, I’ll brave the market.” I raised both eyebrows and widened my eyes in pretend terror.
“It’s easy. All you need to do is point and say ‘Ein Stück das, bitte.’”
“Um, can I get ein Stück das?” My lips teased his. “Bitte.”
“Yes ma’am,” he whispered before his strong arms made me his willing prisoner. With one hand behind my head and the other firm on my back, his lips touched mine, and playful kisses grew deep and hungry with the speed and intensity of a small dust devil that forms when hot and cool air clash and conditions are just right. And conditions were right.
This separate-rooms thing is making me crazy. Would I be able to stand when he let me go?
“See, I told you it works for just about anything.” He held me with one arm and pulled a chair out with his free hand.
“Yeah, you did.” I eased myself onto the chair.
I shook my head and organized the items we were taking on our picnic: cold cuts, fruit, chocolate, a little kuchen that looked like Grandma’s crumb cake, and a sweet-tasting bread I’d learned to love in the two weeks I’d been there. Then I put aside pantry foods we weren’t taking before folding an extra bag I ended up not needing on my trip to the store. “Something’s in it,” I whispered, pulling it out.
Claus looked over his shoulder as he washed our grapes and physalis. “It’s a paper—church, I think. Somebody handed it to me at the market last year, just before my trip to America. I’d just shoved it in the bag. I guess I never pulled it out. What does it say?”
“Calvary Baptist Church,” I read. The soft brochure in shades of green was elegant and simple. On the front, you’re invited…” and on the back a bunch of Bible verses. I didn’t open it. Everything was in English and German.
“I should have known. I’ve seen them in the market before.”
“Calvary Baptist—original.”
“Baptists are Christians, so I don’t think Mount Olympus Baptist Church would have worked out for them.”
“Ha-ha. Everybody’s got jokes.”
“They were at the market last weekend too.” Claus dried and bagged the fruit.
“I didn’t see anything at the market.”
“A couple was talking to a young guy about the church. I overheard the conversation. It was your first market. You stopped at every stand.” He kissed my head. “I overheard a lot of conversations.”
“In German?”
“Yes. All in German.”
“I think this is an American church, though.”
“I think so too. The church is probably near an American Kaserne. But they probably get Germans in there too.”
“Kaserne?”
“Barracks, I think you say.”
“Oh.” Probably by the main gate. I smiled, remembering the guy I’d talked with at my apartment building the day I’d left Columbus. “Do you know for sure that Jesus Christ is your personal Savior?” I read. “I hate the way they word their pitch like they are privy to some secret source of divine information. Mom has people knock on her door sometimes. Same talk. ‘Do you know for sure you are going to heaven?’”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“I feel against the wall. It doesn’t seem like a friendly approach. It makes me not want to talk to that person.”
“Maybe it’s your American sensibility.” He winked and reached for my hand.
“Then maybe you should go visit Calvary Baptist Church.” I chuckled. “Here.” I pinned the church pamphlet to his corkboard before grabbing Barysh’s bag.
“Maybe I will,” he said with a shrug and a smile. “Get the food. I’ll take Barysh to the car.”
We followed the Rhine River for thirty minutes to Rüdesheim. I’d seen the river from Wiesbaden and couldn’t figure out what the fuss was all about. It was bigger than the Chattahoochee outside my old apartment—maybe more like the Ohio—but it was just another pretty body of water, with Wiesbaden on one side and Mainz—also a state capital—on the other side.
Beyond the busyness of the capitals, I understood the uniqueness of the Rhine Valley. Steep hills were covered with old vines that showed new green shoots. The road became narrow. And the river, filled with tourist boats and barges, slowly became the romantic Rhine of magazines and travel shows.
“So this is Rüdesheim.” Claus stopped at a red light. “One day we can take a boat to Koblenz. It’s about sixty kilometers from here. There are more than forty castles and fortresses from the Middle Ages on the way and many wine villages.” “We should do that.” I squeezed his hand and studied the long row of beautiful double-decker white boats—or were they called triple-deckers because of the third open-air deck?
Crawling from red light to red light through the quaint little town, I didn’t know where to fix my attention next. Most restaurants and hotels by the water had the charming half-timbered architecture generally associated with Germany. Lush vegetation and vibrant flowers shaded outdoor tables, and window boxes overflowed with bright geraniums, petunias, and begonias.
At a restaurant with a large courtyard and a fountain, a group of women— three generations for sure—danced the polka, accompanied by a live accordion, and a teenage boy who was watching them from the sidewalk picked up his girlfriend and spun her around to her giggles and protests.
Everybody looked happy and relaxed, and I noticed that even though we were surrounded by vineyards, most people were drinking beer—vom Fass.
“See that statue?” Claus pointed to a huge figure high above the city and on the edge of a forest. “That’s Germania.”
“Who’s Germania?” Was it a woman? The shape of the body was feminine, but even from a distance, I could tell that Germania was powerful—maybe a conqueror or a warrior. One hand held a sword and the other lifted something—a crown?—high up in the air.
“Hmm. How do I say this in English? She’s a personification? Yes, the personification of the German nation.”
“You mean like Uncle Sam for us?”
“I suppose.” He chuckled. “She represents all Germans. The monument was built to celebrate the reestablishment of the German Empire—after the German–French War.”
“Nice.” Germania is a woman. Cool.
Claus turned onto a quiet brick road that soon became an uphill dirt path through the cultivated area. “See the cable cars going over the vineyards?”
I nodded as metal cable cars traveled up the mountainside, at times no more than ten feet above the vineyards, before disappearing into the forest close to the mountaintop.
“Takes you all the way up to the monument.”
“We should go one day.”
“We will.”
Ahead of us, an older couple—each holding a wooden stick—walked uphill between the vines. Maybe they didn’t like cable cars.
Claus drove onto a grassy area and soon brought the Mercedes to a full stop, turning off the engine. “This is my favorite spot.”
It was a small quiet patch of tiny green plants amid the vines, about halfway up the mountainside.
“These will soon be the tallest sunflowers you’ve ever seen.” Claus spread our blanket on the grass next to the patch with ease. “Well over two meters.”
“Nice.” I walked Barysh to the blanket with the help of a towel placed under his belly. “Come on, bud. Use what you’ve got.”
“I can do that. He’s heavy.”
“I’m … good,” I gasped.
“Okay. I’ll get the food then.”
Barysh had to keep trying or his back legs would end up completely lame. I’d just supported more than half his weight on that towel. My hands ached, and I massaged them until they felt normal again. Claus could help Barysh when it was time to go home.
I watched Claus finish unloading the car. He’s so beautiful. The soft breeze of the Rhine Valley played with his sandy-blond hair. He looked fantastic in a white button-up shirt and light designer jeans. His tan leather belt matched his leather shoes.
Was I underdressed wearing my old boots, beat up jeans, and avocado-green hoodie? Probably. I chuckled looking at Barysh. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.
Claus sat next to me and used a simple, classic waiter’s corkscrew to open a bottle of Riesling Spätlese with ease. He unpacked two wine glasses and handed me a taste before filling both cups and proposing a toast. “To buried and forgotten passions. May they grow back strong this season like the nature around us.”
“To buried and forgotten passions.” I raised my glass. Was he talking about us, dance, or both? “Thank you for bringing me here, Claus. This is perfect.”
He caressed my hair. “You’re welcome.”
“I love this wine,” I said, breathing him in and enjoying everything about the moment.
“Isn’t it perfect?” His lips grazed mine.
His sweet-wine breath invited me to taste his lips. “It is … perfect,” I said before kissing him—the best and sweetest kissing of my life. His lips were cool, like the Riesling we were sharing, and our kiss ripe like the late-harvest grapes of the wine.
“Good.” He touched my cheek with soft fingertips.
“Hmm?” I muttered.
“The wine,” he said before turning his attention to the picnic basket. “I’m glad you like it.”
His smirk let me know that he knew the effect he had on me. “I do—I like it.” I touched my warm cheeks and watched him unwrap our sandwiches.
“Here.” He offered me the first one.
“Thank you.” Life doesn’t get any better than this. I love this man, and I love this country. Good decision.
He got a sandwich for himself, and we ate enjoying the quiet peace that surrounded us.
Claus finished first and broke the silence.
“Next week I go back to the studio.” He grabbed a small bowl of fresh physalis.
I nodded and took two of the little orange fruits he offered me.
“We have a performance in Prague coming up next month,” he said. “And I start classes and rehearsals again on Monday.”
“Okay.” I nodded again. “I was wondering what your schedule was going to look like.”
“It will look very busy.” He raised his eyebrows.
I made a sad puppy face.
“I want you to be there with me.” He got very close and put his arm around my shoulder. “I hope you’ll want to do that, yes?”
“Yes, I want to be there with you.” I watched him. What kind of plan did he have in mind?
“Good.” He refilled our glasses and handed me mine. “So tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking about joining the company,” I said matter-of-factly. “Do you think I have a chance?”
He looked puzzled. “I don’t see why not, but that’s a big change, from wanting to quit to wanting to audition for a prominent European company.”
“Who said anything about quitting? I wasn’t going to quit anything.”
“But I heard—”
I leaned toward him and covered his mouth. “I was going to move to Pine Mountain and audition in Atlanta. I want to dance at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York.”
He stared at me and looked confused, as though he were watching a familiar ballet with the wrong characters in it—the curtains opened to a Giselle set, but Don Quixote’s Kitri took the stage.
“Stop dancing? I would sooner stop breathing.”
“This makes no sense.” Claus blanched.
“What did you think I was going to do here? Sit in the apartment all day?” Why do I have a feeling Lorie has something to do with this?
“No, not at all. I expected that you would want to continue dancing once you moved here with me.”
“In the spirit of all’s well that ends well, we don’t have a problem—we both believe I should dance here.” I shook my head. “But who told you I was quitting? Let me guess—Lorie?”
Claus grew paler still. His eyes were intent on the horizon—on the other side of the river gorge.
“Was it Lorie?”
He nodded without looking at me as if he too needed to think hard to make sense of reality—reality according to Lorie Allen.
“What is up with that girl?” I slammed the blanket with both hands. “First Peter and now you? What’s her problem?”
He shook his head and his jaw went slack.
My eyes riveted on the Rhine River below, glittering in the midday sun. Ten minutes earlier, that would have been lovely, but now I had a sudden headache.
My arms reached for Barysh, who was scooting my way. Claus had helped me bathe him and brush him the night before, so Barysh smelled fresh and looked especially handsome. My fingers caressed his soft copper fur and rested on his chest, his steady heartbeat lulling me.
Was Claus feeling any better? His expression hadn’t changed. What was going through his mind? What had Lorie said and what had he done?
I remembered Mom and the nonsense she’d said in her kitchen before my move. Was it nonsense or was she right? Did Claus know Peter was in the audience when he kissed me?
He caught me staring and I looked away.
“Why do you want to dance at the Met?” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Sorry—it just sounds a little random.”
“Why do you think it’s random?” I was afraid he was connecting the dots and would soon suspect I had agreed to move in with him because of his company’s schedule. No, I did not like that question.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. People dream of being in certain companies or of working with certain choreographers—not dancing at this theater or that theater.”
I shouldn’t have mentioned the Met. “It’s not random.”
“What is it then?”
“Claus, you are so talented.” Take your time and explain—he will understand. “The people you dance with here, and the ballerinas you’ve partnered with since becoming the world sensation that you are, are all amazing.” I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat. “My talent…” I lay down on the warm blanket. “My talent is limited.”
“Nonsense.” He reached for my hand.
“Hear me out.” I looked straight ahead at a milky spring sky.
He nodded and laid down next to me.
A mild breeze brought to us the lovely perfume of the only rose bush in sight. I breathed it in twice before continuing. “I’ll never be a prima ballerina in a large company. I’ll probably never even be a soloist in a large company.”
“You don’t know that—”
“Shh. Please.”
“Sorry.”
“I decided that dancing at the Met would be an attainable goal—something I could pursue instead.” I shrugged. “Everyone needs a holy grail, right?”
“You have talent, Ana.”
“Just not enough.” I pressed my lips together and shook my head. “It hurts to realize that you can’t do what you’ve always dreamed of doing. You don’t understand. I will never be Giselle, or Kitri, or Odette, or anyone else—not anywhere important and not with the best partners of this generation.”
“You can’t say that for sure.” His voice was soft.
He knew I was right. “It hurts.”
“You were Juliet with an okay partner.” He brought my hand to his lips and smiled.
“Well, yes. That I was. I was Juliet, and my Romeo was this amazing guy who can jump and spin like no other I’ve ever met—he’s all over YouTube.”
“And that doesn’t make you happy?”
“It does, but sharing the stage with you in a lead role, that’s the exception to the rule of my dancing life. It will probably never happen again. If I get into the Rhine-Main Ballet, I’m sure I’ll be in the corps forever. And I want to be happy with that.” Or I will go nuts. “My way of coming to terms with eternity in a lower position is to shoot also for something else—something that’s exciting and that I can reasonably accomplish.”
“The Met?”
“Yes. Without that goal, I feel bitter and ungrateful about everything, and I hate that. I know I have some semblance of a gift and a handful of things going for me. I should be thankful.” I looked at him. “Am I making any sense?”
“You’re right about the gift part. You do have a beautiful gift. Your technique is good enough to keep you afloat in the professional world. Your gift is your stage presence. You could be in the corps—last row—and I would still have eyes for only you.”
Good enough to stay afloat? I had to laugh.
“Did you mind that I was honest?” He cringed. “I’m sorry.” He put the palm of his hand on my chest as if to touch my heart.
“I don’t mind. You’re right on target.” I chuckled. “I’d never thought about it that way. Your wording is perfect—I’m good enough to stay afloat.”
“Well, did you hear the ‘I only have eyes for you’ part?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Thank you for your unbiased opinion.” I shot a smirk his way.
“Let me continue to the best part. Your stage presence is a rare gift. Dancers either have it or they don’t. Of those who have it, some have a little, others have more, and then there are very lucky people, like you, who overflow with it.”
“Thank you?” I said sheepishly. I wanted more. I wanted all the way. I don’t feel very lucky.
I turned my head toward the rose bush and dried a tear. Its cream blossoms, about a dozen, had reached the end of their bloom cycle.
“You do know that success is overrated, right? Everyone’s always looking for the next thing—the next holy grail, like you put it.”
He was right. But that didn’t make me feel any better.
“I enjoy my success, but I don’t consider myself satisfied,” he said. “And I don’t think I will ever be. I go around looking for different projects and most end up in disaster—according to the critics anyway. People want to see me in the big classical roles again, and again, and again. So the experimental pieces that I enjoy and that challenge me and take me someplace new in terms of movement and interpretation are not at all well received. It is very disappointing.”
“Oh, poor little rich boy.” We both laughed. “Nice try, but every company in the world wants you, so hush. I’m sure you will figure it out.”
“I’m just saying that I understand you more than you realize.”
“You’re killing me. People love you—hard-to-please people.”
“People love you in Columbus.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“Having the most educated audiences judge your work and love you must feel amazing. Surely you read a good review and feel justified.”
“You got fantastic reviews for your Juliet—by good critics who came all the way from Atlanta. Didn’t you feel justified?”
“No. Columbus is small, and the Allen Ballet is small. And the Atlanta people came for you.”
“But they loved you too.” He sat up. “Come on, Ana. How justified is justified enough?”
“The Met,” I said. “Then I will be happy.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I will.” I had to be.
“Why the Met?”
“Do you have a problem with the Met?”
“No—I love the Met. I’m just curious, is all. Why not Le Palais Garnier?”
“Because I’m American. If I were French, or at least European, I would probably have picked Le Palais Garnier to be my Holy Grail. I don’t know.” I shrugged. “The Met is pretty, and I grew up watching it on TV. And everybody who’s anybody has danced there.”
“I still think it’s a little random.”
“Don’t take it away from me. It’s not random. It’s what I want. You’re my boyfriend. You’re supposed to be supportive or something.”
“Okay.” His eyes widened.
“Good.” I finished my wine. “Then stop looking puzzled. If you have something else to ask me, ask me already.” Let’s get it over with.
“Since we are in the business of being sincere…”
Here it comes.
“We are dancing at the Met next spring.” He cocked his head and looked at me as if searching for a reaction.
“I know.”
“Is that why you came to Germany?”
“No.” I’m not taking advantage of you. “I saw the company calendar the night I told my parents I was moving in with you.”
“So the decision had been made?”
“Yes.” Pretty much.
He nodded in slow motion, and I reached for his hand. He was looking at the horizon again.
He held my hand and brought it to his lips, turning his full attention to me. The kiss was warm—his expression not as much. “Sorry. I just want to make sure you are here for the right reason. ‘Poor little rich boys’ feel funny about girls’ motivations sometimes.”
Ouch. “I loved you before you were famous, remember?”
“That is true.” He grabbed the wine bottle and divided what was left between our glasses. “Remember the dinner at Di Gregorio tonight?”
“Yes, with the artistic director.”
“Jakob Arnheim, yes.” Claus’s brows knitted. “I’ll go on my own.”
“Okay?” What was his idea?
“I thought you could take classes with us, watch rehearsals, and kind of— how do you say? Go with the flow. But if you want to perform with the company and be part of the next season, we will need a plan.”
“Sure.” That makes sense. The dinner is no longer a social event. It’s business. And it’s best that they talk without me there, so Claus can get a real feel for what I can expect moving forward. That’s good. I’ll meet him soon enough.
My eyes focused on the mountaintop—on Germania. Could I be strong like her? I would have to try. We did have one thing in common for sure. We liked crowns. It was a crown that she was lifting up for all to see.
We finished our wine in silence and traveled back in silence too.
Close to Wiesbaden, dozens of giant wind turbines stood absolutely still on a field, like a ready army waiting for the big battle. Then a few started moving in slow motion. Others followed. Soon all moved at a good pace. By the time we drove past them, they were spinning so fast that they looked dangerous and seemed unstoppable.
Was my life like that? Was stopping an option now, or was it all bigger than me and in motion and unstoppable?
Leaning against the window, I looked up at the massive white structures, each taller than the water tower in front of my old building.
“They look much bigger up close, don’t they?” Claus looked up too.
“Yes, they do.” So much bigger.