Chapter 16
GREGORY
“So, are you really a comic?” I asked, truly curious what this enigmatic
Russian, who was bringing out my dancer passion, did for a living. When
he’d left his date to pay the check the week before, the card he handed me
read Dr. Gregory Raiport. Was he a doctor, or a comic? Anyone could
make a personal card and say they were a producer, or director, or for that
matter, a doctor. I’d received a few of those business cards, only to find out
those guys were complete scam artists, just trying to pick up girls,
promising them a part in a movie that didn’t exist.
His rapt attention kept me from staring at the overdone decor of the
old red-walled restaurant we were seated in on Sunset Boulevard in
Hollywood. Huge gold vases everywhere overflowed with plastic and silk
flowers. This place looked like a stand-in for a fancy Russian wedding or
funeral, and as a Russian, he represented the entire artistic world to me. I
took it all in, with wonder.
“I’m psychiatrist in Russia, but here I’m lowly psychologist,” he
explained. “I haven’t taken stupid American test yet. Why bother? I’ll just
be working for rich, disturbed, American cows,” he added, staring into my
eyes. I was strangely intrigued by his absolute disdain for my culture. He
had those tormented Russian eyes that said they knew something deep.
Here, finally, was the passion and complexity missing in my life!
I kept my hands glued to my seat, just as I was told to do in my acting
class. I didn’t want to knock anything over and humiliate myself.
“You can come in for free psychological evaluation,” he slyly
commented.
I couldn’t keep myself from giggling at his seductive humor and was
lost in his gaze. Feeling completely naked, and so in touch with my
absolute submissiveness, I truly felt like I was on a date with someone
from my old life.
Dressed in a blue designer jacket, his dark blonde hair fell over one of
his light green eyes. I ached to place my hand on that bit of hair so I could
see both of his tortured eyes. He looked just put together enough to be a
professional of some kind, but still carried an aire of titillating danger
about him. He smiled for a second then brought up his arm to wave the
waiter over. “Where is fucking waiter? I’m starving.”
He resumed flirting with me until the decrepit waiter arrived. He was
decked out in his black-and-red Russian attire with gold and shiny
stitching, The two of them spoke as though they were at a private KGB
meeting, leaning towards each other and whispering in Russian. They
seemed to know each other–or maybe they were making some kind of a
deal? Looking at me again, as though I was his queen, he asked, “You like
vodka, no?’
“Yes. I mean, that’s fine.”
“The waiter thinks you’re very beautiful. He would like to take you
out.”
“But…” I stared at him, dumbfounded and insulted that he’d even
bring up that remote possibility. But, in a twisted way, his bizarre comment
made me even more attracted to him. How was I going to get through this
night with myself intact?
When the waiter brought the giant carafe of vodka, I protested about
the size, and he actually winked at me.
“See, he likes you,” Gregory said.
Silence settled over us as the waiter poured the clear liquid into our
glasses. My Russian prince gave me another charming smile and put his
hand over mine as it rested on the table. “You’re not nervous with all these
Russians around you, are you?”
“No, I’m okay,” I said, my hand beginning to perspire.
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123
“I think I make you nervous. That’s good.”
“I didn’t know vodka came in carafes,” I said, as I took my hand from
him to take a sip from my glass.
He continued to stare at me with a sort of smoldering desire. He took
a long slug from his glass. My face flushed hot. “Did you say something to
our waiter about me?” I asked.
“Of course not. Drink up my little pet. You need to catch up. Vodka is
like water for Russians.”
I picked up my glass and took another sip of straight vodka, cringing
from the pure alcohol taste. He’d already finished an entire glass, while I
searched for words. He was calm and in control, as I shifted anxiously in
my red leather seat. He touched my palm again with his beautiful
manicured hand.
In Russian, he ordered some unidentifiable food that was still
unidentifiable when it arrived fifteen minutes later. “This looks fantastic,”
he said as our waiter Dmitri removed a silver cover from a large platter.
“Give Serge my congratulations. I think he now knows what he’s doing,”
Gregory chuckled.
Dmitri winked at me yet again as he removed the silver tops off more
platters. He whispered to Gregory in Russian and patted his back with a
large fleshy hand that resembled the bone-in-meat dish steaming before us.
“Serge is old friend from Soviet Union. He’s free now, like me. Eat.”
Staring at the food as though I was still a starving ballerina, I was sure
Gregory could see me planning how I was going to avoid eating. It truly
looked disgusting. No wonder Russian ballerinas were able to stay so thin.
Russian food was obviously not for binging.
In New York, I had only eaten thinly sliced lox on thin brown bread
those few times George and I went to the Russian Tea Room when I wasn’t
a thick, struggling, actress/waitress, sitting in a red booth with an enigma
who was fueling my desperate and twisted desire.
Since working at Larry Parker’s 24-Hour Diner, my diet had changed
completely. Burgers with everything, blue cheese dressing on salad,
pancakes, bacon and eggs, bagels, shakes, and French fries, had become
my menu. I refused to count calories there. Still, something in me wanted
this Russian to see me as the ballerina I once was–the starving, delicate,
and Russian-seeming ballerina. Surely, he’d have appreciated me more
then. I watched him eat ravenously, as though he hadn’t seen food in
weeks.
“You don’t like Russian food, Suzankah?”
“It’s great,” I said, moving my fork around my plate.
I didn’t want to insult him, so I took a bite of the awful looking
stroganoff and almost gagged. Trying to act as though I liked what I just
swallowed, I watched him spoon one thing after the other onto his huge
golden plate. I picked up my fork and moved the stroganoff around some
more.
He spooned up some red caviar and guided the spoon towards my
mouth with a huge jack o’ lantern smile. “I know you must love caviar,
Suzankah!”
I smelled those fish eggs coming my way and knew before I even
opened my mouth, how much I was grossed out by caviar. My father ate it
on crackers almost every day as a snack. “So, what’s it like in Russia?
I’ve never been there,” I asked, nearly dry-gagging on the spoon he
practically forced into my mouth.
“Of course, you haven’t. Why would American girl who doesn’t like
Russian food want to go there?” he said. “It’s Communist country.”
“I know you’re not going to believe this, but I was a dancer, and I
always wanted to study there.” I peeled the napkin from my lap and as
delicately as possible, wiped my mouth. A few red eggs had dribbled into
my white napkin, so I delicately stowed it to the side, hiding the evidence.
“You mean you wanted to be orphan? Because anyone who studies
with Bolshoi will always be orphan.” He spooned some sour cream on
more caviar and rolled it into a blini, then took it all in one bite.
“I really was a dancer.”
He looked like a cartoon character, barely taking a breath from eating
and drinking. The few sips of vodka I had were beginning to make the
room a little fuzzy. I drummed up the courage to boast about my inspired
past, to at least let him know I was once cultured. “I studied at the School
of American Ballet, in New York City, under George Balanchine. It’s hard
to get accepted there, just like the Bolshoi is in your country. Alexandra
Danilova, one of your comrades, was my mentor.”
“I’m impressed, Suzankah. One would never know.” He was
definitely getting drunk. The carafe of clear liquid was half empty by now.
“Really, I was.”
“You’re too voluptuous to be ballerina,” he commented while
swallowing a big bite of the meaty-hand-looking dish. Dmitri came back to
check on us and gave me another wink.
“It’s been almost four years. I’m studying to be an actress now.”
“Actress…I know many actresses, don’t I Dmitri?” He poured the
remainder of the vodka into his glass. “Should I order one more?” he
slurred. “Perfect timing, Dmitri. She would like one more.”
“No, really. I’m fine.”
“Don’t listen to her. She drink like fish, and she’s actress. You like
actresses.”
Dmitri gave me another flirtatious smile and whisked away our empty
carafe to be filled again with more vodka. I silently excused the
extravagance. I was floating on some kind of made-up cloud.
“I’m actually working on Chekov in class.”
“Actresses come in all sizes,” he laughed.
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125
“So, what’s it like growing up in a Communist country?” I asked,
getting away from the actress stuff.
“I grew up in Georgia,” Gregory said, referring to the Soviet
Republic.
“Is that Communist?” I asked, immediately realizing I had just
screwed up and he was going to think I was an absolute idiot.
“Ah, thank you Dmitri,” he said as the new carafe of vodka was
placed on our table. He poured himself another full glass and gestured to
fill my own. I gave him a flirtatious smile and delicately placed my hand
over the top of my glass.
“I’m okay.”
“You are not okay. I can tell. You need some sessions with me in my
office.”
“Sessions?”
“I’m psychiatrist, remember?”
I giggled girlishly at what seemed a bit like a joke, even though he
certainly embodied the title of doctor. “Balanchine and Baryshnikov are
from Georgia also,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“They are both orphans as I am, but I never went to Bolshoi.”
I felt slighted by his dismissal of two of the greatest artists of the
twentieth century and took a little sip of my vodka.
“Is your family still there? I continued with what seemed a normal
question. I wiped a little sweat from my lip as Dmitri arrived to take away
more plates and to take our dessert order.
“You didn’t hear, you COW! I AM ORPHAN! I have no family!” He
looked at Dmitri and calmly said, “She’s like pretty cow, no?”
Did he just call me a cow? His words were fuzzy from the alcohol and
that accent so I was hoping that he said something else.
Still looking at Dmitri, he made his pathetic request. “We’ll have the
strawberries Romanov. And stop drooling over my girlfriend. She’s virgin,
and I know you want to fuck her, but she’s mine. I’ve got myself a fat
ballerina!”
Then he downed the rest of his vodka.
Twenty minutes later we were in his car, and on our way. As we drove
towards his home, the city lights sparkled while I continued to float on a
cloud of adolescent love. I was convinced he was the one. A bit dizzy, I got
out of his red Mercedes and followed behind, up the pathway to his duplex
in Beverly Hills. With great charm, he invited me in. He set the car keys
upon the white tiled kitchen counter and opened a cupboard above the sink.
“Would you like some more vodka?” he asked. “You don’t drink
much, do you, my zaftig little ballerina.”
I wasn’t impressed with his beige-carpeted, beige-walled apartment.
Yes, it was clean and tidy, but it wasn’t elegant in the way I had fantasized,
the way I knew Balanchine lived. The brown couch was a bit worn,
especially for a Beverly Hills apartment. The chrome-framed generic prints
of flowers and reproductions of famous paintings that decorated the walls
were not something that Mr. B would ever choose. And there he was,
strutting toward me with that bottle of vodka.
I was falling in love with a man from the world I once knew. It didn’t
matter that he was now drinking MORE vodka. I took a little sip from the
glass he brought to me. I cringed again from that awful taste.
“Thanks.”
God, this night could go on forever and I’d still be in bliss. He might
have called me a cow at dinner, and he might not believe I was once a
dancer, but he was so tragically deep, so tormented, and so much like
Uncle Vanya, the doctor, in Chekov’s play. I’ll be his Elena, and we’ll fall
in love behind my ancient husband’s back. It had been so long since I’d
truly lost myself in something.
He walked over to the stereo and picked out some music.
How did he know I loved Prokofiev? That was it. I just couldn’t hold
up anymore. The tears I worked so hard to evoke in all my Method acting
classes just poured out naturally. I didn’t need to hold on to an imaginary
orange or apply imaginary make-up while looking in an imaginary mirror
to evoke my deepest feelings.
So, is this what real acting, is? Or, is this my real life? Or was it just
the Prokofiev?
The last years of my life as a dancer, the only thing I loved, flashed
before me.
“You have such a Russian soul, Suzankah. You are just like us.”
He did notice. Was it the tears, or did he sense something in me that
was like THEM. The people I so admired.
“Can I kiss you Suzankah?
“Yes,” I said, truly wondering why he’d waited so long.
It was pretty good. Not great. Passable. They say it’s in his kiss, but
for me, it was that longing/ passion/suffering, that he was releasing in me. I
probably can’t have him. He’s much too smart, and definitely too
handsome for me.
He represented everything I’d been reading about for years, and
somehow, what I missed from my life as a dancer. And, if I could cry in
front of someone on the first date, didn’t that mean we were destined to be
together? If it was a struggle to get him, didn’t that make it worth waiting
for.
“Would you like to see the rest of apartment?” he cavalierly asked,
giving me his beautifully defined hand.
Sex with the wrong person, or at the wrong time could ruin it all. And
I didn’t really want him to think I was easy or free, as he called American
women, earlier on our bizarre date. My chattering brain told me: I might
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127
want to marry this guy. I better not go, but I gave him my hand. But then I
let go as he continued on. Through my blurred vision his lone figure
soldiering toward the bedroom looked like a Salvador Dali painting. Three
seconds later, I made a sharp left into what looked like an office.
There must have been a thousand books on the shelves that lined most
of the walls in that office. Everything looked dusted and tidy. I was
dazzled by the familiar titles: Jean Paul Sartre’s Nausea; Vladimir
Nabokov’s Lolita. They were my favorites. There was also Ernest
Hemingway’s For Whom The Bell Tolls, Dostoyevsky’s Brothers’
Karamazov, and short stories by Chekov. Even if I wasn’t impressed with
the furniture and décor, I was with the literature. There were books in
Russian that I didn’t recognize. I imagined Nikolai Gogol’s Diary of a
Madman, hoping I wasn’t now with the protagonist of that book.
The drab apartment came alive with the great literary artists and now
my questions about him being literate and educated were answered. Bingo!
He must be. I came around to the large wooden desk near the open
doorway and saw piles of books in French, sitting near a covered
typewriter. He reads French too! I walked over to a lone empty shelf, near
a small window that was open a crack. Upon it several Hallmark-type
cards were displayed.
Happy Anniversary To My Dear Husband was the first one I found. I
didn’t dare open it to see possibly his name. Okay, I thought. I’m not going
to pass out. There were more, unfortunately. Happy Anniversary To My
Dear Wife, and Happy Birthday To My Dear Wife. I didn’t dare open either
of those, in fear that I might find his name signed at the bottom of those
tacky cards.
This can’t be! He must be borrowing this apartment. It can’t be his.
He’d never have let me in here if it were his place! Or he didn’t mind me
wandering in to see the greeting cards displayed fully on his or HER desk!
And, where is she? Try to keep steady and don’t freak out. Shit! I was
going to marry this man!
“So, is your wife French?” I asked, sauntering into his bedroom.
“Yes, in fact she is,” he answered as he pulled down the covers to the
king-sized bed.
Is he lying or joking, or just tormenting me? Be cool and act like it’s
no big deal.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were married?” I inquired, moving
closer than I should have.
“You never asked.”
“I just assumed, since you asked me out.”
Oh my God, the cooks at Larry’s were right. He is sleazy. He
my zaftig little ballerina. You must show me some tricks.” He patted the
fluffy bed.
Oh my God! He called me a ballerina! Rewind. Did he call me a
zaftig ballerina? Rewind. Did he call me little? Rewind. Zaftig means fat.
He does think I’m fat! He’s so right.
“Why am I here?” I asked, truly wondering, considering all of these
circumstances that were driving me batty.
“Because you like me.”
“Is it okay if I ask how long you’ve been married?”
“Of course, it is, Suzankah. Isn’t this nice bed?”
Dizzy from the alcohol, and not even aware that he didn’t answer my
question, I crawled inside the fancy sheets with most of my clothes on.
I was near him, oh my God. Maybe we could just cuddle. I was finally
close to my Chekhovian doctor. Now he’s truly going to know how fat I am,
but this may be my only chance. Maybe I’ll die young, but happy. Maybe
she’ll come and murder us both. She certainly has the right. Maybe this
really isn’t his apartment, and those Hallmark cards are for someone else!
I ran my hand along his handsome face and then my fingers through
his hair. It would be okay if I died right here. He was so beautiful and was
breathing so close to me. It felt so right to be there and yet so wrong. He
smelled of the very French Vevetier, the same scent George used to wear. I
absolutely loved that smell. There was nothing better on a man. And he
seemed so clean. Not like the Russians I’d been reading about. His absent
French wife was so very lucky to have him, but what the hell was I doing
in their bed?
GREGORY
“So, are you really a comic?” I asked, truly curious what this enigmatic
Russian, who was bringing out my dancer passion, did for a living. When
he’d left his date to pay the check the week before, the card he handed me
read Dr. Gregory Raiport. Was he a doctor, or a comic? Anyone could
make a personal card and say they were a producer, or director, or for that
matter, a doctor. I’d received a few of those business cards, only to find out
those guys were complete scam artists, just trying to pick up girls,
promising them a part in a movie that didn’t exist.
His rapt attention kept me from staring at the overdone decor of the
old red-walled restaurant we were seated in on Sunset Boulevard in
Hollywood. Huge gold vases everywhere overflowed with plastic and silk
flowers. This place looked like a stand-in for a fancy Russian wedding or
funeral, and as a Russian, he represented the entire artistic world to me. I
took it all in, with wonder.
“I’m psychiatrist in Russia, but here I’m lowly psychologist,” he
explained. “I haven’t taken stupid American test yet. Why bother? I’ll just
be working for rich, disturbed, American cows,” he added, staring into my
eyes. I was strangely intrigued by his absolute disdain for my culture. He
had those tormented Russian eyes that said they knew something deep.
Here, finally, was the passion and complexity missing in my life!
I kept my hands glued to my seat, just as I was told to do in my acting
class. I didn’t want to knock anything over and humiliate myself.
“You can come in for free psychological evaluation,” he slyly
commented.
I couldn’t keep myself from giggling at his seductive humor and was
lost in his gaze. Feeling completely naked, and so in touch with my
absolute submissiveness, I truly felt like I was on a date with someone
from my old life.
Dressed in a blue designer jacket, his dark blonde hair fell over one of
his light green eyes. I ached to place my hand on that bit of hair so I could
see both of his tortured eyes. He looked just put together enough to be a
professional of some kind, but still carried an aire of titillating danger
about him. He smiled for a second then brought up his arm to wave the
waiter over. “Where is fucking waiter? I’m starving.”
He resumed flirting with me until the decrepit waiter arrived. He was
decked out in his black-and-red Russian attire with gold and shiny
stitching, The two of them spoke as though they were at a private KGB
meeting, leaning towards each other and whispering in Russian. They
seemed to know each other–or maybe they were making some kind of a
deal? Looking at me again, as though I was his queen, he asked, “You like
vodka, no?’
“Yes. I mean, that’s fine.”
“The waiter thinks you’re very beautiful. He would like to take you
out.”
“But…” I stared at him, dumbfounded and insulted that he’d even
bring up that remote possibility. But, in a twisted way, his bizarre comment
made me even more attracted to him. How was I going to get through this
night with myself intact?
When the waiter brought the giant carafe of vodka, I protested about
the size, and he actually winked at me.
“See, he likes you,” Gregory said.
Silence settled over us as the waiter poured the clear liquid into our
glasses. My Russian prince gave me another charming smile and put his
hand over mine as it rested on the table. “You’re not nervous with all these
Russians around you, are you?”
“No, I’m okay,” I said, my hand beginning to perspire.
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123
“I think I make you nervous. That’s good.”
“I didn’t know vodka came in carafes,” I said, as I took my hand from
him to take a sip from my glass.
He continued to stare at me with a sort of smoldering desire. He took
a long slug from his glass. My face flushed hot. “Did you say something to
our waiter about me?” I asked.
“Of course not. Drink up my little pet. You need to catch up. Vodka is
like water for Russians.”
I picked up my glass and took another sip of straight vodka, cringing
from the pure alcohol taste. He’d already finished an entire glass, while I
searched for words. He was calm and in control, as I shifted anxiously in
my red leather seat. He touched my palm again with his beautiful
manicured hand.
In Russian, he ordered some unidentifiable food that was still
unidentifiable when it arrived fifteen minutes later. “This looks fantastic,”
he said as our waiter Dmitri removed a silver cover from a large platter.
“Give Serge my congratulations. I think he now knows what he’s doing,”
Gregory chuckled.
Dmitri winked at me yet again as he removed the silver tops off more
platters. He whispered to Gregory in Russian and patted his back with a
large fleshy hand that resembled the bone-in-meat dish steaming before us.
“Serge is old friend from Soviet Union. He’s free now, like me. Eat.”
Staring at the food as though I was still a starving ballerina, I was sure
Gregory could see me planning how I was going to avoid eating. It truly
looked disgusting. No wonder Russian ballerinas were able to stay so thin.
Russian food was obviously not for binging.
In New York, I had only eaten thinly sliced lox on thin brown bread
those few times George and I went to the Russian Tea Room when I wasn’t
a thick, struggling, actress/waitress, sitting in a red booth with an enigma
who was fueling my desperate and twisted desire.
Since working at Larry Parker’s 24-Hour Diner, my diet had changed
completely. Burgers with everything, blue cheese dressing on salad,
pancakes, bacon and eggs, bagels, shakes, and French fries, had become
my menu. I refused to count calories there. Still, something in me wanted
this Russian to see me as the ballerina I once was–the starving, delicate,
and Russian-seeming ballerina. Surely, he’d have appreciated me more
then. I watched him eat ravenously, as though he hadn’t seen food in
weeks.
“You don’t like Russian food, Suzankah?”
“It’s great,” I said, moving my fork around my plate.
I didn’t want to insult him, so I took a bite of the awful looking
stroganoff and almost gagged. Trying to act as though I liked what I just
swallowed, I watched him spoon one thing after the other onto his huge
golden plate. I picked up my fork and moved the stroganoff around some
more.
He spooned up some red caviar and guided the spoon towards my
mouth with a huge jack o’ lantern smile. “I know you must love caviar,
Suzankah!”
I smelled those fish eggs coming my way and knew before I even
opened my mouth, how much I was grossed out by caviar. My father ate it
on crackers almost every day as a snack. “So, what’s it like in Russia?
I’ve never been there,” I asked, nearly dry-gagging on the spoon he
practically forced into my mouth.
“Of course, you haven’t. Why would American girl who doesn’t like
Russian food want to go there?” he said. “It’s Communist country.”
“I know you’re not going to believe this, but I was a dancer, and I
always wanted to study there.” I peeled the napkin from my lap and as
delicately as possible, wiped my mouth. A few red eggs had dribbled into
my white napkin, so I delicately stowed it to the side, hiding the evidence.
“You mean you wanted to be orphan? Because anyone who studies
with Bolshoi will always be orphan.” He spooned some sour cream on
more caviar and rolled it into a blini, then took it all in one bite.
“I really was a dancer.”
He looked like a cartoon character, barely taking a breath from eating
and drinking. The few sips of vodka I had were beginning to make the
room a little fuzzy. I drummed up the courage to boast about my inspired
past, to at least let him know I was once cultured. “I studied at the School
of American Ballet, in New York City, under George Balanchine. It’s hard
to get accepted there, just like the Bolshoi is in your country. Alexandra
Danilova, one of your comrades, was my mentor.”
“I’m impressed, Suzankah. One would never know.” He was
definitely getting drunk. The carafe of clear liquid was half empty by now.
“Really, I was.”
“You’re too voluptuous to be ballerina,” he commented while
swallowing a big bite of the meaty-hand-looking dish. Dmitri came back to
check on us and gave me another wink.
“It’s been almost four years. I’m studying to be an actress now.”
“Actress…I know many actresses, don’t I Dmitri?” He poured the
remainder of the vodka into his glass. “Should I order one more?” he
slurred. “Perfect timing, Dmitri. She would like one more.”
“No, really. I’m fine.”
“Don’t listen to her. She drink like fish, and she’s actress. You like
actresses.”
Dmitri gave me another flirtatious smile and whisked away our empty
carafe to be filled again with more vodka. I silently excused the
extravagance. I was floating on some kind of made-up cloud.
“I’m actually working on Chekov in class.”
“Actresses come in all sizes,” he laughed.
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125
“So, what’s it like growing up in a Communist country?” I asked,
getting away from the actress stuff.
“I grew up in Georgia,” Gregory said, referring to the Soviet
Republic.
“Is that Communist?” I asked, immediately realizing I had just
screwed up and he was going to think I was an absolute idiot.
“Ah, thank you Dmitri,” he said as the new carafe of vodka was
placed on our table. He poured himself another full glass and gestured to
fill my own. I gave him a flirtatious smile and delicately placed my hand
over the top of my glass.
“I’m okay.”
“You are not okay. I can tell. You need some sessions with me in my
office.”
“Sessions?”
“I’m psychiatrist, remember?”
I giggled girlishly at what seemed a bit like a joke, even though he
certainly embodied the title of doctor. “Balanchine and Baryshnikov are
from Georgia also,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“They are both orphans as I am, but I never went to Bolshoi.”
I felt slighted by his dismissal of two of the greatest artists of the
twentieth century and took a little sip of my vodka.
“Is your family still there? I continued with what seemed a normal
question. I wiped a little sweat from my lip as Dmitri arrived to take away
more plates and to take our dessert order.
“You didn’t hear, you COW! I AM ORPHAN! I have no family!” He
looked at Dmitri and calmly said, “She’s like pretty cow, no?”
Did he just call me a cow? His words were fuzzy from the alcohol and
that accent so I was hoping that he said something else.
Still looking at Dmitri, he made his pathetic request. “We’ll have the
strawberries Romanov. And stop drooling over my girlfriend. She’s virgin,
and I know you want to fuck her, but she’s mine. I’ve got myself a fat
ballerina!”
Then he downed the rest of his vodka.
Twenty minutes later we were in his car, and on our way. As we drove
towards his home, the city lights sparkled while I continued to float on a
cloud of adolescent love. I was convinced he was the one. A bit dizzy, I got
out of his red Mercedes and followed behind, up the pathway to his duplex
in Beverly Hills. With great charm, he invited me in. He set the car keys
upon the white tiled kitchen counter and opened a cupboard above the sink.
“Would you like some more vodka?” he asked. “You don’t drink
much, do you, my zaftig little ballerina.”
I wasn’t impressed with his beige-carpeted, beige-walled apartment.
Yes, it was clean and tidy, but it wasn’t elegant in the way I had fantasized,
the way I knew Balanchine lived. The brown couch was a bit worn,
especially for a Beverly Hills apartment. The chrome-framed generic prints
of flowers and reproductions of famous paintings that decorated the walls
were not something that Mr. B would ever choose. And there he was,
strutting toward me with that bottle of vodka.
I was falling in love with a man from the world I once knew. It didn’t
matter that he was now drinking MORE vodka. I took a little sip from the
glass he brought to me. I cringed again from that awful taste.
“Thanks.”
God, this night could go on forever and I’d still be in bliss. He might
have called me a cow at dinner, and he might not believe I was once a
dancer, but he was so tragically deep, so tormented, and so much like
Uncle Vanya, the doctor, in Chekov’s play. I’ll be his Elena, and we’ll fall
in love behind my ancient husband’s back. It had been so long since I’d
truly lost myself in something.
He walked over to the stereo and picked out some music.
How did he know I loved Prokofiev? That was it. I just couldn’t hold
up anymore. The tears I worked so hard to evoke in all my Method acting
classes just poured out naturally. I didn’t need to hold on to an imaginary
orange or apply imaginary make-up while looking in an imaginary mirror
to evoke my deepest feelings.
So, is this what real acting, is? Or, is this my real life? Or was it just
the Prokofiev?
The last years of my life as a dancer, the only thing I loved, flashed
before me.
“You have such a Russian soul, Suzankah. You are just like us.”
He did notice. Was it the tears, or did he sense something in me that
was like THEM. The people I so admired.
“Can I kiss you Suzankah?
“Yes,” I said, truly wondering why he’d waited so long.
It was pretty good. Not great. Passable. They say it’s in his kiss, but
for me, it was that longing/ passion/suffering, that he was releasing in me. I
probably can’t have him. He’s much too smart, and definitely too
handsome for me.
He represented everything I’d been reading about for years, and
somehow, what I missed from my life as a dancer. And, if I could cry in
front of someone on the first date, didn’t that mean we were destined to be
together? If it was a struggle to get him, didn’t that make it worth waiting
for.
“Would you like to see the rest of apartment?” he cavalierly asked,
giving me his beautifully defined hand.
Sex with the wrong person, or at the wrong time could ruin it all. And
I didn’t really want him to think I was easy or free, as he called American
women, earlier on our bizarre date. My chattering brain told me: I might
Dancer Interrupted
127
want to marry this guy. I better not go, but I gave him my hand. But then I
let go as he continued on. Through my blurred vision his lone figure
soldiering toward the bedroom looked like a Salvador Dali painting. Three
seconds later, I made a sharp left into what looked like an office.
There must have been a thousand books on the shelves that lined most
of the walls in that office. Everything looked dusted and tidy. I was
dazzled by the familiar titles: Jean Paul Sartre’s Nausea; Vladimir
Nabokov’s Lolita. They were my favorites. There was also Ernest
Hemingway’s For Whom The Bell Tolls, Dostoyevsky’s Brothers’
Karamazov, and short stories by Chekov. Even if I wasn’t impressed with
the furniture and décor, I was with the literature. There were books in
Russian that I didn’t recognize. I imagined Nikolai Gogol’s Diary of a
Madman, hoping I wasn’t now with the protagonist of that book.
The drab apartment came alive with the great literary artists and now
my questions about him being literate and educated were answered. Bingo!
He must be. I came around to the large wooden desk near the open
doorway and saw piles of books in French, sitting near a covered
typewriter. He reads French too! I walked over to a lone empty shelf, near
a small window that was open a crack. Upon it several Hallmark-type
cards were displayed.
Happy Anniversary To My Dear Husband was the first one I found. I
didn’t dare open it to see possibly his name. Okay, I thought. I’m not going
to pass out. There were more, unfortunately. Happy Anniversary To My
Dear Wife, and Happy Birthday To My Dear Wife. I didn’t dare open either
of those, in fear that I might find his name signed at the bottom of those
tacky cards.
This can’t be! He must be borrowing this apartment. It can’t be his.
He’d never have let me in here if it were his place! Or he didn’t mind me
wandering in to see the greeting cards displayed fully on his or HER desk!
And, where is she? Try to keep steady and don’t freak out. Shit! I was
going to marry this man!
“So, is your wife French?” I asked, sauntering into his bedroom.
“Yes, in fact she is,” he answered as he pulled down the covers to the
king-sized bed.
Is he lying or joking, or just tormenting me? Be cool and act like it’s
no big deal.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were married?” I inquired, moving
closer than I should have.
“You never asked.”
“I just assumed, since you asked me out.”
Oh my God, the cooks at Larry’s were right. He is sleazy. He
my zaftig little ballerina. You must show me some tricks.” He patted the
fluffy bed.
Oh my God! He called me a ballerina! Rewind. Did he call me a
zaftig ballerina? Rewind. Did he call me little? Rewind. Zaftig means fat.
He does think I’m fat! He’s so right.
“Why am I here?” I asked, truly wondering, considering all of these
circumstances that were driving me batty.
“Because you like me.”
“Is it okay if I ask how long you’ve been married?”
“Of course, it is, Suzankah. Isn’t this nice bed?”
Dizzy from the alcohol, and not even aware that he didn’t answer my
question, I crawled inside the fancy sheets with most of my clothes on.
I was near him, oh my God. Maybe we could just cuddle. I was finally
close to my Chekhovian doctor. Now he’s truly going to know how fat I am,
but this may be my only chance. Maybe I’ll die young, but happy. Maybe
she’ll come and murder us both. She certainly has the right. Maybe this
really isn’t his apartment, and those Hallmark cards are for someone else!
I ran my hand along his handsome face and then my fingers through
his hair. It would be okay if I died right here. He was so beautiful and was
breathing so close to me. It felt so right to be there and yet so wrong. He
smelled of the very French Vevetier, the same scent George used to wear. I
absolutely loved that smell. There was nothing better on a man. And he
seemed so clean. Not like the Russians I’d been reading about. His absent
French wife was so very lucky to have him, but what the hell was I doing
in their bed?