A Darkness of the Heart Page 5

  Shawn’s face was dark with anger. “You’d be smart to reconsider, Gabe. I know where you go when you need raw sexuality, and I’m in a sharing mood.”

  Gabe’s features were impassive. He calmly formed his hand into a fist, drew back his arm, and punched, landing a solid blow on Shawn’s nose. “Get out,” he said quietly. “And think long and hard before you threaten me again.” Blood was pouring from Shawn’s nose, but he managed to turn. When he stumbled, Nick went after him, offered his arm for support, and led the injured man towards the door.

  Stunned, Zack, Taylor, and I turned to watch the two men, but Gabe had no interest in denouement. He rubbed his fist with his palm. “No harm done,” he said. When his phone rang, he glanced at the caller ID. “I have to take this,” he said. “Have a pleasant evening.” He took a pack of Camels from the inner pocket of his jacket and headed for the Exit sign on the east side of the hall. Apparently, it was time for a smoke break.

  Zack began wheeling towards the entrance. “I’m going to check on Nick,” he said. Zack had just reached the accessibility ramp when Nick came through the door.

  The two of them returned together. Taylor saw the blood on Nick’s shirt and took a tissue from her bag. She reached to wipe the blood off.

  Nick took the tissue from her. “I’ll take care of this,” he said, “but thanks for offering.”

  Zack leaned forward in his chair. “Did you learn anything more about what just happened?”

  Nick shook his head. “Shawn didn’t say a word. When we got outside, a cab was dropping somebody off. He jumped in and that was it.”

  “What kind of guy is he?” Zack said.

  “Shawn?” Nick shrugged. “Beats me. I’ve seen him at rehearsals, but I never even knew his name until just now.”

  “But when he was hurt, you went to him.” Taylor said.

  “And you reached out to rub the blood off my shirt,” Nick said. “People help each other. It’s what we do.” He gave us one of his transforming smiles. “Now, I’d better get back to work.”

  * * *

  —

  A portion of Sound Stage 1 had been sectioned off for use as a rehearsal hall, and that night it was the site of the dance performances and party. When we arrived, the space was crowded with people enjoying a last drink before the dancing began. There were programs on a table by the door. I picked one up and Zack noticed my hands were shaking.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  “I’m fine. It’s been a long day, and that ugliness with Gabe Vickers got to me.”

  Taylor’s face was pinched with concern. “You really are pale.”

  Zack narrowed his eyes to look at me more closely. “Taylor’s right. You had to deal with some heavy news today; you don’t need to be here tonight. Let’s go home.”

  “You win,” I said. “But, Taylor, you should stay. Roy wants you to see the performances, and Nick will be hurt if none of us can compliment him on his lighting. The program will only last about an hour and a half, and you can take a cab back to the house.”

  “If you’re sure you’re okay,” Taylor said.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “So it’s settled.”

  But as Robbie Burns said, “the best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.” Zephyr Winslow had spotted us. Her face alight with pleasure, she was gliding across the room towards us, graceful as a gazelle. Zack and I looked at each other. There was no way we could leave now. We were trapped.

  In buttery leather flats, tailored tan silk slacks, and a draped champagne-coloured blouse the exact shade of her asymmetrical choppy bob, Zephyr was a head-turner. She held out her hands in greeting. “This is such a treat.”

  “It’s our pleasure,” Zack said, taking her hands in his. “Happy birthday, and happy anniversary of your dance studio. I’m glad the powers that be finally had the wit to acknowledge your incredible generosity to the arts community.”

  Zephyr’s smile was sly. “And I’m glad that when you were mayor you kept the pressure on City Hall to acknowledge that the arts are an essential component of a civilized city.”

  “A recognition that was long overdue,” Zack said smoothly, and with that we took our places in the first row of the two half moons of chairs that had been arranged for guests around the performance area.

  I was delighted when Brock Poitras, the executive director of Zack’s law firm and one of our closest friends, joined us. Brock had been a wide receiver for the Saskatchewan Roughriders before he earned his MBA, and Zack was clearly surprised to see the man with whom he most often talked sports at a celebration of dance. He held out his hand to Brock. “Hey, you’re the last guy I expected to run into here.”

  “Margot handles Zephyr’s legal affairs,” Brock said, “and it’s her sister’s birthday, so she and the kids have gone to Wadena for the weekend.”

  Zephyr’s hazel eyes danced. “And since Roy Brodnitz is going to be in town over the holidays, I thought he and Brock might enjoy each other’s company. Brock is single, and Roy has been alone long enough.”

  Zack guffawed. “You’re being set up, Brock.”

  “Just doing what I can to make artists like Roy realize how much our city has to offer,” Zephyr said primly, and then she laughed a dry, wicked laugh.

  We chatted until the lights were dimmed, and Ainsley Blair and Roy, wearing the incomparably becoming clothing of the 1940s, walked hand in hand into the spotlight. Roy’s style was Astaire breezy—white slacks, white sports jacket, bow tie, boutonnière, and white tap shoes. Ainsley was all sparkle—strawberry blond curls held in place by a sequined headband, sequined white pumps, a glittering bolero, and a filmy chiffon skirt.

  She was riveting. It was hard to believe she was the same woman we’d met briefly in New York in June. She and Roy had been mulling over new projects, and Ainsley had been pleasant but preoccupied. Without makeup, wearing blue jeans, a faded Duran Duran T-shirt, and runners, her ponytail pulled through the opening of a Mets baseball cap, Ainsley was unremarkable; but the spotlight seemed to draw something rare and lovely from her. It was as if she had become more brightly and beautifully alive.

  Ainsley gave Roy an affectionate glance and stepped towards the audience. “As you can see, we are in the space we’ve been using as a rehearsal hall. Not much to look at: a wall of full-length mirroring, a sprung wood floor, a barre for exercises, lighting, and some AV equipment—just the bare bones. But add dancers, and this space becomes a window into other worlds.

  “Tonight is a tribute to our amazing, unique, unforgettable, incredibly talented, and generous dance teacher, taskmaster, mentor, scold, and always faithful friend, Zephyr Winslow. Zephyr’s life is about dance, not words, so you won’t hear many words tonight, but you are going to see some amazing dancing.

  “I’m Ainsley Blair and this is my dance partner of thirty years, Roy Brodnitz. We were fourteen when we met at Zephyr’s studio, and we’ve been together ever since. Like every dancer you’re about to see, we would not have been part of a single opening night if it weren’t for Zephyr.”

  Roy joined Ainsley in the circle of light that surrounded her. “When we graduated from high school, Ainsley and I believed we were ready for New York. Zephyr didn’t share our belief, and so for the next three months, we sat in her basement watching old musicals. When Ainsley and I thought we understood the steps to a number, we’d go to the studio and practise. The dance you’re about to see was done first and better by Fred Astaire and Eleanor Powell in Broadway Melody of 1940, but when we finally went to New York, this number got us in the door, and once Ainsley and I passed through that door, we never looked back.”

  The rehearsal hall went dark, but in an instant, through Nick’s inspired lighting, it became a starlit summer night filled with the brassy exuberance of a big band playing “Begin the Beguine.” Roy and Ainsley began dancing, as nonchalant as if they were out for a stroll but with feet that, according to the program notes, were producing an astounding number of taps per
minute. It was an illustration of extraordinary skill, but Roy and Ainsley’s faces mirrored nothing but easy pleasure as they matched their partner’s every clap, tap, and whirl. A smile played on Zephyr’s lips as she watched their movements, her shoulders moving to the rhythm of their dance.

  The program lasted fifteen numbers, each chosen to display dance’s ability to reflect the deepest human emotions. Before each selection, a dancer explained the relationship between the number about to be performed and Zephyr’s presence in the performers’ lives. As we watched the blending of biography and dance, Zack, Taylor, and I were rapt.

  Most of the preambles combined light-hearted memories with expressions of gratitude for Zephyr’s steady support and unshakable faith in her students. But three of the lead-ins were deeply moving. Two men, who introduced themselves as partners in both dance and life, spoke of their choice to perform a contemporary routine created in homage to the Pulse nightclub tragedy of 2016, in which forty-nine young people, most of whom were gay, died. The men said that for fifty years, Zephyr and her studio had stood guard between the LGBTQ community and the hurting world, and they were in her debt.

  The dance they performed was an achingly beautiful story of love and loss, and when it ended, I saw that Brock Poitras, who as a gay, Cree player in the CFL had endured both homophobic and racist taunts, was fighting tears. He and I were close, but when I caught his eye, he gave me a half smile and turned away.

  Before the next number, Ainsley took the stage in rehearsal clothes and set the scene for the audience. “When I choreographed The Happiest Girl, I wanted movement to be simply a continuation of the story. In the sequence you’re about to see, it’s essential that the actor’s words are integrated seamlessly into the dance. The scene is set in Churchill, Manitoba, on the longest night of the year. The two figures you’ll see onstage are Ursula, a young girl whose beloved grandmother, an anthropologist who spent her life studying the relationship between humans and the bears of Churchill, has disappeared into the tundra, and Callisto, an adult female bear who has come to take Ursula to her grandmother.”

  Ainsley began reading from a script. “There was a time when we knew that bears had been sent to guide us. They showed us patience, made us laugh, taught us to wonder. We learned from one another. Bears became people. People became bears. We honoured them. But now…”

  Ainsley looked up from the script in her hand and addressed the audience directly. “In this scene, Ursula, knowing that if she is to discover her grandmother’s final gift to her, she must transform from a human into a young female bear, reluctantly accepts the challenge.”

  The lights faded on Ainsley and came up on the actor who played Callisto and on Vale Frazier, playing Ursula. Both wore black tights and shirts.

  Callisto: It’s the only way, Ursula.

  Ursula: I can’t. I’m sorry.

  Callisto: Your grandmother needs you.

  Ursula: You said I wouldn’t see her again.

  Callisto: I said you wouldn’t see her in the way you remember.

  Ursula: What other way is there? I’m ready. What do you want me to do?

  Callisto: Keep your mind open and your heart brave.

  At that point, the action froze, and the light on Ainsley rose again. She spoke directly to the audience. “I’m going to read the stage directions for Ursula’s transformation. The dancers will do the rest,” she said. Vale Frazier began a series of movements that were otherworldly but seemed to emerge from a deeply primal place. The effect was utterly captivating and convincing. Although the artist playing Callisto was a respectable talent, at seventeen, Vale already had the lustrous presence of a true star.

  “The transformation is choreographed as a kind of rebirth,” Ainsley read. “The changes in Ursula come from within. Her sense of smell becomes more acute. She tilts her head so that the gland in her mouth that picks up scents is exposed. Her vision, particularly her peripheral vision, is diminished. She moves from the core of her body rather than solely through her limbs. She uses body language and basic verbal communications. The interlude during which Ursula tries out her ‘new self’ is filled with both joy and wonder.

  “It is a perfect night for transformation. Long curtains of dancing light in pastel greens, reds, and purples illuminate the skies. We see that although Ursula is now a bear, the heart of a mischievous girl beats within her. She does flips in the snow, and then starts a snowball fight with Callisto. A snowball hits Callisto’s nose, and she decides it’s time to begin their trek. The sub-adult female tries to keep pace with the larger bear as they move playfully. Suddenly Callisto freezes. There is gunfire in the distance.”

  Throughout the scene, Nick Kovacs’s lighting had created spellbinding luminescent veils around Callisto and Ursula that made what might have seemed impossible, believable. At the gunshot, the theatre went dark. The scene was over. There was silence, and then the audience began to applaud.

  When the applause died down, Ainsley and Roy stepped out again. Ainsley was still in her rehearsal clothes; Roy was wearing tights and a loose-fitting top. Ainsley began. “This is the final number. It’s a little over eight minutes long. It was originally choreographed by Bob Fosse, the brilliant and brilliantly self-destructive choreographer, director, and co-writer of the film All That Jazz.”

  Roy picked up the thread. “All That Jazz is a portrait of a man who knows he is killing himself but can’t stop. Bob Fosse died of a heart attack at the age of sixty. Martha Graham once said, ‘All that is important is this one moment in movement. Make the moment important, vital, and worth living. Do not let it slip away unnoticed and unused.’ Those words were Bob Fosse’s credo, and Zephyr Winslow imprinted them on the heart of every student she ever taught.”

  The lights were extinguished, and when they came back up, twelve dancers in various combinations of skin-tight bodysuits, half tops, and leg warmers were onstage, Roy Brodnitz included. All wore some variation of the headgear of commercial flight personnel. “Take Off with Us,” the number they performed, began as a coyly provocative commercial for an airline. There were enticingly sexy double entendres and dance moves, and Taylor was clearly enjoying the sly humour.

  Without warning, the mood and the stage lights darkened. The dancers began stripping off their clothes until the males wore only black leather thongs and the women, thongs and tiny bras. They invited the audience to join them for a flight that would take them to a place where they could make their desires and fantasies reality. The playful sexiness of the number’s opening gave way to explicit encounters of simulated sexual encounters: male on male, female on female, male penetrating female vaginally, male penetrating male anally.

  Zack gave me a sharp look and whispered, “Taylor.”

  “She’s eighteen,” I said. “She knows men wear underwear.”

  Zack harrumphed and leaned forward to continue monitoring the performance.

  The erotic fantasy ended with a frenzied orgy and a stinging existential message from one of the male dancers. “Not once during any of our flights has there been evidence of any real human contact. We take you everywhere. We get you nowhere.”

  The finale was a showstopper and, not surprisingly, the dancers received a standing ovation. When Ainsley joined them, they reached out to Zephyr. The applause was sustained. When, finally, it subsided, Zephyr stepped forward. “Ainsley is correct,” she said. “This is not a night about words. But my students know that the walls of my studio are filled with words about the passion we share. Their longing for something they can’t articulate frightens every dancer who walks through the doors of my studio for the first time.

  “Knowing that Tennessee Williams put that longing into words helps. ‘I want to be seen, heard, felt,’ he wrote. That’s what all artists want. Art allows them to express what cannot be said. The advice I have is nuts and bolts: work hard, shine forth, be a total pro. Even then, there are no guarantees. As choreographer Susan Stroman once said, ‘When you dance off the stage, you are alw
ays leaping into darkness.’ For those who want to be seen, heard, felt, there is no choice. You must take the leap. But know always that I’m there in the darkness with my arms open.”

  Onstage the dancers beside Zephyr were wiping away tears, and many in the audience were crying too. As they gathered around the woman who had given them a community, their love was palpable.

  Lydia Mah joined the dancers onstage to announce the renaming of the production studio and the arts festival that would be held in conjunction with it. Zack squeezed my hand. “This was worth sticking around for, wasn’t it?”

  I nodded. “It was. I’m glad we stayed.”

  When the knot of well-wishers onstage began to break apart, Roy Brodnitz approached us. He’d finished the finale wearing a black leather thong, but he’d pulled on the tights and shirt he’d been wearing during “Take Off with Us.”

  Brock stood, introduced himself, and extended his hand. “That was beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Roy took Brock’s hand. He looked into Brock’s eyes and the sexual charge between the two men was palpable. “Some of us are getting together for a drink and Chinese takeout,” Roy said. “Would you be able to join us, Brock?”

  “I would,” Brock said.

  Roy’s gaze took in the rest of us. “Of course, you’re invited too,” he said. “Taylor, I promise you an entire order of almond prawns.”

  Taylor grinned. “You remembered.”

  “I did,” Roy said. He turned to Zack and me. “Well?”

  A crushing weariness had replaced the adrenaline rush I felt as I watched the dancers. The events of the day had caught up with me. I shook my head. “Thanks, but I think I’d better call it a night.” I turned to our daughter. “The party does sound like fun. Why don’t you stay?”

  “I’ll be happy to bring you home, Taylor,” Brock said.

  “It’s settled then,” Zack said. “Have fun.”