Read Online Strip by Andrew Binks - Free Book Online Page B

deux partner, which is where our paths crossed, in repertoire class.
    He seemed to be the only one left to impress, so I tried to hide my increasingly shitty attitude. My dancing sucked and as a result I’d put up a barrier protected by a severe pout, the kind that says I expect more from myself and have danced much better than this, and you can go fuck yourself.
    His English was minimal, and most Francophones couldn’t understand his backwoods French. We managed on a different level. I’d speak my proper French mixed with Franglais , and he would reply in his French or with halting, breathy English that made him sound like he needed oxygen. In pas de deux class he would mutter profanities under his breath. He could be so particular that you thought you’d met the most precious bitch. His criticism, if that’s what it was, forced the girls to glare and huff and fold their arms. He always snapped back at temperamental ballerinas. They already hated themselves for any extra pounds or ounces gained, especially in the summer with ice cream and slushies on every corner. They’d take it out on the men, like we were the ones who had fucked up. If one had a tantrum, Bertrand would match it and not hesitate to knock her off her pointe. I found this bravado so refreshing.
    But I didn’t escape his sharp eye and tongue; one day he had a go at me. We were in the dressing room and I was towelling myself dry, wondering how I could make a quick exit without the administrator asking me to pay up. Bertrand interrupted this plan. He started scolding me while he stood naked in the shower (giving me a good solid excuse to pay attention). “Why do you bodder?” he searched for each word. “I am so sick of passionless dancers. What is it d’at you want?”
    â€œI want to dance, to perform. I can’t be in fucking class pour le reste de ma vie .”
    â€œ Il faut choisir . There is nothing ’ere for you. You come home wit’ me tonight and we can talk.”
    He was boarding at his brother’s, a beautiful space, and not something any dancer I knew could probably ever afford. Every apartment in that city was huge and unusual, whereas out west, they were standard cookie cutter. After no food and a gallon of wine from the dépanneur across the street I felt I knew him. And we didn’t sit; dancers drape or lie, or squat or scrunch cross-legged on the floor. We knead our feet, open our legs as wide as possible, to not miss a moment of stretching. I lay on my front like a frog on a specimen tray and drank wine while I worked on my turnout, letting gravity and inebriation pull my hips to the floor while my knees splayed in opposite directions.
    I sensed Bertrand was a rare gentleman. I poured my heart out: “Have I made a mistake? Am I really that bad? Why won’t they take me seriously?” I cried for my dancing (but crying for Daniel was likely a large part of that). I was messy, not the tight-assed Anglophone others had accused me of being. Not tonight. If he didn’t think I was crazy then, he never would. When I was finished, it was his turn and he wouldn’t shut up. I couldn’t figure out what he was saying but it was something about a ballet company in Quebec City. He was rat-a-tatting his Lévis French. “You-stay-in-Montreal-and-train-at-da-Conservatoire-always-’oping-like-the-rest, or-come-dance-with-us-in-Quebec. The Conservatoire? Pah.”
    That’s what I figured he was saying. It’s so much easier to comprehend a second language when you’re drunk. He finished up with a question, looking at me in silence until I realized he had asked me something. “Why do you do it? Why are you ’ere?” he repeated. But I was numb by then. Why did I do it? I was starting to wonder. What was I in pursuit of? Fame? The perfect fouetté ? The perfect body? Attention? Love from every one? Love from just one? How long could I go on