Strip by Andrew Binks Page B

be. The cold autumn sleet rushed me along, the wind splashed me into puddle after puddle. Coat, hat, boots filling with icy October water. Paint washed away. Up and rush. Hands red with blood and paint and chill and pebbles in the flesh. Up and rush. Up and rush. Hot and damp in yellow. The yard was empty. Everyone was dry in the warm brick building. The heavy door gave quickly and I tumbled into my seated teacher and class, gathered for their rainy day story. Bloody nose, snot and tears ran over my upside-down smile. My gasps were drowned by snorts and giggles, chortles of childish laughter from slouched kids as the plump teacher’s ass sagged over the tiny seat of the wooden chair. I strangled the art.
    Â 
    In Quebec City I stayed at Madame “Smoke-cough-ska’s” house. I will never understand the link between the physical demands and stamina a dancer must have, and the ability to smoke in spite of it. Madame met my bus in her rusting crayon-orange Volvo station wagon that smelled a nauseating combination of fresh and stale cigarette smoke and rotting apple juice mingling with kiddy poop. Madame had dropped the posturing, let her hair down, but was in full makeup. Regardless of the filth, she had a pristine allure as if she had just stepped out of a Blackglama magazine ad. All she spoke of was Jean-Marc: “He’s finally coming into his own.”
    We chugged into Sainte-Foy. “He’s got charisma and energy like the dancers I knew in Hungary.” We coasted up to her peeling bungalow, surrounded by yellow grass and no trees. I was starting to feel defeated and inadequate and I hadn’t even so much as sautéed for Madame. I wondered if she had already started with the head games or if she was simply oblivious to my presence. “He’s lean, handsome and hungry for it. I remember what that was like.” The last sentence was another silent mantra that aging dancers lived by, usually followed by a wistful sigh, as they swallowed their bitterness back into their core and secretly prayed those nearby would whisper about their greatness in the past, saying things like, “She had amazing technique,” or, “His was the definitive Albrecht.” I followed along the cracked walkway, to the front door, as she shoved children’s toys aside with her foot and cursed under her breath before announcing, “He will make our name in New York.”
    Was I surrounding myself with people obsessed with anyone but me? Everyone loves to talk about how much they are in love, or attracted to so-and-so. But I had been around enough male dancers who had impressed the pants off someone, and even been described as the next Godunov or Baryshnikov, and they wisely rode that wave of enthusiasm. Those were the ones who knew they had an ace in their pocket. Others had no faith in that allure and had slept with Kharkov, perish the thought, or his wife—which made Kharkov even happier—or with anyone who could help them along the way. And there were tons of Jean-Marcs to be obsessed about, which led inevitably to someone’s heartache or break, while they forged their own route to the top.
    Madame led me into the house, took off her coat, revealing her walking-anatomy-lesson taut torso and medium-sized breasts with no bra, amazing for a woman her age. She knew it. She dropped her coat, almost on a chair, and then rifled through her bag to finally find a cigarette, which she lit and took a drag on. She led me to the kitchen. The house itself looked like it had been ransacked and I was waiting for her reaction, but none was forthcoming. This mess was de riguer . In the kitchen, she leaned over the cluttered counter. “When I first saw you I wasn’t sure. You have blankness in your eyes. Are you sad or just hesitant? And there is something very uneven about your face. Your nose.” She grimaced as she choke-talked, “But now I see you again and I think maybe you are