The Dancer Upstairs by Nicholas Shakespeare Page B

skewed sideways, her front teeth showing at the corner of her mouth.
    She scooped something from the floor. “They never pick up their plasters!”
    She threw it into the rosin box “Coffee? Or would you like lemonade, if they’ve left any?” She watched me, biting a nail.
    â€œLaura’s waiting. I’d better not.”
    To Laura, not Sylvina, she had entrusted her simple note.
    Dear Señor Rejas, I regret to tell you the bank has refused to honour the money you owe me for Laura’s ballet lessons during
    December and January.
    Yolanda Celandin.
    I was nervous, which made her nervous. “Here’s the money I owe. I’m sorry about the cheque.”
    With a smile all neat and laced she said, “We hadn’t met, but I thought it was better to tell you than Señora Rejas.”
    â€œMy employers are two months in arrears with their salaries.”
    She accepted the money and, without counting it, folded it on to the plate beside the remains of her cake. “That’s terrible. Already I’ve had to let three girls go because they couldn’t afford it. I’ve regretted it ever since. They came every day from Las Flores. They were so excited, the parents. They watched their daughters in their beautiful dresses and they dreamed. I should never have let them go. They were three lovely dancers, I could tell as soon as I saw them.”
    â€œCan you tell, that quickly?”
    She nodded. “Some girls, you only have to see them standing still to know they’re dancers. Others might be good at barre work, but when you bring them into the centre they’re terrible.”
    â€œAnd Laura?” I risked.
    â€œYour girl, she’s a spot of sunshine. That’s a real child you have. Not a little adult in lipstick.” And she imitated with exaggerated eyes someone I knew at once to be Marina.
    At my laughter, she raised her hand. “No, I mustn’t be so disparaging. They’re probably your friends. It’s just that in six months I have attracted the worst sort of ballet mother.”
    I was still smiling. Her mocking of Marina’s values struck a chord. She was not the dupe of anyone’s wealth. But she hadn’t answered me.
    â€œIt’s hard for a parent to ask this. Should we encourage Laura?”
    Her face remained serious. “How much do you know about ballet?”
    â€œNot much.” Through Sylvina I had met a few dancers. They seemed to me dim, uneducated and self-absorbed.
    â€œLaura has nice ideas,” she said, “but she should take risks. I love people to take risks. Very often it works.”
    â€œShe wants to join the Metropolitan.”
    â€œYou’ve put her down for classical classes, which is fine,” she said carefully. “You can’t be an engineer without studying mathematics. If you’ve been classically trained you can do things in modern dance no modern dancer can do. But she might find her natural aptitude is for the kind of contemporary dance I’m involved with. It can’t hurt to try.”
    Politely, conscious of the time and of Laura waiting in the car, I said, “Do you still dance?” I knew nothing about her. We had found the school through Marina. Keen for Samantha to maintain the standards of Miami, she had recommended the teacher in Calle Diderot as a first-rate communicator. But I had no idea whether the teacher performed.
    â€œI did and then I didn’t and now I do again. As of this moment I’m meant to be preparing a ballet with a small group at the Teatro Americano, but it’s getting desperate. I can’t find a subject.” She tucked her hands behind her back. “But you’re not here to discuss my problems. Is there anything else about Laura?”
    In fact, there was. I was worried my daughter was the one the pretty girls laughed at. I knew they called her Cucumber Body after a livid green all-over which Sylvina had bought