Elaine takes one from the middle and bites it in half. “I’m a workhorse.”
“You’re a star.” Joan doesn’t know if she wants her to be a star or not, fulfilled or not. She doesn’t know if Elaine thinks she is jealous, if that is why she is downplaying the miracle of becoming a principal.
“No. I don’t have that dazzle. I think I thought I could learn it. You watch dancers who have it, and you know it’s magic, but then when it comes to your own dancing, you tell yourself you just need to work harder. And then you work and work, and you’re still just you, and then one day you realize you’re not getting better, only older.”
“We’re all getting older.”
“Being older doesn’t matter as much for most people. It really doesn’t.”
Joan, wishing to reassure but also to needle, says, “You’re Mr. K’s muse. That’s important.”
Elaine flares slightly. “Yes, I got on the right bandwagon. I believe in him enough to serve him. I’m his biggest project. He’s made a life on me. And in return, every time he gets written about—and he will forever—I’ll get written about too. After we’re dead, people will still be wondering if we had sex. I’ll live on as an ambiguous appendage to a genius. I think there’s a blankness about me he likes. He projects onto me. He likes the idea of a vessel. It’s an honor and an insult. I don’t want to sound bitter. I’m not bitter. Sometimes I’m afraid he just couldn’t find anyone else so willing to be subsumed. So. There it is.”
“No,” Joan says, not knowing if she means to agree or disagree, surprised to feel some distaste about Elaine’s arrangement with Mr. K. She had not noticed herself becoming conventional, but, undeniably, she is out of practice deciphering relationships like theirs—or the way hers had been with Arslan—that are part love and part self-imposed misery and part ballet experiment. Her impulse is to tell Elaine to find a nice man to marry, but Elaine never will. Joan would not like it if she did. She prefers Elaine to remain fixed in her old life like an obsolete weather instrument gathering data no one ever sees.
Elaine stubs out her cigarette and says, “Do you ever hear from Arslan?”
“God, no.” Joan flicks her fingers the way Arslan would, shooing the idea away.
“Will you ever write to him?”
“No. I don’t know what I would say. What good would it do? He probably doesn’t even read his own mail. Some intern would send me a signed photo.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’d put some demons to rest or something.”
“I don’t have any demons. I’m happy.” Elaine’s face betrays no skepticism, but Joan knows it’s there. “I love Jacob,” she says firmly “Of course.”
“Not of course. He was an escape hatch.”
“But I must have known it would be okay. On some level. I think I wasn’t open to loving him until I needed to be.”
“Like arranged marriages that turn out to be love marriages. Except it was always a love marriage for him.”
“Yes,” Joan says simply.
“And for you now too?”
“Yes.” Joan looks away, embarrassed. That she has finally fallen in love with Jacob is good luck for both of them, but to say so would demean it.
With an air of declassifying information, Elaine says, “I’m probably moving in with Mr. K. Do you think it’s a mistake?”
“I don’t know. What would qualify it as a mistake? Is he still … does he have boyfriends?”
“I assume so. I never ask. What would qualify it as a mistake? I don’t know what my threshold is for mistakes anymore. I used to make them all the time. I adjusted for them. Now I only do safe things. This doesn’t feel safe, though. It’s committing to something that people find strange. Maybe I’m worried we won’t be able to stand each other, and it’ll be over, and I’ll have nothing.” She restores the packets of sweetener to their ceramic box. “He doesn’t even screw the new girls anymore.
“You’re a star.” Joan doesn’t know if she wants her to be a star or not, fulfilled or not. She doesn’t know if Elaine thinks she is jealous, if that is why she is downplaying the miracle of becoming a principal.
“No. I don’t have that dazzle. I think I thought I could learn it. You watch dancers who have it, and you know it’s magic, but then when it comes to your own dancing, you tell yourself you just need to work harder. And then you work and work, and you’re still just you, and then one day you realize you’re not getting better, only older.”
“We’re all getting older.”
“Being older doesn’t matter as much for most people. It really doesn’t.”
Joan, wishing to reassure but also to needle, says, “You’re Mr. K’s muse. That’s important.”
Elaine flares slightly. “Yes, I got on the right bandwagon. I believe in him enough to serve him. I’m his biggest project. He’s made a life on me. And in return, every time he gets written about—and he will forever—I’ll get written about too. After we’re dead, people will still be wondering if we had sex. I’ll live on as an ambiguous appendage to a genius. I think there’s a blankness about me he likes. He projects onto me. He likes the idea of a vessel. It’s an honor and an insult. I don’t want to sound bitter. I’m not bitter. Sometimes I’m afraid he just couldn’t find anyone else so willing to be subsumed. So. There it is.”
“No,” Joan says, not knowing if she means to agree or disagree, surprised to feel some distaste about Elaine’s arrangement with Mr. K. She had not noticed herself becoming conventional, but, undeniably, she is out of practice deciphering relationships like theirs—or the way hers had been with Arslan—that are part love and part self-imposed misery and part ballet experiment. Her impulse is to tell Elaine to find a nice man to marry, but Elaine never will. Joan would not like it if she did. She prefers Elaine to remain fixed in her old life like an obsolete weather instrument gathering data no one ever sees.
Elaine stubs out her cigarette and says, “Do you ever hear from Arslan?”
“God, no.” Joan flicks her fingers the way Arslan would, shooing the idea away.
“Will you ever write to him?”
“No. I don’t know what I would say. What good would it do? He probably doesn’t even read his own mail. Some intern would send me a signed photo.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’d put some demons to rest or something.”
“I don’t have any demons. I’m happy.” Elaine’s face betrays no skepticism, but Joan knows it’s there. “I love Jacob,” she says firmly “Of course.”
“Not of course. He was an escape hatch.”
“But I must have known it would be okay. On some level. I think I wasn’t open to loving him until I needed to be.”
“Like arranged marriages that turn out to be love marriages. Except it was always a love marriage for him.”
“Yes,” Joan says simply.
“And for you now too?”
“Yes.” Joan looks away, embarrassed. That she has finally fallen in love with Jacob is good luck for both of them, but to say so would demean it.
With an air of declassifying information, Elaine says, “I’m probably moving in with Mr. K. Do you think it’s a mistake?”
“I don’t know. What would qualify it as a mistake? Is he still … does he have boyfriends?”
“I assume so. I never ask. What would qualify it as a mistake? I don’t know what my threshold is for mistakes anymore. I used to make them all the time. I adjusted for them. Now I only do safe things. This doesn’t feel safe, though. It’s committing to something that people find strange. Maybe I’m worried we won’t be able to stand each other, and it’ll be over, and I’ll have nothing.” She restores the packets of sweetener to their ceramic box. “He doesn’t even screw the new girls anymore.
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