Flight of the Swan by Rosario Ferré

Tapia, she ordered all the windows and doors opened, to let in light and air. There was a strong smell of brine, as the building was near the wharf. Teatro Tapia was small, but it was nicely decorated, with burgundy velvet opera stalls all around the first tier and matching red velvet chairs and curtains. Smallens had placed an ad in the local paper and several musicians turned up. He hired them, and they squeezed into the orchestra pit as best they could. A number of musicians played outside the pit, sitting in the wings.
    The theater dated from the eighteenth century. It had been built by a Spanish governor as a magnificent birthday present to his wife, who wanted to be an actress and who loved balls. The seats could be removed and a wooden platform slid cleverly from under the stage, covering the entire orchestra section to create a ballroom. Operas and dramas were performed there from time to time, but ballet was totally unknown on the island. It was a new art, and as such, our troupe was ambiguously described by the local press as a “group of demoiselles who go about onstage in semi-transparent skirts, with neck, arms, and legs daringly bared, and who perform athletic feats.” But Madame didn’t give a damn and neither did I.
    We inspected the stage inch by inch, looking for holes or loose boards. The smallest knot in the wood, the tiniest up-ended nail was enough to twist an ankle and make us land like broken dolls on the floor. The carpenter began to hammer away to repair the wooden boards, and we chalked the places where we were supposed to stand at the beginning and at the end of each performance. Then the floor was swept clean and rosin dust was sprinkled over it.
    We slipped on our toe shoes, tied the ribbons to our ankles, and began the exercise of the day, holding on to whatever was available—a chair, a wicker basket full of costumes, a theater flat. This was my favorite part of the morning, when I felt the power of dance throb beneath my feet. Our bodies became columns of energy; our legs rose up from the hip, strong and straight as iron beams; our feet were pink phalluses pointing toward the ceiling. At that moment I felt completely fulfilled. We didn’t have to envy men anything; we had everything they had, only better, for in ballet, women always performed the leading roles. We worked all morning. The rehearsal couldn’t begin until every single one of us was warmed up like a steam engine, practically whistling and raring to go. Once the class was over, however, slowly, like somnambulists entering a dream, we followed Madame out on the stage. Then we assembled around her to begin rehearsing the performance.
    There was nothing we wouldn’t do to please Madame. We were all celibate, in spite of the young men milling around us backstage at the end of each performance. We simply shunned them. This was something unheard of in a troupe of young ballerinas, but our company was special. We went without eating for days to keep our bodies slim and light. Hunger was cleansing, it purified us from desire. Pain meant we were working hard; we were doing things correctly. A ballerina is supposed to feel pain in order to make her art transcend the mundane, and so we put ourselves in Madame’s hands.
    Then a dreadful thing happened.
    We had begun rehearsing when Madame suddenly stopped dancing midstage. I was standing a little bit to the right of her and saw her dark eyes flash with pleasure. She had picked out someone standing at the back of the empty theater, someone with very dark hair, dressed in a white linen suit and wearing a mourning band on his arm. Everyone stopped dancing and stared out into the darkness. My heart leapt to my throat: it was Diamantino Márquez. He smiled broadly and carried a violin case in his hand.
    “Could you by chance use an extra violinist in your orchestra? I’d be willing to work for modest pay,” he asked, a debonair look on his face.
    Madame’s face lit up. “We certainly