man.
Mitch twittered into his coffee. “Great goal, Suze, to be like Mr. Reynolds.”
“I said , Walter knows a lot more than Mr. Reynolds.”
Walter, warming to the idea of himself standing at a podium speaking passionately, began to quote from Howards End . “ ‘Life is indeed dangerous,’ ” he recited, “ ‘but not in the way morality would have us believe. It is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of it is not a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance, and its essence is romantic beauty.’ ”
“See?” Susan said, wagging her head at Mitch.
“I know I’ve been saved by books,” Walter went on, ignoring them. “I mean literally saved, and I suppose it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to try to help people understand that books have that sort of power. That, ah, redemptive power, if you will.” He was pleased with himself, by the fact that he was already quite capable of speaking like an English teacher.
“Yeah,” Mitch said, still sniggering, “but Mr. Reynolds?”
They went into the Louis Sullivan Building, into the dim entry that years before had been stately. The marble was scuffed, the brass had dulled, and the gold leaf was gone. Harry, the elevator man, sat slumped on his stool, holding his lever. He was sleeping, his head resting right next to the emergency button, while he waited for passengers. When Mitch stepped in, Harry opened his eyes and began to mutter, seamlessly coming out of his dream into the world of motion and small talk. He took them up to the twelfth floor, his head bowed, talking as he did, day after day, into his stomach, no matter the season,about the bitter weather, the merciless wind. With one lever he drove the metal cage up, slowed and slowed, adjusted, up, up, an inch, another inch, so that finally it met the floor.
The hall on twelve was lit by one lightbulb, and so the corners were suitable for last-minute fondling. Susan and Mitch kissed under the dusty panel depicting the birth of Venus. Walter opened the door to the waiting room, to the smell of sweat and rosin, cigarette smoke, the tinny noise of the piano from inside the studio, the thump of forty girls jumping, landing on the same last beat.
If life for Walter was composed in part of confusion, shame and deception, the ballet was order, dignity and forthright beauty. He could come from the train, from the outside world of his brother’s sickness, his own strife and Mitch’s cruel taunt, into the studio to the realm of the dance. He could stand behind Mitch at the barre, in fifth position, pulling up his puffy knees with all of his strength, so that they would stand as flat as possible against each other, and stretching his scrawny leg, pointing his long slab of a foot in a battement tendu, he could say, with each movement, I love you, Mitch . Their teacher, Mr. Kenton, snapped his fingers and walked the studio, adjusting a student’s arm, a neck, a hand, an entire leg. The pupil always nodded, to display understanding and gratitude. And one, and two, and three, and four. On one, Walter pointed his foot in front of him, I love you, Mitch , and two, close to the fifth position, I love you, Mitch , and three, à la seconde, I love you, Mitch , and four, close to the fifth, I love, I love you, Mitch .
When they turned around to the other side, to do the exercise on the right leg, Walter was in front of Mitch. He didn’t look at the girls along the barre. He closed his eyes and saw Mitch, Mitch in every detail: Mitch’s thighs that tapered elegantly to the knee, the slight bulge of his calf, his short feet that were so arched they looked as if they could snap shut. He remembered how Mitch had stared at the ceiling once, with his hand on his throat, how he listened when Walter played Schumann on the piano. He was sure that Mitch was listening intently. And he thought of the notes that Mitch had passed him in geometry class, his irreverent answers to Miss Guest’s inane story problems. Walter
Mitch twittered into his coffee. “Great goal, Suze, to be like Mr. Reynolds.”
“I said , Walter knows a lot more than Mr. Reynolds.”
Walter, warming to the idea of himself standing at a podium speaking passionately, began to quote from Howards End . “ ‘Life is indeed dangerous,’ ” he recited, “ ‘but not in the way morality would have us believe. It is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of it is not a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance, and its essence is romantic beauty.’ ”
“See?” Susan said, wagging her head at Mitch.
“I know I’ve been saved by books,” Walter went on, ignoring them. “I mean literally saved, and I suppose it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to try to help people understand that books have that sort of power. That, ah, redemptive power, if you will.” He was pleased with himself, by the fact that he was already quite capable of speaking like an English teacher.
“Yeah,” Mitch said, still sniggering, “but Mr. Reynolds?”
They went into the Louis Sullivan Building, into the dim entry that years before had been stately. The marble was scuffed, the brass had dulled, and the gold leaf was gone. Harry, the elevator man, sat slumped on his stool, holding his lever. He was sleeping, his head resting right next to the emergency button, while he waited for passengers. When Mitch stepped in, Harry opened his eyes and began to mutter, seamlessly coming out of his dream into the world of motion and small talk. He took them up to the twelfth floor, his head bowed, talking as he did, day after day, into his stomach, no matter the season,about the bitter weather, the merciless wind. With one lever he drove the metal cage up, slowed and slowed, adjusted, up, up, an inch, another inch, so that finally it met the floor.
The hall on twelve was lit by one lightbulb, and so the corners were suitable for last-minute fondling. Susan and Mitch kissed under the dusty panel depicting the birth of Venus. Walter opened the door to the waiting room, to the smell of sweat and rosin, cigarette smoke, the tinny noise of the piano from inside the studio, the thump of forty girls jumping, landing on the same last beat.
If life for Walter was composed in part of confusion, shame and deception, the ballet was order, dignity and forthright beauty. He could come from the train, from the outside world of his brother’s sickness, his own strife and Mitch’s cruel taunt, into the studio to the realm of the dance. He could stand behind Mitch at the barre, in fifth position, pulling up his puffy knees with all of his strength, so that they would stand as flat as possible against each other, and stretching his scrawny leg, pointing his long slab of a foot in a battement tendu, he could say, with each movement, I love you, Mitch . Their teacher, Mr. Kenton, snapped his fingers and walked the studio, adjusting a student’s arm, a neck, a hand, an entire leg. The pupil always nodded, to display understanding and gratitude. And one, and two, and three, and four. On one, Walter pointed his foot in front of him, I love you, Mitch , and two, close to the fifth position, I love you, Mitch , and three, à la seconde, I love you, Mitch , and four, close to the fifth, I love, I love you, Mitch .
When they turned around to the other side, to do the exercise on the right leg, Walter was in front of Mitch. He didn’t look at the girls along the barre. He closed his eyes and saw Mitch, Mitch in every detail: Mitch’s thighs that tapered elegantly to the knee, the slight bulge of his calf, his short feet that were so arched they looked as if they could snap shut. He remembered how Mitch had stared at the ceiling once, with his hand on his throat, how he listened when Walter played Schumann on the piano. He was sure that Mitch was listening intently. And he thought of the notes that Mitch had passed him in geometry class, his irreverent answers to Miss Guest’s inane story problems. Walter
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