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What made me think I could write a ballet? Because
that's what Glory is, a dance, done to the score and choreography
my characters dictated.
I've always loved the ballet--and admired dancers…
any dancers. What they do with their bodies is beyond beautiful.
It's living, breathing, dynamic art. For the audience, dance is
more than a visual medium. It's a physical and emotional experience,
melding music, movement and the dancer's passion into the soaring,
surge of exhilaration you'd expect from a rush of awe, the depths
of love, the intimacy of sex. An arousal, ..constantly renewed
as the artist bares his very soul. How could you not be inspired?
Here's an excerpt
from Glory:
The girl was not at all what Connor expected.
When Madame invited him to come by the studio to check out a new
dancer, he’d pictured a ballerina. This one had too many curves—too
much tit, too much ass. She was too dark, too short, entirely
too round—definitely not built for the stage. Except…
To the rhythm of the Djenbe, she skimmed, gazelle-like, in a golden
blur through a series of jetes. He’d never seen a woman with such
speed and control, and she managed her leaps without losing a
modicum of grace.
Even alone on the floor, she mesmerized.
“Eh bien, mon cher, what do you think?” Madame came up
behind him where he leaned against the doorframe, watching.
“She’s lovely, powerful. You know the rest.” Connor caught a glimpse
of fierce concentration on the girl’s face. A lioness, not a gazelle.
“C’est vrai, but perhaps with the right partner, Quicksilver”—the
aging Prima chortled—“the stage might find something irresistible.”
“Mmmm, you read that, did you?” He smiled in spite of himself.
The review had come out just a few days ago. So, he’d impressed
some sappy critic enough to generate a nickname for himself—she
said he was quicksilver on the stage, in the Times no less,
and the other reviewers followed suit. Just the kind of attention
every performer hoped for, right? Right, so where did he go from
here? Still, the moniker suited him, with his platinum hair, untannable
skin and gray eyes—if he managed to live up to it.
“Do you see?” she asked.
Of course, he saw—silver and gold. They could be unforgettable.
“She has enough height for you, no?” Madame didn’t wait for his
opinion. “Her name is Glorianna Scalisi; she is eighteen, from
Palermo. She studied for a time at el Teatro alla Scala,
and, Connor,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “you can
make her as you want her. She’s never danced pas de deux.”
He glanced down at Madame, waiting for the punch line. No joke
was forthcoming. The idea intrigued him, but did he have time
to work with someone who’d never learned to trust a partner? Was
trying to gain that trust worth his effort? Obviously, Glorianna
was willing, or he wouldn’t be here.
The music swelled toward its conclusion and he returned his attention
to the girl, disappointed to find she’d stopped. Fists clenched,
head hanging to her chest, she stood in place, swaying slightly,
until the music ended. He knew what was coming and moved to help.
She turned toward the barre, staggered and crumpled to the floor.
This happened all the time in his experience. She’d probably forgotten
to eat.
Madame’s reaction surprised him, though. She shoved past, frantically
waving him toward the barre. “The towel, Connor, please. Hurry.”
He grabbed it in passing and hurried to where Madame sat cradling
Glorianna’s shoulders. The heels of the girl’s hands pressed tight
to her temples. Her breathing came shallow and hard. Pain etched
her face. Blood began to seep from her nose. This was more than
a young woman starving herself for her art. Hopes he didn’t even
know he had were dashed in an instant. Sinking to his knees, he
put the towel in her hand and smoothed the stray hairs from her
face.
In a panicked whisper, Madame said, “Glorianna, please, let me
call the ambulance. This is happening too often.”
“No, no, Madame, please. This will pass.” The towel muffled the
girl’s voice. Her free hand extended in a gesture begging patience.
“Perhaps you should rest from dancing for a while, until you are
better,” Madame said.
“No!” The word burst from Glorianna’s mouth. With some effort,
she straightened and scrubbed at her face as though trying to
cleanse away the pain. “Look, I am better already.”
No, Connor saw very little improvement. Her eyes remained clouded,
though the bleeding slowed to a dribble.
“It gets worse,” she said, “but soon will stop altogether. Please,
trust me.”
Madame wasn’t fooled either. Her lips pursed sternly. “No, I will
call your father to come for you. I must talk to him about this.”
Abruptly, Glorianna’s eyes cleared and she dabbed away the last
of the blood. She sighed but said nothing more to Madame’s concern,
just swallowed it like a bitter pill.
“Connor, I am sorry for this. Will you please stay with her while
I make the call?” Madame asked.
“Of course.” Though the girl’s problem left him little reason
to stay, he welcomed a few moments alone with her. He wated until
Madame disappeared up the stairs to her office then turned to
Glorianna for a closer look. Her skin was flawless. He wanted
to reach out and stroke her cheek. Gold-flecked hazel eyes stared
back at him. With hair, eyes and skin all the same shade of pale-gold
bronze, she was even more monochrome than him. At least she was
blessed with a richer hue.
A flash of recognition crossed her face. “We are coming to watch
you perform tonight,” she blurted, then reddened, embarrassed
by the outburst. Unfolding her legs, she started to get up. “Are
you here for me? Madame said someone might come today.”
He stood to offer his hand. “Connor Finn. You’re a gifted dancer.
I didn’t find anything to fault in your technique.”
“Until I fell.” She sighed, taking the proffered hand and pulling
herself to her feet. “Now I’ve scared you away, yes?”
Not yet, apparently. “You said this is a temporary problem?
How temporary?”
“A few weeks, a month or two maybe.”
If that was true, perhaps the problem was surmountable. “Or more?”
She gave him a little shrug.
“Maybe you should do as Madame suggests, Glory. Take some time
off.”
She glanced askance at him and smiled before he realized his mistake..
“Sorry,” he corrected, “Glorianna.”
“No, I like Glory. The exercise does not cause this. The attacks
come anytime now, even when I sleep. It is nothing. A family thing,
how do you say?”
“Inherited.” He might have let the argument go, but he wanted
her to understand his concern. “Glory, if these attacks continue,
any career you hope for is over before it begins.”
“They will pass,” she insisted.
“But the problem will get worse before it gets better?”
“Yes.” She sighed again and dabbed at her face with the blood-spattered
towel. “If I can’t dance, what will I do but wait for another
attack? You understand the need to dance.”
Yes, he understood the need to dance and the acceptance of pain,
but this wasn’t the pain of dedication. This was…disappointing.
He wasn’t sure yet how much he cared, but a glance at their reflection
in the mirror offered a hint. The season ended in a week, giving
him some time off. A few days wouldn’t cost him much, though judging
by the way he felt drawn to her curves, he couldn’t help thinking
he might be setting himself up for something bigger than disappointment.
He gently took her by the shoulders and turned her to stand in
front of him in the mirror.
“Why have you never trained with a partner?” he asked, studying
their reflections.
A russet blush spread from her cheeks to her chest. “Il Maestro
thought it…unnecessary,” she murmured.
Unnecessary? Ninety percent of the women he’d partnered
during his studies never danced professionally. Wasn’t it a given?
Get on your toes; get a partner.
She really was lovely, even with a bloody nose. He liked them
willowy, but the way she filled out that leotard… There was the
most likely reason they’d kept her solo. Six or seven years ago,
if someone had put a woman like this in his arms, he would have
thoroughly embarrassed them both.
With her curls pulled up into a knot, her neck and shoulders created
the graceful lines any dancer would envy. Beautiful. Long, supple
arms, powerful legs, tight abdomen and glutes, and with her arm
stretched out against his, the picture was perfect. They looked
good together— better than he’d imagined.
When he caught her eyes again, he found her staring back with
an expression of chagrin. Damn, he’d been trying her on like a
shirt.
Grinning his apologies to her reflection, he placed his hands
at her hips. She took the cue and leaped, feet whipping through
entrechat quartre, and landed with perfect aplomb. The
power behind the leap was all hers, but the support he offered
gave her height and buoyancy enough to elicit a triumphant smile.
His right hand wandered from her hip to her belly. Despite the
rock hard muscle, he found a roundness, a softness that invited
touching. It pleased him that she didn’t shy from his touch, but
only met his eyes in the mirror, judging his reaction. He stopped
himself from exploring more, though curiosity tempted him to try
one caress. How would her body interpret his touch? Was she the
one he envisioned? A hunger to know enveloped him.
Madame entered the studio. “Glorianna, the car is here for you.”
Glory broke away, scooped up her bag from the bench, and turned
to Connor. “We will meet again, signore.” She held out
her hand to him, palm down.
Surprised, and a little amused, he brought it to his lips. “Yes,
I believe we will. I hope you enjoy tonight’s performance.”
His gaze followed her as she swept across the studio and out the
front door. Through the plate glass storefront, he watched agape
as a chauffeur helped her into the back seat of a black Rolls
Royce limo. She greeted someone waiting inside.
“Are you not hearing me?” Madame said. Apparently, she’d asked
a question while his attention was diverted. “She is here every
day at this time. Will you be back?”
He nodded as the evidence of how little he knew about the girl
pulled away from the curb.
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"4
1/2 Stars!...Passion, love, danger and deceit all roll together
to make Glory a great short read. It is heartwarming to see an
author take on the stereotype that only the thinnest can succeed
in the dance world. Ms. Katz also gives a realistic glance into
the depression that can take hold of a person who is told that
the shape of their body will forever keep them from realizing
their dream. Brava to this inspiring new voice in fiction."