Jean-Robert was on my mind all day, every day. We would spend lazy days sitting at, Café Le E’toile, ice skating, having snow ball fights or just talking. Also, making so angels in the park or court yard.
We talked of random things, art books, anything really. “What do you do all day over there?” He asked me one, winter day as we walked in the snow, our footsteps making lacey pattern in the snow. “Well, we talk, poke fun at each other, but mostly, we put on little plays, nothing much. They are just for fun.” I did not mention to him that the plays were of what I write about; I was not ashamed of my writing. I tried to talk about it any chance that I got, I just did not want people to judge it and tell me what to add.
“Interesting, you must have a jolly time!” He said excitedly. There was a pause as he looked at me, my heart pounded, “Is he going to kiss me?” I pondered. He leaned forward; I on the other hand leaned away from him. “I must go.” I told him, getting up quickly. “Oh yes, alright.” I smiled and walked away. That memory stayed through the cold dark days and warm bright ones too.
Walking home, I thought of how it would change our friendship. “It could ruin everything! But, it could also make things twice as fun.” I pondered what the outcome could look like as I wandered around the street, the clouds were moving quickly against the grey backdrop; everything was glazed over with snow.
All through the night, I thought of what to do. My friends and I would sit and talk about marriage, what our future would be like and what we wanted to become. We were hopeless romantics!
But, Jean-Robert was not my first love; my first love was writing and dancing. “How could I be in love with someone when, they are not first in my heart.” This was a question that I could not ask momma, for it would be improper and I was already a wag. I was quite smart. But, I was also very naïve and foolish, it did not bother me, for too many young girls tried to be too old for their age and did not really know how to have fun. If I had a choice, I would let my hair down and skip around like a fool all of my days; I wanted to be forever young.
The first day that I started to model for Monsieur Degas was a day of being lazy and having snowball fights. Genevieve was helping mother, so it was just Jean-Robert and I. I woke up to a world of snow and flew out of bed, throwing on a long blue skirt ,a red wool coat and wool mittens, pulled on my boots and rushed to the living room ,mother was already up ,sipping her tea ,eating her almonds, reading , “ A Christmas carol” ,she had just recently finished , “Oliver Twist”. Charles Dickens was one of our families’ favorite writers.
“Where are you going, Marie?”
“I was going to go and see Jean-Robert, may I?” I asked, wrapping a scarf around my neck.
“Yes, you may go, you deserve to have some fun. Just don’t be late for your session with Monsieur Degas.”
“I won’t.” She shook her head at me and mouthed, ‘no’. Momma smiled. “Don’t worry; I will be home on time, ready and willing to help.” I told her as rushed out the door. Momma gave me a little wave as I closed the door.
The snow was light and airy; I twirled and skipped in it, I flopped down and started to make a snow angel, when suddenly, a huge amount of snow was thrown down onto me, thanks are to Jean-Robert. “Oh, thank-you for the wonderful present, I loved it.” I told him dryly.
“Your welcome.” Right then and there, a huge snowball fight broke out, even though we were old. We occasionally acted as though we were little children. Soon there were other children from the street outside involved in our romp. We shrieked, shouted, yelled and teased each other. The time flew by. I would have forgotten about my session with Monsieur Degas if the church bells had not chimed five o’ clock .I left to go to his studio; it was the beginning of my future.
*****
The studio was the same as it was when I was there last time, dusty and full of things. Monsieur Degas wore a smock of blue, which was covered in paint stains of every color, his black hair was nicely combed and he wore is spectacles, blue tinted. He had answered the door greeting and warmly.
“Change into your practice clothes, and tie your Pointe shoes.” He said to me, I obeyed. “Go to the model stand, please. Good. Second position, yes, Porte bras, out to second, non, and non!” He shouted, he bounded over to me, fixed my head, my fingers, and then, went back to his canvas. When he would go over to me and fix my arms or feet, my stomach got tied in a knot; it felt weird and awkward. He resumed his sketch. Once down, he shouted, “Now, forth position!” This position was one that I was very familiar with, I was usually in it all day, for I would stand in forth position without even knowing it, it was the position that a dancer is at most ease, and these positions are what we can go into anything, we can go from fifth position into an arabesque and so on. We were done with the positions and asked for me to resume tying my slipper. I bent down to tie my slipper ,as I had done before ,and he again ,told me to hold the poise for endless amounts of time ,I did enjoy it when he would talk about seeing me in practice and that I danced beautifully. I smiled at the thought that he admired what we did and that were not just dancing because we enjoyed it. We did, yes. But for some people, it was so much more. It was an escape. So we poured our soul out into; we danced with our hearts, which made us fly. I loved everything involving dance, I enjoyed every movement. I went through the motions as a ghost, beautifully, hauntingly, until I was pulled back to being a human, one who loved, cried and, dreamed. I was a door mat to some people.
Monsieur Degas gave me a pat on the head and dug into his pocket, he pulled out two francs and a couple extra sous. He smiled a kind smile, one that was warm, deep from the heart. “Thank-you, “he told me, “Thank-you, your welcome.” I replied. I then changed behind the screen and wrapped my scarf around my neck, pulled on my gloves, and curtsied deeply to the ‘genius’, and left him there to and be great and, wonderful, and have people envy him. “Genius, I am modeling for a true genius.” I thought later that night. The wind whistled a song; slow and majestic. I danced in the street, twirled and hummed in the snow, which was ankle deep by then; I was 17 and happy.
“Life is too precious to lose.” I thought, “So make the most and best of each day.” Once I had reached home, I took my shoes off, and saw my feet, covered in dried blood, cut, and blistered. I rubbed them and examined the damage, they burned and ached, but I pulled through it, it had happened to me many times before, but with each new time, they hurt even worse. When momma asked what was wrong, I forced a smile and said nothing, hiding my feet underneath a blanket. That night, I tried to be strong but my feet were searing pain that, I eventually broke down in tears, confessing everything, momma scolded me, while Genevieve treated my bloody feet, she bandaged them and told me to stay off them for awhile. I found that extremely hard, for I was always dancing.
Later that night, I could not fall asleep. I looked out my window and watched the snowflakes dance down to the street. I was suddenly struck with an idea, “I should write about my life, my dancing, Monsieur Degas, everything.” I smiled at the thought, and sat down at my writing desk, waiting for the little idea to blossom into a novel.
