concentration,
torpedo his creativity, dampen his imagination. At times it became, in his
overheated and youthful mind, a matter of life or death.
At the same time, he was besieged by the idea that Carol
could never love him, certainly never love him more than ballet, more than her
ambition to excel, more than her thirst for immortality or notoriety or
celebrity, all those secret compulsions that he, too, knew so well.
None of this stopped him from pursuing her. Others had both
love and fulfillment. Why not he? She would enhance his creativity, wouldn't
she? Wasn't there stability in satisfying desire?
Yet he still feared pressing her, appearing on her doorstep
without notice. His pursuit could not be without calculation. Most of all, he
feared that heavy-handedness would turn her off completely. Above all, he told
himself, he must keep hope alive. At times, when it was impossible to write his
novel, he would write to her instead, long agonizing letters of longing,
pouring out his love, his needs, his fears, the terrible pain of separation. Of
course, he never mailed them. She'd think he had gone mad.
But there was still the telephone. He called it his weapon
of necessity. It was the era before answering machines and it was frustrating
to hear its ring without a response. Sometimes he would spend ten minutes just
listening to it ring. When she did answer, the conversation was always polite,
predictable, and noncommittal. He had the impression that even his phone calls
were an intrusion on her time.
"Let me come up," he would say.
"No. Please."
"You've got to rest, Carol, stand back,
contemplate."
"I'm not improving, Ken," she admitted.
"You're trying too hard."
"There's no other way."
More and more she seemed anguished, depressed. He, too, had
come to a crossroads. New snags had developed. The burst of inspiration had
faltered. The muse was being stubborn. His characters were exhibiting a crisis
of non-action, were bored with interacting. He knew why. She was dominating his
life.
"Let me comfort you, Carol. Please." And myself,
he thought.
"It won't help."
"Yes, it will."
She seemed overwrought and fearful. By then he had learned
that nervous breakdowns were common to ballet dancers.
One night she called him. "Come quick, Ken.
Please."
He was surprised by her appearance. Her complexion was
ashen, and her eyes seemed to have sunken behind her cheeks. She looked
unhealthy. When she saw him, she burst into tears. Was it for love or solace?
At twenty-one the distinctions were blurry. It was enough that she was in his
arms.
"I wasn't picked," she sobbed, blurting out the
travails of her rejection. For her it was a catastrophe. And yet, when she
finally explained it, it seemed only a small setback. One out of a dozen in the
student ballet corps had been picked for a solo.
"There's always a next time," he said, hoping to
be comforting.
"Don't you understand, Ken? I can't catch up."
He saw in this sudden revelation a glimpse of her
vulnerability. He felt her pain and disappointment but also saw it as an
opening for him, a way into her heart. She needed his love, he decided. His
love would comfort her, inspire her. It was time to act.
Up to then, out of fear, he had hidden his true feelings.
Hadn't she made it clear that there was no room in her life for anything but
dance? Such a position had its logic and its truth. But so did love.
She was in his arms and he was caressing her, brotherly at
first. And then he kissed her deeply and she responded.
"Let me love you," he whispered.
"Love me?"
She had stiffened for a moment, then continued to cling to
him.
"You need me to love you," he said. "Let me
love you."
They kissed again, deeper than before. Her body seemed to
melt against him.
"Everything will happen the way you want it," he
told her. "I promise you."
She sighed but said nothing. His body's reaction was
unmistakable and he felt her hips rotating against his erection. It surprised
him and he began to
torpedo his creativity, dampen his imagination. At times it became, in his
overheated and youthful mind, a matter of life or death.
At the same time, he was besieged by the idea that Carol
could never love him, certainly never love him more than ballet, more than her
ambition to excel, more than her thirst for immortality or notoriety or
celebrity, all those secret compulsions that he, too, knew so well.
None of this stopped him from pursuing her. Others had both
love and fulfillment. Why not he? She would enhance his creativity, wouldn't
she? Wasn't there stability in satisfying desire?
Yet he still feared pressing her, appearing on her doorstep
without notice. His pursuit could not be without calculation. Most of all, he
feared that heavy-handedness would turn her off completely. Above all, he told
himself, he must keep hope alive. At times, when it was impossible to write his
novel, he would write to her instead, long agonizing letters of longing,
pouring out his love, his needs, his fears, the terrible pain of separation. Of
course, he never mailed them. She'd think he had gone mad.
But there was still the telephone. He called it his weapon
of necessity. It was the era before answering machines and it was frustrating
to hear its ring without a response. Sometimes he would spend ten minutes just
listening to it ring. When she did answer, the conversation was always polite,
predictable, and noncommittal. He had the impression that even his phone calls
were an intrusion on her time.
"Let me come up," he would say.
"No. Please."
"You've got to rest, Carol, stand back,
contemplate."
"I'm not improving, Ken," she admitted.
"You're trying too hard."
"There's no other way."
More and more she seemed anguished, depressed. He, too, had
come to a crossroads. New snags had developed. The burst of inspiration had
faltered. The muse was being stubborn. His characters were exhibiting a crisis
of non-action, were bored with interacting. He knew why. She was dominating his
life.
"Let me comfort you, Carol. Please." And myself,
he thought.
"It won't help."
"Yes, it will."
She seemed overwrought and fearful. By then he had learned
that nervous breakdowns were common to ballet dancers.
One night she called him. "Come quick, Ken.
Please."
He was surprised by her appearance. Her complexion was
ashen, and her eyes seemed to have sunken behind her cheeks. She looked
unhealthy. When she saw him, she burst into tears. Was it for love or solace?
At twenty-one the distinctions were blurry. It was enough that she was in his
arms.
"I wasn't picked," she sobbed, blurting out the
travails of her rejection. For her it was a catastrophe. And yet, when she
finally explained it, it seemed only a small setback. One out of a dozen in the
student ballet corps had been picked for a solo.
"There's always a next time," he said, hoping to
be comforting.
"Don't you understand, Ken? I can't catch up."
He saw in this sudden revelation a glimpse of her
vulnerability. He felt her pain and disappointment but also saw it as an
opening for him, a way into her heart. She needed his love, he decided. His
love would comfort her, inspire her. It was time to act.
Up to then, out of fear, he had hidden his true feelings.
Hadn't she made it clear that there was no room in her life for anything but
dance? Such a position had its logic and its truth. But so did love.
She was in his arms and he was caressing her, brotherly at
first. And then he kissed her deeply and she responded.
"Let me love you," he whispered.
"Love me?"
She had stiffened for a moment, then continued to cling to
him.
"You need me to love you," he said. "Let me
love you."
They kissed again, deeper than before. Her body seemed to
melt against him.
"Everything will happen the way you want it," he
told her. "I promise you."
She sighed but said nothing. His body's reaction was
unmistakable and he felt her hips rotating against his erection. It surprised
him and he began to
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