Francine
I’m limbering up at the edge of one of the big rehearsal spaces at the Gotham Metropolitan Ballet complex when legendary choreographer Dusty Sevigny comes storming up.
He stops in front of me, bushy brows drawn so low they nearly blot out his eyes.
“You’re to report to Rosemary’s office,” he says in his thick Russian accent, tipping his head toward the area where the company support staff toils away.
Sevigny is difficult to read, what with his brows, his Einstein hairdo, and his stormy artiste vibe, but it’s safe to say he’s upset.
“Right this moment?” I ask uncertainly. It’s a strange request, considering we need every second of practice on “Plamya,” his big comeback piece. Let’s just say the breakneck time signatures trip up a lot of dancers. There are thirty arabesques at one point.
“Immediately,” he says
I plaster on a bright expression “On it!”
He crosses the expanse of hardwood and disappears out the door.
My fellow dancers are scattered all over, stuffing their pointe shoes and rubbing their muscles in preparation for our five-hour rehearsal, but now all eyes are on me.
I stand. Heart pounding, I walk toward the door, passing a horrified cluster of colleagues who clearly think I’m in trouble.
They’re not the only ones.
I put my hand to the side of my mouth and do a quick stage whisper. “Sevigny so loves her performance, he can’t even!”
People give me sympathetic smiles.
As pep talks go, telling a ridiculous story about the bad thing that’s happening is probably not that effective, but it’s what I do. I pass them but I’m not done. I turn and walk backwards, adding, “He’s sending her to the back office to pick up a huge bonus and a brilliant bouquet of flowers!”
Somebody snorts.
I turn and go out the door and rush down to the stairwell.
The admin section of the massive refurbished building has a highly polished tile hallway that leads past old-world doors with wavy waterglass windows. Words like “administration” and “tickets” are painted on them. It’s all very film noir.
What could be the matter? Why not wait until rehearsal is over?
This feels bad. Like dream-crumbling-before-my-eyes bad.
Being chosen as second soloist for this piece was the hugest honor of my life. Only the first soloist and principal dancer have larger parts. We’re embarking on a European tour after our in-town premier, including three nights dancing at my dream theater: Mérida’s Roman Theatre in Spain, a magical space surrounded by ancient marble columns and statues.
Rosemary’s desk, like her office door, has that film noir feel, but Rosemary herself is very contemporary, one of the many hip and worldly fifty-somethings who work behind the scenes in the New York dance world. She was a dancer herself in the ’80s. If I didn’t know it from talking to her, I’d know it from looking at her—I can always tell an ex-dancer by the way they move.
“Mr. Sevigny said to come back and see you?” I say.
Her face turns grim and she sighs. “Right. Take a seat. We’ve got an issue. It’s…” She shakes her head, tapping away on her keyboard. “It’s…not good. Visa stuff.”
“Visa stuff?” I ask, wracking my brains for what it could be. My passport is valid for another year almost, so it couldn’t be that. “What visa stuff?”
She holds up a finger. I’m to wait while she hits more keys.
I look down at the black screen of my phone, not bothering to tap it to life. Not like I’d be able to comprehend anything with my pulse whooshing in my ears. What’s going on? It has to be serious if I was asked to duck out of rehearsal. Every hour of practice is critical and precious right now.
“Here we go.” Rosemary peers at me above stern reading glasses. “Your visa applications have been rejected by three out of the fifteen countries we’ll be touring in.”
“Rejected?” My heart pounds. “Why?”
She eyes me full-on now. “An EU visa requires you to state your correct civil status. You told us on the forms that you were single. Never married.”
I nod. “That’s right. That’s correct.”
She’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying. “Are you sure about that?”
“Of course.”
She glances back to the screen. “According to Social Security records, your marital status is married.”
“Excuse me?” I say. “There must be some mistake. I’m not married. I never was.”
“According to Social Security you’ve been married for nine years, and the discrepancy is getting you flagged and rejected. The powers that be are very picky about that sort of thing these days. Terrorism and so forth.”
“There has to be some kind of mix-up. Maybe somebody is using my Social Security number or something.” I try a smile. “I mean, I’d know if I were married, right?”
She reads off my Social Security number and I confirm that that is, indeed, my correct Social Security number. She frowns at her screen.
“Who am I supposedly married to?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “It just shows your status here. As married.”
“They can’t straighten it out?” I ask. The company’s tour office usually handles this sort of thing.
Rosemary informs me that only I can straighten out a matter this personal. I’m going to need a notarized marital status affidavit which I’m to get in person from the New York county clerk at the New York County Supreme Court.
“I’ll head over first thing tomorrow morning,” I say, eager to get to rehearsal.
“No, look,” Rosemary says, voice softening. “Mix-up or not, if we can’t get this worked out, we can’t bring you along. Right now, you’re not somebody we can bring to three of our host countries.”
“But I’m not married! Obviously it’s a typo or whatever.”
“I know, I get that, but we need this nailed down. Daneen will be dancing in your place today.”
“What?” I gust out.
“You need to make this your top priority. You have a month to get that affidavit. I’ve spoken with my contacts, and that will give me enough time to get those visas in order. They’re holding it open; they just need to see the affidavit and then they’ll clear you.”
I can barely feel my face. I might not go? After all this, I might not go? “Well, can we just change it to married and then deal with the problem when I get back?”
“Too late,” Rosemary says. “It’s a big deal when you sign your name to false information on that type of official document. At this point, you need to prove that the information is correct.” She gives me the address for the New York County Supreme Court. It closes at 4:30.
“I’m on it,” I say.
“Report back right away. We need to know that you can do this. If you can’t get it straightened out, there’s no sense…”
No sense in even rehearsing with the company. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. “I will get you that affidavit. I will do what it takes. And I’ll let you know how it goes every step of the way. This is getting fixed. You can tell Mr. Sevigny that, too.”
Thirty minutes ago, the worst problem in my life was my knee injury, whether to ice-heat-ice it or heat-ice-heat it.
And now all of my most cherished dreams are threatening to crumble.