Cinderella In Drag, A Night At The Ballet

After dinner—hamburgers on pane bianco with ketchup (Del Monte) and maionese, accompanied by the cola I bought (not very good) and plumcakes for dessert (why are these dry tasteless packaged objects called plumcakes?)—we get ready for our night at the ballet. The class has tickets to see La Cenerentola by Prokofiev at the Teatro Comunale.

I wear some of my new finery from the open market, the long skirt, the polar bear earrings, a blouse I bought at a return trip to the mercatino usato—and my mountain-climber’s shoes. Every outing I take in the city requires the heaviest shoes I own, with the thickest soles; otherwise I cannot negotiate the streets of Florence, the curbs, the flagstones, the staircases polished by 500 years of wear. I’ve made my peace with fashion. Thick socks and warrior shoes—like it or not, these are my trademark.

Joe looks distinguished in his suit and tie; we check each other out, and we approve. A dab of perfume for me and we’re ready for our night on the town. I’d prefer to have a limousine picking us up, but it’s the #14 bus as usual.

The students are resplendent tonight. The girls whom I’ve seen wearing nothing but jeans and sweatshirts are glimmering in crushed red velvet evening gowns, black satin pantsuits, silvery shawls, and wonderfully high heels. A few have had their hair bleached or cropped or dyed by Rosanna. This group appears to be an entirely different species from the kids who wander into Joe’s class and fall asleep over their notebooks. The boys look as if cardboard is holding them up in their stiff shirts, polished dress shoes and dressy jackets.

Phil and Sara, our students who are now quite clearly in love with one another, are asking their friends to take dozens of photographs of them, in various glamorous poses. A brief pang of envy shivers through me.

Our Chinese student, Mai Jing, has come with her landlady, with whom she has formed a deep bond of friendship. Nicoletta’s sister has arrived from Rome, and the two beautiful women (two Sophia Laurens!) are talking at high speed in Italian.

The class disperses to find their reserved seats scattered through the balcony. I feel more than ready to be entertained. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a movie or even watched a television program! I’m looking forward to my eyes being pleasured with scenes of classical ballet and my ears being soothed by the universal language of music. For once, my lack of Italian should not impede my understanding. We are about to witness the comforting tale of goodness rewarded. Cinderella, who cannot go to the Prince’s ball will, in time, win out over the cruel stepsisters and the villainous stepmother and capture the handsome prince as her own true love. I settle back and wait for the curtain to rise, for the conductor’s baton to signal the orchestra to begin.

The first problem seems to be that there is no orchestra. A rather thin, whirry sound track comes from the rafters via speakers. We are being treated, in the great Teatro Comunale, to canned music. Next, the curtains part, and Cinderella, dressed like Charlie Chaplin, revolves on the hands of a clock under a huge tilted mirror. Now the other characters enter: the cruel mother has a head bare as a billiard ball, and the two ugly sisters have calves like football players. I take out my opera glasses. Indeed, these women are men!

Cinderella, however, dressed in pants and suspenders like a man, is clearly a gorgeous young woman. When the Godmother arrives with her dainty helpers, she also brings along Elvis Presley, who appears on-stage with his fake guitar, his sideburns, and his thrusting hips.

In time, the ugly sisters, in their scratchy tulle gowns (and stomping about in their flat-footed gaits), leave for the ball. But suddenly (and this is what I have been waiting for) Cinderella appears, in glittering white…dressed as Marilyn Monroe. She is wearing the white halter dress that Marilyn made famous. She sports a blonde wig, and she dances her longing and sadness in a few dainty modern-dance steps.

My attention wanders during the ball scene, but I’m roused by the clock striking midnight. Cinderella, of course, runs away. In no time the Prince is on the prowl for his dream girl, the one who will fit the glass slipper. The messengers fan out into the city, carrying the slipper, to find Cinderella. Only, as it happens, the messengers are pizza delivery boys wearing roller skates.

At this juncture, I become aware of breathing down the back of my neck. I turn around and see a heavy-set man leaning forward, his elbows on the back of my chair, his chin nearly on my shoulder. I frown at him. He merely leans further forward, the better to see the stage, I assume. Joe also turns to see the man thrusting his head between us; we are both inhaling the scent of onions on his breath.

“Scusi,” I whisper, indicating we are most unhappy with this intimacy. The man does not budge. His eyes are fastened on the stage below, where, gyrating to the scratchy sound track, the hero and heroine are enacting the finale.

The Prince, having discovered his Princess, is dancing with Cinderella, but the two are spinning about the stage separately as if they have been to too many discotheques and have forgotten how to be romantic.

The man behind us snorts and sneezes. Joe and I both stare fiercely at him, but he stares at the stage with dumb blankness. We are trying to pay attention to the final love scene. Joe finally surrenders his seat and stands in the aisle, attempting to watch the end of the ballet.

The man behind us takes this as an invitation, and moves forward into Joe’s seat! Is this an Italian custom? The man and I are nearly cheek to cheek. Custom or not, I can’t bear it. I jump up to join my husband in the aisle. Blocking the view of others behind us, we’re confounded. Where shall we go?

We sit down on the steps of the aisle, but then we can’t see the stage.

But just then the ballet comes to its conclusion. We’ve missed the end of the story, but we don’t much care. We are merely relieved it has ended.

Out in the night air, we stand among the milling crowd wondering how to get home. It is nearly midnight. When the clock strikes twelve, do all the orange buses of Florence turn back into pumpkins? (Or eggplants?) Most of our students have departed; many live within walking distance of the theater. Many are not even going home, but, dressed in their best, are going to a disco to round out the evening.

Just then Mai Jing comes rushing up to us, her cheeks flushed. “Mr. Joe,” she says (which is what some of the students call my husband—a title between a more formal last name and a too-informal first name), “Would you like my friend, Massimo, to give you a ride home?”

“Indeed we would,” I reply before Joe can demur. “Thank you.”

Massimo turns out to be a wild and handsome Italian; he has parked his car right in the center of the intersection in front of the theater, blocking traffic in four directions. He wears a three-day beard (which seems to be the fashion of choice among young Italian men), and he cheerfully squeezes us in the back of his tiny car with Mai Jing’s landlady. The five of us shoot off into the night at an incredible rate of speed. I don’t have time to get my bearings—we are on a roller coaster ride!

“Massimo doesn’t speak any English,” Mai Jing turns to tell us.

“That’s all right,” I reply, “I don’t speak any Italian.”

“He is happy to help you,” Mai Jing explains.

I hold on for dear life as we careen around the city. Joe tries to explain to him where we live…“Abito vicino a via Aretina,” but Massimo is not too interested in directions. I fear that he might just let us off in the middle of some street and wish us luck getting home. Mai Jing’s Italian landlady is clutching my arm—she’s too astonished to speak.

Miraculously (how does he know where it is?) Massimo pulls up at our gate. We have been riding perhaps five minutes on a trip that takes us twenty-five minutes by bus.

He says something to Joe, who translates for me. “One day Massimo says he would like us to come to dinner at his apartment.”

“Oh…that’s nice.”

“He says he will be happy to pick us up.”

“I’m delighted,” I say, hanging breathless onto our gate. “Any time.”

“Very soon,” Mai Jing adds. She is happy to be of help to her professor.

It occurs to me that all the students on this trip with us in Florence are having amazing, glorious, romantic adventures with new people.

Joe and I will just have to be satisfied with each other. Grateful to be alive, we clasp hands and make our way upstairs and to bed.