The emotion in her voice reminds me of the thrill of watching her dance on stage.
Katherine continues, “I want to give Negro dancers on the concert stage an authentic vocabulary born of their own heritage. What if my choreography could give Negro audiences a chance to see their ancestors alive again in motion?”
I get what she’s after. “Then you intend to go beyond mere observation.”
“Exactly,” Katherine replies with a smile. “I plan to immerse myself in the Maroon community, not only to document their dances, drum ceremonies, and songs, but also to become a part of the culture.
“I’ve even created my own notation system to detail the footwork and gestures of the dances, enabling me to capture what traditional ballet notation misses. Our field notes will connect each step and chant, revealing the spiritual heartbeat of Maroon life and linking it back to the silk cotton tree ceremony.”
“The silk cotton tree.” I can’t hide my excitement at hearing those words. I learned about it from Maxi, who told meabout the tree’s power and the duppies, the ghosts of the dead, that inhabit it.
“So you know about the silk cotton tree?” Katherine smirks. “Maxi told you, right?”
I nod.
“That’s good.” Katherine shifts her posture. “But you swear you and Tully are okay? I apologize for pushing the point.”
“It’s okay if you’re still peeved at me about Ballet Négre.”
“Hard to forget. You missed my dance company’s World’s Fair performance.” Her tone is light, but it holds an edge.
“You haven’t forgiven me, have you?” I don’t wait for her answer. “My not performing with Ballet Négre was Clifford’s decision. He didn’t want his bride traipsing on stage half-dressed in front of strangers.”
“Aww. Husbands.”
I can’t protest the implication of just a few words. Instead, I turn the tables. “Speaking of husbands …”
“Don’t you dare—” Katherine giggles.
“I can’t help it,” I respond. “And where’s your husband? Is Jordis joining us tonight or heading off to Jamaica?”
“He’s at the post office,” Katherine replies. “So he won’t be joining us tonight—or in Jamaica for that matter.”
“Remind me again, why did you marry him?”
“As if you’re unaware—he’s one of the most handsome men alive. I felt compelled to marry him, even if I should have asked more questions. Marriage is challenging, especially when you’re balancing film and choreography projects while forming Negro dance companies and ensembles.” She takes a deep breath. “Sometimes, a woman’s ambition clashes with her husband’s idea of marriage.”
My thoughts race. I don’t have Katherine’s drive. Ambition has nothing to do with my conflict with Tully. It’s his fear and my guilt that stand between us. I look out the window, realizing I hadn’t noticed the car had come to a stop. We’re already in a line of limos, waiting to be dropped off infront of the entrance. The limo pulls up in front of the Abbotts’ house.
“What if we agree not to discuss husbands tonight?” Katherine proposes. “We’re here to celebrate.”
“I completely agree.”
The limo driver opens the door and I step out ahead of Katherine. The moment I do, we’re swarmed by reporters and cameramen, butusfeels incorrect. They are snapping photos of Katherine Dunham, but I’m not bitter. The limelight belongs to her, so I leave her to it and walk into the Abbotts’ home alone, where the reception is already in full swing.
A grim-faced butler hands me a glass of champagne before I enter the grand ballroom. One hundred guests are packed into a shimmery, candlelit room where chandeliers add dazzle and sparkle. A wall-length buffet includes fancy hors d’oeuvres, champagne, and eye-catching decorations. Tall Egyptian vases and bouquets of colorful fresh flowers adorn the space while a quartet plays George Gershwin’s “Summertime.”
I am drawn to a rectangular alcove where the Abbotts have arranged an exhibition of various works of art.
The first piece I spot is a sculpture of a Negro woman by Augusta Savage, and then a bust namedGaminof a Black boy in a cap, also created by her. I adore her work and have seen these pieces displayed in several museums I’ve visited, but this exhibit feels more intimate, perhaps because it’s in a home rather than a museum. There is also the photography of James Van Der Zee and the paintings of Archibald Motley, Palmer Hayden, and Hale Woodruff. I could spend the rest of the evening in this alcove.
Eventually, I turn a corner and come face-to-face with Ruth Page, the director of the Chicago Opera Company ballet, and Ludmila Speranzeva, the Russian ballet teacher who taught Dunham and, for a short while, me. The two dancersare courteous, offering me perfunctory kisses on the cheek and a brief hug. Ludmila Speranzeva’s greeting feels as if it also includes a measuring tape.
“You are quite slender,” the former prima ballerina remarks. “Are you practicing your barre routine at home? Not eating too much bread or cake, I trust.”
How considerate of her to mention my weaknesses, from when I took daily classes from her before I married Clifford. Her words bring back the same insecurity and self-consciousness I felt then.
“Yes, I hardly eat cake or bread, and I practice every day, Mademoiselle.” I use the French honorific that Ludmila insists upon from her students.
