Marguerite and The Masseuse
by Jonathan Tasker Rich
When I was a small child, perhaps four or five years old, I remember my nanny, Marguerite, brushing out my long auburn hair each day before ballet practice.
Stroke. Gentle stoke. The silver-backed brush and gentle blonde bristles swam through my child-soft hair. I can bring to mind her warm fingers brushing against my forehead as she gathered each strand of hair. She pulled back the brown mass of chocolate strands and twisted them on top of my head into a ballet bun. I was practicing three times a week, even back then.
At nineteen now. Back stage in my dressing room I float back to this image as the masseuse works and quiets my cramping foot. It is between acts. She is doing her job, keeping the dancers loose so they won't cramp up completely.
With each push of her thumb into the center of my foot I wince in pain and turn my head against the pillow. I rise above the pain and picture Marguerite.
My parents sent me to the Paris Opera Ballet school in hopes that the punishing ballet practice schedule would turn me into a Prima Dona. It worked. I am dancing Giselle tonight.
It was my choice to dance. I think. I can't really remember. But now, it is my life. A life of the body, a life of straining -- linked to the masseuse. I wonder, what would my life be without this constant motion, pounding? A ballet machine. My being and ballet are knotted together. A knot that has no undoing.
The masseuse pushes down on my hips, twisting my leg as she grabs the insole of my foot. I wince again. I close my eyes tightly and whisper the name. Marguerite.
Marguerite was my constant companion in those years. We lived as almost mother and daughter. Mama and Papa were usually out at the Opera at night and Mama had her lady friends during the day. Most nights it was Marguerite who put me down. Her gentle lips on my forehead sent me off to sleep.
I can only remember once my mother taking me to ballet class. She would come to the public performances instead, sitting front row. But it was Marguerite whom I kept looking at in the audience. I danced for Marguerite.
The massuese continues to needle her thumb into the sole of my foot. I hold on to Marguerite more tightly.
"My petite cabbage, you must go now. It is ballet time. I know you are tired but we will never see you dance in the Paris Opera Ballet without practice. The hours add up. Let's dresse. For practice, " she said with a smile.
Her light blue eyes sparked. I looked into her eyes and could see myself reflected, dancing Giselle someday.
Ah, the masseuse probes deeper. I turn my head toward my pillow and away from her eyes. She only stares at my leg, never at me. She seldom speaks. Only to say she is done and my entrance is coming up in five minutes. She moves on to the next girls dressing room.
When Marguerite left us, when I was eight. She told me she was leaving to go home to start a family. "I want to have a child just like you, my little cabbage," she said.
I am The Masseuse. She is The Ballet Dancer. I have worked for the company for over twenty years, starting when I was just eighteen years old. About the age of this one here that I am working on. The Ballet Dancers cannot survive without me. The constant pounding they take. I am an antidote for abuse.
This one, This Ballet Dancer, is the fifth I have worked on for tonight's performance. I will soon be done with her. She gets to dance Gisselle and I get to wait in the wings for her to limp out to me.
Stroke. Hard strokes. That is all that will work out the acid from their muscles. There is nothing gentle about my job. I am machine. I am The Masseuse Machine. They would replace me if they could, but they know I probe deeply the fine muscles, tendons and ligaments of the dancers' bodies better than any machine. I have the touch that returns feet to the stage to dazzle audiences. Nightly, I knead rock-hard muscles. It is hard work.
I often let my mind wonder as I work on their bodies. I remember the touch of my mother, a mother that wanted me too to dance. But we had no money. Father left us when I was small. Now, I only watch from the wings.
I recall mother as she would put on the phonograph and dance. She had come from a family with a bit of money and had lessons briefly, as a young child. She still remembered a few positions. It was our lesson, together, with no audience. She made me a ballet costume from scraps from her sewing job. I would stand in the tiny kitchen and pretend it were a stage. Her solo clap would echo of the dingy kitchen walls as I took a bow.
I wanted to be close to the real ballet so I took a job sweeping up back stage after the performances were over at the Paris Opera Ballet. It wasn't much pay, but I was near them. Eventually, I worked my way up and learned to be The Masseuse.
I miss my mother. I miss playing ballet. Now I am The Masseuse. They need me to dance. But I no longer need them. I need a mother. My mother. To gently run her finger over my arms and back. To touch me.
The Ballet dancer moans. I continue to knead.
