Valeria's alter ego

Time stilled, his lungs burned. Buoyancy gave way to heaviness, but he couldn’t stop. He only had half a lap to go. His goal was set, yet his muscles were at war with him. They wanted to stop, to float away. Still, he was master of his body and mind; he wouldn’t heed them. He turned his head to swallow air, instead pulled water into his nostrils, his lungs. He stopped, tried to break above the water to gasp the life he needed. But the more he tried, the lower he drifted, his lungs bursting.

Reality became liquid blue, a chloroformed world that eagerly welcomed him into its soundless depths. Below in a blur, he saw the outline of the drain, to the sides, the tiles of the pool. He could hold his breath no longer, and began drinking in his death through his nose, his mouth. This was where he would die. Here.

In a last grasp of consciousness, he wondered why his life wasn’t reeling through his mind. His triumphs as well as his regrets. But there was nothing. Just nothingness.

He reached the bottom and waited. It was strange. He could hear music. Faraway, yet familiar. It floated toward him, wafting along the deadly water…

Crystal tears mirrored the myriad dancers swirling below, colors sparkled, diamonds glittered. On the dais, an orchestra played “On the Beautiful Blue Danube” by Johann Strauss, Jr. The strings blended perfectly with the woodwinds, the tempo precise, flawless. He stared at the musicians. They were all Negroes. He stood near the entrance of the hall, awed by the regalia, by the decorum. He hadn’t known what to expect, but certainly not this.

A few years back, he had read an article in the New York Times about these colored dances. One of his club acquaintances had snipped it out and passed it around. There were titters and guffaws through the cigar smoke at the sheer thought of Negroes dressing up in finery, trying to imitate their betters. The idea was ludicrous, a caricature worthy of ridicule.

His thoughts had been far from that issue when he came upon the carriages parked in front of the Waldorf-Astoria. He was hurrying along, mindful that he was already five minutes late to his dinner meeting with Barrett at Delmonico’s. Head down against the hat-flapping wind, hand pinning his bowler to his head, he missed seeing the body of green organza stepping out of the carriage. His foot landed hard on the laced hem of the dress.

He looked up with a “Pardon me” on his lips that immediately died when he met the pair of startled eyes framed within a caramel crème face. Tendrils escaped an elegant chignon. Beautiful, he thought. “Negro!” shouted in his head. As soon as the thought whisked through his brain, he banished it.

Her companion -- a masculine version of her -- in a tuxedo adorned with epaulets tightened his grip on her, coughed his displeasure.

“C’mon Rachel, let’s get inside. Too many rude folks out here.”

He would have apologized, but the couple swept past him through the doors of the hotel and left him looking after them. He felt like a slow-witted adolescent or worse, an inmate of Bedlam stunned into inertia. He looked to find the coachman looking on him with much the same estimation. He noted with amazement that the man was white. Never had he encountered this scenario. It was too odd by far.

And why he had entered the hotel, then the hall, he wondered even now as his eyes sought out the green organza among the motley of red silk, blue velvet, lavender dupioni. He couldn’t help noticing a map of Cuba hanging just to the right of the orchestra. Obviously, these Negroes were adherents of Antonio Maceo, the audacious Cuban who had come to New York just last year in hopes of raising funds for Cuba’s uprising against Spain.

Eyes turned to him, danced by in expressions of curiosity, indignity, and in some cases, fear. There was not another white face to be found in the whole room. Still, he would not be intimidated. He would not leave until… Then he saw them -- or rather her. She had parted with her wraps and stood near a table with the gentleman who had escorted her in. She stood there, a Helen amid the common Troys, her every movement a measure of grace. The gown was cut off her shoulders, and when she turned he could see the lacy decolletage that concealed and yet teased with the slight impression of cleavage. The dress was demure enough, but inspired a craving to see more.

His legs moved before his mind had decided what he would say. He checked his hat and wrap. Then he circumvented the edge of the dancers, moved toward the table just as the couple sat down. She saw him first, and he couldn’t discern her expression. The man was now watching his approach, half stood as though preparing for an assault. By the time he neared the table, he could feel the eyes on him, could see that some of the dancers had stopped altogether.

He addressed the man first with a half nod. The black man looked at him warily, his body taut. The man was a head taller and could probably overcome him.

“I don’t mean to interrupt your evening,” he said immediately to allay their worries. “I simply came to apologize. I would have done so outside, but I wasn’t given the chance.” He turned to her, gave her a full nod. “So, madam, please accept my sincere and humble pardon for my bumbling. I hope I did not soil your dress.”

He did not expect a smile. It transformed her features and he saw that he had earlier mistaken her demeanor as that of a shy fawn. Her voice confirmed his new assessment that here sat a lady who would not be put off by any situation.

“I accept your sincere and humble pardon for your bumbling, sir, as you so put it, but I wonder that such a small transgression warrants this production. I mean, it was an accident, was it not?” Her voice was dulcet and tinged with laughter.

He couldn’t believe it. She was actually laughing at him! As was the black man standing near her seat. He could see it in the man’s smirk. How dare they!

He bit back his words, aware that he was outnumbered and that he was the interloper. Embarrassed, his first instinct was to make a quick exit, put this matter behind him. But then he looked into eyes sparkling with amusement and more than anything he did not want to leave her with the impression of a withering coward.

“To know that my apology is accepted, would you honor me with a dance?”

He felt some satisfaction to see both smiles fade, to see the fawn return. She was trapped by decorum. To outright reject his offer would be the cusp of rudeness. She couldn’t even beg tiredness as an excuse for she had only just arrived. To accept his offer would put her in a socially disadvantageous position. No decent Negro woman would be seen dancing with a white man. It just was not done. All this he knew.

Still, she offered him her hand. He noticed that there was no wedding band.. There was daring in her eyes now. She rose in one liquid motion.

“Rachel!” her companion warned. “You will not!”

She calmly turned to the man. “Lawrence, would you have me be rude to someone courteous enough to offer amends? Especially when he did not need to.”

“What will people say?” her companion countered.

“What can they say? It’s only a dance.”

The orchestra had finished the “Blue Danube” and was now beginning the first strains of Josef Lanner’s “Viennese Waltz.” The dancers stepped back, creating a berth for the couple. A few women gasped at the sight of his hand going around her waist. There were throat gurgles and indignant whisperings.

But because she looked at him with eyes that dared him to falter, he kept pace with the music, swirling her around stationery bodies. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed comic. Here he was, dancing with a Negro, totally shirking his dinner with Barrett, who would no doubt call him tonight with exclamations of reproach. But tonight was a night to throw away social recriminations. And it was well worth the small smile that played on her lips. Full and enchanting lips, covered with a rosy hue that played with the contrast of cinnamon…no he had initially thought her skin the color of caramel. A curl hinged near a brow, toying with her lashes.

“So, who do I have the honor of dancing with?” she asked. “After all, I am probably wrecking my reputation, as my brother was so quick to point out.”

He couldn’t describe the relief he felt at the designation “brother.” It was a relief ill-founded because he wouldn’t see her past this night. Past these few moments. Past this dance. As it were, he would not be taking the chance if there were a white guest to relay this back to anyone of consequence. Oh, he had no doubt that the Negroes would talk among themselves, but it would not interrupt his world. She would be the one to bear the brunt of tonight. He would simply have the memory of dancing with a beautiful woman.

“My name is Joseph, Joseph Luce.”

She looked startled. “Luce? Not of the Manhattan Luces?”

Now it was his turn to smile. “And how would you know the who is who of Manhattan?”

“And why would I not?” She appeared indignant.

“Well, it’s not usual that a … a … well … you know…”

“If you finish that sentence this night, and without insulting me, then I will congratulate you on a finesse worthy of the most astute diplomat. Mr. Luce, I not only know about Manhattan society, I also have heard of the Vanderbilts, Carnegies and Astors. I also know that the present mayor is Edward Cooper, that Hayes is still in office, that Mr Henry Ibsen has recently written another play. I believe it’s entitled “The Doll House.” I plan to read it as soon as I get time. Negroes have an ear to the ground, too.” The coda to this sentence was another smile that competed with the luminescence of her eyes.

“I’m sorry if I presumed.”

“Like you presumed that an escorted woman would say yes to your offer…”

“And why did you?” He felt defensive.

“Only because you looked so penitent and discomfited, I thought acceptance would be a saving grace. Of course, I expect an equally graceful exit after the dance has ended. We don’t want to extend the scandal.”

He smiled now. “And is this a scandal?”

“It is. And you well know it,” she said.

“But as you said, this is only a dance. What more can come from it?” he asked, realizing that he did not want the dance to end, that he did not want to leave if it did. But even now, something was pulling at him. Voices strummed inside his head, joining the strains of the waltz, the murmur of the dancers. She was speaking to him, but it seemed to be from a distance now. She was smiling and beautiful and he thought that maybe his heart might have stopped. …

“I think we’ve got a pulse. C’mon, c’mon, come on back … there you go. …”

David felt pressure against his chest and an overwhelming need to vomit. He rolled his head on the floor. Water gushed from his nose, spurted from his mouth in small geysers.

“That’s it. Come on back,” said a familiar voice. He opened his eyes to find a man bending over him. Ed, the lifeguard. Standing over them was a woman in a blue bathing suit. He recognized her as a regular swimmer at the club. Her ash blond hair was plastered to her skull.

“Oh, thank God,” she said. Fear and amazement colored her eyes.

The relieved lifeguard sat back on his haunches. “Mr. Carvelli, what were you doing out there? You know you shouldn’t be in the pool before or after hours. You coulda died. Almost did.”

David tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

“No, lay still,” Ed said, pressing a hand to David’s shoulder. “An ambulance is on its way.”

David still couldn’t speak. All he could do was lay there shivering on the cold, wet floor, his only purview the faces of his rescuers and the chipped white ceiling. Incongruously, the thought passed through his haze that for the fees he was paying, they surely could afford to paint the ceiling. He thought about Ed’s words, then, and felt nothing. Not fear, not even relief that he was still here. He was numb inside. Ed said that he had almost died. But the lifeguard was wrong. Because he had, in fact, died. If only for a few moments, he had left this life behind. How else to explain the strange episode. He didn’t know how to explain it himself. He had left his body and had -- his brain tried to reject it -- travelled back in time. The memory was still vivid in his mind. Even now, he thought he heard music in the distance. He could still see her smile.

All of a sudden, he began to feel again. An emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him. A loneliness that was more palpable than the restraining hand on his shoulder, the cold that enveloped his body.

He wanted to go back to her. He almost cried.

by S. Cullars