‘Yes, Gabriele! Bravo! They loved you out there!’ enthused Carlos.
And then he turned to Lira. ‘And you, my dear! A star in the making!’
Strangely, I did not feel even a prickle of envy or competitiveness. I knew how well I had danced, and of course Ihad wanted Lira to match me, otherwise what would have been the point in hiring her? The two of us were electric together and I wanted the world to see it.
Having checked my phone in the middle of all the festivities backstage, I noticed that I had several missed calls from my mother that I really should reply to. I glanced around the room – the cast were not going anywhere: we had much to celebrate. I slipped out of the bar, heading back to my dressing room, closing the door behind me. I took a moment to look at myself in the mirror, nodding to myself in appreciation. The small improvements to be made would be unnoticeable to anyone but me, Carlos and the most highly trained dancers. Lira had taken only one wrong step, and I had soon spun her back around the other way with a flourish, hoping to draw the eye to our arms and our elegant necks, rather than our feet.
I sunk down into a chair, letting myself relax for the first time that evening. And then I pulled out my phone and called my mother.
‘Darling! How did it go?’ she gushed. ‘I have been searching for reviews to see how it went for you.’
I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, hot now in the enclosed space of the dressing room.
‘They will not be out yet, Mama. The theatre critics will not see the show until press night tomorrow.’
She laughed. ‘Well, then you must tell me the second your first review comes out. Remember how I used to make scrapbooks of all your newspaper cuttings?’
I smiled to myself. ‘I do. I should look back at them sometime; remind myself of how far I have come.’
My mother and myabuelahad always been my two biggest champions. Spending summers in Argentina with them had ignited my passion for the Argentine tango, way before I knew I wanted to dance for a living. As a child, I learned the steps the proper way, on the streets of Buenos Aires, where the music and the steps felt like they were in my blood, and where, every night, locals would play music and perform the dance in its rawest, dirtiest form.
Being half-Argentinian gave me an advantage over other dancers, no matter how accomplished they were at every other dance. The Argentine tango was special – it penetrated your soul, and you either got it or you did not, and if you did not truly understand its roots, the dance would never take an audience’s breath away.
Lira felt it. Perhaps it was her South African heritage that allowed her to tap into the music like that. I had never been to her mother’s home country, but I imagined the passion for music and tradition there ran just as deeply as it did in Argentina.
‘How is Papa doing?’ I asked, vaguely thinking I ought to get back to the party.
‘We do not need to speak about that now,’ said Mama. ‘This is your special night, you go enjoy it.’
‘Why, were you planning to tell me something that would stop me enjoying it?’ I said, my heart sinking. She may as well tell me because it would be on my mind now, anyway.
Mama sighed. ‘Papa is not so well. I worry about him, you know that. He is trying to do too much on the farm and comes home every night looking so tired and grey. He barely has an appetite, not even for his own wine.’
I raked my hand through my hair. This did not sound good. Food and wine were two of my father’s greatest pleasures, and if he was not enjoying them, it must mean that something was wrong with him.
‘When was the last time a doctor checked him out?’ I asked.
‘You know how stubborn he is,’ said Mama. ‘Perhaps you could talk to him? Even better if it could be in person. I was hoping you could come home for a night before the European tour begins?’
‘That is in less than a week, Mama. I will see you both when we come toFirenze.’
‘But that feels such a long way away, Gabi. What if…’
I swallowed hard, dread seeping through me. What was she suggesting?
‘What if what?’
‘Nothing.’
She thought something bad was going to happen before I could see him, I could hear it in her voice. Heart problems ran in his side of the family, and if he was pushing and pushing himself all of the time like she said he was, who knew what state his health might be in. Why did he not hire more staff? Take a step back, run things from the sidelines?
I knew why. He was too proud to ask for help. If hegot very sick, I would have no choice but to go home to Italy and run the wine business for him, which was exactly where he had always wanted me to be. It was wrong of me, but I wondered if he was purposely not helping himself so as to force my hand.
‘Leave it with me, I will see what I can do,’ I said, already running through my schedule in my head.
There might be more rehearsals, finessing our routines, press interviews, plus performances six nights of the week. I was torn between wanting to make a quick visit home, for my mother more than my father, if I was honest, and wanting to say no, that I could not, that it would not be possible.
Lately, when I went home, I worried that something would happen while I was there and that I would be trapped, never able to leave. Which was a terrible way to think of your family home, and I always felt very guilty about it afterwards, because I loved my parents dearly; I just did not want to live with them in the middle of nowhere. Despite the vastness of the land we owned, the rows and rows of vines, the olive farm, I felt strangely claustrophobic when I was there, and was always,alwaysdesperate to get back to the city, whether that be my apartment in Milan or my rented place in London. The further I was from the hills of Chianti country, the better I felt. It was easier to have physical distance between my dance career and the family business; it was what had always worked best.
