Chapter Thirty-Six
The Performer
The docks were different at night. During the day, they were crowded with gruff men, the shrieks of squabbling gulls, and the sloshing of water lapping at the posts. But at nighttime, it all went away.
The moon glittered through the water, the black expanse dazzled in the middle like some celestial spotlight. The only sound was the faint harmony of water whispering sweet nothings to the hulls of the harbor boats.
Even Arkady’s studio looked different. A simple old warehouse. The tall metal doors were dark and looming yet cracked open enough to emit a dim warm light.
The statues were gathered at the edges of the studio like a thistle-lined field, a thick tree line before an expanse, the mighty overseers of something peaceful, a haven.
It was a silly thought, but I was in need of something whimsical and unserious after the day I’d had. Escapism might not always be the answer, but it remained the only place where I controlled the narrative—to express without being perceived, to desire without shame. Control was the ultimate phantasm.
I stepped out from the crowd of statues, my foot nudging something small. At the feet of the statues were candles of various widths andburns like the lining of a makeshift stage. The flickering shifted, casting shadows from the marble and clay creations—an audience.
In the middle of the studio was a form, a small speck on the stage.
I knelt down beside it to unfurl the discovery.
My old ballet shoes, with a sheer, gauzy fabric resembling gossamer wrapped around them.
The hazy sound of a phonograph, scratching to life before the music paced itself with ease.
With the fabric in hand, I looked up at the fogged window of the overseer’s office. There was a shadow of a man, the small cherry of a lit pipe.
A balletomane?
As I listened to the ebbs and swells of the recorder, I knew I recognized it. It was transitioning to the prelude toLa Sylphide.
My heart throbbed; I could only close my eyes to take it in. I took off my shoes, my skirt, and my top. I hiked up my petticoat to put on my ballet shoes, flexing them after I tied off the ribbon. The bare corset allowed my arms to be free yet my posture to remain intact. The phonograph stopped. I stood in the middle, waiting.
The prelude began again, and I closed my eyes to feel it, to imagine how it was before. The stage was a place to breathe, to stretch the mind and the legs. I saw a dark expanse, only the small lanterns separating the stage and the unknown critics, the impression of chairs that disappeared into the auditorium, then the chandelier hanging above. The stage,mystage. Despite the crowds that swell to see your performance, in the moment, you were alone in all ways that mattered.
With the gossamer draped over my shoulders and arms, I embarked into the unknown.
I moved to the center, standing up on the box of my shoe and lifting my arms, letting go of my tension to replace it with the music.
I kicked my leg back and fluttered to one side of my stage, moving my arms slowly as if they would lift me into the air, to imagine I wasfeather light. Turning, I went to the opposite edge, extending my arms, lowering and raising, stretching out as if to reach someone in the dark.
There was no feeling like a performance. To somehow translate music into dance, a language that most could understand with no prerequisite.
As I turned and stretched, the movements felt like I hadn’t even left the ballet. They were as familiar as a childhood meal, the scent of a parent’s cologne, the eyes of a loved one after too long apart.
I spun on just the tip of my shoe, holding the pose before I expected to come down—except I didn’t. Two hands at my waist, supporting me to make the moment last a little longer, to delay the conclusion.
I didn’t open my eyes.
His hands smoothed up to my rib cage, then along the undersides of my arms, and Arkady collected the draped fabric in his hands before pulling it over my eyes and tying it in back.
He smelled of cocoa, cedar, and smoke, and it wafted around me like a ghost, something to entice the soul and tempt me to follow. The blindfold allowed me very little visibility, especially in such a dim setting, yet made the space seem larger, grand with possibility.
He spun me gently, my hand in his as my body relaxed.
His hand touched my hair, then traced over the fabric of the blindfold.
In a swift motion, he lifted me in his arms, my hands steadying on his shoulders before he placed me down, seated upon a hard, smooth surface. Marble. Shaped like a chair, I thought ... then realized it felt like a body, a male figure seated in a reclined, leisurely position, except there was a stone jutting out in front of my pelvic bone like the horn of a saddle.
My partner shifted, backing away from me. I couldn’t see much through the fabric over my eyes, just a vague figure leaning against the sheet of a covered statue, the small amber of his pipe lighting and dimming. I could smell it, he was so close yet unreachable.
