In my entire life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so regal. She looks like she’s just assumed the throne of a small but powerful Caribbean island nation. She has thick gray dreads that are piled high on her head, with a few strands framing her bright brown face. Her ball gown is high-necked and pale blue and made from sequined lace, tulle and (I’m pretty sure) the diaphanous wings of actual fairies.
Her husband, Archibald, is tall and thin, with a bald head and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He’s wearing a white tux with white suspenders and a bow tie that matches Maggie’s dress perfectly. He’s so dapper, I’m pretty sure he’s the reason the worddapperwas invented.
He claps his hands together. “Today you’ll be learning both the regular English waltz, which is slow and boring, and the faster Viennese waltz, which is much more interesting.”
“Don’t be nervous,” Maggie says. “Nobody ever died waltzing.”
“Although there was a time they were persecuted for it,” Archibald adds.
He goes on to give us a small history lesson. He tells us that the waltz is the oldest of the ballroom dances, that it began as a peasant dance in Vienna in the seventeenth century and that the name is from the old German wordwalzen,which means “to turn or glide.”
Then he tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. I can tell the next part is his favorite from the way his eyes twinkle madly. “Everyone hated the waltz when it was first introduced to high society. Religious leaders thought it was vulgar and sinful,” he says, and points at Maggie’s dress. “Because the women wore ball gowns when they danced, they had to hold one corner off the ground so they wouldn’t trip. Can anyone guess why this was a problem?” he asks.
No one can, so he answers his own question. “The problem is ankles,” he says. “Sexy, sexy ankles.”
Maggie picks up a corner of her gown and wiggles her foot. Everyone laughs.
He tells us that when the waltz arrived in England, one English newspaper thought it was so “obscene” that it printed an editorial warning parents against exposing their daughters to “so fatal a contagion.”
He smiles. “Isn’t it funny how time changes everything?” he asks.
Maggie walks over to the record player and moves the needle to the record. Archibald dims the lights. “Fallin’ ” by Alicia Keys starts playing and they begin to dance.
I’ve seen ballroom dance shows on TV before, but that doesn’t compare to the romance and drama of seeing it in real life. It’s not like they’re telling a story with their bodies, more like they’re dancing an emotion. When they get to the Viennese waltz, it’s like they’re skipping through air. They dance by me, and Maggie’s ball gown makes a small tornado at my feet.
I’m enchanted. Everyone is. Some of the couples move closer to each other, caught up in the magic of them. As the song ends, he spins her one last time and bends her into a dip. The room sighs into quiet for a few seconds and then explodes with applause.
I’m clapping too, but mostly I’m watching them. I don’t think they’ve noticed the applause. I don’t think they’ve noticed anything but each other. They’re still holding the dip, his hand on her back, her arm on his shoulder. They’re breathing hard and gazing at each other with so much love, it’s almost too bright to look at. A few more seconds pass before they turn into a bow. We all cheer so loud, you’d think someone sank a game-winning three-pointer instead of just ending a waltz.
Firecracker woman ushers me out of the studio as soon as the actual lesson begins.
She turns to me once we’re back in the hallway. “What is word you Americans are always using?Amazing.They are amazing, no?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I say, and I don’t just mean their dancing.
Once we’re back at the reception office, she sits in front of the computer.
“What is name?” she asks, wiggling her fingers over the keyboard.
“Evie,” I say, before rushing to add that I’m not ready to sign up for lessons yet.
“But if not now, then when?” she asks. “You could do it even without special friend.”
“I just need some time to think about it,” I say, backing away.
She sighs and stares at the screen, disappointed. “Well, it was nice to meet you anyway.” She leaves the office and heads back down the hallway.
I walk toward the studio where I left my bike and hear the distinct trill of the bell coming from inside. I slow down. The lights are not on. Which means someone who is not me is riding my bike around a dark dance studio.
The door is just slightly open. I move closer to it.
“I’m sorry, Jess. No, don’t cry. Please don’t cry,” pleads a guy’s voice.
Holy crap. I’m pretty sure I’m overhearing a breakup. I wait, expecting to hear a sniffled response, until I realize the guy must be talking to someone on the phone.
“I didn’t mean to break— Yeah, no, you’re right, I’m a jerk….I’m sorry, Jess….No, I didn’t know you bought…Wait, when did you buy a dress?…Yesterday?”
Overhearing this conversation reminds me of the visions. Why am I being subjected to knowing the secret lives of otherpeople?
