I feel the melody enveloping me. I sense its rhythm. Breathe in its momentum. Enzo takes the first step of the slow waltz. I lower my shoulders, tilt my head, and follow his lead. We glide across the ballroom, making full use of the space. My skirt billows in wave-like motions as I arch my upper body back.
The arms stay in position.
Generate momentum from the embrace.
Focus on the fixed point.
Smile.
I pay attention to every detail. Nothing escapes my focus. Even the position of my little finger is under control. My legs find the step sequence effortlessly. I give it my all, yet I can feel it's not enough. Enzo's stiff movements make my turns angular. It's as if we're dancing against the music rather than gracefully gliding with it.
But I smile despite everything. Because in every second, I'm fully aware of how crucial these minutes are for the rest of my life. I want to be graceful, my movements flowing with the waltz music. Together, we must appear carefree, as if dancing on clouds.
Yet my legs feel like they're made of wood. During the open turn, I almost lose control of the tempo.
No, no, no! The slow waltz is my signature dance. How will I pass the next three rounds of the audition if I fail at this one?
Unwavering, I push the thoughts aside, focusing on the next figure, the promenade. I imagine the step sequence, measuring its length in relation to the size of the room.
It works. I am back in sync with myself. Now I need a fixed point to focus on. After positioning my head, I lift my eyes.
And I find myself directly locked in the glowing eyes of the judge.
Wow. For a moment, time seems to stand still.
Enzo tightens his damp hand between my shoulder blades and spins with me in a circle. We're at risk of losing the rhythm. I try to correct it, but Enzo doesn't want to relinquish control.
Once more, the standard step sequence. Turn. Lady’s solo.
The music reaches its climax. The violins grow louder, and we intensify our dance one last time in the same rhythm.
Preparing for the final pose.
Now.
Left foot back. Softly arching the upper body backward. Stretching the neck. Exhale.
The music falls silent. We hold the pose, and I gaze up at the intricately decorated ceiling, waiting with heavy breathing until Enzo pulls me upright. Once standing before him, I see the questions in his sweaty face.
Were we good enough?
Could we have given more?
I press my lips together.
No, it wasn't good enough.
And yes, we could have given more. Much more. No,couldis the wrong word—weshouldhave.
Those who wish to be accepted here at the Académie de Nouvelle Danse Paris live for dance. The judges expect nothing else during the audition. And that's precisely what Enzo and I failed to show them.
Nonetheless, my dance partner nods encouragingly at me, and we take a step apart, turning toward the examination committee.
Summoning the most radiant smile I can manage, I bend my knees. Only when I hear the restrained applause from the jury do I straighten up.
One by one, I try to read their expressions to understand what they think of our performance.
The nostrils of the academy's director, sitting at the far right edge of her chair with her gray bun, appear flared. The suit-clad man with the slicked-back hair beside her yawns and idly taps something on his phone. Swallowing hard, I let my gaze continue. Over the multiple-time French champion in standard dance, Juli Brohn, whose facial features convey a questioning impression, and the dance director of the academy, David Grant, who incessantly taps his chin with his index finger.
