Page 6 of The Virgin's Dance
A slow smile spread across Nelly’s face. “Okay, you’re on … if Boh agrees.”
“Of course, absolutely. But I’ll do your stuff for free anyway.” It wasn’t as if he needed the money and as far as Pilot was concerned, Nelly had given him his mojo back and there was no price on that.
Nelly looked at the clock. “Well, Boh’s in with Kristof at the moment. I could pull her.”
“No, don’t interrupt her class.”
Nelly snorted. “It would piss Kristof off though, and everyone would enjoy that. Come on, let’s go see if we can steal her away.”
Kristof Mendelev stared at Boh as she moved through the mime section ofLa Sylphideand then stopped her. “Boh, this isn’t a sarcastic rendition, nor is it a cartoon. Subtly is key in this part of the dance. If you break out and make the audience laugh then you’re doing a disservice to the sensuality of the moment.”
Boh stood silently as he critiqued her then asked coolly, “Shall I try it again?”
“What else are we here for? Ofcourse, try again.”
She moved across the floor, herport de brasmoving in graceful arcs, her feet moving swiftly across the floor, fast and staccato in the style made famous by the ballet’s choreographer August Bournonville. Boh knew this ballet better than most of the others, having loved it since she was a child. She loved being the fairy, the sylph, and so her body bent and curved to every note of the music. This time she played the mime earnestly, reaching out with her love across the forest where the fairies dwelled, proclaiming her love for James, the hapless hero of the ballet. Vladimir, Boh’s fellow principal, played James, moving with her, and Boh lost herself in the movements.
As she played out La Sylphide’s dying moments, her focus shifted back into the room and she saw Pilot Scamo watching her.
“Okay, stop.” Kristof was rubbing his head and glaring at Nelly. “Is there some reason for this intrusion? How isshe—” he gestured rudely towards Boh, “—going to get any better if we keep being interrupted?”
Nelly didn’t rise to the bait. “I told you about this earlier, Kris. Were you listening?”
But he wasn’t listening now; he was staring at Pilot, who gazed back coolly. “Well, if it isn’t Scamo.” He said his name with accompanying jazz hands, mocking Pilot. Pilot’s eyes looked dangerous and Boh shivered, but he didn’t take the bait. Pilot’s eyes met hers and softened and his mouth hitched up on one side.
“Miss Dali,” he said, his tone respectful and admiring, “looked exquisite to me.”
Boh flushed with pleasure and then a snigger went through the class until Kristof glared at them.
Kristof rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”
“We’d like to talk to Boh, please. In private.”
“And it couldn’t wait until after my class?”
“Obviously not.” Nelly’s voice took on a dangerous note and Kristof stared her down for a moment, obviously deciding whether to argue his case. Eventually he gave a sharp nod of the head to Boh, who stepped out gracefully of the troupe and came towards them, gathering her bag and towel, shooting an apologetic look at the rest of her class.
Outside, Nelly introduced them. “Boheme Dali, meet Pilot Scamo. Not that he needs introducing.”
“And after what I saw this morning, neither do you, Miss Dali.” He shook her hand and smiled at her.
“It’s Boh, please.” Her voice was quiet and soft, musical. Nelly grinned at them both, obviously noticing the forming connection between them.
“Pilot,” he said and Nelly patted his back.
“I’ll leave you two alone to talk. Pilot has a very interesting proposition for you, Boh.”
She disappeared and Pilot smiled at Boh. “Shall we take a walk? I don’t much feel like having an audience.” He nodded inside the dance studio where Kristof was watching them and Boh nodded, rolling her eyes.
“Good idea. I know somewhere we can go for some privacy.”
She took him down to the bottom of the building and out of the kitchen area to a small courtyard. “No one comes down here much unless it’s to smoke, but class is in session so we should have some privacy.” She shivered a little at the cold breeze.
“Here.” Pilot shrugged out of his jacket and put it around her shoulders. She smiled at him gratefully.
“Thank you.” They sat down at one of the picnic benches. “It really is an honor to meet you, sir.”
Pilot grinned. “My dad was ‘sir,’ Boh, I’m just Pilot. And likewise. Nelly told me you were special and I believe she underplayed that statement. You move like—” he cast around for the word, “—like water, like air … Boh, Nell mentioned a proposition and here it is. I’m scheduled to work with the Quilla Chen Foundation for an exhibit at MOMA in six weeks. Before this morning, I had nothing. No juices were getting to my brain, no inspiration, no nothing. Then I saw you dance.”
