Page 6 of Tendu: Dancing in the Castle

“Bye, Aleks.”

An unexpected smile lit his face as he looked up and spoke. “Enjoy your bliss and fear, tonight.”

“It’s a Chinese restaurant,” I explained.

“Ah. I think I know this place. Good food. Angry waiters.”

“Yes,” I said, completely delighted that he knew it, that he had been where we would be. I wanted to say lots more but stopped myself, afraid of boring him. “Anyway, see you Monday.”

“Oh, and, Amalphia?” he said. “I hear small bits of this conversation you are having. Competitiveness between dancers can sometimes be a healthy thing, but there is only one reason I chose anyone to be in this class: talent. And the most talented of us are usually differently wired in some way.”

There was a pause while I tried to work out if he meant what I thought he meant, then I just asked. “You?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “When I was small everyone is asking, what is wrong with Aleks? Why is he so berserk? One doctor, he watches me climb on his bookshelves and says, ‘He has too much energy, but good balance. Try him in a dance school.’”

“Wow,” I said, examining his face for signs of untruthfulness and finding none, and then not knowing quite what else to say. “Monday.”

“I will look forward,” he said and gifted a golden smile to last the weekend.

“Now,” said Aleks, sitting down at the piano near the end of Monday’s class, having dismissed the pianist early. “I play. You close eyes, listen, then dance. Forget your feet. Just be the music. A deaf person should see the melody, the tone of the composition, in you.”

The music flowed rather like his voice, his accent, thick and vibrational in unexpected places. It was similar to the previous pieces I’d heard him play, but much sadder. A cold and lonely tune filled the studio, evoking feelings of solitude and abandonment, and snow, snow everywhere.

Eyes open, I stepped out before everyone else, slowly moving through the sound, gliding across the ice. All was bleak with no hope of future happiness. The world was painted grey, yet a familiar energy lurked, warm and enticing for a second, and then it was all over. Music and class ended simultaneously.

“Amalphia, stay,” commanded Aleks as the others exited. “Tell me what you have discern in the music.”

“It was about being cold and alone. Everything hopeless. What was it?”

He got up from the piano stool and looked down at me. “Oh, things I feel, have felt. You had it. The only one to get it right.”

“That was about you?” I asked, shocked.

He gave a half shrug, half nod.

It was unbearable, unthinkable and terrible that he should ever feel those things. I hugged him, wrapping arms around his body and pressing the side of my face into his chest. There was a tiny pause before he held me back. This was only warm and good. This was all he should ever feel. Not that music. Not that sadness. This was the opposite of alone. My arms tightened, and his hands moved slightly on my back. A mild soapy scent mingled with musky sweat from class, and the embrace sexualised.

I pulled back. “I’m sorry, really sorry.” I’d just behaved so inappropriately, and where was my bag? I grabbed it, but his hand on my shoulder halted the dash from the room.

“Don’t be run off, Amalphia. I am wanting to know. How does a young woman, surrounded by friends as you are, understand such emotion?”

I felt alone like that whenever I was in a crowd, but embarrassment about what had just happened was preventing me from expressing anything other than a practical fact. “I have to go. Class. Another class.”

He held his hands wide with a forward movement as if to release a slow and stupid creature. I forced my feet not to run.

Chapter 3

Tuesdaydeliveredaquandary,but I had high hopes of solving two problems at once. Turning up to college at the very last minute would give Aleks no time to ask about the embarrassing moment of yesterday, and other difficulties would hopefully be avoided too if I sneaked out and away right after class.

The plan failed almost immediately. Just as I reached the studio door, my arm was gripped from behind.

“Not skiving today, then?” asked Gavin Tuesday, teacher of commercial jazz, ex-boyfriend, reason for non-attendance on Tuesdays and purveyor of general unpleasantness. He was hurting my arm.

“Still not speaking?” he noted. “I need to talk to you, Treadwell. Sort a few things out.” His grip tightened and became more painful. As I tried to pull free, he started to get angry. A red spot appeared on each of his cheeks as if to match the new – ridiculous – red highlights in his dark hair. “You’re going to listen to me,” he said, pointing a finger into my face.

Another hand, this time on Gavin’s arm, froze time and scene. “Amalphia has class with me now.”

I was released.

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