Belly Dancing for Beginners

by Liz Byrski

  Angie laughed as they got out at the second floor. ‘You’re joking. She’s the ultimate pushover. The more you get to know her the more you’ll see it. Anyway, she’s not the one to dish out advice on changing your life, that’s for sure.’

  It was early morning, not yet six o’clock, but the dawn light, soft and rosy, had found its way between the bedroom curtains. Gayle stretched out enjoying, as she always did, having the bed to herself. The dancing had done wonders for her body – she felt as though it had come back to life after years of inertia. She’d been cheating with the extra classes, but going alone made it easier to immerse herself in the dance, to attend closely to the steps, the movements, the way her body responded to the music which seemed to invite her to dance. And she was practising at home too, regularly, obsessively almost, pushing through the pain of aching muscles, losing herself in the rhythm and movement.

  She smiled at the memory of that first class and her conviction that she would never go back. Gayle was not a naturally competitive person but she’d been secretly delighted with her success that first night. Even so, over the next few days she had formulated the excuse she’d give to Trish and Sonya for not going again, but when the day arrived she realised she was looking forward to it. There was considerable satisfaction in discovering that she was good at something physical, and already her body felt different.

  Now the rhythmic physical workout had become essential and dancing moved her into a different mental space in which nothing else mattered. She felt stronger and more confident, as though she were unfolding into someone more substantial. Even so she’d been shocked when, after class one evening, Marissa suggested that she and Sonya might like to be part of a tour.

  ‘I’ve only just started,’ Gayle responded. ‘I couldn’t get up on stage in a belly dancing costume and perform, I’d look ridiculous.’

  ‘No,’ Marissa said. ‘You’d look like a woman who was having a go and doing well. And that’s what I need.’

  ‘But it’s a performance,’ Sonya protested. ‘What about some of the women in that team you’ve got? They’ve been doing it for years.’

  ‘Exactly. They’re really good, too good for this. Sorry if that sounds a bit odd but it’s true. This isn’t some sort of dance festival, it’s a program to show women who’ve never danced before that they can have a go; that it’s fun, terrific exercise and they can enjoy it all; the music, the costumes, the fitness that comes from it. We strut our stuff and then run introductory classes to let people try it out. I need a couple of people who’ve just started but have really taken to it, women who can say, “I’ve only been doing this a few months and look what I can do”.’

  Gayle had been sceptical. ‘I don’t know,’ she’d said. ‘It’s really not me – performing, I mean.’

  ‘I think it could be fun,’ Sonya had said. ‘But you’re much better than me, Gayle. I’ll do it if you will.’

  It had taken Gayle a week of arguing with herself, of deciding she’d give it a go and then being overtaken by the fear and embarrassment that had her heart racing at the mere prospect. It was Sonya’s phone call that persuaded her.

  ‘Come on, Gayle,’ she’d said. ‘It’ll be good. Think of Marissa. Don’t you just love her, the way she is, so free, so self-possessed and so much in her own body? I want some of that. And she needs us. She wouldn’t be asking us if she thought we’d make fools of ourselves and her.’

  And so Gayle had agreed, and as they rehearsed, her enthusiasm grew along with a determination not to let anything or anybody stand in her way.

  Brian, grumpy and short-tempered before he left for the US, had returned like a bear with a sore head and had remained so ever since. Perhaps things were not going well at work but he didn’t volunteer any information, and Gayle didn’t ask. She sensed a growing air of resentment when he was at home – or perhaps it was all in her mind, a side-effect of her own guilty lack of interest.

  And then there was Angie – Gayle was well aware of her own shortcomings but the way Angie had spoken to her on the apartment visit, the fact that it all happened in front of Trisha and Sonya had really upset her. But, as Angie had pointed out, confrontation was not part of Gayle’s repertoire and rather than talking to her daughter she reverted to pretending that nothing had happened. The prospect of getting away from it all became more enticing every day.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Trisha said. ‘Have you really thought about this, Gayle? What does Brian think about you being a travelling belly dancer?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Gayle said, pulling onto the freeway with Trisha in the front seat and Sonya in the back. ‘I haven’t told him yet.’

  ‘He’s not going to like it, not the dancing nor you being away for a couple of months.’

  ‘No, he’s not, but he’ll just have to put up with it.’

  Trisha sighed. ‘You’re both mad.’

  Sonya leaned forward. ‘C’mon, Trish, come with us. You’ll enjoy it, it’ll be hilarious. You don’t have to dance – you can be the roadie.’

  Trisha shook her head. ‘No way, José, not for me. I don’t even know why I’m coming with you today.’

  ‘Because you can’t resist the chance to tell us which costumes to get,’ Gayle said. ‘I bet you end up trying on something yourself. Stop being such a grouch.’

  ‘The woman who owns the largest collection of grey and navy business suits in the southern hemisphere suddenly wants satin and sequins? Yes, of course you need my help. This requires some leap of the imagination, Gayle. Is there no middle road?’

  ‘No.’ Gayle shook her head. ‘It seems not. I love the dancing, and I feel heaps better for it, and I want a gorgeous, spectacular costume. I know it’ll help me dance better.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sonya. ‘It’ll be fabulous – we can really get into the feel of it.’

  ‘You mean you’d roll up to classes in the full regalia?’

  ‘Why not?’ Sonya asked. ‘Some of the women do. I think it’d be easier to get into the mood. And Marissa says we need to rehearse in full costume because they’re not exactly comfortable. All those beads make them heavy and scratchy.’

  ‘It sounds like a nightmare,’ Trisha said. ‘And honestly, Gayle, do you think you’re going to bare your midriff and belly dance in front of an audience? I mean, I think you’d look wonderful and I’m gobsmacked at how good you are, but this is so unlike the Gayle I know.’

  Gayle negotiated a tight turn into a parking area. ‘I’m changing. You said I would when Angie left, and this is part of it. It’s a challenge but maybe that’s what I need right now. Besides, I don’t have to have a bare midriff – I’ve been looking at costumes on the Internet.’ She switched off the engine and turned to the back seat. ‘To tell the truth, my confidence only comes in short bursts, but I am woman, hear me roar, watch me shimmy – right, Sonya?’

  ‘Right,’ Sonya said. ‘I guess. Although I can’t help wishing that Kalgoorlie wasn’t going to be the scene of our first roar and shimmy. In fact, I wish we weren’t going there at all.’

  ‘Kalgoorlie’s nice,’ Trisha said. ‘We lived there for a while in the eighties.’

  ‘It’s not Kal that’s the problem,’ Sonya said. ‘It’s my family, there en masse, pillars of the community and just a tiny bit conservative in outlook – my parents, that is. I don’t think belly dancing is going to figure highly on my list of achievements as far as they’re concerned. And then there’s my sister . . .’ She got out of the car and slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘But that’s another story.’

  ‘We will overcome,’ Gayle said, locking the car. ‘Your parents, my husband, less than perfect bodies, fragile confidence, and heavy, scratchy costumes. We will prevail.’

  Trisha shook her head. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

  ‘It’s all an act. Bravado. I’ll be a quivering mess for most of the time, but I am determined to do it, so let’s get on with it.’

  The shop that specialised in Middle Eastern
and Latin American dance costumes was in an industrial unit in the northern suburbs wedged between a panel beater and a place that made surfboards. Half the warehouse was devoted to the dancewear, the remainder to a costume and fancy dress hire business, and when they arrived, four middle-aged car salesmen were noisily attempting to kit themselves out as French maids for a party. The dance costume area was mercifully free of customers, and they had full run of the changing rooms, which consisted of rickety hardboard dividers hung with skimpy curtains. Gayle trailed her fingers along the racks of fringed and beaded bras, sequinned skirts and hip belts, harem pants and boleros.

  ‘Look at these,’ she said, discovering a shelf of hairpieces. ‘There’s one here exactly the same red as your hair, Sonya,’ and she lifted it down and took it over to her.

  ‘It would go well with this,’ Sonya said, lifting out an emerald green top with darker green sequins and a deep fringe of tiny gold beads.

  ‘That’s your colour, definitely,’ Gayle said, ‘try it on.’

  Trisha, still not fully in the spirit of the exercise, made a slight snorting noise. ‘So now you’re the colour expert. I thought I was the fashion adviser.’

  ‘You are, but I’m the dance costume expert,’ Gayle said. ‘Go on, Trish, look for something for yourself, and come with us.’

  Trisha shook her head. ‘To be honest, the dancing’s not doing a lot for me. You two are so much better at it. I just don’t get it and Marissa says my arms are like windmills. I’ve been thinking of giving up.’

  ‘But you were the one who made us go in the first place,’ Sonya protested from the changing room.

  ‘I know. But I feel like an elephant lolloping around the room. I think I’ll stick to tennis and jogging.’

  ‘Marissa’s right about the costumes being heavy,’ Sonya said, emerging from the fitting room and pinching her midriff. ‘And it’s the rolls of fat that really set it off, I think, don’t you?’

  Gayle gasped. ‘It’s gorgeous. Really, Sonya, you look wonderful. Doesn’t she, Trish?’

  Trisha nodded approvingly. ‘Absolutely. If you’re serious about it, if you’re really going on this tour, you should get that one. And stop worrying about fat. Marissa’s bigger than you. She says that belly dancing celebrates all the parts of the body that aren’t fashionable, and you shouldn’t worry about the odd spare tyre. You need to have breasts, a belly, a bum and hips.’

  ‘Then I’m overqualified,’ Sonya said. ‘But look at my arms. They’re so flabby.’ She twisted around in front of the mirror. ‘Oh, and look at those wedges of fat between the bra and the waistband – it’s gruesome.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ Trisha said, straightening one of the shoulder straps. ‘Anyway, the long fringe on the bra hides them. You just get the suggestion of flesh underneath. It looks great. You can always get one of those little cropped jackets with the gauzy sleeves if you want to hide your arms, but, honestly, you don’t need to.’

  ‘It is lovely,’ Sonya said cautiously, adjusting the sequinned belt. ‘But, Gayle, I’m only getting it if you’re sure about this whole thing. You’re not going to change your mind?’

  ‘No way,’ Gayle said. ‘Belly dancing is my new religion.’ She hesitated and then drew out a silver costume.

  ‘No,’ Trisha said. ‘Not that one. Colour, Gayle, colour. And not that black with gold embroidery. If you’re going to do this, splash out . . . something like this.’

  She pulled out a satin costume in vivid cobalt blue. Coils of silver and blue sequins encrusted the bra top and the beaded fringe matched the lines of silver thread that patterned the chiffon skirt, trailing down to the sequinned hem.

  ‘It’s lovely, but it’s very . . . well . . . colourful,’ Gayle said, fingering the fabric.

  ‘Yes. Try it on,’ Trisha ordered.

  Gayle slipped off her clothes and stood in the fitting room in her bra and knickers looking at the beautiful costume on its hanger. Her earlier bravado had plummeted. How would she ever walk out onto a stage, hips swaying and lifting, midriff undulating with the music? Even here, alone in the changing room, she was blushing crimson at the thought.

  Slowly she took off her own bra and held the blue and silver one against her. The colours seemed to make her skin glow and her eyes look bluer than usual. Cautiously she slipped the straps over her shoulders and leaned forward to do it up. The uplift gave her an unfamiliar cleavage, and she stood back to admire it before stepping into the skirt and fitting the wide sequinned belt around her hips. The woman in the mirror stared back at her like a stranger.

  ‘Oh my god, look at you,’ Sonya gasped as Gayle emerged from behind the curtain.

  ‘D’you think it’s a bit much?’ Gayle asked. ‘A bit over the top?’

  Trisha smiled and shook her head. She swallowed hard, looking a bit teary.

  ‘What’s wrong? You don’t really like it, do you?’

  ‘I love it,’ Trisha said. ‘It’s perfect. You look gorgeous, Gayle, honestly! That’s the one for you. And you should try the silver harem pants too, and the headdress.’

  Gayle did a twirl in front of the mirror. ‘But will I have the courage to wear it and dance in it? I mean, I hardly ever have my arms uncovered even in summer, and never –’

  ‘And never wear shorts or a bikini – I know,’ Trisha said. ‘But you can do all those things. You’ve just lost the habit of really being in your body. Buy it, Gayle, it transforms you. You look like a completely different person.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Gayle said. ‘Maybe I’ll become a completely different person, and that should please both my husband and my daughter.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ Sonya murmured, and she and Trisha exchanged a glance as Gayle disappeared back into the changing room.

  EIGHT

  Oliver was hiding in his office. Still on study leave he didn’t want to be on campus at all but he needed something on the office computer that he hadn’t saved to his thumb drive. He had chosen a time when most of his colleagues would be at the monthly staff meeting and he was aiming for a flying visit. As the weeks of his leave slipped by he had found himself clinging to the remainder of this research time with a sort of desperation. Having time to write made him increasingly aware how the rigours of teaching, and all the associated administrativia, diverted him from the work he most enjoyed.

  He downloaded the files, logged off, and almost jumped out of his skin when there was a knock on his door. The last thing he needed was students asking advice about enrolments, or enquiring whether he still had the assignment they had failed to collect two years ago.

  ‘Yep,’ he called out ungraciously, standing up and grabbing his briefcase so that it was clear he was just leaving.

  ‘I saw your car in the car park,’ Gayle said, popping her head around the door. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  She was the last person Oliver had expected to see. The library was at the far end of the campus, and she was rarely in the vicinity of his office.

  ‘Oh, Gayle. Hi,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

  She gestured towards the briefcase. ‘You’re just leaving?’

  ‘Well, I was, but . . . but . . . there’s no rush. Sit down.’ He shifted a pile of box files off the spare chair.

  ‘I wanted to catch up with you,’ Gayle said, ‘because when we had lunch it felt awkward. It wasn’t like it used to be, and there are things we need to sort out.’

  Oliver’s face flushed to what he was sure must have been fiery red. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well . . .’

  ‘Look, I know you didn’t like being at the wedding. You probably didn’t like the house much, or anything at all there, really. It was silly of me to invite you. I should’ve left things as they were. But there must be something else. You see, since then I’ve hardly seen you and I’ve felt as though, because you didn’t like the wedding, you don’t like me anymore either . . .’

  She looked straight at him as her voice trailed away and, to his horror, Oliver could see tha
t there were tears in her eyes. Nothing had prepared him for this, not Sonya’s warnings, not years of advice from his mother, nor years of disastrous relationships with women.

  ‘Tell her,’ Sonya yelled in his head.

  ‘Women appreciate honesty, Oliver,’ his mother had droned, ‘they want to be accepted for who they are, not as the creation of someone else’s imagination.’ But Oliver’s chequered history of telling the truth at the wrong time was ringing bells too. Where was the guide book for the moment when someone whom he had admired and respected – cared for, even – came into his office waving an emotional hand grenade? He swallowed hard and looked down, fiddling with the handle of his briefcase.

  ‘Of course I like you, Gayle,’ he said without looking back up. ‘But I suppose I did feel a bit out of my depth at the wedding, and since then I’ve been busy working on the book and there was Berlin and . . .’ He found himself running out of steam.

  Gayle grabbed some tissues from the box on his desk and dabbed at her eyes. ‘You must think I’m stupid,’ she said. ‘I thought I could at least rely on you to be honest with me after all you’ve said about that sort of thing.’

  Trapped by his own words, Oliver’s awkwardness turned suddenly to resentment. ‘You weren’t honest with me,’ he said quickly, looking up at her now. ‘Things have happened in your life, important things, that you didn’t tell me about. I feel . . .’ He paused. How exactly did he feel? ‘I feel insulted that you didn’t share things with me; that I told you so much and you told me nothing. You let me believe that we agreed on issues which it now seems aren’t important to you. I don’t feel good about that.’

  The silence seemed to throb in his ears.

  ‘I see,’ Gayle said finally. ‘I guess you mean Josh?’

  Oliver turned away, looking out of the window, across the lawn to the lake. ‘Yes, your son. For heaven’s sake, Gayle, I didn’t even know he existed.’

  ‘So it’s just that, is it?’