by Ben Karwan
‘Argentine tango,’ I say the second the eighth bar finishes. ‘You lead. Remember, torsos close, hips apart, straight spine. Keep it simple. It’s the dance of love. Lots of passion.’
‘We’ve got this,’ he says.
‘All over it.’ If only I felt as confident as I sound.
‘Couples, there will be seventy-two bars. Good luck. Mr Bleeker, as you please.’
The music starts up and I begin my count.
I pull Elliot in close and we walk around each other. I follow him, walking in the crossed system – our right legs step at the same time, rather than my right with his left. I give Elliot instructions on how to lead me a bar ahead of the music.
‘Take a big step to the right,’ I say. ‘And back to the left.’
While he sidesteps, I pivot on the balls of my feet so I’m angled away from him and step backwards, matching his pace.
‘And again,’ I say. ‘Now lunge forward a little and make sure I don’t fall.’
I step further back with my left leg and hook my right up between Elliot’s legs. ‘And again on your right.’ I rock my body around and we do another back ocho into gancho.
I have absolutely no idea what the others are doing but Elliot and I move around the floor, keeping our steps really simple. We stumble a few times and we’re a little off-beat because I keep underestimating how long it takes to tell Elliot what to do, plus I have to be constantly thinking about the next move. But there are no distractions. There’s only Elliot, me and the music.
‘Catch my leg – then I’m going to spin,’ I say. I kick my leg up so my heel is at his shoulder. He grips my ankle and pivots me around in a full circle, and we’re back to a tight embrace, our faces touching.
‘Crouch down like I do.’ I crouch sideways with one knee bent, the back leg straight. He does the same, his straight leg passing underneath me.
‘Okay, bend your knee like you’re doing a pathetic lunge. I’m going to jump up and sit on your thigh, so you need to hold me.’
I slide my back foot around his and jump into a sentada, accidentally digging my heel into his leg. He breathes sharply.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Two bars to go. Lift me.’
He lifts me from his thigh so I can point my feet in the air, arching my back sideways. I land and we finish about a beat too late, my back arched, my hand on his face, which is millimetres from mine. The kitten pendant is cold against my chest. The audience cheers and I hug Elliot tightly. I’m sure he can feel my heartbeat. Our dancing was probably pathetic but I’m on an adrenaline high. My body feels disconnected from the room. I’m aware of what’s happening around me but I can’t really feel the floor, and all the noises meld together.
‘That was amazing,’ Elliot says. ‘I mean, it wasn’t brilliant – you were – but that was so much fun.’
While the judges deliberate, we make our way back to our table. The judges announce the winning couple, who look around our age. Miraculously, Elliot and I somehow managed to get fourth place for our group. I had expected to come last! But right now, where we placed doesn’t bother me. I’m just glad I got to dance.
The older couple on our table – number fourteen – congratulates us with warm smiles. I use a napkin to dab away the sweat from my forehead and ask a nearby waiter for another glass of wine. I take a few long, deep breaths, but there’s no slowing my heart tonight.
After our dance we sit and watch the other performances. Each time new couples get up, my feet tingle, wanting to join them. I’m not sure my lungs could handle it, though. How did I become so unfit in a year?
Elliot watches with a smile as the other dancers do the paso doble, samba, quickstep and the foxtrot. The older couple on our table comes first in the quickstep division and progress through to the final. The other couple from our table has disappeared.
I had forgotten the thrill dancing brings me. When Mum and Dad suggested I give it up to focus on year twelve, I knew it was the right thing to do but it had been a tough decision. As my attention shifted to my studies, I eventually forgot to miss it. But tonight, this dance brought back all the thrills and happiness I felt when I danced. Moving along to an orchestra is therapeutic. And it’s all thanks to Elliot.
The final dance is a rumba but before the finalists begin, the four judges perform a choreographed version. It’s immediately clear that they know what they’re talking about. I watch in awe as they move fluidly and in unison, completely connected to the atmosphere. My legs bounce under the table in excitement. How have I gone so long without this?
Applause echoes around the hall as the judges’ dance finishes, and it only dies down once the competitors are ready to begin. The graceful couple from the first division win the event, earning themselves five hundred dollars. Their rumba is almost better than the judges’.
Once the placements are declared, the floor is open for anybody to dance however they’d like, but Elliot’s thigh aches from where I stabbed him, so we leave. As we exit the hotel, I can’t wipe the grin from my face.
‘Sorry for puncturing your leg,’ I say.
‘It’s okay, I’m still alive. Who needs a femoral artery?’
‘Thank you for this,’ I say. I want him to know I mean it. ‘I really had an amazing time. I just … thank you.’
‘It was all you,’ he says. ‘For the follower, you sure did a lot of leading. I just did what you told me to do.’
‘You still did it well. Maybe I could teach you the names of the moves one day?’
He laughs. ‘We’ll see.’
We walk in silence for about a minute before he speaks again. ‘I had a lot of fun, too.’
We don’t go directly back to the hotel but instead find a place to sit where we have a brilliant view of the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. There isn’t a lot of talking but there doesn’t need to be. The city is beautiful, the stars bright, the salt water smells amazing and the lapping water is soothing.
If I died right now, I would die happy.
Chapter Nineteen
It’s just past midnight when we get back to our hotel room. All through the walk back, I periodically remember that Elliot had planned all that just to make me happy.
It’s not a feeling I’m used to.
Elliot falls asleep pretty quickly, but I have too much energy buzzing through my body. I get up for a glass of water at least five times and I just can’t calm down enough to sleep. I want to dance.
I dig my headphones out of my bag and plug them into my phone. Making sure the volume is low, I connect to the hotel wi-fi and load a few YouTube clips of people dancing, visualising myself doing the routines. I sit on the edge of the bed and practise some of the footwork. The dancers in these videos are so much better than I am, though. I wonder if I could ever be that good.
By the time three am rolls around, I figure I should probably try to get some sleep. As I put the headphones back in my bag, my hand brushes against the temporary tattoos I bought. I pull them out and look over at Elliot, who is still sleeping. I have an idea.
In the kitchen drawer is a pair of scissors, which I use to cut out each flag. I dampen a washcloth in the sink and head back over to the bed. I sit next to Elliot’s unconscious body and place an Australian flag on his left cheekbone. As firmly as I dare, I press the washcloth onto the back of it.
Elliot doesn’t even stir. I wait a couple of minutes, lift the cloth and peel off the backing, leaving a gorgeous flag marking his face.
Over the next fifteen minutes, I cover his body in five flags. Both cheeks, his forehead and his shoulders all bear our nation’s flag. I try to make sure they’re in places obvious to everybody except him.
Satisfied with my work, I clear up any evidence and crawl into bed.
I get a couple of hours of sleep and somehow still manage to wake before Elliot. He still looks pretty out of it, so I pull on a dress and go over the road to get some coffee – a latte for me and a white-chocolate mocha for Mr Pretentious.
E
lliot stirs when I open the door.
‘Argh … Good morning,’ he mumbles.
‘Morning,’ I say brightly, offering him the cup. ‘Coffee?’
‘Oh you’re a superstar,’ he says, accepting it. ‘Why are you in such a good mood?’
‘No reason,’ I say, sitting at the foot of the bed. ‘Still on a high from last night, I guess.’ The flags wave around on his face as he readjusts his facial muscles.
‘Fair enough.’ He takes a sip from the takeaway cup. ‘This is possibly the best white-chocolate mocha I’ve ever had. And that’s saying something.’
‘Glad you like it,’ I say, sipping my own drink, trying not to let my amusement show. Unsuccessfully, of course.
‘What are you smiling at?’
‘I’m not smiling,’ I say, hiding my smile behind my coffee cup.
He stares at me. I’m really not a good liar. ‘What did you do?’ he says. ‘Did you put something in this?’ He gestures his cup.
‘I swear there’s nothing wrong with your coffee.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’m just in a good mood.’ I take another sip.
‘You’re a weird kid, Janson.’
‘Did you sleep okay?’ I ask, wanting to change the subject.
‘Yeah, I slept really well, actually. I dreamt I was swimming, which was odd. But I feel really refreshed. Best sleep I’ve had since we started this trip.’
‘Maybe dancing tired you out,’ I suggest, still smiling into my cup.
Elliot drains his drink and throws the empty cup at my head. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I’m going to shower, then we should explore the city.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say, rubbing my head where the cup hit it.
‘Don’t miss me too much.’ He disappears into the bathroom and I wait. Then I hear it. ‘Son of a –’ I guess he saw himself in the mirror.
‘Problem?’ I call innocently.
His tattooed face reappears in the doorway. ‘You’re an arsehole and I hate you.’
‘No,’ I say sweetly, ‘you don’t.’
‘I’m going to get you back for that,’ he warns.
‘Give it your best shot.’ I put down my empty coffee cup and open my arms, palms up, inviting him to bring it on.
His shower takes nearly twenty minutes, which I should probably accept some responsibility for. His face is red raw from where he’s scrubbed at the tattoos.
We don’t really have a plan for the day, so we just head out with the intention of wandering. It doesn’t matter where we’re going; all that matters is that we’re enjoying ourselves. Until last night, I’d forgotten how relaxing it is to do something just for fun.
For hours, the city runs wild around us. Boats sail through the harbour, cars weave through the streets, pedestrians manoeuvre past each other … Every single one of them has a backstory. They have a life, a family, personal problems. Where are they going? What kind of mood are they in? It’s easy to make snap judgements about all these people, many of which are likely to be wrong. The man in the business suit might be a renowned CEO or he might be on his way to a job interview. Maybe he just likes wearing suits. It makes me wonder what judgements people make when they see me. Who do they think I am? Do people even notice me?
Elliot grows tired of walking before I do. My legs ache but my enjoyment of wandering and talking about whatever inane topic comes to mind far outweighs that.
We find a cafe with a clear view of the harbour. We order iced coffees and find seats.
‘I’ve always wanted to climb that bridge,’ says Elliot, looking out over the iconic structure. ‘I imagined doing it with Nessie. I know it’s stupid but even though I never really thought we’d be together forever, I had this idea of proposing to her up the top or something.’
‘Really? You thought that far ahead?’
‘I know, it’s stupid. I just liked the idea of doing it.’
My heart aches for him and I reach for his hand.
‘I’ve spent so much time romanticising romance,’ he says. ‘I always did big Romantic Gestures – roses, love notes, that kind of thing. I never told Nessie how I felt because I thought all the things I did would be more powerful than words.’
He pauses but I don’t say anything.
‘I guess … I feel guilty for not caring anymore, you know? At first I tried not to enjoy myself on this trip because I felt like I should be cut-up over being dumped. I felt as though having fun would mean that I didn’t care about her or that our relationship didn’t matter.’
‘But it did matter,’ I say. ‘Even if it didn’t work out, it still mattered.’
‘I know it did. And objectively, I know there’s no reason for me to feel like that, which makes it even worse.’
‘That’s the inherent thing about feelings,’ I say. ‘They’re valid, simply by virtue of being felt.’
He shrugs. ‘I guess …’ he says. ‘And that’s probably for the better. It hurts right now, but that doesn’t mean the entire thing was a waste of time.’
I smile at him. Things don’t have to last forever to be important.
‘Why can’t relationships be this easy?’ Elliot says after a while. ‘This – us – it just feels so natural. I don’t feel like I have to try to impress you and I don’t think you want me to, either.’
He’s spot-on. I don’t want a fake friendship made out of mutual niceties. There are enough artificial relationships in my life, born only out of necessity. Elliot isn’t like that. He’s a safe place where I won’t get hurt. He isn’t my protector or my guardian: he’s my friend. And I’d be crazy to throw that away.
Chapter Twenty
The next morning is Monday, meaning it’s the day we see Marjolijn in Next to Normal. Just after Elliot and I have both showered and dressed, my phone rings.
‘Hey Jen,’ says Sophie. ‘Teddy’s on the line too.’
‘Hi loser,’ says Teddy.
‘Hi guys,’ I say.
‘Is Elliot there?’ says Sophie. ‘Put it on speaker.’
I click the speaker button and they both say hi to him, too.
‘Did you get home safely?’ I ask. ‘Was the plane okay?’
‘It was all great,’ says Sophie. ‘Thanks again for paying, and sorry we couldn’t stay. Are you guys having fun?’
‘Yeah, it’s been amazing,’ says Elliot.
‘I hate you both,’ says Teddy. ‘Mainly ’cause you met Marjolijn Jacobse and I didn’t.’
‘Deal with it,’ I say.
‘Hah-yee.’
‘Sh, honey. Mummy’s on the phone.’
We spend the next twenty minutes catching up. It’s remarkable how much there is to say, even though it had only been about four days since we last saw them. Elliot and I tell them about the dance contest and how much fun we had.
‘Oh my God, that’s amazing,’ says Sophie.
‘Oh sorry guys,’ says Teddy. ‘My lover is here. See you when you get back.’
He hangs up.
‘His “lover”?’ says Elliot. ‘How has Christina not killed him yet?’
‘Hah-yee.’
‘Lukie, please. Oh put your clothes back on. No, don’t … Sorry guys, I’ve got to go. Enjoy the rest of your trip!’
She clicks off the line, too.
Almost as soon as my phone locks itself, Marjolijn’s number flashes on my screen. ‘Goedemorgen, Marjolijn,’ I answer. I googled Dutch greetings last night, though I’m sure my pronunciation is appalling.
Elliot rolls his eyes at me and I flip him off.
Through the phone, Marjolijn laughs. ‘Very formal, liefje. I am impressed.’ I have absolutely no idea what ‘liefje’ means, so I switch back to English.
‘What’s up? We’re looking forward to the performance tonight.’
‘As am I. I understand this is late notice but I was wondering if you and Elliot would be interested in joining me for lunch in the next hour or so?’
I run the idea by Elliot and he’s onboard, so we
make plans to meet at a pub halfway between us and Marjolijn and head off immediately.
It takes about twenty minutes for us to arrive. Marjolijn meet us out the front, greets us with hugs and we head inside.
I order a bowl of seasoned wedges because a) I’m not particularly hungry, b) I know it pisses Elliot off when people order sides as a main and c) I like being mean to Elliot. It’s a form of affection.
‘How was your weekend?’ I ask her.
‘Very good, thank you. Though we do not really have “weekends” during a performance run. We are only on a ten-day run in Sydney before moving to Melbourne, so we do not have any breaks.’
‘Is it hard performing in English?’ I ask. ‘I mean, compared to whatever other million languages you sing in?’
She considers the question for a while. ‘In some ways, English is easier. Next to Normal was written in English, after all. But the English songs that are the most difficult to wrap my tongue around have a lot of phonemes that are not present in the other Germanic languages. On the other hand, Dutch and German are so similar, and sometimes I get confused about the lyrics. It is difficult to sing the –’ she makes a guttural, phlegmy noise ‘– sound that we use in Dutch and German. It tightens your vocal folds and it is difficult to project.’
‘How did you get into theatre?’ asks Elliot. ‘Did you always want to perform as a kid?’
‘No, I did not consider it as a career until my adolescence. I performed in a couple of shows at school, after which I was encouraged to participate in local productions. People thought I had talent and I kept working my way through to larger-scale productions, found a beautiful agent and began earning some money.’
‘How did your parents feel about you pursuing such an … uncertain … career path?’ asks Elliot. I hope Marjolijn doesn’t mind being bombarded with questions, but I’m genuinely interested in her answers.
‘My father did not approve but that was of little consequence. He ate his words – is that the phrase? – once I was earning.’
‘How did you get cast in Australia?’ I ask. ‘Or just internationally in general?’