‘Ay... lo siento, I go to tidy, but someone called me on telephone.’
‘It’s okay. You should see my washing hills. And ironing’s a complete no-no.’
‘Jessie like to iron. How is that?’
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even have one anymore, just tumble everything.’
‘Ah. So...’ He pointed to a pile of crumpled shirts. ‘So what you do is, put them in the rinse programme to get them wet again, and then tumble each thing, pull it about and hang it up. An art worth mastering.’
He nodded uncertainly and then blasted me with his famous ear-to-ear grin.
‘You want me to show you.’
He nodded, patted me on the back. ‘Por favor. And we have time, because Rosi, you know, I have plan for evening. Drink, biscuit, lesson one hour and quarter, dinner, of course, I reserve table for eight, then I have film for us. Is good programme, no?’
‘Well, yes... it definitely is, but... I’m supposed to be having dinner later with a friend.’
He put down his drink. ‘What? No, no, no... What friend?’
‘Emma, my ballet friend, she – ’
‘No, you call her. Can see her any time, I am going away.’
‘That’s a bit – ’
‘No. I tell you something, say to her that I give you tickets for ballet, you can choose. Rosi, is special evening for us.’ He smiled and took my hands in his as if we were about to do the setenta move in salsa. My silly soft hands.
‘I’ll see what she says.’ I called her, pointlessly moving a couple of feet to one side, Ali all ears.
‘Well, it’s an offer we can’t refuse... tell him Bayadère in October and it’s a deal. But Rosie, think about what you’re doing, okay? I will see you later, right?’
‘Yes of course!’
‘Think, Rosie.’
‘It’s a deal, and she wants Bayadère,’ I said, closing the phone.
He gave me a big hug, lifting me off my feet. ‘Uh... can’t breathe...’
‘But you like it.’ He put me down. ‘Vale, take biscuit and now you help me, they have moved position of hands again, is very difficult...’
We had words about the badly rubbed out note names that he’d pencilled in. I showed him how the notes in the spaces for the hated left hand could be remembered with the first letters of ‘All Cows Eat Grass’ and he came up with an obscene Spanish alternative. I got him to practise the left hand while I played the right. We had fun with the duet in the new book. And then it was time to stop.
‘But no, I have to continue,’ he said, turning the page. Jessie’s ragtime tunes: he’d caught up.
‘I think you’ve done enough, you’re not going to have time to – ’
‘Please,’ he said, leaning forward and running his finger along the music, ‘I really like this.’
‘Also, it’ll upset Jessie,’ I said.
‘No, she understand. She knows it will happen. Late or soon.’
‘Sooner or later.’
‘Sí, sooner or later.’ He’d stopped and was looking at me intently, waiting for an answer. Put his arm round my shoulder and played with my hair.
‘Well... you’ll need two hands,’ I said, giving him back his arm. ‘We need to clap and count the rhythm first.’
But he understood it immediately, and before long he’d learnt the right hand. I reminded him about the shirts. ‘Can you get some hangers?’ A crinkled brow. ‘Um... perchos?... perchas?’
‘Ah, sí.’
I went to the kitchen and pulled the clothes out of the machine. A light blue short sleeved shirt. A white one. A rather formal long sleeved affair. A pair of summer trousers. He gave me the hangers and sat down at the table.
‘It’s not really going to work with this one,’ I said, hanging up the smart shirt.
‘Then I not take it.’
I smiled at him. ‘That’s the spirit.’
He watched me dealing with his clothes, while I tried not to look at him massaging an elegant bare foot, his ankle high up on his thigh.
‘How’s the knee?’
‘Is much better, but now ankle is problem. Always pain somewhere. How is your head?’
‘My head?’
‘Yes. I think often you have headache, I see you put fingers like this on the side of the head.’
‘Do I?’
‘I tell you, if insecto I did buy you not help, I can show you how not have headaches.’
‘Well I’m fine today, thanks. So... what d’you think?’ I took one of the shirts over to him. ‘Just need to hang them up until completely dry.’ He nodded. I went over to the alcove where I remembered seeing his and Jessie’s washing hanging up on my first visit and stretched up to position the hangers. And felt his arms come round me.
‘Thank you Rosi,’ he said, then turned me to him, started kissing me. I was stunned, stupidly slow to resist. And then his hands were pushing my body against his.
‘Um,’ I gasped, turning my head to one side, ‘shouldn’t we be going to the restaurant?’
He glanced at the sun-face clock. ‘Yes, but first I have to change.’
He left the kitchen and I stood there in a daze. Tried to calm down. Forget about the feel of his body against mine, the unmistakable hardness. It was unbelievable. It was unthinkable. Dinner. Film. And then what? This was a man with a highly developed sense of finale: how could I possibly think I was going to get away with a peck on the cheek before toddling off to Emma’s after the film’s credits? I started to imagine what could happen on the sofa... But then imagined my hurt and guilt afterwards, and the risk of losing the precious fun and affection we had. No. Somehow I had to make my position very clear over dinner. I busied myself cleaning up Jessie’s work surfaces.
He walked in: he’d wetted his black curls and brushed them back, was wearing jeans and a smart – and crisply ironed – shirt that should probably have been in his suitcase. A sharp, intoxicating scent.
I went to the loo and tried to make myself worthy to be seen out with him: put on more mascara, brushed my hair and tried to get rid of the stupid kink from having had it tied up for the clinic. I looked at the candle-encircled bath and imagined myself in it with him. No, no, no. I suddenly felt very weary; I thought I’d won this battle, but now here I was again, fighting for my sanity. Think Rosie.
He walked me to the restaurant, holding my hand like a 12-year-old boyfriend. ‘You are hungry?’
‘Starving.’ Although at the same time feeling rather sick.
‘You will like, is very good Italian. And Mario look after us.’
Was that us as in... us, or as in him and Jessie? The beaming owner was coming over and I wondered for a moment whether he might think I was Jessie’s mother: thirty eight minus twenty six is... well, almost biologically feasible. But Ali introduced me as his very special teacher of piano.
I asked about Jessie: was she having a good time in Corfu, would she practise her Spanish in Majorca, had she been very disappointed not to be going with him on tour.
He started playing with the sugar packets. ‘I would like that she come, but... she doesn’t understand, you know, the comunicación between dancers. When she came with me to tour in Spain, all the time she is playing games, difficult, crying and... I need to concentrate, is hard work, when I get back to hotel I need rest, peace, not big drama like I am back on stage.’
‘But can’t you reassure her that it’s closeness but not... like with her?’
He smiled and shook his head, took my hand. ‘Rosi, come on. You understand me more than you are saying, I know you do.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes, it happen in hospital too, maybe if you work together on project, share up and downs, go on tours... yes, you go to Florida, you tell me – ’
‘Conferences. Yes, but it’s different for us; we don’t spend hours wrapping ourselves round each others’ bodies.’ Although of course that was exactly what I’d ended up doing once I was there.
‘Exactamente. So you do u
nderstand.’
‘Well I’m sure Jessie would too if you could just tell her that you’re not, well...’
He smiled and shook his head again. ‘No, how can I say this? At times... well, I do what I want, what feels right. But I am not liar.’
In other words, he was a cheat. Of course he was. How could I have ever thought otherwise? I tried to recall the Spanish word for it, but I could only think of liar... I was having dinner with a mentiroso. Lying, cheating: it’s the same thing. Although not according to him.
‘Come on Rosi, you are passionate woman, I think you understand very well. You can love someone, but also love in different way with someone else. People who say is not possible are liars or have no feeling.’
I couldn’t argue with that. ‘I know what you mean but... unfaithfulness, it hurts – ’
‘Oh no, no, always this... this word. I do not take love or time from Jessie, or respect. But comunicación between two people is special, a gift. And if something makes me happy, I do it. Is true. Is life.’
Almost a convincing argument. Perhaps it would be, if I didn’t have images of Jessie lying on a beach in Corfu, tears falling into the sand as she imagined her Ali enjoying ballerinas in positions unavailable to us less advanced species.
‘You are cross now.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘I am not a bad man. I could take many women, but I don’t do this.’
I finished my orange juice. We needed another conversation topic, but not the one that followed.
‘And Rosi, you are faithful with your husband, or you love someone else?’
‘I... love someone else.’
‘Ah, already I know this.’
‘How?’
‘You don’t like to talk of Jez. Why you not leave?’
‘I am, soon.’
‘And your lover, is doctor in hospital?’
‘Yes. He’s Brazilian. A lovely man.’
‘Ah, Brazilian,’ he said, nodding as if he’d even guessed that too. ‘And jealous, no? He knows you are here with me?’
‘He knows I’m teaching you tonight, yes... but I might not have said it was you on your own.’
‘You want something else? Tiramisu, very good they tell me, also this with apple... I cannot have, but will take coffee with you.’ I didn’t need anything else, but wasn’t ready to go back to the flat. We’d discussed infidelity, I’d told him I was leaving my husband, and I’d admitted to keeping back the whole truth from my lover; I couldn’t have made a worse job of making my position clear.
Then my phone rang: Seb. Telling me about a friend’s party that he’d been asked to DJ at, could I persuade Dad that he really did need to get some bigger speakers for it...
Ali fiddled with the cutlery and started tapping his fingers loudly on the table: he was used to receiving undivided attention. I wondered how he’d cope when he was surrounded by all these children he had planned for the future.
I got out my Filo. There was the holiday drama workshop that he was signed up for, but I didn’t seem to have written it in. ‘Look, can’t we discuss this tomorrow? I need to check the dates for the drama... and it’s noisy here, I can’t hear you too well... I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
I reached down to put the phone back in my bag, then realised I’d left my Filo on the table. I sat up again and found Ali had turned it round and was pointing at Friday.
‘Qué es esto? Salsa – Imp two, five.’
‘Ah... It means the Improver Two salsa course, lesson five. I’m absolute rubbish, but it’s good exercise,’ I said, blushing and putting it away.
‘You don’t like it?’ he asked, looking offended.
‘Of course I do. Perfect end to the week.’
‘Why you not tell me before... I can help you! We put in programme – salsa class, then special film.’
I started to panic. ‘Oh no, we haven’t got time... nearly nine already and – ’
‘No, no, is not late. Is good I give you lesson, and you will like film, I choose for you.’
‘I don’t want to turn up too late to Emma’s, it’s –’
‘No, she is okay, you know this.’
I was searching my brain for some convincing reason not to go back to the flat.
‘No te preocupes,’ he said, reaching forward and stroking my cheek. Mario had been approaching the table but deftly veered off to another.
Don’t worry about what, exactly? The time I would eventually arrive at Emma’s? How appallingly stilted and prissy he’d find my salsa dancing? What he would think of me without my clothes on? No, no...
And then, walking back arm in arm, I started worrying about the film. Chosen for me, so had to be something to do with the piano – or a piano teacher. Madame Sousatzka, perhaps. I’d read the book: a miserable lesson in how not to get too attached to one’s pupil. Depressing. Or The Piano Teacher: a fortyish, sexually-repressed woman having a violent relationship with a handsome and gifted young pupil. Disturbing. Jez had got it from Blockbuster; we’d watched it with our hands over our faces and then had to watch half of Kenny’s Shrek Two to get over it. If it’s either of those I’m leaving straight away, I decided. In fact, maybe it would be good if it were; it would help propel me the hell out of there.
‘You are very quiet.’ He stopped and turned to me. ‘Qué pasa?’
‘Nothing’s the matter.’
‘Look like you are cross with me.’
‘No, why should I be?’
We walked on. He pointed out the flat where his Cuban friends lived; I pointed out the pub where I’d been sick in the gutter after celebrating my PhD. And then we reached his door.
‘If you are cross, you can say,’ he said. ‘I won’t eat you.’ We went through into the hall, and then into the flat. ‘Unless you want me to, of course.’
I put a hand to my mouth and looked at the floor.
‘Ay perdón. Is rude.’
I giggled nervously. He was laughing too, also with a hand to his mouth, and looking up to the ceiling as if wondering what had possessed him; if it was an act it was a very convincing one. He gave me a squeeze and then went over to the bookshelf.
‘Why you look so worried? First this,’ he said, holding up a bright yellow and blue CD box, ‘and then... shit, I know I put it...’ I was bracing myself for The Piano Teacher, standing there with my arms folded, wondering if I could leave in high dudgeon for Emma’s flat, perhaps twenty minutes’ walk away, without first having to go for an exit-stalling pee. ‘I know you will like it, have confidence in me,’ he said with a chuckle, clacking through a pile of DVDs. ‘Ah. Here it is. Look, already you have seen?’
TEAM AMERICA. A guy with World Police on his back against an explosive background.
‘Er... no.’
‘You say that you don’t like Americans.’
‘I said I don’t like American piano tutor books.’
‘No, no, you say also, at tour, at conferencia, that Americans think they are whole world. Yes, you did.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember, but... I might well have done.’
‘Is very good, it laughs at Americans, interfering in every place. And is all with... marionetas. Like Thunderbirds except the heroes are thinking of love life even when on misiones. Is very funny. Wait, I get things.’
I was going to be watching a puppet film; I laughed with relief, took my shoes off and put my feet up beside me on the sofa.
He came back with a couple of glasses, a bottle of sparkling juice and a big bowl of pistachio nuts. But then he stopped and pointed a finger at me. ‘Ah – you are bad girl – almost you make me forget, but no... First you have lesson. Come.’ He took my hand and pulled me up from the sofa.
‘Oh God. Well let me go to the loo first.’
‘Vale.’
I tried to collect myself while I was there, put a mint in my mouth like we all did before salsa class. Then there was an energetic burst of trumpets, timbales and cowbells and I came back to find him working
those elbows, bending and turning, hips fluid, singing along with temba, tumba, timba and something about a woman with three husbands. I could happily have watched him all evening, but he came over, circled me with his hand brushing round my waist, and started twisting about in front of me with a big grin on his face. I was probably meant to do that on-your-own step thing we’d been shown for when your guy’s a bit drunk at a salsa party night, but I wasn’t sure that I could remember it and felt nailed to the floorboards.
‘Rosi, come on!’ He took my hands and started a step I vaguely recognised but our arms seemed to be getting into a painful knot. He was trying not to laugh. ‘Oh... we try again – don’t hold so tight, relax the arms.’
‘Um, I think it’s a bit fast for me, I’m just a beginner you know –’
‘Claro. I find something slower.’ He went over and pressed some buttons. And up came the laid-back strings and piano song with the guys singing something about Chevrolets...
‘Oh I love this one!’
He smiled at my excitement. ‘Bueno. Ahora bailamos.’
I felt I could dance then. Or at least I wanted to. And he suddenly seemed to realise my level and did some basic steps with me, calling some of them out even though I’m supposed to know what they are by his lead. Then we sang along with the chorus, Havana City! Havana Cra-zy! Wel-come to the cap-it-al! at the tops of our voices, and I broke into giggles and lost all concentration and control of my limbs. He gave me a hug and then went to turn it down a bit. Started going on about my gripping hands and stiff arms again, like Carlota and my partners do in the class.
‘If you do this, you not feel the claves from the guy. He have to lead the dance – ’
‘I know, I know. I’m just not good at this being towed around like a train carriage thing.’
‘No, is not this!’ he said, laughing. ‘A good salsa partner is there to make you look good, let you express, work together with you for this! Your husband – Jez – is good partner, no?’
He seemed to have forgotten about Ricardo, or perhaps hadn’t been really listening. And I couldn’t understand why he assumed Jez would do well at partnering. ‘No way – he stubbornly won’t even try salsa.’
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