"I
named my first car after you." As soon as the words are out of
my mouth, I want to snatch them back. My clumsy attempt at homage
comes out as insensitivity, given the tragedies of her children's
demise, and her own. My companion simply smiles, though, her
expression a bit vague - the effects, perhaps, of the vin
ordinaire we've shared (one glass so far for me, three for her).
"That's
flattering, I suppose," she says finally. "Though I've
never cared much for machines..." The lowering sun slants
between the narrow buildings, drawing bars of gold on the
cobblestones. A gaggle of primary schoolers erupt from one side of
the square, tumble past us, and disappear in a cloud of shrieks and
laughter on the other. Her moist eyes follow their progress, but her
lips still quirk up at the corners. "The natural exuberance of
childhood," she murmurs. "I still feel it."
She's
pulled her silver-streaked hair into a classical bun, but stray locks
have escaped to tangle upon her thin shoulders. The many layers of
her clothing, dove gray, hide her body from me, but as she shifts in
her chair to pick up her glass, I sense strength and grace, a purity
of form that illuminates even her smallest movements. She drinks
deep. I stare at the ruby drop that lingers for a moment on her upper
lip, before her tongue darts out to gather it in. The tiny, casual
gesture sends bolts of heat to my sex. I understand why she
fascinated so many men - and women.
"Please,
go on." She turns her full attention to me. I feel blood rushing
into my cheeks. Laughter bubbles in her voice. "Why in the
world would you christen your automobile with my name?"
"Freedom.
That's what you've always been for me, a beacon of freedom in a world
of constraint. You followed your heart, your vision, your passion.
You didn't care what people thought of you. You defied convention.
I've always wanted to be that sort of person."
"So
why not be?" She leaned forward, fingers fluttering across my
cheek, leaving trails of electricity in their wake. "No one can
give you freedom, my dear. You must seize it for yourself."
"You
make it sound so easy."
"No,
it's never easy. You have to be brave. There will always be people
who condemn you, who label you as trivial, or immoral. Who put
obstacles in your path. Who try to bury you. It's far easier to give
in and do as you're told. In the end, though, their approval means
nothing. It won't compensate you for frittering away your soul."
I
nodded. I already know the truth in what she says - otherwise, I
wouldn't be here, in the waning Paris afternoon, ordering another
round. Isadora winks at the slender young waiter who sets her goblet
down on the table in front of her. He stumbles, almost spilling the
contents into her lap. "Such lovely dark curls," she
comments as he scurries back to safety of the bar. "I wonder if
he has hair on his chest. Drink quickly, Lisabet, so we can get him
to come back."
"Tell
me about your dancing," I urge, needing to change the subject,
simultaneously embarrassed and aroused by her sexual aura. "When
did you first start? Where did you get your ideas?"
"I
probably danced in my mother's womb. I don't remember ever not
dancing. It wasn't something I chose. The dance chose me."
"I
think I know what you mean," I respond. No one ever really
taught me how to write. It was just something I've always done, a
part of who I am.
"The
Greeks really did understand - making the Muses into goddesses.
There's a core of the divine in every art. And every artist has a
touch of divine madness." She giggles, shaking her head till her
long hair springs free from its chaste arrangement and tumbles over
her breasts. I ache to run my fingers through those wild locks,
working out the tangles. I imagine stroking a finger tip across her
nipple, sensing the stiffening response. I wonder what the wine would
taste like, sampled from her laughing red mouth.
"And
what about your dancing, my dear? I know that words are your primary
medium but I sense that your lovely petite body craves movement."
I
want to drop through the pavement. I want to gather her in my arms. I
stall, sipping the blood-hued liquid and feeling liquid courage
course through me.
"Sometimes
- sometimes I dance. Sometimes I just forget myself and let the music
take me over, control me." I don't tell her that the surest way
for a man to seduce me is to dance with me.
"No,
no, it's not the music. It doesn't come from outside. It's Spirit,
that spark of truth, of the gods, inside all of us. The rhythm calls
it forth, perhaps. You must let your guard down, let it out."
"I
try. Sometimes I succeed. And then, the joy...."
Isadora's
face is luminous in the dusk. "Yes. Nothing can quench that
bliss. Poverty, illness, death... none of them has any power in the
face of that glorious perfect grace. The bad things don't vanish, oh
no, but somehow the dance transforms them. I transform them, weaving
them all into the Art."
She's
taken my hand now. She leans forward until I feel her warm breath on
my face. "That's the secret," she whispers. "The body,
this weak, misshapen, gross thing we lug around for half a century or
more, is the crucible where we transmute base existence into
transcendent beauty."
She
grins as though mocking her own seriousness and waves at the boy
cowering inside the café. The slight motion is so eloquent it brings
an ache to my chest. "Garçon! L'addition, s'il vous plait!"
"A
pity he's so shy," she adds, in a conspiratorial tone. "Ah
well. He's probably too young to know much about love anyway."
Our
check settled, we rise from our seats, so perfectly in unison that we
might have been choreographed. Gas lights flicker into life around
the square. Overhead the sky gleams a translucent teal. The café has
filled up while we talked; the chatter of the other patrons is loud
around us but velvet stillness has invaded my heart. I wait upon my
companion.
Isadora
surveys me, pleasure obvious in her expression. Desire surges through
me, leaving me sweaty and trembling. She flings her scarlet silk
scarf behind her and reaches for my hand. "My pension is
a few blocks away. Shall we walk?"
