Chris Tolian
Dancar Tempestuoso
I have faith in this kind of manic passion. I don't know. Somehow I can't get enough, even though it's just one more addiction. One more thing to kill myself with.
I bring this up to her. She throws her head back and laughs, arms twining around my neck, fingers tugging my hair. I sometimes think it's her laugh that gets me. One of those deep real expressions. And her tears. Oh God! When she goes down on her knees and cries, arms folded over her stomach, head touching the floor, hair spread out like a shroud. How can that be ignored? How can she be ignored?
I can't give her up. That's why I'm headed to the city once again to dance. The one thing we both loved. The desperate passion of the music. Bodies touch, never really knowing whose sweat you taste in the dark and the smoke and the flashing lights.
The train pulls into Union Station. I walk through the crowded lobby with its marble stairs and high ceilings. Train schedules flash across a dozen screens. Outside, I gaze at the city. My city. The lights of Chicago in winter are amazing. A slow snow drifts among a million manmade stars. The buildings make canyons of the streets. Christmas has brought out little islands of people and decorations. Lights and music. The Nutcracker and Sleeping Beauty perform in the rows of storefront displays.
I walk among the shoppers. Lovers and students. Families with laughing children. To think that I was once one of those children I laugh, clearing my way through sidelong glances and sidestepping winter-cloaked bodies. Up and down the streets, signs fade in the swirling flakes -- Halsted, Madison, Wacker -- until they become green blurs through cold tearing eyes.
The corner of Goethe and Division. This is the neighborhood. Old, stately rowhouses. Black iron fences around tiny white yards. A path made by a hundred booted feet leads through an alley between two of the grandest houses. A carriage house is half hidden by the turrets and massive walls. Stairs lead up to a darkened apartment. Another staircase, sunk into the bricks, leads down to double wooden doors.
No bouncer, no doorman. Nothing to indicate that this is the place except a vague energy pervading the air. Snowflakes glimmer and spin in the moonlight. Taking a final breath of winter, I push the doors open.
I am assaulted by the sheer mass of everything -- people, lights, smoke, scents. God, the music! I take off my overcoat and throw it on a pile by the door. Light a cigarette and someone presses a small half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels into my hand. All I see of my gracious benefactor is a flurry of dreadlocks and a huge, white smile.
I ease through the moving bodies until I can see the stage, shoved into a corner under hot, twirling lights. Everyone around me is dancing. Alcohol and cigarette disappear as another Cheshire grin flashes past my face. I look down. The hardworn floor shimmers with heavy boots and bare feet.
A crazy little dark man spins around the stage, his violin spitting a savage solo. The music crescendos. Concussive rhythm. Flamenco guitar runs caroom off the walls. Wails and Latin yells pierce through the mix. The music goes on for an eternity. A crazy Mexican-Brazillian-Gypsy-bluejazz thing, pulling me in.
Bodies move faster across the floor, more provocative. Scent of overheated dancers. Voices lost, consciousness wavers on the verge of becoming something more, or less, human. Animal. Primitive. This is music. This is dance.
To dance with such people in such a place. Dreams be damned, imagination fails. Coherence lost in this new, throbbing reality. Dancing among gods and angels and monsters. Not caring about the previous moment or the next. The desperate passion of the music. Bodies touch, never really knowing whose sweat you taste in the dark and the smoke amid the flashing lights.
A woman's body presses against mine, face against my chest. She is so small, yet I feel an insuppressible energy flowing from her. She steps back and moves with the music as if it is her breath and blood. Eyes closed, head hangs loose so that her long hair sways, violent. Sweat arcs onto my skin.
I place my hands just above her rocking hips. She leans into me, our fingers twining around each other. My flesh burns with the contact, hot and alive. Her body moves against mine. Dizzy, erotic friction.
The musicians fall into a steady pounding tribal rhythm. I lose myself in twirling abandon. My partner's deep, dark eyes lock with mine. Her lips moist, half open. Perspiration adds a sheen to copper tinted skin.
The music becomes a surreal thunderstorm punctuated by shouts in a language I will never know. Rhythmic clapping and stomping roar from the stage until every voice is raised and our bodies become the instruments. The band drives us harder. The music screams into my soul, obliterating my senses.
A final crescendo. Sudden stop. Silence deafens with its emptiness. My chest heaves, ears ringing in the stillness. I look down at the woman in front of me. Sweat blurs my vision.
"Bao noite." Her voice comes out a whisper.
"What?" My breath labored, word sounding harsh.
She grins, a long slow thing. "'Ello. I am sorry. I don't speak much englais." Her accent is a purr somewhere between French and Spanish. Her eyes slide from mine. I put my arms around her as the band creeps into a strange, mourning Creole song.
I lower my face so that my lips brush her ear. She steps back, looking down at her hands. Shakes her head. Eyes catch mine through a tangled veil of dark hair. Lips grin a beautiful fullness.
"Tonight. Midnight, at Voltaire's. You know?" She is so beautiful. God, I don't want her to leave! This is insane. I nod, numb and tingly and electrified all at once. "Sim. Bem. Bao noite, amigo." She turns and I lose her as another bottle of whiskey and that huge white Cheshire smile fill my vision.
"Hey, sweetie! Long time, no see." Already drunk on the booze or the music or whatever. A big, blond guy shifts from side to side behind him. "I got a room at the Ambassador West. Number four twenty-six. My birthday tonight! We're headin' over now. How 'bout it?"
I smile at this crazy, flaming vagrant. "I'll be over after twelve sometime."
His eyes wander over my face, trying to focus. "Good 'nough." He belches and blows me a tainted kiss.
Back out into the swirling snow. The music stuck in my mind, I find myself spinning, twirling, trying to sing or hum. Trying to not forget. Not feeling the cold or the heavy, white flakes. My staggering dance takes me into the street, just missing a yellow cab as it screeches and splatters to a halt.
Dark face peers at me from under a green ski hat. "Look like you need a ride there, boy." I stare for a moment. Shrugging my shoulders, I bounce in.
"Voltaire's," my voice too giddy.
The taximan laughs. "Yeah. You need coffee, that's for' damn sure." Off we speed through the night. Snow in the headlights against the dark city streets makes it seem as if we are flying at warp speed. I join in the laughter.
She walks through the door wearing a heavy gray wool coat and brown hat. In the light of the coffeehouse, her skin seems a couple shades fairer, but still with that Latina tint. Eyes dark and deep, mysterious as all hell. She glances my way, smiling over an enormous striped scarf.
"You come!" She sits across from me. Hat off, her hair falls across her face and shoulders in a disheveled display of static. She grabs the steaming mug of black coffee in front of her. Just looking at her, I feel that strange mix of emotions again.
There is a vague desperation, maybe for some deeper connection. Doesn't happen often these days. Most relationships are knowingly shallow or have a half empty, apathetic quality. I felt it back in the basement. Without that connection, faith and certainty, conviction or any sense of humanity tend to quickly diminish.
My eyes catch hers through the steam. I hold on as tight as possible. An anxiety pervades me. This connection is something I crave too much. I pray that I am not imagining it.
She sets her mug down, keeping her hands wrapped around the chipped porcelain for warmth. "So." That purring accent again. "You like dance?" I nod. "Espirito rebelde. Dancer tempestuoso. Spirit rebellious, to dance the wild. Musica esta...music is amazing."
"To dance the wild. I like that. A rebellious spirit, to dance the wild and scream out for freedom." Idiot. I cringe.
"Too philosophical, o meu bememado." She smiles a brilliant embarrassed smile." You haven't asked me my name."
I light a cigarette. Offer her one. "What's your name?"
"I can no tell you. Call me Re." A distant look. Long exhale of pale smoke.
"What's it mean?"
"Something someone called me once, long ago...atei logo." Voice trails off. She looks like a lost child. Small, lithe body tense. Features dark with anxiety. Our cigarettes turn to smoldering stubs of ash. Five minutes stretched to eternity.
I reach across and grab her hand before she can pull away again. "Come with me, I have some friends that'll...I don't know. Come on." We grab our coats and light two more cigarettes.
Another taxi, smelling of marijuana and polish sausage. We make our way across town to the lakefront, not speaking a word. I can't keep from staring. Those dark eyes flash from beneath the black hair. Lights throw red and gold highlights as we pass through intersections. Occasionally our eyes meet and I try to hold her gaze, only to have her break away with that disarming smile. So much like a little girl. Yet, something else too.
I sense a depth to her that I haven't felt in a long time. A commonality of worldview. I watch her watching the city pass by her window. Her face lights up at the little things while taking the towering monstrosity of the city itself for granted. Disregarding it.
It is not the buildings and the clubs and the businesses that make this city. It is the people. The families out Christmas shopping. The couples ice skating across the street. Even the homeless man searching for something with his skinny dog. That is the real city.
We leave the people and fly along the pavement of Lake Shore Drive. The city and its buildings along one side and the empty expanse of the frozen lake on the other make it seem as if we are at the edge of the world.
We veer off and once again are surrounded by the works of man. The streets empty except for tiny pockets of people running to and from expensive cars and limousines. This area is so grand. Eloquent buildings. A concept I used to find odd. But, after being among these behemoths, there is an eloquence to them.
Once the homes of a burgeoning urban aristocracy, now they are the playgrounds for technocrats, corrupt politicians, and quietly insane deviants with too much money. And us little spiritual butterflies, briefly meeting among them. Cultural vampires, social ghosts. Wavering between realities that we never seem able to grasp. Maybe we don't really want to. But that is too...too much for right now.
The taxi pulls up to the hotel. Tiny white lights cover bare trees. Re and I breeze through the almost empty lobby and catch the elevator. The doors open. I hear a faint disco beat and smile. Re looks at me and giggles. I can feel the pulse of the music trying to break free.
I look at Re. God, is she beautiful. Even all bundled against Chicago winter. "Well, here we go."
Deep piled carpet and pinstriped couches. The TV hides in a heavy-lacquered armoire. Everything beige and burgundy, illuminated by pale yellow light. A multicolored disco ball someone has knocked down spins sideways. Wines of a hundred varieties clutter the glass surface of wrought iron tables.
Drag queens and prostitutes. Men grope men and women rub against each other. Beautiful men and handsome women; androgyny to the extreme. An Alice in Wonderland concoction streaked with Mardi gras nuance. Our own private little circus up here, five stories above the winter streets.
Our host comes up, wine in each hand. Gives me a kiss, breath reeking of alcohol. Chocolate brown forehead shines with sweat.
"Damn," he says, looking at my companion. "Guess I don't have a chance tonight."
I laugh, shaking my head. Buzz with wine and quick flashes of music. Scenes of dancing strobe behind my eyes, mixing with this new reality. Re nudges me, motioning towards the door. I turn back.
"Happy Birthday." A quick kiss on the sweaty cheek. "I gotta go."
"No problem," the birthday boy throws over his shoulder as he heads for the bathroom. Three other men trail behind.
Outside, the Salvation Army band plays on the corner. Re grabs my hand and we dance in the snow. Silent Night. We run across the street to the sister hotel, the Ambassador East. We stand in the marble lobby, looking like two deranged wraiths, trying to hide our cigarettes from the "no smoking" sign. The man behind the marble and ebony service desk glares. Without a word I toss a few crumpled green bills onto the highly polished barricade. A disgusted sigh. He hands me a key from the rack behind him. We stumble up the swirling staircase, past the disapproving looks of the well-dressed patrons at the bar.
Finding the room, we nearly fall inside. Re turns the heat up to tropical. The old radiator sends suffocating wet electricity crackling into the room. I open the little bar and pour some whiskey over ice. Another cigarette. Turn off the lights as Re touches my Zippo to the dozens of candles set in every open space.
A faded glow dilutes the smoke curling in front of me. The depth of the color slides the room into half-shadow. Outlines blur. Definition lost, unfocused. I pull off my steaming shirt and throw it into a pile with the coats. Sitting on the gold-green striped couch, my eyes register movement.
Re grins a whiskey grin as she sways through the moist, hot air. Her body rocks to the slow smoldering backbeat of the blues moaning from the speakers. She stands over me, dark eyes searching. A bead of sweat drops from the edge of her nose onto my bare chest. She sips from her perspiring glass, ice making tiny bell noises. In the amber light, her skin shimmers with golden tears. Soaked satin clings to her body.
"Can I have cigaro?" I hand her a Winston. "Muito obrigata." She lights it on a candle flame.
Looking from behind hair that has fallen across her face, she smiles shyly. A thousand expressions flicker across her face in the candlelight. "Do you want know my name?"
I nod. She giggles. "Nao until you tell me yours, meu americano."
I part my lips to speak. She seals them with a finger, her face very close to mine. "Shh...nao." She sits back, eyes all crinkled. A child concentrating. "Nao, no names, meu amado. Names are like a mask. I don't want you to wear one."
She pauses to take a drag from the cigarette. "This place let be the world. Let us two forget everything else for now. Nao quero pretensao...no make, ah, promises. Quero to be real. I want you to know me. Conhecer mim!!" She straddles me, bouncing and beating my chest.
Quiet, head over my heart, her fingers gently pull at the kinky hair. She slides off onto the floor. A real tear, bittersweet honey rolls down her cheek. Arms folded over her stomach, she begins to cry. Her body heaves, forehead on the deep carpet, hair spread around her.
"What's wrong?" I kneel beside her, stroking bare shoulders. The straps of her dress rest on her upper arms.
"Nada. Nothing." She wipes her eyes, head against my neck. "Just tell me you love me." Glistening eyes look up at me, "Please...por favor."
"I do." An inward shrug. Odd, but true.
She sits up, hands covering her face. "Have you ever something you regret?"
"Yeah. We all do." I search for some kind of comforting words. "You have to accept your choices though. You don't have to be proud of them, or like what you've done. Just accept them. Because without our mistakes and tiny victories, we wouldn't be who we are...where we are."
"Ah, meu amor. You sound so confident and beautiful." She wipes her face again. Then caresses my cheek. Soft fingers slowly follow my jaw to my ear, back to my chin. Her nails against the stubble send shivers deep inside. "So beautiful."
"Yes, you are."
She takes a drag from her neglected cigarette. "Tell you love me." She continues without waiting for an answer. "Tell you are so love with me, you would die if I were gone."
"I love you." Too quickly. Damn.
She smiles, a sad sarcastic thing. "You lying. But, that's okay."
"I do!" Our words overlap. "I've read Hemingway too."
The reference is lost on her, "Who?"
I catch her eye, holding her gaze. "I love you."
"That sound so good, muito bem." She leans into me.
The blues end, replaced by Leila Josefowicz playing Sting's Moon Over Bourbon Street. The rhythm and the plaintive violin blend with the candles and alcohol and smoke to create a world that the outside cannot penetrate. Re's face floats inches from mine. Her breath carries a cinnamon tint. Her skin smells of spices and sweat. Slowly our lips touch.
Blue flame arcs across my skin, following nerve paths until my body is consumed. Lips and tongues dance to the exotic music. Without words, her bare flesh presses against mine. Her hair brushes my skin. Our fingers entwine as bodies move over each other. Passion and abandon. Those deep brown eyes close, head tilted. My tongue tastes her sweat, the smooth curve of her neck. Her pulse beats fast against my lips. Soft, so soft silk caress. Arcane expressions of voice shut off by the music. The rhythm of our dance quickens. The cinnamon and spice, whiskey and the pure animal scent of her. Glistening, aching flesh slides across golden flesh. We fall into each other. For the moment, mumbled sounds mean so much more than even the most sincere promises.
She presses her body hard against mine. We sink back into the deep cushions of the couch. Her hips slow as we kiss again. My fingers trace the swirling tattoo along the curve of her stomach, down her inner thigh. Her lips brush my neck, sending shivers along abused nerves.
Body aching from the sensations, my lips find hers as we climax. Fall tangled to the floor. She lands on top of me. Fluid muscles and golden skin. Arms wrap tight around each other. Sweat drips onto my face. She leans into me and our mouths meet for an eternal kiss.
We stand. Her legs wrapped around my hips, moving to the rhythm of the song dripping into the steaming room. The moon rises over the silent, black and white city outside. Cold held back by our willingness to suspend time and make space in this world only for each other.
The sun rises feeble through the winter haze. I open my eyes and watch her watching me for a moment.
"Bem dia, bemamado. Obrigata." Her voice heavy with sleep.
"I love you." I reach for a cigarette and pass her one. The sun slants through the half-closed blinds. The room looks too normal, almost uncomfortable.
"We better go." Re says, sitting up, back to me. She pulls her hair to one side of her neck, running her fingers through it.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. I throw on clothes and turn to embrace her. "Thank you." My voice almost breaks. She smiles that beautiful smile and kisses me softly. I follow her out, catching a taxi across town.
"Don't say goodbye," she says softly.
"Have to. Otherwise there's no next time."
"Meeting again will be sweeter."
"Yes, it will."
"Dancer wild, meu americano."
"Espirito rebelde, Beautiful Re...beautiful amada."
She pulls her overcoat tight around her, "Ciao."
The taxi door closes and pulls away, disappearing into the snow and the fog. It feels odd to be alone again. But, whether moments or lifetimes, spirits that are meant to be together will find one another. The threads of a double helix. Perhaps.
©2003 by Chris Tolian
