qui vive
“I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent, distant and full of sorrow as though you had died. One word then, one smile is enough. And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.”
A piano is in the corner. Grand. Waxed to shine. A chocolate brown with bright white keys divided by a black stripe. A crystal vase with red roses on its top. The thorns have been sheared from the stem. If you ran your palm down the length of its stalk, your fingers would not be cut.
The removal distresses the beauty. What is it to love without a bit of pain?
Once the music begins, keys struck by an absconded youth—the slant obscures their face—the notes dictate that it’s time to take line with the others along the wall. Paired off, the circle moves counterclockwise. That should have been the first clue; evil used to repel evil.
Four are in front and set the pace; step, slide, run, sweep, roll up, repeat. The girl is positioned across from a girl wearing all white. A dress that waves like clouds and smells like daylilies. The movement is fast and the girl’s ears ring with the clash of piano. She'd worn dark tights and a loose black tank. The girl has no scent, like the Calla Lily. Black star.
When it’s the girl's turn to slide, she feels her knees split with the tile. As the dance mutates, red blotches appear on the floor. The music stops. A woman in a long white robe with black hair and eyes strides to the eye of the circle.
You’re bleeding, the woman says to the girl. Pull up your pants. Let me see your legs.
The girl hesitates.
What are you waiting for? You’re holding up the line; here, the woman takes the girl's wrist, you move over by the piano. Allow the others space to dance.
The woman gestures at the young girl in white. Get a wet cloth and clear the blood. Keep going, don’t stop on her account.
Seated under the piano, the girl sees the pianist's face. It reveals nothing.
Let’s see, roll up your pants. You’re bleeding. You cannot join us. You must go.
Why? Can I not clean up and stay?
No. This is a bad sign. You should have prepared yourself more carefully. You didn’t dress accordingly, either?
The girl shakes her head; I’ve no white.
The woman gestures with her hands and shakes her shiny black hair.
You must go. You are too dark, and you are leaving the spots. It will stain the white dresses of the others. Please. Go now. Wash your cut with cold water and go.
The girl props her barefoot on the sink in the washroom and uses a palm to rub the dried blood from her shins. The water feels like her tears, impersonal.
One of the dancers enters the restroom with her hands in front of her waist. Her palms are cupped around something like she’s carrying a baby bird. The dancer stands behind the girl and watches her from the mirror. The girl stares back.
I’ve brought you something, the dancer says, stepping a little closer. Do you want it?
I don’t know what it is.
Here, the girl dancer spreads her palms and the girl peers into the shallow crevasse. The dancer spills her palms of petals. Round, red leaves scented for the rose.
Wet these and place them over the cut. Don’t rub them; it will lose the scent. It’s The petals are antiseptic and anti-inflammatory. They also strengthen the heart. It will help treat your wound.
As the dancer lingers on the last word, she lifts her eyes from the knee to meet the girl’s gaze.
My heart is fine—the girl tries to say.
She sobs.
The dancer places the petals on the sink's rim and walks out in long strides that boast elegance. Precision and control are not the same.
Running water inspires tears. The girl layers the flower over her leg and leaves her black tights rolled up to the thigh. Walking out of the toilet, she passes through the hall that lends a view of the dance room. The white dresses billow out like the fleshy rose blossoms. Each dancer bows their head and submits to the woman with the dark shiny hair.
The woman’s face is a raven from the angle where the girl stands. Beetles and ants fly from her mouth. Mud oozes from the wall behind her. The music has stopped; the petal-less rose stalks stand limply in the crystal vase. The pianist is bowed over the ivory keys, hands in a lap.
The dancers fold themselves before the Dark Woman. Cobwebs smear her white dress. Her hands extend and spread ash onto the backs and shoulders of prostrated young women.
You must kneel before me to ascend, the Dark Woman croons. Her whisper is like stretching metal, the sound of a collision. The girl, hidden from view, watches as the Dark Woman procures a small wooden box full of crystal vials. Each vial stands erect beside a needle capped with a sparkling blue jewel. The woman carries the box to one of the dancers at the far edge and sets it down on the floor. She draws a long blue elastic and one needle from the box and taps the first dancer on the shoulder. The girl sits up, eyes cast downwards, and presents her arm. The elastic is tied tight to the upper arm to tease a vein. Uncapping the needle, the Dark Woman slips the end into the girl's bicep and draws a full syringe of blood.
Once the syringe was full, the woman inserted the tip of the needle into the cork of the vial and emptied the syringe into its glass. She recapped the needle, set it in the lid of the box, untied the elastic band, and tapped the girl twice on the shoulder to let her know she was to bow again. Forehead on the floor, palms down.
The ritual was repeated eight more times, once for each woman in the line.
Before the Dark Woman rose from her last patient, the girl softly strode toward the exit, careful to walk along the outer edge of her foot. Quiet, without heel strike.
Under the sun’s light, the girl considers her luck. The movement was the arousal, the young dancers frothy and battered like a luscious frosted cake. Ritualized sacrifice; the heart sings from a ruinous cage.
Devotion must be offered, never extracted through force or fear.
Photo source.
