Dancing

Last day of shooting, and I was ready to melt in a puddle. Why, or why, did they have to put so much pressure on my shoulders ?

Pride and terror disputed the place in my mind, my heart ready to burst forth. Damn… The squeezing was starting to close in, and I wondered how long I would last before I eventually lost it. Unfortunately, I’d never been able to pass out before. Meaning I would have to stay conscious in my whole humiliation.

— “And roll !”

The music picked up again, and I tried to align my feet with my arms. One, two, three and four and turn. My hair danced about my face, hitting my lower back as I congratulated myself. I had not screwed up … yet. Why the choreographers had chosen me to replace a missing lady, this very morning, to perform in the dance, I didn’t know. I looked the part, they just said. Probably something to do with my undyed hair. Natural long hair was so scarce nowadays. I was thrilled, of course. And terrified at the same time, because I could learn easily long term things, but short term memory was another story. And coordination of arms and legs… uh oh !

— “And cut !”

There were angry whispers all around, choreographers shaking their heads, and the director told us, in no minced words, that our performance was a jumbled mess. The man passed in ranks, sending acerb comments to all of us who would have our names listed as ‘dancing lady 1’, ‘dancing guy 2’ and so on. The hard life of being a figurative in a movie. But hey, it was a lot of fun. And it made a little money as well. But I wasn’t here for this. It was all just a bet with my cousin, a cinephile to heart, who’s warned me a famous director had decided to roll less than three minutes from my place. Medieval, at that ! You need to go. So I did, and had no regrets about it; I owed her big time. Especially since I’d met this famous guy yesterday; Tristan Kristiansen. I had not realized that before I went home, else I would have freaked out.

Speaking of the devil… I think I saw a flash of blondish hair somewhere watching us perform… then a finger appeared right before my nose, and I could only stare, dumbfounded, as the choregrapher looked me down his nose. Easy, as he towered over me with his six feet something.

— “And you ! You missed the tempo, young lady. 1, 2, 3 and 4, that’s not so difficult ! And get those shoulders down”

Gaping, I could only watch as he disappeared to yell at someone else. Damn, talk about pressure. It reminded me of the last days before a performance in my theatre years when the nice lady who taught us turned into a dragon. Pressure, uh ? I bit my lip, rather spooked; this man was right, and I needed to master this piece rather swiftly.

A set of warm hands landed on my shoulders, and I surprised myself by not starting when I should have whirled around angrily. It was a nice, comforting touch, nothing forceful, neither misplaced.

— “You’re too tense, my lady”, came a smooth voice.

I turned around, gracing the newcomer with a smile – I had to admit that the oldish speech gave me goosbumps. Well, two could play this game, albeit he only wore a shirt and a pair of jeans.

— “I know who you are now, sir Tristan”

The man gave me a dazzling smile, so genuine that I couldn’t help responding. All right, I might have missed how good looking he was the first time we met, especially as I dragged him across town and all. But I wasn’t one to linger on physical attributes; what dwelt inside someone held so much more interest. And he was married, hence the disinterest. Still… his radiant smile left me stunned for a moment.

— “And I still ignore your name. Will you leave me in the dark, chasing after shadows ?”

His outburst of poetry sent me into fits of giggles, and soon we were both laughing. Then he bent a little closer to me, and his scent enveloped me entirely. My heart skipped a bit while my mind blanked.

— “Your lead is rather bad, but I can’t say that out loud.”

An unladylike snort escaped my lips and I set a hand over my mouth, widening my eyes in a mock disapproving look. Tristan just grinned, and I wondered when this foreigner had become someone I trusted so easily. After all, I could only approve of not criticizing another onlooker in public; my lead dancer was probably as terrified as I was.

— “I need to learn this properly”, I eventually said.

— “I asked for lunch break. They’ll reshoot at 2.30. You’re not the only one having trouble, so the group will meet again at 2 to reconvene.”

Wait, what was his part in this movie again ? That’s something I had quite forgotten to ask. The nagging feeling didn’t prevent relief from washing over me. Phew. A break ! So I bounced around without thinking, too eager to escape the great hall.

— “Thank God. Well no, Thank you. I think you saved my life for a second time”.

— “Good. You will owe me your firstborn.”

His retort as so out of place that I laughed again. Then I performed a curtsy, and presented myself.

— “I am lady Frances, dear sir. And pleased to make your acquaintance”

Tristan bowed slightly.

— “And I sir Tristan, at your service my lady”

And as the groups disbanded around us, he offered his arm to drag me outside. An ancient gesture that didn’t seem so out of place in this context. And despite his very modern attire, I didn’t think twice before linking my arm over his elbow. I should have been nervous - this guys was famous ! - but I felt the tension ebbing away. We fell in companionable silence as we navigated cameras and people until we emerged in the scorching sun of late June. By then, I realized people were staring so I let go of Tristan’s arm.

— “So”, he said. “If you want to learn that dance you need some place where you feel safe. And a proper lead, right ?”

— “Well. That makes sense. I got just the place. You wouldn’t happen to know someone who can lead ?”

Tristan seemed to ponder my question for a moment, his undefinable eyes set on my innocent ones. Then he shrugged.

— “I can lead you, I helped my wife write that dance.”

My eyes widened slightly. Wow. His wife wrote it ? She must be a talented choreographer, because it certainly looked neat. One more reason to perform it properly. Wait… wait, did he offer himself ?

— “You mean … teach me?”

— “Yes.”

My cheeks reddened suddenly and I shuffled on my feet, but Tristan would have none of this shyness peeking through as he tugged at my sleeve. Suddenly, I felt stupid for feeling intimidated. Yes, this man was a wicked good actor, co producer and seemingly a dancer. But he was so approachable that I shouldn’t hold it against him and start drooling or stuttering.

— “I’ll be easy. But I need food. And I mean, simple food. I’m fed up with protocol and I don’t want to eat in this 5 stars hotel anymore”

I bit my lip, wondering if the idea that had just popped into my mind was as crazy as it seemed to be.

— “You want a laidback place to relax, eat and practice ?”, I asked.

— “Exactly”

Well. I knew of the perfect place; the only issue could be the locals.

— “I know just the right spot but…”

— “What ?”

I pursed my lips, then decided to go for it.

— “Home. This is just the place. My mom’s cooking. There’s this great oak in the garden, and flat grass. A very soothing environment”

His eyebrows rose high, and I realized they were but a faint outline of blondish hairs. How peculiar. With his high cheekbones, they gave him an unreadable air… expect for his eyes which displayed an array of emotions. Surprise, most of all. Consideration as well, and a pang of sadness.

— “Think I can tag along ?”

There was uncertainty in his tone, as if he wondered what such an invitation could entail. I rushed to reassure him.

— “Of course. My parents welcome anyone that is crazy enough to pass the front gate. Feel free”

My dismissal of any kind of expectation seemed to do the trick. Tristan seemed rather curious of the culture, after all.

— “Let’s do it, then. Lunch in a French home, ah !”

A beaming smile found its way over my lips, and I struggled to restrain my enthusiasm. If Tristan, the famous Swedish Actor, wanted a piece of French culture he wouldn’t be disappointed. So I started to walk to my car, parked on the square, inviting him to follow.

— “Don’t get your hopes up. My mom is a decent cook, but no five star chef”

— “That’s the spirit”

— “But it’s the beginning of the season, so be ready for a massive amount of garden stuff. Salad, tomatoes, French bean”

I watched left and right before crossing the street, my longs strides matched easily by the man by my side; Tristan was easily a head taller than me. A car stopped to let us cross and I started to giggle when the driver paused to stare. My companion gave me a funny look.

— “What ?”, he asked.

— “It’s funny how I gather the weird looks. You’re the famous one, but nobody gives a damn because I gallivant around in a medieval dress”

He chuckled, then fished a cigarette out of his pocket.

— “Well, the dress and the hair, you’re quite credible when it comes to medieval. Have you ever cut it ?”

— “Once, I was eleven. I hated it. Never did it again.”

Digging the keys out of my purse, I unlocked the little Clio I had borrowed from my parents. It was damn hot inside, and I opened the doors wide to give us a chance to breathe before sinking in the egglike car. And I wanted Tristan to get a chance to get his smoke.

— “Neat.”, he said, pointing to the rounded vehicle. “Is that yours ?”

— “No. Mine is in Paris. I took the train down, so borrowed it from my parents”

— “They seem quite accommodating”

Accommodating. That was a possible description of the strange dynamics of our family. When you got a son calling you by surprise, stating that he was ‘close’ because in Madrid rather than in Mexico, and planning an unexpected visit, your learnt to be accommodating.

— “They’ve learnt to be flexible, especially with my older brother. But yes. We are quite a communist type family. I’ve got the codes for their bank account, they have mine. If they come to Paris, they take my car. And sometimes even, my mother borrows my jacket or my shoes. It works for us.”

Tristan nodded, crushing his cigarette on the ground in the meantime before we climbed in the car.

— “It’s nice to be so unconcerned by money”

— “Yes. Saves a lot of trouble.”

Starting the car, I navigated us around the square, them climbed the narrow street that would lead us into the countryside. It was just a short ride, 2km, once I had done numerous time by car, bike or even on foot on special occasions. It was then that a major information hit me.

— “Oh ! Oh. By the way, they don’t speak English much”

Tristan didn’t seem to care much, for he answered seriously.

— “Je parle un peu français” (I can speak a little french)

I almost spluttered then. Damn ! His accent was good for a foreigner. I couldn’t believe it !

— “Why didn’t I know that?”, I almost choked.

— “Because we’ve met yesterday?”

His deadpan expression almost caused me to loose it, but the reality of his statement hit a nerve in my brain.

— “Right. It is weird.”

— “What do you mean ?”

I could hear the frown in his voice without even turning, an edge of sorts.

— “I don’t know. I feel like I’ve known you much longer than that. I…”

I paused, my eyes stubbornly remaining on the road. Not that I needed it.

— “Yes ?”, he coaxed.

In this moment, I realized how smooth his voice was. And that if he ordered me to jump from a cliff, I might even do so without a second thought. Magnetic man.

— “I trust you. And I don’t trust easily”

— “Probably because I’m not trying to get into your pants”

The thought took its time to run through my mind. Yes. From the moment I met him, he had been a perfect gentleman. Given that I always found a way to speak of my boyfriend to strangers in the first three minutes of a conversation – a way to protect myself from unwanted attention – I realized I had only brushed the subject with him. Perhaps because we were only acquaintances destined to never meet again. Perhaps because of our age gap – I had assumed he was married and happy with children and such.

I eventually gathered the courage to take a peek at him. Tristan gazed at me, a lopsided smile quirking the corner of his lips. There was something more to our dynamic, some kind of implicit trust. But still. It made sense.

— “Fair point.” I conceded.