Outside the restroom again, Clyde was back at his stool at the bar, casting a look
around the orange lit room, which, compared to the main floor, was intensely
bright. But Zo Sasaki hadn’t yet returned. It was obvious why he was so jumpy. The
‘orange room’ was quieter than the main club. The other people scattered about
here didn’t seem as interested in dancing, but chatting quietly at the booths
with drinks, more like a café interior. It was easier to be spotted or
overheard. That was great for an eavesdropper, but bad for him; he didn’t plan
on loitering and botching his own scheme.
“HERE’S HOW
WE’LL GO ABOUT IT,” he said to me, sitting in the breast pocket of his shirt. “I’M
HEADED UP TO THE NEXT FLOOR TO LOCATE HER,” he pointed his arm up at the railed
balcony overlooking the central dancefloor, “WHILE YOU WAIT HERE. WHEN SHE’S
FINISHED OUT THERE, I’LL GIVE YOU THE SIGNAL. THEN YOU BECOME OPERATIVE.”
He snatched me up and put me down on the polished bar tabletop. Then checked
his wristwatch.
“YOU
SHOULDN’T NEED MORE THAN AN HOUR, AND I’LL COME BACK FOR YOU HERE.”
The bartender,
a young dark-skinned woman, turned briefly and flashed Clyde a sidelong smile.
“HI CLYDE,”
she said.
“I WAS
NEVER HERE,” he said coolly, keeping his eyes on the dance floor. Then he rose
and began to cross the room, and down the couple of lit stairs back out to the
central floor.
My stomach
screwed up with nerves as I watched him get further away, until eventually he
was swallowed up by the flashing darkness and crowd. I didn’t have to do this; I could just ring Raf and
–
But my
phone was gone. It must have been at the bottom of Clyde’s pocket. Oh damn,
looked like I was stuck in the orange room for the next hour, regardless.
The
bartender was sending me curious glances When I caught her eye, she continued
to watch me levelly, and then carried on wiping the table down.
“AMANDINE,”
she said, pronouncing it the French way, ‘Ahmon-dee’ – “WHO MIGHT YOU BE?”
Her
politeness veiled whether she actually recognized me or not.
“Jerry.”
“AND WHAT’S
THE LATEST DISPATCH WHERE YOU’RE FROM, JERRY?”
“Uh…long
night.”
Picking up
my tone of voice, she said:
“YOU’RE TOO
PURE FOR THIS PLACE, ANGEL.” She gave a casual shrug. “ALL CUT AND THRUST HERE.
DOESN’T SLOW DOWN FOR ANYONE.”
I frowned.
“I might be
tougher than you think,” I said trying to flex my biceps without it looking
deliberate.
Leaving
this unremarked, she gave me another smooth, polite smile, and said:
“CAN I ASK:
WHAT BRINGS YOU TO A DANCE CLUB IF NOT FOR DANCING?”
“How do you
know I don’t dance?”
Someone
waved in my peripheral vision. My eyes flicked up to the second balcony
railing, which Clyde was now leaning against, surveying the crowd below. He
wasn’t looking at me, or reacting to anything in particular. It must have been
someone else waving for their friend. The entrance into the orange room was
clear, no sign of Zo.
I looked
back at Amandine.
“DEPENDS…DON’T
OR CAN’T?”
“Okay. Both.”
She just
smiled as if to say ‘I was right,’ and turned back to the bar. My eyes were
magnetically drawn back up to the balcony, where Clyde had his forearms folded
loosely over the rail.
“IT’S HOW
YOU HOLD YOURSELF,” Amandine finally explained, giving me a sidelong glance. “YOU’RE
TENSE…” She cocked her head slightly at me, as if hating to be honest, “…JUST A
LITTLE BIT.”
“You take
dance lessons?” I said with interest.
“I’M ONE
HALF OF STUDIO MANAGEMENT,” she corrected.
I turned from
the entrance of the orange room to face her with interest.
“Are you
running classes right now?”
She looked
away.
“POSSIBLY…”
"How
do I join up?" I said, thinking of matching Jen's lessons.
She paused,
her brow drawing together.
"OH...NO,
SWEETIE."
"Why
not?"
“WE’RE ALL
BOOKED OUT," she said hastily.
"Oh...What
about next season?"
She cleared
her throat.
"SOME
FAST-PACED STUFF WE GOT GOING ON." Shuffling on her feet a moment, she
finally turned to look at me. "SOMEONE YOUR STATURE MIGHT...FIND IT A
LITTLE TOUGH GOING..."
"I'm
fit," I said, making a show of flexing my chest and rolling my shoulders.
"More than I've ever been in my life."
She gave me
another askance look as if waiting for me to laugh and play the whole thing off
like a joke. When I said nothing, she said quietly:
"I'VE
GOTTA INSIST ON A HEIGHT CUTOFF…HEALTH AND SAFETY LAWS. I DON'T WANT THAT
LIABILITY ON MY BACK."
Putting my
hands on my hips and bowing my head, I turned back to look at the balcony for a
long while. Clyde remained at the railing, watching the crowds somewhat
boredly. Meanwhile, a couple of people materialized out from the darkness of
the main dancefloor, into the sharp illumination of the orange room. No show
from Zo.
Then it
occurred to me: when she re-entered she might come up to the bar for a drink. The
foot traffic in the orange room was pretty light right now; there was no one for
me to hide behind.
“I should
be on the floor,” I mumbled, accidentally saying it out loud.
Amandine
hesitated, seeming to think I was headed to the dance floor to start dancing.
“WHY DON’T
YOU STAY BACK AND MAYBE I’LL COACH YOU A LITTLE,” she offered.
“Okay,” I
said, shuffling around on my feet with unspent energy.
She put a
bar towel aside and evaluated me.
“WHAT DO
YOU ALREADY KNOW?”
Not knowing
what she meant, I tried to mimic some moves I’d seen out on the dance floor
earlier.
“MM, NO.”
She immediately shook her head. “NO DANCING. STOP THE DANCING. YOU’RE TRYING
TOO HARD. START IT SIMPLE. MOVE TO THE BEAT. WALK TO THE BEAT. TIME IT. WALK
WITH ME—”
She began
walking in a popping, gliding, shuffling way. I watched enviously. She wasn’t
even dancing, she was just walking, but doing it in a dancing way.
I tried to
do what she was doing, slowing my movements down.
As if
forgetting I was there, she was murmuring the song lyrics to the club music,
adding her own little vocal flourishes. Her voice was smooth; she’d obviously
had vocal training. I stopped, getting distracted by her singing, then started
into walking again, remembering I was supposed to be watching her dance, not
listen to her sing.
She turned
to see I’d stopped moving.
“NOT AS
EASY AS IT LOOKS…” she said coolly. “PICK IT UP. COME ON, WALK, TIME IT …” her
voice transitioned into a murmuring song again.
I tried to
mimic her with my eyes closed, trying not to be so self-conscious. If a stunt
coordinator directed me to jump from a burning building I could probably do it,
yet I couldn’t dance in front of a stranger. Not even dance; walk.
She was
laughing now. I opened my eyes to find she’d stopped moving and was just
standing watching me.
“WHAT ABOUT
THIS…?”
She
transitioned from glide into a series of popping and locking crump moves, and
then back again, accented with some Bollywood-esque flourishes.
“That’s too
fast,” I said. “I need formal instruction.”
She shook
her head.
“NO ONE
HERE IS SHOWING OFF WHAT THEY LEARNED IN DANCE SCHOOL. THEY’RE JUST JAMMING. THERE’S
ONLY TWO THINGS YOU NEED: THE ABILITY TO KEEP TO THE BEAT. AND CONFIDENCE. AND
THAT’S ALL THERE IS TO IT. NOW SHOW ME THE MOVES.”
“I can do a
standing backflip,” I shrugged, shuffling my feet awkwardly.
“THAT’LL HELP
FOR LATER,” she conceded. “AND YOU’RE FLEXING GOOD. JUST WATCH AND PRACTICE.
PRACTICE UNTIL YOU STOP THINKING IT. WHEN YOU FORGET THAT YOU’RE DANCING,
THAT’S WHEN THE DANCING WILL HAPPEN.”
With a tight,
impassive smile she added:
“…AT HOME. THE FLOOR’S TOO CRAZY HERE.”
The Orange room was practically empty.
"Crazy? There's only one other person in here."
She fixed me with a look
."ONE IS TOO MUCH FOR YOU. AND DON'T YOU DARE GO OUT THERE--" she nodded out to the central floor, "--UNLESS YOU WANNA GET FLATTENED BY A PARADE OF SHOES. THEN I'LL BE THE ONE SCRAPING YOU OFF THE FLOOR BEFORE CLOSING TIME."
I sighed, bowing my
head.
“Fine. Thank you,
Amandine...for showing me that stuff.”
“OH, NOW
WE’RE CUTE,” she said smoothly. “BUT YOU SAID YOU WERE TOUGH. GIVE ME SOME
ATTITUDE.”
“Um…” Lost
for words I started flexing my arms again.
She leaned
over the bar and swatted one of my raised fists with one finger.
“AND WHO
ARE YOU GOING TO BEAT DOWN WITH THOSE LITTLE MITTENS?”
On impulse,
I tried to channel Jennifer and send a high karate kick into her palm. With
perfect reflexes, the slender fingers caught my ankle mid kick, I trembled on
my standing leg for a moment before she let go.
“YOU’RE
ADORABLE,” she chuckled, poking a finger under my armpit to tickle me before lifting
her upper body off the bar again, “AND NEXT TIME, IT’S MANDI.”
A woman’s
voice came from across the room:
“WHAT HAVE
YOU BEEN TEACHING HIM, EM?”
Another
dark-skinned woman came over, looking from Mandi to me. “HE’S GOING HARD.”
“RIGHT?”
exclaimed Mandi, “HE’S MY NEW CREW MEMBER. GOING TO BE BACKUP DANCING IN MY NEW
MUSIC VIDEO.”
They both
laughed.
“I’M LIANA,”
the woman said, traipsing over to the bar, and, standing in front of me,
brought a fingertip down to nudge around my head with uninhibited curiosity and
affection.
“YOU ARE
THE DAMN CUTEST LITTLE THING,” she chuckled. “AFTER SHE’S FINISHED WITH YOU, YOU
ARE GOING STRAIGHT INTO MY CARRY AND I’M GOING TO HIT THE FLOOR WITH YOU.”
Mandi’s
face went flat.
“NO, LIA.”
“NOT ON THE FLOOR,” Liana amended, turning
away from me to face Mandi. “HE’LL BOUNCE AROUND MY TOES. I’LL KEEP HIM ON A
SHORT CHAIN.”
Amandine
blinked with incredulity.
“HE’S TOO
SMALL—”
“WE’LL BACK
UP, GET A CIRCLE HAPPENING—”
“IT’S
DANGEROUS—”
“WHY ARE
YOU SCHOOLING HIM IF HE CAN’T USE IT—”
As the women
continued to debate their voices were muffled by a rumble of talk and activity
as a large group of people swept into the bar space. Mandi swished away to prep
for incoming drink orders. The group drifted apart, some of them fronting up to
the bar, others drifting around the room for empty booths. Amongst the crowd, a
flash of striped shoes made me start.
I’d missed
Clyde’s signal and now Zo was back in the orange room. My heart thudding, I
leapt down from the bar, onto the padded seat of one of the stools, and slid
down one of its four legs like a pole until my feet hit the resin floor, shiny
like a bowling bowl. The people pressed up to the bar were busy debating drink
selections and hadn’t noticed me.
A metal footrest rail ran around the bottom of the brick bar
curb to a sharp corner at the opposite side, in the direction Zo had gone. A
new song had started pumping in from the main floor, making voices indistinct;
tones and buzzes. The air was clammy at head height but on the floor there was
a sweeping, sucking cold draught that ran straight into my shivering flesh.
Now I had to rely on my own two legs. Past the brick bar,
the floor seemed to expand out everywhere; it was virtually all that could be
seen, apart from huge blocks that were the dark chairs, and poles that were
table legs. The low music thumped through the floor, through the soles of my
shoes, as I weaved amidst dim patches, avoiding areas of intense orange light,
dashing under cover of huge wooden benches as I went.
With the influx of people the space turned into something
like a tourist attraction, a crowd of foot traffic flashing past the orange
globes of light. The air danced with sounds; chanting, crackling voices,
piercing clinks and clanks of bottles and glasses, combining in a thundercloud
of noise to my delicate hearing.
The room was filling up with towering legs; in motion and
pressed against wooden chair frames.
Between the tables and chairs, enormous pairs of shoes
vaulted through the air, thumping the ground in front of me and launching off
again past me. As shoes swung through space, they tilted, exposing me overhead
to unnatural glimpses of soles and worn off treads caked with clumps of dirt, a
mashed, dirt-stained wad of chewing gum, wet grass, trampled foot particles,
some dry and others shining with moisture. My pulse clapped on as half undone
laces cracked against the hard flooring and flew out past my face like whips,
connected to sneakers with soles so dirt-stained they were like black railroad
tracks.
The floor was alive with bizarre obstacles; a challenge I
was intent on mastering: the
Kolade and the dancing practice had my nervous system jittering and this
espionage mission struck me as the perfect outlet for all that nervous energy. I
was keen to impress Clyde with a bounty of classified information only I was
capable of obtaining, slipping in and out like a ghost. No one else in this
club had that superpower: it made my ego surge.
“OH—!”
Someone
gasped in surprise and I thought I’d been spotted.
As if dumped from a tank, a thick spout of chilled runoff
slapped onto my head, nearly driving me down to the ground. It seemed to be
water. Drenched and staggering, I leapt back under the bench, right before
glass exploded into glittering pebbles against the floor. I dove onto the
ground, pulling the hood of my jacket over my head before any of the shrapnel
struck me.
“OOPS, MY
BAD,” a voice said – but not to me – amidst gasps and laughter.
Out from the tables and chairs, I ran, swerving blindly to
avoid the shoes that slapped down on almost every side; attached to
mind-bogglingly long legs that pistoned up and down. My comparatively tiny legs
jolted to a halt as a giant sneaker slammed down inches from my face and – my
heart skipping – launched up into the air again and then out of nowhere–
Whap
—one of the thick white cords of the shoelaces snaked out
and slapped me square in the face as it flew by. My hand shot up to my cheek as
tears blurred my eyes. An instant later pain registered up through my nose and
seemingly into my brain.
I stood stunned, rhythmic quakes getting nearer by the
second. Then, from the side, a series of bone-shaking clops. I turned to see
what looked like a fleshy mocha missile, wrapped in black leather straps with a
fierce pointed tip delivering a set of bulb-tipped toes through the air –
straight for me. I didn’t even know open-toed heels could have sharp points –
until I saw this one zooming for my face.
My scream was immediately cut off as the pointed tip clapped
onto the ground once more, lifted, and as it swung forward and up, it hooked up
under my jaw, lifting my feet from the floor.
For one loathsome instant, the tip of the clammy mocha bulb
that was the big toe slipped forward along the shoe sole and jammed against my
face with the suffocating intimacy of a French kiss suffused with foot odor.
Next second the foot’s breath-taking momentum had unloosened
me and I was cartwheeling through the air.
The ground slapped my cheek and I bounced and rolled over
polished patterned tile. Meanwhile, the shoe was rapidly tapping away over the
floor.
From way above, a woman hissed with irritation.
“OH, EWW…”
“WHAT’S WRONG?” came a male voice.
“I NEARLY STEPPED IN SOME TRASH ON THE GROUND,” the woman
muttered as her heels clapped away. “SOMETHING TOUCHED MY FOOT, AND IT WAS DAMP
AND GROSS AND SQUISHY...”
Their clamorous voices just added to the swell of din,
combining with the clapping pain in the bony plate of my brow and ridges of my
eye sockets, which oddly felt like a tiny high heel was stamping on my face
over and over. The woman’s toe had also been damp, and judging from the briny
sting in my eyes, it was not from water spillage, but her sweat.
I stopped at a dark patch on the floor, thinking it would
conceal me, but this was a mistake. Now a shadow was dropping; the expanding
sole of a shoe, deepening to black as it collapsed over me –
—but at the last second – with an inhalation of surprise
from above – the stretched black cello shape of the shoe’s bottom gave itself a
small boost, a last ditch attempt to clear the dim shape I cast on the floor. And
almost did; everything – toe and arch – connected with the floor with a
nerve-rattling crash, but the hard rubbery back edge of the sole caught the
very top of my head, dragging me down to the floor and keeping me pinned
beneath the rapidly shifting giant’s mass.
The giant’s weight tilted towards their toes, as they did
their best to avoid me – to avoid smushing the crown of my head to their treads
like gum. But for an agonizing second the person’s heel was balanced there,
fighting against my skull for dominance. Then the weight lifted and the shoes,
and person, were gone again.
Pain ringed the crown of my head. I groaned up at the
ceiling, where the orange lights were becoming unfocused.
More thudding rapidly approaching –
No time to catch my breath. At the urgency of my racing
heart, I jumped up again and pumped my legs, slipping and skidding wetly over
the shiny floor until I reached my destination, between pairs of shoes, the
underside of a table rolled over my head and I was draped in shadow.
I was aching and panting for breath, but also deep into the
espionage now, it would waste the risks I’d taken so far to leave now without
something to show for it.