Flights

BELLY DANCE

After the food the waiter hurriedly brought me a coffee, then retreated into the back of the room, behind the counter; he would watch, as well.

We lowered our voices because we were forced to do so, because the lights went out softly, and in between the tables came the young woman I had seen a few minutes earlier smoking a cigarette outside. Now she stood among the seated people and shook her loose black hair. Her eyes were heavily painted; her fitted top, embroidered with sequins around her breasts, shimmering brightly, all the colours at once, would have pleased any child, any girl. The bracelets on her arms clanged and clattered. Her long skirt flowed down from her hips to her bare feet. A very pretty girl, her teeth shone an impossible white, her eyes casting intrepid glances under which it was impossible to sit still: you wanted to move, stand up, smoke. The woman was dancing to the rhythm of the drums as her hips showed off, challenging to a duel anyone who might so much as dream of underestimating their power.

Finally a guy responded to this call and boldly ventured up to dance; he was a tourist, wearing shorts, not particularly suited to her sequins, but he was trying, shaking his hips excitedly, while his friends at his table stomped and whistled. And now two young girls set forth to dance; in jeans, thin as rails.

This dance in our cheap pub was holy. That was how we felt about it – I and my companion, another woman.

When the lights came back on we discovered our eyes were filled with tears, and that we were rushing to wipe our eyes with napkins, embarrassed. Men – worked up into a kind of frenzy – made fun of us. But I was certain that our being moved by this dance was a quicker route to grasping it than the men’s excitement.