The Speed of Sadness

THE SPEED OF SADNESS

PROLOGUE 

A woman stood  alongside a newly dug  grave.  She bent down and put down a small bunch of flowers at the headstone.

A woman and her daughter emerged from the Church  entrance.

 ‘Who is that standing at Dad’s grave?’

‘I have no idea.’

The woman blew a kiss at the headstone, turned and walked away. 

   Across a Dance Floor.                                        

The dancers entered the studio and took their positions facing each other.

It was Mark and Fran’s first lesson together. Fran in her mid sixties with a look of faded elegance about her. She’s made sure to look her best for the occasion.

Mark, a few years younger, for his age he scrubbed up well and stood at over six foot with pepper and salt hair. 

She’d danced before, ballroom, but this was different, the Tango.  

Mark had taken lessons for a couple of years.

Fran had been due to spend this day, her birthday, on her own. But that changed with an  early morning phone call from Mark.

They had been lovers thirty years ago. She was in a troubled marriage; there were children to consider. It didn’t work out. Wrong time. Too many complications. 

Mark had ended their second affair.  Within the year he had married. Perhaps on the rebound. In a cruel irony, Fran had been divorced soon after his marriage. Dire timing. But that was a long time ago. 

Now, their situations were reversed. 

A chance meeting many years later  had offered them an opportunity to reconnect. 

It remained platonic throughout ensuing occasional  catch ups, usually a meal or a film, followed by a period of unexpressed mutual regret about the way things had turned out those three decades ago.  It generally took a couple of days for them both to put their respective genies back in the bottle.   

So, when he telephoned her with his suggestion of a dance lesson on her birthday, while certainly unexpected, it wasn’t totally out of the blue. He’d offered her time that she didn’t need to think about his crazy idea. 

After she’d put the phone down, in a conversation with herself mixed emotions ran riot. Why now? Why dance? Why  Tango? If anything was likely to lead to…  she stopped herself from further thought on the consequences.

  Maybe she’d let herself be entertained by those thoughts another time. She knew he was still married, albeit unhappily.  On prior meets he’d made the odd comment about home life. “Not fireworks“ was the nearest he’d come to expressing how his marriage had played out.

Questions flooded Fran’s mind. What was going on now? Had he reached a tipping point? Was there another agenda? How would she feel if there was? How would she feel if there wasn’t?  

Thoughts of if there was no future, why play with her emotions ? Then chided herself, there had been an element of that in what she’d done to him in their earlier romances. 

The Tango call had been made as soon as his wife left for work one morning, he felt instantly exhilarated at Fran’s acceptance, though the deception made him feel less than virtuous.

He didn’t know quite how long he had been troubled in his marriage, it was a slow reveal and how unhappy is unhappy that pushes the situation to a dramatic change ? He asked himself, almost daily. A few of his friends seemed to be in a similar situation. 

He’d begun to think the unthinkable about leaving his wife and in a pipe-dream kind of way, maybe setting up home with Fran. If she wanted that of course. But the huge turmoil, hurt and potential implications were too much to dwell on.

So just becoming dance partners and perhaps the odd Milonga would quell feelings of loneliness. Something to look forward to and escape the humdrum, if she was ok with that scenario. 

He imagined the combination of the music of the Tango and the embrace and dance with Fran would be like a hit from a drug, instant gratification. Oh how he craved that. But there would be a downside, an inevitable acute withdrawal afterwards, because very simply, he still loved her. 

He’d asked himself the blunt question, “was he being fair?” and he’d known the answer before the question. Of course he did.

A clandestine arrangement with Fran was all he could offer her and give himself.  To share moments of physical intimacy and understanding, let the music take over. And the dance teacher would be there as a kind of unwitting chaperone. A chance to forget some things and remember others. A dangerous game nonetheless.

Constanza his teacher for the last two years, had gone through some basic steps with Fran in a smaller studio earlier. It was obvious she had danced before, although her lack of eye contact appeared to signal an abundance of nerves. To set her at ease, Constanza made some jokey references about Mark. They now had a little understanding between them, a girly camaraderie. She noticed Fran’s ring finger bore no sign of attachment. 

The music started. From the speakers, a riff on a Spanish guitar, introduced a low and deep mournful Latin number. Then a slash of harmonica ripping in to spice it up. With a joining motion of her arms, Constanza bade her students to begin. They moved towards each other, their eyes engaged. A smile flickered on both their faces, simultaneously giving way to wistful expressions.

Mark’s left hand went out to his side to wait for Fran’s. She brought her arm up her hand inches away. He took her right hand and held it lightly, looking at it almost like a prized possession. He increased the pressure just a little. She watched his face as he did so, an expression of perhaps relief,  a relaxation of some kind she thought.  

Then the all-important embrace. She waited for his hand around her back, before she placed her free hand on his shoulder. The close contact hastened the memories to return, she put them to the back of her mind. She needed to focus.

Constanza knew Mark well, two years of lessons from scratch, on and off.  She liked him, she sensed all was not well.  An unslain dragon. Eventually she would find out more, if not all, then some at least. Between her and the Tango she would winkle it out of him. No hiding place for those who commit to the Tango. 

She also knew Fran was not his wife. Mark’s request to bring “a friend” the next time, rather than “my wife” had explicitly laid that out. 

But his demeanour just before he’d asked had given way to a small but detectable element of trepidation.  She could write a book, over the years, she’d met so many looking for at least a brief escape from all manner of situations through dance. Mostly the Tango, she’d noted. 

She’d liked Fran instantly. Mark’s introduction of Fran was full of enthusiasm. Almost like introducing a girlfriend to his Mother for the first time. Not lost on her, she hadn’t seen him quite so animated before. Clearly either something was going on here, or it had been in the past. There was chemistry for sure. Twenty-five years teaching dance had given her an insight into people’s real feelings. 

Some students going through the motions, taking the lessons for the wrong reasons. My, how those tutoring hours dragged. The awkwardness, the occasional row when one partner couldn’t get the steps. 

Constanza watched them as they moved around the studio. What astonished her was Mark. In the many lessons she’d given him, there was always a degree of lack of fluidity. With Fran, seemingly by what she was witnessing he had no such problem. As if a fairy had sprinkled dust on him. Maybe that’s all he needed; the right partner. True of dance, true of life.

They moved around the floor easily, Mark was at his best and Fran, despite her inexperience bless her, followed him well. Constanza felt a bit teary. So beautiful to watch she thought, a couple enjoying dancing to a piece of Tango music. As it should be in fact. She watched with even more attention than normal, Mark’s eyes were closed! She felt her eyebrows raise slightly in reaction to seeing him rest his head on hers. She wasn’t exactly fighting him off either. Oh my, she thought, they’re in love!

Mark led Fran into a Salida, as he passed on her right side his thigh brushed Fran’s leg. A frisson went through them both. The music stopped.

Mark and Fran realised they’d both been carried away in the moment. Constanza ended a brief awkward silence.

 ‘Yes that was good, well done you guys.’

Later in the pub across the road Fran and Mark sat eating lunch. 

‘That was lovely Mark, but what’s going on with you?

‘Fair question. Fran, I’m…’ he stared off into space.’

‘You’re?’ she invited.

‘I feel like I’m playing a part in someone else’s life.

 ‘Anything Sophie and I do together, which isn’t much, is done in cold blood. Joyless.’

A brief silence broken by Mark:  

‘Do you want to do this again?’

She didn’t respond. She swirled her spoon in her cappuccino. He waited. She got up and headed for the Ladies.

He took a draw on his beer and waited for her return.

She stopped and ordered at the bar on the way back, in her hand a white wine. ‘

‘Let’s see how we feel after a few days Mark, I need to see this in the cold light of day. At the moment I’m, well never mind what I am. I’ll have to wait and see how I really am.’ 

‘OK. I understand. All those years ago, I used to hate you leaving and going back home and, there I was, on my own. So sure, take your time.’

Constanza, whilst waiting for her next lesson to arrive, looked out of the second floor window towards the pub and saw Mark and Fran embrace, kiss and go their separate ways.

‘I’ll ring you in a few days then Fran.’

The next morning Mark was desperate, the next day he was worse, the following day the emotions just started to subside. Fran had the same experience; she busied herself and rang friends to meet up with to occupy herself.

On the fourth day after the lesson, first thing in the morning her phone rang, “Mark’ flashed up on the display.

She grabbed the phone.

“OK let’s give it another go” were the words Mark heard as soon as she answered. 

And so they met once a fortnight for the next six months. 

After a lesson and changing their shoes in the corridor before parting one day.

Mark said: ‘I was watching a Tango video, guy in New York; he called the Tango something done.. at the speed of sadness. It was to do with the emotion you feel from understanding the lyrics and mood of the music.’

‘Well I don’t think we quite got that do you?’ she replied with a huge smile.

‘True. I don’t say I understood it entirely, but I have another spin on it. Our time together starts with an excitement at the expectation of losing ourselves in the music. The quicker we lose ourselves; go deeper as it were the faster the time goes. Until we have no time left and thats The Speed of Sadness.’

‘Yes that’s an apt phrase, the Speed of Sadness, I like it, well I don’t, but you know what I mean.’ 

Some months later Mark died suddenly, watching and listening through his headphones to his favourite Tango video. His wife saw him start to cry, but made no comment or move.  A minute later his expression changed to fear as he clutched his chest and left arm.  

 Later the following week Constanza was sat in the kitchen area sipping her coffee, news of Mark’s death had found its way to her via a mutual friend. The pre booked now vacant slot in her schedule was unfilled. 

She wished she had Fran’s number to be able to ring her, then again, perhaps she didn’t know. She chatted to the office girl Millie.

‘Looks like your old romantics as you call them have just arrived.’

‘Can't be. He died suddenly last week, a heart attack. I haven’t spoken with Fran.’

‘Swear it was her I just saw go into the loo.’

Constanza put down the coffee and ran into the Ladies. Fran was at the sink. 

Constanza froze. 

‘You ok? Mark here yet? I had messaged him earlier but got no reply.’

She could see Constanza was in some state of emotional turmoil. 

‘What’s the matter?’ Fran asked.

When she managed to calm herself enough to speak, she broke the bad news.

Fran went  home, put on the CD he’d made for her, poured a stiff drink, sat down and looked across the fields and sobbed. Fran never returned to the Tango with its emotional implications again.

THE END