Ay, de mi Lorona

Ay, de mi Llorona. 

The pencil lead scratched the grain of the paper steadily. The vault of the church should be slightly more rounded and her bitten nails pressed the pencil tight to correct the inaccuracy. She refined the perspective lines and sketched details at the top of the light-cream pillars. On the baroque clock that overlooked the empty nave from the semi-circular mezzanine, two arrows stretched with contained vanity. The tiny one pointing at 11, the other at 12. As Liz curled deeper onto the straw of her wooden chair, her chin rubbed her bare knee slowly. Goosebumps creeped along her arm and she hugged her folded leg to warm herself up – she was almost done devising tonight’s scene in the church. The guitar stopped and she laid down her pencil onto the cracked and spotted desk gently. She rose up from her chair, as if half-asleep, and walked over the small bedroom. She placed the needle back onto the vinyl and watched it vibrate and bounce as the song resumed. La Llorona, that very song and the legend of that ghost woman, was her deepest source of inspiration.

Ay, de mi Llorona.

Liz covered her bare skin with a black cashmere cardigan that she fetched from the armchair by the desk. Through the half-folded blinds, her modest furniture bathed into a greenish light that reminded of moonlight baths in Nordic forest rivers. She swayed to the side into a waltz step. She drew the right side of her cardigan open and walked slowly to her right, following an invisible circle line. Like a matador opening up with an invitation to dance. She swayed back into a waltz step and the candlelight undulating in her back amplified her moves onto the decrepit ceiling. The shadow looked taller than her. She marked the tempo of the song with a waving movement of the wrist, her fingers painting an invisible canvas in the greenish air. Her shadow did not reflect the subtlety of her hand movements on the wall – she needed a mirror. Long and tall where she could see each and every muscle of hers tensing and contracting, easing and releasing the firm pressure of a song that sounded deceitfully innocent. What seems fragile never is. Oh and mirrors never reflect the image of creatures like her.

She glided back onto her chair to finish the drawing before dawn and scratched her temple. The church, vault and clock all looked grey. Grey was meh and she wasn’t a meh person. She fetched the pine box from the windowsill and opened it with care. She unfolded a picture of Sylvie Guillem and Massimo Muro dancing their Petite Mort duet. Her eyes narrowed as she screened through their geometric bodies and beige underwear-like costumes. She still couldn’t understand why dance companies had rejected her. She looked better than those puppets and had nothing to envy them. Even that costume she had. It took her two months to find and sew the right beige fabric, but she too had that corset and those tiny shorts now. She was wearing them at that very moment. Like every night she sought inspiration. It perfectly underlined her skin-tone, her sharp musculature and, most importantly, the oval mole on her clavicle. Soon enough, people would acknowledge her virtuosity and sensitivity. Her elegance and vision. The rest was tasteless in comparison to her verve. She held her cardigan tighter to her chest while her index ran through the vials in the pine box. The triangular one should contain enough blood for today. She picked it up and fetched a brush that she slipped into her mouth and licked. She poured drops of blood onto it and splashed the grey sketch of the church with droplets. Here and there, blood suns appeared on the paper. Tonight's scene looked perfect. She painted her nails with the remains of blood on the brush and tilted her head from side to side as the guitar caressed the air with its last notes.

The porcelain was slick under her feet as she funambulated on the edge of the tub. She bit the vial open and spat its top away, pouring the remains of blood into the swirling water of the bath. She slipped in. As she folded her knees, her upper body slid under the scarlet foam. The foam rushed into her mouth as she opened it and the blood's acidity bit the depths of her throat. She liked bites. Self-bites were good too. She contracted the depths of her throat and played with the bubbles of blood that formed inside of it. Swallowed them tight. Eyes shut, she released her muscles one by one and let herself dive into lightness. Her light body lifted slowly and blooded water swirled under the curve of her spine.  

**********

“Morning Liz. Nice dress, those laces suit you very – “

Boring policeman with his boring hair from a boring suburb boring her out again. Liz locked the door of her flat without looking at him. Putting on her black sunglasses, she headed towards the hall of the building. 

“Wait, Liz. You’ve got mail!” She stopped and looked back at him. “Couple of letters actually. “ 

She snatched the batch from him. 

“I found them under the mailbox - you should add a nametag, you know. I can do it for you, if you want. Because otherwise the postman can’t, I mean, how could they-”

Bill, bill, bill again. Ad, cheesy ad, stupid ad, boring ad, letter from her dad. Again? Hm. She made a mental note to burn it down later tonight. She tucked it in her bag and went through the other envelopes, ignoring her neighbor’s monologue in her back. Nothing from Juliet. Now, that was concerning. She caressed the mole on her clavicle slowly. Was her last letter intercepted or was Juliet avoiding her? She scratched her blood-imbibed hair. Ungrateful dance students. Selfish b*tches. You give them everything and they drop you like a vulgar dancing slipper. Hm. Maybe she should ask Agnes to investigate. Agnes owed her. She owed her since Liz had asked one of her suitors to write a glowing review in his literary magazine for her crappy novel. The eddies of the singing heart – utterly embarrassing non-sensical romance piece. Agnes did owe her, yes, she did. And even more so, since Liz had never kicked her lazy incapable butt out of her dancing class. Hm. Maybe Juliet’s boyfriend had figured Liz had told her to dump him. That control freak. That sneaky guy. That microbe. Hm. Most likely, he was trying to keep Juliet away from her. Hm. Maybe she should pay them a visit herself. 

“… That’s why I was thinking that you and me sometimes, perhaps, maybe, someday, we could go for dinner. Or snack or a chocolate bar or a potato -”

Was that guy still talking? She didn’t even know his name. After three months of him volunteering to deliver her mail, since she had moved to this lost town in the middle of nowhere, she still did not know his name. Hm. Removing men from her targets’ list was the wisest decision she had ever taken - diluted and innutritious blood. She turned back slowly and stared at him. His smile flatted out. His eyebrows raised. He stepped back without saying a word. His hand sliding across the roughcast of the modest hall, he walked backwards towards the exit. She stared at him all the way and let out a sneer as he rushed out of the door.   

********

“Good morning, Madam. It’s all here in the trunk as agreed: ten costumes dry-cleaned and ironed. My mother has fixed everything that needed to be fixed. In total, that should be 200 coins.”

Liz smirked. She had never paid for dry-cleaning let alone fixing costumes. 

“I paid already. I did when I dropped the costumes last week.”

“Did you? It’s not in the –“

“Well, maybe your mum forgot to write it down.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Sure, let me see what I can do –“

“I have to meet with the Mayor in ten minutes. Be quick.”

“Oh, you're in a rush, I see. Uh –“

"Uh?"

"Sorry. Uh. Here is the trunk. I can carry it for you. Sorry for the inconvenience, it is just a mistake -"

“That's fine. How about you come tonight? 10pm at the church by Lindra park. I’ll be giving my first dance class of the season. That would make up for your mistake.” 

“I wish, but tomorrow is Halloween, and my mother -” 

“Well, not sure she can have a say when she does such a poor job.” The kid tensed up. “Forgive me, that’s not what I wanted to say. It takes courage to follow your own path and it starts with following your heart and curiosity. If you want to come tonight, you’re more than welcome.” 

When she said heart, the eyes of the girl shimmered, and Liz could tell from her curved shoulders that this girl was no dancer. Hm. She was no anything, actually. Liz pinched her lips not to laugh and reached for the Sylvie Guillem and Massimo Muro picture in her bag. She handed it to her. 

“It all starts with a first step.” Liz grabbed the trunk herself and headed out through the pearl curtain that masked the entrance of the tiny shop.

*********

“Hi, I’m Daniel, the Mayor’s assistant. His schedule changed last minute; he excuses himself. But don’t worry, I have the keys, we should be able to figure it out together.”

Hm. Nice neck. 

Daniel opened up the church and Liz stepped inside. Nice that they decided to turn the church into an art studio, and even nicer that the Mayor had granted her regular access to that space for free. 

“Hm. Can we please hide the mirrors?”

“You don’t need mirrors for your ballet class?”

“No, in the technique I teach there are no mirrors - we feel the postures. Mirrors make you rigid and insecure. It helps beginners but past a certain level, it becomes counter-productive. We, here, aim for big things, don't we?” She showed him her white teeth. 

“Sure, we must have curtains somewhere. Let me check.”

Nice back, Danny. But – no more male blood.

While Daniel rushed around, hanging and fixing the curtains perched on a rusty ladder, Liz inspected the place. She drew her sketch out of her pocket and compared the place to her design. It was actually pretty close. Only the blood drops were missing. 

“I’d better go now before the class starts.” Daniel said.

“The class?”

“It starts at 10am, doesn’t it?” 

Hm, smart and observant. 

“No, it starts at 10pm.”

“10pm? For teenagers?”

“Didn’t the Mayor tell you? He gave me his approval.”

“Did he? Ok, because the flyers say 10am and same with our timetable at the –“

“He did. You can ask.”

“That's fine, here are the keys. Hope you won’t get bored, you still have twelve hours ahead of you.” He smiled.

“I never get bored.”

*********

A timid fist knocked on the door. Liz, in her long white laced dress and black flamenco shawl thrown over her shoulders, rushed through the nave towards the entrance of the church. The crown of red roses she had tied on her head was shaking and she adjusted its node on her neck, under her heavy dark curls. She took a deep breath and leaned against the wall behind the closed door. She stretched her arm and opened the door from the inside. It creaked. Petite creatures entered, hidden underneath wet raincoats. Blue, red, yellow. Idiots. They were already ruining her design for tonight's class with naive colours - luckily she had brought along her costumes. Longer silhouettes joined in. Smaller. Seven in total. She was expecting at least ten of them. Stupid Mayor. Stupid Daniel. The steps and voices of the girls echoed in the empty space as they looked around for their teacher. Hidden behind the now open door, Liz could watch them and remain unseen. Candle lights undulated at the entrance and at the back of the dancing space, projecting the girls’ shadows onto the beige velvety curtains Daniel had brought from the back room. 

“Where's the teacher?” 

“Maybe she's a ghost? Bahh!” A girl screamed, another startled and another laughed. 

"Did you see that lighting next to the clock up there? Why would you project a red light from a beacon lamp in a church?”

“I like it. Red lighting and candles, just like the opening scene in The eddies of the singing heart – so romantic.”

“Lol, sounds terrible.”

“Girls, shh. Something is off here. That trunk over there, what for? And why would you light the church's candles - can't she buy her own? That teacher must be cheap.”

“Agree. I want to learn classy ballet not random gothic stuff.”

Each and every of those words slapped Liz’s powdered face mercilessly. Her hands were shaking. 

“Hi girls, sorry for the late.”

The group turned back to the entrance door. 

“Violet? What are you doing here? Does your mum know you're here?”

The latecomer walked up to the group in her pink raincoat with cat’s ears at the top of her hoodie. She handed a picture to one of the girls. 

“I’m here to dance too. I want to be like this woman here in beige.”

“Who gave you that?”

“The teacher. We made the costumes for her, she picked them up this morning. Look at that.”

“So, the teacher does exist. She is not a ghost?” 

“Maybe she is a pumpkin.”

The group chuckled again. Why on earth did Liz have to put up with stupid students. Why. Her jaws contracted and her cheeks fired up. Enough. She slammed the door shut and a deep bang resonated throughout the space. The pillars, scattered around, shivered from side to side. She stood still, tall in her long dress, proud in her flower crown. She placed her hands on her hips and walked towards the now quiet group of girls. They broke into a circle as she approached. She walked slowly, her dress swinging from side to side, her hands firm on her hips. Her chin up. Her eyes intense. The tailor’s daughter removed her hoodie and looked at her with a mix of fear and admiration. Good girl. Liz too looked at them. Each one of them. Rosy spots, big ears, large forehead, tiny hips, shy shoulders, fluffy arms, tiny necks, eczema, dry hair. Liz assessed it all. Of the eight dancers, only one stood out. The one who thought her scene looked cheap – what a shame. Her eyes were cold and blue. Impassible and solid. Liz, at that moment, would have loved to smash that solidity with a hockey stick.

“Glad you liked the picture, Violet, and glad to see you here.", Liz said. "Did you find what you needed for the class?” 

Violet opened her raincoat and proudly showed her dark leggings and loose tee-shirt to Liz. 

“Hm. Room for improvement. Maybe you should all check out the trunk over there.” She paused and looked at the solid girl. The girl held eye contact, undisturbed yet neutral. 

“Why are you wearing a long dress? How will we follow your moves if we can’t see them?”, she asked.

“You will see them, do not worry. I am not here to teach you soulless physical exercises. I am here to teach you how to pour everything you have into your art. Your soul, your blood. Tears, also maybe. Don't be afraid – the destination is worth the journey." She looked at each girl and back at the blue eyes. "What’s your name?” 

“Lora.”

Her hands still on her hips, Liz smiled and drew a pause before hinting at the trunk again. “Violet will show you the way.” She patted the hair of the admirative girl and gave her a manufactured smile of hers. She did well not to throw away that ridiculous duet picture this morning.

Ay, de mi Llorona. 

Liz pressed play and soft guitar notes started to float in the silent space. From the tired parquet up to the light-beige vault. Liz, hands on her hips and chin up to the sky, walked to the center of the nave, facing the podium where the altar stood, certainly, long ago. The organ and the clock overlooked her from the mezzanine – just like she had imagined. In forty minutes, it would be 11pm – now was the time for her ritual to start. Liz swayed from side to side. The girls stood in two rows of four dancers and followed her, imitating her contained motion. She rotated her chest from left to right and right to left, her hips swift and her feet light on the ground. The girls followed with focus. Liz started the matador promenade she had rehearsed in the morning – the invisible circle was now visible. It was all becoming real. The beacon light at the top of the mezzanine spun and spun projecting a large dot of light from wall to wall, in seamless motion. The girls followed. Liz marked the rhythm by undulating her wrist and turning back towards the girls. They mechanically adjusted their pace to match her rhythm. Some accelerated, others slowed down. Some tried larger movements, other sought better balance. Some clang onto the tiny bits they could replicate while others closed their eyes, making it their own already. Lora, quite expectedly, stood out. She found an arm movement that matched the continuous pattern of the guitar and she explored it freely. Her dancing was effortless and sophisticated. Liz smirked – great pick. 

“Girls, I suggest we stop here for today. Really well done - I’ve seen great moves and I’m sure we are going to have lots of fun together. Thank you all for coming.”

The girls emerged from their hypnosis. Dazed eyes and smiles. They clapped their hands automatically, still captivated by Liz. Liz smiled and bent forward in a graceful, and long-rehearsed, reverence. 

“Come Violet, I’ll take you back home.” Lora said fetching her bag. 

“Lora, do you have a second?”, Liz asked nonchalantly as she waved goodbye to the girls who walked out of the church. 

“Is it urgent? Can it wait next – “

“It certainly can’t”. Liz laughed. “It’s important. I’ve seen impressive moves when you were dancing and I want to make sure we make the right choices for you. Sooner than later.”

Lora’s cold eyes lit up and a micro-smile appeared at the corner of her mouth. She let go of Violet’s hand and the eczema girl fetched it. “I’ll take her back home, Lora, don't worry. Thanks Liz, it was amazing. See you next week.”

Liz nodded goodbye to Violet and returned to the center of the nave, adjusting the shawl on her shoulders. Lora cleared her throat and, holding tight onto her bag, she followed Liz into the nave. They were now alone.

“Oh, and by the way, could you please shut that door? We need privacy.”

“Sure.”

Lora nodded and locked the door. Walked back to her vampire teacher in the nave.

Ay, de mi Lorona