One Last Dance at Le Club De Sablier

I danced alone, gliding about the floor with swift steps. Lost in the life of the music. The birth of its melodies, its rise and crescendo, its lulling decline. With a collective sashay, the mass upon the floor began to spin, each body on the floor moving as one larger organism. I felt at one with them, soaking in the glorious and too-fleeting moments of life I was able to enjoy.

I danced alone, scouring the inside of Le Club de Sablier from the vantage of its central dance floor. Heavy was the haze of cigarette smoke, embers alighting at their ends like dozens of fireflies stippling their glow across the room. Ornate crystal chandeliers, low and dim, warmed the skin of the occupants in shades of yellow and orange.

Still, I danced. My company reserved for only one. I searched for my quarry through swinging limbs and laughing faces. They blurred into rhythms and steps, all driven by the tempo of the night.

A card, dressed in a black envelope, jostled in my jacket’s inner pocket. Within, the mistresses' features were outlined in great detail. To dance with the wrong woman would be a disservice. A tragedy. A mistake. 

As I flitted to and fro, surrendering myself to the humanity of music, I spotted her. Small and well-lived, sitting at a table on her own. She sipped and watched, her eyes wide with longing. Past her natural prime by far and beautiful still. A house that had watched families grow and prosper, standing tired yet resilient in the face of time.

The band lulled and I made my way to her. Stepping softly through the crowd toward her table. Her eyes pulled to me. I met them with a smile.

“May I?” I asked, opening my hand toward the seat opposite her at the small circular table.

She ran her eyes the entirety of my body before returning her gaze to mine with a placid smile. “If you see no better place, be my guest,” she responded, voice thick with a slavic accent. Her body was turned sideways in her chair, its back tucked underneath her arm as she positioned herself to continue watching the dancers.

“Thank you, darling,” I mused, pulling out the chair with a light touch. I adjusted myself to face the dance floor as well, resting only my elbow on the table between us. “Now, who do I have the absolute pleasure of joining?”

A skeptical smile tilted the corner of her mouth, her head leaning toward me with a singular brow raised. “My name is Yeva,” she said, her voice warm and raspy. “And who are you, strange boy? Do you always sit with old crows in French clubs?”

“Not crows,” I responded plainly. “Swans. At least until they decide to hiss and peck me.”

Yeva exhaled a silent laugh, her smile widening. “A swan, hmm?”

On stage, the band readied to begin again. Yeva’s focus drifted back to the dance floor, her eyes filling again with wanting.

“Do you dance?” I asked, following her gaze.

“I used to. Long ago.” A tired fondness flickered behind her eyes.

“Were you any good?”

“Very,” she huffed, prideful and blunt. I believed her.

My shoes tapped delicately on the floor as I stood and extended a hand out to the older woman. “Perhaps you could show me a thing or two?”

“Oh, no. I don’t dance anymore. Too old.”

“Come now. Just one more before you hang up your shoes.” I beckoned for her to stand and join me.

A sigh rattled through her but she reluctantly stood. “Fine, but just one dance.”

Her hand, decorated with all the markings of age, floated into mine. We strode to the dance floor in slow steps. We fell into formation as the band introduced the next song, readying their instruments with precursory plucks and adjustments.

“Tell me about you,” I said, straightening my back and placing my free hand on her back with a light touch. “Tell me the story of how you ended up in France.”

“While we dance?” She asked, hesitant.

“While we dance.”

She grimaced, and then nodded as the band began to play. 

“I was born in a small town outside Kyiv in 1920,” she began, her steps fluid and precise despite her age. “My mother was a dance teacher and my father was in the government.”

“It seems your mother taught you well,” I said, as I led her into the next series of steps, her dress swishing gently as we moved.

She scoffed. The pianist hit a dissonant chord.

 “My mother was a tyrant. Her lessons were in the breaking of toes and cracking of sticks. At 12, I joined a boarding school for ballet to get away. There, I sweat and bled and cried.”

“I’m sorry, that must've been difficult.”

“Life is difficult,” she shrugged. “But ballet made the struggle beautiful.”

“So did you graduate? Join a consortium?” I asked, spinning her in tight, slow circles.

“Yes, I joined a consortium during my fourth year. I danced in the background while the older girls got the main parts. I would stay late with one of the other students, a choreographer. He would practice with me and give me notes.” Her cheeks flushed, as we broke apart with a twirl, rejoining with both hands clasped in one anothers.

“Oh? Has a lover-to-be appeared?” I teased.

“A lover, indeed. The lover. My lover,” Yeva clarified. “His name was Alexei. A wonderful choreographer and composer. He wrote me a ballet. I was an ocean princess trapped by a cruel and wrathful queen until I usurped her with a great trident. It was a strong and provocative piece.”

A low, uneven rhythm began in the music, a tension rising out from the delicate melody.

“We performed it for our graduation,” she continued. “The consortium loved it so much they asked us to perform a full production at the National Ballet. It was my shining moment as a dancer, the people loved it…” The music hushed as if in response to the pause. “All except one.”

“Who?” I asked with bated breath, immersed in the intensity of dance, the vividness of Yeva’s life.

“A Soviet general was in attendance that night. He felt that the piece was a political statement against the Bolsheviks, and that it encouraged Ukrainian revolution. Alexei disappeared two weeks later.”

As the dance brought us back together, her chest pressed against stomach, I could feel her heartbeat quickening. The music built. Its harmonies, yearnful and dissonant, stacked atop one another.

“I waited for a few years. Hoping he’d come back to me. I continued to dance at the National Ballet. All sorts of beautiful pieces. But nothing gripped my heart like it did with him.”

“Did you ever find him?” The question was ugly. So many opportunities for tragedy in the answer, but it was part of life. It was part of her.

Her expression grew grim. Our steps quickened, fast and chaotic, tapping a staccato rhythm.

“Yes,” she answered with a sigh. “But, he was not the same. One night, the bombs and blasts came. I and some of the others from the consortium fled the German invasion and stumbled across a group of soldiers. Alexei was among them. He had convinced the Soviets that he would serve in the army to prove his loyalty. To counter any suggestions that his ballet may have made.”

The drummer rolled his snare drum, a momentary procession of soldiers.

“Did he go with you?” I asked the question, but in her expression I could already read her answer.

“He said they would kill him if he ran. He said he would find me after the war. They went on to fight and we made our way out. I traveled for a long time, I would dance for the refugees to keep spirits high in between horrible nights. Eventually, after seeing me dance, a group of Romany invited me to join them. Those days were better. Warmer. We would travel and dance and earn a little money and then do it all over again.”

The piano lilted, quick, pleasant melodies that mirrored the stepping of our feet as we made wide swinging arcs across the dance floor.

“When the war was over, I returned to Kyiv. But there was nothing to return to. My small town had been mortared and Kyiv had been sacrificed. After seeing the remains, I knew that Alexei had died there.”

“I’m so sorry, Yeva.”

“It is alright. It was simply the end of the first act, as they say. I mourned and life began anew. I started teaching. I traveled and filled my life with dance. I avoided it for a long time, but as I grew older, I wanted a family. I married a Frenchman.” She chuckled a breathy laugh as she twirled under my arm.

“Would you say you’ve lived a good life?”

Yeva nodded. “It’s been long and it’s been hard. My husband has passed and my children are grown. But yes. It has been a good life,” Yeva admitted.

“Do you have any regrets?” I asked. 

“Not dancing with Alexei one last time, maybe,” she sighed. Her eyes glazed with tears and memories.

“And if I could give that to you?”

Yeva’s eyes snapped to me as I lifted her lightly into the air, spinning slowly to not hurt the woman. Behind her eyes, realization bloomed. Peace settled in her heart. The music built into one last crescendo.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and nodded.

As we danced, I was Alexei. In her eyes, I was a lost lover, one who never returned from war. Not a reaper in black. Not the stranger that shepherds you on. 

Even though every day I am Death, today I was a dancer. And if you dance with me, that dance will be your last. But it will be warm. And it will be beautiful.