Lavinia walks into the Falcone Café. A man in line in front of her says she looks like she drives a Ferrari, the way her hair is so mussed up. Another patron adds that she looks like Sophia Loren with that dimple in her chin. Then another high-pitched voice asks if she just got laid. She looks around for that voice just as Mario locks eyes with her.
“Whoa! Who just said that?” Mario glares at a thin guy who works cleaning the glasses.
“How rude!” Lavinia says.
“He can be an asshole!” Mario says to her in a low voice, eyeing the skinny little guy in an orange T-shirt and baseball cap.
“I was thinking the same. Thanks.”
Mario looks into her eyes. His seem inflamed to her. Or maybe it’s her own fire she sees reflected in his eyes.
“I’ll talk to him. You do glow, though, Bubblicious.”
“I had a massage.”
“I’ll be off at nine.” He looks directly into her eyes again before hesitantly moving away to the espresso machine, where he pulls the handle, froths the milk, and pours it to make heart designs in the lattes. Lavinia watches his quick, purposeful moves but mostly his body, so alert and strong. What made a stranger say I look like I just got laid? Truth be known, she hasn’t been laid in a long time—she’s been off that drug for a while. Since Andy left, she’s shied away from men. And even with Andy she never felt free.
Sidling up to her at the bar for a brief moment when things are quiet, Mario puts his face near hers. He smells like he’s been rolling around in the roasted beans. She inhales him.
“You want to hang out?” he asks. “Dinner?”
“Oh, sorry, I already had dinner with a friend earlier.”
“You going with someone?” he asks—but when she frowns, he says, “Okay, no more questions. Are you too full to try a slice of the best pizza you’ve ever had?”
“Yummy!” She relaxes. She can’t stay annoyed with him.
“I’ll show you my favorite haunts in North Beach and we’ll take it from there.” He gets up and moves to his machine, where he begins to clean cups and glasses in a hot wash.
His replacement—a younger, shorter guy—stands next to him, examining her with big eyes.
“She’s pretty cute. Yours?” the guy with the high-pitched voice, the one who insulted her, asks.
“Not mine, I don’t own her,” Mario says.
“Ha ha! I bet you’d like to.”
“Steve, you’re out of control. Quit it! Or you’re fired!” the barista snaps before going behind the bar to a closed room.
The guy moves toward Lavinia. “I’m Steve Crow. You’re new in the ’hood.”
“And you’re rude!”
“Guy talk! Sorry, if I offended you.”
“Get over it,” she says. “Guy talk is absolutely out of fashion!”
“Truce?” he asks, putting out his hand.
She looks at his hand and then toward the door Mario just disappeared behind.
“Mario’s a good boss,” Steve says. Then, “You don’t know much about him, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He’s a bro. Fair. Pulls the shots straight.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?” She can’t help asking.
“Maybe.” The coworker winks at her just as Mario comes toward them.
Lavinia regrets having asked him about Mario, feels disgusted. Why didn’t she diss him totally? She turns away from him.
Mario’s, hair slicked back with grease and parted in the middle, makes him look like a movie star. He wears blue jeans. Walking towards her, he buttons a peacoat over a collared shirt. His shoes are stylish. Lavinia stands up from the bar stool. They are about the same height, though his body is fuller and more muscular than hers.
They walk onto Columbus Street toward Vallejo, where groups of young people laugh and talk. Occasionally an older couple mingles with small groups of men and women, women only, men out for fun. Party animals! She delights in being one of them—out for fun. They merge with the small pockets of restaurateurs and bar hoppers.
“What did Steve tell you?”
“Nothing.” She tells a fib and walks in step with him. “Thank you for speaking to him.”
Mario takes her arm as they cross a busy intersection on Columbus where several side streets converge with traffic going in all different directions.
They walk toward the pizza place. People are queueing inside for pizza by the slice. Behind a long counter, a man is throwing pizza dough into the air. Deep inside the small pizzeria, seats line the walls. Outside, people sit at sidewalk tables with aluminum seating.
“You’re not chewing gum tonight,” Mario comments.
“No need tonight.”
“You beam. That’s what I was trying to say,” he says, as if to explain the bad behavior.
“I had a beautiful head massage this afternoon from my friend’s mother.” She looks into his eyes.
“That accounts for the glow.”
“How do you keep so clear and direct? Usually, I mean.” She squeezes his arm.
“I try to stay in the physical world—present,” he says.
She’s not sure what he means but doesn’t ask him to explain, either.
“And your secret, Lavinia Lavinia?” he asks.
“I don’t think of myself as direct at all,” she says, staring at Mario. If she were direct and clear, she would have finished State and not impulsively quit; she would have confronted Andy; she would not have indulged Steve’s desire to tell her about Mario; she would have spoken with Nina about Don; she would have insisted that Sal tell her about her mother. The list goes on.
“Fair enough.” Mario points to the menu. He orders two slices of pizza with mushrooms and sausage for himself. “A beer for you?” he asks.
She nods.
“And two Morettis,” Mario tells the guy behind the counter.
Lavinia orders a slice with mushrooms. Soon they’re eating at an outside table, their hands dripping with olive oil.
“Delicious,” Lavinia says. “You’d think I never ate.”
Mario grins. “The best in North Beach, like I said.”
They drain their beers. When they stand to leave, Mario nudges her, pressing his shoulder into hers. “You want to dance tonight? I know an unusual music venue.”
“I love to dance.” She slips her arm through his.
“Let’s go to my favorite place. Not the usual,” he says.
He tells her it’s more a gestalt practice where you dance to five rhythms developed by a dance therapist named Gabrielle Roth. He warns her that a teacher-DJ might stop the music at some point and ask everyone to contemplate and pay attention to themselves.
“It’s like a groovy meditation,” he says, “or a yoga practice.”
Lavinia considers it. “Not sure about it!”
“Well, it’s different and not for everyone.” He pauses and looks into her eyes. “If you want to leave before the two-hour deal, I’ll leave with you.”
“Fair enough,” she says, consciously repeating his familiar response, trying it out.
Mario and Lavinia join a line on the sidewalk outside a large, gray, fifties-style building—a relatively nondescript building on Columbus Avenue, one she’s never noticed before. It’s more like the Masonic Lodge than a rock concert or a dance hall—but then, according to what Mario told her, it’s not the usual club. She’s amazed to see such a long line at 10 p.m. People wear flowing costumes; Lavinia pulls at the lapels on her tuxedo jacket, perceiving her attire to be a little stiff, picturing her own flowing shirt at home, the one she reserves for dancing alone.
People laugh and hug each other in greeting. She smooths down the front of her jacket. Several women and men offer their cheek to Mario, as if this is his special club. She can’t help but feel a little jealous at his attention to others.
“This is the hardest part,” he says, whispering in her ear, “hugging all these people. Dancing for two hours will be a piece of cake.”
“I bet!”
Lavinia’s not so sure this venue is for her. Actually, she feels a familiar tension in her gut—the one that makes her want to bolt or make an excuse to get away for a few minutes, like she has to pee—but she thinks of the bull and stands her ground as small groups continue to gather together around Mario. The energy in the line is one of excitement. Everyone but her seems to know each other. She steps closer to Mario as a dramatic-looking woman in a gypsy skirt and a guy wearing soft, flowing pants approach them.
“What a night, like summer,” the woman says, leaning into Mario’s shoulder. “The DJ’s from LA tonight.”
Lavinia feels a pinch in her gut. Maybe she has to shit.
“She’s the best,” the woman continues, “she really cuts it up. Do you know her?” She mentions a name Lavinia doesn’t catch—but then, she wouldn’t recognize the name anyway.
Lavinia stands quietly, twirling her hair with one hand and resting the other on her stomach, which is growling. Mario steps closer as if to shield her, allowing their shoulders to touch, reassuring her as the line moves into a small interior room with bright lighting.
Two people sit behind a small counter, wearing big, smiley faces, collecting money. Mario pays for the two tickets—forty bucks total. Lavinia is surprised by the reasonable entrance fee. He gives her a ticket and they walk arm in arm to the far end of the small room, where a man stands retrieving the tickets.
“Want a hug?” the man at the entranceway asks.
This seems odd to Lavinia—off-putting, or worse. How can I be here in this awful place?
She looks down at her T-straps, avoiding his arms, and pushes into a large room the size of a gymnasium. On the far side from the door, a woman stands with her equipment—a musical console and mixer.
Mario leads Lavinia closer to the DJ and the music center as a slow piece of music fills the room like a billowing cloud. People move slowly, mostly alone, letting their heads sway gently from side to side. “Lets find a place,” he whispers.
She follows him, passing people doing stretches on the floor, some in yoga or meditation poses. Others stand face to face, or alone with their eyes closed. Lavinia wants to find a safe place in the corner and not in the center of the grandsized room. She thinks of the bull, who stays by the gate. As the overhead lights dim, she dares to look into the faces of the dancers. Some seem lost; others seem happy, with wide grins. One woman walks the periphery of the room as if in a trance, eyes down. Lavinia notices a very short man wearing a silver bracelet engaged with the slow beat like a baby fawn with its mother. His rhythm is so grounded, maybe because his center of gravity is closer to the ground. But now everyone is dancing or moving to this slow, even-paced rhythm, their heads swaying ever so gently from side to side. It’s as if the music pulls for a kind of movement. She deduces from what Mario told her outside that this is the first rhythm.
Mario stops in the lower corner of the room, left and center from the DJ. Lavinia stands beside him, beginning to let the beat move though her ever so slowly, allowing her feet to connect with the wooden floor. It’s like she’s dancing in her own place, where she lets the music speak to her. Forgetting for a moment all the people around, she lets the beat guide each step.
“How about staying here?”
Lavinia nods and faces Mario as the room fills. A sign reads, “Capacity 150.” Another sign reads, “Talk with your dance.”
“Mario, we can’t talk?” she asks.
He nods, moving in closer to her, staying in sync with the slow, flowing sound. She follows him, getting closer. When one song ends she hears short connecting beats that fade into the next mix. Most of the music is instrumental and new to her, but then a vocal piece plays. Someone is singing, “Are We Humans or Are We Dancers?” She loves it, hangs onto the words, sings aloud. Some of the dancers are singing. The round clock above the DJ reads ten thirty. With two hours to go, she can’t imagine what surprises lie ahead.
But the music speaks its own language, pulling her into its wave, moving her closer to other dancers. At times someone pairs with her momentarily and then moves on into the deeper part of the sea of dancers. Lavinia is content to stay in her place close to the wall. For right now, this corner is where I feel safe.
With each change of music comes a mini crisis for her. As one song ends and before another unknown piece begins, there is a pause or transition during which she feels in limbo. Where to go, how to move, what to do? Day turning to night, in the in-between times, always makes her anxious. But the dancers still move. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, trying to anticipate the next new and different beat so she can ease into the flow. But she only feels uncertainty. Restlessness replaces safety. A man who dances through the space like a galloping colt scares her. She doesn’t understand his beat. Again, fleeting thoughts of leaving or going to the bathroom compel her.
She looks for Mario. His eyes are closed, his body is responding to the music. She moves close so that she is almost touching him. He opens his eyes and gathers her close. They are in the flow now, their bodies touching. She stares at him. He smiles like a child who’s happy to see her—a smile so warm and beautiful she can’t take her eyes off his lovely face with its high cheekbones and full lips. He nuzzles her face with his nose. She can’t leave.
Her heart fills as the music informs her feet, her legs; her hips sway; her waist swivels; her torso rolls; her arms fly as the beat picks up. She feels like a puppy wagging its tail and finds she is more connected to herself.
The music shifts. This must be another rhythm. The pizzazz of the increasing vitality of the music enlivens her, freeing her from her constraints. All of the dancers seem to respond with rotating shoulders and bobbing heads, then flying arms and feet. She is in this sea of joyful dancers, each safely in their own boats, bobbing on the same ocean—or are they each their own wave? The waves bring buoyancy and uncontrollable joy to her being. She finds her tight-lipped mouth opening into a wide smile.
A man wearing a kaftan bobs beside her. They are in sync, and he is a complete stranger. A young woman wearing a midriff top joins them. They are laughing. People come together on some unspoken cue. Each speaks a unique language without any words and dances near or by her through the open space, allowing her to make contact with so many new people. No words. Only the vibrational threads connect her with others. She feels deliriously happy. Her feet fly to the crashing sound of the escalating music. Her heart is laughing.
Now here comes a tall, galloping woman who seems to match the running colt Lavinia noticed earlier. She doesn’t feel so afraid anymore. She looks over toward the short man, who is enmeshed in a dance with a yet shorter woman. Flying, circling repetitions! They are so closely connected. She envies their intimacy.
The music slows down. She hears the DJ ask everyone to stay purely in the physical world, letting all stories and thoughts melt away. Lavinia remembers Mario saying that what makes him clear is staying in the physical world. The DJ asks them to imagine the entire space and then the space before them and behind them.
These words stick. Lavinia keeps repeating, The space behind you and the space in front of you, in her head.
The music has started again. Mario playfully engages her now, bringing her back into the sensate world. Their eyes meet. He gently pushes her raised hand with his palm. She responds to the light contact with a similar touch, following this pressure, making circles in the air. They stay attached hand to hand, arm to arm, playing. When he pushes, she meets his energy. Then she places her other hand at his shoulder and pushes, and he rotates in that direction. Soon they are engaged in an ongoing push-pull. It feels like a tango, except they are both leading.
Now she is leading, pulling him toward her and then pushing him away from her. Her legs shoot out. She loves this awareness of actually staying attached to his moves, which allows her to follow them likewise. They are engaged in a playful dance, coming and going, expressing some primal language. She imagines two polar bears playing without words.
Then the rhythm slows—still playful, but more mellow. The music moves from its peak into graceful, silvery rivulets toward a still pond. As their breath catches up with them and their heart rates slow, they flow on an ebullient cloud across the room, turning and swirling, promenading themselves in some grand pas de deux, until the music slows again and eventually stops, leaving only the pulsing in their veins.
The room is a silent hum.
The DJ says, “Now bring this practice into the physical world.”
“Already? Where did the time go?” Lavinia whispers to Mario, not believing two hours have passed.
“Time, there you have it,” is all he says. He holds her hand as they leave the dance hall and walk out into the cool night. They hop a cab to her house. He asks the cabby to wait for her to get safely inside.
She peeks out her window after closing the door behind her, just in time to see the cab pull away with Mario inside throwing her a kiss.