I slipped my feet into my flamenco shoes. They had molded to my feet and felt like an extension of my body. Every time I put them on it was like coming home.
Inés had told me I could come and use one of the studios in the evenings when all the classes were over. It was my only way of keeping up with Enrique’s class. Every day I stumbled through the new choreography, memorizing all I could. Then in the evenings, when no one was around, I slipped into the studio, buckled up my dance shoes, and went through the steps by myself. This was my favorite hour of the day. It was just me and the mirror and the fading light that filled the studio with a dusky glow. I kept the fluorescent lights off and danced in the twilight, watching the long shadows I cast on the wooden floor.
As I went over the steps, I thought about my new teacher. Was he not the man I’d been dreaming of all my life? A flamenco-dancing Don Juan with eyes like a pirate and a soft, caressing voice… I was in danger of sounding like a frustrated Harlequin heroine, but it was true: he was the kind of man I’d always dreamed of but never really believed existed.
Comparing him to the guys I knew back in Sydney made me laugh out loud. I didn’t have much of a social circle back home, which was understandable given that I spent 60 percent of my time in women’s fashion, at least 30 percent asleep, and another 10 percent lying in bed trying to convince myself to get up. The only way I was going to meet someone was if he bumped into me while I was trying to do my lipstick on the bus, or came up to Level Two in search of a birthday present for his mother. The guys I did know were mostly my friends’ university-going boyfriends and their friends. They generally talked about things they were studying or social issues or other things that even in my most imaginative mode I could hardly describe as romantic. But even though I had no reason to believe that my fantasies would ever be fulfilled, I’d dreamed of the perfect man. He’d be tall with dark hair and darker eyes that would meet mine across a crowded room, and I would know immediately he was the one I’d been waiting for. And he would sweep me into his arms without a thought as to whether I might interpret his actions as presumptuous or sexist. He wouldn’t ask me what kind of music I was into or what type of beer I liked, or whether I’d read any good Dostoyevsky lately, because he wouldn’t care. We’d just look into each other’s eyes and know that we had found what we were looking for…
I was so swept up in my romantic daydream that as I leaned in for the triple turn my foot got tangled up in my skirt and I stumbled forward, almost falling over. In frustration I cried out, “Arrrrgh!”
“Tranquila.”
I jumped and turned around. Standing in the doorway was Enrique. How long had he been there? I was grateful that the lights were off; there was no way he could have known what I’d been thinking about, yet I felt sure that my thoughts were written across my face.
He walked in and stood next to me in front of the mirror. Then, lifting up with impeccable balance, he spun around, once, twice, three, four times. “Ves? See? Fácile,” he said. Fácile means “easy.” I thought I should explain that, because I don’t consider a quadruple turn your standard definition of “easy.”
“Inténtalo,” he continued. This word I didn’t know, and I wished that I could cling to my ignorance, but I could tell from his face that he was saying, “Now you try it.”
I knew going into the turn that it wouldn’t end well, and I didn’t even get the full way around before I stumbled.
After watching my attempt, Enrique lifted up onto the ball of his foot and gestured to me to do the same. I tried to copy his posture. He came around behind me and corrected my arms and directed my eyes straight ahead, a little above my sight line. I swayed there in the music-box-doll position, afraid to breathe in case I toppled over. Then he placed one hand on my waist and another on my shoulder and spun me around.
I fell over almost immediately, but Enrique told me to get back up on my tiptoes and try again. When I was balanced with my arms in two perfect curves, he pulled back my shoulders, lifted my chin, and steadied me again before spinning me around. I tried to keep the position, but the force of his push only got me halfway around before I fell—right on top of him. He caught me, and as I looked up at him and realized that I was in his arms, I almost forgot my embarrassment.
It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds that I rested against him, but it felt like an eternity. His hands were on my waist to steady me, but I had no desire to regain my balance. His dark eyes searched my face, and again I was thankful that the light was too low for him to see me blush. He ran one finger along the line of my jaw and said, “Guapa.”
And in a flash the moment was over. I straightened up and he stepped back, and again I was up on my toes ready to be pushed into another turn.
• • •
“Inés, what does guapa mean?” It was the next morning and I was in the kitchen putting on oats for porridge and Inés was firing up the coffeepot.
She laughed at this question. “Are the Spanish men calling you guapa?”
“What does it mean?” I repeated, worried now that it was something unflattering.
“Guapa is beautiful.”
“Oh,” I said, stirring my oats. I hadn’t expected that. I’d just assumed that it meant “klutz” or something like that.
As I walked to the dance school, I replayed the scene in my head, now with the English subtitle. It was suddenly so romantic. Dancing alone with him, the golden light of the sunset slanting in through the windows… The sweet smell of orange blossoms filled the air, and the sun warmed my skin and made the cobblestones gleam. The sound of a flamenco guitar wafted down from an apartment, making me think it would be a good day to fall in love.