I scooped up one of the fancy tip baskets set along the front of the stage, heading out into the audience with it while young Sasha collected my scarves and waited for me off to the side of the stage. A group of four men moved into position to perform a rowdy call-and-response dance, and Sasha and I skirted the stage to the back to wait for my next performance
“It was so pretty, Savah. I love to watch you dance.” Sasha was a willowy eleven-year-old whose parents were musicians in our little band. Her father played the round-bellied Saz lute, and her mother was a wicked Riqq player, the tambourine/hand drum moving so quickly in her hands she could make it sound like a rushing wind.
“Thank you, Sash.” I gave her a quick hug, smoothing my hand down her long, silky black braid. The girl was already an incredible little dancer, but she had yet to grow out of the awkward stage of development so many girls go through between childhood and the teen years. So her moves, although smooth, felt contrived. She simply lacked the fluidity of a dancer with a woman’s curves. Another two or three years, though, and she’d have her audiences eating out of her hands. “Your compliments make me so happy.”
I had two more dances before I could go looking for Pella and Killian—one with a whole group of us women, a dance of joyful celebration similar to the one performed by Miriam and the Israelite women relishing their freedom from slavery after following her younger brother, Moses, on a mass exodus out of Egypt. The other was a rather sultry courtship dance performed between Marek and me.
Marek. Just Marek. “One name is all I need. Everyone knows Marek.” Marek of the bronzed skin and the sea-green eyes. Marek with his long curls that flipped dramatically when he threw his head back, with his arms thrust high and wide. Marek, the Gypsy King, and his traveling caravan of dancers and musicians.
Marek and the Gypsies. That was what we were called.
And as far as Marek was concerned, we all belonged to him. Especially me.
Behind me, the rustle of skirts and the tinkling of tambourines and zills, the finger cymbals some of the women used, told me we were almost up. I turned and smiled at the group of seven women and girls gathered around, Sasha among them. They whispered quietly, hands moving constantly in communicative gestures. So much was conveyed without words in our group. Supposedly, having eight of us on stage would bring our troupe financial gain today, which translated directly to good tips. I wasn’t going to question Latiana’s beliefs in her numerology, at least not to her face, but I thought it probably had a lot more to do with how hot the day was, which translated directly to how much our audience had indulged in the refreshing meads and ales on tap at every corner. There always seemed a direct correlation to me.
We sashayed out onto the raised platform as the previous group of dancers headed out into the audience with the tip baskets. Sasha’s mother, Minda, began a slow rattle on her Riqq. The moment we were all in place, Latiana released a sweeping tongue roll and a whoop, and we were off, hips swaying, skirts held wide, as we twirled and dipped, weaving in and out in figure eights to the rhythm of the flamenco-style music. Our tambourines and zills clinked and tinkled, keeping time with the ancient song, as much a part of the dance as our fluttering costumes.
This one was my favorite dance of our repertoire to perform. Women of all ages celebrating, rejoicing over freedom from bondage and slavery. There was something about women dancing together, communicating through motion and music, like a bodily manifestation of the old quilting circles. Our movements told stories, the music set the tone, and our audience couldn’t help but cheer and clap along with us, the joyful celebration bubbling up and spilling over the edge of the stage to overwhelm those watching. The dance ended with us giddy and laughing, unable to quench the spirit of joy that moved with us as we thanked each tipper with wide smiles and shy curtsies.
My dance with Marek was another story altogether. It started out lighthearted and sweet enough—a young girl with a basket on my arm, gathering flowers to bring home to my mother. Then a low pulse began, a throbbing beneath the melody being played by the nay flute and the mizmar, and I’d spin and sway, pulled by an invisible cord toward the edge of the stage, toward the audience… toward the man moving hypnotically up the middle aisle from the back of the crowd. A black silk scarf encircled his head, eyes lined in smoke and mystery, his long hair falling loose and wild down his back. His billowing white shirt splayed open to the waist. Around his hips was tied a scarlet and gold scarf over tight blue pants. He lifted his hands, pulling on that cord, drawing me to him as he swaggered toward me. When he joined me on stage, the dance became a push-me-pull-you battle of wills, a man’s dominance and a woman’s resistance to submit played out before the enthralled audience.
This dance ended with Marek untying the scarf from his waist and swirling it around me, the fire of a man’s passion consuming a woman, claiming her as his possession.
In some ways, the dance was a representation of my relationship with Marek. And every time I performed it, I felt the same electrical current of need, shame, and hopelessness sparking through my body.
I dreaded this last dance more than anything. As I waited behind the curtain, readying myself to go on stage one last time, I found it almost impossible to quiet my spirit.
I sensed Marek’s presence even before he spoke, before he rested his long-fingered hands around the curve of my hips to draw me back against him. “You are ready for our finale, my love?”
I hated it when he called me that. He didn’t love me. He loved the ‘my’ part, the owning of me.
I hated his fake accent, the one he’d practiced and performed for so long now that even he believed it was real.
I hated the version of Savah I became around the Marek he had become; she only showed up when he was around.
At my insistence, Pella took Killian on a walk to the other side of the fairground when Marek and I performed this dance—far, far away where my son would not have to see me like that. Where he would not have to watch Marek conquer me again and again.
I prayed fervently that Jordan Ransome, too, was on the other side of the fairground, far away from our stage and the rows of hay bale seats out front. Too far away to watch the sordid truth of my life being played out before a rapt and appreciative audience. The crowds loved this dance. When I flitted through the milling people after it was over, I received far more than just tips in my basket.
Marek, surrounded by his own bevy of female admirers, usually lingered close by, just in case the adoration of my admirers got too personal. His black-souled eyes could freeze the very marrow of any who might wrongly believe that any more than a sordid leer and inappropriate comment would be welcomed by me.