11 - Ballet Show

Inside the opérette, they were a counter with a desk to welcome spectators. But this time, no mean lady with glasses to keep me out of the building. I brushed my hands on the wall, a red and gold tapestry. This place here was empty. I should find a better place to hide.

They only were one double door. If there was another place to hide from the Boss, that should be here. I pushed open the door, and noise appeared. Conversations, footsteps, laughter... The wave of sound blurred by echo flew to my ears. The red lady said the truth. The inside of the opérette was full.

I entered the huge place, "They can't all rather be in a second-rated ballet show than at the Opéra."

Either they were warming themselves up, either they were escaping the mob too.

Behind my back, the door opened again, freeing up the closed up smell badly covered by deodorant.

Was she here? Was she coming to get me? A chill climbed up my spine.

I looked behind me. It was only one more spectator. I was more relaxed since It wasn't the Boss, but I preferred to engulf myself in the mass. Not too much in front of the scene. I didn't want to be that visible, but not in the middle either. I wanted to be hard to catch.

I settled sat next to a mature man in a white tuxedo.

Someone like him definitely came to run away from something. It would be deceiving if that was for the pleasure of watching low-level dancers. That upperclassman surely ran away from mobsters too.

Or his spouse.

I examined the scene because when you sit down, that's the only thing you see: A huge platform with white anti-adhesive powder sprinkled upon its ground.

After a moment, the lights went off. It would be harder for them to get me. My heart became peaceful.

The voice of the woman in jogging clothes resounded in the place, "Dear Public, thank you for your presence. It's kinda cool. The 'petits rats' of the non-official opérette of Paris will present you, for your pleasure, Swan Lake by Tchaïkovski: shorter edition..." A coughing fit attacked her. For five minutes, "Yeah so. To summarize, we want to say that you've got talent, whether you destroyed your career for alcohol."

"Shut it!" my neighbor shouted.

"'Kay, here is our piece."

A round projector illuminated the curtains hiding the dancers. The famous compositor's music showed up, and a black dancer in a white tutu made little steps and pirouettes until she made it to the center of the scene.

This girl, representing Odile, wore a swan tutu crafted quite beautifully. They put sprinkles all over the dress, and she put feathers on her crown. It was fit for her, and when she danced, she was so into the rhythm that I could swear she had the music sheet tattooed on her skin.

That wasn't bad. Um, I almost forgot I was in an opérette.

Another ballerina danced, as a swan, around Odile. She wore a ponytail. Those hairstyles were forbidden, but her Grand Jeté would make my Mom pale with jealousy, so I could forgive the lack of a neat bun.

Another swan jumped while making pirouettes in the air. While wearing...earrings. And she never stood on her pointe shoes.

Someone here needed to be taught the rules.

I stood up. A similar noise came as if someone else got up at the same time as me.

"That was a coincidence, that's all. But I'd rather sit." I tried to keep my mouth shut.

The next swan wore a niqab, and her specialty was arabesque. She danced in sync with the orchestra's cord and the pounding of her footsteps on the ground. These sounds resounded inside me.

Then a tall girl, playing the Black Swan role, showed up on the scene. She wasn't respecting hair policy too. She had her hair styled in a single pigtail of red hair falling on her pale back. They were playing with my stress, that's it! On the dancing point, she danced a charming duo with Odile.

I couldn't take my eye off the Black Swan. Was that her near-perfect technique? Or was it her beautiful face?

The music stopped, and that took me out of it.

The Black Swan and her colleagues stopped. The spectators held their breaths. My heart stopped beating.

"I'm sorry. My little-failed ass couldn't play an audio clip." The smoking woman kept on talking, "I'm gonna put another one. You almost can't see the difference, that's classical music."

Then the Ode of Joy pounded on the speakers, which was nothing like Swan Lake. My hair stood up.

Don't get up, Song-ho, don't get up.

Odile froze on the scene. It was as if she went from perfect pitch to tone-deaf in one second.

She got stiff and danced like a robot. Then she danced a Latino dance that wasn't that awful to see. But honestly, I was supposed to see ballet, not girls shaking their behind.

The ponytail one jumped. And that was all. She jumped and jumped and jumped again. The only thing she knew was to make Grands Jeté.

The earrings one turned on herself she much she fell.

The niqab dancer didn't even dance. She wriggled while checking on her clothes.

The young redhead did what she could to adjust herself to the new show music.

A show...

I got up, "More like a dishonor, yeah!"

"Who said that?" The microphone voice asked.

I turned around. A shadow moved. It came closer, "Fuck." I covered my mouth and sat further in my chair."

"If you ain't showing yourself, I'd have to use my stage manager powers."

A projector scanned the spectator zone as I stayed still.

The man near me hit my torso, "Hey, go speak kid, that was funny."

I shook my head, "I can't."

The projector illuminated from the front row. I really didn't want the manager's help to get killed.

The old man never stopped hitting me, "Go on! It's getting boring."

"Mister! I'm sorry, but I'm not doing it."

After my sentence, his face became cold, "You didn't have to come if you're making us bored. I make efforts, and do what I get? A cross-dressing guy trying to be manly."

"I won't allow this lack of respect for Parisian fashion!" I shouted.

My voice echoed throughout the room. Shit shit shit!

The projector stopped one, "Ah, it was the generous person! What disappointed you?"

The light blinded me, and I covered myself with my arm, "If you're not able to know it by yourself, then you're not worthy of being called dancers." I had to go.

"C'mon, look at them. They're thirsty for knowledge. Can't you put yourself in their shoes?"

"Ok then, but I'm only doing a short critique." That was crazy. I had to run away!

The room was devoid of any noise. I said I was only doing a short critique, so why bother?

I pointed them with my finger one by one, "You should learn to improvise. The dancers in the Opéra de Paris know what kind of steps come with which sound." I pointed the Jumper, "And you! Learn more steps! Do you imagine if we hit the same piano key for 4 minutes!"

When my gaze was on the one who fell, she shook, "I don't even know how to begin with your unauthorized outfits you two...I mean you three! Ballet 101 is in the pointe shoes. And don't readjust your clothes in a show, you have to show the audience you're perfect." I said.

She raised her filled-in eyebrows.

I pointed my finger toward the Coach, "And you!"

She disappeared. Oh.

"And me." She was in front of me, right hand holding the mic, "You talk like a Prima Ballerina. But, can you dance like one of them?" She put the mic back in her pocket and handed me her hand instead, "Come dance with me."

"I'd love to, but I have to go."

She took my hand, "It's okay, nothing's gonna burn."

"Well..."

She pulled me against her, "You dream about this since forever. Show us what you're hiding in yourself."

I glanced at the audience: no shadow. Maybe I imagined it?

I took her hand, "Just a Lil' bit then."

The mentor brought me on the scene. Forget what I said about the subway. Here, before the Parisian people, that was the dream.

We danced a simple duo, a pas de deux, that I already did with my mother. Stretch the leg, don't forget to point the tip of your toes. Soften your arms, unite with the music.

The first time I danced with my mother, Tchaïkovski played. I remembered what sensations dancing gives. I escaped into a world where the hunter disappeared. When I danced back in Pyongyang, I lived stories in countries I would never see. I communicated with my mom, even when she wouldn't come home to sleep.

For half a dozen minutes, I've never been that happy to sweat like a fountain.

Everyone acclaimed me.

The public's smile and my panting breath made my heart beat faster.

I wanted this life. Opéra or opérette, who cared?

The shadow from earlier climbed up the stairs going to the scene.

"That was excellent, champion." The coach hit my back.

"Do you have toilets?"

She showed behind her with her thumb, "Over this door."

I ran behind the scene.