porcelain

 I paused the moment I entered there; perhaps I was already changed.

The light was subdued so that details were reluctant to emerge, though the chandeliers themselves sparkled, hanging high from the coffered ceiling. My gaze rose from the expanse of marble floor to take in the grand stairs that rose in wide extravagance from the centre of the lobby.

The steps seemed brittle and cracked, aged skin and bone. But upon them, at alternating intervals, stood the porcelain women.

Even from the distance of the entrance, they were startling in their naked perfection. Exquisitely formed statues, but it was impossible to ascribe to them any stillness. They were merely caught in a moment, pictured in their dance — as graceful as ballet but wild, raw, and individualistic — none matched any other, yet they moved to the same music.

I jerked involuntarily into motion again, drawn by them, each shoe scuffing forward in turn to catch me from falling. Details called to me: a finger delicately outstretched from alignment with its kin; a breast delayed by soft inertia from a torso’s movement; the diagonal crease of a twisted abdomen; the bunching of a calf to drive a spring.

Even their shining eyes, empty of iris or pupil, seemed to engage with me as if to ask: will you, too, dance?

I came to the base of the stairs, offset slightly towards the first of the women. She beckoned to me to join her on the staircase and leave behind my lower purposes and my graceless ways.

There was no resistance. My fingers began to lift, with solemn certainty, to let her take them.

“Madame?”

She was close beside me, smartly dressed, deferential.

“I am afraid the dining room is closed.”

My eyes flickered back to the porcelain dancer, but she was distracted now, following the rhythm of the others on the stairs.

“I have a reservation,” I managed, though my hesitation had already given the lie to my poise.

“Very good.” The woman was about my age, a creature of my flawed reality. “This way, please.”

I followed her to the desk. The gilding of its inset decoration was peeling; the brightwork tarnished where polish could not reach. I gave my name, and the receptionist set about her paperwork.

“I hope your journey was… not too tiring,” she said, stumbling slightly, as if she had embarked on the remark before knowing an ending for it. Her eyes caught mine askance, but then fled and lingered on my chin for a moment.

“It was fine, thank you,” I said, formally, while my barriers fell silently into place. Maybe she liked to look at me. It didn’t matter.

“D’accord.” She picked up the key she had prepared and held it out to me. “Breakfast is from seven to ten.” She held my gaze now, some emotion given away in the outer corners of her eyes. “It is upstairs,” she finished, holding her fingers out to the staircase, then turned aside abruptly to indicate a mahogany door. “You have room one, on the ground floor.”

I nodded and turned away from her, feeling and fighting the draw of the staircase at my back. Until the morning, I said to myself. Only until the morning.

Behind me, the receptionist murmured, “Please, do not touch the dancers.”

I automatically turned my head to smile my acquiescence, though something about the request jarred. It sounded like a private plea.

My room was the first on the other side of the door. I was grateful: the corridor was an infinity of faded grandeur, down which I was not inclined to step.

The key turned stiffly in the brass lock, granting access to darkness. I was distracted by the way that the receptionist’s face had sullied my mind’s image of the porcelain dancer, and I allowed the door to almost close before identifying the light switch.

Irritated at myself, I fumbled at where I might have seen it.

And immediately, there she was, exactly where my rising eyes met the reluctant orange light from shaded wall mountings.

She did not heed me, immersed as she was in her dance — in the corner beside the desk. Perhaps because she was alone, the shape that she made was pure and innocent, one arm reaching behind, one ahead and above, to where her eyes were yearning.

The force of her presence played over me as I stood there in silent wonder. Did every room have a dancer? Or had she moved, in some parallel time, from the first steps of the grand staircase, to be with me here?

And how could I be here, how could I relax, how could I sleep — how could I be with her, without being with her?

She danced on, and I shook my head. I must somehow accept her as she really was: a decoration, an ornament. To be alive in this world was my curse, not hers.

I sighed and looked away from her to gather the courage to step forward into the room. Though modest in size, it must have once been elegantly indulgent — before the tread of many feet had faded the carpet, and many fingers had stained the wood.

There was no fight left in me to overcome exhaustion and disquiet, only the dismal habits of a traveler. I dropped my case and pulled off my shoes, irritably leaving them where they fell. Jacket and then skirt were flung onto the table.

I glanced at the dancer: I was beneath her interest. But strangely, her presence inspired me. I had entered here weary in spirit but smartly suited. What would be the correct attire for relaxing in her presence, in this room where she chose to dance?

I regarded myself in the central pane of an elaborately faceted wall mirror. Tights and blouse could be classy enough, but my mismatched knickers and padded bra were far too mundane for it. Without them, too racy. And I snorted in amusement at the thought of my threadbare nightshirt.

That left the only option there had ever been, and it brought on a spike of adrenaline. My body was unlike hers: wiry muscles no longer softened by youth, hardly a feminine curve to speak of. But stately in its restraint, and athletically poised. We would form something tasteful, together: an artistic juxtaposition.

I granted a regal lift to my chin, shoulders back, my feet together, heel to instep, then slowly set about the buttons on my blouse. I watched myself critically, with a yogi’s eye, ensuring perfect symmetry as I lifted the shirt from my shoulders, this time affording my garment a graceful surrender to the tabletop.

My bra was dealt with kindly, but swiftly. Only when I laid it down did I take note of my torso’s nakedness. But it was the nudity of a life model; a layering of fine structure upon which my wide-set, delicately shallow breasts were mere punctuation.

I smiled at my own vanity and darted my eyes to the dancer; they lingered when they detected a subtle, skilful realignment of her improvisation. She had acknowledged me, I was sure. My eyes fell demurely, and my breath shallowed as I tried to quieten my heart in its sudden, unseemly flutter.

Then I almost panicked. How to remove my remaining underwear, without losing the moment? Perhaps she was amused to see me hesitate — I felt her gentle encouragement, and so with a grin I hooked my thumbs into the elastic of my tights, gathering up my knickers as I pushed, falling with my bottom onto the bed to complete the hurried manoeuvre.

Anxiously, I came to my feet, glancing towards the door, fighting anew to control my now hurried breath. But the mirror rescued me from my sense of ridiculousness: there I stood, in soft third position, arms by my sides, palms facing the smooth pelvic mound to which the creases of my abdomen led, accentuated in the dusky light.

Within, I felt the echo of movement, a phantom limb remembering steps I had once danced. My spine lengthened, drawing my chin upwards from its timidity. A smile touched my lips when the woman in the mirror seemed startled to see something newly beautiful emerge, where before had been drab familiarity, framed in an unfamiliar setting.

A small rotation of my hip shifted my weight onto my right foot, a subtle undulation that rippled through my torso, bringing warmth and reassurance.

My left arm began to extend, palm twisted upwards. My gaze followed it, my smile broadening to acknowledge the other dancer now in my view.

As my hand neared shoulder height, my head tilted slightly away from it. But then, an awareness of vulnerability caused my right shoulder to soften and roll forward.

My eyelids fell closed. I leaned forward slightly from the waist. In the stillness there was a breath of movement, causing me to inhale sharply, and my cheek suddenly burned as though brushed with fingers or lips.

But before I could make sense of that moment, something shifted. The warmth expanded. It wasn’t a change in direction but a change in quality, like a single note blooming into a chorus.

I took a small step forward onto my left foot. My arms began to lift unbidden, extending outwards and upwards, palms upwards.

A sharp rapping.

The dance was gone. I cried out at the loss, and my eyes snapped open. The hotel room was dark and decaying, some shadowed statue withdrawn in the corner.

The knocking from the door came again, more insistently. I looked at it in confused hurt.

“Coming,” some part of me managed to mumble. There was a bathrobe by the entrance; I pattered on tip-toes to collect it and shrug it over my nakedness.

I cracked open the door; there stood the receptionist. She was hunched, eyes shining with tears, somehow frightened.

“Please,” she said, reaching out to me. “Please, you have to leave.”

I recoiled from her stark emotion, only checked by sympathy.

“Why?” I said automatically. “What’s wrong?”

“They want you,” she whispered. She glanced towards the door to the lobby. “Come with me,” she entreated, some desperate need making her try to grasp the fingers with which I held the door edge.

I dropped the hand to evade her, frowning. “Who?” I queried, though I knew the answer.

“The dancers. They want you,” she repeated, as though this made any sense. “If you touch them, you will become… them.” She swallowed. “I tried to warn you. But they are… determined to have you. I know them. They will make you do it.”

I could not help but glance back over my shoulder. There was a presence there, in the gloom.

“Okay,” I said and pulled the door wider. The receptionist backed a step, saw my bathrobe.

“Pas problème,” she said in anticipation. “I will come back for your things. Please, you have to leave now.”

I followed her, letting the door click shut behind me.

Once in the lobby, she looked nervously to the stairs, entreating me to follow her faster.

But instead, I lagged. In my mind I could hear the chorus, as if it had been there since my dance, beneath my awareness. I looked to the stairs, saw the shining figures in flowing motion.

The receptionist noticed my hesitation. She scurried back to me, holding out her hand. I appraised her, hearing the voices, communing with them.

She gazed at me in entreatment. The bathrobe fell from my shoulders, and she glanced over my body, confused. But even in that moment, I could feel the desire she had for me, that had led her to try and save me.

It was her undoing. Too late, she realised her mistake.

I had already taken her hand.

For a moment, we were together. But then, like whispers on the wind, we were lost. We turned to the stairs, to take our places there.

the end