Colum McCann - Dancer

The next morning I decided that, despite the circumstances, I would make the best of my day. I ordered breakfast in one of the seafront establishments. The waiter, a young man from Burgundy, made a strong café-crème especially for me. He whispered that the English may have helped win two world wars but they knew nothing of the coffee bean. I laughed and found myself doubling the tip. I felt strangely giddy when I thought about my rapidly disappearing money. Even so, I bought a sun hat and rented a deckchair, carried it to the strand, put the hat on in order to obscure my eyes.

Late in the morning I noticed a young woman standing near the water’s edge. She was holding her skirt and dipping a toe in the surf. Her legs were long and beautiful. She went farther into the sea and stopped when the water reached to her thigh. Then she bent forward, whipped her long shining hair over her shoulder and soaked it briefly in the sea.

Then, much to my surprise I caught sight of Monsieur standing near the young woman. The waves were rolling up to him. I wondered who she could possibly be. Emilio sat close by on the beach, cross-legged, watching the proceedings.

I rose quickly to leave, but Emilio spied me and called my name. He stood up and his long ponytail swung. He greeted me with a kiss on either cheek and expressed his pleasure on seeing me in Brighton.

— Oh, I just wanted to see Monsieur’s show, I said.

— I’m glad someone wants to, replied Emilio.

At that moment Monsieur spotted me and waved at me to join him. Emilio made a comment about the king summoning his courtiers and I had to smile a little. Emilio had resigned so many times from Monsieur’s service that he had even put another masseur on call to work on those days between resigning and being rehired.

I bit my lip and went down to the water, where Monsieur was standing with the young lady.

— Let me introduce you to Marguerite, he said.

I realized then that she was one of Monsieur’s dancing partners. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and smiled. Her eyes were a beautiful blue. I thought how wonderful it must be for her, at such a young age, to dance with Monsieur in the twilight of his career, but then I felt a sudden surge of anger since Monsieur had not even inquired after the reason for my appearance in Brighton.

— Odile will help solve your problem, I heard Monsieur say.

— Oh no, said the young dancer. I’ll be able to arrange something.

There were children playing by the sea, using their shoes to scoop up water for sandcastles and moats.

— Odile wouldn’t mind, would you?

Monsieur was staring at me. I mentioned that I had been distracted by the bright sunlight. He sighed and said the problem was quite simple. Marguerite, he explained, had invited some family members to the performance that evening. They were driving down from London. Her sister had an eighteen-month-old child and no-one to baby-sit.

I nodded and said: I understand.

— There, said Monsieur. Problem solved.

I flushed but stammered that it would be my honor to help.

— Six o’clock, said Monsieur.

Years ago an uncle told me that if I were to be a little bird, it would always be the one with the broken wing. That evening I had prepared a meal for a table of twelve and, even though I say so myself, the food was exquisite. The only variation was for my uncle’s dish — I had laced it with spice and he spent the evening teary-eyed and coughing.

I wished at that moment to lace Monsieur’s dish, to say something that would make him stand back and sputter. But he appeared sicker than usual. With his foot problems and other ailments, he was having difficulty walking, and the thought of him stepping onstage to dance, upset, was distressing.

— I’d be delighted to help, I said.

Monsieur nodded and hobbled away down the beach. The young dancer looked back over her shoulder, smiled, and mouthed her thanks. Monsieur whistled at Emilio, who rose and followed them.

The water lapped at my toes and I felt a migraine coming on. Beyond the promenade I dipped into a café to order a glass of water for my tablets. Only moments later did I realize I had also ordered a slice of Battenberg cake, Tom’s favorite.

I left the cake untouched and returned to my room.

The sound of seagulls woke me and I saw on the bedside clock that it was almost six. I hurried to the hotel and pushed through the groups of admirers in the lobby waiting for Monsieur. I approached the front desk where, after a series of phone calls, I was directed to the penthouse floor.

Obviously there had been a mistake because when I knocked gently on the door it was Monsieur’s voice I heard, loud and impatient, saying: What?

Emilio opened the door and I glimpsed Monsieur on the massage table. Emilio was wearing thin rubber gloves. I noticed even from a distance that there were welts on Monsieur’s body and there was a little blood on the table’s paper sheet, near Monsieur’s feet. I stammered my apology, turned away, and the door closed quickly behind me.

I heard Monsieur curse.

— Lock the door! he shouted.

Downstairs, I was redirected to the young dancer’s room. The child was sleeping, bottles of milk had been prepared, a change of clothes neatly laid out, and there was even a pram in the room so I could rock him back and forth if he woke. He was a beautiful little boy with thin wisps of dark hair.

I bade good-bye to the family and settled in one of the easy chairs.

I have always detested hotel rooms. I had no desire to watch television, nor to tune in the radio. I found myself thinking of Tom, how I had shredded the shoes and how he might feel when he opened the box. It was impossible to stop the tears. Feeling claustrophobic, I bundled the baby in a light blanket, put him in the pram and brought him downstairs in the elevator.

It was still bright outside. Many young lovers were on the promenade and some clairvoyants had set up along the beachfront. A few people stopped and cooed at the baby in the pram, but when someone asked me the child’s name I realized that I didn’t know. I hurried along with my thoughts of Tom.

I was convinced that there were no other women, although his old landlady still sent him Christmas cards. And there had been no alcohol involved. Maybe there was another explanation. I wished I had taken his letter with me and perhaps, I thought, my actions had been far too rash.

Down the promenade I heard some loud swear words. When I looked I found myself just yards from a gang of young troublemakers leaning against the seafront wall. Their heads were shaved and they wore Union Jack suspenders and red boots up to their ankles.

I considered turning the pram around and walking quickly back to the hotel but I feared they might see my panic and try to steal my handbag. I pushed the pram through but curiously they didn’t seem to pay much attention. A few stars were out now and the sea was darkening. The baby woke and began to cry. I tried to soothe him and by the time he fell asleep again the darkness had descended.

I turned to see one of the young skinheads shimmying up a lamppost. He reached into his rear pocket and I caught the flash of a knife as he began to cut the poster of Monsieur down. He was shouting something terrible about homosexuals while his friends laughed and pushed each other around. My heart beat fast. I looked for the sort of people I’d seen earlier in the day — men in boating hats and middle-aged women in sandals — but there were none in sight. There was no way to take the baby carriage along the pebbled beach, and to get up to the town there were a number of steps I would be forced to climb.

There was nothing else to do but walk back through. My legs trembled, my mouth felt dry, but I held my carriage erect and sang a nursery rhyme to the child.