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Céline

Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.— Charles Baudelaire

The most memorable day of the summer was the party Gio threw for Les’ fortieth birthday,

the kind of event which people will talk about years later. Yvonne chose an open-air restaurant

in the park of Buttes Chaumont.

Yvonne’s friend, Ashour, a Moroccan, prepared the feast, an excitable man no taller than I,

weighing ninety pounds. His dark eyes floating in a sea of moisture, Ashour slaved for two days

creating masterpieces so extraordinary I’ve kept an account of his recipes.

Buttes Chaumont - Temple de la Sibylle. - Bensliman Hassan

From Tunisia, Briks à l’Oeuf, a pastry filled with lamb seasoned with onion, cumin, paprika,

cayenne, and cilantro; from Morocco, B’stilla, a semolina pastry stuffed with squab meat, and

seasoned with ginger, cumin, cayenne, turmeric, cinnamon, saffron threads, and layered with

blanched almonds.

But the chef d’œuvre was the butter tart baked with figs, raspberries, and orange liqueur,served with champagne. Our fête champêtre unleashed seismic forces that affected everyone, asif the full moon above had turned everything upside down, initiating new romances, rupturingold romances, and creating new souls.

As the light faded in the west, and the crickets began to sing, we lit the candles in theChinese paper lanterns I’d hung in the branches of the trees. After dinner, a band of Gypsymusicians took out their instruments, struck up a Gypsy tune, and everyone began to dance.

Inna Reznik

Alfaguarilla

Moment by moment, the music seized the dancers as if a spell had been cast upon

them by sorcerers. A man with sparkling gold teeth, a purple handkerchief tied around his

neck, was playing the accordion, the whole night through looking at me, smiling a

mesmerizing smile

Les Gordon, the leader of Gio’s group, danced most of the night with Francine, a willowy

girl from Trinidad who was sweet on the American. Tito the drummer was with Domenica, a spicy

Brazilian girl. The bass player, Thaddeus was with his newlywed darling Yvette, and Denis, the

piano player, brought Monique, a zany girl he’d picked up in the club the night before. Joined by

musicians from all over Europe, they frolicked like Grecian furies bewitched by gypsy spells,

whirling around and around until I thought the very trees themselves would pull up their roots and

join the madness of the dance. Gio joined the gypsy band, playing his trumpet in a hot style I’d not

heard before. With his gift of quickly picking up music, he became a gypsy for a night, his horn

melding beautifully with two violins, guitar, drums and accordion. He requested the band to play a

tango and asked Yvonne to dance.

Slavko Sereda

Although she had only taught him the tango a few weeks ago, with his supple body, fine

sense of rhythm, and elegance of movement, he’d discovered that tango was a dance made just

for him. I’d never seen a couple so perfectly matched, for the tango is a dance fashioned for

lovers.

The other dancers stopped to watch Gio’s gliding movements which make his tango so

sensual. Yvonne leaned against him rocking slowly back and forth, slid her leg around his,

pausing for a moment before drawing it slowly away, their bodies perfectly synchronized in the

language of passion. I imagined they were one creature, both male and female united in one soul.

Max4e Photo

When the band took a break, I went for a walk through the forest in moonlight. Ever

since Gio came into our lives, I’ve been transformed. The strange feelings in my body are hard

to understand. Although many girls my age have had their period, I have not. It is not

uncommon for young dancers who stress their body to the maximum to have a delayed period.

I'm not going to be overly concerned about not attaining it. It will happen when it happens.

Though I still have the body of a young girl, I no longer feel like a girl. I'm in purgatory. I

believe that you're a woman when you feel you're ready to be a woman. I'm not quite there yet.

Szocs Csilla

I began shivering even though the night was sultry, the dream of last night was flashing

by. Mama was lying on the floor, her legs strangely twisted in a satin slip and necklace of pearls.

I woke up crying, “Yvonne. Yvonne,” covered with sweat, the sheets tied in knots. I ran to

Yvonne’s room and sat for a long time. I watched them sleep, her arm resting on Gio's stomach,

moonlight dusting her hair.

The band began playing again, a melancholy melody in harmony with the sounds of the

night—-chirping of crickets, hooting of an owl, the whispering of the wind in the trees, the sweet

songs of nocturnal birds. I looked at the chemise Yvonne helped me make for the fête, sheer

white batiste, transparent enough to show the shadow of my leg. The light fabric floats around

me when I move. Here I am, fourteen, longing for romance with no one in my life. I’m doomed

to be alone.

I went deeper into the forest until I reached a clearing, the shadows of the enclosing trees

forming a circular glade. A current of air swept over me, cooler than the humid heat of a moment

before, caressing my bare shoulders as the moon came out from the clouds, its radiance sparkling

on the grass. As I stretched upward on demi-pointe to embrace the moon, I felt the sudden urge

to pull off my dress and go naked in the forest. I pulled my chemise over my head and ran in the

silvery grass wearing only my panties and satin slippers, a cool current of air fluttering over my

skin like an invisible creature caressing me. As the gypsies began another tune flying towards

me on the breeze, I began to dance a wild dance, not the classical movements I'd learned from

Orosháza, but as Yasmina had shown me, the way I dance when no one is looking, swinging my

hips, contracting my stomach, rolling my shoulders, twisting my neck, my arms undulating like a

snake. It would shock them at class if they saw me dancing like this. Suddenly, I stopped dead

still in the moonlight. The meadow was glistening, grass swaying in the wind. Like an animal, I

sensed someone was watching. Then, I saw a face in the trees coming towards me! I ran to grab

my dress. A man stepped out into the moonlight.

“So here you are my little fairy, dancing in the woods,” he laughed. It was Les.

He ignored my state of undress as I slipped on my frock, then scooped me up in his arms

and tossed me high until I was sitting on his shoulder. Just as we returned, the band began a

rumba and Les said, “Let’s dance.” I had no idea how to do a rumba but followed his moves. Les

had that Latin rhythm down. When the number ended, he said, “You’re going to be something

else in a few years. Yes siree, you’re going to be something else.”

I kissed him on the cheek. “Happy Birthday Les!”

Across the dance floor, I saw Gio. I excused myself and moved through the crowd

toward him. Dancing with Les had awakened my confidence. I was going to ask Gio to dance.

His back was toward me. My heart was pounding. Just as I was close behind him, I reached out

to touch his arm, but he moved away. “Gio,” I called. But my voice was lost in the music. I

wanted to run after him, but my feet wouldn’t budge.

Late in the evening Isabella came in, the lady in a red dress who would turn things

topsy turvy.

Ballerina Vanesa Vento. Company Antonio Gades. - Criben

She came with her dancing partner, Ernesto, a small man with black eyes and high cheek

bones roughly carved like an unfinished sculpture, his face marked by pockmarks and grief. I

remarked the powerful muscles of his thighs under his skin tight black pants. His carriage was

proud, his body sublime.

Isabella’s skin was the color of golden caramel. Close to twenty, she had black eyes, a

narrow aquiline nose, an elegant neck, and shiny hair that fell below her narrow waist. Someone

said she was from Jerez de la Frontera and danced flamenco in a club in Pigalle. Her almond-

shaped eyes were lined in black pencil, her long eyelashes dark with mascara. Long earrings of

green emeralds brushed her bare shoulders. Her red dress, cut close to her supple body, caressed

her as she moved. When she made her entrance, Gio was blowing his trumpet. She looked

straight at him then shifted her gaze. The woman was a panther.

Ernesto spoke to the band leader and they struck up a lively tune. The accordionist, the

one with rimless eyeglasses and sparkling gold teeth, was doing a vibrato, a shaking of the

bellows, his eyes still on me. Isabella circled Ernesto, her dark eyes flashing, clapping her

hands and stamping her feet, the tendons of her neck standing out, her back in an arc, her red

dress flying above her pounding feet. When she’d finished her performance, she asked Gio to

dance, her wide mouth spreading upon a burning smile. With the confidence of the enchantress

Circes, famed for turning men into wild beasts, Isabella floated into Giovanni’s arm like a leaf

floating on the wind. After they finished one dance, they danced another.

“We’re leaving,” Yvonne said taking my hand.

“No!” I cried and pulled away. She grabbed me and pulled me down the hill into the

street. An hour before, she’d been so gay. Now her face was cold and dead. I wanted to say

something to comfort her but couldn’t think of one hopeful thing to say. I slipped my hand in

hers and held it all the way home.

Svetlana Mahovskaya

If ever any beauty I did see, which I desired,

and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

— John Donne

The Park of Buttes Chaumont was named after Chauve-mont, a gypsum and limestone quarrynear the Gibbet of Montfaucon where hanged criminals were displayed after their execution.After the French Revolution, the quarry became a refuse dump. Under the direction of ParisDirector of Works Jean-Charles Alphand, builder of the Bois de Boulogne and the Bois deVincennes, a railroad track was laid to bring in freight cars of hundreds of thousands of cubicmeters of topsoil. A lake was dug using explosives to sculpt the rugged buttes, turning the formerquarry into a magical landscape, with cliffs fifty meters high, a romantic grotto and waterfall fedby hydraulic pumps lifting water from the canal of the Ourcq River. The Prefet of Paris BaronHaussmann engaged the chief gardener of Paris, horticulturist Jean-Pierre Barillet-Deschamps,to plant thousands of trees and flowers. The chief architect of Paris Gabriel Davioud designedthe Temple de la Sibylle on the heights of the promontory, its design inspired by the Temple ofVesta in Tivoli, Italy. Opened in 1867, at the time of the Paris Universal Exposition, it becameone of the most popular parks of Paris. Photo by Moonik – Wikipedia Commons.

Moonkik – Wikipedia Commons