"Kathe Koja - Pas de Deux" - читать интересную книгу автора (Koja Kathe)

her face with both hands, patty-cake, baby face, squeezing her cheeks in the mirror.
"That's what you don't have."
And now this cold walk, each individual bone in her face aching, teeth aching,
sound of the wind in her ears even when she was safe inside, door locked, space
heater's orange drone and as late as it was, as cold as it was she stripped down to
leggings, bare feet, bare breasts and danced in the dark, sweating, panting, the stitch
cruel in her side, in her throat, in her heart, tripped by unseen obstacles, one hip
slamming hard into the barre, metallic thud of metal to flesh, flesh to metal like
mating, like fucking and she wished she had brought someone home with her, it
would have been nice to fuck a warm boy in the dark but she was alone and so she
danced instead, spun and stumbled and hit the barre, hit the barre, hit the barre until
she literally could not move, stood knees-locked and panting, panting from fear of
stasis as outside, past the yellowed shades, the sun at last began to rise.


Adele's book lay where she had tossed it, square and silent on the bathroom floor
but one night, back from dancing and sick to her stomach the beer, something had
not agreed with her from the toilet she picked it up, skimmed through the chapters,
the inset pictures, and although it was very poorly written as a writer Adele had
apparently been a fine dancerstill there was something, one phrase arresting like a
blow, a slap in the face: For me, said Adele, Balanchine was a prince. You must
find your own prince, you must make him your own.
Find your prince: Prince Edward! and she laughed, pants rucked down around
her ankles, thin yellow diarrhea and she laughed and laughed but the phrase stayed
with her, clung like the memory of motion to the bones and she began to look, here
and there, at the young men at the clubs, look and gauge and wonder and sometimes
at night, pinned and breathing beneath them, talking of hunger and love she would
wonder what a prince was, how to see one: how one knew: was it something in the
body, some burn, some vast unspeaking signal? The body does not lie: she knew
this. And Adeleconsidering the small black-and-white picture, that arched avian
nose, high bones to show like a taunt to life itself the skull inside the meat had more
than likely known it too.


The body does not lie.
Ten years old on the way to ballet class, forced by her mothers instigation: "So
you'll learn how to move, sweetie," her mother so small and fat and anxious, patting
her daughter's cheeks, round cheeks, small bony chin like a misplaced fist. "So
you'll be more comfortable with your body."
"But I am comfortable," sullen child's lie, head averted, temple pressed stubborn
to the hot glass of the car window. "Anyway I'd rather play soccer, why can't I sign
up for soccer?"
"Dance is better." The old car swung inexpertly into the strip mall parking lot,
DANCE ACADEMY in stylized curlicue blue, cheap rice-paper blinds between
MINDY'S DOG GROOMING and a discount hand-tool outlet. Smaller inside than it
seemed from the street, ferocious dry air-conditioned cold and three girls listless at
the barre, two older than she, one much younger, all in cotton-candy colors; from
past the walls the sounds of barking dogs. The woman at the desk asking "Will this
be for the full semester?" and her mother's diffidence, well, we just wanted to try the
introductory sessions, just let her try and see if s h e