“Think you’ll find the guy went up there.”
The charity-case pointed across the road and up to the third floor of a tenement building. It had big windows with blinds drawn, ‘SATORI DANCE STUDIO’ stencilled in orange letters on the glass.
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nup. Favour for a favour”
“I didn’t get your name, stranger.”
“Didn’t give it.”
The man faded back into the doorway, so Jack took that as his notice to move on. Having checked for non-existent traffic, he crossed the street and found an iron staircase leading off the footpath.
He ascended the steps quietly, three at a time, and finally came to a small, covered balcony with a door that had the number three on it and the name of the studio, along with splashed black paint that formed a rough kanji symbol.
Jack could make out music within. Something orchestral — melancholic, yet oddly uplifting, all strings and horns and a softly tinkering harp.
The large window was just to his right, spattered with droplets of water, and he noticed a gap: about an inch, between closed blind and the sill, through which light escaped. Jack leaned over to put an eye to the glass.
There was, indeed, a studio, with a rotating wooden fan up on the ceiling, oak flooring, handrails attached to two of the walls, and a large, simple framed poster bearing two names (Alessandra Ferri and Massimo Murru) beneath the French words La Chauve-souris.
Otherwise the place was empty — aside from a duo dancing together across the boards, doing some kind of ballet routine in time to the music.
The man lifted his partner into the air and she affected a handstand, legs scissored; with effortless ease she wound herself around the man’s neck and their faces came close, almost a kiss.
Swivelling into her beau’s embrace, the woman was then spun several times, and she deliberately fell into his arms. He whisked his partner full somersault, landing her behind on her toes — from there to lean in for a desperate hug. Their faces again touched.
The music reached a crescendo, all clashing timpani and violins, just as the girl, perspiring, and her partner — who couldn’t sweat — clung to one another and smiled. Yes, it was moving, mesmerizing, astoundingly beautiful, and other superlatives that should not have been possible.
Jack had to drag himself away from the spectacle. The man was the Brick, and he could dance.
The Brick’s agile partner may have worn something different — a white, full-body leotard that hugged every immaculate curve — but Jack recognized the domino mask she was wearing, and her different coloured eyes.
“Snoop.”
Jack swung about, spooked, even as he felt an inordinate amount of anger.
“Think I’m bloody justified in saying the same of you.”
“Shhh. Fair enough.”
“The Brick and Prima Ballerina. How—?”
“Long? About a year.”
Pretty Amazonia had precariously perched herself on the wet, flimsy balcony railing, long hair — Tyrian purple in the evening illumination — waving in a soft breeze. She possessed something of a cheerless attitude, and Jack had to resist the impulse to push her over the edge.
“Now you know our Brick’s skeleton,” she said. “They breed like rabbits. We all have them. Soon enough you’ll hear the pitter-patter of little skeletons.”
“So I’m learning. Heropa has more secrets than a grave.”
“Oh, very pithy, Jack.”
“What’s your secret?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be one.”
“That’s unfair.”
“That’s life.”
“But why does the Brick keep this — this relationship — hush hush?”
“With good reason. Remember when you first arrived, and he told you the rules of Heropa? How he skipped past the third one, pretended he forgot?”
“Vaguely.”
“Number three dictates no sexual relations between members of the Equalizers and the Rotters. It’s expressly forbidden.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“Who conjured up these dumb rules?”
“A bunch of idiots, I agree, but we have to carouse by them. Anyone finds out, those two,” Pretty Amazonia nodded in the direction of the window and the score they could still hear, “will be given the boot from Heropa. The sad part is they believe no one knows.”
“Who does? Know, I mean.”
“Me. Bulkhead. Now you. So we keep this under the cuff — the three of us. Like our other secrets. Mister B doesn’t need to know, agreed?”
Jack could make out the rousing music inside. “Okay.”
#133
The next morning might’ve been mistaken for a showpiece of domestic bliss, since the Brick, Pretty Amazonia and Southern Cross were at a table in the big kitchen, tucking into pancakes.