The Dancer Upstairs by Nicholas Shakespeare Page A

time of “indigenism”, the country enjoying one of its spasmodic celebrations of self-discovery. For Sylvina it was an assertion of identity to be seen in fashionable company, white hand in brown, and I was not immune, either. Now, twelve years on, she believed learning classical ballet might go some way to removing the jungle from Laura’s face.
    But you only had to look at Laura to understand she wasn’t built for classical ballet. It agonized me to watch her struggling, bewildered, before the mirror we had installed in the hall. I could see the pain she inflicted on herself, trying to make her joints go in a way they were not meant to; doing things which did not come naturally to her body.
    When I mentioned this to Sylvina, she said, “To be a good ballerina, you have to deform yourself.”
    I said nothing, but it made me angry. Laura had her own poise, her own beauty. She required nothing more.
    However this was not the matter I needed to discuss with her teacher.
    I asked Laura to sit in the car.
    My knock resounded in the street. Over the wall, I heard a sliding door being opened, footsteps, the drawing of a bolt.
    She was dressed in black: black, round-necked leotard with long sleeves, a gauzy black ankle-length skirt over it, black ballet slippers.
    â€œYolanda? I’m Laura’s father.”
    She pointed to her smiling mouth which was full. She put a hand to her throat as if this would make her swallow quicker.
    â€œThere. Sorry.” She held up a slice of banna cake on a paper plate. “I’ve just made it. Want some?”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    â€œBut Laura’s left. Haven’t you seen her?”
    â€œShe’s in the car.”
    â€œDo you want to bring her in?”
    â€œI’d rather not. It’s about your letter.”
    â€œOh. Yes,” she said, as if she had forgotten. It’s an embarrassing thing, to tell someone their cheque has bounced.
    She unfastened the door chain. Beneath the streetlight her face gleamed pale, still wet from where she had towelled off her make-up. Wide brown eyes set on high cheekbones, a clear skin, fine dark hair. She looked frank, honest, conscientious – the kind of person you might tell everything to on first meeting.
    â€œPlease. Come through.”
    I followed her across the patio. We entered the studio through a glass door and she slid it shut after me.
    The room smelled of cigarettes, sweat, and the musky scent of rosin. A wooden barre, slung with pink tights and tracksuit tops, ran around two mirrored walls. Laid out on the shiny parquet floor were inflatable grey mats for breathing exercises and, against the near wall, a cassette-player, a tin box scattered about with white powder, and a leather trunk. One door, half open, covered in photographs of dancers, led into a kitchen. Another, also ajar, into a shower room. The mirrors were steamed over.
    She put on a tape, Tchaikovsky, quite loud, as if that was what I would expect – and raised her arms in an apologetic spread at the tatty state of her studio. “So. This is it.”
    Beneath the strip-lighting, there was something original and unfeigned about her. Also a graveness, as if she had been marked by a bad love affair.
    â€œLaura warned you? Once inside you have to do everything I say.”
    Before I could answer, she raised one hand above her head and slid her fingers down an invisible rope to her neck. Speaking in a strict Germanic accent, she said, “The best position for a dancer is the one when you’re hanged, because it’s very well placed. The hips are over the feet. The shoulders are over the hips. The head is midway. Ja, it’s a wonderful position.” The imitation was good. She made me want to laugh.
    â€œMadame Offenbach?”
    â€œNot a success, I gather?”
    â€œNo.”
    I could see Yolanda wanted to say, “I hope Laura’s happier here,” but she held the words back, her lips