Dance

Every other Friday Tzipora worked for the railway, but she could be called up as a reservist if they were short of train guards or needed someone to watch the platform. Tzipora was only sixteen but it was not unusual to see young people working because their hours now reduced the obligation for national service that became compulsory after the age of eighteen. Cobian never had the impression that Tzipora worked for the sake of her looming national service – Tzipora worked on the trains because she liked the trains, and she liked to feel useful.

Such was the case on Wednesday evening, when Commonwealth National Rail had called her at home and she had happily obliged them a couple hours work. Cobian found her at the station around eight o’clock still wearing the shoes she wore to school but now sporting the jacket and tie of the railway company.

‘Are you nearly finished?’ Cobian asked. It was cold this evening and they were going out so she wore a hat and gloves.

‘There’s an eight-oh-two service that calls here, I’ll see to that, but afterwards I’ll clock out.’

‘Did you run anything tonight?’ she asked, referring to riding the trains around as a guard.

‘No, I was stuck at this station, but I don’t mind. I had some time to read, and I’ve had bottled coffee from the machine. So you know, that’s why I might seem excited.’

She had been running around and gently pressed the back of her white glove to her forehead.

‘You should join me here sometime,’ Tzipora said, pulling out a flag she’d tucked under her arm. ‘The work is easy and there’s a lot of honour in the railways. It’s not like a grocery where you just sit around and talk.’

‘I despise crowds,’ Cobian said. ‘And I’ve got a timid little voice. I can’t direct people; it wouldn’t suit me.’

‘You’ll end up serving your full four years at this rate. And if I’m working some weeknights what can you do? Just sit around at home? You might as well find some work.’

‘I have other friends,’ she said bitterly. ‘You’re starting to sound like my parents.’

But Tzipora was already looking towards the tracks, and moments later a chime came over the tannoy to signal the arriving train. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and unfurled her flags as she marched towards the guard’s steps at the end of the platform. Cobian watched her with amusement. Tzipora was a good worker; she was invigorated by the spirit of the dutiful railway attendant, clacking her shoe heels steadily across the stone floor in the brisk walk of a professional.

The eight-oh-two pulled in a moment later in colours that matched the orange accents on the staff uniforms. It hissed as constituent hydraulic and electric machinery tensed and released and the doors opened. Tzipora was not that tall and even on her steps she was difficult to see over the crowd that surged out. It was well past commuting hours and most of the passengers were dressed for dinner. A few seconds passed and they all filtered out into the street, and Tzipora blew her whistle and waved the train out with her green flag. Cobian watched her wave at the driver and the guard as the train rattled away under the rising hum of the electric motors.

A few minutes later they met on the station steps beneath yellow lamplight. Tzipora had redressed in school uniform and Cobian had her purse under her chin as she looked for a balm.

‘Well, which would you prefer to take out? The railway worker or the student?’

‘I just wish you’d brought clothes for dinner. Don’t you change after school? I’ve put on a dress.’

‘It’s a nice dress,’ Tzipora nodded. ‘I’m wearing a dress too.’

‘The dress you wear to school. And it’s cold out and you don’t have trousers underneath. Are you going to walk around in bare legs?’ She popped the lid off the balm and frowned as she ran it over her lips. It was a funny image.

‘My shins are always too cold. It makes no difference. I can’t tell the difference between ten degrees and zero; it’s all arctic to me.’

‘I have a very basic and normal desire for normalcy,’ Cobian said. ‘And you upset it for no good reason.’

‘If I was as normal as you,’ Tzipora said, coyly tilting her head and smiling up at her in the way she did when she was cheeky. ‘You wouldn’t like me as much as you do.’

‘Don’t count on it.’

They caught a train down the hill from Seispri to the lower parts of Lola, where the lights were brighter and people mingled in the street. Tzipora knew clubs where they played good rumba and they could dance. Most wouldn’t let them drink, but it was a week night and all they sought was some dinner and music. The station opened onto a well-lighted avenue that sat out of character in its quiet, leafy neighbourhood. The buildings had big letter signs on their roofs and advertisements in their windows, mostly written in English but some Oslolan and others languages they couldn’t read. The grey market thrived openly here. The light from the streetlamps was warm but it mingled with other colours too – red, green, blue – cast out by the narrow footwells of basement music bars and clubs. It had the appearance of a cabaret district, but it was not especially busy and it had no sinister lust in the periphery; there were no women standing around nor men to police them. It was quiet enough that if they stopped and watched their breath float in the cold, they could hear the distant thump of the Kongo Klub.

‘It’s Wednesday, right? Coretti’s brother, what’s-his-name, he plays with the Brazzaville Rats on Wednesdays and Fridays.’ Tzipora pulled her navy cape tight around her body so that only her face and a sliver of ankle caught the light in the night air.

‘I prefer salsa,’ Cobian said. ‘Salsa is something respectable for a Wednesday. Rumba is a weekend dance, I can only get it right when I’ve had something to drink.’

‘Andre,’ Tzipora exclaimed and nodded her head. ‘His name is Andre. And if you don’t want rumba, why not just pop into one of the jazz places? Let’s take it easy, I’ve been on my feet all night. And frankly, I’m bored to death of salsa.’

‘Fine with me.’

Tzipora led the way because she knew this part of town. She had the envious ability to walk into strange places and figure them out. She was obviously out of place – a student who didn’t even bother to change clothes – but her confidence and humour bought her a lot of patience. That was a special quirk of her personality – the courage to be a stranger, embarrassed and out of place. She was amply rewarded with friends in the good music joints, and with it many fine meals and places to dance. That was hard currency in a country like this.

Cobian had danced only at cotillion prior to meeting Tzipora, but she danced well now. She didn’t dance like Tzipora, who had it in her childhood and had no trace of self-consciousness. But she knew enough to enjoy it, and these mid-week excursions to the places where music and conversation mixed freely had become the highlights of her week. Tzipora was walking quickly and she followed closely behind her, afraid she’d shiver if she moved too slowly. She was wearing wool tights and long sleeves but all the heat had drained out of her. Tzipora seemed not to notice.

‘Coconut Tree is good.’ Tzipora turned to face Cobian suddenly, running her hands along the sides of her head to sweep her hair back. ‘It’s Carib, but it’s jazz, and the guy is nice.’

All clubs were run by a guy. Some had a girl. Some had a girl and a guy who took turns serving food, which at places like this was made hot and regular. They didn’t have a menu; you had what was on.

‘What I like about Coconut Tree is that it’s unpretentious,’ Tzipora was saying as they left the pavement and descended a couple steps towards a large wooden door, ‘That’s a real issue with these places, especially Carib clubs, no offence to them. Caribs are often insecure about being diaspora – what do you call it, being diasporic? They see real Africans and go, “oh, well, we’re real Africans too. Let’s play Naija music.” And you know what that does? It makes the food and music worse. I love Caribs; their traditions. They have a rich culture, and I’ll always prefer the real thing.”

There were a lot of Caribs around, even here in the arctic. They had entered the federation decades ago with all the West Indies and most of the minor Caribbean islands. It was a real mix of people from all corners of the world, but almost all had had ancestry as slaves or coolies for the Europeans. This was a new kind of society and their food and culture was very fashionable all around the country.

The stairwell was dark but warm air carrying spices and music floated past them. They hung their coats at the base of the stairs.

‘Good evening to you, Yoro,’ Tzipora said, patting down the half of her collar that had come up with the cape. ‘This is my friend, Cobian. Is dinner on?’

’Tzipora, how are you? Isn’t this a school night?’ Yoro was in his thirties and wore round spectacles and a small beard. He had skin a touch darker than Tzipora’s and kept his hair swept back. He didn’t look particularly Carib, though there was no such thing; he had a pacific kind of look about him. What did you call it? Melanesian?

‘Don’t worry, I’m not here for fun, just dinner,’ Tzipora grinned, sidling up to the rail on the floor of the bar and standing on it. ‘For fun I go to the Kongo Klub.’

‘I should kick you out.’

‘You’d lose my business,’ Tzipora said, and made a gesture of looking around. ‘You need it.’

‘You can have dinner and a dance,’ Yoro said, ‘but I’m closing up at ten. My girl is working late and we don’t get enough time as it is.’

‘Thanks. What’s on?’

‘Chicken and rice.’

‘The kind I like?’

‘Of course, the kind you like. You say you like everything. I’m starting to think you can’t tell good from bad.’

‘I like chicken and rice,’ she confirmed, and rapped her knuckles against the bar. Cobian moved to settle next to her at the bar but Tzipora gestured over to a table with a red tablecloth.

Cobian looked around the room and admired its dim lights and intimate seating. The band was right there and the sound filled all corners of the room. It looked like any other jazz club they’d been to. They all carried the same accoutrement; the same concept of a dark stage in a basement. It was a good place to be on a cold evening like this, but it didn’t have the romance of the Theatre Royal where they danced salsa.

Tzipora had picked a table out of the way, but Cobian thought she recognised the couple sitting nearby and paused to wonder if she could avoid drawing their attention. She made her way over but cursed her luck. There was no avoiding it.

‘Anik, hello,’ Cobian said, pulling her chair out to sit down, hoping it would keep the conversation brief. ‘Don’t you live in Reykjavic? Why are you up here in Lola?’

‘Cobian, hey, good evening.’ Anik said, and stood up just as she was sitting down. Cobian stood back up and received the customary kiss on both cheeks. ‘I come here sometimes,’ he said. ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘This is Tzipora, we’re school friends.’ Cobian said, and Tzipora said ‘nice to meet you.’ Cobian nodded towards his lady friend and said, ‘it’s Mary, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. Nice to see you again. We met at Anik’s rebirth.’ Mary was a short Algic girl that wore old-fashioned glasses and spoke awkwardly. It occurred to Cobian that Anik and Mary were nothing alike.

‘Sure, it’s nice to see you,’ Cobian said in Oslolan, before adding in English, ‘Tzipora, this is Anik and Mary, I went to school with them before coming to Moshel Street.’

‘Where’s your accent from, Tzipora?’

‘Egypt.’

‘That’s very exciting. With the pyramids.’

‘That’s right,’ Tzipora said, leaning forward. ‘I was a pharaoh there.’

The image of them sitting together revived memories of her old school. When they started dating in fifth or sixth year they’d been a minor sensation. No one could understand it. Anik was tall and slim and had very European features for an Algic man. He was no doubt part-Scandinavian, and he was well regarded among the girls at Electric Street School for this. Mary was short and solid and plain-looking. This provoked cruel gossip – what could he see in her? He was charming and handsome and he could have had just about anyone. Girls would wonder this aloud in amusement and jealousy when they were out of the room.

‘Do you two come for the music? I mean, do you like to dance, or are you just out for dinner?’ Cobian said stupidly, aimlessly. She did not even know why she was nervous. She’d liked Anik – basically everyone did – but she couldn’t tell whether the affection came from attraction or if it was just the nervousness inflicted on any ordinary person talking to a particularly beautiful human being.

‘Anik’s no good and I’m not much better,’ Mary smiled, and he laughed in the way that people in love do.

‘Let’s dance, Mary,’ Tzipora said, holding out her hands. ‘Let’s dance before my dinner gets here.’

‘What, now?’

‘Sure, now. You know what this is? It’s the Sidewinder, but it doesn’t last forever. I think it’s a student band, and you know, students are avant-garde. They hate the standards, you’ve got to seize them when they’re there before they go back to the crazy stuff.’

‘Okay, let’s dance then,’ Mary said, and pushed her chair back.

They moved up in front of the stage where the worn floorboards of the club were still exposed. Sidewinder was an easy song to dance to, and Mary stood twisting her shoulders for a few moments as she tried to catch the beat. It was the kind of song where the piano and drums swung along and the trumpet took the lead, threading the groove like a pin and stitch. Tzipora had already taken Mary’s hands and was swinging around, moving her leg in something like the twist. They danced with their shoulders for a bit before they caught the beat and started stepping back and forth. Tzipora lifted Mary’s hands and twirled underneath. Cobian smiled at the joy of it all and sat down where Mary had been sitting.

‘Look at us,’ Alik said, ‘we’ve been left behind as invalids.’

‘I’m not half-bad, you know,’ Cobian said, leaning back and watching the band. ‘But, you know, we’ll see,’ and she trailed off. ‘You and Mary make a cute pair. It’s nice to see you together after all this time.’

‘Well, I’m seventeen now. I’ve only got a year left. Mary’ll be soon after me. There’s a lot of change coming. I love her, and I’ll follow her, but there’s a lot of change coming.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Cobian said. ‘I got no idea about anything. I can’t think about the future for too long or I start to lose myself in it. So I’m just taking it day by day.’

She glanced at Anik, who was watching Mary and Tzipora, and followed his gaze towards the dancing girls. A feeling of deep sadness settled over her. It was implacable and not altogether uncomfortable. Maybe it was fringed with nostalgia; maybe there was an object of longing. She watched them dance. The band was getting into it, playing a little faster and louder. Tzipora was having a good time, pulling faces at Mary and laughing at her own silliness. It was a pleasant kind of heartache. Maybe that’s what loneliness in company is.

The chicken and rice came soon after and Tzipora flopped down, happy and sweaty and fanning herself. Chicken and rice was rum chicken, served in big heaps atop rice and plantains. It was spiced in nutmeg, paprika, chilli and garlic. Tzipora ate quickly, sometimes with her hands, and chased it with water. Cobian followed along, trying to keep up. It was warm in the basement and the spices made her feel like heaters were burning her from inside and out.

‘Isn’t this good? You can dance to jazz,’ Tzipora said, maybe to herself. ‘You can dance to anything.’ As she was saying this she reached for her school tie, which looked a bit like a priest’s collar turned down, and took it out. The fact that Tzipora removed her tie when it was hot suggested that, under specific conditions, she could in fact be influenced by the environment around her. Cobian smiled thinking about this.

After they finished dinner they danced a little, but it was getting late and they were satisfied. Tzipora talked a little with Yoro on the way out, wishing him luck about something or other. They said so long to Anik and Mary who asked Cobian to call, but that was just something people said. She did not know if they were being polite.

They found themselves at the station and they watched the electric timetable clatter its letter cards as trains came and left. It was mostly empty and there was no noise at all. Tzipora appeared to be in a kind of trance, like she was sleeping while sitting up, and her expression was relaxed and unburdened.

‘Do you think about the future?’ Cobian asked. Her voice was low and quiet.

‘Not much,’ Tzipora said. She slid her shoes around on the stone as she leaned back against the wall. ‘I still have business with the past. I think about the past much more than the future.’

‘I’ve been thinking a lot. I’m a bit scared about it.’

‘There’s nothing to be scared about,’ Tzipora said, ‘we have the whole world.’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘Don’t you feel it? I have school, dancing, chicken, rice. You know… I have a house, and my work with the railway, and lots of in-between time for you and a book.’

Cobian didn’t say anything because she couldn’t understand it. She took her gloves off and put them away in her coat pocket and then stretched her legs out before her and sighed. Tzipora saw her doing this and did the same, bumping Cobian’s nice pumps with her old school loafers as if to say something about them. The top of her loafers were all scuffed, the heel worn down from dancing and jumping and running and whatever else Tzipora did. Cobian brought her legs back.

‘You know, talking to Anik in there, I felt funny about it. I thought maybe seeing him had awakened an old crush, or a feeling… I don’t know.’

‘Was it a crush?’ Tzipora asked, leaning in. ‘I don’t know if you can say this about a man, but he’s very beautiful. Mary too.’

Cobian shook her head and felt suddenly she might cry. She lowered her head and her hat fell into her lap. ‘Sorry,’ she said, though she’d caught it. ‘It’s very late.’

‘We didn’t dance as much this time,’ Tzipora said, taking her hat from her lap and placing it on her own head. ‘But it’s no matter at all. We have millions of nights ahead of us.’

Cobian wiped her eyes and sniffed. She had the sense that something had cracked open deep inside and was flooding her, filling her up.

‘How can you have the world,’ she said in a shaky voice, ‘and still feel like this?’

Tzipora did not say anything for a while and sat quietly. After a few moments she reached over and took her hands and held them.

‘Well, maybe both can be true,’ she said, looking at Cobian’s hands. ‘There’s space for both, don’t you think?’