At last, Auntie fainted. The cameraman’s face had turned green. Mrs Beech drank glasses of water in quick succession. She squirmed in the seat next to her husband — front row centre.
At rehearsals, Mrs Beech’s daughter, Giselle, had been the most graceful, talented child, as elegant as ever in her pink tutu, leotards and ballet shoes, all tiny bows and flowers. They had all seen her perform — arms suspended, bent at the elbows, fingers pointed inwards. They had all enjoyed her tippitty-toe, tippitty-toe, pirouette, en pointe, tippitty-toe, pirouette. There were moments when she was in the air, butterfly flying, her feet barely touching the ground. Her routine was flawless, the perfect combination of highs, lows and twirls that left you pleasantly breathless.
On the night of the finals, Auntie had growled the children into their proper places and the audience was instructed to be quiet and not to interfere with the children while they were performing. Then she was on stage with her engaging smile, thanking sponsors and wardrobe designers. She welcomed the contestants on stage one after the other, finally calling on Giselle.
A drummer walked on. He settled down in a far corner, paused and exhaled a startling thunder of blows on the bare skin of the drum until he was beating out a hard rhythm. Her toes stark naked, Giselle was on stage springing up and down like a wild animal. The tutu, leotards and slippers had all been stripped off and she was on stage in a short, white wrap with a thin, red waistband, her smooth skin marred with ugly red globs of paint. Gone were the butterfly steps and graceful hands. She was now akimbo, now marching on the spot, jabbing at the air around her with protruding elbows, now planted firmly on the ground with her hands cupping the air in front of her, holding up an unseen bowl. The angry drums beat out a warrior’s rage. Her face was stiff and hard and her eyes focused front row center.
Auntie’s face was bloodless.
The child flung her arms and head first right, then left, while she pranced to the drumbeat, her legs springing off the ground so fast that you could barely see the right one taking off moments before the left. To the beat of the heated drums she leapt, flying away through the air, landing with a slap flat on her feet at the same time that the drummer’s stinging hands crashed into the heated drum skin.
Then there was silence, while this 12-year-old girl started gliding her feet in circular motions and grinding her hips hard, eyes dead ahead. The drums quiet, the girl’s voice catapulted into the audience, more startling than the initial violence of the drum. She had come to tell a story, about a butterfly that had lost a few of its legs in a struggle with her, how she had let it go in the end but it fluttered about, discoloured where fingerprints had rubbed off her wings, and it wobbled on grass tips a bit before it dropped away. She had come to tell a story.
Her friend had asked her to tell her Daddy to stop rub up, rub up her belly because the print of his heavy fingers was sinking in deeper and she could not rub them out when she went to bathe. Come out from under her skin. If she could, she would carry it, but it was inside her skin and she could feel him there, pressing too hard like she was bruising and he was squeezing her so tight — Daddy, don’t cover my mouth no more, I can’t breathe, O God, O God, I can’t breathe.
With that, the girl pranced anew, digging her marked body violently until, exhausted, she sprang up on pointed toes, throwing both hands over her head left and right to the rising madness of the hot drum. With a final dip and spin her top half swung right around and both feet were off the ground and she let out a cry, landing whap on the floor.
Natasha Second is a teacher at Bishop’s High School, Tobago. She is completing her first novel and a collection of short stories, and hopes to establish a theatre movement in Tobago. In 1999, she graduated from the University of the West Indies, Mona, with a double major in Geography and English. She recently completed the Cropper Foundation’s Caribbean writers’ workshop with nine other participants.
