First Love Part Two

I

I was going to my first dance at a Hungarian Church where I could neither dance nor speak Hungarian. I must have been temporarily insane or desperate.

That Saturday evening, Artie’s father, dressed in a dark blue suit, drove the three of us to downtown Toronto where we ended up in a church hall with fifty other young people of similar age and background—except for me.

The proceedings began with a prayer in Hungarian, followed by what seemed to be a sermon in the same. The priest was very nice and smiled a lot—everyone was nice and smiled encouragingly at me—and that only made me feel even more awkward and out of place.

Then, the lights in the hall dimmed, and music played. The boys lined up against one wall, the girls at the opposite side.

I had seen a Civil War film and the scene was reminiscent in many ways, except for rifles and bayonets.

Ironically, the priest broke the ice, taking one boy over to a dark-haired girl on the opposing side, making introductions, and insisting they dance.

One by one, the impasse was solved—I was paired with a brown-haired girl who was very plain, but somehow sexy as well. She moved like a statue and I followed her around the floor. I could barely breathe, never being this close to an angel before.

We danced several wooden dances this way, until the music suddenly stopped. Artie came over and hissed in my ear, “Oh good! Musical chairs.”

As soon as he uttered the words, a circle of wooden chairs appeared in the middle of the floor and we all moved about them until the music stopped, and we scrambled to sit down.

At last, something I could do!

The game went on and on, until finally, only my dance partner and I remained.

“Well, it looks like the boys have won,” I heard the priest whisper.

The music began again, amid much laughter and shouting. I timed my movements to hers, and when the music stopped, I let her sit down.

A groan went up from the boys. Artie came over and glared, “Why did you do that?”

“I wanted her to win,” I said, as if that explained it all.

The chairs were cleared from the dance floor and a waltz began. I looked for my partner, but felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned and looked into Eva’s lovely face.

She was smiling that inscrutable smile. “Do you want to dance?”

I nodded, unable to speak. She took my hand in hers and led me out to the floor.

I turned to stone—my heart beating so loudly I was certain all could hear.

A look of compassion crossed her face—lovely as a cloud softly veiling the Moon.

Forget about your feet—gaze into my eyes and go where the music takes you.

I had never heard a voice, so soft and so caring. My heart melted and I wanted to weep, but something inside me stirred. I wanted to dance… with her.

We began and soon we were dancing on clouds, stars beneath us, and Moon above.

Her hand, a willow moving upon my own rough hand, Her eyes silent midnight rain falling in the woods.

We went places I’ve never been—my right hand grasped hers, my left held her waist. She leaned in and I inhaled perfumed hair. Her soft cheek brushed my mine.

I was deaf to the music, entranced by her eyes.

As we drove home that night, she sat in the back seat between Artie and me. In the darkness, her hand found mine.

This time a sob began inside me—my throat tightened and my eyes burned.

I can still see the blurry halo of streetlights—hear the muffled noises of passing cars out in the cold.

As we pulled into her driveway, she leaned over and whispered, “I had a good time.”

And for only a second, her lips brushed mine.

She went away to private school for next semester, being a year ahead, in grade nine.

After that, it was Europe and Parisian culture—and then, staying with relatives on the Rhine.

By the time we finished high school, she was a debutante and married Baron Drogas from the Romanian line.

We never met again, but Artie and I stayed friends, until one night, in a drunken tirade, he accused me of lusting after his sister. We scuffled, and some friends broke up the fight.

Then, Artie was gone, and with him, another page of my life.

But sometimes at night, when I drift off to sleep, I picture her face, and feel her close.

We are dancing again with stars beneath us. She leans in and whispers. Her lips softly brush mine.

And I’m deaf, deaf to the music, but dancing with her and stars that shine.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved


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