Callie and Jools 4
transcendent
“Each had thought of flight.”
They were stood staring up at the clock tower. She said, ‘Did you really climb Big Ben?’
‘Yes.’
She glanced at him again. Liars use too many words, she knew. One word. He was telling the truth. She almost believed him. ‘How did you get past the lip, up there?’
‘The overhang? I cheated. The stone is hard but the mortar is soft, so I used an expanding piton, just one, to give me a hold while I swung out to reach up.’
‘You swung out?’
‘You can’t just cling on. Movement gives you space.’
‘You sound like Anna.’
‘Your choreographer?’
‘She’s assistant director really. But the director, now she is a star, and she is called Prima Assaluta Ballerina.’
He parsed this. ‘Absolute Top Dancer.’
She smiled at his translation. ‘Yes.’
After a few moments, she said, ‘I’m a demi-soloist. I get spots in the dance, but the main spotlight is on the first soloists.’ She glanced at Jools. ‘That’s what we’re supposed to call them, but we still call them Prima Ballerinas, because that’s what we all want to be.’
Leaving her there for a moment, he jogged across the road and went to van and bought a slice of garlic bread. Returning, before he took a bite, he offered it to her. She shook her head so he took it back and took a large bite, wiped his mouth with the tissue that came with the bread. ‘You have a hard life,’ he said, after swallowing. She gave him a look and he said, ‘No, I’m serious. Seems to me it’s all pain and hunger.’
She said, ‘It is, sort of; it can be exhausting. I’ve thought of escape, of just stopping, living a normal life, but I never would.’
‘Is that why you do it? To escape normal life?’
‘I do it for the same reason as you climb buildings, I think.’ He noticed when she was speaking her thoughts, her accent was heavier, ‘For those moments of…’ she tried to think of the right word, ‘you say you never want to lose yourself, but when you climb, there are moments of… transcendence?’
This made him pause. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. ‘When I stand on top of a building that I’ve just climbed, when it’s just me, alone, and the city is below all lights and noise and I’m,’ he shook his head, ‘it just makes my life worthwhile, you know? Nothing else makes quite so much sense.’
‘If life made sense, you wouldn’t climb.’
‘I don’t suppose I would,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t, so I climb.’ He finished the bread, went to a plastic bin and dropped in the wrapping paper. He looked along the embankment towards Westminster Bridge. ‘Come on,’ he said, returning. ‘You must keep walking.’
She’d stopped some minutes earlier take a call from someone she called Davide, her face had lit up when she saw his name appear on her phone, and they had spoken excitedly in a foreign language; they were close, he could tell, and he was not part of their conversation. It gave him a pang of jealousy. The day was drawing to a close. Evening was approaching, street lamps were coming on, one by one.
Hanging up, she’d turned and saw where they were, and she had stared up at the red stone tower with the clock faces art the top. Now, as they walked away, she asked, ‘How did you get down?’
‘Well first, I had to get past the clock faces, above those and get to the very top.’
‘The very top.’
‘Otherwise I couldn’t say I’d climbed it. I was tempted to ride the minute hand on one of the clock faces all the way round the hour, but it would have taken too long and someone would have spotted me. So I climbed other top, said Hello to the river and the city,’ he looked thoughtful, ‘you have to be careful when you get to the top. If you suddenly look up or around you can get dizzy, so you say Hello and give thanks.’ He smiled, looked a little embarrassed at giving away this tidbit of knowledge. ‘Then I climbed back down to the clock faces, skirted round them looking for a door, found one, then let myself in; it wasn’t locked.’
She laughed out loud at this. ‘Because who needs a lock at the top of a tower?”
‘Exactly. Then I walked down the staircase al the way to the bottom, sneaked out.’
They crossed the road and turned left, walking along the Embankment, past Scotland Yard, past greenery on the left, the Thames on their right, until the saw the Jubiliee Bridge ahead. Even when she was in great pain she never complained, he thought. ‘Left at the bridge, back to Trafalgar Square,’ he said ‘How’re your steps doing?’
She took out her phone and checked. ‘Over eighteen thousand.’
‘How’s your leg?’
‘It’s working.’
They turned left, crossed the busy road at the traffic lights, and found themselves staring up at the statue of Lord Nelson. ‘Who is that?’ she asked.
‘He’s an English sailor. He won battles.’
‘I’m half English,’ she said. ‘Sort of, but I don’t know much about England or its history. My father is Greek with an English mother and mummy is English with a French papa.’
‘Two quarters English,’ he said. ‘Like four squares on a chess board.’
‘Yes.’ She liked that. ‘I’ve never lived in England,’ she said.
‘I live here so you don’t have to,’ he said.
‘That is a smart reply, Julien,’ she said.
‘I’m a smart reply sort of guy.’
‘Now you’re overdoing it.’
‘I am,’ he said, but there was a twinkle of humour in his eyes.
‘Why didn’t you kiss me properly?’ she said.
‘I still could,’ he said.
‘Too late now. It would seem like a desperation move.’
‘A desperation move?’
She nodded, and wrinkled her nose a little, which made her look cute.
‘I’d better not then. Steps?’
She checked. ‘Nineteen thousand one hundred and eleven.’
‘Eight hundred and eighty-nine,’ he said as they walked. He began counting down, ‘Eight. Seven…’
‘Don’t count. It makes me focus on the pain.’
‘K.’
Passing the National Portrait Gallery, they took a left onto Irving Street. ‘Can you wait there moment?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
He jogged over to a street café where a couple of men were sitting having a late afternoon coffee. Spoke to them. Then he called her over. ‘This is Callie,’ he told the men. ‘She’s a dancer, appearing at the Royal Opera at the weekend.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Callie,’ one man said, standing with a warm smile and giving a slight bow. The other glanced up and gave a disinterested smile.
Jools felt a sort of pride at being seen with such a pretty girl. ‘Callie, this is Honest Jamie. He’s a broker. The miserable twat beside him is Chosen.’
Only Jools’ smile gave her a clue to the fact that this obvious insult was an example of the famous English humour, used, she’d been told, only amongst the closest of friends.
‘You are Honest Jamie?’
‘You’ve heard of me?’
‘From Jools.’
‘All good,’ I hope.’
‘All criminal, I’m afraid, but in a very cool sort of way.’ Jools noticed she emphasised her accent when she spoke to Honest Jamie. She turned to the other man. ‘Why are you called Chosen?’
Chosen looked up. He pushed his chair back, lifted a leg and pulled up his trousers a few inches, showing the prosthetic steel frame below the knee.
‘I was a soldier, a chosen man.’
‘And now he gets a free car and a massive pension,’ Honest Jamie said.
‘This is all true.’ Chosen said. ‘God bless England.’ He didn’t smile.
‘We have to go,’ Jools said. ‘Callie has to get back for six. She’s a Demi-soloist.’
Honest Jamie gave Chosen a querying look. ‘Me neither,’ Chosen said.
‘It means she gets some featured parts in a show.’
‘Ah right,’ Chosen said. ‘Well that makes sense.’
‘You two kids run along,’ Honest Jamie said. ‘No state secrets mind,’ he said, looking at Jools and tapping a finger to his nose.
‘Of course not. Secrets, neither state nor trade, will pass these lips,’ Jools said.
Honest Jamie gave Callie a resigned, what’re-you-going-to-do sort of look. ‘He reads a lot of books,’ he said in a mock-whisper.
‘I know,’ she mock-whispered back
‘Come on,’ Jools said, and they set off.
‘I like him,’ she said as they skirted Leicester Square.
‘Honest Jamie? He’s likeable.’
‘Is he a crook?’
‘He’s the most crooked of crooks. Hence the name.’
She pondered this for a moment. ‘Honest Jamie: the crooked crook. That’s an example of English irony?’
‘Very.’
‘Like when you insulted Chosen.’
‘If I didn’t insult him, he’d get very suspicious.’
‘I like it,’ she said.
But they were speaking less now. Conversation came in short bursts; each of them knowing that soon they would reach Covent Garden and she would walk down the lane behind the Royal Opera House, enter the stage door, and their day, and most likely their brief friendship, would be over.
‘Can I have your phone number?’ he asked. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t stalk you. I just want to send you something.’ She took out her phone and opened the contacts page, showing her number. He took out his phone and took a photo. ‘When do you do your first performance?’ he asked, putting away his phone.
‘We have a dress rehearsal on Thursday, for invited guests, another rehearsal Friday, and then it opens Saturday night.’
‘How long does the show run?’
‘Two weeks. It ends October thirty-first.’
‘Hallowe’en,’ he said. ‘I might buy a ticket for the last show.’
‘You’ll need a suit.’
‘I can get a suit.’
This made her smile, ‘I bet you can.’ They turned right down Garrick Street. It was darkening now and the shop windows glittered with lights. ‘I’m playing Clara,’ she said.
‘Is that a major part?’
‘The entire story is about a dream that Clara has.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he said.
‘The story takes place on Christmas Eve. Clara is a little girl who has a dream in which all her toys come to life and dance. There’s more to it than that, but, no spoilers.’
‘No spoilers,’ he said. ‘Because I’m coming the last night.’
‘Thankyou Jools,’ she said, taking his hand as they turned right on King’s Street. Covent Garden was only a hundred yards further. ‘Julien,’ she corrected. ‘Thankyou Julien, with an E, for accompanying me today.’
‘You are most welcome, Callie… whatever.’
She giggled. ‘Calista Eleni Caras. That’s my full name.’
He glanced at her. She was walking without a limp now. Her posture was perfect. There was no sign of an injury. He felt a slouch by comparison. They entered Covent Garden, the open square, the market on their right, the theatre ahead.
From the arches of the arcade that girded the Royal Opera House hung posters advertising the Vienna National Ballet performing the Nutcracker. Jools looked at Callie. Then he looked back at the posters, and each showed a young dancer named as Calista Eleni Caras posed in a variety of costumes, surrounded by other dancers. She looked radiant.
‘That’s you,’ he said.
‘That’s me,’ she said.
‘You’re not a Demi-soloist.’
‘Not after Friday.’
‘You’re the star.’
‘Yes.’
Something occurred to him then. ‘No-one made you walk twenty-thousand steps today, did they?’ He noticed they weren’t holding hands, though he couldn’t say who had left hold of who. ‘Not Anna, not anyone else.’
She pinked, looked down a little. ‘No.’
‘You made yourself do it.’ The merest hint of her raising her chin told him this was true. She was a dancer, she knew how to signal meaning, he thought. ‘Because you knew you were too injured to dance. But you’re a dancer and nothing was going to stop you doing this show. Your first starring role. Prima Ballerina.’ She gave the tiniest nod. ‘So you set yourself a task, something you knew was impossible. And if you managed it, if you did the impossible, you knew you would be able to dance.’
She said, ‘Daddy told me, when I was young, that ballet is pain, but great pain produces great art. He said, “The iron asks why, but the steel understands.”’
‘Your daddy sounds a bit of a bastard,’ he said, which made her smile and give the slightest of nods. He sized her up, properly, for the first time. ‘But he’s right. You’re made yourself steel, Callie.’
‘The price we pay for getting what we want,’ she said.
‘The posters look grand,’ he said. ‘I am definitely getting a ticket for the last night.’
‘Without you,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I would have managed today. Without your…’ she ran out of words and so leaned across the gap between them, her back a perfect curve, and kissed him softly on the mouth, lingering a second or two longer than she needed to, looking deep into his eyes.
‘You will be wonderful, Callie,’ he murmured, their lips still touching.
‘I expect to see you on the final night,’ she said, her voice as low as his, softer. ‘I expect…’
‘Jools!’ someone shouted from nearby, and he broke off, turning as a tall, skinny kid with big curly hair approached. ‘Turnbull,’ Julien said, greeting him with a grin.
‘Who was that?’ Turnbull asked, hiking his pants after they knocked knuckles.
Julien turned. Callie had walked away and was already disappearing between the groups of tourists who still thronged Covent Garden on a chilly Tuesday evening in October. He watched her in silence until she turned left at the Apple shop and disappeared. He looked back to Turnbull. ‘Just a girl,’ he said.
‘She’s a beauty.’
‘In a few years, she will become the most famous dancer in the world.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so.’
He shivered. Callie had kept his sweatshirt. Turnbull was standing right by him, resting his elbow on Jools’ shoulder in that way he had, and Julien looked up at his friend, said, ‘So, what’s happening in the Garden, T? I’ve been away all day.’
If you are enjoying this story please like, comment and subscribe. If you’d like to support my writing please consider a paid subscription.
Epigraph: Thérèse Requin, Chapter 30.
The Covent Garden Stories will continue…