In the dream, I push through the double doors into a wide ballroom bigger than any room I've ever imagined before. At least, I think it's a dream. It feels like a dream; my legs feel like they're churning through warm water with every slow, languid step, and the sounds in the room have a distant, echoey quality. Like they're not really happening. I hear the speech of the women in the room, but it's like birdsong to my ears.
But if it's a dream, I don't know when I fell asleep. I can't seem to remember a time when my mind didn't have this distant, hazy feel to it. The further back I try to remember, the further back things become hazy, until it feels like I've lived my whole life in this strange, dreamy trance. Perhaps I have. My only guide is memory, and I know that's not very reliable right now.
But it must be a dream. I know it must be a dream, because the woman walks up to me and takes my hand, and I know who she is. The way that you know people in dreams without being introduced. She's my dance instructor. She's here to teach me how to dance. I walk alongside her through the vast ballroom. Other women are already dancing, in pairs or by themselves. Many of them are naked. Somehow, this does not seem strange to me.
I hear music, but I cannot identify the tune. The beat is familiar, though, a 3/4 tempo that seems to tattoo itself into my brain after only moments. I find myself walking in 3/4 time, blinking in 3/4 time, breathing in 3/4 time. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. The music is relentless, insidious. I find myself thinking of Madeleine L'Engle and I don't know why.
My dance instructor guides me to a pile of soft cushions that have been placed on the floor. I notice several other piles just like it, placed seemingly at random. This must be a dream, and I decide to treat it as such from now on. Because this only makes sense with dream logic. Why are some women dancing, and other women entwined in passionate embraces on the cushions on the floor? Why do so many of them seem to be gazing at nothing, their faces empty of expression? Why don't I feel any shock at seeing women writhing in sixty-nines, moaning softly into each other's cunts as they buck against each other's chins in 3/4 time? How did I even get here?
So it is a dream, then. I feel a part of myself relax, as I stop wondering when I fell asleep. It no longer matters. Perhaps I fell asleep after dinner, wandering into a spare bedroom during Chantal's endless tour of her endless mansion and letting the rich food lull me into a slumber. Perhaps I fell asleep during the dinner, letting one of Chantal's coterie chatter aimlessly while my mind wandered so thoroughly it hasn't come back yet. Perhaps I fell asleep while walking to the ballroom, my feet moving me while my eyes slipped shut and I walked into a dream-version of the room I entered. It no longer matters. I am asleep now, and I can let the dream guide me where it will.
My dance instructor smiles at me. She tells me it is time to learn the ladybug waltz.
I make a tiny frown of dismay. I am sorry, I say, but I do not know the ladybug waltz. I realize that this is a foolish thing to say; if I knew the ladybug waltz, I would not need to be taught. But I feel a sense of shame nonetheless at my ignorance of cultured ways. I feel as though I have embarrassed my hostess by coming to the party as a poor American girl instead of one of the chic and stylish French heiresses whose company I have fallen into.
My dance instructor caresses my cheek, though, and tells me, Oh, but you do know the ladybug waltz. You simply do not know that you know. It is the oldest dance in the world, ma cherie. We all know the ladybug waltz, but we forget until it is time to dance it again. Reassured, I hold out my hands to my dance instructor, waiting for her to take them and show me the steps.
She takes my hands, but instead of moving me around the room, she pulls me gently down to sit on the cushions. I do not understand, I say. How can we dance while sitting down?
The ladybug waltz is performed with the fingers, she replies. This makes perfect sense to me, the way that nonsensical words often do in dreams. I smile at her as she sets my hands in my own lap and begins to dance with me.
She places her fingers on the back of my neck, so gently that they feel almost ticklish to the touch. Then she glides them, whisper-soft over the nape of my neck, brushing at the tiny hairs at the base of my scalp. They tease and tickle their way along to the ridge of my collarbone, brushing against the seam of my dress, and I feel myself tremble in 3/4 time. Awake, I would be ashamed of my sighs. But this is Paris, and a dream of Paris at that. Things are different here.
Her fingers continue the waltz, tracing the line of my collarbone around to the hollow of my throat. I tilt my head back without even realizing it, giving her hands the full expanse of my neck to roam over. The touch is so light, so fine, and I realize that this is where the waltz got its name. Her fingers creep across my skin, as though they touch every nerve individually. I hear myself moan, and feel the faint vibrations of the sound as my throat thrums against her skin.
She brushes against my carotid artery, and I feel my own pulse, hot and red against her touch. This is part of the ladybug waltz, I realize, and I know then that I do know the dance. My body knows exactly how to breathe, how to flush, how to tremble with heat as my dance instructor caresses me, and I find myself so happy to learn from her. I know that there are steps she has yet to teach me. I cannot wait to discover them.
I feel her gently trace the line of my throat up, then along my chin to the swell of my lips. My mouth opens as if to receive communion, and I taste the salt of her skin as she slides one finger between my lips and lets me suck on it. She slides it in and out, slick with saliva, and it feels like a premonition as I take it into my warm, wet mouth. Then she withdraws it, and I feel a trail of drying moisture as she traces along my flesh once more.
