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Never-Ending Dream by Conny Conway
August 25, 2009 at 2:20pm
The Mustang purred satisfyingly under Paul’s tight thighs like a cat. Paul loved his car. The movement of the wheels, the soft rocking of the cabin, the easy stirring, the noise of the engine when Paul shifted—all in all, this was the perfect set of wheels for him. If this had been a woman, she would have been perfect.
Paul’s dreams had changed. No more spirits visited him at night; instead, Paul dreamed of a woman he had never met. If he had any trust in his dreams, he knew she was going to be important in his life. Though why would she? He certainly didn’t believe in dreaming of the love of his life. Besides, Lucia had never put an onion under his pillow, an old Italian custom to conjure up soul mates. No, he would dismiss the dream woman, just like he had with the dream ghosts. Paul had fought against those visions of dead people, and he wasn’t about to change his mind for a woman who was most likely dead also. Why else would he have dreamed of such a perfect creature?
She had brown hair and her eyes were nearly black. She wasn’t overly pretty, but her face had something to it that made men smile at her. She wore her heart on her tongue, though she had never spoken to him. He sensed that she had words of wisdom for those who sought them. Paul just knew she loved everyone and everything, each creature under God’s creation.
But Paul knew it was better to ignore both his dreams and his dream woman altogether. Since he had stopped talking about his weird dreams, he had made a lot of his life. Paul was almost twenty now and the thought of becoming a professional football player was still appealing. Paul was king of the green field. When he was on offense, the opposing team was most likely to lose. Maybe this was what God had intended for him after all.
Paul’s legs were muscular, and his arms could hardly be contained beneath his T-shirt. He also had a six-pack that made the ladies swoon, and deep chestnut brown hair. Paul knew he turned heads, and he loved the feeling of that power.
Football and music were his life. He had found that dancing helped him to be more agile in football, and since he was a perfectionist, he had signed up for ballet lessons. He was good, and he enjoyed it too. Paul’s body appreciated the extra workouts, yet Paul had a nagging thought that he was overlooking something. Whatever it was, it made him feel restless. He had turned to God in his prayers, but no prayer, psalm, or mass had extinguished this unnerving feeling that he was forgetting something very important. God had chosen not to answer, it seemed.
Lucia had insisted that they all go to church on Wednesdays and Sundays as a family as long as he could think back. She was also insistent that they fulfill the sacraments. Paul doubted he would fulfill the last two, getting married and the last rites, at least not in a Roman Catholic Church. He wasn’t a church person. He did believe in God, deeply even, and he was searching for where to find the Creator and be close to him. He hated the church for its monotony, for the prayers that were hammered into his skull, and for the backstabbing of the parishioners. Here the priest was talking about “Love thy neighbor” and “You shall not bear false witness,” yet the so-called good Catholics constantly talked poorly about the refugees who attended church. They didn’t even understand the sermon! Paul had enough of those lies, and he decided to talk to God himself. He didn’t need a priest to pray or to love God and his creation. He spoke to the Lord like he spoke to a very good friend—the only friend that Paul trusted. His prayers came from the bottom of his heart, from his soul, and from his very being. When he listened carefully, he heard God answer. Even this didn’t ease his restless mind, though. When a surge of this power hit him, Paul felt like fleeing. But he had to stay. His body started to play tricks on him. At times he felt like ants were crawling through his veins instead of his blood, followed by a racing heart and dizziness. Waves of nausea hit him so hard that he had to ask the trainer to take him off the field.
The only halfway safe place for Paul was the dance studio, and with willpower and concentration, he fought his battles against his ailments. Paul didn’t know why he had those symptoms. At only twenty, he shouldn’t be dealing with any of this, especially as active as his life had been so far. He should have been at the peak of his health, but he wasn’t, yet he was also not too concerned and told himself this was part of growing up.
He drove the Mustang around the corner of White Hall. One block later and he was at the dance studio. Paul took the steps two at the time to the second floor. He opened a red wooden door that had bold letters across the top, marking the entry as “Madame Natalie’s Class of Higher Art.” For one reason or another, Paul felt excited as if he was expecting great things to come.

Madame Natalie, leaning on an ebony cane with its ivory handle in the form of a bear’s head, was dismissing a class of fourteen-year-old girls that had just ended when Paul stepped into the studio. Madame didn’t seem happy. She growled at the girls and some Russian words sneaked into her English vocabulary. This happened often, especially when Madame was disgruntled. Today she had picked out a little blonde, fragile, elfin-like girl on which to vent her emotions. The girl had to listen to Madame’s ranting, her words stinging almost as much as if she had struck the girl with her cane. Paul knew this from experience. His heart felt pity for the young woman. Tears welled in her eyes as she nodded a sad “yes” to agree with Madame Natalie.
The girl had cast a gloomy look to Paul, as if she wanted to beg for his help, for his protection. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. Paul didn’t have any sisters, and he had no idea how to help the younger girl. He had caught her stealing an admiring glance in his direction every so often before, and he had felt cajoled, even if she was just a child. The fragile girl was left to dream about dancing with this handsome young man, to be his ballerina alone.
But at that moment, the lass knew Paul could not help her against the rough words from her Russian teacher, so she turned to the locker room to change into her street clothes. Her eyes were still wet with despair.
Madame turned and saw Paul making his way to the men’s room to change into his leotard. He almost dreaded today’s lesson because Madame was in such dreadful mood.
“Well, dobar dan, Mr. Terrence,” she growled. “Are you not ready yet? Why do you come for lesson when late anyway? Is it to bless me with the honor of your shining personality? Ballet is no play! Punctuality is most important to ballet, timing, ballet starts at three!”
Paul knew he had to turn and face her. “It’s not three yet!”
“Very well, it is one minute to three. Are you in your leotard and your shoes?”
“No.” He wanted to wring her Russian neck.
“So, you set new record? Get change in thirty second?”
“I’ll do my best,” he replied, but thought, I would be finished changing by now if you’d stop yelling at me! If she weren’t the best in London.… But he didn’t let himself finish his thought because she was inarguably the best.
When Paul returned, his leotard didn’t hide the muscles of his young body like his jeans and sweatshirt had done. He was fit. And he was ready. His shoes were bound tightly around his ankles. Madame sat on the only chair in the studio. Impatiently, she tapped her cane.
“Mr. Terrence, stretch!”
Yes, Commandant, he thought, as he bowed his torso in several directions. Next, he lifted his foot onto the railing along the wall and held his arms high in the air. He bowed down over his leg while envisioning himself as a half-folded pocketknife.
“And up!” Madame barked. Even though the stretching had taken some time, Madame still had not cooled down. “And down!” The five remaining minutes of stretching seemed like an eternity to Paul. He had even broken into a slight sweat. Finally Madame pushed herself up with her cane.
“Mr. Terrence, let’s pick up where we left last time. I want you to dance the Danse Diabolique. I know you have no other dancers with you, so your imagination just has to do. Remember, you are Satan, you want to inflict pain, and you want the ballerina’s soul. You want her to believe that the skull you hold in your hands possesses some kind of magic. You want her to yearn for this magic, so much that she is willing to sacrifice her soul for it. Now, Mr. Terrence, dance!”
While Madame spoke, the red door opened and a stranger walked into the studio. He was dressed in a black suit, expensive, most likely custom made. His tie was blood red, and it stood in sharp contrast to the stranger’s white shirt. The man was well-proportioned, and his face was handsome with blue eyes and slicked back black hair—a killer look for the girls. He nodded to Madame, who answered with a smile, but it never managed to reach her eyes.
“Ah, Mr. Trapani, please be patient.” Her voice was sweet like honey, dripping from her mouth.
“Now, Mr. Terrence, let us begin.” She pushed the button of the stereo and the music from Hellmesberger filled the studio.
Paul danced his heart out, yet two minutes into the dance, Madame interrupted and stopped the music.
“No, no, Mr. Terrence! Please take the broomstick out of your thighs. Not so stiff!” She walked over to Paul, her cane thumping hard on the wooden floor. “Remember, you are Satan! No motion is impossible for you. If you wish, you can fly! You want to seduce the ballerina to touch the dreaded skull so that she and her lover are damned—she to die and he to suffer from the loss of his love. You are looking forward to the pain you want to inflict on them. You are not playing football here. The skull you are holding is not a football—”
“I’m not holding a skull, and no ballerina is here to seduce to reach for it. It’s hard to imagine two more people dancing with me,” Paul blurted in her face.
“Then make do, towaritsch! Imagine!” Her cane hit the ground hard, making him jump to the side. “Dance like you are frolicking like a dog or a monkey, but please, do it graceful. You own the stage. Who cares about ballerina if you are the star, the Satan that rules! You want her soul, so sell the skull to her!” She walked away, pushed the button of the stereo again, and yelled, “Now dance!” Paul started the dance again. He prayed for some imagination, but again Madame interrupted.
“Mr. Terrence, if you wish to dance ‘Ring around the Roses,’ you are in wrong place here. This is a place of higher art. This is a stage and it is yours. Show the ballerina how the skull will enable her to fly, float, just like you do. You soar. Move and bend your knees, jump and enjoy that she will die once she has touched the darn thing.” Her voice cut to his stomach, and he had to swallow back an angry response on the tip of his tongue.
He managed to keep his mouth shut—barely. Paul closed his eyes, took five deep breaths, and started the dance again. It felt awkward to bend his knees in one way and his torso in another direction. His hands held the imaginary skull, poisoned to the touch for any human. But Paul wasn’t human anymore. He was the devil. He shut his eyes for a second, and when he reopened them, there she was. The small, elfin-like girl whom Madame had handled so cruelly stood before him in her tutu. Her hair was up and a tiara glistened in her soft curls. Her eyes were so disheartening, but she danced gracefully on the tip of her toes. An invisible lover lifted her. The girl was so lovely that she brought tears to Paul’s eyes, yet he was on a mission. He looked at the white skull in his hands and danced in huge steps and swirls around the girl while she was dipped by an unseen lover.
Paul knelt next to her, showing her the skull, and a passion for it started to glow in her face. Paul showed her the magic of the head, how it enabled him to pass dancing, flying, soaring through time and space, and the eagerness to own the skull grew in the little girl. She wanted that magic. She reached for it, but Paul didn’t let her have it—not yet.
He kept dancing and flying across the stage. Madame and the stranger no longer existed, only he and the ballerina. The ballerina left her lover and danced in small steps after Paul. She moved in little twirls and jumps around him while he held the skull high, teasing her. Paul still mocked her as he pirouetted with the skull high above his own. Abruptly, he stopped and lowered it. He took a leap in the direction of the ballerina, and this time he let her touch it. Paul had an evil smile as he frolicked, while the face of the sweet girl turned into a grimace of pain and terror. She danced to get rid of the pain that was tugging at her heart. Her remorse over already having fallen to temptation was deep. She danced faster and faster. Paul felt her horror and was almost sorry to have made her touch the dreaded skull. Finally, she was swept into an embrace from her nonexistent partner. He must have caressed her, for a small smile lighted her pained face before she died. The music ceased.
Madame looked at Paul, “Where did this come from? Who was your partner?”
“The little blonde girl you were scolding when I arrived,” Paul replied. He thought he could do a little favor for the teenage girl since she had noticed him.
“‘Oh, Genevieve!”
“Yes, and she was fantastic.” Paul stood his ground against the Russian teacher.
“She’s no good, too stiff, her head on a too small neck. People like ballerinas with neck of swan. No grace she has.”
Paul looked puzzled, and she glared her green eyes at the young man in response. Now, the suit came to life.
“Madame, does it matter who danced with him in his imagination?”
“Of course not.”
“So, Mr. Terrence, you’re Madame Natalie’s pet?” The suit asked, turning to Paul.
Paul shot him a dirty look. “And you are?”
“Oh, I am sorry, young man. Because of your outstanding performance, I totally forgot to introduce myself. My name is Trapani, Carlos Trapani. I am the understudy of Mr. James Burns, a choreographer from the Massachusetts Ballet. Madame mentioned your talent and Mr. Burns wanted me to have a personal look. Quite impressive. You will not become a second Baryshnikov, but quite impressive nonetheless. The States could open some doors for you, young man. Have you ever considered leaving Europe?”
“Not really,” Paul replied. “Actually, not at all.”
“Well, if you change your mind, here is my number at the hotel. Think about it. I will be in London for three days.”
“I can’t promise anything. I actually want to become a professional football player.”
Madame threw in her five cents. “Football, football. What a waste of talent. Twenty-two grown men chasing one ball. They should have brought each their own. You have chance of a lifetime, towaritsch, a chance to become great, a chance to bring dance back to life. And you want to play football!”
Paul knew she was honest and she meant well, but he had never thought of becoming a dancer.
“Can I sleep on it?” Paul needed to get out of there. His team had to play against Liverpool in an hour.
“Sure, sure, but I will not wait for you, Terrence! If you don’t call within the next forty-eight hours, I will be gone, and with me, your chance in this company.” Trapani winked at Paul.
“That’s a fair deal.” Paul shook hands with Trapani, then turned to Madame. “Thanks for your trust in me, but save it for Genevieve, she deserves it more than I do.” He hugged her, catching her by surprise, and before she could start another tirade of Russian curses, he disappeared.

Paul was on the field—his home, his realm, and his kingdom. Ben Green had the ball and was fighting his way to the half-line. Paul saw his chance to break free from his defender, the only thing keeping him from a good shot. Bruno Greer was a defender from Liverpool and had some tricks in his hat that were close to fouls. Paul received the ball and had only dribbled a yard or two when he heard the whistle, offside. Darn! They had set a trap, and Paul had walked readily into it. This was no wonder. In his mind, he was still at the studio, still dancing with Genevieve. Her feet seemed to never touch the ground. Idiot, that’s because you imagined her! He yelled at himself. But had he? She had felt so real to him.
Paul had to force his consciousness back to the football field. This was now and this was real—not some dreamy dance with a fourteen-year-old. The ball was his again. He dribbled it all the way to the eleven-yard point and shot. Goal!

Wednesday approached and Paul had to return to the studio for another lesson. The red door was open, but it was eerily quiet. Bunches of girls should have been giggling, groaning, or any other sign of life, but not today. The studio was deserted, except for one lonely person sitting on a rickety chair. She was a broken person with her head hanging low. A deep sigh was audible from her direction. Nothing was now royal or hard about this figure; her cane lay forlornly on the floor. Madame was a broken puppet.
Paul laid his hand gently on her shoulder. He did not speak and she was in no hurry her to tell him what had happened.
After a few minutes, she groaned, “She is dead.”
“Who?”
“The darn skull must have killed her,” she sobbed.
“What are you talking about?”
“Genevieve!”
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She threw herself in front of a subway after her lesson two days ago.” The teacher cried and her next few words almost stopped Paul’s heart. “You danced with a ghost, Paul!”
Paul felt suddenly dizzy, and his heart pounded in his chest. The cursed dreams of passed souls had invaded reality, had taken over his sanity. A wave of nausea took his breath away and fear paralyzed the dancer. After his initial shock, he turned like a robot. Pure panic over losing his mind gave him adrenaline, and with it he searched feverishly to escape from his curse. He hurried out of the studio, forgot about the broken Russian woman, and headed home in his car.
Once he reached home, Paul threw his stuff into his backpack and drove like a maniac to the Hotel Savoy, but he was too late. Trapani was gone. Paul’s chance to leave behind London, the dreams, Danse Diabolique, and the spirits had passed. Paul was stuck.

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