Morgiana

The Dance Studio

I had been in Paris for a while and it is hard to believe that even Paris, given enough time, could seem as routine and mundane as any other place in the world.

Since I had come to that point, to that feeling, it was time for a change. I decided to return to dancing, an activity that—for me—had an oddly strong pull. I had studied Argentinian Tango, which is technically quite difficult. I was not such a good dancer but I could occasionally offer a good ‘walk’ to a partner, a walk with the driving urgency of the tango dance. Still, Argentinian Tango offers a compellingly satisfying joy in the requirement of a full embrace of one’s partner.

It was out of the need for a change and after a few lessons in other ballroom dances that I felt it was time to take those lessons for a spin at a local dance studio ballroom on the Left Bank. What can motivate a man to go through the feelings of emasculating incompetence and the bracing humiliation of being a novice dancer? No doubt something primal. And so I found myself ready to go to the lesson that precedes a social dance.

We started the lesson at the studio. The context of lessons makes forgiving mistakes the norm. But even then there is the unstated likely unintentional aura instructors exude. Instructors who have taught basic steps to hundreds of anxious, tempo-deaf student dancers; teachers who emit a ‘let’s get going here, this is easy,’ indifference. Yes, of course easy to say easy, harder to do…on the first, second, or fifteenth try.

As the social dance begins the lithe and graceful dancers join experienced partners in the liberating fluidity of competence and experience. The rest of us enjoy dancing as best we can. This is where true fear could be disabling unless one can let go of the goal of perfection and surrender to the music and the intent of fun and the demands of the learning process. Compassion for others is as useful as compassion for the self on the dance floor.

It was after a few fairly successful trips around the ballroom that I sat near one of the good dancers, a young woman.

I had previously been talking to a good, more mature dancer, who had announced her intention for ‘one quick dance’ with one of the instructors when she arrived at the studio. It seemed somehow selfishly arrogant and superior that she would announce her selectivity. It was only later that I learned that she was a vegetarian and that she had earlier had a wonderful dinner, and that her purpose was to dance off some of the richness of her overfull feeling. What a good idea.

As our conversation progressed, the good, more mature dancer shared how she was older than me. But I had not shared my age? How did she know? In a studio of dancers, a sense of family can develop a protective sense. I remembered that one of the unspoken elements of Tango culture and the milonga was that the intense intimacy of the dance was contained in an agreement to enjoy that closeness and sensuality without the emotional burden of asserting oneself or defending oneself in an arena of seduction. That sophisticated protective agreement seemed to be a loving expression of a society, at least a dance society, that accepted sensuality and eroticism as one of the many joys of adult life.

To banter, I asked the mature woman if she “liked younger men?” I laughed. She smiled. She said something about men only wanting younger women. I turned more directly toward her and asserted with mock seriousness, “that is absolutely not true!” I continued that, ”I had always preferred older women, but that as a cohort of men and women aged together, I had found it harder to open the hearts of women.” It was after a brief pause that she replied, “too many scars.”

It was not the right time to suggest that another important challenge, important to me at least, had to do with my role in trying to rekindle in the older women, or kindle in any woman, a delight in the safe expression of the sensual. In response to my question to her, “Why do women like to dance?,” she responded, “It gives us a reason to dress up, to feel sexy.” So then, perhaps, the challenge is to carry that elusive feeling of sensuality beyond the dance floor, and at the very least to enjoy the feeling while on the dance floor?

Then the older woman pointed out, with a nod of her head, the younger woman mentioned earlier and asked, “How old do you think she is?” I said I had no idea but I conspiratorially suggested we should, “look at her hands.“ 

So, as I sat near that younger woman—Morgiana—and talked, I found a moment to gently ask if I could see her hands, and she willingly showed them to me. I am cloudy on the sequence but I believe I suggested one could tell a woman’s age by, “looking at the hands.” She asked for my guess. I opened with “thirty-two, late twenties early thirties.” It seemed easily possible.  

I liked the way she did not correct me, and she indicated that I had been generous. I said, in a good-natured way, that it was “always good to bid low” (in this type of game). I asked her how old she thought I was? Naturally in the back of my mind, I expected that she knew the answer since somehow a ‘little bird’ had spread horribly accurate information. I expected instant rejection and a cold end to the conversation—or at least a look of pity. I had forgotten that this was France where there are no rules about age and attraction.

Still, this young woman, with what seemed to be an element of sadness in her eyes, offered a guess of “forty-five.” With delight, I proposed we stick with our guesses! Neither did she correct me.

As we talked, I found out that she was the owner of a boutique on the Rue de la Paix. I knew the area. I had a sense of where the shop was located.

Inevitably the music in the studio changed to a tempo I did not have the tools to engage with through ballroom styles of dance. The music was irresistible, and while it is unclear how it came to pass that Morgiana joined me, only the two of us, on the dance floor for improvisational dancing that included elements of swing—there we were. How brave of her.

It was during this free-for-all of fun likely inspired by the sense of the non-judgmental context of the studio, during one of a series of over-arm turns, that I caught a glimpse of Morgiana’s face and her long straight flowing hair, as she passed by. A fine mist of perspiration held a few strands of her hair to her face and moisture of her lips held strands to her mouth. And now her widened eyes seemed to hold the excitement of a gypsy woman dancing around a campfire in a circle of horse-drawn caravan wagons while gypsy violins called a lusty tune and revelers admired her inspired expression in motion.

As if by some strange force, I was able to keep a reasonable tempo, and likely because of Morgiana’s superior skill, I felt I had led her in dance. Enjoyable for both of us, certainly for me. Dancing with a skilled partner is like driving a responsive Ferrari after driving a lumbering, if still lovely sedan—a totally different dance.

As with most social dancing, we politely parted and made ourselves available to others. For me, it was about as wonderful a dance experience as I could have hoped for on my first try, so I decided to quit the evening with that nice dance under my belt, even if that dance had nothing to do with the dance phrases I was learning. It simply felt good.

The Boutique

The next day was a sunny Saturday afternoon in late winter, early spring. Where the sun warmed the earth, early spring flowers were emerging from the ground. The scallions in the kitchen basket were sending out their pale stalks in search of light. I got out of the taxi and crossed the Rue de la Paix, heading toward the facade of Morgiana’s store: a shop specializing in high-end women’s “les jeans.” The kind of jeans whose fit and quality and final effect allow women of means the look of their choice. If you will allow the expression, a pleasing ‘rear view.’ It has become a complex mystery as to the target of that pleasing. Fundamentally. pleasing themselves, but there is far more that goes on in the mind of a woman.

Small piles of bagged garbage, scattered loose refuse, and lingering anointments of the pavement with unknown liquids heightened the raw humanness and tawdry ugliness that seems, so often, to be waiting around the bend to remind us of the poignant polarity of experience. Often seen in the streets of any city, this tableau was just in front of Morgiana’s shop. The juxtaposition of grace and gross. 

The entrance door opened into a high-ceilinged atrium nicely lit by the large picture window that faced the street and let in the bright blue-yellow warmth of a southern exposure at this time of year.

I turned to the left and caught the attention of the young woman at the counter. I asked, “Is this Morgiana’s place?” Her pleasant reply was simply, “yes.” I fumblingly asked, “How does this store work?” It was clear I had confused her. I stumbled a bit again as I said, “I have daughters and I have read that this store specializes in helping women find a good fit.” She relaxed and explained a bit of the process of assisting women to find their style. I asked about the price range of the garments. My reaction to her reply was that “these would more likely be a birthday gift” for a daughter. She nodded in assent while she said something to the effect that these high-quality pants of good material and cut were an investment. That is likely true. I said I would look around.

Turning to face the rear of the store, to my left there was a tall wide wall of cubbies each with a neat, symmetrical, similar in height, pile of jeans. I fingered some of the fabric then moved to a rack with soft knit tops; all, if I can remember, in muted pastels. I looked up and turned around to take in the full ambiance of the atrium and the well-manicured displays, and I enjoyed the harmonious, inviting, relaxing effect. Then I saw a short stairway leading to an upper split level.

As I mounted the stairs my eyes adjusted to the subdued light. At first, I thought I saw an interesting passage into another room to the rear and to the left of the shop, but as I entered more deeply into this chamber I suddenly saw myself surrounded and reflected in mirrors on doors that could secure private changing rooms. The effect was disorienting, a bit like passing between the enormous mirrors on opposing walls of the grand halls of the Louvre; the projection of our image into the depths of infinite reflections.

Turning, I saw a tall urn that I thought would be coffee, but it turned out to be water. I considered that it could make sense, it could be a costly mistake to have coffee spilled on carpets or valuable inventory. What do I know of the reason for her choices?

It was time to leave this…quiet temple of Aphrodite. As I slowly descended the stairs I amused myself with the thought of the hundreds of lovely women who had suffused this room with the sensuality of their concern about the appearance of “leurs derrieres, leurs culs.” How they mercilessly, often haughtily—but doubtful unconsciously—might flaunt their natural charms for tortured admirers.

—

It was only later that evening when I was drawn to reliving and savoring the encounter and the experience of the shop that I surprised myself with other thoughts. Those thoughts best fit in this part of the story—if they should be told at all?

I thought, Anais Nin would approve.

Somehow I drifted into a fantasy about Morgiana, or of borrowing the key from her and taking a willing open adventurer back up the stairs to the temple of Aphrodite under the cover of evening by the dim street light gently penetrating that large picture window, to sacrifice ourselves on an alter of Eros. Back into the space with the vibration of longing, sensuality, vanity, and desire; and slowly making love with her there using our heightened senses caused by a slight fear of discovery. Joy within our naked bodies to be reflected and multiplied in the infinity of those mirrors, while at the same time, we would add a new wholesome and earthy element of play to the healing intent of the temple.

It was right then that I realized how terribly long it had been since I had tasted the lips, smelled the hair, and felt the skin of a waiting, willing, wanting woman.

—

As I approached the front counter I noticed the back of the young counter woman’s outfit because she was turned toward the window and the street beyond. The black blouse, which had a modest aspect from the front, was fastened at the neck in back and cuts swept away toward her hips revealing a triangular portion of her back.  How nicely subdued while still soliciting interest.

And as I stood before the door, I turned to that young woman who was now facing me, and I told her that I had danced with Morgiana, that “She was such a good dancer that she had made me, only a beginner, feel like she had enjoyed our dance. It had been a nice gift.”

The young counter woman, with a wistful demeanor, a softening of her eyes, and a slight tilt of her head to the side, unconsciously brought her open hands over her heart. Did she gently sigh? Her wistfulness seemed to belie a sympathy, a respect, even perhaps a concern regarding joy in Morgiana’s life.

As I opened the door to walk back into the day, she offered, “She loves to dance.”

FIN

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No publication would or should be made without permission. No reproduction without attribution.