Page 50 of Dancing Fools and All That Jazz
‘Clarissa’s ladies.’ Fay’s voice booms from the front of the bus. ‘Our stop is the next one. The Bastille.’ She adds in a quieter voice her apology – ‘Excusez-moi’ – to the driver who has one finger in his ear having exclaimed, ‘Sacré bleu.’
Fay motions for us all to make our way down the bus to get off.
The driver mutters something in French.
I whisper to Ingrida. ‘The Bastille. It looks like we’re the ones getting to prison first.’
Ingrida is smiling. ‘Withla grande gueule,’ she repeats the driver’s insult.
‘Grande gueule?’
‘It mean loud mouth,’ Ingrida replies, a small grin on her face.
We edge our way off the bus, and I have to stifle a laugh to see Fay’sgrande gueuleis set in a glacial clamp as she glares at the bus driver before he drives off.
Traffic is moving in every direction around the busy multi-lane junction where we have alighted, and pigeons fly in the air. We turn full circle to look at our surroundings.
‘Now I feel I am in Paris.’ Ingrida points to the tall column at the centre of thePlace de la Bastille. A golden-winged figure is poised on a gold sphere right at the top.
‘It is theColonne de Juillet. The July Column. And the statue, it isLe Génie de la Liberté; to remember French Revolution.’
‘You should be a tour guide, Ingrida.’
‘I spend few months in Paris, long time ago now—’
‘Ah, look. TheOpéra Bastille.’ I point at the large circular glass-clad front of the theatre skirted by a cascade of concrete steps. Above the doors, two large banners with the wordExpressionflutter in the mild breeze. Groups of people are heading up the steps towards the main entrance, bags and brightly coloured costumes in every hand.
We all stand for a few minutes to take it all in.
‘This is it.’ I squeeze Ingrida’s arm, forgetting for a split second she’s not Monica. ‘Happy to be here, Ingrida?’
Ingrida, who had glazed over, gives a jump. ‘Oh,ja. Of course.’
I look at Ingrida’s face. She does not seem that happy or excited. I give her a quizzical ‘what’s up?’ look. She shakes her head and lightly squeezes my arm as we cross to the entrance together. Monica, face like a poker, sweeps past us without turning her head.
13
Ingrida
Once we are checked in with the organisers of Expression Paris, we walk down many long corridors to the dressing rooms. There are people everywhere carrying holdalls and costumes draped on hangers. As we pass dozens of rooms, we see dancers limbering up and stretching out. Some are in leotards, others in baggy training tops and leggings. I feel a bubble of nerves in my stomach, but it is not a frightened bubble, more one of anticipation.
‘Which room is ours?’
‘Number twelve,’ Fay calls as she leads the way. ‘Here we are.’
We all step into the spacious room and exchange with each other smiles.
‘Wowzers.’
‘Will you look at this?’
Asha pushes her case to one side and twirls in the middle of the room. ‘Well, this is something else. Nothing like the dressing rooms we have had to put up with in the past.’
‘Is this all for us? I mean, now you’re talking.’ Bonnie gives Cath a high five.
We spread out, open our cases and hang up our costumes on a long central rail. Beautiful dressing tables run the length of the room on both sides under a continuousrun of mirrors. The mirrors are surrounded by large bright bulb lights and have comfortable swivel chairs for seating.
‘This is incredible.’ Monica smiles.
