One climbs the stairs in front of the Sala Avellaneda with the sound of drums between the temples and turns in front of the Café Cantante and goes through the offices of the National Theatre to get to the lockers. Above them daily works a dance company. The sounds of the bata drum come from there, from the second floor. From the third come the classic notes of a piano drowning between the bars and the linoleum. They will not disturb the folklore emanating from sweaty bodies even if they wanted to. A black teacher teaches a very correct contraction and then opens his arms and moves them in waves, at the rhythm of the music, along with the shoulders and torso. The look, undaunted. The musicians sing Oya , but I think the black is a follower of Yemaya . Or it could be Obbatalá . I never hit on those things. Other dancers imitate him, but the black has the rumba stuck in the bones and abandons and forsakes them until the music stops.
A score of dumbfounded Californians attended the class. A few seconds of silence after the drums indicate that the class is over. And then the applause in crescendo fills the room. They unanimously agreed. They look very hot.
It’s just after eleven. While I was in the air the Yoruba, the staircase rising to the rehearsal rooms remained empty. Now it’s all cigarette smoke, sweat , legs that fit on top of each other , passing , blocking the way . They begin to lose visitors and dancers cleared the stairs and settle on cafeteria tables at the theater. A mulatto woman approaches me, thin , small , with bristly hairs . A piercing on the upper lip, to the left. Skinny one, you have a light? I offer my matchbox and watch her bandaged knee. I remember her dancing. At the center and front of the class. The sharp eyes fixed on a point beyond the auditorium, beyond us, who waited in the sound booth as the room exploded. She returns me the matchbox , do you work here? , Yeah, I think, will you dance with us ? No, I ‘m a journalist, and you ‘re Martha Inés , no? yeah. She said it with her head , swallowing the smoke of a red Hollywood cigarrette . We started a conversation about anything bland . A healthy envy chewed my words , or was the longing or frustration. Or all three .
The tourists had finished going down the stairs and waited for the bus that would take them to the next destination . Surely one to include Havana Club and Cohíbas. For those coming from Los Angeles, they rumba and black people enough for one day.
One of the visitors took a few hesitant steps toward us. Everything ok ? Did you enjoy the class? and with that I’m telling Martica yes, I work there, that this post is mine, and I can also take care of the tourists , Yes , I loved it , thanks, but the eyes of women, seek enthusiastic Martica and tells trolley in language she had ever seen great artists , who herself was an artist, music, specified, and had trained in an important school, Juilliard , which means seven percent admissions per year, do not know if they know , and I can tell you, girl , girl, that you dance with your heart, you’re great , you’re great girl, girl , Martha Inés very great … thank smiles softly and the woman in fluent English , but the woman looks at the knee and asks if she ‘s okay , Every dancer has had one , it’s nothing , she says , and the fan insists in having a picture taken . Only then seems to go quiet.
Martica sits back next to me and quietly ends her cigarette. You may think how she could dance topless in Demo-N/Crazy videos in many venues in the world , or how difficult it is to finish the tests in the afternoon and start classes in the ISA , until ten at night. Maybe she cares about white, I think, as she praises my blouse. Fact is that I have to become a saint, she says, and does not look worried, is commonplace now. Several in the company have done it. Then I perceive Yoruba still in the air, the dancers, slaves in copper and blue beaded necklaces and white, yellow and green , black and red …
Tourists climb the Transgaviota bus apologizing for the three minutes late. The artist, the seven percent per year admitted to Juilliard, riding last, making sure the camera actually saved all the photos and waiting … Maybe she would have liked to check that Martica can climb the stairs without difficulty, without knee pain. In any case, a little pain. But it’s normal, she said. No need to worry then.
And I wonder how Martica will dance while she is becoming a saint. I look at the creeps and I estimate her age. Some twenty or twenty-four, I guess. Many will remain as contemporary dancers. Small compared to the force that appears to dance with the realization that cast her eyes when she dances and does not care even for the applause. I want to know why. I want to ask if she is afraid, if she thinks about the short life of the dancer, if she thinks she did the right thing when she dropped out ballet. Ok, skinny, see ya, the rehearsal is about to start. And all them go back upstairs, taking the Yoruba with the, to stage a piece related to identity and math
For: Diana Ferreiro Hernández
Photos: Danza Contemporánea de Cuba (DCC)
