Serafim and Claire by Mark Lavorato Page B

this sank in, Claire’s mouth dropped open. Her bag fell from her shoulder. With water welling in her eyes, she cupped her hands over her nose and tried to hold back the wave of hysteria that was surging through her. She was visibly shaking, convulsing now with voluble sobs, gripping onto her hair in fists, buckling at the waist.
    It wasn’t the woman who went to Claire but her husband, a mild and relatively soft-spoken man. But when she saw him approaching, Claire screamed into his face, “ Me touche pa s !” Then her hands, as if of their own volition, were suddenly out in front of her, towing her body to one of the marble fireplaces, where she grabbed a hefty candlestick from the mantel, spun round, and hurled it at the wide-eyed man, whom it narrowly missed as he dropped to the ground on all fours. The silver candlestick clanged onto the floor behind him, rolling into a wall, and when it stopped, Claire scurried back down to her quarters and collapsed on her bed to weep.
    She cried for quite some time, and when she suddenly stopped, she turned and faced the ceiling with solid resolution. She would not be defeated, not be denied. She would get to her dance classes because she willed it to happen. She willed it so forcefully that she wondered if something might transpire to get her there that evening. Her only problem in achieving her aim was that she didn’t have any allies, didn’t have anyone who actually understood her plight. This, she strategized, was the only thing she required. So, then, all that was left was to will this to happen. Claire clamped her eyes shut, stiffened her body, and bent all her concentration and strength and focus on this one thing. An ally. An ally now. Now. Now.
    There was a timid knock on the door. She breathed a soundless sigh, and propped herself up on her elbow. “You can enter, please.”
    It was the husband again, his wife being apparently a little weak in the knees after such an outburst of emotion. “I . . . I would like very much to apologize, miss. I do believe the gentleman with whom I made the arrangement wasn’t entirely forthcoming as to some of the details of the contract. And I —”
    â€œPlease, sir,” Claire interrupted, “please come in. I wish for you to understand something.”
    The man hesitated, cast a glance at the open door behind him, and then sheepishly stepped forward, towards the bed. She grabbed onto his wrist and pulled it up to her chest, opened his hand and placed it flat on her bosom. Her heart was thumping to a measure he could clearly feel in the bones of his hand.
    â€œLook at me. Please,” asked Claire, waiting until he did so. “Now. I. Need . To dance.” She drew a heaving breath into her lungs. “If not. I will die.”
    The husband searched her expression. “I . . . I see . . .” he murmured, clearing his throat. “Well, . . . . I will . . . discuss this with my wife and —”
    Claire shook her head. “No. I don’t want you to discuss it. I want you to say to me, now, promise, that I can dance.”
    â€œI . . .” The man tried to pull his hand away from her grip, but she wrestled it back into place, onto the centre of her chest. Finally, “Okay. All right, I promise, you can . . . next Wednesday — and every . . . Wednesday — you can . . . you can dance.”
    Claire closed her eyes in gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you. Much.” But when she opened them, she wasn’t quite met with an expression that mirrored her own clear and steadfast resolve. It occurred to her that she might have to give something in return. Yes, now that she was calm enough to think, surely, in exchange for a long-term ally, something would be expected. Such things weren’t acquired for free.
    Claire reached a hesitant hand out to his neck, her cold fingers sliding into his