The Abulon Dance by Caro Soles Page A

concern. I don’t even know if that was my uncle, Triani.”
    “Well, thanks for telling Benvolini about me being in jail, even if it did take you awhile.”
    “But I did it at once. When they arrested you I was afraid they might not tell your people right away, especially if politics was involved, or they thought it was. And I was worried about Cham. So I went directly to the Festival Office and talked to that blue man who was there. He said he was in charge of the staff. I told him everything and he said he’d take care of it.”
    “And this was right afterwards?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Well, well. Do tell. Look, I’d better go before your mother gets back. Just one more thing. What’s your uncle’s name?”
    She hesitated for the first time, twisting the thin material of her sarong between her fingers.
    “Quana, sweetie, I’ve got to find Cham. He might be able to help.”
    “His name’s Akan, but I don’t know how you can find him.”
    “Thanks. I’ll find him. You know something,” he went on with a grin. “Your hair really turns me on.”
    She looked at him, alarmed and stepped back a pace. “Ah… Thank you for coming.”
    He laughed and stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine. The narrow, steep street below was crowded with android servants carrying baskets balanced on their shiny heads. It was a strangely silent crowd. No one laughed or talked or even exchanged glances. Triani paused.
    “Quana, if you find out anything…anything at all that might help, please let me know, okay?”
    She nodded. Triani leapt down the long series of steps, his black curls bouncing, his red sash streaming out behind him. When he reached the bottom, he looked up and waved.
    * * *
    Early that evening, Triani slammed through the stage door and strode rapidly down the narrow corridor towards his dressing room. Fabrin, the stage manager, jumped out of the way as he went by. As usual, Triani was very early. He undressed, showered, and got into his tights. He laid out his make-up with his customary almost fanatical neatness. He spent some time checking through boxes of shoes and tried out several pairs, looking for just the right feel of pliancy and suppleness. Using all of his considerable will power, he kept his mind rigidly to schedule, surrounding himself with the myriad small rituals of his art. He went through the long series of warm-up exercises he always used before a performance. Finally he sat down at his dressing table to make up. That was when his control broke. His eye fell on a card, tucked into the side of the mirror with all the notes and interstellar telegrams of good wishes for opening night. It was the rough drawing of a three eyed dog with a wide, leering grin on its face. Its head rested on a bed. Written in Cham’s large, ornate writing was the caption; “Can any solo be this good?”
    Triani pushed the card into a drawer, jumped to his feet and flung open the door of his dressing room. He grabbed a young member of the chorus who was just arriving.
    “Find Nevon and tell him I want him,” Triani hissed, holding the young dancer’s arm so tightly he winced with pain. “Now, asshole!” He released him, slammed the door and began to pace as he fought back the waves of loss and guilt and worry.
    When the director arrived, his broad face creased with anxiety, Triani took a handful of his brown tunic and backed him up against the wall. “No one in that shitty damn audience knows a thing about Cham! They should be told! This was supposed to be his opening night, too. And they refuse even to look for him!”
    “I know, dear. I know.” Nevon laid his capable hands on Triani’s shoulders. “I’m going to tell them myself before the curtain goes up. The company is offering a reward.”
    “Thanks to you, no doubt.”
    “Everyone is contributing.”
    For just a moment, Triani rested his forehead against Nevon’s substantial shoulder. “He trusted me, Nev. He was afraid and I said I’d