lurch closer to her, caught in the delicate embrace of her thighs.
They looked at each other, eye to eye, and it seemed to him that he had never seen another person so clearly. Something about their inverted pose removed all distractions. Françoise had small eyes, 62
The Secrets of a Fire King
with an intensity and quickness that sometimes made him think of a bird. Yet from such a distance her eyes were all he saw; they changed, grew larger, and the darkness of her pupils seemed to draw him closer, then closer still, the most intimate knowledge of her he had ever had.
“It will,” she said. “I’m sure.”
But it didn’t. They started laughing, simultaneously it seemed to Marc, though later Françoise insisted he was the one to begin.
Either way, once they started they couldn’t stop, and they had ended up falling, gracefully of course, because they knew how to fall. They didn’t try again for several weeks. Then the posture felt more familiar and they didn’t laugh, but it was still diffi cult, the most difficult thing Marc had ever attempted. That time it was Françoise who moved too quickly and lost her balance.
“Still,” she said later. “I’m sure now it’s not impossible. It’s just something that will take some work, that’s all. Some time.” She spoke as if they had all the time together in the world, and Marc drew her close.
“Maybe you should move in here,” he said. He tried to make it sound very casual, for he had observed her independence and didn’t want her to be frightened away. From any angle, he knew he was already in love with her. “It would give us more opportunities.” He ran his hand up the back of her thigh. “To practice.” The sun had grown stronger, and Marc stretched his arms against the back of the bench, closed his eyes, imagined that small rays of light pierced like healing needles to his bones. He was very tired. They had been doing this act for fourteen years now, and he was tired. Several times he had mentioned to Françoise that they should quit, but her answer was always the same: She tightened the line of her lips, and worked more quickly at whatever was in her hands.
“We’re not old,” she said once. She was sewing sequins onto her costume, and the needle began to jab in and out with tremendous speed. Then she threw the garment down and plunged forward into a somersault that ended in a handstand. Her narrow legs pointed to the ceiling, and her short skirt fell around her chin.
“See these legs,” she said, making small scissor kicks in the air.
Balance
63
“These legs are not ready to retire.” She let herself slowly onto the floor. “Besides,” she said, not meaning to be cruel. “It was for you we started this.”
Well, it was true, that part. Sometime in their middle twenties it had become clear to them both that they would never be famous gymnasts. This was a painful discovery because fame was something they had both expected from their earliest years on the fl oor.
They were both very good, just not quite good enough. Younger and younger people were coming, with firm and supple bodies that bent in impossible ways. They were winning the prizes. Soon Françoise was offered a position as assistant instructor and Marc, realizing that his gymnastic days were at an end, packed the things from his locker and became an apprentice plumber.
He was a good plumber. He didn’t mind the work, and at fi rst it required all of his attention to learn the intricacies of joining pipes, the tricky dynamics of water. Soon, though, it became routine, and he became restless. He took up juggling, and sometimes he amused the older men by juggling his wrenches, tossing them in high arcs and amazing patterns. “That’s it,” they’d say, spellbound, “that’s it, Marc.” Later, he’d hear them telling the others about it. After work, drinking beer in one smoky tavern or another, they’d hand him things: boiled eggs, spoons, balls from the pool
They looked at each other, eye to eye, and it seemed to him that he had never seen another person so clearly. Something about their inverted pose removed all distractions. Françoise had small eyes, 62
The Secrets of a Fire King
with an intensity and quickness that sometimes made him think of a bird. Yet from such a distance her eyes were all he saw; they changed, grew larger, and the darkness of her pupils seemed to draw him closer, then closer still, the most intimate knowledge of her he had ever had.
“It will,” she said. “I’m sure.”
But it didn’t. They started laughing, simultaneously it seemed to Marc, though later Françoise insisted he was the one to begin.
Either way, once they started they couldn’t stop, and they had ended up falling, gracefully of course, because they knew how to fall. They didn’t try again for several weeks. Then the posture felt more familiar and they didn’t laugh, but it was still diffi cult, the most difficult thing Marc had ever attempted. That time it was Françoise who moved too quickly and lost her balance.
“Still,” she said later. “I’m sure now it’s not impossible. It’s just something that will take some work, that’s all. Some time.” She spoke as if they had all the time together in the world, and Marc drew her close.
“Maybe you should move in here,” he said. He tried to make it sound very casual, for he had observed her independence and didn’t want her to be frightened away. From any angle, he knew he was already in love with her. “It would give us more opportunities.” He ran his hand up the back of her thigh. “To practice.” The sun had grown stronger, and Marc stretched his arms against the back of the bench, closed his eyes, imagined that small rays of light pierced like healing needles to his bones. He was very tired. They had been doing this act for fourteen years now, and he was tired. Several times he had mentioned to Françoise that they should quit, but her answer was always the same: She tightened the line of her lips, and worked more quickly at whatever was in her hands.
“We’re not old,” she said once. She was sewing sequins onto her costume, and the needle began to jab in and out with tremendous speed. Then she threw the garment down and plunged forward into a somersault that ended in a handstand. Her narrow legs pointed to the ceiling, and her short skirt fell around her chin.
“See these legs,” she said, making small scissor kicks in the air.
Balance
63
“These legs are not ready to retire.” She let herself slowly onto the floor. “Besides,” she said, not meaning to be cruel. “It was for you we started this.”
Well, it was true, that part. Sometime in their middle twenties it had become clear to them both that they would never be famous gymnasts. This was a painful discovery because fame was something they had both expected from their earliest years on the fl oor.
They were both very good, just not quite good enough. Younger and younger people were coming, with firm and supple bodies that bent in impossible ways. They were winning the prizes. Soon Françoise was offered a position as assistant instructor and Marc, realizing that his gymnastic days were at an end, packed the things from his locker and became an apprentice plumber.
He was a good plumber. He didn’t mind the work, and at fi rst it required all of his attention to learn the intricacies of joining pipes, the tricky dynamics of water. Soon, though, it became routine, and he became restless. He took up juggling, and sometimes he amused the older men by juggling his wrenches, tossing them in high arcs and amazing patterns. “That’s it,” they’d say, spellbound, “that’s it, Marc.” Later, he’d hear them telling the others about it. After work, drinking beer in one smoky tavern or another, they’d hand him things: boiled eggs, spoons, balls from the pool
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