Invite Me to Dance (Translation)
(This article is a translation of the original Convida-me para dançar published on December 23rd, 2020)
I.
I’m still in time to give up my degree. I’m going to London to study music, theatre, and dance, and then I’m going to America. Imagine me, who is now in this bed staring into the void, becoming a Broadway performer! Icarus, stop telling stories. What if you came down from your rock, old man of the castle? Well, that course isn’t useless after all… You understand my references and all… Is it irony that pays your bills? Now tell me you’ve never had any dreams. Sure, I dreamt about you — well, maybe it wasn’t really you… but there was a time when I danced in my grandmother’s parlour with someone. Maybe it was really me. I was recently in a parlour with early 20th-century decor with wicker furniture, like those chairs. That was the set of your play in London! I really enjoyed it; I hadn’t had a chance to compliment you, do you still keep in touch with the bizarre director? He wasn’t bizarre; he was eccentric. Yes, I do, he was here last week on that bench of yours; he played the piano, and we sang, he said I had potential to leave everything behind and that I should be an artist! Broadway, imagine that! Oh, stop dreaming big; the fall is bigger. Yes, but they always use tricks in the cinema; I’m sure he wouldn’t hurt me. So, isn’t Broadway a theatre? Did you sell yourself to the cinema, like you promised you never would? Where’s your integrity anyway? I bet he flew off with your bizarre friend; I never liked him. What do you mean you never liked him? We had such an interesting conversation last month here, the three of us. He said I had potential and should take dance lessons, I think he’s right; if I could get up, I’d show you. Did I ever tell you the story about when I was dancing with you in the lounge at my mom’s house and we fell over and couldn’t get up either? I remember, it was the time when you had dreams and didn’t diminish mine. I’m sorry. Have we met before? No, no, I’m sorry, I’ve only just arrived, but this place is very familiar. Maybe you dreamt about it; sometimes we have dreams that look like reality or are confused with memories. These trinkets from the beginning of the century really are just like my mom’s! Have I told you about my mom? Yes, she was with us yesterday, not here, in the next room. Impossible, yesterday was her funeral. And you didn’t even turn up! It’s all excuses with that rubbish about not being happy and wanting to drop out of school. Even if you aren’t happy, how can you be happy if you can’t even dream? I told you I dream! I’m at home, dancing alone, and I’ve received a letter from you saying that you’re happy somewhere in the world and that you’ve met a crazy man. Are you talking about my father? Not even when my brother was born did he come out of the pub; he wouldn’t come out to watch my audition, no matter how important it was to me. It’s true; how did it go? Well, I’ve got potential, and they’ll call me next week. Are you thinking about dropping out again? It’s a possibility, nobody’s stopping me from dreaming; after all, I’m old enough to start thinking about myself, even though you’re the one who never leaves my mind. Sorry, I didn’t hear you; can you say that again? I didn’t realise you were still there, I’d ask you to accompany me to the next room. Are you going to ask me to dance again, like when you dropped me and cried more than me because I pretended to have broken my arm? No, they’re calling you for your casting. Good luck!
II.
I like it so much when you write songs for me… What a shame I can’t dance. It’s never too late to learn. You know my back has seen better days. It’s seen worse too; I don’t know where all this pessimism comes from. It’s genetic, like my back problem. Have I told you about this side of the family? Yes, and then there’s the artistic side. Stop patronising me, I’m here for you. For me? Didn’t I save you from being miserable? I’m dreaming, sorry. Sorry, we haven’t met yet. But I’ve been here for a few minutes. Oh, you came for my mom’s funeral? I thought you didn’t go, that it was raining and you were sad, and your usual excuses. I did, I kept watching you from afar. You know I don’t like crowds. You call yourself an artist, you don’t like crowds, your aptitude for evading issues improves day by day, your mind is always elsewhere, and you don’t pay attention to my music any more. I’m sorry, I was writing a few things, that’s it, I’ve got my trainers on. I’ll start again; I don’t want any excuses. Sorry, you can say it again; I’m having a hard time understanding… Yes, my parents were in the arts; my father played six instruments, and my mother was a dancer. I grew up behind the scenes, I thought this life wasn’t for me, and here I am. Is that when you ran away? Your irony leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It’s your body telling you that you’re dreaming too much. Don’t I have the right to be happy? Fuck, if I’m still on this course, I can’t escape routines. You know how routines leave a bitter taste in my mouth. This is the food we insist on ordering; I really don’t know why we don’t get out of here. I like talking to you; you sound familiar. Can you sing? My dad had a band in the 80s. Is that where your habit of humming at the end of sentences comes from? What are you talking about? It’s the first time you’ve heard me speak… It doesn’t matter. Do you play an instrument? I haven’t listened to music for years. I’m going to ask my dad to play a gig; I’m sure he can come by, he and his bandmates spend a lot of time in a pub nearby. My mom doesn’t come because her back is getting worse and worse. I didn’t tell you that my mom’s a dancer; she always says that dancers don’t sweat, they sparkle. Actually, it’s my dad who tells you… they met at university. I wish I’d met someone interesting here, but everyone is so square, everyone in their own box. I’m sorry I’m so bored; I haven’t talked to anyone in a long time. Of course you don’t talk to anyone, every day you feel like you’re getting another stitch in your mouth. Shut up, you’re the one with no dreams! And let me… I can’t be distracted; shut up. Of course I dream, but my feet are on the ground, it’s your life. Of course, it’s my life, but you’re always on my mind. Am I here with you or not? More people are arriving; don’t leave, you know how I don’t like crowds; I’m sorry. Sorry? I didn’t quite understand, come closer. I didn’t want to intrude, but I was next door, and I couldn’t help but hear your poem. I’m a musician, you know, I could compose an arrangement for you.
III
(My grandmother was an actress, not by profession, but all her life she pretended to be happy. Today we’re here to celebrate her hour, waiting for us to take our time. You’ve taken away our routine, now it’s you who visits that dancer we never knew was real. But what does it matter?)
Lídia Loureiro
P.S.: We also decided to tell stories and step outside our technical area of journalism. Today we are presenting a short story, and we hope to present many more. We hope that your reading pleasure will dance to the rhythm of the words presented above.
