As Featured in Under the Wing
A Short Story by O.G. Rose
Once upon a time, there was a girl who believed that if she confessed her love to her best friend, her life would leave her body: she would move on. This would cause her best friend great pain, and to save Artemio from hurting, Esperanza suffered the pain of never telling him how she felt.
In Havana, near the corner of Galiano Street and Café Arcangel, under a setting sun, grime and dirt coated the tan pointe shoes and short black dress of a ballerina standing in first position. Her feet pointing in opposite directions, heels touching on the sandstone pavement, Esperanza lifted onto her blistered toes, then held her arms out before her, raised them above her head, and fluttered her hands down to her sides to finish the port de bras. Wires drooped overhead like the hanging gardens from nearby balconies; an 80s Moskvitch with faded blue paint sputtered to a stop. Esperanza extended one leg out, then lowered it to step into fifth position, bent both knees, and picked up her front leg into a spin, the muscles of her golden-brown legs bulging under her white and worn tights. Her black hair twirled around her like a long veil as she spun from her pirouette back into fifth position: one foot placed in front of the other, the toes of her front foot in line with the heel of her back foot. She performed an entrechat — jumping into the air and crisscrossing her legs in front and in back before landing — and reflected, smaller, inside the black pupils of an old man with a beard who stood inside the café past the white window bars. The deaf man rested his fingers flat against his mouth and lowered his shaking hand in her direction, an offering for the miraculous sight of Esperanza’s opal eyes.
Esperanza jumped into a brisé, beating her feet and legs together in the air before landing and repeating the move twice more. From fifth position, she transitioned up onto her toes to second position, completing an échappé. Then, with a step en pointe, she lifted her other leg straight behind her body. Her foot pointed toward the parked Moskvitch; as if summoned, the driver climbed out and held his straw fedora to his chest. Esperanza stretched her arm toward the red sky with her other arm behind and just above her leg, pointing toward the sidewalk. A kicked soda can clanged to silence when the bored teens saw the first and only arabesque of their lives: they would never learn its name. Esperanza lowered her leg and arms, stepped up onto both of her toes in soutenu, and, knees pulsing slightly, lifted her arms over her head, and, with many little steps, completed a full circle in bourrée. She then pointed her right toe forward, her supporting leg bent in demi-plié, and began a fouetté turn: she whipped her leg, bringing it around in retiré to touch her supporting leg, and when she had nearly come around completely, she whipped her leg again, then again, spinning. Around and around, Cubans gathered to see the girl with the eyes that changed colors. She stopped and with light steps prepared for a full split in the air, a grand jeté. Believing she was fated never to be with the one she loved, Esperanza leaped.
Over teal and yellow rooftops and down cracking streets where children argued the rules of stickball, on the other side of Havana, the young man Esperanza loved sat at a spray-painted piano. The rainbow instrument wasn’t spruced up for tourism, and like the boy with warm beige skin and curly black hair, it hid behind pubs frequented by shadows. Artemio rolled up the white sleeves of his cotton guayabera, which he never tucked into his black pants, and tapped middle C. The key stuck; he tried pressing harder. Even though Artemio was over twenty years old and bled on the streets with the gangs, he didn’t feel like he could play. He pressed a G, then B, D, and F-sharp all at once; a D, then A, C-sharp, and F-sharp together. Artemio hoped that by hitting the right keys in the right order, the piano would open like a safe to reveal the name of his mother’s favorite piece.
“A prodigy!”
Artemio spun around and reached for his pistol to find an American with an oversized camera and finger on the button. Artemio clamped shut his jaw, tightening the skin across his face. He jolted up from the piano and hurried out of the alley. The American, buzzed, shouted encouragements after Artemio, violating the sacred space where Artemio hoped his mother’s soul was stored and locked. Artemio swore to never return and felt confirmed in his choice not to speak of the piano to anyone.
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For the rest of the story, please see Under the Wing by O.G. Rose, available on Amazon in both Paperback and Kindle.
