Strip by Andrew Binks Read Free Book Online Page B

difficult and disciplined work a human could ever do, what else can there possibly be to talk about? As for these guys, they were probably trading decorating tips, or who had winked at them in the past two days. I’ll never know.
    It was Sunday, our first whole day together. One of the men, Hugues, the Aryan who massaged my head, walked us to his place in the Old Port. I couldn’t help dwelling on the idea that Hugues and Daniel had known each other much better than they let on. I was feeling more and more like the soft touch in this pas de trois . Regardless, he had the decency to point out places of interest, mostly historic buildings that housed restaurants where, he said, I might be able to get a job if my French was okay. I looked to Daniel, but he soldiered on, his royal highness deep in thought until he spoke. “It will be better for you to have your own space. There are too many distractions at my place. You will be staying with Hugues. He has an extra room.”
    â€œOf course. Perfect.” I vividly remember that snubbed feeling, but I quickly displayed my bravado. “Now I don’t have to look for a place.”
    â€œWhat about a job?” Hugues asked. “You can’t work wit’ no French. And you can’t pay the rent wit’ no work.”
    â€œI’ll be dancing, that’s my job, and mon français n’est pas parfait mais pas mal de tout, by the way.” Hugues grinned. I looked to a distracted Daniel for support, but he had that distant look I had seen in the studio. I had resources to take me to the end of the summer.
    â€œWe will still have lots of time to spend together,” Daniel assured me.
    â€œOf course,” I replied, as if it was I who was reassuring him.
    Hugues’ place was just so, all light maple and clean-cut corners that looked onto a neighbouring limestone wall in a narrow alley. At the far end of the alley, overfed tourists waddled up a cobblestone street eighteen hours a day—on the way from the metro to the crêperies of Old Montreal, and on toward the ice cream and beavertail booths of the Old Port, their floral prints and gaudy perma-press created a travelling kaleidoscopic parade of continuous colour in the distance. Fortunately the only sound that made it down the alley was the clicking of horses’ hooves from the calèche . It was all a lifetime away from my room in Rachelle’s house on the banks of the Assiniboine, in a city surrounded by infinity. I imagined Montreal throbbing with an energy of troubled cafés where lovers argued, and smoky bars where they made love in the dark corners.
    Later that afternoon, leaving Hugues to his place, Daniel and I wandered silently along the Old Port to a precious gem store owned, he told me, by geologists. It was the kind of place where tiny lights in the ceiling focus on shiny chunks of polished stone, and people’s whispers were swallowed by thick grey carpet. He asked me to wait outside. I was dying to see what it was he was buying for me. It was one of the most perfect afternoons I had known.
    â€œDo you mind if I ask how it was for you, when you stopped?”
    â€œConsidering I had no choice, a relief. It is nice to go out on a high note. Of course it has taken me years to look at it that way. But that is the reality. Look at the icons. Marilyn. Judy. Piaf.”
    â€œYou’re an icon?”
    â€œ Pas de tout , but people who never saw me dance have turned me into a legend. To be honest, I miss it desperately. Watching you do entrechat or tour jetés or anything eats me up inside. I was so much better.”
    â€œWill I ever be great?”
    â€œYou shouldn’t have to ask such a question. Being a fine dancer is so much more than greatness will allow. To be great you need an ego, and you must be lacking a soul—like me.” He laughed at this, but we knew it had an element of truth. “It will be up to you to be fine, but not