There’s a move where a pair of dancers – a man and a woman – come up to center stage and dance together while the rest stand back and float in the air on their toes. Their motions are graceful and romantic.
Then a dancer comes forward to replace the pair. It’s clear by the empty air between the dancer’s arms and the sad line of his body that his partner is missing. He dances his part of the duet with empty arms.
After him, the remaining dancers come up to dance – one by one, dancing with a ghost partner.
They caress the air where the face of their partner would have been. They spin and land on the floor with their arms stretched out in longing.
Alone in a world of misery.
I watch the beautiful performance with an ache in my chest.
Then, just when I can’t stand the sadness anymore, a dancer floats out from the side of the stage. A dancer in ragged clothes, filthy and half starved. He’s not even in ballet shoes. He’s just barefoot as he glides out to take his place in the dance.
The other dancers turn to him, and it’s clear that he is one of them. One of the lost ones. By the look on their faces, they weren’t expecting him. This is not part of the practiced show. He must have seen them onstage and joined in.
Amazingly, the dance continues without a missed beat. The newcomer simply glides into place, and the final dancer who should have danced solo with her missing partner dances with the newcomer.
It is full of joy, and the ballerina actually laughs. Her voice is clear and high, and it lifts us all.
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When the performance is done, the crowd goes wild with their cheers. There is total abandon with their clapping, whistling, and shouts of bravos.
It’s amazing.
I’ve never felt so moved by a performance before. It’s not like I’ve been to a lot of ballets or any other live performance at all. But the sense of camaraderie here tonight leaves me breathless.
Like true professionals, the dance troupe takes its bow first before the dancers converge on the newcomer onstage. The hugs, the tears, the cries of joy are a wonder to see.
Then they spread out into a line, hold hands, and bow again. Everyone is up on their feet, and none of us worry about the noise we’re making or what we might bring upon ourselves.
The twins are right. This is life.
No one can really top that ballet performance, and I assume no one will try. Everyone seems happy to have been a part of it.
The twins get up onstage to clown around and entertain people. I’m guessing they’re giving people time to absorb what they just saw so that someone else can get up the nerve to perform. They do a magic act that’s almost professional. They fumble a few times, but I know they’re doing that for comedic effect, because I’ve seen their work and it’s amazing, as good as any professional stage magician.
After that, a young guy walks up onstage carrying a battered guitar. He looks like he hasn’t had a shower in days, his face is covered in scruff, and his shirt has a splatter of dried blood.
‘This is a song sung by the late, great Jeff Buckley called “Hallelujah.”’ He begins strumming his guitar, and he quietly transforms into someone who I’m sure would have been a celebrity at any other time.
The bittersweet chords ring over the bay as his voice softly builds momentum. People begin singing along with his mournful crooning. Some of us have tears drying on our faces in the cold wind as we sing ‘Hallelujah’ in broken voices.
When it’s over, there’s a moment of quiet. We’re left wondering about life and love and other things that are messed up and broken, yet somehow still a triumph.
The clapping is subdued at first but quickly builds into a wild cheer.
After that, the singer strums his guitar aimlessly until he hits on a familiar tune. He begins to sing a pop song that’s light and fluffy and upbeat. Everyone sways and hops and bursts out in song.
We’re nowhere near as good as the angels I heard singing at the aerie. There are enough of us singing off-key that we could never be considered good, much less perfect like the angels. But all of us singing together – the cults with their greasy amnesty marks, the rival gangs on the suspension cables, the angry freedom fighters, the parents with their kids on their shoulders – that’s a feeling I’ll never forget for as long as I live. However long that will be.
I hold on to the feeling and try to lock it in the vault in my head where I know it’ll be safe and with me forever. I’ve never put anything good in there before, but I want to make sure it doesn’t get lost. Just in case this is the last big human show of any kind, ever again.
And then, I hear it.
The thing I dread. The thing I’ve been expecting.
There’s a low buzz. And the air begins to stir.
Far too close to us, the mist boils.
They’re coming.
The sky blacks out with their bodies, and the mist swirls with the wind of a thousand wings. Either no one spotted them coming in the gathering fog, or we were all too mesmerized by the show.
A voice over the speaker starts a countdown. That’s supposed to be a signal for the audience to run and for everyone to get into position.
‘Five . . .’
Five? It’s supposed to start at twenty-five.
Everyone wastes a precious second realizing that we’re already out of time.
‘Four . . .’
Everyone scrambles. People shove and run in panic. The overcrowded audience and the show contestants have only four seconds to evacuate to the hideaway lattice and net beneath the bridge.