Captain Murphy had not intended to even glance at the stage.
While his shipmates found the hollering and raucous energy of the crowd distracting and healing, he felt that remaining silent in a corner while slowly nursing his drink was a better way to pay homage to the memory of his shipmate. Staring very hard at the droplets of condensation gathering on his glass, and following them as they trickled down into a little pool on his coaster, was his manner of protest.
Why should he seek to experience anything resembling fun when Leander no longer could? The man had been robbed of his life while working under his watch. Trevain was the ship’s captain—the ultimate authority: God of his boat. This made him ultimately responsible. He felt it more than ever as he lifted the cold beer to his lips again for a long swig.
The last simple, coherent thought he would remember having before his mind was plunged into a war with itself for fourteen minutes and twenty three seconds was that he definitely needed to get something stronger.
He really had not meant to look.
However, sometimes a word of certain significance can draw a man out of his reverie. When the DJ announced her name, it brought back the memory of his mother’s voice reading to him when he was a child.
“Now gentlemen, get ready to be blown away by our mysterious newcomer. She’s the girl you’ve always dreamed of, but never thought you’d actually meet in the flesh: Undina!”
He glanced up for a moment, his eyes falling upon the dark-haired woman who was slowly ascending the stairs to the stage. The length of her hair was astonishing—it flowed almost down to her knees. He felt immediate curiosity about the way her stormy eyes were downcast and her mouth set in a grim line. He felt further curiosity when he saw her light graceful steps—she was wearing ballet slippers! Not eight inch heels that made her steps awkward and clunky, but real dancing shoes.
Despite his escalating curiosity, Trevain managed to yank his eyes away from the stage and focus again on the droplets sitting on his beer glass. He had no business looking at such a young girl, he told himself. She might be an adequate dancer, someone moderately trained in ballet but not skilled enough to be a prima ballerina. She might have chosen an interesting stage name which suggested she had some mild knowledge of art or literature, and it might be entertaining to speak with her…
Trevain clamped the thought by the neck before it could gasp its first breath. He would not, absolutely would not, even consider speaking with such a young girl. He would not behave foolishly like the other older men who frequented this club and places like it. He was here for the sake of his crew’s morale. He was not even a patron of this place, not in the traditional sense, not really. He would not sit with her, converse with her, and tentatively place his hand on her knee in desperation to touch her to be assured that she was real. He had just about as much business doing so as the disinterested droplets of condensation on his glass.
Why was it so quiet in the club all of a sudden? Several strange, hushed seconds of silence made Trevain wonder if he had been transported to a different venue. Was this the same rowdy, vulgar club that he despised? What was happening on the stage? An asymmetrical bead of water joined with its neighbors and slowly began its descent. Trevain put his finger on the glass, destroying the slow moving droplet and quickly tracing its path with his roughened skin.
I will not look. I will not look. He mentally chanted a mantra of encouragement to himself, trying to gain strength from watching the apathetic and asexual water droplets and participating in their gravity-induced activities. Carefully picking up the glass and bringing it close to his face, he could almost successfully pretend he was one of them. He clung to the glass in a strange suspension. Until the silence ended.
One massive, powerful voice filled the club—only overwhelming, bewitching soprano vocals, no music. There was no need for music, for the voice itself would have shamed a harpsichord. Trevain’s first instinct was to close his eyes and let the voice wash over him, but he had been struggling so valiantly to do the opposite of what he most desired that he instead savagely lowered his glass to its coaster and turned his head toward the stage. He looked.
Later he would not be able to describe exactly what he saw, or how it affected him. A slender gracefully extended arm, an expression contorted with longing and yearning of the truest kind. Eyes flashing like lightning, lips parted with vulnerability.
The woman’s feet moved across the floor with such ease and liquidity that he could have believed she was flying. Yet when they hit the ground after certain spins or jumps, he could hear the solid sound they made, even over the enchanting volume of the music. Those long, slender, girlish legs were deceiving in the strength and flexibility they possessed.
She danced power. Yet there were moments of such tenderness! She would pause, and hesitantly beseech the audience with a pleading look. It was heartbreakingly poignant—as though she were seeking wisdom to correct the error of her ways. Then she would suddenly be fierce, and her movements would be so sudden and quick and sure that he had to hold his breath to properly absorb her furious, vengeful sequences.
Absorb he did, and consumed he would have if it were possible.
Oddly enough, he recognized the first two of the songs she danced to. One was from the opera Rusalka, and another was from an opera called Undina, which must be her namesake. Trevain’s mother had loved obscure pieces of opera, and on any given day in their household when he was growing up such songs could have been heard playing as Alice Murphy had gone about her housework.
He was startled as the woman on stage fell quite suddenly to a lowered position, and continued to dance from her knees. She was sometimes so still, stationary, and quiet, and then she would be explosive—she would be everywhere at once. Every single moment of her dance had him fully engaged, and he could not have looked away if he tried. He did not even realize that he was craning his neck for a better view.
When she gracefully lifted her dress to slowly remove her lace panties, Trevain was again surprised. She did it in a manner which was so relaxed that she could have been in her own bedroom, yet so careful that no skin was yet exposed. She was fulfilling the requirement of removing an article of clothing during the second song, he knew. However, the article she had chosen to remove showed nothing. As she continued to dance without her panties, her skirt swirling around her thighs was suddenly tenfold as tantalizing.
He found himself staring at the glittering red fabric as it billowed in the breeze created by her motions. He found himself staring at her smooth tanned thighs, illuminated by the flashing lights, and hoping for a glimpse of more of her skin. He found his lips had become very dry, and he licked them to moisten them. Trevain thought he imagined for a moment that the woman, Undina, cast a smug and proud look in his direction, as though she knew how impatient he was to see more—as though she knew the effect she was having on him. She was far too young to exhibit such confidence. Also, there was no possible way she could have known the true extent of what her dance made him feel. It was beyond anyone’s comprehension, including his own.
Before long—it certainly felt like an instant, the woman on stage was removing her dress. Trevain felt his heartbeat quicken, and almost thought he should look away. She was too young, too young for him to behold in the nude! Yet it was the nature of the establishment, and although the girl had perhaps taken refreshing liberties with her choice of music and her style of dance, she conformed to the basic rules of the job.
As the melody played, whimsical and feminine, Undina stood with her back toward the audience. She glanced back at the enrapt onlookers as she slowly, achingly slowly, slipped one scarlet strap of her dress off of her right shoulder. Her fingers were extended to emphasize the drama of the gesture. She smiled then, one of those carefree smiles of youth, and her once stormy eyes seemed to twinkle with mischief and delight. She did the same with her other shoulder, yet it was somehow different. The subtlest change in her expression seemed to change the moo
d from light and airy to somber and sultry.
She tossed her impossibly long dark hair to the front of her body and began sliding the crimson dress down her back. Trevain watched closely, drinking in each new inch of velvety tanned flesh that Undina exposed. Her skin was flawless as it hugged the sinews and contours of her back, and in the atmospheric lighting of the club, almost luminous. The contrast of her skin against the bold burgundy hue of the fabric was striking. She arranged her dress around her hips before slowly turning to face the audience. She crossed her arms over her chest in a display of modesty as she moved forward, gentle steps in time with the music.
Then her arms were gone, and her face was proud and bold as she bared her breasts—unbearably round and firm collections of flesh. As she moved back into her dance, using one hand to hold her dress around her hips, Trevain wondered at how impressively young her body was. He marveled at her athletic silhouette when she arched backwards with extended arms, and he marveled at how she seemed conscious of her motions to the perfectly extended tips of her fingers and pointed toes.
She danced not only shamelessly, but proudly when she was nude, and had cast the dress completely aside. Her motions were not as wild and powerful, but they were careful and precise. Her steps were so controlled and gentle that her breasts did not shake when she moved. She moved as though her limbs were cutting through a substance far more viscous than air—almost as if she were underwater.
She was dancing the nighttime. She had taken them through the course of a full day, through energetic mornings, brilliant noons, mellow evenings, and now it was the quiet, peaceful night. Or perhaps she was dancing the winter. Having already paid homage to the midnight sun, she now saluted the midday moon.
Then it was over, as solemnly as it had begun. Undina stood completely nude, with a hauntingly serene and satisfied expression on her face.
The crowd erupted in applause, in thundering, most appreciative applause. Undina inclined her head in polite acknowledgement. In the midst of the loud clapping and cheering, she looked up at the audience, and her eyes met with Trevain’s. She gazed at him, and he gazed back at her, enraptured. Their eyes were locked for a moment in a quiet, private intensity. As the music and applause subsided, her expression darkened once more and her eyes lowered. She quickly gathered the garments she had disposed of, and in an instant she had disappeared backstage.
Trevain used his tongue to moisten his dry mouth. He exhaled. He mused at how shaken and affected he was. It was a work of art, he told himself. It was just as if I had entered any museum and observed… some work of art.
He felt emotionally drained. Grasping his beer once more, he brought it to his lips and poured the remaining contents down his throat. As he lowered it to the table, he noticed a particularly large droplet sliding down the glass. A tear.
He moved his hand to his eyelashes to scrape away any others that threatened to fall. One tear is acceptable, Trevain reasoned, considering that a man just lost his life. One tear is acceptable.
He knew quite well that Leander had not crossed his mind for what must have been over fourteen minutes and forty-six seconds.