Farah Dowling WRITOBER 2O22

It was all a dream [THE WORLD BEYOND THE CURTAINS #1]

You wake up in a cold sweat.
Jesus, what a nightmare.
Some sort of ridiculous magical battle, you rushing to protect a woman you love (an older blonde with a stunning figure whose features you couldn’t make out… what odd tricks our unconscious plays on us), a vicious spell hitting both of you…
How you hate audition anxiety. You always end up sleeping badly.
You leave the bed, take a shower, dress. You take a black coffee on your way and less than two hours later you are dancing to be accepted to the school who feeds directly into the most prestigious ballet company of the whole world.
“And one!”
You try to focus only on your breathing, feeling every movement of your body, every change in the rhythm of the music.
“Heel forward!” the examiner next to you shouts, and then, turning his head and looking at you with sudden interest: “Good. Shoulders down, dear… That’s right. Very good. And brush…”
He murmurs approvingly once more before getting past you.
When you leave the hall to make room for the next group the pianist gives you a thumbs-up and you smile at him.
When they hang the list of the candidates admitted your name is there. You made it. They select less than fifteen people in the whole world and you got in!
You spend the night partying hard with your friends and preparing your bags, half drunk, unable to sleep. The following morning you are introducing yourself to your new roommates, a sweet blonde and an uptight brunette who immediately reproaches you for smoking in the room; and before you know it you are listening to the artistic director of the school and of the company, the genial but icy Rosalind Hale, giving you the usual welcome speech. Next to miss Hale is her assistant, legendary dancer Farah Dowling, who is watching you all with a kind warmth in her eyes. She has retired since you don’t even know how many years, and yet she still looks… perfect. Too perfect. You feel a rush of annoyance as you look at her. You despise that kind of uptight, pompous, flawless ballerina cunt. They always presume they are better than all the rest. You turn your attention to Rosalind.
“Morning. Would the new students raise your hands, please?”
Half the class raises their hands. “Which of you was the best dancer in the last class he or she took?”
You all giggle and look at each other.
“Come on” she says, and you all slowly raise your hands.
Rosalind smirks. Next to her, Farah is now deadly serious. “It's a heady thing, isn't it? Being the best. Teachers dote on you. Other students ask for your help. And an aura builds and then you get accepted here. And whether or not you admit it, you start thinking… soon you'll be doing Swan Lake before packed houses in the best theaters in the world. For most of you, that will never happen. I say this to help you clarify your expectations for the year ahead. If you work harder every day than you've ever worked in your life, this school will turn you into the best dancer you can possibly be. That may or may not be the kind of dancer I have room for in the company.”
You all tense upon hearing these words. “I'll watch you carefully over the coming months. But I won't make any decisions ‘till I see how you dance in the workshop, at the end of the year. They won't be easy decisions to make because you're all very talented. You wouldn't be here if you weren't.” She pauses. “Thank you for bringing your gifts to our community. I wish you all a very good year.”
Everyone claps, but you hear a boy murmuring: “I hope she doesn’t think that was inspirational” and the guy next to him laughs.
“Good. Speech done” concludes Rosalind. “I will leave the girls in the capable hands of my assistant, miss Farah Dowling. Boys with me.”
As soon as Rosalind and the male dancers are out of the room you all rush to the barre to begin the lesson, and miss Dowling announces: “All right, ladies, we'll start with pliè. First position. Demi and stretch. Demi and stretch. Full grand pliè. And return.”
You all watch as she demonstrates. She has the most beautiful back you have ever laid eyes on, and her technique is, of course, exceptional. She must have been such a great dancer. You are even more annoyed.
“Port de bras forward” she continues. “Full port de bras back. The same in second, fourth and fifth positions… and then we'll rise and take a balance in fifth. Yes? Let's begin. Steven?”
Steven, the pianist, starts playing.
You perform the sequence and Farah starts with corrections.
“Relax those fingers. Very nice. Pull those ribs in. Really support” she says, moving gracefully from one dancer to the other. “Nice long lines, ladies. Put the energy coming up over your heads.”
She arrives next to you and she stops.
“We have a dress code here. Black leotard, pink tights.”
And of course the very first thing she would say to you is intended to shame you. Jesus, you are sure a woman like her can’t stand diversity. For some reason you are irritated by her mere presence. And, as strategically unsound as that is considering that your goal is to make it to the company, for some reason you have no intention of letting her win easily.
“Stylish” you answer, smirking.
She just stares at you and replies: “See that you are dressed appropriately next time or don’t bother to come.”
You throw her an angry gaze and in response she adds: “And get your hair off your face.”
You slowly pull back your hair, and the lesson continues. Miss Dowling doesn’t say anything else to you, but you feel her eyes on your body.
After a diagonal you particularly enjoy you hear the envious murmurs of the other girls and you’re almost sure that miss Dowling has something akin to approval in her eyes – but you can’t be sure, because you carefully avoid crossing her gaze.
From that day on classes go on and on – demanding, but satisfying. You know you are doing well. You know you are top of the class. But your attitude is often considered too rebellious, and the teachers favor other two girls, less naturally talented, but more docile. The only one who refuses to give up on fixing your behavior is Farah Dowling.
One day, while Rosalind is in the room watching you, Farah is saying: “Just skim the surface this time, ladies. Don't let your left elbow drop. Flutter…” when you find yourself dancing in front of her.
“Yes! Exactly! Beautiful” she exclaims, and when the music stops she asks: “You feel the difference?”
You know you should say yes and politely smile and go, especially with Rosalind there evaluating you and deciding what roles you are going to dance in the final workshop, but you don’t know why when it comes to Farah Dowling you can’t think straight. You simply react.
So you can’t help but retort “Felt like the same old shit to me” and give her a sardonic smile, just to let her know that you are not going to suck up to her like the others.
You can see Rosalind’s eyebrows going up, and Farah’s voice follows you as you walk away. “Tone!” she says, and then she tells something you can’t hear to miss Hale, who shuts her down quickly.
When the following day the casting is announced you are not surprised to discover that you’re in the corps. It still makes you angry, though; and during the first rehearsal, when Rosalind talks harshly to the girl she has chosen as the lead, you murmur: “Yeah, don’t piss off the director, or you’re back in the corps, right?”
Rosalind throws you out, and you feel, as always, Farah’s eyes on you.
You want to pretend like you don’t care, you don’t care about any of it; and you manage to keep on the mask the whole day, in every classroom; but in the evening, when you’re finally alone, you can’t play the part anymore. You stay in front of the mirror after the last lesson and put on some music.
You try not to cry as you dance your favorite coda, one you will possibly never perform in front of an audience because you’re in the corps, no one is going to notice you and you will never get a job.
“That was beautiful.”
A soft voice startles you, and you recognize it right away.
You turn and see Farah Dowling watching you from the doorway. She lets herself in, the door closing behind her.
“Can I have a word?”
“I guess” you begrudgingly say.
“You don't like her very much, do you? Miss Hale.”
You don’t answer.
“I don't blame you. She's impossible. Headstrong, egotistical, unforgiving. Arrogant as all hell. But the truth is you'll be hard-pressed to find any choreographer or company director who isn't like that.”
A part of you wants to answer her that she is a fucking choreographer and she is nothing like that, but you’re not going to ruin your perfect streak of insubordination with a genuine compliment now.
“The unwise dancers blame them” Farah continues. “She didn't like me… She was unfair… I should've had that part…”
She slowly walks closer, until she’s less than a step away from you. “The smart ones know where to look when things get rough. It isn't there. It's here” she says, resting a hand on the barre.
“No matter what happened in class, in performance, last week, five minutes ago… if you come back here… you'll be home.”
You swallow as you watch her eyes light up with her passion for ballet. For a second it looks light they actually changed color. She meets your gaze and moves her hand upon yours. “Do you understand?”
As soon as her skin brushes against yours you feel like fainting – your eyes shut down, your head is turning and flashes of unexpected images are in your mind. You hear a scream, was that miss Dowling’s voice?, and you see yourself run on a field covered in bodies. The voice calls your name, tells you to stay put, but you don’t listen and now you can see her, and yes, it’s Farah Dowling, but dressed in an odd military outfit and with sparkles all around her… and you see two… spells?, coming at her at once, and you know her shield will only work on one side, so you run and cover her with your body… and you feel a startling pain, and you open your eyes.
You’re back in the dance classroom, covered in cold sweat. Why have you just seen that old dream again, and so vividly? Why Farah fucking Dowling was in it? Why she is looking at you as if she has seen a ghost, and what is this overwhelming feeling that suddenly fills your chest?
You snatch away your hand and run away, heedless of her voice calling you and asking you to wait, to listen, to go back.
You bump against one of your classmates in the corridor, and he asks if everything is fine.
“What is it?” he says gently. “Did Rosalind tell you something?”
“No, I- Rosalind’s a bitch, but she’s fine” you say, still trembling. “But Farah Dowling, what a nosy witch! She thinks she knows everything about everyone!”
And what was she doing in my dreams?, you think without saying it. And why when she touched you you saw all that, and why when you opened your eyes for a moment you felt the urge to hug her and kiss her and tell her you’d never leave her?

--

The mundane part of this story is inspired by the movie "Center Stage".