She Danced under the Stars ✔

2

We usually have a generous permission. The instructions are the following: nine o'clock at night, my dad goes out for a drink with his friends. Eleven o'clock at night, he returns to the fold and encourages us to do the same. Which means we have about two hours to fool around on the rooftops.

Even better: it's party night at the Triskelion-my dad's favorite club-every Saturday. The jackpot for Lily and I? An extra bonus hour.

We've had a little trouble establishing this system. Of course my dad feared for our lives and could already picture me falling off a roof and breaking my neck, when it wasn't for Lily to be snatched by a prowler. But we presented our arguments about the hours, the agility that we had acquired at the dancing lessons, the very quiet district we live in, the fact that I keep a pocketknife on me . . . All of this eventually bent my dad's concerns.

Like every evening, Lily moves the curtain of my window aside with one hand, then she turns to me giving a thumbs-up. 'Captain Booze-Up left the ship,' she whispers. 'Night is ours.'

I crack a smile. There's something feline about her green eyes when they sparkle in the dark. Her hand lets go of the curtain. Her figure slips around the bed and joins me in the living room.

We put on our little black cardigans and button them up to the neck-because "no outing alone in flashy or low-cut clothes", I quote the Captain. We also put on our black leather fingerless gloves-which are not used for "making us look like adventurers", but for protecting our hands from the roughness of the corrugated iron.

We walk through the front door, taking care to double-lock it behind us. Eager to stand high up, we jog across the courtyard, chuckling and nudging each other, until we get to the nook on the left of the gate. Once there, you just have to walk along the mailboxes and stand in front of the three garbage cans against the low wall.

Lily prefers to lean on the yellow one; I prefer to climb onto the green one. To each his own. The goal is the same anyway: grabbing the edge of the low wall so that we can heave ourselves up onto it. I sit astride. The heavenly vault is scattered with diamond-like stars, and the full moon is watching us with its ivory eye. A gentle breeze caresses my cheeks.

Lily, behind me, gazes at the gardens dreamily. My own eyes wander over the street: my little, narrow street lit by a few white lamps, with a hotel on the corner.

To my left, a lawn full of flowers and a swimming pool surround the house of a senior couple. No harsh light flooding the porch. The old grouch must have opted for a good rest, tired of springing at every turn to lecture us.

To my right, on the other side of the courtyard, there's the apartment of the libertine waitress; in line with it, the one where Manu the painter lives, then the one belonging to the granny with the canaries. Nothing to fear from those folks.

Ahead of me, there's a succession of buildings with ocher facades supporting balconies with wrought iron balustrades. A slightly bent antenna and a few red brick chimneys stand at the top.

I turn to look at Lily: she straightens up and moves to the nearest garage roof, her arms stretched out as if she were a tightrope walker. I soon follow her. While we go across the grey, moss-encrusted area, I stop in the middle; I sit and fall backwards with my arms outspread. I love making snow angels here on winter nights. I can feel the concrete leaving an imprint on my back. I close my eyes. Until a little kick or a tickle from Lily makes me leap to my feet, I bask in that interlude outside of time and space, that floating sensation.

But I'm wrong this time. Lily has nothing to do with it when I open my eyes and begin to shift uncomfortably, wrapped in cold oppression. I feel like someone is undressing me. I fold my arms across my chest and sit up. The hair on my forearms stands on end; shivers run down my spine. I shake my head to try to banish my confusion.

The moss is still wet. It must have been raining.

I run my hand over the green coating. I can only state the fact that it's dry and it crumbles a bit under my fingertips. Not a single drop of rain fell today, let alone yesterday. The feeling of cold that chilled me to the bone has nothing to do with dampness.

'What's happening to you?' Lily asks from the adjoining roof.

I keep silent, rooted to the spot. I can see Lily's figure out of the corner of my eye, as she walks back to me through the fog of my daze. She puts her hand on my shoulder. 'Hey, what's going on?' she asks again, squeezing my shoulder and shaking me a bit. 'Can you hear me?'

'I sense . . . something . . . that's . . .' I begin to stammer. So weird. I snap out of it and leap up. 'There's something wrong!'

'But - what?' Lily asks impatiently.

'I don't know. Like - like someone who'd be watching us. An unkind presence. Someone who'd know how to stare you down. It may sound silly but it's the only explanation I've got.'

Lily shrugs. 'That's really why you freak out? Considering how long we've been climbing on the rooftops, you can imagine that some of your neighbors are watching us. The old pontificator in the flower house is not the only one.'

'Look, I don't feel like it's a little old man. I feel uncomfortable. Really. I usually think the same as you: I don't give a damn about the neighbors checking us out. But I sense something different right now.' My eyes scan the porches and the gardens around us. Not a soul.

All of a sudden, Lily steps back and bumps into me. She grabs my arm. 'Look up there! There's - there's a guy!'

I look up at the buildings. Lily, holding on to my arm, is not trying to make fun of me: a tall, dark figure of about six foot three is silhouetted against the starry sky. His shoulders look slim and his body seems to be wrapped in an extra garment-a bit like a cloak. The contours of his face are buried into darkness.

'Seriously, I'm scared now!' Lily squeaks. 'It doesn't look like a chimney sweep or a technician, but rather a burglar! If he caught us ruining his break-in . . .'

I don't breathe a word. A knot of anxiety tightens my throat. The dark human shape stands still against the moonlight, unmoved by our agitation.

'We're climbing down. Immediately. It doesn't look good at all.' I uttered these words in a weedy voice, but I was categorical enough for Lily to rush back up the low wall. I stand there like a lemon for a moment, struggling to rouse myself, then I follow her.

We climb back down thanks to the garbage cans and we dash across the courtyard, making the gravel crunch beneath our feet. I can't help glancing over my shoulder: the figure remains stonily indifferent, his right side leaning against a chimney.

I unlock the door of my apartment with my clumsy, sweaty fingers. We throw ourselves in and double-lock the door again. We exchange an anxious look then, without a word, we slip into the corridor to my bedroom-whose window is the only one looking out onto the courtyard. Lily moves a corner of the curtain aside carefully.

The figure has disappeared.