No image this time, but a very sweet and sad short story from an unfortunately still unknown dutch writer, Albert Van Der Steeg
Dancing in the Cydershed
When there's live-music in the Cydershed most of the times 2 girls show up. They are both slim, don't really resemble eachother but could be sisters because of what they do.
They both have the ability to dance on less than a square meter. Their arms are bended next to the body and their feet go up and down only a bit so they hardly bend their knees.
These moves reminds me of blackbirds tripping on the ground to lure worms to come up.
Nobody is bothered by them and they are not bothered by anyone. It's a wordless enjoyment they have next to eachother.
It was a bit of a shock for regular visitors to see a new pair of dancers on this saturday-night.
In the beginning it was only the woman having her way of dancing. She was dressed in black, had a pair of boots of which a Hell's Angel would have been envious of.
It was obvious that she made a lot of work to her appearance, was wearing her best dress and even had her hair done with curlers. Her face reminded me of a recent picture of Mickey O'Rourke. Only difference: she had no plastic surgeon to give the blame.
And there were a lot of kilo's extra where they were not needed.
She had a drink in her hands all the time. I didn't notice her buying anything or receiving either. And the beer had a different colour every time I had a look at her.
The later in the evening the more wild her movements became, she was dancing like a girl of 18 on an open air festival under the sun. And it was obvious that she thought she looked pretty good tonight and that she was a gifted dancer.
Next to the bar was what later appeared to be her partner. He was in his eight month of pregnancy. His belly was hardly hidden by what maybe had been a white t-shirt in better days. He kept blocking the entrance of the space behind the bar. So placing an order was pretty hard because I had to communicate from behind that huge belly.
The barmaid wanted to pass and he held his breath and he gave her a sort of smile.
She was too clever for him and ordered him out of the way completely. Unwilling he did this. He moaned at me that the band wasn't really Irish. "Big deal", I thought and I said: "And I'm not really English". After hearing that I am Dutch he knew I was from Amsterdam. I accepted this immediately to escape the smell of his soury breath and took our drinks back to our seats.
The woman in black had a melancholy look at our full glasses, left my seat and began her moves again. While I protected my feet by putting them as far under my chair, my wife told me that she had a quarrell with the horrible lady. She didn't want to leave my seat at all cost. Not even when she got some beer thrown over her head.
I looked at her hair but I didn't see a difference. I did see that she had a new beer in her hand, a full glass! And I was sure it wasn't mine.
The band stopped playing; the singer refused to sing without having a beer. It should have been there!
Meekly the black borrower gave him the glass and the show went on.
The pregnant man had joined what should be a dance and I feared for his life or a premature birth. They got more and more space because the crowd backed away from the scene from fear of damage on toes or losing their drinks. His dancing was mostly done by his hands, the movement looked like a helicopter taking off.
Now and again her big bum threatened to throw me from my chair so I decided to sit sideways to be able to survive this all.
A taxi-driver came in and it was obvious that he came for the couple. There was a big sigh and everybody losened up a bit. But...they came back, the taxi was sent away!
So we had to endure this Dirty Dancing for yet another 3 songs. The driver came in again and now they went. Both a bit insecure on their legs. The other visitors took normal positions again.
The couple looked back a bit regretful, knowing that they really were going now.
But I could tell that they had enjoyed the best evening since years.