Short Story – The Dancer by Afifa Tambe
As a child I lived to dance.
We had a single dance instructor and their prices were steep. Once, they saw me dancing at the harvest festival. The next day they came to our home and offered my mother free lessons for me, so long as I helped to demonstrate in their classes. Under their tutelage I came alive for the first time. My life was bursting with colour and motion. Dancing for me was as breathing.
The year I turned thirteen the instructor spoke to me about writing a letter on my behalf. They gave my aimless life a set of goals: of studying dance at a university; of my potential as a performer; of a recommendation to an old troupe of theirs.
The day I turned fourteen my mother married me off to the local master. I was the scion to a widow’s household; the fourth of six daughters. On my wedding night they placed me on the dower scale as my mother accepted his rote vows, an investment of two chickens and fifteen bronze pieces. I overbalanced while coming off and fell to the ground at my husband’s feet. He looked through me with disinterest, I had to push myself up and race after him with bare feet. My wedding dress was covered by then in dirt and tears. I scrambled up the steep steps of his carriage, brimming with anxiety. We left immediately for his estate; there was no reception or celebration to be had with our union.
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No. You don’t need to know about my wedding night.
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I am not here for you to sell my story or attract readers, Mr. Perrault.
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I simply wish to have my account in writing. Your readership is of no concern to me.
The first twelve months of my marriage were spent locked in a modest room within his estate. There would be two bread rolls and a skin of water pushed through the small slot in the door every morning. At first the only thing that kept me alive was to drill my dance forms early in the morning. In those twelve months I saw no human face save my own reflection, and the humanity of that I came to question as my eyes grew dull and my cheeks sunk into my face. I was transformed into a frail ghoul, the sort of waif only heard of in fairy tales.
Occasionally, a small goblet of odd smelling wine would be pushed through the slot near bedtime. When I woke the next morning, the room would have been cleaned and my clothes replaced.
By the time I left that little room behind I had lost my dancers’ physique. My arms and hips had lost their cushioning and my hard-earned muscles had wasted away. This was, apparently, an intended part of my husband’s directions.
The day I turned fifteen – it was a feast day and you could hear the drums even from the rear halls of the manor – a dour-faced servant opened the door to the room and dragged me through the halls by the arm.
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I never bothered to learn his name. He died many years ago.
I was thrown into my husband’s bedroom. It was filled with servants who put me into new clothes and arranged me per my husband’s instructions. I waited in that room for hours before a servant came to collect me. I was brought to the grand hall where my husband held court with several rich and important people.
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They all looked the same to me. And to be honest I didn’t care.
He turned to look at the servant gripping my arm and upon exchanging a nod, he flicked his eyes to the side of my head and greeted me with a wide smile.
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Yes, the same one.
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That’s none of your business Mr. Perrault
He turned and introduced me to the little group as his beloved wife. He held tightly to my arm for the rest of the party. He dragged me through the hall, turning away any offers of dances I received by citing my poor health.
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I can’t remember. It was very long ago. Besides it didn’t matter why he held the ball so much as proving that I was still alive to the gossips.
After the party it was as if I had passed a test. I was moved into his spacious bedroom and given more liberties.
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What happened in that bedroom is none of your concern Mr. Perrault. It would do well for you to remember that.
As I was saying, after the party I was allowed to roam the upper floors at will but, forbidden from leaving the manor or entering the lower floors. I spent most of my days alone, reading from the library or helping some of the kitchen staff. The hallways in the upper floors were too narrow for any sort of proper stretching and none of the rooms were big enough for me to dance in. I often wondered if that was intentional.
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No. I was never allowed to dance in that house. It was considered unbecoming of the master’s wife.
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The year in that cramped room wasted away my muscles. I will never be able to dance again.
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No. Never again.
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No. And even if what happened in that bed played a part, which it didn’t, it isn’t relevant to you Mr. Perrault.
I was only bothered when visitors would arrive or a party was planned, at which point I was dressed just so and expected to spend the event on my husband’s arm. He would turn down any dance offers I received and ensured I consumed no more than a small glass of wine throughout the night.
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My husband had a very peculiar taste in wives. My year locked away can attest to that.
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It was a matter of status as well. The Master’s newest wife was expected to behave in a certain way. Especially when in the public eye.
It was during one such party that an older woman was able to corner me while my husband was otherwise occupied.
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That is none of your business.
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As I said, what held his attention is not relevant to my account.
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An influential landowner. I later learned that she was the reason why my husband made a point to bring me out in front of others.
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I’m just getting to that bit.
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She told me that my husband had been suspected of killing his previous wives. He would marry them just at the cusp of womanhood. They would not be seen or heard of after the wedding, only to then conveniently die when they would be too old for his tastes.
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Yes. Quite.
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I don’t want to talk about his tastes.
The woman had been investigating the master for some years but was never able to gain any concrete proof.
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No. She wasn’t a part of the keepers. She was simply a woman with the influence to make herself heard.
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Yes. They even brought hounds to check for graves, but none of the soil had been touched for years.
After that conversation I grew warier of my husband. Though he didn’t seem to notice my hesitancy. Night after night. I dreamt of dead girls strewn on the floor of one of the many halls in the manor, a merry jig echoing in the cavernous room as the girls wailed and shrieked in pain. All of them stuck in a perpetual state of dead and dying, some would look to have been stabbed, others hacked, others still clutching their necks in the depths of their death throes.
One night, when I could bear those echoing screams no more, chasing me as they were in both my dreams and the waking world, I asked one of the kitchen girls to secrete me some of the special wine and mixed it with his dinner.
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Her name was Grace, she and I were of an age.
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I made friends with her while spending time in the kitchens. Later I learned that had I not been wed to the master; she would have been made his wife instead.
Once he was sound asleep, I set out to search the house looking for some sort of clue as to my most likely fate.
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Of course, I was afraid! Wouldn’t you be? Those dreams haunt me still.
It was as dawn touched the very edges of the windows that I found a door with a red padlock. I decided to look inside on the hope of some sort of proof.
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How I opened the door is of none of your business, Mr. Perrault.
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A woman must have her secrets.
That, of course was when I found out why the bloodhounds couldn’t find any graves on the estate’s land. Needless to say, when I returned to bed, I found it somewhat difficult to sleep. I had intended to pass on the information to the woman at an upcoming party. Only the party itself was cancelled and any visitors who came to see my husband were turned away with an excuse about my poor health. My husband spent more time watching me and my day to day life.
It was during dinner one night, when I met his eyes across the table, that I realised he knew – or most likely suspected – that I had tampered with his room. I still wonder which one of the servants had tipped him off. He was simply waiting for enough evidence to catch me out. He hadn’t yet figured out that I had mixed the potion in his dinner and investigated by night. Night after night I would lay with him and lull him to sleep. Doing my best to outwit his tests and project ignorance, while setting my own plans in motions.
I had intended to mix a slightly higher dose of the wine to his food and steal away into the night as he slumbered on.
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Grace would secrete some of the wine in a hiding place for me to retrieve while I helped in the kitchens.
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My husband ordered that a supply of it be always available. None of the servants would question if it finished. They would simply replace it.
I had gathered evidence from around the house and one of the servant’s testimonies. The plan was to ride hard to the woman’s estate to place the evidence in her hands and then leave to find a city far enough away to settle down in peace.
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He attacked me. It seemed that while I was planning my escape, he was conducting his own investigation, and his work had brought about just enough proof for me to earn his ire.
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He tried to kill me and I tried to run, I had made it down a corridor when I found myself in front of that door. There was a poker nearby that I took up to defend myself.
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He dropped dead; it seemed the wine was too much for his body to handle. Coupled with the merry chase I led my husband on in my bid to survive, his heart gave out under the stress.
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No. There were no other forces at play. He simply dropped dead.
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This is my story as I have lived it Mr. Perrault. A woman’s life is not arranged for the gratification of imaginary readers.
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Excerpt from ‘Folk tales for young maidens’ by C. Perrault.
Once upon a time there lived a beautiful young woman. She was the youngest and prettiest of her father’s three children. She loved her family dearly. One day a blue bearded noble came to their house to ask her father for a hand in marriage. The young woman and her sisters were terrified of the man as he looked them over before selecting the youngest sister. Being a sensible young woman, she accepted his proposal and married him within the month. The young woman was a dutiful wife and spent most…
