Page 108 of Our Strange Duet

It was more than just a room of people standing still. They were completely motionless. There was no quiver of muscles, no swaying of feet. They didn’t even so much as blink. It was as if someone had turned them into dolls, into puppets or marionettes, into automatons…

The lights shifted, turning an otherworldly, haunting shade of blue. It reflected off the wall of mirrors, reducing the company to stark silhouettes.

I waited for something to happen, but there was nothing.

Nothing moved.

No one spoke.

But then…

Footsteps sounded at the back of the crowd, a soft whisper of soles scraping the floor. They paced from one side of the room to the other, and, though I couldn’t see anyone, I knew without a doubt who it must be.

“Erik,” I whispered, fear stabbing at my heart.

I turned to go—I turned to flee—but I found I was incapable of finishing my cowardly impulse. My legs were lethargic and unresponsive. It was as though I was stuck to the floor, held in place by an unseen pressure. My feet felt heavy, too heavy to lift, and full of the prickling sensation that takes over as a limb falls asleep. The icy needles traveled higher, stabbing across my toes, then my ankles, and were soon at my calves and spreading to my shins.

I tried to throw myself forward. My arms still worked. I was prepared to drag my paralyzed body from the room before I’d allow Erik to reach me. But the ominous weight had reached my knees. They would not bend. They could not move.

One of the most terrifying things a dancer can experience is a loss of control over their muscles. We spend hours a day practicing and perfecting our movements, becoming masters of each gesture, holding total dominion over every tendon, over each cord.

To have that power taken away, slowly stripped, inch by inch…

I wanted to cry out, but there was no one to hear me, no one who could come and break this impossible situation apart.

The needled sensation was now above my waist, clutching my rib cage, rising up my shoulder blades. It spread over my clavicles, and as it seized hold of my jaw, tears began to well in my eyes. It was the only thing I could do on my own now, and they spilled over my cheeks, racing down like rainfall in the eerie blue light.

All the while, Erik’s footsteps drew closer.

Head now frozen in place, only my eyes could dart about, checking each row of chorus members as I tried to spot his pacing figure among the motionless silhouettes.

From the far corner came movement, and I wanted to cheer, thinking I’d found him. But it was only one of the mezzos, an older woman named Giselle, raising an arm. Her elbow pointed at the rafters and her fingers dangled down, limp as vines.

Still, the small motion, this tiny defiance, spurred my heart toward hope. If she was able to break free, then the others could too. I could, if only I—

Another movement, this time in the front row. Carlotta now held her arm up, in the exact position as Giselle. Beside her, Ubaldo contorted. Then another tenor in the back and a soprano to the left. All at once, the entire room adjusted, every singer in the same exaggerated pose.

The next movement came—a realignment of hips, with everyone’s right leg sliding out before them as if they were dancers settling into fifth position.

Then, in unison, their heads snapped to the left, tilting with an angle so extreme it looked torturous.

The room was completely silent except for the rustle of clothing as each singer shifted, their movements mechanical and without grace. It looked like a pantomime performance with busted marionettes. Their joints were too loose, their limbs too jangled.

And then, horribly, my own limbs began to move, shifting into poses I would have never put them in, pulled about by unseen strings. Each gesture was a surprise to me. Every step a fresh horror.

Silently, we began to dance. Our movements were halting at first, as if the cruel puppeteer was still mastering the art of moving so many individuals simultaneously, but we were soon waltzing about the room, spinning and gliding together. It was like wandering into a mirrored maze; every gesture was aligned and perfectly synchronized, no matter what angle you watched from.

The dancing grew wild, moving past conventional steps and devolving into disordered havoc. Legs kicked up into arabesques, and singers whirled like tops.

I was thrown about, leaping and pirouetting before being flung back into a grand dip. My spine cracked as I was forced to arch it, held aloft by unseen hands, and made to turn, balancing precariously on the ball of a single foot.

My muscles screamed, pulled taut enough to snap, but I just kept spinning. I wanted to let loose a cry as well, but my jaw felt wired shut, as if I were more machine than human being. I was nothing but one of Erik’s automatons, literally dancing to a song which only he could hear.

The light began to shift, turning an acid green so sour I could feel it across my tongue. It burned at my sinuses, wetting my eyes with more welled tears. The air became thick and heavy. A foul haze flooded into the room, obscuring features and turning the entire chorus into strangers.

My body lashed back up, moving so fast my equilibrium reeled off-kilter. My head pounded, but my feet could not stop. The singers began to weave around one another, capering into new formations, and I found myself before the wall of mirrors. I couldn’t look away from my reflection, watching with disbelief as my body moved in ways which should have been impossible.

A tall figure loomed behind me, dark and watchful and utterly still.