Behind me, I heard Vanessa swear as Ash collapsed to the floor.
The music died softly, and he was left in a pool of light, alone, beaten and naked—just the way I’d seen him that awful, terrible night. I clamped my hand over my mouth as tears burned my eyes.
For a heartbeat, there was silence, and then a sound like a soft breeze filled the small theater, and from up above, Sarah descended like an angel, still dressed in yellow, the light creating a halo around her.
As she reached the stage, the lights went out and a sudden thunderclap made everyone jump.
Yveta and Gary were dragged center stage while Volkov and Sergei waltzed together, an obscene duet to Seal’s haunting lyrics Kiss from a Rose.
I was his light in the darkness?
I watched between my fingers as they were repeatedly brutalized by a gang of backing dancers dressed as bikers. It was horrific, grotesque, and the moment that Yveta was slashed with a knife was almost unwatchable. And, against that ghastly backdrop, Ash waltzed onto the stage with Sarah in his arms, spinning round and around, a sweet, loving Viennese waltz. Ash was dressed in jeans and a loose white shirt, while Sarah was still in the yellow dress.
I felt a little sick. Was our love really at the cost of his friends? Or maybe that was how Ash felt about it. I didn’t know, but I wanted it to stop.
It didn’t. It went on and on, until Gary and Yveta were dragged away, bloodied and beaten. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who felt a huge sense of relief that I didn’t have to watch their torture any longer, strongly laced with guilt at preferring not to see the truth.
It was too hard to watch.
The strains of a violin filtered softly through the air and I held my breath, wondering what was coming next.
Then I suddenly remembered what Sarah’s costume reminded me of—the yellow sundress that I got married in.
A shiver went through me. And then I recognized the song: With You I’m Born Again.
And it was her softness, his gentlenesss . . .
Ash placed her on a chair, then swept onto the floor alone. Slowly, her legs appearing to tremble, Sarah stood. And then she began to dance, echoing his steps until they were moving together in the most achingly beautiful waltz I had ever seen. I’d never known this side of Ash, never realized just how his dancing was so full of passion, of deep emotion. He said he’d felt numb for so long, but he was wrong. It was all there, a deep well of emotion that only dancing brought out. Dancing and, I hoped, me.
Tears trickled from my eyes, imagining for just a second what it would be like to dance with him like that, to be swept away, to float, to glide, to caress his skin, to move with him through the music, the music that enslaved him. Music was in his heart and in his soul, and in that moment, I knew I had to set him free.
This show was going to be a huge success. I’d hoped for it, wanted it, but I’d been afraid to believe it. But now I felt it, knew it in my bones. The two weeks in this small theater was not the end, but just the beginning. I had no doubt that offers would flood in. And when they did, I had to let him do the tour. Without me.
And I had comforted him through the madness . . .
I’d helped him and held him, and for the briefest of moments we’d held each other, but now, like a wild creature, I needed to let him go. And pray he’d come back to me. And tears trickled down my cheeks, because I was losing him, if he’d ever been mine at all, and it was the right thing to do, even if my heart was breaking.
With you I am reborn . . .
And I cried, because it was true. Ash had made me brave and strong. In his arms, I could face anything—anything except the day he left me.
I was exhausted, emotionally wrung out, but it wasn’t over yet.
Volkov and Sergei prowled onto the stage, hunting the two dancers who were spinning through the light, so in love they were blind to the danger surrounding them.
The music morphed into the harsh chords of El Tango De Roxanne, and the two loathsome beasts performed a breathtaking and disturbing Argentine tango, cheek to cheek. Sergei/Oliver, performing the most extraordinary assisted jumps in Volkov’s/ Luka’s arms. Then the enganche: hooking, coupling, as the men took turns being the ‘follower’ wrapping their leg around the other, the ‘leader’ displacing the feet from inside.
Ash told me once that the Argentine tango had been a dance for men. The gauchos riding off the range, a dance of immigrants from the poor barrios, all needing a way to impress the few women they met. That’s what he said.
“Jealousy!” yelled Volkov, and gripped Ash’s hair, forcing him to his knees.
“Lust!” yelled Sergei, pulling out a gun and pointing it first at Volkov and then at Ash.
As Volkov slowly prowled away, disappearing into the shadows, I saw the gun in Sergei’s hand, almost falling out of my wheelchair as the gunshot echoed across the stage, as he casually shot Sarah.