This may be the first time anyone has spoken loudly since the Great Attack. A wave of both fear and cheer is released into the crowd. Some begin crying. Some begin laughing.
‘Wow,’ says Dum. ‘That’s a big ol’ mess of humanness right there.’
‘Respect!’ Dum thumps his fist to his chest and bows down to the audience.
The noise goes on a little longer, then settles down. People are jittery and anxious, but excited too. Some have smiles on their faces, others have frowns. But they’re all here – alert and alive.
I settle into my spot at the corner of the stage and look around. I’m on the ground crew, which means I’m one of the lookouts for tonight until there’s action on the ground. I scan the horizon. It’s getting harder to see in the thickening mist, but I don’t notice any hordes of angels.
On the water, two boats are throwing buckets of chopped fish and venison innards into the water all around our chunk of the bridge. A pool of blood spreads behind the boats.
Onstage, the twins stand tall with goofy smiles on their faces. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, and the rest of you who fit into neither of those categories, I am your master of ceremonies, Tweedledee.’ He bows. ‘And here’s my co-MC, my brother and my bane, Tweedledum!’
The crowd whoops and hollers. Either the twins are extremely popular or people really like being able to make noise again. The twins take deep bows with a matching flourish of their hands.
‘Tonight, we have the show of a lifetime for you. It is unfiltered, unmanaged, and certainly undeniably awesome!’
‘We take no responsibility for any of the bad things that might happen tonight,’ says Dum.
‘And take all the credit for the fabulous, fantastic, and fun-filled things that will definitely happen tonight,’ says Dee.
‘And without further ado,’ says Dum, ‘let me introduce our First Annual World After Talent Show contestant. The San Francisco Ballet!’
There’s a stunned silence as everyone takes a moment to make sure they heard right.
‘Yup, you heard that right, folks,’ says Dee. ‘The San Francisco Ballet is here to perform for you tonight, you lucky dogs.’
‘I told you we had talent on the streets,’ says Dum.
Three women in ballet tutus and four men in matching pink tights come out onstage. They walk with the grace of professional ballet dancers. One of the ballerinas walks up to Dee as the others get into their ready stances. She takes the mic and stands in the center of the stage until everyone quiets down.
‘We are what’s left of the San Francisco Ballet. A couple of months ago, there were over seventy of us. When the world collapsed, many of us didn’t know what to do. Like you, we stayed with our families and tried to find the ones we loved.
‘But for us dancers, the ballet company is our family, and so we searched among the rubble of our theater and dance studio for those of us who fell. In the end, twelve of us found each other, but not all of us made it this far.
‘This dance is the one we were practicing on the day the world ended. This one is dedicated to the members of our family who are not here today.’ Her voice is clear and strong. It carries through the crowd like the wind caressing our necks.
The ballerina gives the mic back to Dee and steps into position. The dancers take what looks like random places in a line. I can almost fill in the rest of the line in my mind with the other dancers who are not here tonight.
The music begins, and the lights follow the dancers as they leap and pirouette across the stage. It’s a strange yet graceful postmodern kind of a dance with most of the performers missing.
There’s a move where a pair of dancers – a man and a woman – come up to center stage and dance together while the rest stand back and float in the air on their toes. Their motions are graceful and romantic.
Then a dancer comes forward to replace the pair. It’s clear by the empty air between the dancer’s arms and the sad line of his body that his partner is missing. He dances his part of the duet with empty arms.
After him, the remaining dancers come up to dance – one by one, dancing with a ghost partner.
They caress the air where the face of their partner would have been. They spin and land on the floor with their arms stretched out in longing.
Alone in a world of misery.
I watch the beautiful performance with an ache in my chest.
Then, just when I can’t stand the sadness anymore, a dancer floats out from the side of the stage. A dancer in ragged clothes, filthy and half starved. He’s not even in ballet shoes. He’s just barefoot as he glides out to take his place in the dance.
The other dancers turn to him, and it’s clear that he is one of them. One of the lost ones. By the look on their faces, they weren’t expecting him. This is not part of the practiced show. He must have seen them onstage and joined in.
Amazingly, the dance continues without a missed beat. The newcomer simply glides into place, and the final dancer who should have danced solo with her missing partner dances with the newcomer.
It is full of joy, and the ballerina actually laughs. Her voice is clear and high, and it lifts us all.
58
When the performance is done, the crowd goes wild with their cheers. There is total abandon with their clapping, whistling, and shouts of bravos.
It’s amazing.
I’ve never felt so moved by a performance before. It’s not like I’ve been to a lot of ballets or any other live performance at all. But the sense of camaraderie here tonight leaves me breathless.
Like true professionals, the dance troupe takes its bow first before the dancers converge on the newcomer onstage. The hugs, the tears, the cries of joy are a wonder to see.
Then they spread out into a line, hold hands, and bow again. Everyone is up on their feet, and none of us worry about the noise we’re making or what we might bring upon ourselves.
The twins are right. This is life.
No one can really top that ballet performance, and I assume no one will try. Everyone seems happy to have been a part of it.
The twins get up onstage to clown around and entertain people. I’m guessing they’re giving people time to absorb what they just saw so that someone else can get up the nerve to perform. They do a magic act that’s almost professional. They fumble a few times, but I know they’re doing that for comedic effect, because I’ve seen their work and it’s amazing, as good as any professional stage magician.
After that, a young guy walks up onstage carrying a battered guitar. He looks like he hasn’t had a shower in days, his face is covered in scruff, and his shirt has a splatter of dried blood.