Chapter 18I Got That Beat Wrong

He did not take that hand. He charged straight into the first sequence.

That hand still hung in mid-air, palm up. He did not look down. He only glanced at it from the corner of his eye. The chill of the mirror floor came up through his soles and reached as far as his ankles.

In the first eight beats, his arms opened out from his chest, his fingertips going first and his arms following. This opening was his own. He had fixed it the year he was fifteen, and he had never changed it. When the first move landed, his jaw tightened by half a millimetre. He did not look at the mirror. All he could hear was his own shoes. The mirror floor gave back no echo. Every step came down, and the sound stopped at the sole of his foot and did not travel out.

The change came from inside and worked its way outwards, layer by layer. The roots of his hair gave way first. His hair slid down over his temples and stuck to his brow bone. He pushed it back with his forehead. He pushed twice, and then it would not go back. He worked his fingers into his hair and combed it back, but whatever he gathered up fell flat again the moment he let go. In the second move, the layer of light on his skin was gone. His cheeks went dull, and a shadow pressed in beneath his cheekbone. In the third move, the reach of his arms had lost a stretch. The inch beyond his shoulder line was empty. He stretched for it and could not reach. When he breathed in, the breath only reached a little below his chest. Every move he finished made him a little uglier. After the fourth move, one layer of colour had drained from his face, and a thinner layer showed beneath it.

He did not stop to look at himself. He knew what the mirror would show: the same face, the jaw a little tighter, the shine at the corners of his eyes a little less. Cold light fell from the studio lights at the four corners and pressed on his shoulders. It had no weight, but it kept on pressing.

The Neon Slash still flicked out as usual. He swung his arm, and electric violet light trailed out from behind his wrist, cutting a blade of light through the air. The first cut was long. It stretched as far as the first step of the stands, and it drew back slowly. The second was shorter. The third reached only as far as his cuff, and when its light drew back, the ring of light around his cuff went dark too.

Three corrected versions still stood on either side of him, making the same moves. Their movements were in unison. His were not. On every beat there was one place where he failed to match them. They did not look at him. Their eyes were on the mirror ahead, and the mirror was full of the same face. Their temples were dry. The light lay smooth across their cheekbones, and not one spot had been smeared by his sweat.

He was still dancing. Every beat was harder than the last. The old tendon on the inside of his knee began to raise the alarm first. Each time it tightened, he shifted his weight outwards by half an inch, and only then did he take the next beat. He had injured that tendon when he was fifteen, dancing this same section.

A ring of cold light rose from the mirror floor and circled his body once. The light passed over his chest and touched his inside pocket. It paused, and then went around. The small patch of cloth had not been stripped away. The earphone lying at the very bottom of the inside pocket was the left one, its cord still wound into a loop. He did not take it out.

Jaewon: “My hand didn’t shake. It’s this light changing me.”

He raised his right hand to show her. His fingers were steady, too steady. The beat tattoo on the back of his hand jumped, one jump after another, half a beat behind his hand. The hand had not shaken. But elsewhere on him things were going missing, one place at a time, and what had gone was not in his hand. He clenched the hand, then opened it again. His fingers moved as he willed them to, and very precisely.

※

The Perfect Mirror snapped her fingers.

The sound was short. It landed on the mirror floor and gave no echo. The people in the stands rose at the same time, at the same speed, and even the rustle of their clothes was the same. A thin film of water lay on the steps, reflecting the lower half of the tower in cold pink. They came down the steps and stopped at the edge of the stage. They were all her, a hundred per cent complete. Their jaws were just as sharp, their hair just as even, their strides just as long. None of them looked at him. Every one of them was looking at the one in the middle of the stage.

The Perfect Mirror still stood in the middle of the stage, far from him, her toes turned in his direction. A whole stretch of mirror floor lay between them, and not one crack ran across it. Her palm still faced up, held at her chest, her fingertips a finger’s width from her collarbone. That hand was in the same position as before. It had not changed at all.

The Idol Legion came out through a dark opening at the side of the stage. Eight of them stood in a single row, ordered by height. Each held a long, slender mirror blade, point down, and the cold pink lights were reflected along every blade. No one counted the beat out loud. A dull thud came up through the mirror floor, and all eight lifted a leg at the same moment and brought their blades down at the same moment. The margin of error was zero.

The eight blades drew eight arcs in front of him, and the gaps between the arcs were not a millimetre out. The wind from the blades struck his face. It was cold. No blade touched another. There was only the sound of the wind, and the gaps between the sounds were fixed too. Eight faces, every jaw at the same angle, and not one of them blinked. One blade passed in front of his nose, one millimetre away. He did not turn his head. Turning his head would mean being slow.

The formation changed once. The eight went from one row to two, and the two rows closed into a circle. As the circle turned, every toe landed on the same line. On the third step he found himself outside the circle, half a body’s width behind the others, and he had to cross two steps to get back in. He crossed two steps. By the time he had finished, the circle had already turned on to the next beat.

He was pushed into the formation and placed fifth. All around him, in front and behind and to either side, were legs at the same height and knees at the same angle. He lifted his leg with them, half a beat behind. When the blades came down, the eight had already passed his hand, and his hand was still at his waist. A strand of hair at the nape of his neck had stood up, only slightly, and he did not press it flat.

He tried to match the beat. The first two eight beats matched. The eight blades passed beside him, and not one of them was off by a fraction.

He pulled the beat back. He counted in his head, but what he counted was not the music. He counted the dull thud beneath the mirror floor. In the third eight beats his fingertips drew back first, his body moved after them, and his foot came down behind the music. This was his flaw. He had had it since he was fifteen. His teacher had mentioned it once, back then, and he had not changed it.

The Perfect Mirror: “Be more even, and you won’t hurt any more.”

Her voice gave no echo. It was gone as soon as she had finished.

He pressed his knee down, held on to the beat, and drew back. He had drawn back halfway when the formation closed in. All eight lifted their feet at the same moment, at the same height and the same angle, and a kick in unison swept towards him. His weight was still on his right leg, and his left foot had not landed firmly. His shin struck the row of legs, and he fell backwards. His elbow hit the mirror floor, and the next second his knee went down too, one knee pressed to the mirror floor. His breath stopped for a moment, and then came back in.

The broken microphone earring knocked against the mirror floor, bounced once, and fell back. The mirror floor was colder than a wooden one. The cold went from his knee all the way up to the back of his head. Inside the break, the electric violet core flickered once and held still. A very faint ringing stayed in his ear. The break had made it when it struck the floor.

The people in the stands lowered their heads at the same moment, then nodded at the same moment. The whole stand moved at the same angle and to the same depth.

The Perfect Mirror: “You see, everyone agrees.”

※

He had not yet pushed himself up off the mirror floor when glowing symbols pressed down from above.

The symbols came down in layers, in a row from the studio lights, and landed on his head and on the head of the other him beside him. They lit up in turn, setting the two of them side by side and comparing them frame by frame. Frame one recorded the shoulder: his right shoulder sat three millimetres lower than the other him’s. Frame two recorded the knuckles: the angle his knuckles bent was a little more than the other him’s. Frame three recorded the knee. The other him’s knee had not clicked. His knee had clicked. The symbols moved one cell at a time. In each cell they recorded a single difference, and when the recording was done they moved on to the next.

He raised his right shoulder by one millimetre. The other him’s right shoulder rose by one millimetre too, to the same height, not a fraction more.

The light of the symbols had no temperature. It landed on his skin. It was bright, but there was no heat.

The symbols landed on the mirror floor, and the floor lit up as well. What lit up were small boxes with white edges, and inside each box was a footprint. His footprint, the other him’s footprint. Each of his footprints came half a beat later than the other him’s, and landed on the edge of its box. In the corner of each box ran a line of small writing: his name, followed by a three-digit number. The number in each box was one higher than the number in the box before. Along the bottom of the box, one word surfaced: Even. The edges of the boxes lit up layer by layer until the light reached the side of his knee, and stopped. He tried to step aside, but his foot would not leave that box.

The other him stood beside him, already still. It was half a beat ahead, and had already finished the sequence. He counted the other him’s breaths, and got as far as three before he remembered that it did not breathe. The heel of his left shoe was worn flat on one side. The other him’s heel was new.

He raised a hand to shield his face. Light filled the gaps between his fingers. The light was white, so bright he could not open his eyes, and the edges of the lights glowed cold pink. The beat tattoo on the back of his hand had almost gone out. Only a little electric violet clung to the knuckle, flickered once, and dimmed again.

His hand dropped, and his fingertips touched a shard of mirror that had been cracked by a kick. The shard was thin, and its edge was sharp. He did not pull his hand back.

The shard held no stage lights.

Inside it was an old practice room. A mirror covered one whole wall. Above its frame ran a strip of cold white tube light, which lit only the mirror side. The wall behind was dark. The window was on the right, its glass black, reflecting the tube light inside the room. In the corner stood a sound system. The left speaker made no sound. The music came only from the right, tilted to one side. The volume knob was broken and would turn only halfway. Whenever the music reached its climax, the right speaker crackled once, and every time he waited for it to pass before taking the next beat. By the door was a tungsten bulb, warm yellow. It reached the frame but not the threshold.

The dormitory was at the foot of the hill. Every night he came over the footbridge. Below the bridge, the car lights were white, in rows.

The fifteen-year-old him stood in front of the mirror. Sweat had stuck his fringe to his forehead. His moves were awful. He lifted his arms too high, and his shoulders were drawn in too tight. He danced alone until dawn.

His water bottle stood at the foot of the wall. He had brought it from the dormitory. At three in the morning he stopped, picked it up, and took a sip. The water had gone lukewarm. He did not sit down. He stood leaning against the mirror and finished the water, then went back to stand in front of the mirror.

His shoes were new. The heels had not been worn down, and both were the same height.

He had danced this section many times, eight sets of eight beats, and he remembered every one. In the first eight beats, his hands opened out from his chest, his fingertips going out first. In the second eight beats, his toes touched the floor first, and then his foot came down. In the third eight beats, his fingertips drew back for a moment, and his body lagged behind them. In the fourth eight beats, he turned, glanced at his own wet print on the floor, and turned back. In the fifth eight beats, his arm lifted to the shoulder, higher than anyone’s. That was how the section had always been. No one had asked him to lower it. In the sixth eight beats, his leg swept out, reached mid-air, and stopped. In the seventh eight beats, he crouched, his knee pressed to the floor, did not pause, and stood up again. In the eighth eight beats, he stopped in front of the mirror and did not move, waiting for the tube light to finish flashing.

One board in the floor made a sound. Counting from the window, it was the third. When stepped on, its sound was dull. He stepped on it every time. His first beat landed on that board, a dull thud, and only then did the music come in. At night the sound carried far, all the way to the end of the corridor.

He danced the section forty-seven times. The door stood open only a crack, and there was no one in the corridor. The corridor lights were sound-activated. Each time he came or went, one light came on. As he moved away, one went off. No one was watching, and still he danced. By the thirtieth time, the inside of his knee had begun to hurt, and with each run the pain went a little deeper. He did not stop. When the tube light flashed, he counted the flashes. All night he counted, into the thousands, and in the end the numbers and the beats could no longer be told apart.

Sweat ran from his temple, over his brow bone and into the corner of his eye, and the eye stung at once. He blinked, and blinked the sting away.

On top of the door frame stood a bottle of water. The writing on its side had been blurred by water, and the water ran down from its base onto the wood. He had not seen who put it there, and he did not take it. After dawn the bottle was still standing there, and the paint had whitened in a ring.

There was no towel that night. He wiped the sweat with his sleeve, again and again. The cloth dried and then wet again, and later it went stiff. He did not wash it.

At dawn he stood in front of the mirror for the last time. The tube light was still flashing. He did not count it.

The window glass turned from black to grey, then from grey to white, and the white had a touch of cold pink in it.

When he left, he screwed the lid tight on his water bottle and put it in his bag. The bottle on the door frame had not moved. He went past it, and his hand did not touch the frame.

The edge of the shard was very thin. In the shard, the fifteen-year-old him was still dancing. In the third eight beats, his fingertips drew back first. He saw a little cyan in the depths of his own eyes. Only a little.

※

He pushed himself up off the mirror floor.

The old tendon in his knee gave a click. He did not stop. He pressed his palm to the mirror floor, pushed up with his legs, and straightened his body one joint at a time until he was as tall as the other him. The other him’s temples were dry, without a single drop of sweat. His breathing was heavy, and the breath he let out hung in front of the mirror for a moment before it faded. Once he was upright, his right shoulder still sat three millimetres lower than the other him’s. He did not change it.

He did not count how many people were in the stands. They all had the same face, so the number meant nothing. On the mirror floor her toes showed, pointed straight at his. He had not taken a single step across the stretch of mirror floor between them.

Jaewon: “Back then, no one was watching. I still finished the dance.”

He finished, and his words landed half a beat behind her pause. She did not answer.

The sweat at his temple ran down past his brow bone. The cold light on the mirror floor moved. A very fine stream of light crept up from beneath her feet, climbed the steps, and reached his temple, meaning to wipe away the drop of sweat.

He raised his hand and did not let the light touch him. He wiped his temple on his sleeve, and the sweat soaked into the cloth, and that patch darkened in a ring. The light pounced on nothing. It slid down along his sleeve and broke into a few specks on the mirror floor.

A second light crawled up from the floor and ran along the seam of his trousers, meaning to iron that line flat. The seam was crooked, and it came apart at the knee. The third light did not come. The cold light on the mirror floor stopped at his feet and did not move.

Jaewon: “This sweat is mine. You can’t change it.”

He pressed his right hand to the inside pocket, through the cloth. The earphone was still in its place.

※

This time, he did not start on her beat.

He knew this beat would go wrong. He had already seen where the error lay: at the start of the third eight beats, half a beat behind the music, landing heavier than the others. He pressed his weight to that side, and then let go.

He started half a beat off on purpose. His arm went out first, and his body followed behind. His toes touched the floor a beat behind the music and came down too hard. His knee struck the mirror floor with a dull thud. That sound was the same as the blow on the night he was fifteen. The ripples from that blow spread outwards, reached the edge of the steps, and folded back.

Jaewon: “I got this beat wrong. I’m still going to dance.”

He said it with his hand already flung out. He did not look at his feet. Whether they had landed right, he knew.

His left hand touched down first, his right hand braced, and his body rolled over his arms, both feet leaving the ground at once. When he came down, he did not look for the board that gave the dull thud. The mirror floor made a different sound, short and dry. No one had counted which beat that landing fell on.

In the middle of the second eight beats, his left foot stepped on one of his own water spots. His sole slipped, his knee turned outwards, and he almost went down. A thin layer of water lay on the mirror floor. It was his sweat, flung from his temple a drop at a time, landing wherever he had danced. He did not stop. He followed the slide, lowered his body, and swung his arm through the rest of the move, carrying the section on. More sweat flew off and struck the mirror floor, leaving a few round water spots, their edges glinting. Those spots were his. The mirror floor had not taken them away. A few spots lined up in a slanted line, running from his feet towards her, and broke off halfway. On the mirror floor the spots lit up one by one, then dimmed one by one, at the same pace as his breathing.

The three corrected versions were still on either side of him, dancing with him. They stepped on the water spots and did not slip. Their soles were dry. The first one’s hand had come halfway up and stopped in mid-air. The second one’s shoulder jerked, and its knee did not bend far enough, stopping outside the beat. The third stood still, then gave up moving entirely, and the three of them stood like three straight lines, waiting. At the beat where the three corrected versions stopped, their shadows stopped too. His shadow was still moving.

He did not wait. He finished the last eight beats.

He stood in the middle of the mirror floor. The three corrected versions stood on either side of him, and four shadows fell across the same stretch of mirror floor. The edges of his shadow were loose. The edges of the three corrected versions’ shadows were even, as even as if they had been drawn with a ruler.

※

For the first time, the Perfect Mirror did not land on the beat.

Her hand should have come down on this beat. It paused, then rose and lifted to the side of her cheek. Her fingertip pressed the seam, almost invisible, and stopped. Her shoulders did not move. She was too far away to see anything but which side of her face the fingers rested on.

The people in the stands were still nodding. Halfway through a nod, they stopped. When they stopped, not one of them was at a different angle. In the top row the hands had not come down. They hung in mid-air, all at the same height.

The seam split open.

The sound of the split was very faint, like a thread drawn tight and then let go. A fine line came out from under her fingertip, moving not quickly. It went up, and it went down, and every stretch it ran, it bent at a point that was off the beat. Where the line passed, the cold light on the mirror floor broke off in sections. Beneath each break lay a darker layer of mirror, and that mirror reflected nothing. On the mirror floor, the patch of sky reflected there had its pale violet edge cut across by the line, and broken for a stretch.

The Perfect Mirror: “This line… I didn’t choreograph it.”

When she finished, her hand did not pull back. Her fingers left the seam, but the seam did not close. The fine line ran along the seam in both directions, towards the root of the ear and towards the jaw. It moved slowly. When it reached the four corners of the face, it paused, and then went on.

He did not look at the line. He was looking at her hand.

The cracks began at the seam under her fingertip and ran out towards the four corners. On the mirror face, for the first time, a line she had never designed appeared.