Chapter 19This Face Can Dance

The cracks on her face joined up.

The one along her cheekbone ran first to her ear, then looped back from the ear to her jaw, and the two ends met. The meeting made no sound. Once it was joined, the whole face had broken evenly, and every piece had come loose.

The wings on her shoulders crumbled first. The pieces of mirror lifted at their edges, one by one, knocked against each other, and fell. They did not break into smaller pieces. They only slid apart, one layer over another, and showed the black beneath. The people in the stands cracked too. The same face split from the top row down. Where it split, the seats behind showed through, white and empty, row after row. No one sat in them.

The three corrected versions shattered first. They were still standing on either side of him, making the same move, one hand halfway up, one knee halfway bent. Then they came apart all at once, into three heaps of glitter. The glitter slid a short way across the mirror floor and stopped. The three heaps were identical in shape.

She walked out of the fragments.

Fragments fell from her body. With each one that fell, she stepped forward, and every step was precise.

Only half a mirror was left on her face. The left side was whole. The right side still had a layer of mirror on it, in thin pieces, thin enough to let light through. She did not wipe it off. She lifted her foot and stepped on a broken piece of mirror. The mirror made no sound.

On the mirror floor, face after face was reflected, from her feet all the way up to the stands. Every jaw was drawn in tighter than his, and every pair of shoulders sat more level than his. The mirror floor also reflected him, again and again, and each reflection was half a beat behind her movements. He stood among those faces, and did not look down. The edge of a broken piece touched his shoulder and fell away. It was cold. He did not brush it off.

Music rose from under the mirror floor. Pop dance music with a shifting tempo, electronic drums, and every note too clean. The first four beats were slow, as slow as slowed-down footage. Her arm swept through the air, and the lines it left could be counted one by one. Her hair was made of diamond thread. Each time she turned, the threads turned with her, neither early nor late. On the fifth beat, it suddenly doubled. Her foot kicked out. It was a side kick. Left, right, left, right, kick after kick, all the way towards him. Every kick landed on a whole beat. Left and right were perfectly symmetrical, and each time her knee bent, it stopped at the same angle. As if someone had timed it with a stopwatch.

He did not block. The first kick grazed his shoulder, and he gave ground, moving back with the wind of it. The wind of the second kick brushed his right ear. Inside the break, the electric violet core flickered, and he gave ground again. The old tendon on the inside of his knee raised the alarm first. When it tightened, he shifted his weight half an inch outwards, and only then took the next beat. He had injured that tendon when he was fifteen, dancing this same section. The third kick passed close across his chest. He kept backing away until he reached the edge of the stage, his heel on the very edge. A patch of paint had come off the edge of the stage, showing the white beneath.

Beyond the edge there was no ground. There were the stone steps of the Star Corridor, going down one after another, and the break was one step wide. There was no wind in the corridor, and no sound. The sweat on his body slowly cooled and clung to his skin, and the cold came in waves. A faint cold-pink light came out of the break and shone upwards from below. He looked down.

He counted in his head. At the thirty-first step, there was a line across the break, deep at one end and shallow at the other. The forty-fourth step also had a line, shallower than the one above it. At the fifty-seventh step there was another line. This was the third line.

Beside the third line there was another, fainter mark. Someone had rubbed it smooth, so that only a patch brighter than the rest was left. On that bright patch, the start of the stroke and its finish could no longer be found.

He did not crouch down. He raised his hand, opened his thumb and forefinger, and measured the length of that line in his head. When he had measured it, he lowered his hand.

The Perfect Mirror: “Your beat is shaking.”

She was already in front of him when she spoke. The half mirror reflected his face, and the other half was her own. Two voices overlapped, one low, one high, and every word landed on the same beat, neither a millisecond early nor a millisecond late. There was no echo.

He did not answer. He breathed in. The breath only reached a little below his chest. He lowered his weight and slid back sideways with footwork, returning from the edge to the centre. As he slid, he did not land on the beat. He landed half a beat behind the music. The step was very light. It was his own.

※

There was a printed pattern on the back of his jacket.

Black leather, with a patch of shadow across the back, spreading from the shoulder blades to the waist. He had worn it for years, and each time he turned, the shadow was half a beat slow to follow. He had not made it that way. It had always been that way.

Now it moved.

The part at the shoulder blade came loose first. The edge of the shadow lifted, like a wet sheet of paper peeling off a wall. Then the waist, and then the whole of it. He flung the jacket back, and the whole shadow shook loose and fell onto the mirror floor without a sound. His shoulder blades suddenly felt light. A patch of his back went cold.

The first shadow to land stood up. He flung again, and three stood up. On the last flick, five. Suddenly there were many more shadows on the floor. They overlapped with his own, and there was no way to tell which was his.

Her eyes fell on the hand of the third shadow. They stopped, then pulled back.

All five shadow clones were half a beat behind him, and none was even with the others. One raised its hand first, went over its head, and then pulled back. One stood so straight it was like a stick stuck into the ground. One put its foot down on someone else’s beat, missed, and then caught up again. The last one was halfway through a turn when it stopped. It looked at its own shadow on the mirror floor, then turned back.

Her defence opened out symmetrically. Left, right, left. The mirror panels opened on the beat, precisely.

There was a little water in the seams of the mirror floor under his feet. It was his sweat, flung from his temple one drop at a time, landing on the places he had danced. Where his foot came down, the water spread open, then closed again.

His breath followed his arm. When he breathed in, it reached only a little below his chest. When he breathed out, it came down slowly along his ribs. Each time he swung, his left shoulder sank first, a little, and then followed.

The Neon Slash was his. He swung his arm, and electric violet light trailed out from behind his wrist and cut a line through the air. The beat tattoo on the back of his hand was lit too, half a beat behind his arm.

The first cut landed behind the first beat, and her left-hand mirror panel opened and blocked it. The second landed between two beats, and her right-hand mirror panel opened and blocked that too. The third, fourth and fifth cuts each landed on a different point of the beat. One fell ahead of her beat, one fell behind it, and one pressed down in the middle of her beat. That beat was not in her score.

The blades of light struck the mirror floor. Each cut made a dull thud, as dull as the third board from the window when someone stepped on it.

Her defence reached out, but found nowhere to block. The fifth cut came down, and the mirror panel did not open. The blade of light grazed across her shoulder line and left a very thin bright line. It flashed on the mirror floor, then dimmed again, very slowly.

His right hand pressed the inside pocket once. The earphone lay at the very bottom, its cord still wound into a loop.

Jaewon: “We’re uneven. So you can’t calculate us.”

He finished, and the words landed half a beat behind her pause.

※

The eight at the side of the stage lined up in a row again. Ordered by height. The same height, the same angle. They lifted their legs together and brought them down together. The sound of their soles on the mirror floor was the sound of a single person. The backs of all eight hands were clean, without a trace of violet.

His shadow did not wait for them.

One started early, lifted a leg halfway, and drew it back. One was late, and by the time its foot came down, the others had already turned. The last one simply stopped. It bent over, both hands on its knees, and gasped for breath a few times. The rest kept dancing, each on its own. None of their beats matched any other’s.

The two sides crossed over on the same stretch of mirror floor. Their hands brushed past the shadows’ hands without touching. The shadows’ hands were cool and had no warmth. When the hands passed, there was only a little wind.

One of the shadows stepped in among the eight, between the fourth and the fifth. The legs of the eight passed on either side of its body, lifting and falling, and not one of them touched it. It was half a beat slower than all of them. Its leg hung in mid-air, waiting for the next beat.

When the eight and the five shadows collided, there was no sound. A thin mist rose over the mirror floor. It was the cold of the floor, or his sweat. There was no telling which.

The eight recalculated. They copied the section just as it had been. The first beat matched, and the second beat was empty. The move they had not calculated was not in their score. They could only lift their legs into the empty place, and the legs they lifted could not land on any beat. Their faces turned in the same direction, then turned back, and when they turned back, every one of them was off by a millimetre.

The Perfect Mirror: “I can’t copy it… This section has no score.”

She did not look at the eight. Her eyes stopped on his feet. Her voice stopped there, and did not go on.

The even met the uneven. The formation of the eight came apart on its own. As it broke apart, not one of them bumped into another. They went round each empty patch, and went round it precisely. The people in the stands did not move.

His beat was still late. Half a beat late, he stood inside that beat, neither forward nor back.

On the right, the mirror was still falling away in pieces. When the third piece fell, her right cheekbone showed. When the fifth fell, her jaw showed. The last piece came loose from her face, slid across the mirror floor, and stopped in front of the tip of his shoe.

When that piece landed, there was a very thin sound, like a thread pulled taut and then let go.

It lay face up, reflecting one of her eyes.

※

The Perfect Mirror: “I changed it seven thousand times. I didn’t want anyone to see this one.”

The words left her mouth with no echo, and fell onto the piece of mirror in front of his shoe.

Her gaze lowered until it was as level as her eyes. This time, he saw clearly.

It was a real face. The eyes were not symmetrical. The left one sat a little lower than the right, and the lines at the corners of the eyes were fine and separate. There was an old scar on the bridge of the nose, white, running down from between the brows and slanting off for a short way. A mole at the corner of the mouth. There was no make-up on the face. A thin sheen of oil lay on the skin, and each time the light struck it, it gleamed. Sweat stood on the forehead in strands that clung to the skin. It was real sweat. On the left side of the jaw was a seam, about two centimetres long, a little darker than the skin. She looked older than any version of her on the stage, and more alive than any of them.

There was no mirror left on this face.

When that face smiled, the corners of its mouth drew down first. He swallowed.

She drew in a breath.

As she breathed in, her lips parted a little, her chest moved, and the dust on the mirror floor was drawn in too, a little. His breathing was ragged. The breath he took in was not as long as hers.

No one in the stands was nodding any more. In the front row, the paper in their hands had slipped onto their knees. The same face was printed on the paper. No one picked it up.

She raised a hand to cover her face. It stopped halfway, at a height where he could see it. Her palm faced outwards, and her fingertips were a finger’s width from her face. The hand did not shake.

His own hand was still raised, in the position he had used to block the blades. He did not stop her. He lowered his hand, and his palm rested on the inside pocket, through the cloth. The earphone was still there.

On a morning three years ago, a hand had straightened his drawstring the same way. The hand was cold. Its nails were cut very short, and the cut edges were flat. Two fingers pinched the shorter cord and pulled it down by half a finger, then pressed the longer cord in. The two were the same length now. That hand had said, “Now they line up.” He said thank you, and his voice landed behind those words. It was very thin.

He did not line them up. He watched her hand stop halfway. He did not pull it down, and he did not even out the other side. Her hand stayed where it was, neither coming down nor drawing back.

He crouched and turned over the piece by his foot, so that its back faced up. The back was grey, and reflected nothing. The edge of the piece was still thin, and he did not touch that edge.

Jaewon: “Stop fixing it. This face can dance.”

He finished, and the words landed half a beat behind her pause. Her pause did not change.

The cold light on the mirror floor stirred. It crept up from beneath her feet and moved towards his cuff. Halfway there, it stopped. It did not touch him.

※

The lights went out.

The studio lights dimmed one by one from the tops of the pillars. The shadows of the pillars lay on the mirror floor, one after another, all in the same direction, and they dimmed too. When the last light went out, there was no light left on the stage, and the mirror floor no longer shone. The broken pieces lay on the ground, piece after piece, and none of them shone.

There was no music now. The sound of his soles on the mirror floor came down, one step after another, heavier than before. All he could hear was his own feet.

His knee bent. He held himself there, then straightened up. Sweat ran down from his temple, over his brow bone. He did not wipe it.

For the first time, the tower stood against the night sky in its whole outline.

A slender shaft rose straight up out of the trees, narrowing in the middle, with two tiers at the top and an antenna on the crown. There was no light on the tip of the antenna, and not a single window was lit on the body of the tower. It was no longer a stage. It was only a tower, standing among the trees on the hilltop, quiet and still. Wind blew out of the trees, reached the edge of the mirror floor, and blew back. The broken pieces of mirror were not moved. The streets at the foot of the hill had come out too. Car lights ran in rows, and people were walking. Everyone walked with their heads down. No one looked up. The door of a convenience store stood open. Behind the till, someone was stocking the fridge with bottles, row after row, all the bottle necks facing the same way.

The mirror floor was still under his feet, but it no longer reflected anything. When it reflected again, it showed a piece of sky.

To the north-east, the disc was still hanging there. Its bright face was still there, with a pale violet edge around the outer rim. On the bright face were white clouds, in clumps, not moving. The black mouth was above the disc, close to one side of the tower, and the white ring around its edge was still there.

A piece was missing from the west side of the disc. The gap was cut right up to the edge of the black mouth. The edge of the gap was even, and behind it was empty, greyish white, with nothing hanging there. That patch of sky was empty now. The pale violet section that had broken off still hung beside the empty patch. It had not rejoined, and it had not gone.

He kept his head raised. He did not look back.

※

The window of the old practice room was black at night.

The boy stood by the window, his right hand pressed to his jaw. Beneath his fingertips, the mark from the pressure had gone pale at its edges, and it still hurt a little. He did not let go.

A person was reflected in the window glass. The hood of his sweatshirt had fallen behind him, and the drawstrings were uneven, one long and one short. His hair was stuck to his forehead. There was a dark mark on the right side of his jaw, made by his own thumb pressing into it. The one in the glass had the same face, one that had never been fixed.

He looked for a long time.

A thin layer of dust lay on the windowsill, and in the dust were several rows of small fingerprints, each one touching the next, of different sizes.

Then he lowered his hand.

The mark twitched, and the white at its edges slowly faded back to skin colour. He did not press it. A ruler leaned against the bottom of the mirror, its zero facing the window, its edge worn round, right by his hand. He did not pick it up. A line of black tape ran along the bottom of the mirror frame, at exactly that height, one end lifting at the edge. He did not measure it.

He let out a breath. It went out from his chest all the way up to his throat, and it took him twelve counts to finish. When it was out, his shoulders loosened a little. He did not speak.

The phone on the floor lit up. It read six minutes past eleven.

The tungsten bulb by the door was still on, a warm yellow. It reached the door frame but not the threshold. The old scratch on the door frame was still in its old place. On top of the door frame stood a bottle of cold drink, its writing blurred by water. Beside it leaned an umbrella. Its ribs were wet, and water dripped one drop at a time from the tip, collecting on the corridor floor outside in a small ring. At the edge of the ring were two footprints, wet, stopping in front of the threshold, toes pointing inside. They had not come in.

The corridor lights were sound-activated. One came on outside, and another went off. No one walked past.

The boy did not go over. He watched the two footprints dry slowly, their edges tightening, until only a faint white patch was left on the floor. The last sticker on the wall still had stiff corners. It was his.

He turned round. His foot came down on the third board from the window, with a dull thud. That was his beat.

He looked at the back of his hand. There was nothing on it, only the knuckles.

His knee had an old injury, and it tightened first when he stood for a long time. He walked to the mirror and stepped onto the marked square at the lower right corner of the frame. There was washi tape stuck there, with a three still written on it. One edge had curled up a little. Someone had pressed it flat with a thumb. From the door to here was eleven steps.

The lit half of the mirror reflected him. The other half was in the dark, and he had never looked at it. This time, he looked.

The dark half lit up in one patch, a very faint white. The patch rose slowly, evenly, until a square stage came into view. Thin pillars stood at its four corners, their tops black, with no lights. A thin layer of water lay on the steps, reflecting the lower half of the tower. The stands wound up from outside the stage, tier by tier, the backs of the seats white, seat after seat, all empty.

In the middle of the picture stood a person in a black leather jacket, back to this side, facing the far end of the stage. The print on the back was faint, and did not move. On the sticker on the wall, only half of a name was left. That was this person’s name. He stood, and did not move.

In the lower right corner of the picture, close to this side, there was another person. She stood with her back to that person, facing this way. On her left jaw there was a seam, two centimetres long.

Two centimetres. His ruler could measure it.

The order in which he looked at her was jaw, eyes, hands. It was the order the person in the last row had used to assess people. He remembered.

She raised her hand and picked a small piece of mirror from the ground. It was the size of a fingernail. It lay face up, reflecting one of her eyes. The edge of the piece was thin, and would lift at a touch. She pressed it back onto her left cheek, over the seam, and smoothed it flat. When her fingertip pressed down, there was a very faint sound. Her fingers paused, for a very short time, and then she lowered her hand.

The small piece of mirror stuck to her cheek, and its edge was gone. Where the seam had been, there was only a flat layer of light.

Jaewon did not look back.