He leapt, caught in the air and the moment, onto to the stage, every step held in the cradle of the music and his certainty, and then – the leap off stage – the misjudgment caused by a momentary lapse… And the terrible realization as he turned and twisted in the air that he was going to land not with grace and a final few off stage steps but entangled painfully with the metal cold impaling of the side spot’s stand. The terrible crashing audible in the audience. The pain through his legs and side. The blood metallic in his mouth, the silent ministering, the show going on for everyone else…
And he picks up his supper tray, and puts it on his walker, and pushes it out from the kitchenette towards his chair. Each misplaced and ragged step still a pain to his mind as well as his body. They shoot racehorses that break their legs. Sometimes he thinks that’s kinder.
It’s morning now. The pale light caresses his face. He pulls himself up. If he cannot dance, he can still teach. He dresses, leaves. The fumes of London traffic, and the cool freshness of the Park. He makes his way to the White Lodge. Students nod and dip in bow and curtsey as he passes. The dusty thunder of the rehearsal rooms, the arpeggios of pianos leading the swirls of arms and legs trailing grace in unity. He turns to his class. One of these boys will be a Nureyev, a Nijinsky, a Baryshnikov, an Acosta…
He claps for attention, and the boys turn, alert, like the young sparrowhawks they are. He’ll teach them to fly with grace, to excel. He was never going to be a Nureyev, however much he strained his body. He is a good teacher. Maybe, just now, the best. He smiles. Life is good.