Jerry’s Rooftop Terrace, Sunday Night, May 7, 1989
Star-studded sky, suspended as rhinestones scattered in the heavens, the moon crept upward from the roof-terrace horizon. The grilled salmon and vegetables were epicurean and the two snuggled in each other’s arms as they lay in the wide hammock on the rooftop garden terrace that led off Jerry’s flat.
“So, you’re sure about this?” Jerry interrupted the moonlit silence.
“Absolutely,” Christina replied.
“How do you know?”
“The tug in my heart compared to life in the arts.”
“What do you mean?”
“Life as a dancer, as a professional dancer, is immersed in a world that has a dark side, one that can consume the mind, body, and soul. Life is different in the theater. People who were living their life’s fantasy surrounded me. It’s an unreal, real-world consumed with the flesh. I got a baptism of this during the staging of Swan Lake. Imagine me in the women’s dressing room, changing into my tutu— ”
“Tutu. Sounds sexy. Doesn’t that mean—”
“Jerry. No. It doesn’t mean what you’re thinking. That’s what I’m talking about, battling the flesh that surrounded me. But, yeah, I know you’re just having fun kidding me with, silly boy. But there is a theory for the origin of the word that is rather vulgar. The abonnés, the rich male subscribers at the Paris Opera Ballet, favored the very front rows in the hope of a scandalous view. Back then, women wore pantalettes as underwear with the crotch left open for hygiene purposes.”
“Oh to be an abonné.” Jerry chuckled.
“Stop it, Jerry. It all starts with a thought, then the thought becomes a desire, and then we act on our desires.”
“Sorry, just feeling a bit . . . ”
“Frisky?”
“You brought it up. You were talking about your tutu.”
“My ballerina skirt? You’re the one who— ”
“Okay, okay, go on with your story.”
“Well, I think you made my point. But I will go one. I want you to understand that although I may be a light in the darkness, I am snubbed for my morals and values to the point of in my face vulgarity. To be creative, the art of dance, it draws people who are uninhibited, those who let their bodies rule their heart. As I was saying, imagine me changing into my tutu and then modeling it in a full-length mirror. Behind me, but in full view through the mirror, two of my female dancers are naked and passionately kissing each other in front of me.”
“No way.”
“In the Spirit, I battled against the flesh and overcame its lure . . . and meeting you helped.” Christina nuzzled in the nook of Jerry’s arm as they nestled together in the soft, rope hammock.
“I just want you to be sure within yourself. Leaving that kind of money on the table could bring you regret. Robert’s proposal may be a once in a lifetime opportunity to catch this explosion of your debut. Without a follow-up performance, you may be history.”
“Jerry, it’s not about the money. Don’t you understand what I mean by a tug of the heart? Children that no one else wants, pull at my heart. They are the left behind souls of civil war, the ravage of AIDS, disease, and famine, hearts that have never experienced God’s love, and life beyond death.”
“And meeting you has helped me, too,” Jerry admitted. “Three months ago, I was getting high with Ronnie, dreaming about riding the wave to get rich quick, living in the fast lane of glitz, glamour, and style, fast cars and fast girls in a material world. You are the antithesis of that . . . and I find it refreshing.”
“Really Jerry? See, I have made a difference in someone’s life, and most importantly yours. I want to do the same in the lives of children, children who have no hope.”
“And I want you to pursue your passion, to follow your heart.”
“I love you.”
“And I love you.”
As one in each other’s arms, the night breeze blew through the curtains of the paned glass door leading to the dining room where he had placed a large candle, its solitary flame cast a glow on the wine bottle label. Alas, Santa Cristina remained uncorked, their bliss in spirit overcoming the desires of their flesh, the nectar of the grape a distant third to their first place love for God and then for each other. At peace with her decision and he supporting her calling, they found the interlude of sleep take them to slumber as the stars twinkled winks of approval of their last night together.
The luminescent white and grey dimpled orb ruled the night, a heavenly spotlight, its silver cast a backdrop for dreams, and as he nodded off—
There she stood in the open, glass-paned door, the curtains billowing about her white chiffon and lace dress. She moved like the wind and leaped and twirled a private dance for Father above. Words of song sprang from his heart . . .
As I watch you move
Across the moonlit room
There’s so much tenderness in your loving
She pirouetted, the sheerness of white draping her body she replied . . .
Tomorrow I must leave
The dawn knows no reprieve
God, give me strength when I am leaving
He echoed in return . . .
So raise your hands to heaven and pray
That we'll be back together someday
Her eyes met his and spoke from the depths of her heart . . .
Tonight I need your sweet caress
Hold me in the darkness
Tonight you calm my restlessness
You relieve my sadness
He saw her prancing towards him, gliding above the terrace tiles . . .
As we move to embrace tears run down your face
I whisper words of love so softly
I can't believe this pain
It’s driving me insane
Without your touch life will be lonely
He held her tightly in his sleep, arms of protection, hers to reap. The song continued to lilt in his mind a loop of love that had no end . . .
Morning has come another day
I must pack my bags and say goodbye, goodbye . . .
Tonight I need your sweet caress
Hold me in the darkness
Tonight you calm my restlessness
You relieve my sadness
Tonight I need your sweet caress
Hold me in the darkness
Tonight you calm my restlessness
You relieve my sadness . . .
† † †
Daybreak was a dawn of splendor, mourning doves roosting on ridges cooing a lullaby to prolong a summer night’s dream.
† † †
© Breathe – “Hands to Heaven”
† † †
Copyright 2017 © Jeff Cambridge
Excerpt from PURSUIT, a novel by Jeff Cambridge.
Author of transformational fiction—
Real characters in real life drama that tell the story of their transformation to become more like Jesus.
To read the scenes sequentially, begin with
“PURSUIT: A Novel – Prologue”
Located in the May Blog Archive. Click on the episodes and enjoy.
This episode is pre-published. The book will be available Spring 2018.
Your comments are welcomed and appreciated. Check one of the reaction boxes below, write a comment, or email me at lightbycambridge@gmail.com.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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