Resilient Creature

Mid-August, but Edinburgh is cold tonight.

If I had half a wit, I would cling to my layers, seek the warmth of a wee bar, the cosy hum of revellers. If I’d an ounce of the common, I would merge into the midst of the well-pashed and pissheads, soak up their energy, blend in, merge, disappear. Instead, I stand in the street beyond the elliptical glow of a streetlamp, the chill stone pavement sucking heat from my bare feet.

I wait, in first position.

Stragglers pass by me, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched to their ears, their bodies tautened by the east wind. They don’t notice me. My bland clothes are camouflage and I blend into the bleak granite building behind me. If I don’t move, if I scarcely breathe, I can remain undetected. Then tonight, like every other night, I will stay safe.

I can still change my mind. There’d be no shame in it. No one would know. Or care. My courage waivers and I turn to face the wall. A wind-torn Festival poster flaps mockingly at me. Go to hell, I say.

I can do this.

I’ve rehearsed it a hundred times before. In my mind. In my room. Always alone. Always unobserved. But where’s the point in that? What purpose is served by hiding away? Am I saving my flesh at the expense of my soul? If no one sees me, do I even exist? They say the total energy of an isolated system remains constant, that energy cannot be created or destroyed. But energy can be transformed, so here I am, in this street, in this shoulder-arching weather.

I begin removing my clothes.

I take a deep breath and lower my head, chin to chest, spine curving forward as far as it will go, then I am up on my toes, lips clenched with pain. I turn to one side. My right arm bends at the crook, extending upwards until my elbow points at the sharp stars set in the coal-black sky. I draw a shaky breath as my clawed hand reaches, grasps for the ribbed edge tickling the nape of my neck. My fingers clutch at it, folding down to the knuckle. My left knee rises towards my throat, then blowing out air, I straighten up sharply, left arm flung forward as gracefully as my body will allow. The movement is forced. It feels unnatural. Clumsy. But I persist, and eventually, jerkily, I shrug myself free of the first layer.

I begin again. This time my left arm crooks and my right arm extends to the front. My left side is weaker, less flexible. I feel the strain on my joints. Pain flushes into my muscles and out through my skin, vaporising on the cold night air. I push past this unwanted stop point like a faulty automaton and another layer crumples awkwardly at my feet.

Right arm again. Looser now, more rhythmic, almost in time with the music in my head. I swing my hand back over my shoulder and wrench off the sweat-soaked, coarse, and crinkled polyester. My eye glimpses a brief spark as the artificial fabric comes into contact with my hair. I hear the crackle of static overhead, like a tiny ripping of the atmosphere.

Back again to my left arm. This time it lunges, up and then over, its aim to grasp a seam and pull smoothly. My body convulses, undulates. My sinews tremble and tear with the effort, but another layer is shed.

I sense a movement behind me. People are gathering.

I hear a murmur. A snigger or two. An awkward cough. Unabashed I continue. Left arm. Right arm. Left arm. Right arm. Discarded clothes, like skins, are spreading around me, but my body isn’t cooling. Instead, my blood boils with the effort.

More stragglers are joining the group now. The air vibrates with the heat of them. I sense them huddling together, closer than strangers would ever congregate if it wasn’t so cold. I hear one voice resonate over the thrum, a question, though I can’t make out the words. I know it’s a question by the tone of the voice, its energy, the upward lilt at the end of the sentence. Are they asking: Is she mad? Homeless? Drunk? Does someone answer with a shrug of acceptance: ‘It’s that time of year’?

I begin to move my feet in harmony with my arms, hips swinging from side to side in opposition to my shoulders. I lift my heels higher with each step, kick back behind me, stamp my feet back down on the pavement. I spasm my spine to shift the energy diagonally, then pause for a moment, crossing my arms in front of me; my fingers search for the bottom edge of the final layer. This is it.

I take the deepest breath then raise my arms gawkily. The gossamer slip floats high with the wind, up into the arc of the streetlamp, then flutters lifelessly onto the pavement below. The crowd gasps as one. I am naked.

I begin my display.

Extending my right arm to one side, I point my fingers as far as they will go. My skin stretches tight over muscle and sinew. My fingers move rhythmically, and the energy travels the length of my elongated limb. The movement is simple, autonomic, such as you would see in a reflex to the pain from an external cause, like a burn received from touching hot metal.

The next move requires more concentration. I focus and flex the muscles that hold my scapula in place. My trapezium ripples, scurries under my skin like a swallowed rodent. Tensing the muscles on my left, I make the movement burrow from right to left horizontally across my spine, then back again. I sway my hips and dip my knees as far as they will go, breathing into the resistance. I hear my joints crack. Feel them complain. I loosen my arms and neck, folding forward, then back again, as smoothly as I can manage. My breasts rise and fall with each laboured breath, their movement tempered by gravity; my tightly wound nipples trace invisible lines in the bitter air. The cold starts to nag me. I close my eyes.

And I am in a forest. Broad-leaved succulents spring up around me. Sunlight pierces the dripping branches and vines of the canopy. The air steams. Grasses spring firm under my feet. I am hot. My sweat runs in rivulets, its direction diverted this way and that by the contours of my body. And my body is strong, so strong, my movement a primitive grace. The thud of my feet on the ground shakes the earth and around me the chatter grows louder: birdlike chittering, cicadas squawking for communion, mosquitoes’ high-pitched droning.

I am powerful. I move in a graceful lumber. I am incredibly agile. My arms are long. I am short-haired. From the Western lowlands. I am looking for my mate.

I see him through the long grass with another of his harem. I watch for a while then stand tall on my legs, sway with my arms in the air before landing gracefully on my knuckles. I scamper in a circle, flattening the grass in patterns. He has seen me. I pretend to ignore him for a moment then rise up again, then fall, then rise up. I make my mark upon the ground. He is mesmerised, transfixed by me. I can see that. I turn my back on him and move away, my proud arse swinging from side to side as I go.

It has grown cool again now. The light is harsh. The air smells antiseptic. There are white walls around me, hung with monochrome images of bones. A humerus. A radius and ulna. Femur. Tibia. Fibula. A pelvis. They are all here, the bones, in this gallery. A magnificent exhibition of skeletal anatomy arranged in no particular order. Human, though we have the same number of bones as a gorilla. I wonder at the artist.

A sharp voice intrudes.

‘So, as you can see, there’s a marked deterioration of the articular cartilage. Here. Here. Here.’

He points with a light stick at the artwork on the wall.

‘Not uncommon, of course, in your line of work. All that energy the joints have to absorb from the impacts. The unnatural rotations. There’s been research into cartilage regeneration and repair. Using sheep. Nothing conclusive so far, but you never know, the wonders of modern science and all that. We can give you pain killers, anti-inflammatories, the usual stuff. But of course the condition is progressive. I’m afraid your career as a dancer is over.’

It’s over. I did it. Better than I ever rehearsed in my mind. Better than alone in my room, unobserved.

Far better to be here, on the cold, hard streets, the stone flags. Better to be chastened by the chill wind. Exposed to the elements. Tomorrow my bones will gripe. My muscles will whine. My joints will shriek. Tomorrow, my whole body will be a cacophony of complaint. But at least I’ll know I’m alive.

I stoop to gather my clothes but don’t put them on. Instead, I roll them into a tight ball and clasp them to my belly. Naked as an ape, I turn to face the crowd behind me. Their eyes are shining. They breathe in harmony. Their hearts beat as one. I take a bow.

‘You are now audience,’ I say. ‘I have transformed you.’

Then I merge into the night, my proud arse swinging from side to side as I walk.