Free Dance of the Angels by Robert Morcet Page B

easy thing to hear,” he said, heading over to the sofa and sitting down. “I’ll tell you everything, from the very beginning.”

    Le Goënec had been riding his Honda around and around the chic avenues of Le Vésinet before he found the Centre Saint-Exupéry, a complex of multi-use spaces where one could do all kinds of activities, from theater to weight training, not to mention acrobatic rock and roll. Florence was already there, sitting patiently inside her red Clio. She jumped when a large, gloved hand rapped on her window. No worries; it was only Le Goënec. Punctual as ever. Florence got out of her car, a little tense. The cop reassured her with a smile and a wink in place of a passionate kiss. Off they went.
    “You know, my treasure, I’ve been wanting to sign up for a yoga class for years. How about you?” said Le Goënec with a grin.
    The couple entered the center, which smelled of disinfectant and hashish, like a throwback to the 1960s. The two hippies at the front desk no doubt passed the time reminiscing about the good old days of free love and prog-rock extravaganzas.
    There were posters everywhere advertising a multitude of activities, as well as some rather unexciting shows, such as a Marxist Macbeth performed by a support group for ex-druggies. Le Goënec cast his eye swiftly over the bulletin board and saw that ballet classes were on the second floor. Once upstairs, the two looked for the entrance to the ballet room.
    A door opened at the other end of the corridor, and out stepped a young woman wearing too much makeup and tottering on impossibly high stilettos. She walked toward them, looking at them intently. Not very welcoming.
    “Can I help you?”
    “We would like to see the ballet teacher,” said Le Goënec. “Can we speak with him?”
    She consulted her Swatch with a disdainful air and said, “Mr. Boudon has another half hour of class. Why do you need to see him?”
    “I’m a producer, and I’m making a documentary about Le Vésinet,” said Le Goënec. “My name is François Herman, and this is my assistant.”
    Florence, feeling rather uncomfortable, barely managed to crack a smile. Ever the professional, Le Goënec pulled out a business card bearing the name Mirage Productions, a little gift from his buddy Marc, production manager for a company that made institutional films.
    Visibly reassured, the young woman handed back the card, saying, “Very well, you may go in. You’ll see the end of the class.”
    Le Goënec held open the door for Florence. Inside, Martin Boudon conducted his class in a loud voice.
    “And one, and two, and three . . . Knees turned out.”
    Le Vésinet’s answer to Mikhail Baryshnikov appeared to be bored stiff. In the large room, a dozen boys and girls, aged around eleven or twelve, were at the barre, opposite a mirror. With the middle-aged paunch of one who likes a good nosh, there was nothing about Boudon that said star dancer . He looked more like a retired sumo wrestler. As for the music, there was no piano, just a plain old tape player blasting crackly music from The Nutcracker .
    “Watch the turns,” he screamed, incensed. Forgetting his rolls of fat, the ex-dancer positioned himself in front of the pupils and gave a rapid demonstration. “Right foot forward . . . dégagé  . . . fermé  . . . tour en dehors  . . . Let’s go.”
    The young dancers were possessed by a submissiveness quite unusual in kids of their age. Le Goënec noticed this strange dynamic right away. It made him uneasy.
    After a final series of exercises, the teacher clapped his hands with authority. The class was over. Each pupil gave a little bow before disappearing into the changing rooms to shower. Florence, who had taken ballet classes when she was a little girl, found the whole circus grotesque and miserable.
    “Can I help you?” asked Boudon with the icy air of a guru.
    “I’m a producer of documentaries,” said Le Goënec. “This is my assistant. I’m