Free Here at the End of the World We Learn to Dance by Lloyd Jones Page A

each dance they move to another area of the cave until that too cuts up, and then they begin over, Paul Schmidt singing, one or the other of the boys clapping to keep the rhythm.
    Morning finds the floor of the cave churned up. It looks like a herd of cattle has passed through.
    It was Billy Pohl who ‘discovered’ the dance floor. An area of flat rock on one side of the cave. It sloped away but other than that it behaved fine. After Billy brushed away the sand they watched Schmidt measure it out in steps. Four to the side, ten to the end where he stopped to scratch his chin and ponder. ‘Louise?’ He looked around for her and held out a beckoning hand. She moved inside his arms. He whispered the instructions and they demonstrated the gancha —a thigh glance inviting an upward flick of her heel inside his leg that brought a ‘Holy Jesus’ from Billy looking on. ‘You see,’ said the piano tuner calmly. ‘There doesn’t have to be a lot of movement to make it interesting.’
    They were learning in their different ways. Billy Pohl had a turn; then Henry. But it was Schmidt whom Louise waited for. Billy and Henry were just something to get through. They liked the womanly feel of her. They liked to feel her close, Billy especially, he became like a vine, clamping on to her; Henry, on the other hand, wanting to but not quite able to and going slack with shame. She danced longer with Schmidt. For one thing, the piano tuner could carry the song and add as many verses as he wished. He could hum in her ear. Not only was he the master of technique he was in charge of music, which gave him a distinct advantage over Billy Pohl and Henry Graham. In their hands the dance was a clumsy, awkward thing. Whereas it flowed out of Schmidt. Well, it was in him to start with. Bit by bit Louise found herself stowing bits of the dance inside of herself, the sandwich, for example, and when the piano tuner dragged her foot back with her own she felt a glass chandelier must be hanging over them, a band playing onstage, floorboards gleaming in the lights.

10
    At low tide the world reconfigured. The sea drew back and the tide turned lazy with sloppy brown kelp beds. Rocks emerged, and seabirds found new quarters to rest on and watch the day.
    Louise was sitting on a rock watching Billy Pohl show the piano tuner how to reach down and feel for paua. Both men were in their long johns, Schmidt with the side of his face flat to the water; his eyes squeezed tight with concentrated effort. She thought of him tuning the piano, feeling for the notes.
    It was the same when they danced together. She watched his eyes. They coaxed her, assisted by his shoves and tips; and his quiet words of encouragement. ‘Good, Louise. That’s it. You’ve got it.’ When his mouth closed a line ran from the corner to halfway up his cheek. Once they were safely through the step or series of steps the lines of his jaw would soften again. She was picking it up. Her progress seemed to please Schmidt as much as it did her. He told her, ‘You can dance, Louise. You can do it.’
    Once, while gathering firewood, she felt sufficiently light and confident enough to ask him, ‘Are you married, Mister Schmidt?’ Falling back on formality in a jokey way.
    â€˜No,’ he said. ‘Are you?’
    â€˜No,’ she said.
    They left it at that.
    These days it was too hot to linger. The sun hogged the sky and scorched the grey beach, making it too hot to walk barefoot on. During the hottest part of the day they holed up in the cave, huddling in the highest corners to protect their red bitten shins from the sandhoppers and sandflies.
    There were duties to perform. Small tasks that in themselves were diverting. In the next bay there was water to collect from a hill stream where they would drop to their knees and dip their faces and drink as the cattle did. Separately they took themselves off to the creek to strip off