On my ninth birthday, my parents took me to see the great Nehir perform, and my destiny was sealed.
I sat bolt upright in my velvet seat, there in Symphony Hall, hardly daring to breathe, as the lights dimmed and the musicians strolled onto the stage. They settled themselves in a row of chairs toward the back. The drummer and the clarinetist whispered together for a moment, then nodded to the man with the oud. Then, an intricate sequence of notes dripped from his strings, rising up in the hall and falling again like plaintive rain.
The house went black. The oud solo still shimmered in the darkness, shivered down my spine, a lament centuries old. A bolt of light shot from the back of the theater, defining a perfect circle of brightness on the stage. There, motionless in the spotlight as though frozen by a flashbulb, stood a diminutive figure swathed in layers of turquoise and gold gauze.
The oud faded to silence. My chest hurt from anticipation. The dumbeq player coaxed two musical beats from his goatskin drum. Nehir raised her arm simultaneously, as though her movement had precipitated the drumbeats rather than the other way around. Two more beats, another gesture. She shifted her hips, making her jeweled belt sparkle, as the drummer matched her rhythm. She pivoted and bent backward, her veils brushing the floor behind her, to the next beats.
The clarinet joined the drum. Nehir’s bare arms snaked through the air. Her hips made slow circles, rising as the melody rose, dipping down when it sank to a lower register. The musicians were in taksim mode, improvising to a free form rhythm, and Nehir perfectly matched their every musical gesture, remaining immobile between notes.
The oud player picked up the melody, and abruptly, the drummer swung into a fast, regular beat. All at once, the dancer was all motion. Her shoulders shimmied, her hips shook, her fingers feathered the air. I could see her rise on her toes as she twirled, translucent fabric trailing behind her.
My heart beat in time with the drum as I drank in Nehir’s fluid, voluptuous movements. Her bare feet were light and sure as she traced the intricate steps of the age-old, ageless dance. She removed her outer veil, swirling it in sinuous patterns around her, so that for a moment it seemed that she had a partner. My chest ached with nameless longing.
Nehir did not listen to and interpret the music. The music filled her, bore her up, swept her away in frenzy of glorious energy. She surrendered to the music. She allowed the rhythm to have its way with her. Let the melody enter her, take her, bend her into impossibly graceful forms, travel up her spine until her whole body rippled like water.
Her name meant “the river”, my mother had told me. As I watched her the floodgates opened inside me. I wanted to dance as she danced, wanted that more than anything in the world. I wanted the music to take me and use me as it did her. I craved the knowledge of motion and stillness that, even as a child, I read in her perfect gestures. And I knew, even then, that this was not a mere childish whim.
The tempo slowed. Nehir’s movements became the melting of snow, the opening of blossoms, gradual and exquisite. Breathless, with tears in my eyes, I traced each tiny gesture as she unwound the inner veil of gold-broidered chiffon that hid her bosom and abdomen. She draped the veil over her head, paradoxically concealing her eyes and her waist-length black hair while revealing the creamy hemisphere of her belly. Waves flowed across that white expanse of flesh, waves of music, waves of desire. The jewel embedded in her navel sparkled across the dark heads of the audience, a third eye gazing straight at me.
Heat exploded in my body as I gazed back. I felt heavy and tingling, damp and confused. The little buds that were my nascent breasts stiffened and ached. I wanted—something. Something mysterious and dangerous and infinitely alluring.
Forget what you think you know about belly dancing: the teasing and the sexual innuendo, the dollar bills stuffed in a jeweled girdle, the scantily-clad girl in a veil who delivered your birthday telegram at the office. The true dance, the ancient danse du ventre, passed down through the generations, has nothing in common with the pseudo-striptease that most Americans know about.
Nehir’s dance was, in a sense, agonizingly chaste. She made no effort to arouse the audience. There were no cheap shimmies, no bumps and grinds, no obvious titillation. Although her eyes were open, her vision seemed to be turned inward. It was as though she was unaware of the hundreds of eyes riveted upon her. Only the rhythm and the melody were real to her.
Yet her every movement was so sensuous that I’m sure that many men in the audience had uncomfortable lumps in their laps. Women left the theater that night with nipples screaming to be touched and dampness on their thighs, embarrassed to find themselves so aroused by what was obviously supposed to be art.
I understand this now. The dancer surrenders herself to the dance, becomes the dance, and the dance ravishes her. The audience watch like voyeurs as ecstasy claims her.
The true dance flows from the earth. It mirrors the earth in our flesh. The beat of the earth becomes the beat of the heart, the throbbing of blood in the cock, the hungry swelling of the vulva.
But I am getting ahead of myself. That night, I understood nothing except that I wanted to be Nehir. I wanted to share her experience. My heart, my mind, my body all wanted this, with an intensity that would have frightened me if I had not felt so sure that this was my true path.
I do not know how long Nehir danced. For me, time stopped. The musicians switched from one rhythm to another, slow, fast, slow again, and Nehir matched her dance perfectly to each one. Finally, though, they took up a furious, driving beat that I now know was a çifftetellisi. Nehir seemed taken by a madness. She stamped and swirled, arched her back, swung her voluminous skirts in time with the frenzied drumbeats.
Her energy overwhelmed me. I thought my heart would burst from my chest. I sat there transfixed, one hand gripping the other, while others in the audience stood and cheered and clapped in time. The music surged to a climax. The dancer turned on her toes, turned and turned until I was dizzy from watching.
The music, suddenly, artfully, ceased. Nehir sank to her knees on the stage, her head bowed, her arms stretched open, offering herself, her body, her art, to us. Something inside me shattered. Tears ran down my cheeks.
Applause thundered around me. I was still as a statue, acutely aware of the odd feelings racing through me. Nehir rose gracefully. She touch her fingers to her brow, her heart, her belly, then extended her hand, palm up. It was more a gesture of obeisance than a bow. Then she stood, quiet and humble, while the audience roared and yelled and clapped its huge approval. And though I knew I must be mistaken, I would have sworn that her dark eyes were fastened on mine.
That night is as vivid in my mind as yesterday. I remember waiting for the bus home, after midnight, standing beside my parents as snowflakes drifted like feathers down around us and our breath hung in white clouds in the January air. “Did you enjoy the show?” my father asked. All I could do was nod. No words could capture the tumult within me. The rhythm of the drums still surged in my veins. When I closed my eyes, I saw swirling clouds of turquoise and gold.
The drums kept me awake. My body shook with their beat. I tossed and squirmed in my narrow bed, trying not to wake my older sister. Finally, I shoved my pillow between my legs and rocked until a little explosion distracted me from the drums. I fell asleep in the grayness of dawn, still sensing Nehir’s eyes upon me.
The next day, I spoke with my mother. I want to be a dancer, I told her, like Nehir. I want to study and become perfect.
My mother sighed and smiled at me. Another whim, she probably was thinking, like my chess-playing and my jujitsu. She agreed to teach me what she knew.
I should explain. This dance and this music are in my blood. My father is Lebanese; my mother is Greek. They were both born here, but their parents came as children or teenagers from the old countries. At parties, weddings and funerals there was always a band. Everyone danced, the children and the crones and everyone in between. I didn’t know the names of the rhythms then, balady and ciffetellisi and daqwanoos, but I recognized them all. I felt them in my bones.
Still, our dance was as different from Nehir’s dance as a fingerpainting is from a Van Gogh. One was a naive and boisterous celebration. The other was an act of devotion.
For two years, my mother tutored me. She taught me the basic steps, the drum rhythms, the dance phases, and some veil work. With her assistance, I learned the simpler techniques for the zils, the finger cymbals the dancer sometimes uses to mark and elaborate on the beat.
My mother kept expecting me to lose interest, but as my skill grew, so did my passion. I would practice at least an hour a day. By the time I was eleven, I was a far better dancer than she was. I needed to move on.
“Mum, I’m really grateful for your help,” I told her, “but I think I need a new dance teacher. Someone who can teach me more advanced steps. Who can prepare me to perform.”
My mother looked troubled. She brushed my dark hair out of my eyes and surveyed gangly, my pre-teen body. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you, Moira?”
“Of course. I thought you understood that.”
“Being a dancer is a difficult life. You’ll have to work incredibly hard, and make many sacrifices.”
In my pride, I thought I understood. “I know. That’s what I want, though. More than anything.”
She sat silent and thoughtful for a long moment. It struck me how beautiful she was, with her jet hair streaked with silver and her warm brown eyes. “I think I should talk to Haji, then. He’s the only person I know who can teach you what you need to learn.”
Haji lived on the heights across the river. As my mother drove me along the winding parkway to my audition, several weeks later, my guts twisted with nervousness. I almost regretted my insistence. I had seen him perform, once or twice, at festivals; I remembered his ferocious grace. He had studied the dance in Turkey, my mother told me, at the same school as Nehir. His connection with my idol awed me and frightened me. How presumptuous of me to imagine that he would consider taking me on as his student!
My mother parked in the shade and we walked across the sun-baked parking lot to Haji’s building. It was late June, high summer. Since school finished two weeks before, I had been practicing three or four hours daily. I should have felt prepared, but I was terrified.
Mum rang the bell. My heart slammed against my ribs. I wanted to turn and run away. Then the door opened, and it was too late.
Edmond Ali al Haj had eyes like black diamonds, full of light. They drilled into me, searching my face, seeking – something. I did not understand, but I held his gaze. Indeed, I couldn’t look away. Some fire smoldered in those dark orbs; I imagined what it would feel like to see it leap into flame.
“Good afternoon, Leila,” he greeted my mother. “Good to see you.”
“Yes, it has been too long. In any case, thank you for allowing us to visit,” she replied.
“My pleasure. My privilege.” He turned to me. “And you must be Moira.” He held out his hand. “Welcome.”
His skin was cool. My own face burned with nervous embarrassment. “Yes, sir.”
“You want to dance, Moira.”
It was a statement, not a question, but I answered anyway. “More than anything, sir.”
He seemed amused by my fervor. “Well, we’ll see. Please, come inside.”
We sat down in his living room and he served us iced mint tea. While he and my mother chatted about friends and family, I tried to get a measure of this man who perhaps could open the gates to my dream.
His youthful face belied the frosting of gray in his tangled black curls. He was not exactly handsome, but his hawkish nose and high forehead spoke to me of wisdom and intelligence. A thick moustache framed his firm, full lips. His gestures were as graceful and eloquent, as I’d expect from a dancer of his skill. I sensed rather than saw his great physical strength.
His voice was warm and musical. Listening to its rise and fall, not really paying attention to the words, I felt my anxiety melt away.
I was not prepared when he shifted his attention back to me. “Well, Moira, I’d like you to dance for me now. Leila, would you mind waiting outside?”
My mother looked uncomfortable. “Um… is that really necessary?”
“I don’t want her distracted. I need her to focus on me, on my instructions. If I undertake to teach her, we will need to spend considerable time alone together. I need to discover if we can communicate at the level that will be required.”
I was suddenly terrified again, but my terror mingled with unfamiliar excitement. To be alone with this imposing, powerful man: I wanted this as much as I feared it.
“Don’t worry, Leila. We won’t take long. If she has what is needed, I’ll know right away.” He ushered her to the door. I sat clutching the edge of my chair until he returned, hardly breathing.
When he came back, he was carrying a polished ebony drum. He seated himself across from me, the instrument between his knees. “Stand up, Moira,” he said, firmly but not unkindly. “Let me look at you.” I slipped off my sandals and stood before him.
In the two years since Nehir’s performance and my awakening, my body had begun to take on more womanly contours. My breasts were small but well defined. My hips were now noticeably broader than my waist. I was tall for my age, slender and small-boned by nature. I realized that I would probably never have Nehir’s voluptuous form. But I was determined to make the most of my endowments.
“Raise your arms above your head” Haji ordered. I obeyed as quickly and gracefully as I could. “Turn around.” I felt those coal-black eyes burning into my back. I struggled to relax my muscles, to let my fingers droop gracefully like willow boughs, the way I had been taught. I drew a breath deep into my lungs and then released it slowly, waiting for his next instruction.
It was not his voice, then, but his drum that spoke to me. One sharp beat rang out. I answered it without thinking, rotating my wrists to the lyre position, cocking my hip to one side. Another beat. I brought one arm down, palm raised in the classic gesture of offering. Again. I responded with a quick figure eight, hips tracing a fluid pattern through the air. I seemed to know when he would strike the drum, though his rhythm was irregular and I could not see him. My body knew, anticipated his strokes, so that I moved in simultaneity with his fingers, not in reaction to them. Before long, he shifted into a medium fast balady. I improvised, shimmying and swirling, shaking my pelvis and shoulders in response to the driving beat.
Even as the music of his drum grew faster and more frantic, I felt calm and in control. Power surged through me. I did not need to think about my movements. They flowed from some core of knowledge and grace within my self. “Turn to me,” he commanded, and I obeyed, fixing my eyes on his, my arms snaking in complex patterns around my face.
I saw approval in his eyes, and excitement flooded through me. I was suddenly out of control, drunk with the dancing. My long hair tangled around my face. My full skirt billowed around me, exposing my thighs. I twirled and twirled, until I was dizzy and breathless, and then I twirled some more.
His fingers skittered across the goatskin drumhead, coaxing new and intricate rhythms from the drum’s heart. My heart seemed to beat in time, the dance pulsing inside me.
Suddenly, in the midst of my frenzy, the drum rang out, one loud, long beat, and then was silent. “Stop!”, Haji cried. “Be still.” I posed where I was, my back to him again. One arm stretched out in front of me. The other grasped the fabric of my skirt.
“Don’t move, Moira,” he whispered. My heart slammed painfully in my chest. I wondered if he could see it trembling. I tried to slow my breathing. A bead of sweat trickled down my spine.
Haji circled my immobile figure. I struggled to remain still. He was close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his trim, muscular body. I felt answering heat rising in my own.
My eyes were cast down, but I could sense his movement, sense him tracing my form in the air. He did not touch me. Some part of me ached for him to do so. My little nipples grew tight and hard under my halter top. I knew that he could see, but I didn’t care. All that I wanted at that moment was for him to be pleased with me.
My muscles were beginning to cramp up. I tried to relax, not wanting to move and undo the strange spell that bound the two of us at that moment. I felt him move away and sit down. Still, I remained where I was, determined not to disappoint or disobey him.
Finally he spoke. “You have promise, Moira. You have passion. You need to learn how to harness that passion, to subdue it, to place it at the service of your art. And you need discipline. But I think I can help you. I think I can teach you.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try to do well.”
“I know you will. You must trust me, though, and do as I instruct. Sometimes that won’t be easy.” The pain shooting through my tensed form illumined his words. I knew I was willing to endure that pain, and a million times more, to earn his pleasure.
“You may move now,” he said. I sank to my knees, all my limbs tingling as the blood rushed into them. I was astonished to realize that tears were streaming down my cheeks.
Haji cupped my chin in his hand and raised my eyes to his. I thought, for a brief moment, that he was going to kiss me. All he did, though, was pull a handkerchief from his pocket and dab away my tears.
In later years, though, I came to believe that my intuitions were correct. That he did ache to touch me, as much as I ached for him to do it, and that only my youth prevented him.
That night, I had fevered dreams of naked bodies, their limbs twining and weaving in twisted forms that had a disturbing beauty about them. What sort of dance is this, I wondered. A drum hammered in the distance, solemn and compelling. The night was moonless. Everything glowed from within, with a sparkle like black diamonds.
I was afraid, yet drawn to the tangle of flesh. Finally, my desire overcame my fear. I stripped off my clothing and began walking toward them.
The more I walked, though, the more they seemed to recede, until I was crying with frustration. I stood alone on a barren plain under a star-filled sky, wind whipping my hair around me. “Be still,” I heard a voice in my ear. “Be patient. Your time will come.” There were fingers then, disembodied, marking my throat, my breasts, my belly. “Be still,” the wind whispered, and then the fingers reached that spot between my thighs, and my flesh and the dream shattered together.
I woke to find that my first monthly bleeding had begun during the night.
My mother had explained it all to me, a year ago. I knew what to do. I showered and dressed. The napkin felt pleasantly tight, pressed up against my sex.
I stood in front of the mirror for a long time. I was the same Moira, and yet I was not. There was a new, strange light in my eyes; it reminded me of my dream, and I shivered deliciously. I cupped my palms around the nascent swelling of my breasts. I was still too skinny, with too many sharp angles. Nevertheless, although it was veiled by my awkward, eleven-year old flesh, I could see the woman I would become.
The woman I was, I reminded myself proudly.
The phone rang downstairs, and a few minutes later my mother knocked on my bedroom door. Her smile was kind and sad.
“That was Haji. He wants you to come twice a week, for two hours at a time, starting next Tuesday afternoon. She kissed my forehead, then left me alone.
I elevated my arms, crossed my wrists and did a quick figure eight, grinning at myself. My journey had begun.