A female classmate surnamed Ye, a city dweller and very fashionable, said, "I've learned a cotillion, it looks great, teach you!" Another female classmate walked over happily, and the two of them stared at their toes while chanting, "One step to the left, one step to the right, one step forward, one step back ......"
For nearly half a month, the sound of counting steps echoed through our dorm room. Counting that step almost as familiar as the multiplication mnemonic, some people had the guts to say that they wanted to go to the cabaret in the small town to test their dancing skills. Of course, none of us had the heart to give the real reason: a romantic encounter.
Turning out our best clothes and painting our eyes and lipstick, we rushed to the dance floor with great joy. It was an open-air dance floor, with white tiles surrounded by clusters of palms, a few circles of tiny light bulbs streaming through the trees, and cold drink sellers pushing ice chests all over the floor, delivering a steady stream of melons, plums and sodas to each white plastic table. My girlfriends and I sat in a corner, apprehensive, sweet, determined and scared.
The first song was probably a fast three, danced by mostly middle-aged men, all swarming to the center of the stage, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. We sat honestly, staring at the stage, not daring to go up. The second song was a slow four, and I forget what the third song was. In short, we sadly realized that what we had been learning for the past half month was actually the art of dragon slaying.
So they died, gave up dancing, and concentrated on searching for the pathetically small number of young men of the opposite sex on the floor. A couple of young men were smoking not far away, wearing jeans and white shirts, and were quite handsome.
Because we were just as strikingly young, the guys approached us, smiled, struck up a conversation, and then asked us to dance.
There was one dance that pulled and spun around and around, and I could handle it at first, but eventually spun around so much that I nearly fainted and stepped on his foot several times, and although I wasn't complained about it, I was already feeling ashamed of myself, and fumbled my way back to my seat.
The partner followed, saying, "It's easy, look!"
He stretched out the index and middle fingers of his right hand and pressed them on his left palm, moving them with a lift, explaining as he demonstrated, "Look, like this, one step forward, one step back, one turn ......" I was attracted by those two nimble fingers, which rolled and moved, and were reflected by the light, almost with life. I was attracted to those two flexible fingers, they were moving around, by the light, almost have life, is the most interesting dance I have seen that night.
We left early that night, refusing to let them stay, as if staying too long would destroy the innocence. They wanted to see us off, but we didn't even say no, we saw an opening and ran.
As I walked out the door, I couldn't resist glancing in and seeing my strange dance partner standing leaning against a table in the purple-black night, his face lean and handsome. I felt a vague sweetness of joy that I could not forget for a week afterward.
I went there once more, secretly, with unauthorized desire, covertly, but sadly, I did not see it again.
When I was at the University of Teacher's Education, there was a physical dance class, but I didn't like the idea of going over and over a few moves, and I learned it carelessly.
Then I switched my interest to folk dance. There was a professional dance teacher in the school, in order to earn extra money, opened a training course, put up a wall full of mirrors in his living room, enrollment classes.
At that time, the cold teacher's home at the foot of a hill, is a bungalow, quiet, there is a small yard in front of the door, planted with tall osmanthus, red tea roses large white chrysanthemums, there are a few small beds of green onions and leeks. Outside the alley should also be a long and quiet one, lined with low green brick houses, tailor stores, lingerie stores, and a cake shop - this is my favorite place to sell delicious tea cakes, crispy outside and inside, a bite, there is a sesame soda osmanthus mixed with the delicate aroma of overlaying the tongue. Whenever I went to class, I always brought back some of the cakes along with my new moves.
We went to her house on Saturdays and Sundays, learning new dances. Lined up in separate rows, stepping to the beat, staring at her facial movements, and then doing our best to mimic them. There was one Xinjiang dance where I couldn't crane my neck, and she held me down by the shoulders and moved my head from side to side, with the horror and embarrassment of being caught on a beheading table. When I looked at myself in the big mirror, my face stood out, ugly and wooden, and I scared myself.
The school's auditorium and cafeteria were combined into one. At noon and dusk, we would review our moves on the auditorium stage. It was meal time, and with all the staring eyes and chewing mouths on stage, there was always the illusion that you were being eaten as a meal.
Some people came running to the edge of the stage in awe, "Wow, you guys are really good!"
San and Xiu would wring their hands at their sides and bend their legs in greeting, "Thank you!"
San was a modern dancer, fierce in her movements, able to suddenly lurch forward on her knees in the midst of a frenzied dance, but still standing tall. And Xiu, a gentle person, good at Dai dance, noodle-like swinging around in the music. I like Tibetan dance, the rhythm contains a heavy pathos, like the Tibetan sky, clear and compassionate, contrasted with the mundane world, there is a different kind of redemption.
We have a line of three, students with the same practice, is a "dance" alliance. Sometimes also go out to play, in the square or sun, or lined up, imitating the swan dance kick step walk, the passer-by's surprise as pride; sometimes run to the clothing store to the good-looking clothes tried all over the child, but a piece of all do not buy; sometimes we will be in the quiet of the street open voice singing, "larks from the sky flew over, I love you, China! ......" and laugh so hard that the leaves rustle.
Last week, I went home to look for old books, and found that the old photographs, photographed us dancing on the humble stage, full of youth, full of "the future is ours", full of the face of the years can not help our self-righteousness. I didn't realize that in a flash, my youth had already passed. I also almost forgot those years of counting steps, those in the various colors of dance music swinging youth.