Buku Maximum Light by Nancy Kress

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Maximum Light by Nancy Kress

Author:Nancy Kress

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates


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Maximum Light by Nancy Kress



The dreams about animals have ended. But now it’s something worse.


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Maximum Light by Nancy Kress

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Maximum Light by Nancy Kress




Literature & Fiction

Maximum Light by Nancy Kress

Author:Nancy Kress , Date: June 7, 2019

,Views: 10

Author:Nancy Kress

Language: eng

Format: epub

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates


The dreams about animals have ended. But now it’s something worse.

It starts the day after that girl, the one who’d been the soldier in my dressing room in Washington, tries to attack us in New York. Rob and Joaquim and Dmitri keep her from touching me. But they can’t stop her yelling, or me hearing: I know you had an operation because I saw the result—your face on three chimps.… I saw them! With your face!

“She’s crazy,” Rob says to me as we all crowd into the safety of the restaurant. Joaquim and Dmitri, Sarah and Caroline, say nothing. They’re leaving it to Rob. But what do the other four know about what happened to me before my operation? What does that girl know? How much of my life is closed off from me—but not from everyone I live with, dance with, love with?

“I don’t think I can go on like this,” I say to Rob, before I know I’m going to. “Not knowing. That girl wasn’t crazy, Rob—she didn’t sound crazy.” Chimps with my face.

“Not now,” he says, glancing at the others, who are studying the menu screen as if they can’t hear us. “Let’s eat lunch.”

And we do, discussing nothing but class, rehearsal, performance. I feel myself calm down. This is what matters, after all. Dancing. Nothing else.

But a week later, back in Washington, we start work on a new ballet, made on us by Mr. C. himself.

“Cameron, you and Sarah enter on diagonals, with flick jetés from opposite sides of the stage,” he says. He demonstrates by crossing the practice room; at sixty, he still moves like a young man. In the sneakers, ugly pants, and red T-shirt he always wears at a first choreography session, he’s almost like a parody of himself, except for his voice. It’s strange to hear such decisive, brilliant direction in that flat, raspy Midwestern voice.

“Very energetic,” he says. “You meet in the middle, tendu croisé derrière, look at each other and smile. Then Mitchell and Caroline repeat the movement, ending up here.”

I don’t know why I’m supposed to be smiling at Sarah. I came in late—a great crime—and whatever Mr. C. has told the others about the ballet, he isn’t repeating it to me. He’s going to make me ask, as punishment.

I don’t ask. I go through the entrance, and the combinations that follow. The music is aggressive, modern: Sabo, I guess, or Bolthouse. There are some very athletic, sexual moves for Sarah and me, Mitchell and Caroline. I decide we’re two sets of lovers.

“Now, here,” Mr. C. says, “the doctor enters, where the music breaks. Like this, Nicole. No, more stillness. You stand with your back to them, eight full beats, and the music delivers the verdict.”

Doctor? Verdict?

“Now, Mitchell and Caroline, you sink to the floor, like this, overwhelmed. Sarah, you and Cameron have the counterpoint, the shock—but controlled, heavy, slow, to match the music. Watch—it’s a short pas de deux, but an important one. Start with a supported



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