Tiny Dancer
By E. P. Tuazon
I met him at the wake of an uncle—a faraway one, the kind you forget you had until a wake—and we got drunk and friendly and a little kissy. This was before I met my husband. Eight years ago, when I was less tired and less guarded. He was in his early twenties and I had just turned thirty. His age did not bother me. On the contrary, I found it endearing. I never had siblings, but the attraction was oddly filial without it getting too weird. The fear most Filipinos have about dating other Filipinos is the risk of being related to them. Our families are huge, after all. Add in the factor of a wake and the idea of flirting was as risky as strolling through a minefield. Nevertheless, he felt like a younger brother to me, and I found that pleasant and attractive. Something refreshing compared to the slew of men I dated who felt so different from me they were practically from another planet.
He part-timed at a Foot Locker to earn a meager keep in West Hills while studying Filipino dance from some famous person whose name I could not pronounce nor remember. Although he found classes fulfilling, they ate into his salary so much he would have to bum food from his relatives and the kindness of whomever possible. His money situation was perilous to say the least, but, whatever he could not make on his own, someone else did. That may be just my speculation from the accumulated conversations and “food outings” we shared throughout our friendship, but his charisma and passion was enough to make anyone root for him or at least buy him a cheeseburger.
Despite his charms, I cannot tell you if he was actually a good dancer or not. I am not a dancer nor an expert of Filipino traditional dances, and, in all honesty, I still do not believe anyone can actually make a career out of it. My only experience with seeing them were on National Geographic or at a culture festival or two in college. Sure, it was nice and required some skill and practice to do, but no one could make a living on dancing alone. Surely not dancing like a duck.
Dancing like a duck you ask? When we met at the wake, he showed me how to dance like a duck.
“Do you know the Itik-Itik?” He asked me, nursing a cup of boxed red wine. Later I would discover he was not much of a drinker.
“The what?” I had two San Miguels and was on my third, trying to list all the Filipino dances in my head but not coming up with any of their names. “Is that the one with the sticks or the fans?”
“No, that’s Tinikling, the one with the sticks. There are many kinds of fan dances.”
“Sure.” I said, unimpressed. I did not find it appropriate to flirt at a wake, but neither did I hold much personal sentiment for the deceased either.
“The Itik-Itik is based on a duck’s movement. It’s traditionally done by women, but men can do it too.”
“Oh really?” I sipped a third of the beer trying to decide how far to go: was I going to stay or did I walk away now?
“Here, I’ll show you.” He gave me his drink and took off his shoes. He wiggled his toes through his black socks. “It’s better with bare feet.”
Then he did the Itik-Itik. The dance looked exactly as it sounded. Starting with a vault forward with his heel and back into a toe-step, his arms straight-out to his sides, tilting up and down with the rhythm of his own mouthing of the words “Itik-Itik”, he did it just as he described: he moved like a duck. As if wading into a clearing in the reeds, he danced in place, his arms curled in and flapping in the water, his feet alternating, heel out then tippy-toe, heel out then tippy-toe. Itik-Itik, Itik-Itik. All the while, I watched his thoughtful movements and felt the heaviness of his dedication to his craft siphon any bit of judgement or shame I had in watching a grown man dance like a duck.
“You’re pretty good.” I said, although there was no way for me to truly tell.
“Naw, anyone can do this. But, you and me, it’s part of our blood, you know?” He said, still dancing. Itik-Itik, Itik-Itik.
“I would never dance that way.”
“But you can if you wanted to. And you’d feel good doing it.” Itik-Itik, Itik-Itik.
Soon after, we were making out in the parking lot. That is when I started liking him.
We really did not see much of each other after that. Generally, it was once a month. He would call a couple days before and we would go out to a restaurant of my choice. We never made-out again, but we had the most intense and long conversations. We never landed on common topics to talk about, but our interest in one another’s differences rallied our words far into many nights. We would leave at closing time after my footing the bill and talk in the parking lot outside his or my car for hours.
Maybe it was because we had just enough differences and similarities, but I had this overwhelming desire to tell him everything. My dreams, my writing, my passing thoughts, my honest thoughts, the things that hurt me, that turn me on and keep me up at night. I never expected an answer or a solution to whatever I said. Just telling him was enough.
Then, after a year into knowing each other, his father in the Philippines got ill and he saw this as a sign and an opportunity to explore his roots and to really experience Filipino dance from its source. His teacher, family, and friends gave him their full support. He told me this as I drove him to the airport to send him off. Of everyone he knew, he asked me to do this. I did not ask him why. His father had paid for the whole trip; he was some kind of bigshot in the politics over there. I did not put in a dime.
After checking in his bags, we walked over to the TSA line. Beyond the queues, I could see the x-ray machines, the sorting tables, and the empty bins on the rolling belts. It was so early, no one else was there. Just the two of us.
“You really coming back? The way you are, you should just stay there.” I teased.
“Yeah, that’s impossible. I can’t even speak Tagalog.” He said, his hand in his jacket pocket, gripping something.
“Walk like a duck, but don’t talk like a duck, huh?”
He laughed and let go of whatever he was holding, breaking into a flap. “Quack!” He said and left.
Half a year went by. It was May when I received an email from him. It was June when I drove to the airport to pick him up. The trip had wrung him dry. His features had sunk, the parts that were full now hollow. And beside him was his new girl, whom he presented as a fellow dancer he met in Baguio, his parents’ hometown. From the look of her, she was a real poster girl of the Philippines.
She was the same age as him, if not younger, with the unnaturally crisp and bright colored aura of a freshly cut apple. Her make-up and manner of dress subtly accented her natural swan-like form. A simple, white-colored one-piece tastefully traced her knees. Her nails and toenails were unpolished but flawless. Her hair, a deep black, was tied-back and fastened with a classy flower-patterned comb and pin.
The two of them came through the gate holding hands, towing their matching luggage. I finished a note on my phone for a story idea when I looked up and saw them. I remember the phrase was “with every intonation” when I meant to write “intention.” I struggled so much to correct the spell-check as they drew closer to me that I dropped my phone at their feet. The girl elegantly swooped it up like a bird of prey and brought it to me before I had a chance to get up.
It was not a surprise to see her. On the contrary, he had mentioned the girl in his email in May. I thanked her and she took my hand into both of hers. Remembering the way she picked up my phone, I expected her hands to dig into mine like talons, but, instead, she shook it like a princess from a fairytale. Like at any moment the birds would chirp our names and we would be whisked away to another world.
Later on, we all went to an In-N-Out. He had been craving an American burger.
“The ones in the Philippines are sweet. I mean, what the hell, right?” He said, lathering a fry in spread.
She and I each had a vanilla milkshake. Not wanting to be rude, I started light conversation with her, but it proved challenging. She mentioned working in the Filipino art scene in Baguio and dancing traditional Igorot mountain dances—her English as clean and concise as her appearance—but no real mention of much else. Instead, she looked out the window at the cars in line, the dimming light above us. He continued to badger me about what I had been up to while I sat there passively responding, thinking of the poor girl. Eventually, he succumbed to jet lag and fell asleep on the table. I called a Lyft for them to his apartment.
“He’s always overdoing it, isn’t he?” I remarked, shaking my head at his shriveled form.
She looked down at him. Compared to her, we were characters from an old silent film while she was in 4K, singing in surround sound.
When their car arrived, I helped her drag him into the back seat.
“Thank you very much I am very glad to meet you.” She said, omitting the punctuation and contractions in her speech, as if her goodbye was merely an exhale.
“Me too.” I said and closed the door after them.
Subsequently, during the rest of my knowing him, they were always together. Things between him and I did not change much besides her addition to it. She did pick up the bill since thereafter though. From what I gathered from his bragging, on top of the Igorot peacekeeper dance and the Sayaw sa Bangko performed on a tiny bench elevated two stories above a stage, she was the daughter of his father’s political partner. Bred since birth into an old-money hierarchy, she was well educated and well financed. Dancing was merely one thing she had mastered.
“What a catch.” I dared to say one night while she was in the restroom. We seldom had time alone together anymore.
“Sure.” He said, uninterested.
“You’re dating a princess! Act more excited!”
“Princess?”
“Yeah, she’s pretty, smart, athletic, powerful yet elegant, a dancer—she probably dances better than you, too. Jesus Christ.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. Where she comes from, how can you compete with that?”
“I guess,” He moped, hiding his head in his arms on the table as if it might as well be underwater, “but I don’t ever see her put in the work. She has her share of secrets though. She disappears on errands I’m not allowed to go with her on. My father and her father’s orders. Maybe she puts it in then.”
Where she went, we never knew.
Then there was the Sunday on Fourth of July weekend. I was in my apartment staring at a blank screen, trying very hard to figure out the next words before the first ones to a story—the story I’ve spent so much time then to put together—when he called. I sat by my open sliding door window to the balcony, looking out at the early evening. The sporadic sound of fireworks and stench of sulfur filled the foggy air of the neighborhood while I listened to his voice.
“Sorry, we were coming back, and I had an idea: how about we come over to your place and make you dinner?”
Where they were coming back from was a mystery I did not want to entertain, but I did not see any harm in having people over during the holiday. “Sure. I could use the company.”
“Great, we’ll just pick some things up from Island Pacific and we’ll be right over. Probably in an hour.”
“I’ll let you up. Just let me know when you get here.”
I put away my story or lack-there-of away, took a shower, got dressed, and, in an hour, they arrived. The two appeared to be dressed for a wedding. She was dressed in an elegant, yet practical pink gown. Him, a simple black suit. In their arms were all the ingredients for a healthy batch of kare-kare. Green beans, squash, oxtail, peanut butter, garlic, tripe—everything came inside. I showed them to the kitchen and where whatever they might need could be found. This was the first time anyone else had been to my home besides my parents.
“We are sorry for intruding in on you like this.” She said, already bringing a pot of water to boil. On the table were knives and vegetables prepped. She did this all by herself. She moved with clinical efficiency.
“Get out of here! We got this!” He said, already brushing me over to my living room.
“I can do this.” She said, dicing the squash. “You two can catch up. Dinner should be ready in another hour.”
With a slow nod, he complied and followed me to my couch.
“So, this is your place.” He said, sitting down first and looking up around himself.
I sat next to him. There were no pictures hanging on the walls, no trophies or awards on the shelves, no books, and nothing else of merit. Every identifying thing I ever owned was tucked in my closet. I was not one to show off. I could tell he was having a hard time finding something to talk about. “Yes.” I said, sitting down next to him but far enough apart for her. “Thanks for coming.”
“No, thanks for having us. I hope we didn’t interrupt anything.”
“No,” I started, wanting to mention the writing but deciding not to at the last minute. “I wasn’t doing anything.”
“Yeah,” He smiled glumly, “neither were we.”
After an amazing dinner, I poured them each glasses of whisky and then one or two more before the conversations lulled and he had the great idea of dancing for us.
“Put on something. Anything! I’ll see what I can do!” He said, standing before us, pink from another two-fingers he had poured himself, eager to perform.
She and I looked up at him and laughed. Her laugh had far more control but with a subtle tinge of more mischief. There was something there that called to mind the “it” in a game of hide-and-go-seek. I couldn’t tell if it was playful or predatorial. It was an interesting side to her I had not noticed until then.
I took out my phone and immediately played “The Macarena.” I laughed while she quietly watched him do the steps.
“Come on,” he said, “This is stupid easy.”
Beyond the wall, I heard a firework go off. “Be careful what you wish for.” I said and played “Despacito” followed by “My Boo.” His body gyrated and contorted to the beat while my lungs ached from laughing so hard. When it was her turn to pick, she picked Filipino songs we were not familiar with, but the dances were just as amusing. He had the ear and the body to move to anything. It was a talent in itself, as far as I could tell. All the while, she watched him, her laughter never swaying from mine.
After an hour and a second encore, he collapsed on the couch. By then, he had stripped down to just his pants from his rendition of Ginuwine’s “Pony.” She and I clapped for him although he was already fast asleep. We watched him, slowly sipping more of my whisky. As his heavy snores began to lighten and the quiet began to fill the room again, I studied her face. There was something delicate and fragile about it that reminded me of a thin veil. When She sipped her whisky, it was as if something else drank it underneath, something hugging the veil like a hunter hugs reeds in the water, biding their time. After a long moment of silence, as if waiting to make sure he was asleep, she spoke.
“I collect the dancers from music boxes.” She said.
“What?” I asked, although I heard her clearly. Her words startled me. She was not looking at me, but her words made it sound like she was.
“Sometimes I snap the dancers out of music boxes.” She snapped her fingers with her free hand. Snap. “Yeah. This is very good whisky.”
I nodded.
“There was an embargo on Suntory Whisky last year. Something to do with the lack of supply, or was it taxes? I do not remember, but I spent a year tracking down a good replacement for Hibiki. I may have found it in yours. Too late now, but this is quite exceptional. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I said reflexively, although I really meant to ask something. “Say, what was that about the music boxes again?”
“It is not about the boxes. It is about the tiny dancers in them.”
“Ok,” I corrected myself, as if resubmitting my request to someone else, “can we talk about the dancers?”
“Well, it is simple. I open the box and snap out whatever is put in there to dance to the music. Sometimes it is a ballerina. Sometimes it is a couple. Sometimes it is not a person at all. Like a cat or a rose. Whatever it is. Snap. I take it.”
“Ok,” I repeated then paused a moment to compose myself, sorting through the drink to find my words, “why do you do it?”
“Is it weird?”
“I mean, I don’t do it. I never met someone who has. I don’t know if you’re the weird one or if I am.”
“That is a funny way to put it.” She sipped her whisky, the veil swaying back and forth with every one of her subtle movements.
“I pluck out every dancer I find. I do not care if it is weird.”
“Do all these music boxes you pick these dancers from belong to you?”
“Not all of them, no. They do not have to be mine. But I suppose they become mine after the act.”
“So, you’re stealing?”
“Yes, for lack of better words, probably, sometimes.”
“And people don’t catch you doing this? There’s no repercussions for it?”
“How can they? It is quick. I do not wind it up or linger for those that automatically play when they are opened. It is simply open, snap, close. Open, snap, close.” Her instructions repeated in my head like the chorus to a song, like the flap of wings. “As for repercussions, people could care less. Most people who own music boxes seldom open them after the first couple of times. If anything, if they do find out, I give them something in exchange: a reason to care about it again. It is a transaction, not stealing.”
“At least that’s how you see it.”
“Yes.” She said with an unwavering smile, her veil light but unmoving, as if it might as well had been a heavy curtain. “That is what really matters. All we ever see. You should know that. This is why I told you.”
“Why did you tell me?”
“He told me you were a writer. Writers know how to write what they see. Nothing more, nothing less.”
I saw my story peek its head from where I buried it, its words still left to be discovered. “About that, I’m having trouble with it at the moment.”
“Do not worry. You will see. You will write.” She lightly put her hand on mine. There was something connecting us; something like a thin, unbreakable, line you did not notice until you were looking for it.
“Thank you,” I said, slowly sliding mine from hers to cup my whisky, the warmth of my hand fogging up my glass. “So, if I had a music box, and there was a tiny figure dancing in it, you would snap it out? No remorse?”
She sighed, looking into her drink. “I would feel very guilty, yes. But I would be more remorseful if I did not do it.”
“That’s good I don’t have one.” I said, not sure of myself and what I owned. It was all piled together in a mess. “And what about him,” I pointed, “does he know?”
She smiled, looking at him peacefully removed. “Not a clue.”
By morning light, they were gone. The last I saw of him was a groggy nod and his figure tip over and spill into me, followed by an irregularly prolonged embrace before he left. I felt all his weathered warmth and scruffy youth exude from him like the new morning sun reaching over the hilltop, but I could not tell if it was a simple farewell or something more meaningful. That was the last I saw of him. Soon after that day, he went back to the Philippines with her and never returned.
That was eight years ago. In that time, the only live dance performance I have seen has been in my dreams. There is one particular dream that reoccurs. Tiny figures fly out of their music boxes and migrate south in hopes of finding dance partners in warmer, brighter climates. By chance, on a trip to the Philippines I took with my husband last year, I happened upon her again in a fancy restaurant in Baguio. She was dining alone when she beckoned my husband and I over. We ate sizzling steaks and drank mango juice and talked about my dream and what it might mean.
“Unfortunately, I have not been breaking any music boxes lately. I have a child now, you see. No time. He is at home with the nanny while his mother takes a break.”
I did not know why the idea of her having a child seemed hard for me to believe. “That’s too bad. I was looking forward to seeing how much your collection has grown.”
She smiled, her face unchanged over the years. “Yes, I still think of the one I took from the states fondly.”
“You took one from the states? When?”
Her smile widened, revealing the lines of that familiar veil again.
“It was the only one I ever took from another country. It was around the time I was with him.”
“The duck.” I turned to my husband. “He was the one I told you about. The dancer.”
He nodded. He knew all about it.
She picked up her knife, but her plate was empty. “Duck. Dancer. I read your book. I always knew you had it in you. You always had a clear eye for things, people.”
“You liked it?”
“I loved it. He always said you would figure it out.”
Finally, I built up the nerve to ask her. “How is he, by the way? Do you know where he is?”
But, of course, I already knew the answer. “Who knows? Probably dancing in the sky somewhere.” She chuckled into a napkin, hiding her face so well she might as well have been another person. “Dancing was all he lived for, was it not?”
E.P. Tuazon is a Filipinx-American writer from Los Angeles. He was a finalist for the 2021 Prairie Schooner Raz-Shumaker Book Prize in Fiction and the 2021 Five South Short Fiction Prize. His latest book is a forthcoming novella called The Cussing Cat Clock (House of Hash 2022).