Chapter 17. The Dancing Thighs

A muggy afternoon at the end of June.

The one who knocked at the door of the Circle was Sono Kiryū. Not a booked client. Sono had gone to the trouble of bringing her down the stairs.

“Seri. Let me introduce you. Mai Asao. Contemporary dancer. The show is next month, but there’s something she has to know, she said.”

Sono stepped aside, and from behind her a woman appeared.

Mai Asao, twenty-nine. Not tall — perhaps a hundred and sixty centimetres. But her standing posture alone told you she was a dancer. Centre of gravity low. The toes always conscious of the floor. The line from shoulder to arm came down at an angle different from an ordinary person.

“How do you do. I’m Asao. Mai.”

The voice was a little hoarse, and that hoarseness sounded, instead, like the embers of passion. The eyes were direct. They met mine. Behind those eyes, something hot stood waiting.

“Seri Himuro. A pleasure.”

I bowed. Then, in the pocket of my polo, Contura grew faintly warm. Someone was calling for a Reader.

I

Mai sat on the chair in the Circle. She started to cross her legs, and stopped. I saw at once — something at the root of the legs made crossing them unpleasant.

“Sono-san, I told her roughly.”

Mai laid both hands on her own thighs. The hands trembled, faintly.

“The choreography for the next piece — there’s a jumping passage. The costume is short. The legs, completely visible.”

“Yes.”

“Honestly — I hate it. The legs, they’re thick.”

She said only that and bit her lip.

I said nothing. Only watched the trembling of her hands.

“Dancers spend a lot of time with mirrors. Hours every day. From the audience it’s far, but in front of the mirror your body is, well, all there. The spring of the thigh. The shape of the calf. The flesh above the knee. Every day, every day, looking. Through ten years of keeping on looking, you understand whether you like it or not. My legs are not thin.”

“I see.”

“Not thin — rather, they’re heavy. When I jump on these legs, gravity wins. I want to jump lighter. A little lighter.”

Mai’s voice grew heated by degrees. The heat was not anger. It was something else — a serious, severe gaze, turned on her own body.

“Contemporary uses a lot of leg-revealing choreography. Not ballet-pretty — more visceral. That’s the good part. But on my legs, the visceral starts to look like shame.”

There Mai stopped. She looked surprised at the word shame she herself had used.

I said, quietly:

“Asao-san. May I ask one thing.”

“Yes.”

“About those legs — what is it you hate. You said thick. But do you hate the thickness itself, or is there something the thickness is?”

Mai thought.

”…Thick means heavy. Heavy means I can’t stay in the air. And — on stage, it stands out. Once, a choreographer saw my legs and cut my jumping passages. That was when I understood. My legs stand out too much, on stage.”

“Which means —”

“It isn’t the choreography I chose. The legs stand out on their own. That — I hate.”

I nodded. The pain was real. A dancer’s aesthetic eye, turned on her own body. That gaze is severe. Cruel, almost.

“Asao-san. As a trainer — would you let me see those legs. I’d like to read what they’re saying.”

“Read?”

“Yes. There’s an app, here —”

I took Contura out of my pocket.

II

Mai seemed to have heard a little about the app from Sono. Sono’s go to Seri recommendation had been on account of it.

“If you let me measure, the shape of those legs will stand up in the air. Shall we see together what that shape is saying.”

”…You have my consent.”

Mai stood. She wore the loose trousers of training wear. Beneath them, the spring of the thighs was faintly legible.

“Please stand as you are, at the centre of the circle.”

Mai stood at the centre of the circle. Her figure surfaced clearly in the low light.

I started Contura. A pale blue point lit on the screen.

“I’ll begin.”

Coh’s voice behind my temples.

“I’ll measure, Seri.”

Particles of light bled from Contura’s screen and danced around Mai. And they began to flow, tracing her body’s surface, drawing an outline.

Neck. Shoulder. Chest. Waist. Hip.

And then the light reached her lower body.

Thighs —.

When the light circled there, I caught my breath.

Because the outline stood up. In the air, as a pale blue luminous body, Mai’s body rose. All of it. But my eyes could no longer leave the legs.

Quadriceps. The swell of them, on the luminous outline, distinctly, with its own assertion, ridged up. Rectus femoris, vastus lateralis, vastus medialis. Each one lay layered like a named stratum. Calf. Its spring, too, was tremendous — the gastrocnemius drew a clear arc down to the heel.

And the knee. That joint, between the thigh muscle and the calf muscle, existed as a firm hinge.

Numbers surfaced above the luminous body.

Thigh L 56.2 R 56.8 Calf L 37.4 R 37.6 Knee L 35.1 R 35.2 Ankle L 21.8 R 21.9

And, lower, another set of figures.

Core Number (FFMI): 19.4 Type: Mesomorph-mid — bone-and-muscle quality

“High,” Coh said.

“A woman with this Core Number is rare. Sono-level. These legs have a core. And a core forged for dancing.”

Mai was looking at her own legs floating in the air. Her eyes were wide.

”…This is me?”

“Yes. Your outline.”

“Thick.”

Mai murmured. Her voice shook.

“They really are thick. On stage, they’ll stand out.”

III

I looked at Mai. Her eyes were nailed to the luminous body. The legs she had watched in the mirror for ten years, she was now seeing in a different shape. In an objective, inescapable form.

“Asao-san.”

“Yes.”

“Those legs — why are they thick? Would you read them with me? Not only me — with your own eyes.”

”…Read, how —”

“Coh.”

I exchanged a glance with Coh.

Coh paused. In the pause was the usual dry, slightly tilted quality.

“Seri — I’ll help from here. Mai-san, may I decipher your legs a little.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Then let’s begin.”

The luminous body turned. The backs of the legs came forward. The clear swell of the hamstrings stood up on the light. And the gluteus maximus — the powerful line from beneath the hip running down the back of the thigh.

“Look.” Coh said. “The spring of these hamstrings. Swelled this much means — the ground has been kicked, many times. And the glutes. The linkage from here into the thigh. That is the launching pad of the jump.”

“Launching pad.”

Mai repeated.

“Correct. When you jump, what happens. First, the heel grips the ground. The calf carries that force to the knee. The thigh doubles that force and sends it to the hip. The hip directs all of it, as explosion, into the sky. A single linked, ballistic trajectory.”

”…”

“Your legs have launched that ball — hundreds, thousands of times. Each time, the muscle was used. Used muscle grows. That is this thickness. Never superfluous flesh. A layer of muscle stacked up for launching.”

Mai had lost words. She stared at the legs of the luminous body.

“And one more thing.” Coh went on. “The knee. The hinge of this knee — its angle. The knee turns slightly inward. This is pronation. A trace of the dancer unconsciously twisting the knee a little to take the axis for rotation.”

“You can tell that?”

“The body says everything, without speaking. How many times, in ten years, you turned on this knee, landed on it, braced against it. All of it remains in this angle.”

Mai’s hand went, unconsciously, to her own knee.

IV

“Asao-san.”

I spoke quietly.

“These legs are the muscle you have kept using, in order to rise into the air. I’d like to read them. Let me read.”

Mai nodded.

Coh spoke.

“Seri — I’ll read.”

The numbers in the air burst at once into particles. The particles swirled, gathered, drew a single thread, and became letters.

Your legs have kicked against gravity for years. That thickness is a debt to the sky.

I read it aloud.

Mai held her breath.

“A debt — to the sky.”

“Yes.”

“A debt. To the sky.”

Mai looked up at the words. Her eyes went wet. But she did not cry. Dancers do not cry on stage. That habit, I thought later, is soaked into the body.

“A debt, huh.”

Mai murmured once more.

”…I jumped, and used muscle. The muscle I used, stayed. The muscle that stayed, made the legs thick. I thought the thick legs were a shame. But this is —”

Mai reached a finger toward the thigh of the luminous body. The finger passed through the light. But the motion had the urgency of trying to touch.

“This is — the price I paid, to jump. The compensation. A debt I owe, that I must pay back to the sky.”

“That’s right. Never wasted flesh.”

Mai stood rooted there.

And then breathed out. Long, deep. A breath that seemed to breathe out something of ten years.

”…I see. I misunderstood my own legs. For ten years.”

V

“Misunderstood?”

“Mai — let me call you that.”

I said. She nodded.

“I’m a dancer, Himuro-san.”

Mai turned to face me. Her eyes were no longer wet. In their place was a quiet, strong light.

“A dancer’s body — you can see it all in the mirror. I thought that was objective. The mirror doesn’t lie, I thought. So if the legs in the mirror were thick, that was fact. And fact had to be fixed. Thinner. Lighter.”

“Yes.”

“But the mirror shows only shape. It doesn’t show what the legs are thick for. It never told me I’d been jumping for ten years.”

”…”

“A debt to the sky. That means, doesn’t it — I was borrowing flying-time from the sky. Every jump, I was allowed up, a little, by the sky. That debt piled up in my legs. That’s my thickness.”

Mai laid both hands on her own thighs. This time they did not tremble.

“It isn’t shame. It’s evidence that I jumped.”

When she said that, in the air of the Circle, the luminous body brightened. At the legs of the outline, a golden light spiralled up.

Title: Legs That Borrowed the Sky

“Congratulations.” Coh said. The voice was a little gentle.

“This is the Title of the outline. Your legs have been read as one story. The proof of it.”

Mai looked up at the golden light. At last the tears spilled. But they were glad tears.

”…Thank you. Thank you.”

VI

After Mai left, the resonance of light still lingered in the Circle.

I sat on the chair, watching that resonance. Coh spoke quietly.

“Seri. What did you feel.”

”…Beauty and strength —”

I searched.

“don’t conflict. I hadn’t thought so. Somewhere, I’d believed — strong legs aren’t beautiful. Thin legs are beautiful.”

“Believed, huh.”

“Dancers, athletes — they push the body hard. A hard-used body distorts. Can you call a distorted body beautiful? That had always been in me.”

“And now?”

“Today, looking at Mai-san’s legs, I thought — if that distortion is a story, it’s beautiful. If it’s the story of ten years of kicking against gravity —”

Coh was quiet a moment.

“Seri. You are becoming a Reader. You don’t only read the numbers — you read the intent behind them. That is what a Reader is.”

”…Yes.”

“But remember. You must not decide on your own that the story is beautiful. Mai-san decided for herself, this is evidence that I jumped. That is what matters. The Reader only returns the story to the person.”

I nodded. That Law, I thought, I must not forget.

VII

Before she left the Circle, Mai said one last thing.

“Next stage, I’ll jump on these legs. I won’t say thinner, lighter anymore. A debt to the sky — I’ll jump, planning to run it up further.”

The voice was hot. The real heat of passion.

“Come and see. Next month, the fifteenth. A small theatre in Aoyama.”

“I will.”

“Watch my legs. These thick legs — going to borrow the sky.”

She said it, and laughed. A laugh that had put down something of ten years.

I saw her back go up the stairs of the Circle. A dancer’s back. Centre of gravity low. Toes gripping the floor.

Even after the back was gone, I stood a while.

There was no longer any light in the air. But burned into my eyes were the thick, thick legs that held up the debt to the sky.

Strong legs are beautiful.

That I learned today. I looked at my own legs. A trainer’s day-off legs. Not as thick as Mai Asao’s. But I, too, stand on these legs every day. Touching someone’s body. That, too, must be something accumulated.

In my pocket Contura grew faintly warm.

“Seri — next booking’s in.” Coh said.

“Who next?”

“Misaki-san, remember. The first client.”

“Ah — yes. The postpartum Misaki-san.”

“She’s bringing her husband this time, she says. His neck and shoulders are bad.”

”…Understood.”

I put out the light in the Circle. Climbed the spiral stair. The Aoyama afternoon sun was bright.

Next, the nape of the neck.

The body goes on speaking, everywhere. Shoulders, legs, neck. Each carrying its own story.

I returned to the reception of the studio. The next someone’s story was already waiting there.

—