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“You’re stepping on my foot.”
“Am not.”
“You are. You’re meant to go the other way, look at the chart.”
There is a long-standing debate concerning the number of angels who can dance on the head of a pin, which has never been satisfactorily resolved. It probably depends on the type of pin (hat pin, dressmaker’s pin, push pin), but we know how many angels can comfortably practice the box step in a small storefront studio in Worthing: exactly one dozen, with space for an additional Principality offering instruction.
“If you please – pause a moment – back to the beginning – Liriel, with me. Following is a bit difficult at first. Use the opening bars to concentrate and remember your steps” – he’d chosen the Waldteufel Skater’s Waltz, with its slow thematic statement before the triple rhythm began to flow. “Now. Hands on your partner lightly, don’t clutch, this is not sword drill. Slow, quick, quick, that’s it.”
“Teacher’s pet,” grinned a clerk from Manifestation as Liriel stepped back into the line.
“Oi I am not!” she whispered.
“Start again – left hand on your partner’s shoulder, Lailah, no, Harahel, yours goes at her waist – you’re leading, that’s typically the man’s role – “
“Do we have to be one of each?”
“Oh dear, no, it's perfectly all right if you both manifest the same gender. Only in ballroom dance, one must follow and one must lead. But you can take turns.”
“Wonder if they do,” whispered the Manifestation clerk, as he formed up with Liriel for another try.
“I heard that,” said their teacher. “None of that, if you please, Hasra. How you missed recruitment to the Other Side, I don’t know.”
“You’re kidding, right?” had been Crowley’s first reaction.
“I am in perfect earnest, Crowley. I just need you to help me find some short instructional films on the WhoTube. I understand there are all sorts of skilled persons there offering their expertise.”
“Fine, let ’em eliminate the middleman and go straight to the Who Tube. Sod ’em. It’s a clutch of fucking angels, ang – uh, Aziraphale.”
Aziraphale arched his eyebrows. Archly.
“You were about to say.”
“It’s Heaven come crawling on your arse all over again. Thought we were rid of those gits.”
“It is,” said Aziraphale, “a group of junior clerks and copyists who have taken a distinct risk in seeking me out, considering what Heaven has been known to do to those with seditious ideas. I remember you delivering your Gabriel imitation with some flourish.”
“Well, why do you have to teach them bloody dancing? You only know the one. And no one does it any more except at those Creative Anachronism thingys.”
“Because they want to learn a Human thing, and they know that I am the one who’s done Human things. Like enjoying dessert. Or listening to string trios. Like – like getting married and moving into a cottage, where my husband brings me English Breakfast in a Spode cup every morning.”
“Regular slave to you, I am.”
“Exactly. So do help out with this. Gabriel and his team would simply hate it, isn’t that enough?”
“It’s no good asking me to practice with you. Two left feet. Maybe three.” It was a bit of a sore point. Even walking with a normal human gait seemed to pose problems for Crowley’s serpent-inflected corporation, some days.
“I shouldn’t expect it. I’ll simply follow the lessons. A quick mind can absorb well-delivered direction – look at how I prospered with John Maskelyne.”
Crowley, who had yet to see the angel do parlour magic without coming a cropper, sighed and turned on the laptop.
“Where you plannin’ on doin' this, anyhow? Not like we’ve got bags of room for dancing here, unless you planned on miraclin’ on an annexe.”
“Oh, my dear, nothing of the sort. You remember that lovely young lady we met at the market, with the Yoga studio? The one where we took a complimentary class and you were so impressively flexible? She’s agreed to let me use the space on Friday nights. Not much demand for head-standing and so forth then, apparently.”
“Angel, that’s half way to Brighton.”’
“It was where I could find the space, without a lot of questions. One really doesn’t want the Human dance instructors getting collegial. There would be awkward conversations about where I learned the gavotte.”
“Learned more than the gavotte.”
“Crowley, surely you’re not jealous at this late date.”
“Nah. Like to think you were studyin’ up for me.”
No, I was missing you, thought Aziraphale, but said merely: “I won’t be teaching the court dances at first, in any event. Something a good deal simpler and more popular, to start.”
“Well, it’s still half way to Brighton ‘s’all I’m sayin’.”
The blue eyes widened beseechingly, and the pink-icing lips pursed as if the angel were about to whistle a summons, which, in a way, he was.
“You will drive me, won’t you?”
“Do you want to go for food after?”
Harahel and Amriel had gotten the feel of circling as they stepped, moving smoothly instead of stuttering out the obvious one-two-three rhythm they’d all begun with, and were trying a little conversation (“Dancing is a form of social bonding even more than it is a physical feat, so even a rather indifferent dancer can enjoy the pastime, though I may say I was accounted the most agile at my club, back in the day”).
“I liked the curry last week,” said Amriel.
“They have these things called kebabs,” said Harahel. “It’s all different sorts, and they put it on a skewer to cook it, and… it’s very messy.”
“Sounds fun,” said Hasra as he and Liriel circled by. “I’ve heard it’s about as gross as matter can get oooof!” Not watching where he was going, he backed Liriel directly into the couple behind her. One of her feet skidded, and for a moment he was tottering over her in the attitude of an especially ardent Gomez Addams.
“Do kindly focus,” said Aziraphale a bit tartly. “I’d like us all to be moving confidently through the basic steps by the end of this session. Flamboyant moves will come later. Mr. Crowley expects me to be done at nine, and I don’t like to keep him waiting.”
“Did you see them last week?” Hasra murmured as he helped Liriel return to a starting position. “That little peck on the cheek before he got in the car? We could try that.”
“Oi, stop it.”
“If you please. Once again.”
Aziraphale was perfectly aware that the angels craned their necks for a glimpse of Crowley. If class ran late, he always waited outside until they’d left, leaning up against the fender of the Bentley, sometimes smoking a rare Sobranie. Aziraphale was adamant about his miracling the smell away after, but the angels were fascinated and even more curious when they found out it wasn’t Hellfire.
Crowley, however, kept his distance. The one time Aziraphale asked why, he’d been silent a moment, and finally said: You didn’t see their faces up there, angel. All turned out in their best kit to watch you burn. Like the Romans at the Games, hopin’ for a show. He would wait until the last figure in Heaven’s cream or dove-grey livery was out of sight before starting the Bentley, as if they might be followed.
“How long’s this meant to go on?” he’d said after the fourth lesson. “Miss y’out in the garden. Half the afternoon in here front’ve the laptop, an’ here I just had you convinced a person could read outdoors.”
“I suppose I could bring the laptop out. If that’s quite all right.”
“Load’ve bother to go through for that lot.”
“It means so much to them, Crowley. It’s just like having someone importune for a blessing – well, I’m an angel, I can’t help it.” Aziraphale finally glanced up from the screen. “Besides, it’s fascinating, all the new steps the Humans have invented. Even though some of them can scarcely be called dancing.”
“Never thought I’d be a bloody dance widow,” Crowley grumbled, pulling on his wellies.
“Don’t sulk, dear. It’s so contrary of you.”
“Demon,” Crowley had said. “Can’t help it.”
“Excellent – you see what happens if you apply yourself – Amriel, you needn’t stretch your leg quite so far back. Perhaps next week, partners who have elected a female gender might experiment with a pair of heels. I’m afraid I can’t give you much coaching on how to get about in them, but I’m sure Mr. Crowley can offer me some pointers.”
“Told you,” whispered Hasra.
“Let’s take a bit of a break – normally, at a social event, you might offer to bring your partner a refreshing drink, or take a turn in the evening air. Five minutes.”
“What’s it like, living with Humans, anyway?” said Harahel. “Way Sandalphon always bangs on, we thought it’d be loads of wickedness, n’all. Everyone’s been kind of… nice.”
“Well, you get all sorts. But overall, it’s easy to become quite fond of them.”
Hasra had apparently picked up a few steps of the jitterbug somewhere and was walking Lailah and Liriel through them, while Amriel experimented with a breathing exercise outlined on the end of the whiteboard that Aziraphale hadn’t covered with a dance diagram.
“They have to do this all the time?” she said. “How do they remember?”
“It becomes second nature, dear. I learned early on. They find it quite uncanny if you don’t.”
“That’s very – vigourous,” said Liriel behind them.
“C’mon, try.”
“Mr. Hasra. If you have ambitions to open your own dancing academy, I can put you in touch with the owner of this establishment.”
“Just tryin’ it out.”
“I like it,” said Lailah.
“Complex maneuvers will be addressed in future lessons,” said Aziraphale, in the tone of someone determined never, ever to learn to jitterbug. “Choose partners again, please. This will be a bit brisker. Listen for the changes in tempo and flow with them – humans do enjoy a bit of drama. Hasra, we will not be doing ‘the dip’.”
“He’s a little naughty, but it makes me really like him,” said Liriel perplexedly as they began to pack up, rolling the mats back out for the morning class, as Aziraphale had promised.
“Oh, my dear, I quite understand.”
“I want to try the kebabs,” said Amriel.
“I hear they get your face all sticky,” said Hasra, licking his lips like a moggie in a cat-treats advert.
Aziraphale closed his eyes in a brief reflective moment. When he opened them, the Bentley was silhouetted at the far kerb, under the violet sky of a late English twilight. Even when Crowley claimed he took the two hours of class to enjoy a rambling drive, he always rolled up on time to the minute; sometimes, as they wheeled around the floor, the angel would feel a prickle on the back of his neck, or glimpse a dark form in the long shadows, and imagine unblinking eyes watching them.
“You should come with us for food,” said Liriel. “It’s brilliant, there’s so many kinds.”
“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I see my dear Crowley already waiting.”
“Ask him to come too.”
“Perhaps another time, dear. I’m quite knackered. We old duffers must have our early nights. All right, all – same time next week, and we’ll go over what we’ve learned before moving on to new steps. I’ve got bebop music for some more modern dances, like the Bunny Hop.”
“How’re they comin’ on?” said Crowley, sloping up to the door as the last pale suit coat disappeared around the corner. Aziraphale wasn’t certain, but it looked as if Liriel and Hasra were holding hands.
“Mostly encouraging,” he said, erasing the footprint diagrams on the whiteboard. “They did swimmingly when we reviewed the foxtrot. It gives me hope that Heaven can learn. “
“Does look like they’re havin’ a good time. Sussed out yet you’re only one lesson ahead of ’em?”
“Well, it’s a bit more stressful living up to my reputation than I expected. Still – you’ll scoff, I know, but it is pleasant to be in the company of like-minded angels.They’ve become quite keen on trying more human things – though, ah – kebabs.” The angel shuddered slightly.
“Ah, angel, nothin’ like a greasy kebab when you've been out on the piss and the pubs close. One of mine.”
“I ought to have known. Facilitating vice and dissolution.” The evening’s CDs snapped back into their jewel cases. “They asked us to join them. They’re dreadfully curious about you, you know.”
“Nah. Spoil my mystic glamour.” Crowley stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets – Aziraphale suspected him of using a small miracle to squeeze them in – and looked around the studio as if it interested him, which the angel was morally certain it didn’t. “S’okay if you want to go, I can drive around a bit more. Can tell you’re enjoyin’ this. Catch up with the news, get to do somethin’ you like that I’m pants at – ” He trailed off, looking out at the streetlamp.
“My dear?”
Crowley was silent.
“My dear,” Aziraphale repeated. “It’s nothing at all like that. Only it’s a joy to know that there are others among the Host who can change. And that it’s not limited to those who had the good fortune to become friends with an extraordinary demon.”
He shuffled through the stack of compact discs, and slid one into the deck to whir and click.
“May I have this dance?” he said quietly, extending a hand.
“Ah, bollocks. You know me. Two left feet.”
“I've never been sure you exactly have feet. It's all right. Come here.”
He moved Crowley’s hand to his waist and stepped close as the music started, resting his head against the bony shoulder and twining their fingers. “It’s one of the Human things I learned about,” he said. “Just move with me.”
Wise men say
Only fools rush in,
But I can’t help falling in love with you…
They’d had centuries of their long, slow dance, missing steps, hearing different music; learning a new one took time. They shuffled from side to side, in the unskilled, clinging way that closes the last set in every cheesy singles bar – the movement seeming to promise that wherever one goes, the other will follow.
Shall I stay?
Would it be a sin
If I can't help falling in love with you?
“Do you know, they said the man who sang this was still alive for years after he died? He meant so much to some of them, they simply couldn’t give him up. You remember how they did that after Golgotha.” He’d been piqued by the song, remembering when the melody belonged to a French rondeau lamenting the pain and despair of love. But the humans had picked up the pretty, sad thing they’d made and changed it, as humans had learned to do, turning it into a pledge:
Like a river flows
Surely to the sea
Darling, so it goes
Some things are meant to be.…
Crowley’s arms slid around him. They barely moved across the open floor, sometimes no more than swaying.
Le plaisir d’amour is fickle and fleeting, the French poem said, but Aziraphale knows now that it’s not: it’s sleepy kisses in all the mornings, and a cup of tea before he knows he wants one, and the secret joy of watching from an upper window as Crowley coaxes his plants to grow (he's lost the habit of scolding them, though he does it for form’s sake when the angel's close by). It's his sated expression when passion’s spent, drowsing, the marks of his serpent nature at throat and flank no longer hidden because he knows he's adored, and when he forgets sometimes, Aziraphale will tell him:
Take my hand,
Take my whole life, too
For I can't help falling in love with you.
The music faded.
“Take me home,” the angel said.
