Work Text:
It’s an unseasonably warm December day when Martha Milton arrives at the Blackpool Tower, standing on the street corner in front of the red brick landmark. She’s early, as usual.
Shinya’s text had been opaque and open-ended: Meet me at 9 at the spot where you met Albert. We’ll eat breakfast and spend the day together. Martha isn’t sure what to expect, considering how uncommunicative and frayed their relationship has become since Shinya came out in that shocking and public way at the Asian Cup. Since he started dating Suzuki. Since Martha told Shinya, with utmost clarity, that she did not approve of his choice of a partner.
Martha had woken up at three in the morning in London that August day to view the livestream of the Asian Cup. She only watched the final Latin rounds and Shinya’s demonstration. She wanted to see if these Japanese friends of her son could win when the deck had been stacked against them. She expected them to get to the finals, and they did. But last-minute additions to the roster — which she had opposed — had virtually guaranteed that Westerners would win the top prizes. Martha disliked that kind of meddling by the Federation, especially in Asian competitions. She had reluctantly agreed to it in the end, for strategic reasons. European dancers drew European media coverage, which would help promote Asian dancers on the world stage. Shinya’s friends placed third, after two European couples. Martha thought they deserved first or second place.
They were mesmerizing, this couple of Suzuki and Tajima. They had the talent and glamour necessary to become stars. But Suzuki lacked the essentials that transform unknowns into champions: Likeability. Propriety. A willingness to follow the rules, to go along to get along. Martha had been so embarrassed when she heard rumors that Suzuki had nearly gotten into a fistfight with Nino and Fabio at the world championships back in February. She’d had to call Shinya and ask him to apologize to his own staff for Suzuki’s public temper tantrum. And then, Suzuki had tossed his medal aside at the Asian Cup with open contempt for the judges. A partner like that is the last thing Shinya needs if he is going to become world champion.
Martha is trying to make that happen. In the months leading up to the world championships, Martha had generated a media campaign to bolster Shinya’s image and promote him as a favorite to win. It hadn’t worked. Her son is like Sisyphus, marching up that Blackpool hill every year and failing. It pains her to watch it. And now Shinya seems hellbent on undermining all he has built by dating a reckless, thoughtless man.
It doesn’t bother Martha that her son is bisexual. What bothers her is that she’s never seen him like this before. Not even with Liana had Shinya been so hopelessly far gone in love, like a man pulled out to sea by a riptide and enjoying the ride, drowning be damned. She’s never seen him this happy and carefree. She told Shinya she wanted him to find a love like the one she had with Albert, and this could be it. It’s terrifying, because the object of his affection doesn’t appear to listen to anyone about anything. In international dance, romantic partnerships matter. Everyone loved Liana, and that had helped Shinya. Suzuki has proven to be a troublemaker, and that will reflect on Shinya, too, whether he likes it or not.
But Shinya is home for Christmas for the first time in four years. He insisted on bringing Suzuki. He wanted the festivities to be in Blackpool, at the apartment Martha keeps here. She had flown in early to buy groceries and decorate. Shinya and Suzuki are staying in a hotel downtown, only here for one week. Shinya’s first request was that she set this day apart for just the two of them, and Martha leapt at the invitation. She’s not ready to meet his new boyfriend yet. She wants to talk to her son. She needs to understand what he’s planning to do with his career, now that everything is so new and different. This is a precarious time for him. This is Martha’s chance to patch things up, and maybe to talk some sense into him.
What would Albert have said about this match? Martha has found herself asking that question over and over again, in recent weeks. Albert had all the joy and goodnaturedness and optimism Martha lacked. Sometimes, it made her feel defective, like she had been concocted from a recipe missing key ingredients. Martha was all worry and planning and pessimism. She waited for things to go wrong and created contingencies for when they did. But there may not be a contingency plan for a love like the one Shinya is now wrapped up in.
Of all the things Martha lost when Albert died, it was his ability to calm her and make her laugh that she missed most. She felt cheated when he passed. Eight years hadn’t been long enough for her to learn how to apply his secrets to a joyful life. It had been like reading half of an instruction manual, then being asked to improvise the rest. Albert would soothe her and reassure her, if he were here now. He would have faith in Shinya and Suzuki and support them. She doesn’t know how to find that faith on her own.
Martha glances at her watch. Shinya is officially late. It’s 9:02 a.m. now.
“Martha!” she hears a voice call out, and she turns.
Shinya Suzuki is crossing the street. He walks briskly towards her in huge strides, all long legs and broad shoulders and bouncing blonde curls and golden skin. He is much more handsome in person than on a livestream. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a black shirt covered in an embroidered pattern, and a sleek grey wool coat. He was stunning in Blackpool, too, in a tuxedo. But he is captivating in a unique way, today: windblown, fresh, earthy, and real.
Suzuki stops abruptly, a couple feet from Martha, panting lightly. “I’m very sorry I am late,” he says, in accented but articulate English. “I’m Shinya Suzuki. It’s nice to meet you.” He extends a large hand for a handshake.
Very little flusters Martha Milton, and she is very flustered by this tall Japanese man before her. He grins at her like she is a friend, rather than someone that he must know does not like him. Politeness forces her to take his hand and shake. He bows his head when she does, but his grip is firm and confident.
“Where is Shinya?” she asks.
“He isn’t coming. It is only me today.”
“Is he ill? Is he okay?” Martha asks, worry sprouting.
“He is fine. He is at the hotel, taking care of some business. He wants us to spend a day together,” Suzuki explains.
Martha’s phone vibrates at that exact moment, and she looks down to read the text notification from her beloved son. Please spend the day with Shinya. It would mean a lot to me. And to him.
Martha sees through the subterfuge immediately. This is a trap, a classic bait and switch — one Shinya swapped for the other. She lets the swell of anger it causes pass through her like a cold wave. She has a world-class poker face, and she’s thankful for it in this moment. The nerve, the gall of her son, to put her in this position where she cannot say no. It’s a tactic worthy of … well, of Martha herself. He did learn from the master.
“What a surprise,” Martha says, sounding unsurprised and composed. She gives Suzuki the reserved, formal smile she saves for the most exasperating members of the Federation board. There is no point in protesting or trying to get out of this. It would only anger Shinya — her Shinya — and that is not what she wants. If she’s smart, this might turn into an opportunity to scare this man off her son. At minimum, it’s a chance to find out how much of a threat he really is.
“I have some plans set up. I hope you will like them. I was a tour guide in Havana when I was young, so I know how to plan a fun day. Will you spend a day with me?” Suzuki asks. He’s polite and charming and hard to turn down, already. Martha begins to understand how her son might have fallen in love with him. His good looks are enough of a reason, but this charisma must have sped things along considerably.
“Alright. Where are we going first?” Martha asks. This suddenly feels like a competition, and she is determined to win. She will not give this man the satisfaction of seeing her upset or obstinate. Not yet, anyway. It’s too early in the day for that just yet.
“Right here,” Suzuki says.
“Here?” Martha asks, and she can’t hide her confusion.
“Yes. Here. You met your husband here.” It’s not a question.
“Yes?”
“I would like to hear the story of how you met him, please,” Suzuki asks. He clasps his hands behind his back and rocks on the balls of his feet, back and forth, twice. His excitement and enthusiasm are so genuine, it startles Martha. This was the last thing she expected to be asked today.
“What?” she says. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” Suzuki responds, and he is serious. “I would really like to hear that story. Please. Shinya told me about it once, but I want to hear you tell it.”
Martha can’t believe this is happening – a whole day with Suzuki, starting with this inquiry into her past. She runs the palms of her hands down her wool coat and squares her shoulders, like a distraught hen collecting her feathers. The look on Suzuki’s face is disarming – childlike and curious. She can’t spot an ulterior motive other than the obvious one, which is to make her like him. He just wants to hear her tell the most important story of her life.
“Well,” Martha says, slowly, gathering her wits. There’s no harm in telling him. She wonders how her Shinya recounted the story to him.
Suzuki’s gaze is arresting. He’s like a human X-ray machine, eyes boring into her like if he stares long enough and deeply enough, he’ll unravel the tale without her saying a word. It’s unnerving. There’s a constellation of emotions on display in those brown eyes. Those pretty eyes are probably another reason her son fell for him.
“Well,” Martha says, again, and it’s not like her to repeat herself or be lost for words. “I was a professional ballroom dancer. It was the day of the world championships, and I was standing here, waiting for my partner to arrive.”
“What was his name?” Suzuki asks eagerly. She might find it cute, if her defenses were even just a few centimeters lower.
“Matthew Gerome,” Martha answers. “I was waiting for Matthew here, and this man in a blue suit crossed the street just there, where you just crossed. And he walked straight up to me and said hello.”
Suzuki nods, listening. He waits, like he’s opening a door and gesturing for her to go through it first.
She accepts the invitation and continues. “He asked me my name and introduced himself. And then we chatted for a few minutes. I told him I was a dancer and that I was competing at the Tower today. He said he didn’t know anything about dancing, but he was sure that I must be very good. I was the world champion at that time, but I didn’t tell him that.” Martha can’t help smiling at the memory. Albert had always been humble – always quick to admit when he didn’t know something or needed to learn more. It was one of her favorite things about him.
Suzuki is smiling, too, still patiently giving her time to say more. It’s a remarkable trait for a man, to let a woman talk without interruption or questioning or turning the conversation back to himself.
“And then he said that he was going to be late to work, but that he would like to take me out to dinner. I said yes, and we agreed on a restaurant and a time. Then, he ran off to get to work, and Matthew arrived. Albert and I had dinner that night, and we were married six months later,” Martha finishes. It’s the first time she has talked about that day in a few years. It brings the tender and bittersweet memories of that era back to the surface, crystalline bubbles rising from dark depths.
“Was he handsome?” Suzuki asks. His intrigue is so apparent, it’s still making Martha feel disoriented, like she’s been on a roller coaster and needs to sit down somewhere.
“Yes,” she says. “He was very, very handsome.”
“Shinya said it was love at first sight for Albert,” Suzuki says. “Is that true?”
Martha smiles. “Yes, that’s what he always said. Albert said I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and that he wanted to whisk me away right then.”
“Shinya never told me that part! Was it love at first sight for you, too?” Suzuki asks. It’s such a personal question, but she is playing this game with him, now, and she intends to win.
“No. I was cautious. It took more time, for me.”
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” Suzuki asks. It’s breathtakingly audacious, the way he asks questions like answering isn’t optional.
“I guess I must. Albert believed in it, and I married him,” Martha says. “Do you?” For the first time, she wonders who Suzuki Shinya might be as a person and not just as an obstacle to her son’s career.
“I do. Shinya fell in love with me at first sight,” Suzuki answers, with a crooked, smug smirk.
“He fell in love with you at first sight?” Martha repeats, shocked.
“Yes. He saw me dance at a competition, and that was it.”
Falling in love at first sight is out of character for Martha’s son, to put it mildly. Her Shinya is as reserved and deliberate as she is, her equal as a planner and a worrier. What has this man done to him?
“Was it love at first sight for you?” Martha asks Suzuki.
“No,” he says. “It took a long time for me to know I liked him. He was the first man I ever liked.” His vulnerability knocks a few bricks off the top of the wall she’s put up between them. She isn’t the only one risking something, at least, in this game of theirs.
“What did you love most about your husband?” Suzuki asks.
“Oh,” Martha says, exhaling heavily, steadying herself. “Albert was so full of joy and life. He made me laugh all the time. That’s why I married him. What do you love most about my son?” She has wanted to know this since she saw that kiss at the Asian Cup. The two men don’t make sense to her as a couple, if she’s honest.
Suzuki scuffs the concrete with a toe. He looks into her eyes, his face soft and open. “Shinya is the best person I have ever met,” he says, simply. “And he makes me want to be better, too.”
The answer plunges a wrecking ball through all of Martha’s defenses. She just lost the game.
“I have a reservation for breakfast. Would you like to eat?” Suzuki asks.
“Yes,” Martha stammers. Her defeat has knocked the wind out of her, leaving her adrift.
“Let’s walk,” Suzuki suggests. They stroll through Blackpool streets as well-known to Martha as the wrinkles on her face, as replete with stories as the photo albums in her home. The lampposts are decorated with Christmas wreaths, the shop windows full of Santas and Christmas trees. Every street corner reminds her of an outing with Albert, or an errand with Shinya, or a competition in the Tower. She fell in love with this town as a dancer. Albert made it her home. Wherever she goes, this place will always be a source of life inside her, like an ancient and immovable forest.
Along the way, Suzuki asks her how many times she won the world championships (four) and how long she danced with Matthew Gerome (ten years). She suspects that he already knows the answers to these questions. But he is unceasingly inquisitive, like it’s important for him to know real things about her. He asks if she has siblings (yes, two younger sisters) and if her parents are still with her (no) and where she was born (Yorkshire). This is all still a bit surreal for Martha. She finds herself struggling to keep up her end of the conversation.
“Your coat is lovely,” Martha says, eyeing it closely as Suzuki walks beside her, shortening his steps to match her pace.
“Thank you. It was an early Christmas gift from Shinya.” Suzuki’s answer confirms Martha’s suspicion. Her trained eye can tell the coat is expensive, made of Alpaca, and it bears some of the hallmarks of Shinya’s tailor. Her son takes exceptionally thoughtful care of the people he loves. The number of people on that list is small. Martha knows, because of this coat, and because her son gave him the gift early — something he never does — that Suzuki is at the top of Shinya’s list now. That coat is a luxurious, beautiful warning: Don’t interfere. Suzuki comes first.
Breakfast, it turns out, is at the restaurant where Martha traditionally takes Sugiki on the morning of the world championships every year. They even sit at their usual table. It’s a reservation that could only have been made by her son. This is clearly an effort to make her comfortable while the two of them get to know each other. She begrudgingly admires Shinya’s forethought.
“I don’t drink tea,” Suzuki says, when Martha offers it. “But I will try it. How do you drink it?” He takes the cup she pours for him, with the dash of cream, when she explains that she and Shinya drink it the same way.
“Good?” she asks, when he swallows a first sip.
“Not bad. I feel British now,” he says, and they both chuckle at his attempt at humor. His table manners seem strangely forced. More than once, Martha notices Suzuki self-consciously remove his elbows from the table, or resist the urge to grab a sausage using his fingers, or remember to put his cup in its saucer rather than hold it when she provides a refill. Perhaps he’s just nervous. This is akin to meeting a future mother-in-law, she thinks — but no, that is precisely what this meeting is. He could marry her son. She could become his mother-in-law. She’s wanted a spouse for Shinya for decades. And now that a true contender for the job is sitting beside her, she feels afloat, unsure what to say or do. Perhaps Suzuki isn’t the only one who is nervous.
“I take Shinya here every year, on the day of the world championships,” Martha says.
“Yes. He likes coming here with you. He says it is one of his favorite things you do together.”
Martha didn’t know this. It is somehow even more meaningful, hearing it from Suzuki. She doesn’t know what to say in response, so she changes the subject. “So, you are from Cuba. You grew up there?”
“Yes,” Suzuki says. “In Havana.”
“Your mother is Japanese?” she asks. Suzuki nods. “What is her name?”
“Himari,” Suzuki answers.
“Sunflower,” Martha translates the name into English.
“Yes, very good,” he answers, thrilled in the way people always are when someone knows their native tongue.
“That’s lovely. So, you use your mother’s last name, Suzuki. I’m curious why?”
“She wanted it that way. My parents divorced when I was five.”
“Oh. Has she remarried? Do you have a stepfather or step-siblings?”
“Yes,” Suzuki says, with hesitation that implies there is a saga there. “She has married and divorced several times. I have a half sister.” The tone of Suzuki’s voice is its own stop sign. So, no family talk. Fair enough. Martha wouldn’t want to talk much about her own family, either, if he asked.
“When did you start dancing?” she asks.
“We dance all the time in Cuba, so I can’t remember when I started. I had my first teacher when I was twelve years old. That is when I started taking dance seriously,” Suzuki answers.
“Shinya was eight, when he came here to train.”
“I have seen the photos. He was a cute kid.”
“He was,” Martha agrees, and they share a mirthful grin.
“You must be very proud of him.” Suzuki looks at her with one of those probing gazes of his. It makes Martha feel defensive.
“I am proud of him,” she says, but Suzuki continues staring at her as if he’s a walking lie detector and he’s waiting for her heart rate to spike. She doesn’t waver, and he finally nods. She didn’t know this was a test, but it appears that she passed.
“I am proud of Shinya, too,” Suzuki says. “Are you ready for the next stop?”
Martha rises from their table feeling shaky after that exchange. Does her Shinya doubt that she is proud of him? What has he told Suzuki, to make him examine her like that?
The next stop is also an unknown destination. Martha can barely believe she is going along with this. It’s unlike her, to be so uninformed and so agreeable about it. They hop in a cab, and she doesn’t even bother asking where they’re going. And ten minutes later, she doesn’t need to, because they pull up in front of the house where she lived for more than twenty years.
“Shinya gave you our address,” Martha says, when she climbs out of the car and stands on the sidewalk before the rambling Victorian house.
“I really wanted to see this place,” Suzuki says, almost wistfully. He is more romantic than Martha would have predicted — more of everything than she would have predicted.
Just looking at this house makes Martha happy. She was loath to sell it a decade ago, and she still occasionally drives by when she’s in town, just to check up on it. The house hasn’t changed much. She knows the buyers put in new windows a few years ago, because they called her with a question about it. Blackpool is that kind of community, with those kinds of neighbors.
“Shinya lived here until college, right?” Suzuki asks.
“Yes. Albert and I bought this house when we got married. He worked for the local government as a civil servant. I stayed here after he passed. And six years later, Shinya and his mother came to live with me.”
Suzuki takes in the twin gables and latticed siding and gingerbread trim. “It’s like a house in a fairy tale,” he observes.
The house has a bright red door now, but when she and Albert came here as newlyweds, the door had been black. She should have seen that as an ill omen, but back then she was too invincible and in love to think that their happiness would be cut short. The house was in disrepair in half a dozen ways when they bought it. Albert painstakingly redid the flooring on his own, and then the stairs. Martha renovated the kitchen entirely by herself. It was always too much house for a couple that discovered they couldn’t have children only a year into their marriage. They stayed because they loved this place. When Shinya and his mother filled the house with Japanese and dancing and laughter, Martha felt it was finally the home she and Albert had wanted.
“What does Shinya say about living here?” Martha asks. Being with Suzuki makes her wonder what stories her son tells, what complaints he shares, what memories he confides in him. What does Shinya’s version of his childhood sound like to someone who wasn’t there?
“He loved Christmas here. He really loves Christmas!” Suzuki says, and that makes them both smile. It’s like sharing a campfire, enjoying the same heat from the same flames. It’s also whiplash, this swinging back and forth between sizing each other up and bonding fondly over the man they have in common.
“He does love Christmas. So do I. We had so many wonderful holidays here.”
“Do you still put a tree up on the first day of December every year? We just did that together, at his house,” Suzuki says.
“Yes, that is still a tradition I follow.”
“Your son gives the best gifts,” Suzuki says, and he pulls his soft coat a bit tighter around himself.
“Yes, he really does. He has always been good at picking out the right presents. He gave me this locket for Christmas,” she says, holding it up on its thin gold chain. “Look, there is a picture of Albert inside.” Suzuki moves close to her to peer into the open golden cradle.
“Ohhh!” Suzuki exclaims. “Albert was very handsome.”
Martha laughs and nods, and why does she instantly feel thirty years younger? Suzuki admires her face for a moment and says, “A handsome man for a beautiful woman.” There’s that charm again, as sparkling and clear as a well-cut diamond. It’s pure flattery, but it doesn’t make her want to strike back with sharp words.
“Here is something funny: My husband could not dance. At all,” Martha says.
“No, really?” Suzuki gasps, aghast.
“Really. He was terrible. Two left feet. Absolutely hopeless. He had no rhythm. One day, he asked me to teach him the waltz, in our living room. He was so determined to learn. To make enough room, he and I hauled our couch out into the front yard. And not even ten minutes into my lesson, it started pouring rain, buckets and buckets of it. We both had to run outside and haul the couch back inside. That couch was wet for three days afterwards,” Martha says, and both she and Suzuki are chuckling by now. “We used every space heater we could find to dry the cushions out.”
“Did he ever learn to waltz?” Suzuki asks.
Martha shakes her head. “No. But he did love watching me dance. He was always supportive of my career.” She can’t explain why she told that story. Suzuki is interested, and maybe that was the only encouragement she needed.
“Will you show me the –” Suzuki pauses, stuck on a missing or forgotten piece of vocabulary. He gestures with a finger in the air at their general surroundings.
“The neighborhood?” she asks. He nods. Martha marvels again at his superb English. Even so, this conversation must be draining for him. For the millionth time, Martha wishes she spoke more Japanese, and with more confidence. She had taken classes for several years before Shinya came to live with her. But both Shinya and his mother spoke and learned enough English that her Japanese was often unnecessary.
They wander for a few blocks. Martha points out the park where Shinya played as a child. They stop to look at his elementary school, a multi-story red brick building. Suzuki listens more than he speaks. The silences between them grow longer but less awkward.
“Why do you like Japan so much?” Suzuki asks, out of nowhere. “When did you first go there?”
Martha doesn’t have to think about her answer. “I love the people and the culture and Tokyo. I like how passionate the Japanese are, and how devoted they are. You know ganbaru?”
“Yes,” Suzuki says. “Hard work, doing your best. Don’t give up. Very Japanese.”
Martha nods. “Yes. I admire the Japanese work ethic. Dance is hard work. I went to Japan to perform a showcase when I was in my early twenties. It was rare to travel like that for dance back then. Ballroom dance only became popular in Japan in the 1990s, so this would have been eight or ten years before that. We danced in Tokyo and Kyoto and Osaka. There was so much interest and potential there. I came back and started working with the Federation to expand dancing in Japan and Asia. And eventually I met Shinya and his mother.”
“Did you know right away that he was so good?” Suzuki asks.
“Oh, yes,” Martha says. “He was a prodigy, and everyone knew it.”
“He should be world champion,” Suzuki says.
“Yes,” Martha confirms. “He’s also an important ambassador. There were many people who never believed ballroom dancing would be embraced in Japan. He has inspired so many dancers there.”
“I am one of them,” Suzuki says.
“You are?”
“Yes. I’m a big fan of your son. Haven’t you noticed?”
Of course she has, but she only nods curtly, with a tight smile. It is Suzuki’s fervor that frightens Martha most.
“Do you miss dancing and competing?” Suzuki asks.
“Of course. Every day.”
“Well, that is where we are going next.”
And as if it had appeared by magic, Suzuki points at a cab waiting for them at the corner to take them to the best place for ballroom dancing in Blackpool.
—
“Blackpool Tower opened to the general public on May 14, 1894,” the tour guide intones, as Suzuki and Martha shuffle with a group of about twenty other tourists through the carpeted hallways of the famous landmark. The guide is a middle-aged woman with dark horned-rim glasses, wielding the authoritative air of a history professor. “It was inspired by the Eiffel Tower in Paris and is 158 meters tall,” she continues.
When Martha confirmed that she had never done the tour before, Suzuki whipped out his wallet and paid the sixty quid for the full Tower experience. Suzuki clearly thinks the tour is great. In solidarity as a former tour guide, he asks their guide numerous questions along the route. He delightfully points out little details in the building that Martha had never noticed before, whispering to her like she’s a confidant. It’s endearing. His joy is as contagious as a virus, and he makes people want to be infected. He reminds Martha of Albert, suddenly, and the comparison feels like another win for Suzuki.
Martha is the only local in the group. She doesn’t expect to be recognized or known by anyone here. Perhaps under Suzuki’s influence, she decides to volunteer answers to the guide’s trivia questions and see how many she can get right.
“Can anyone guess what year a giant King Kong was placed on the side of the Tower?” the guide asks.
“It was 1984,” Martha answers. She remembers it because it was one of the years they won the world championships. That had been a tedious, exhausting season with Matthew as a partner. He was going through a divorce and drinking like an alcoholic. Practice was like dancing in a distillery. Martha deserved the lion’s share of the credit for that championship. She had to pick Matthew up and take him home from rehearsal every day, or he wouldn’t bother to show up. He had been everything except a perfect gentleman, that year.
“What year was the Tower painted entirely in gold?” the guide quizzes the group.
“In 1994,” Martha answers. “For the centennial of the Tower.”
“You know them all,” Suzuki says, impressed.
“That was the year that Albert died,” Martha murmurs. The golden Tower had taunted her that entire year, gleaming down at her while her life was submerged in shadow.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Suzuki says, softly, bowing his head.
“In what year did a Norwegian ship mistake the Tower for a lighthouse and get shipwrecked? The wrecked ship can still be seen at low tide near Little Bispham,” the guide asks next.
Martha doesn’t know the answer to this one.
“The year was 1894, the very year the Tower opened. So, the Tower took a little getting used to, in those early days,” the guide jokes.
The ballroom is the last stop and highlight of the tour. The guide gives them a barrage of factoids about the floor and the ceiling and the most famous musicians and dancers to perform here. Still incognito, Martha answers all of the questions about dancing correctly. Suzuki beams at her like she’s a genius.
“What next?” Martha asks Suzuki afterwards. They head to the elevator for their trip to the top of the Tower. Martha has been up here many times, for special Federation events for rich donors. It’s much colder this far above the city. On the observation deck, a stiff wind rouges their cheeks and sparks tears in their eyes. The view is enchanting, though. The sky is a crisp pale blue, the sea bottle green. As they walk around the Tower perimeter, Martha points out where Albert used to work, where their old home is, the location of her apartment, and where her Shinya sits, waiting in the hotel. Suzuki soaks this up, asking questions about some of the more distinctive buildings below them. When he notices that Martha has drawn her coat more closely around herself, he suggests they head back down.
“It’s weird to be here and not competing,” Suzuki observes, when they end up in the ballroom again. Martha nods in agreement. She had momentarily forgotten that this is the other thing they have in common — the insider knowledge of what it’s like to dance here. They both know how the crowd sounds, the heat of the spotlights, the crucible of competition, and the pleasure of performance.
“It’s always strange to see them setting up tables for tea on the dance floor,” Martha comments.
“I reserved one for us,” Suzuki says. “As long as we are being tourists, let’s really get into it.”
“This is —” Martha is stymied for words again, overwhelmed. “Was this whole day your idea?” she asks, when she collects herself.
“It was me and Shinya, together. Shinya handled the details. He’s better at that than me,” Suzuki answers. His directness is refreshing. He is part of this scheme, but he’s been honest with her all day, leading her patiently and sweetly. He didn’t have to do this, and it was brave of him to try. Shinya had told her Suzuki was courageous, when he finally returned her phone call three days after the Asian Cup: He’s very serious about me and very brave to be with me, so I would like you to accept him. Martha intimidates most people. If Suzuki is daunted by her, he hasn’t revealed it once.
A hostess seats them at a round table covered in a white tablecloth. In minutes, waitstaff deposit a silver teakettle and the tiered towers of finger sandwiches and scones and fancy cakes that feature in every high tea.
“Shinya has helped me a lot, as a dancer,” Suzuki says, after pouring tea for both of them. “He’s been teaching me ballroom for the last year. He’s an excellent teacher.”
“You have taught him, too,” Martha says. “It was a surprise to me, seeing him dance Latin so well at the Asian Cup.”
Suzuki sips his tea and looks as if he is debating his next sentence. “And you were surprised to see him dancing with me.”
“Yes,” Martha says.
“And to see us kiss in front of everyone.” Suzuki says the words without balking, unembarrassed.
“Yes, I was surprised by that, too,” she affirms. They are adults. They can acknowledge these things. The video had gone viral. Both Shinyas had issued press statements confirming their romantic relationship, without even giving Martha advanced notice. Everyone knew exactly what the two men were to each other.
Suzuki picks out one of the sandwiches and one of the cakes, using his fingers rather than the small silver tongs provided. He plunks them on his plate, then licks his fingertips. Martha lifts an eyebrow, judging him, sensing that he let down his guard. Suzuki sees her notice the lapse. He unrolls his napkin and wipes his fingertips on it carefully. Suzuki escapes her scrutiny by looking up at the ceiling, ornate and sumptuous with all its scrollwork and gilded ornamentation.
“Shinya was so brave that day. So brave to do that for me,” Suzuki sighs, and his emotional eyes meet Martha’s and linger. There’s that word again: brave. “What did you think, when you saw him dance with me?” Suzuki asks.
Shinya had told her this man was serious – about dancing, about him, about their relationship – and her son is not wrong. Martha takes him seriously, for her son’s sake and for her own. She barely knows this man, but today has taught her that it would be a mistake to underestimate him.
“I was afraid he was throwing his career away,” Martha says, sternly. “Because of you.”
“Shinya knew what it would cost him,” Suzuki answers, calm and cool. “And Shinya’s career is fine. He’s going to be okay. We both are.”
“Not if you keep fighting his staff and the judges in public,” Martha says. Suzuki’s eyes blaze, but not with anger. He looks like he wants to have this conversation.
“His staff don’t support him. That’s why I got angry at the world championships. They said he couldn’t win. And they are wrong.” Suzuki’s words are as certain as an edict.
Martha puts her teacup in its saucer with a clink that sounds loud in the tense air between them.
“You still can’t fight with people like that in public,” she says. “You can’t do things that reflect poorly on him. It doesn’t help him win. It’s not fair, and it’s not right, but everything you do now helps him or hurts him.”
“I know that. It won’t happen again. But I am going to fight for him. And I wish you would fight for him, too,” Suzuki says. It’s an offer to form an alliance.
“I do fight for him,” Martha says quietly, stung by Suzuki’s admonition. “You can’t always see or understand the ways I fight for him, but I do.”
“Alright. Then let’s help him win, together,” Suzuki offers.
Martha stares at Suzuki intently. He wants her help, and more importantly, he needs it. She nods in acceptance. An understanding has been forged, and it feels like a car crash averted. Martha savors a relief she hadn’t known was attainable.
“One thing I did notice about your dancing with Shinya,” Martha adds, after a few moments of silence, “was how light and happy he looked doing it. He looked free when he danced with you. I saw love in his dancing again. I hadn’t seen him dance like that in a long time.” She’s reluctant to make the admission. It sets off fireworks in Suzuki’s eyes.
“That’s what I want for him,” Suzuki replies. “I want him to dance like that all the time.”
And just when Martha is once again struck speechless, the famous Blackpool ballroom organ blares out the opening notes of a waltz. It’s as if Suzuki timed it that way. Everything about this day has felt guided by an unseen hand.
“Would you dance with me?” Suzuki asks.
“I’m sure it’s against the rules,” Martha protests, “and I am hardly dressed for it.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Suzuki says, and he beckons for one of the waitstaff to approach.
“Ms. Milton,” the waiter says, with a kind look, “we’re so honored to have you here with us today. If you’ll follow me, we’ve set aside a dressing room for you.”
“What?” Martha says, voice pitching upwards and eyes widening. She looks at Suzuki like he can clear up this misunderstanding. Instead, he arches an eyebrow, daring her to say yes. There it is again – that wild, uncontained spirit that makes resistance futile. He is bewitching. If Martha takes away nothing else from this day, she will at least comprehend why her son is besotted with this irrepressible man.
Martha follows the waiter to a dressing room, where a black dress and a pair of dancing shoes await her.
“Please take your time, ma’am. Mr. Suzuki will be waiting for you on the dance floor.” And then she’s alone.
Martha was vastly more ambitious and idealistic the last time she changed in one of these dressing rooms so she could dance in this ballroom. She feels simultaneously young and old as she surveys the room and sees her reflection in the mirror. She remembers bringing Shinya into these backstage rooms when he was thirteen years old, when she first took him to watch the world championships. He soaked up everything that day, like a thirsty little sponge. She had introduced him to her first coach, many friends, an old dance partner, and the reigning world ballroom champions. Even then, her Shinya wanted to be a champion. He was untested and untainted and already so determined, already more like an adult than a child.
Was she right to give her Shinya this dream? Can he achieve it? Suzuki’s words come back to her, unbidden: I wish you would fight for him, too. She does. She does, but Suzuki’s words plant an invasive species of doubt inside her, multiplying and ineradicable. There must be more she can do for her Shinya, if this man who knows and loves him so well is asking for her help.
Shinya Suzuki confounded her and outwitted her and made her his ally in every contest today. He still frightens her, because a love like his is frightening. He is fearless and faithful, a lover who would follow his beloved straight into the furnace of hell itself. And her Shinya loves him the same in return. They are a good match. Martha is powerless to break it. She said she wanted her son to find this kind of love, and he has, at last. She had not been prepared for how impotent it would make her feel.
Martha changes into the dress. It’s actually one of her own. She must remember to ask her Shinya how he extracted it from her closet and brought it here, undetected. Her personal assistant, Valerie, was probably involved in that feat. Everything done for her today has been excessive and unprecedented. Her Shinya definitely called in some favors here at the Tower. The thought and preparation and time both men put into making this all happen is humbling. She was so determined to hate the man her son loves. She slips her feet into her heels, and she feels undeservedly cherished.
The organ is still playing, and Suzuki is still waiting when she returns to the dance floor. He is now, miraculously, wearing dancing shoes and black trousers and a plain black button-up shirt. When she appears at their table, he runs his eyes over her and offers a hand.
“You look beautiful,” he assures her, leading her to the center of the dance floor. The other tourists having tea watch them with anticipation. The organ begins another waltz. Martha hasn’t danced in front of this many people in several years, but when she enters Suzuki’s sturdy hold, she relaxes.
“One, two, three,” he counts, and then they’re off.
The comfort always returns to Martha, when she dances: the rhythmic certainty that the next steps are the right ones, that the path before her is the best one, that all will resolve into inevitable perfection, like the ending of a Mozart concerto. Off the dance floor, the steps are uncertain and delayed, the partners less cooperative and trustworthy, the paths more potholed and twisting. Her life has been lonely, her loves complicated, her hopes yet unfulfilled. But waltzing within these four corners, there is only a partner and three beats – one, two, three, one, two, three: a sanctuary from fear, and her place to shine.
Shinya Sugiki picks his partners well, and he has chosen wisely again. Suzuki leads Martha powerfully, with grace and devotion. In his hands, she feels held and safe.
“Who taught you to lead like this?” Martha asks.
“Your son did,” Suzuki answers, and from the corner of her eye, she sees him smile, as bright as sunlight.
—
“How did it go, my love?” Sugiki calls out over his shoulder when Suzuki shucks off his shoes at the door. Sugiki sits in an armchair in the tiny living room of their suite. He pauses the footage of his last competition on his laptop to turn and greet his boyfriend.
“It went well. Martha says hello and wants you to bring wine for dinner tomorrow,” Suzuki says. His brain pulses with the relief of sliding out of English and back into Japanese. Suzuki takes off his coat and tosses it over the arm of the couch before stooping to give Sugiki a brief, light kiss on the lips.
“Really? Did everything go as planned?”
“It was fine. Did you spend the whole day here worrying?” Suzuki asks.
“No,” Sugiki insists.
“I don’t believe you,” Suzuki quips.
“I knew you would take care of it. Was she hard on you?”
“She scolded me about yelling at Nino and Fabio.”
“They have become much more supportive since we started dating,” Sugiki notes.
“Yeah, because they know I’m watching them,” Suzuki growls, only half joking.
“True,” Sugiki agrees.
“Martha and I are gonna be fine. Once again, you are a master strategist,” Suzuki praises him. He stifles a yawn as he reclines on the couch. “Starting with Albert was a brilliant idea. What an icebreaker! She softened right up. I didn’t think this plan would work, but you have proven me wrong and I admit defeat.”
“Well, I’m sure you were the one who softened her up. It was my plan, but your charm. And you get credit for the Blackpool Tower part. What was she like on the tour? Did she actually do it?”
“She did, and got ninety percent of the guide’s questions right, too. It was impressive.”
“And did she agree to dance with you in the ballroom?” Sugiki asks, eager for this detail in particular. Martha rarely dances these days.
“She did. We just did some waltzes. She’s still really good,” Suzuki says.
“Did she give you any criticism?” Sugiki asks.
“No.”
“Wow. You really did win her over.”
“She did ask me who taught me to lead in the waltz,” Suzuki adds.
“Oh? What did you say?”
“I told her you did, of course.”
They are shining megawatt smiles at each other now, radiating heat and desire, raising the temperature in the room.
“So, I win our bet. I was basically betting on you, you know. That’s why I knew it would work,” Sugiki says.
“Aw, sweet-talking me before you fuck me,” Suzuki teases. “What would you like for your prize, querido?” His tone downshifts, deep and smooth and submissive to his fate.
Sugiki stands, studying Suzuki like he is a feast set out for his consumption. Sugiki slowly unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his pants.
“You’re going to stay right there and let me do whatever I want to you,” Sugiki says. “Isn’t that right?”
Suzuki’s mouth parts with a sharp intake of breath, and his eyes dilate into blackness. “Yes, Sugiki-sensei,” he answers, licking his lower lip. “Come teach me.”
And this lesson is their most satisfying one yet.