Read The Visitors for Free Online

redoubled and distorted by the looking glasses lining its walls. At first glance, it seemed filled with scores of small girls wearing white leotards, white hairbands, and gauzy white skirts that grazed their knees. On the count, this ghostly corps de ballet moved in unison. Then, as my panic subsided and the room calmed, I found I could begin to differentiate between the reflected and the real. To my left, beyond the gilt chairs reserved for the ranks of mothers and nursemaids, and next to the piano and accompanist, stood a woman who could only be the legendary Madame Masha: it was by this name that she was familiarly known throughout Cairo, her real name, Countess Mariya Aleksandrovna Sheremeteva, being a mouthful no one could pronounce. She was tiny and terrifying, wearing a flowing dress, her raven hair parted in the centre, slicked back against her skull and fastened in a bun, ballerina-style; she was armed with a long tapering stick, which she banged on the floor to emphasise her demands.
    Beyond her, lined up with their right hands clasping the barre, was a group of just seven, no, eight little girls, all of about my own age or younger. Their flushed faces were fixed in concentration, they had beads of sweat on their brows. The child at the front was, I gradually understood, the Lady Rose who had incurred Madame’s wrath before we entered. She was the smallest child present, plump, clumsy, erratic in her footwork and on the verge of tears. Next to her was the unfortunate Fräulein von Essen, scarlet with exertion, out of breath and visibly wilting. Fifth from the front, performing the exercises of the adage with cool precision, was a pupil whose grace marked her out from her companions. Even with her dark hair sleeked back inside a bandeau, I recognised her at once as the pyramids’ girl.
    As I watched, Madame advanced upon her, stick raised. She touched her lightly on the shoulder with the tip of her stick and, motioning the other girls to stop and to watch, said: ‘Enough. Mademoiselle Winlock shall demonstrate. Frances, ma petite , come forward. Attention , je vous en prie . We shall move on to the allegro. Mademoiselle, if you please, you will show them how it’s done.’
    The pyramids’ girl began to dance – and it was like a dance, not a series of exercises. Each move flowed into the next, to Madame’s barked commands. Entrechat, demi-plié, grand jeté, fouetté : I was watching grace, balance and an astonishing accuracy of footwork performed at speed. I was transfixed with admiration: I had never attended a ballet, knew nothing of the art, and had never suspected what dance might be. ‘ Ballon ,’ said Madame. ‘Mademoiselle Frances , on essaie le ballon, s’il vous plait…⁠’
    There was a stir in the room, a craning of necks, a new concentration on the faces of the watching girls – just enough for me to understand that, whatever a ballon was, it was difficult. There were a few preparatory graceful steps, then the child’s feet flickered in a series of lightning scissor moves and without appearing to jump or to leap she simply rose in the air, as weightless as a bird. I gasped at this magic and, before I could stop myself, clapped my hands. The girl returned earthwards, landed, missed her step, twisted her foot, and fell in a heap on the ground.
    ‘ Pas mal ,’ Madame pronounced, ignoring the fact that Frances Winlock’s face had whitened with shock and pain. She shrugged, adding, as she turned away, ‘ Vous voyez – c’est difficile .’
    Beside me, Miss Mack shook her head: I think she was reconsidering the wisdom of my joining this ballet class. ‘Oh, the poor child! I hope she hasn’t broken anything,’ she murmured. ‘It’ll be a miracle if that ankle isn’t sprained. And she danced so charmingly too. A little praise might not go amiss. Or sympathy… ’
    Madame overheard this comment. She turned to look at Miss Mack and me, fixing us in the glare of her huge tiger eyes. I