Testes

They danced for an aesthetic - a way of ordering the world to your vision, in all its grand glory.

They particularly danced for the emperor’s aesthetic. He was an odd, fidgety man - they said that he would never live long enough to mourn the first anniversary of his father’s death. Somehow, though, somehow he managed it and if he did not open his country’s borders, and shut away the world at large, he did put food on tables and roofs over heads and wages in pockets.

If his mannerisms were feral and his methods cruel, the job was nevertheless done.

The emperor saw a rainbow once, long ago, before the smog blocked out the sun and killed all the plants.

They recreated it for him with movement.

First came red and it was a splash of scarlet against her body, and he with his bright red flag, which guided their fiery movements across the stage. It was a dance of crimson - blood, heat and passion. She defiantly stepping and he challenging her with every swipe of his muleta. The paso doble was always red.

Then came orange. This was the dance of love, and she was a streak of flame against him while they swayed to and fro, stepping with masterful precision and melting into each others arms like only the lustfully bound could. The samba was orange.

Now yellow. She, with her flouncy little skirt, and he with his cheeky kerchief - it was yellow on white and it flashed alternately as they bounced from step to step, kick ball changing and lifting their knees high. She wiggled her fingers and her yellow gloves sprung to life. Yellow was for the foxtrot.

Green was the moody one. Her dress was long and all emerald shimmers, but slit all the way to the hip so that when he dipped her, the sleek muscles of her leg were evident. They danced to tease, and his viridian shirt wrapped itself around olive skin like a lover. The cha-cha was moody, and green.

Blue was next. She was en pointe, with silk strips of cyan to highlight her precise, perfect movement. He was in navy, dark and strong as he lifted her and helped her soar. Theirs were movements of flawless grace, of gorgeous physiques and lean strength. Blue carried the pax de deux well.

Indigo was the penultimate. And oh how they danced! It was coordination and timing at its finest; every single little step, tilt of the head or shake of the hip was in sync. Their matching lilac suits whirled a colourful hurricane back and forth. All through it she smiled at him, and he wooed her and they ate up the stage, step by step. Thus, indigo became the jive.

Last came the violet finale. It was romance at its finest, complete with illicit glances and secret touches. Her dress flowed like water, a stream of purple now gathering to her slim curvature, now rippling free as he spun her, his tie glinting amethyst in the flickering lights. They ended with a kiss, a breathtaking lavender harmony that could not have been scripted. The waltz was always violet.

At the end, the performers all gathered in the centre of the room, to bow to the man slung in the chair on a high dias. He clapped slowly, two or three times.

All the dancers gave a silent, collective sigh of relief. He had liked it. Nobody would die this night.