The Silver Ballroom – Part 1: The Waltz Class

The Silver Ballroom had been built in 1908, and its floorboards still creaked in three-four time. Helga had walked past it for twenty years on her way to the market. Last month, after her divorce was final and the flat felt too quiet, she had finally walked inside and signed up for the Thursday evening class.

"Over forty-five," the instructor had said, with a warm, unbothered smile. "Nobody here is judging the feet."

The room held twelve people that first evening: retired teachers, a pair of sisters, a lawyer in a tweed jacket who kept checking his watch. And Georg, standing alone by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, looking as if he had been dragged here by his grandchildren.

He was tall, broad, with grey hair cut short and kind, tired blue eyes. When the instructor paired them up for the first exercise, he bowed slightly, very formally, and offered her his hand.

"Georg," he said. "I apologise in advance for my feet."

"Helga," she said. "I apologise in advance for my patience."

The first step was a disaster. Georg counted under his breath, stepped on her left foot twice and muttered something in German that made her snort with laughter.

"You're enjoying this," he said accusingly.

"I'm enjoying your face," said Helga. "It's like a thunderstorm trying to remember a dance."

He laughed then, a deep, startled sound, and his grip on her hand changed, softened. They tried again. This time the steps were almost right. By the end of the lesson, they were moving across the floor together, slow and clumsy and surprisingly graceful, while the other couples spun past them and the old piano played on.

Afterwards they sat on a bench in the hallway, sipping bad coffee from paper cups.

"My wife loved this dance," said Georg quietly. "She taught me, in our first year of marriage. She's been gone three years."

"I'm sorry," said Helga.

"Don't be. I wanted to say it, that's all. Most people in this city don't ask."

"I'm divorced," said Helga, surprising herself. "Twenty-six years. He left for a woman who wore sequins and called me darling in a voice like cold porridge."

Georg's mouth twitched. "Then you deserve a better waltz."

"Do I?"

"I think so," said Georg, and looked at her, for the first time, as if he were really seeing her.

She felt her face warm. "Will you be here next Thursday?"

"Only if you'll step on my feet again," he said.

"I'll try my very best," said Helga, and felt, to her own astonishment, that she was smiling.