And the women waited as if in transport for the climax, when they would
be flung into a movement surpassing all movement. They were flung, borne
away, lifted like a boat on a supreme wave, into the zenith and nave of
the heavens, consummate.
Then suddenly the dance crashed to an end, and the dancers stood
stranded, lost, bewildered, on a strange shore. The air was full of red
dust, half-lit by the lamp on the wall; the players in the corner were
putting down their instruments to take up their glasses.
And the dancers sat round the wall, crowding in the little room, faint
with the transport of repeated ecstasy. There was a subtle smile on the
face of the men, subtle, knowing, so finely sensual that the conscious
eyes could scarcely look at it. And the women were dazed, like creatures
dazzled by too much light. The light was still on their faces, like a
blindness, a reeling, like a transfiguration. The men were bringing
wine, on a little tin tray, leaning with their proud, vivid loins, their
faces flickering with the same subtle smile. Meanwhile, Maria Fiori was
splashing water, much water, on the red floor.
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