Typically I have little patience for white men's stories about indigenous cultures, or political commentaries disguised as dramatic fiction. Superficially, The Dancer Upstairs is both of the above -- a mixed-race man in a mixed-race society, continually confused and yearning for what he knows not, and others like him, none realizing that it is all the same, that no one has the answers, not even el presidente Ezequiel. And yet the book is neither of these two things, for it is, at its heart, a love story. The unknowability of the human heart. The inevitability of fate. Suffering. The liquid richness of time -- how certain moments contract into nothingness and yet others expand in our memories, on and on, until we are nothing but those memories, nothing but a physical relic of those vapors of time.
The book is beautiful -- the entirety of it thoughtful and graceful like a dance. South America's vibrance is channeled through each page, and particularly via the large brown eyes of Yolanda. In Rejas, the main narrator, we find compassion, sensitivity, and an overwhelming humanity. He lives as if on the fringes of his own life, continually making space for the desires of others -- his wife Sylvina who yearns for Miami, his daughter Laura who lives to dance -- until he meets Yolanda, Laura's dance teacher, who brings out within him desires that can never be put to rest again. The story ends in what I can only call a collision -- but a collision that the reader has foreseen, and anticipates, perhaps as absolution. And even after the story has long ended, I find myself wanting to retread the steps up to the narrow balcony of the Catina de Lua, and imagine that Rejas and Dyer are due to reappear at any minute, and that Rejas will begin anew, to murmur of his past, and that I will listen humbly, as we all do, when faced with a tale of great sacrifice.