New York City Docs. Tina Beckett

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СКАЧАТЬ Marcos at the front of the room. “I’m sorry?”

      “I said it was good to have Clay back in the studio, Tessita. Do you not think so?”

      Tessita. Oh, no. He was already irritated with her.

      “Yes. Of course it is.” She kept her eyes off Clay and fixed them firmly on Marcos.

      “Do you want to show him what you’re working on?”

      “What?” Oh, no. She hadn’t planned on training in front of him. “It can wait. Really. I think he just wanted his daughter to see what capoeira is.”

      “And who better to show it to her than someone who has mastered the sport, não é?” Marcos held out his hand. “After all, he has seen you train before. He has trained with you.”

      I’ve done more than that, Clay’s glance seemed to say.

      She wanted to send Marcos a biting reply in their native tongue, but Clay would know they were talking about him. Or arguing about him. She didn’t want him to think his being here bothered her at all.

      Even if it did.

      Marcos clapped his hands. “Form the circle. And we begin.”

      The practicantes gathered in a loose ring, Clay standing just a bit back, still holding Molly up where she could see.

      Tessa hadn’t even changed into her capoeira gear yet—she’d been running late from the hospital. All those recent night shifts had wreaked havoc on her concentration. She also hadn’t expected to be dragged into an impromptu exhibition. So she was in yoga pants and a loose T-shirt.

      Something in her wondered exactly what Marcos had up his sleeve.

      She moved to join the circle of students, dragging her T-shirt to the side and tying a knot to hold it tight against her waist. The last thing she wanted was for it to ride up in front of everyone when she did some of the flips and twists she’d been practicing.

      The studio’s tambourine players started things off, snapping out the typical beat of the studio, while the stringed bow added its own unique twist. The rest of the circle joined in, clapping and chanting in time with the beat. Pointing at two of the studio members, Marcos signaled for them to be the first to enter the ring. The men moved forward and began the advances and feints that were typical of the martial art. One of the men fell as he attempted a single twist backflip, but leaped back to his feet.

      “Ai caramba, gente. Força!” Marcos waved the man out of the circle and jabbed a finger at another participant, who took his place. The other capoeirista didn’t miss a beat, just engaged the new guy. Back and forth they went in a perfectly synchronized dance that often came within a foot or two of crashing into the bodies that formed the human cage behind them but not so close as to be a real danger to anyone.

      Tessa clapped in time with everyone else, but glanced back at Clay, who stood on the outside of the ring. She’d always stood next to him in days past, translating whenever Marcos had gone on a tirade about something in Portuguese. He nodded, indicating he got the gist of it, although with the way the fallen guy had slunk out of the center of the circle it was pretty obvious he’d been scolded. He shifted his daughter to the other arm and said something to the girl with a smile. She then started clapping along with everyone else.

      She couldn’t hold back her own smile. One of her earliest memories was of watching her dad in the ring, doing some of these very same moves, and the memory of receiving her very first cord—the capoeira equivalent of a belt. It had been white. She’d rapidly worked her way up the ranks, although her advancement had slowed once she’d gone to medical school and had only been able to come once a week rather than the usual three that most of the serious participants trained. The purple and green cordão she currently owned signified she could be an apprentice instructor if she wanted to.

      But she didn’t have time to do anything except practice medicine and come to the studio once a week.

      Marcos treated her as if she were one, though, being tougher on her than he was on a lot of the other students. Since she was participating in the exhibition, he had good reason to be. One mistake and the public demonstration would be ruined—and, like most Brazilians, he would see it as a reflection on his teaching abilities. And he would not be pleased.

      Marcos motioned for a new player to enter the ring, the flow in and out of the circle seamlessly performed. A few minutes later it was her turn.

      Gritting her teeth, she forced her concentration to spiral down to what was contained within the circle, not allowing it to stray as she performed a low bent cartwheel, which moved her to the center of the area. She immediately went into a cadeira squat as the other player swung his leg in an arc over her back.

      Clay had once said capoeira looked like a form of breakdancing. With the sweeping circular movements and spins, she could see why he thought that. But a lot of the moves were contained in other martial arts—they’d just been modified a bit and put to a beat. Capoeira had become a kind of art in motion in a lot of studios, rather than outright combat.

      She twisted her body and went on her hands, both legs gliding over the other person’s bent head. Keeping the rhythm pulsing in her brain, she swept over and around and circled her opponent, her body constantly in motion, gaining speed as she went.

      Her rival matched her move for move until there was nothing but the leaps and vaults and spins that swept her into another realm. Tessa likened it to a trancelike state, except she was aware of everything. Even the small commotion currently going on somewhere outside the circle. Her opponent backed up a few paces, still sweeping and twisting and ducking in time to her moves, but she sensed a change coming. Then he was leaving the ring and another player was entering. Not a craque, as she called experienced capoeiristas, but a novice.

      She dialed down her pace and with a backward twist came face-to-face with her new partner. She faltered, almost falling right onto her head in the middle of a handstand before catching herself.

      It was Clay.

      What was he doing? And where was his daughter?

      Those two thoughts ran through her head before Clay jumped high into the air, one leg sweeping over her as she came out of her handstand. She countered him with a leap of her own, her foot coming within inches of his chest as he spun back and went into a low crouch, one leg going beneath hers as she leaped over it.

      Her heart began pounding, her concentration slipping in and out as they continued to parry and evade, advance and retreat. It was as if somewhere inside Clay he’d retained everything he’d been taught. Still a novice, but sure and confident and never giving quarter if she didn’t force him to. And she had to. She had to put an end to this or she was going to make a fool of herself in front of everyone. She edged in closer, still twisting and turning and leaning back whenever a foot or hand swished past her. She looked for an opening and found it within seconds. Making it look like an accident, she swept Clay’s legs out from under him in the batizado move she’d taken him down with all those years ago.

      And he did go down, his back hitting the mat with a loud slap that reverberated through the studio. Breathing heavily in the absolute silence that followed—since the drums and other instruments had stopped playing—she stood over him, only vaguely aware that he’d suddenly moved with lightning speed, his legs scissoring hers and jerking them out from under her. She fell right across СКАЧАТЬ