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The time chosen for his performance, midnight and ten minutes, is preferred by him and his old friend Galeone, both excellent patrons of the tabarin. Dress and gestural composure are impeccable. The tux suits him, perhaps more than a suit, and makes his “poise” of Livorno smoke from London even more credible. He winks at the jury, touching the strings of small but deep emotions, recounting when, as a child, he followed Mom and Dad in the ballrooms where they exhibited with great courage. Then he puts out his hands, confessing that he too would like to dance well but that he will do what he can, not caring about the grades because he has become used to inadequacies since the days when he was listless to school. Finally, aware of his true profession, he declares that dance is like football where for both disciplines it is about respecting the times. All that’s left is to start.
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