to, sex was a complete no-no. In others, they not only advocated complete freedom, but even encouraged orgies. She asked for more details, and I couldn't tell if she was doing this in order to test me or because she had no idea what other people got up to.
Athena spoke before I could answer her question.
'When you dance, do you feel desire? Do you feel as if you were summoning up a greater energy? When you dance, are there moments when you cease to be yourself?'
I didn't know what to say. In nightclubs or at parties in friends' houses, sensuality was definitely part of how I felt when I danced. I would start by flirting and enjoying the desire in men's eyes, but as the night wore on, I seemed to get more in touch with myself, and it was no longer important to me whether I was or wasn't seducing someone.
Athena continued:
'If theatre is ritual, then dance is too. Moreover, it's a very ancient way of getting close to a partner. It's as if the threads connecting us to the rest of the world were washed clean of preconceptions and fears. When you dance, you can enjoy the luxury of being you.'
I started listening to her with more respect.
'Afterwards, we go back to being who we were before frightened people trying to be more important than we actually believe we are.'
That was exactly how I felt. Or is it the same for everyone?
'Do you have a boyfriend?'
I remembered that in one of the places where I'd gone to learn about the Gaia tradition, a 'druid' had asked me to make love in front of him. Ridiculous and frightening how dare these people use the spiritual search for their own more sinister ends?
'Do you have a boyfriend?' she asked again.
'I do.'
Athena said nothing else. She merely put her finger to her lips, indicating that I should remain silent.
And suddenly I realised that it was extremely difficult for me to remain silent in the presence of someone I'd only just met. The norm is to talk about something, anything the weather, the traffic, the best restaurants to go to. We were sitting on the sofa in her completely white sitting room, with a CD-player and a small shelf of CDs. There were no books anywhere, and no paintings on the wall. Given that she'd travelled to the Middle East, I'd expected to find objects and souvenirs from that part of the world.
But it was empty, and now there was this silence.
Her grey eyes were fixed on mine, but I held firm and didn't look away. Instinct perhaps. A way of saying that I'm not frightened, but facing the challenge head-on. Except that everything the silence and the white room, the noise of the traffic outside in the street began to seem unreal. How long were we going to stay there, saying nothing?
I started to track my own thoughts. Had I come there in search of material for my play or did I really want knowledge, wisdom, power? I couldn't put my finger on what it was that had led me to come and see what? A witch?
My adolescent dreams surfaced. Who wouldn't like to meet a real witch, learn how to perform magic, and gain the respect and fear of her friends? Who, as a young woman, hasn't been outraged by the centuries of repression suffered by women and felt that becoming a witch would be the best way of recovering her lost identity? I'd been through that phase myself; I was independent and did what I liked in the highly competitive world of the theatre, but then why was I never content? Why was I always testing out my curiosity?
We must have been about the same age or was I older? Did she, too, have a boyfriend?
Athena moved closer. We were now less than an arm's length from each other and I started to feel afraid. Was she a lesbian?
I didn't look away, but I made a mental note of where the door was so that I could leave whenever I wished. No one had made me go to that house to meet someone I'd never seen before in my life and sit there wasting time, not saying anything and not learning anything either. What did she want?
That silence perhaps. My muscles began to grow tense. I was alone and helpless. I desperately needed to talk or to make my mind stop telling me that I was under threat. How