The Chalice and the Crown

by Kassandra Flamouri

  I flip the light on and move slowly to the side of the bed. Someone has combed her hair and folded her hands over her stomach. I always thought that when someone dies it would be obvious that the person is gone and what’s left is just an empty shell. But when I look at my grandmother now, I don’t see a shell. I just see Baba Nadia.

  Of course it’s her, I think, and reach out with trembling fingers to touch her face. Her cheek is still warm.

  She has changed, though. Her descent into death has taken its toll. Her skin is drawn tightly over her bones, and her body is shrunken and skeletal. Even so, she looks like she’s sleeping. I even think I see her chest rising and falling. I know it’s my brain playing tricks on me, seeing what it expects to see, but it’s unnerving.

  I pull the blanket up over her shoulders and tuck them in with shaking hands, then sink to my knees. Music pulses in my head, my ears, my chest. For once, I don’t resist. I sing without fear and pretend I’m singing her to sleep.

  “Bayu, bayushki bayu

  Nye lozhisya na krayu …”

  Something rattles out in the hall, jerking my attention away from Baba Nadia’s corpse. I spin around on my knees and catch a glimpse of an orderly’s enormous shoes as he passes by with a food cart. The cart and footsteps pause, then resume and eventually fade. A relieved breath hisses between my teeth. I’m not ready to share my last moments with my grandmother, not with anyone. Not yet. But Emily might come looking for me soon, and I need to look like I’m keeping it together.

  I force myself to rise and gather the little pillows and blankets I’d brought from the house. I reach for the pictures and then decide to come back with a box rather than risk breaking them. They might not mean much to me, but they meant everything to Baba Nadia.

  I pick up the portrait of Baba Nadia then, tracing my fingers over the high cheekbones and wide gray eyes, so like her daughter’s—and like mine.

  “Sasha?”

  I jump and almost drop the picture. Donna crosses to me and pulls it gently from my hand, tracing the lines of my grandmother’s form. Nadia Nikolayeva had the classic ballet figure: slim, with long legs, an elegant neck, high insteps. Maybe a little taller than average for a ballerina, but her body was fluid, light…and strong. She was famous for her strength, her endurance.

  I blink back tears. That endurance has finally run out.

  “It’s lovely,” Donna says as she sets the frame down on the table. “You look just like her.”

  “I know.” I wrap my arms around myself. “Did you want something?”

  If my rudeness offends her, she gives no sign of it. “Emily was just wondering if you need a few more minutes or if she can come in.”

  “No,” I say, suddenly desperate to leave. “No, I’m done here. Emily should have a chance to—to say goodbye.”

  She nods and bustles away. She probably expects me to wait—it’s only been a few minutes, after all. Not long enough to say goodbye. But no amount of time would be enough for that, and I can’t stand this room a moment longer. Baba Nadia’s body draws my gaze like a magnet. Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls. Our lullaby is in my head and in my ears…and on her lips.

  The orderly and his food cart roll past once again, sending a wave of onion-scented air into the room. My stomach roils, and I stumble down the hall until I find a bathroom. The door crashes closed behind me just as I collapse over the toilet and heave. My stomach is empty, but my whole body convulses with the need to eject—something. My stomach, my intestines, who knows? My bones, maybe. When the spasms finally ease, I close the lid and prop my elbows on top, my hands over my face.

  A muffled laugh slips through my fingers. So much for my Easter miracle. The words of the Acclamation slide over my tongue, smooth and bitter as tears:

  “Voistinu voskres.”

  Truly, he is risen.

  * * *

  My arms are wrapped around myself as I rock back and forth in the passenger seat, the seat belt locking with rhythmic clicks each time I rock forward. Emily’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, but she doesn’t say anything. I bite my lip and force myself into stillness.

  I meant to try to sleep. I was hoping that a few minutes’ rest would help me gather the strength I need to face what’s coming. But I gained neither rest nor strength, and now I’m out of time. We’re here, passing through a forest of headstones sprouting from the ground like ugly, sinister flowers. Today we come to plant one of our own.

  Emily nudges me. “We’re here.”

  I nod without speaking and fiddle with my seat belt as Emily gets out and strides over to the funeral director, no doubt to discuss some small detail that might have been overlooked. Baba Nadia trusted her to execute the will, and Emily has taken the responsibility very seriously. She looks so poised and elegant in a black sheath dress and simple pearl earrings. She glides over the uneven ground, even in heels. My stomach clenches. She looks like Baba Nadia.

  “Ready?” James asks from the back seat.

  I’m not. But I get out of the car anyway and let him lead me through the orderly rows of headstones. My steps slow as we approach the crowd of mourners, and James slows with me, his eyes worried. I take a steadying breath and force one foot in front of the other until I’m at the edge of the grave, looking into the gaping hole that will house my grandmother’s bones.

  I hardly notice the murmured condolences and soft pats on my back and shoulders, my gaze fixed on the fresh grave and the mound of dark earth beside it.

  Emily takes her place at my side as the priest welcomes the crowd of mourners. I lean into her and rest my head against her shoulder. On my other side, James squeezes my shoulder. I nod in acknowledgement, then close my eyes and do my best to pretend that I’m alone in some dark, safe place. The priest’s voice fades into nothing, replaced by the lullaby that has become both a comfort and a torment.

  But soon another melody intrudes, and I open my eyes. The pallbearers are approaching, accompanied by an old woman’s voice raised in song.

  “Gori, gori, moya zvezda,

  Zvezda lyubvi, privetnaya!

  Ty u menya odna zavetnaya,

  Drugoy ne budet nikogda.”

  “What does it mean?”

  I jump, then sigh as I turn and find that it’s only Dave. James gives him a disapproving glare, but I shake my head.

  “I don’t mind.”

  The pallbearers place my grandmother’s coffin beside the grave, their movements perfectly coordinated. Their heads are bowed, but their backs are straight and strong. Dancers, like most of the people here. Nearly all my grandmother’s students have come, flying in from all over the country—all over the world—to say goodbye, even with only three days’ notice.

  They loved her.

  One man in the crowd looks different, though, and it’s not just the strangely cut leather coat he wears or the pale scar on his face. He carries himself not like a dancer but like a fighter. Despite the lines around his eyes and the gray in his hair, he looks dangerous…and familiar, though I can’t think why. I wonder uneasily if I should tell someone, but I don’t want to draw attention to him—or to myself. I don’t want to add to Emily’s worries.

  Dave nudges me again, drawing me back to the song. I translate over my shoulder as the song continues, each word dropping like a stone onto my chest.

  “Shine, shine on, my star

  Shine, friendly star,

  You are my only cherished one,

  Another there will never be

  By the heavenly strength of your beams

  My whole life is illuminated

  And if I die, over my grave

  Shine, shine on, my star.”

  My voice breaks on the last line, and Emily slips her arm around my waist. I keep talking, trying to contain or at least cover up the overflow of emotion.

  “It’s a love song, really.” My voice is flat and dull. “I think it reminded her of her husband—her first husband.”

  “Or grandfather, or
your mother,” Emily murmurs. “Or you. She’d want you to keep shining.”

  I don’t reply. What is there to say? I suppose there’s only one thing left, and when they ask me to “say a few words,” I’m as ready as I can be.

  “Ya tebya lyublyu, Babushka,” I whisper, and drop a single, pale rose onto the coffin as it sinks into the ground. I love you.

  Dozens of roses follow until the casket is completely obscured. I turn away as the true burial begins. The sight of fresh earth scattering across the bed of white makes me want to run and never stop.

  I look across the grave instead. The scarred man’s eyes find me, and I shrink into myself. There’s a depth of grief there that scares me even as it baffles me. I shiver. I don’t know who he is, and I think I don’t want to find out.

  But his eyes catch me again, and once again I’m struck by the feral look in his eyes and the ferocity that emanates from his body, even in stillness. A wild creature, through and through. A lion, maybe…or a wolf.

  * * *

  There’s a wolf—no, a fox. Who brings a fox to dinner? This isn’t the first time, either. I’ve seen them before, the green-eyed man with his little friend. When I accompany Ismeni to the palace for fancy parties, I sometimes see the fox flirting with adoring young ladies and begging for scraps of food while his master lurks uncomfortably in the corner.

  And now they’re here. Orean and Ismeni are united, for once, as the hosts of some small but very important party. Something to do with Orean’s sister, Cimari and I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not.

  I hear Cimari’s name on everyone’s lips, but she doesn’t seem happy or excited. But then, she never does. I’ve only seen her smile with real pleasure once, and that was when she had a slave whipped for spilling wine.

  Dove and I stand against the wall with the other slaves. Most are strangers—I only know Orean’s and Cimari’s; at least, I recognize them. I suppose I don’t know them: As far as I can tell, they don’t have names. I feel sorry for them, that their masters don’t value them enough to give them that. They don’t seem to be valued at all—or even needed. I’ve never seen either of them do a single thing. I don’t understand it. Maybe it’s because they’re still in the fog, like I was before I found the barre—and Sadra. Maybe they can’t do anything.

  Orean rises from his cushioned seat and crosses to an open space in the middle of the room. His voice echoes as he addresses his guests, the words winging away into the shadows of the vaulted ceiling. With an expansive wave of his arm, he motions for both Sadra and Ismeni to rise. They do so, wearing identical strained smiles. I watch, mystified, as they move together to the center of the room. And then the music begins.

  With only her voice, Ismeni fills the room. It sounds—no, it feels—like there must be a harp, or a flute, or an entire orchestra accompanying her. But it’s just her. Despite her skill, Sadra’s dancing is overlooked as every eye in the room is drawn to my mistress. Even I can’t look away for long, though I’ve been dying to see Sadra dance to music.

  Ismeni, though, is singing to only one of her admirers, a man sitting beside the fox-friend. The man’s eyes shine, though they somehow seem sad, too, or maybe just tired. A crown of woven flowers wrought in white and rose gold nestles among thick black curls. My gaze settles on the crown, drawn so completely that, for a moment, I break free of Ismeni’s song. I had a crown, once.

  My forehead wrinkles in a tiny frown. I had a crown?

  Ridiculous.

  I watch Ismeni again. She holds the crowned man’s gaze throughout the performance, and he beams at her, his face glowing with pride. I glance at Orean and note with relief that he hasn’t noticed someone else is playing the role of proud husband. He just seems annoyed that Ismeni has stolen the show from Sadra.

  When the song ends, I expect Ismeni to look smug. But she blushes and smiles shyly at the man—her lover?—like a teenager. When she turns to accept an old woman’s congratulations, the smile remains, curving on her lips like a secret too delicious to hide. I’ve never seen her look so beautiful, though her shining auburn hair and luxurious white gown are just as perfectly arranged as usual.

  Ismeni and Sadra bow to each other, then to the room, before giving the floor to an older man dressed in thick white robes. He has the look of a powerful man gone to seed: his shoulders are broad, but just the slightest bit rounded. His billowing robes can’t completely hide the paunch at his middle. The skin at his neck and jaw sags a bit, lending a petulant cast to the arrogant set of his jaw.

  He makes a speech, something about joining families. It’s a betrothal, I realize. I don’t hear anything about love, I don’t think. I haven’t learned the word for love, but certainly nothing he says seems to fit. Not that I blame him. Cimari has nice features—shiny black hair, rosy cheeks, a neat figure—but she isn’t attractive. She’s the opposite of attractive…

  Not ugly, though. Repellent, maybe. Yes, that’s it. She repels.

  The man—Cimari’s fiancé, I’m sure of it—finishes his speech and turns to Cimari. He holds his hands out, as if offering something to her. There, trapped between his fingers, is a small bird. The watching guests sit on the edges of their seats, childlike in their excitement. Even Cimari looks almost eager.

  The bird begins to glow. The light pulses, growing steadily until it’s so intense I have to close my eyes. When I open them, I see that Cimari’s fiancé holds a trembling puppy in his hands. He offers it to Cimari, who takes it with a small wrinkle of her nose and immediately passes it off to Orean—who hands it to Sadra. Cimari’s magician fiancé doesn’t notice; he’s too busy accepting the room’s applause.

  Not everyone is pleased, though. The man with the fox looks furious. I follow his eyes and see a tiny, crumpled form fall from the magician’s fingers. The bird—it’s dead. Sadra, too, shoots a dark glance at the couple as she soothes the puppy. The poor thing cries piteously in her lap, obviously frightened.

  Poor baby, where did he steal you from? Did he take you from your mother, your brothers and sisters? I know how you feel.

  I frown, wondering where these thoughts are coming from. How, exactly, do I know what it feels like to be torn away from my family? I’ve been Ismeni’s slave since…I don’t know. Forever.

  Haven’t I?

  * * *

  My head bounces against the window with a loud thunk as the car lurches over uneven ground. I’m in the car again with Emily, driving away from the grave site. Is the service over? I suppose it must be. But where’s James?

  “Did James leave?” I ask, rubbing a thumb over my necklace.

  “He’s going to the reception to honor your grandmother. He’ll do all the socializing and small talk for us.”

  “Where—where are we going?”

  “Home, honey.”

  Emily’s voice is tremulous but somehow resigned. Have I been forgetting again? How many times have I asked, and how many times has she answered? What has my body been doing without me, while I was—elsewhere?

  Emily seems to be out of comforting things to say. I’m too afraid of giving anything more away to risk speaking, so we ride home in silence. Once there, Emily lets me hide in my room for a little while. It isn’t long enough. It seems like only a few minutes before she lets herself in and flicks the light on. Night has fallen. I’ve been sitting in the dark, and I didn’t know.

  “I’ve been looking through the file cabinets.” Emily sits on my bed and eyes me warily. “Do you know where your mom’s medical records are? It would really help if we could find them.”

  I open my mouth to answer her—to lie—then close it abruptly. My teeth click together. I’m tired of lying. It’s too hard. “I burned them.”

  Emily puts her hands over her face and groans. “Sasha, why?”

  “I didn’t want to see them anymore,” I admit, my lip beginning to tremble. “And I didn’t want you to know. Please don’t make me go to the hospital.”

  “But they can help you—”
r />   “No, they can’t,” I say flatly. “No one can. I know what’s going to happen.”

  Emily takes my hand and holds it tightly. “And what do you think is going to happen?”

  I bite down on the inside of my lip to stop the trembling and look Emily in the eyes. “I’m going to die.”

  Balancé

  “Sasha, it’s almost time to go.” Emily hovers in the doorway of my room, her eyes downcast. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost. I just want to go to the garden and—and the studio. You know, say goodbye.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Emily says, her voice thick. “You’re going to be fine. You’re going to go to the hospital and they’re going to make you better. End of discussion.”

  When I don’t answer, she ducks away. I remain curled like a shrimp on my bed until I hear her bedroom door close. Only then do I rise and pad down the stairs in my bare feet. Baba Nadia used to move around the house in just the same way: silent and slow, like a ghost. I wonder if that’s what I am now, a ghost. Just a pale, frightened wisp of what I used to be.

  With the shutters closed, the studio is so dark I can barely see. I like it. I don’t need light to find my way. I know every inch of the place. The only thing the light would show me is my own reflection, and I don’t want to see that.

  I move to the barre and lay my hand on the smooth wood. In the dark, it’s not my own silhouette I see in the mirror but my grandmother’s. She watches me with loving but critical eyes, correcting my form and posture, tapping out a steady beat with the cane she never really needed—until the day she fell.

  My arm trembles as I raise it above my head once more. My strength is already fading, though I could swear I’ve only been dancing for a few minutes. There’s a pain in my chest that bodes no good, but there are worse ways to go—wouldn’t it be better to die here, with Baba Nadia’s voice humming in my ears, than in a hospital bed surrounded by strangers?