by Kitty Thomas
“Hey, girl! I caught opening night. You guys were great!” she says, glancing up from her computer.
“Thanks.”
An office door opens, and a man steps out. “Lilah, I'm going to lunch,” he says.
“Okay, Mr. Simmons.”
His eyes sweep over me like he thinks I'll keep her from her work. And I swear even though I just heard his voice and know it's not him, the way he looks at me makes me feel like this is the guy. It seems like he'll ask me to leave, but he just turns and walks out the glass door into the main lobby. Once he's out of the building, I turn back to Lilah.
“Listen,” I say, “I was wondering if you could tell me who was in one of the private boxes at last night's performance.”
“You know I can't share that. The ticket holder information is kept in the strictest of confidence. Most of our patrons are well-off and take their privacy very seriously.”
It sounds like she's quoting an employee training video. I expect her to plaster on a fake too-stretched smile and announce how happy she is to be part of the Tivoli theater family.
“Lilah... come on... I really need to know... I'm not going to say anything to anyone.”
She looks around again, as if confirming that her boss really has left, that he didn't forget something and slip back inside to catch her break this most sacred of security oaths. She finally sighs. “Okay.”
She motions for me to join her. I go behind the counter so I can see the screen as she types.
“Which box was it?”
“The one closest to the stage.”
“Right or left?”
“It was my left when I was looking out at the audience.”
She types. I wait. A screen pops up which should give us a name, but instead it says: “Season ticket holder. Private. Reserved.”
“That's weird,” she says. She clicks onto something else, but the screen locks her out. “We always have to have their information on file in the system. Always.”
“Thanks anyway.”
Lilah gives me an apologetic smile, but I shrug, act like it's no big deal, and leave, even more sure it's him and not just my imagination.
5
I'm sure he watched me all four nights from that private box nearest the stage. I felt him. I didn't make any more mistakes the rest of the performances, so maybe if he noticed the one on opening night, he won't comment the next time I see him.
On Monday I've got a free period while the principals are rehearsing. Natalie, Frederick, and Mr. V are running some of the choreography in Studio A, which is the largest rehearsal space. There’s an extra mirror at the far end of the studio and several barres set up where other dancers—mostly from the corps—are using this time to warm up and rehearse some of their own parts.
I take a spot at the end of one of the barres and put my pointe shoes on. But I don't practice my own steps. I'm watching Natalie. She's going through Odette's opening solo piece. It feels like I've seen this a thousand times, so on a certain level I know it already. But my feet don't know it like my brain does.
I stand off to the side and mimic her movements. It's the same Swan Lake choreography we've used since I've been here, so it's easy to pick up—easier than I thought it would be. I glance over to find Mr. V. has stopped watching Natalie.
Instead, he's watching me. Natalie doesn't notice. She's too wrapped up in her role as Odette. I shift my focus back to her and continue marking and learning the steps, but I feel Mr. V.'s eyes on me.
When the music stops he says, “Take five and get some water, then we'll work with Frederick on the pas de deux.”
As soon as Natalie has gone off to follow his direction, he makes a beeline across the floor to me. He's so intense that several other dancers nearby stop what they're doing to watch.
“May I see you privately out in the hallway?” he asks, his voice low and curt.
I just nod and follow him out of the studio, my stomach going into a tight hard knot with each step. The hallway is empty. All the dancers are in either Studio A or B working on something for the show.
“What were you doing in there?” he asks, keeping his voice low. “You aren't the understudy. We've already set the list for the season. You're distracting me.”
For a moment, I just stand there staring at him, the nervous dread gone now that he's said this out loud. How am I distracting him? I'm off in the corner doing what I'm doing. It's not as though I'm dancing in front of Natalie right in his face screaming for his attention.
“I-I'm sorry. I know. I just wanted a challenge... to learn more.” It's not as if I can tell him the real reason. It's blackmail homework to stay out of prison would require a much longer explanation. One I'm not prepared to give.
Mr. V. sighs. I can actually see the pity on his face. And then I know. My mysterious blackmailer was telling the truth. Conall really was keeping me from progressing in the company. I could have been a principal.
“Go get some lunch and meet me in the small studio at two p.m. I have a couple of hours free on Monday afternoons.”
“I... wait what?”
“I'm going to work with you, Ms. Lane. You did say you want to learn and be challenged, right?”
“Yes! Thank you!” I think I squeal this. I know I hug him. Then I quickly step back and practically flee from the building before he can change his mind.
I grab lunch at a nearby cafe and am back in the small studio warming up at the barre by one-thirty. The small studio is the third studio space in the building. It really is a small and intimate space, but it's large enough for a couple of dancers to rehearse when the other spaces are being used. And it's private to keep out distractions.
There are a few other small rooms that can be used for this purpose as well, but the small studio is the only one with proper sprung floors, a barre, a mirror, and a CD player for music.
We have live accompaniment in the bigger studios.
Mr. V. walks in right at two o'clock. “I'll need a few minutes,” he says, sitting down at a table in the corner and unpacking a lunch of his own.
I stretch some more and wait while he eats.
“What were you wanting to learn?” he asks, in between bites of a chicken salad sandwich he picked up from the same cafe I just returned from. I should have asked if he wanted me to get his lunch. If this is more than just a one-time pity session, I'll pick his food up for him next time.
“The first solo and the first pas de deux.” I say it more like it's a question than a statement because I know just how presumptuous it sounds.
We both know I need a partner for the pas de deux. And while he may for some reason be feeling generous with me, he's not going to pull Frederick or his understudy away to engage in fruitless practice that won't turn into anything. It would raise weird questions. This will probably raise weird questions—the fact that he's even in this private studio space with me at all.
Mr. V. doesn't comment on this. He just eats the rest of his sandwich and drinks his iced tea. “All right,” he finally says. I'm not sure if he's agreeing to my syllabus or if he's merely stating that he's ready to begin.
I stand, and he stands. I'm surprised when he opens his bag and takes out a pair of his own ballet shoes and puts them on. He does a few warm-up exercises and stretches at the barre. He's been retired from the Bolshoi for ten years, but he doesn't move like someone retired for a decade. He moves as though he performed with us yesterday. It makes me suddenly wonder if he still dances for himself in his off time. Maybe he has a barre at home like I do.
Mr. V. spends the first hour teaching me the solo. It's easy to pick up because I've seen it so many times. But since I've seen it in rehearsals and not on stage, there are a few parts I've missed. He spends extra time on those parts, making sure I have it down before moving on.
He plays the music and lets me do the entire solo once I know all the parts. He shouts out a couple of corrections as I go. I fix them on the next run through.
“Very
good,” he says. “We've got another hour. I'll teach you the pas de deux.”
“I need a partner.”
“It's been a while, but I think I can manage,” Mr. V. says.
I worry I've offended him, but when I look up, he's smiling at me.
“Okay,” I say.
He's still an amazing dancer. So much better than Henry, though I will never ever tell Henry that. It would hurt him even though he knows he'll never get out of the corps. He's a solid corps dancer, but he's not principal material. As far as I can tell, he doesn't seem sad about this. He accepted the truth of it long ago.
“Do you miss it?” I ask Mr. V. when we finish for the day. Another rehearsal is starting in Studio B, and both of us need to be in there.
“Sometimes,” he says. “But I also love teaching. Two p.m. next week?”
“Yes.” This time I manage to contain my squeals and hugs.
By the time Wednesday night rolls around, I’ve practiced Odette's solo more times than I can count in my private studio space at home, and I've done what little I can of the pas de deux alone, marking all of the parts as well as I can.
I'm wearing the plum leotard today and all the other things he requested.
“I want you en pointe tonight,” the voice says over the speaker system.
I strip off my outer layer of clothes, finish getting ready, and put my pointe shoes on. I pull on my leg warmers and stand at the barre to begin my warmups. I want to ask if he was at the show opening night, but before I can find a way to phrase the question, he speaks again.
“I saw the mistake Thursday night. I'm sure no one else noticed it, but I noticed it.”
I swallow hard. He doesn't say anything else. I'm finished with my warm-ups before he speaks again.
“I want to see the solo, now.”
I move to the center of the stage. When the music begins I do the solo exactly as Mr. V. taught it to me. When the music stops, I stand there, pleased with myself, sure I've impressed him.
“The angle of your arabesque is off. And your second turn could have been tighter. Try again.”
I'm sure I did this exactly as I was taught. But thinking on it, the angle was a little off, and maybe the turn could have been tighter. This man is pickier than Mr. V. But I only nod.
“Speak,” he says, as though training a dog.
“Yes, Sir,” I say, rattled.
The music starts again. This time I get it right, and I can feel his pleasure at my performance.
“Beautiful. Go to the barre and put the blindfold on.”
I'm sure that as long as he makes me come to him every week like this, the order to put the blindfold on will make me feel this way—this unbalanced nervous energy in my stomach. It's fear and excitement... anticipation. He's coming to me. What will he do? Will he touch me? Will he fuck me? His promise of soon has played all week on repeat in my mind like a background soundtrack to my life.
I stand at the barre, the blindfold in place, trying to calm my breathing. Again, I feel his approach before I hear it.
“Face the barre, and bend forward into a parallel stretch.”
I do as he asks, and a moment later, there’s a hard slap against my ass. I gasp. My instinct is to take my hands from the barre to rub the sting out.
“Do not move your hands,” he says, as though reading my mind.
I stay perfectly still, waiting for the sting to fade.
“That was for your error on Thursday. Don't do it again, or I'll punish you. Now stand upright.”
I do as he asks, trying to process what just happened. I feel the heat in my face, knowing he sees my blush. He spanked me. Like some misbehaving child, for a minor misstep onstage. I know, given my violent history with Conall, I should rip the blindfold off and try to run. But for some reason, I'm not scared. Even though he just smacked my ass, it's not the same.
Everything he says, everything he does is nothing but control. Nothing is erratic or impulsive. It feels somehow safe. Conall was never in control.
“Did you learn the pas de deux?” he asks as if that didn't just happen.
“Yes, Sir. Mr. V. taught me. He danced it with me.”
He chuckles. “Did he? And how was that?”
“He's an incredible dancer.”
“He is. I caught one of his last performances with the Bolshoi years ago. Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“To do the pas de deux,” he says as if this is the stupidest question I could possibly ask.
“I can't do it without a partner. Or... blindfolded. I can't dance blindfolded.”
Then he's there, right next to me, his warm breath in my ear. “Yes. You can. I won't let you fall off the stage. Just trust me.”
Trust him? I almost laugh out loud at that. As if I could ever trust this man. I push down the traitorous voice in my mind that says I already do trust him... a little.
He takes my hand and guides me around the stage to each of the marks we'll hit during the pas de deux, talking me through each piece of the choreography, then he leads me back to the center of the stage, turns me toward what I imagine must be the audience—or where they would be if this were a real performance.
“Head up, Ms. Lane. Never forget you are on a stage.”
The music starts. And then his hands are on me. He dances the pas de deux with me. I can do this blindfolded, which is truly the weirdest thing to realize.
His hands are nearly always on me in this piece. He's always guiding me, steadying me, lifting me, or turning me. But he's always there. I'm sure now he must be a principal. But if he's a principal, how does he have box seats for the season? He's not in Swan Lake. But then not every principal at the company is in this show. But then I'm back to, how does he know this choreography then?
He's good. Really good. Better even than Mr. V. This is the best dancer I've ever partnered with. The fluidity of every movement, the certainty of each lift, each touch is exhilarating. His hands are large, strong. I feel like a fragile captive bird in his hands.
I'm suddenly thinking more about all of this than I am about the choreography. I stumble, but he catches me. I half expect him to spank me again, but he doesn't. He just cradles me in his arms.
“I told you I wouldn't let you fall.” He sweeps me up. We jump right back into the place where the music is, a few steps forgotten in the wake of my misstep. We dance as though that didn't happen, as if this is all perfect.
The pas de deux ends in an embrace. I'm dipped back. He's holding me. The music stops. And there is silence. He pulls me up to stand, facing him, even though I can't see him. Will he touch me? Will he kiss me? One of his hands is at my waist, holding me still in this embrace.
In this strangely tender moment, I reach up to touch his face, but his grip on my wrist is instantaneous, hard, and unrelenting. A silent understanding passes between us in that touch. I’m here to obey, not initiate, not make up my own choreography. I am to perform the steps as they are given. This rule extends beyond dancing.
“I-I'm sorry,” I say. I've clearly displeased him somehow, and it bothers me more than I want to admit. I want to say it's because he could report my crime, but some deeper betraying part of me is simply upset I've displeased him. Even if there were no threat over my head... I would come back here because I need to dance with this man. I've never felt this kind of electric chemistry with anyone on stage before.
“Go to the barre,” he says.
Absently, I reach up to remove the blindfold, not thinking. But he again grabs my wrist before I can complete the act. He leads me over to the barre and places my hand on the smooth wood. I both feel and hear him move away. He's rifling through my dance bag at the far end of the stage beside the table.
When he returns, I feel his hand on my thigh. He slowly strokes downward until he reaches my ankle. He begins to untie the ribbons of my pointe shoes. This is when I realize he must be sitting on the floor beside me. He’s silent as he removes first one, then the othe
r. He replaces them with my new pair of soft canvas ballet slippers.
He stands and steps back. Finally, he speaks.
“First position. Two demi-plié, one grand plié. Then I want you to go from that position into a kneeling position, keeping your legs spread and your hand on the barre.”
My breath hitches. And so it begins. This thing I knew was coming. This sexual price he wishes to extract from my body which right now is far more willing to pay than I ever expected it to be.
The music starts, a different piece. It's not from one of our ballets, but piano practice music often used for barre work.
I rest one hand lightly on the barre, not gripping it for support, only for balance. My other arm gracefully sweeps inward as I lower my body into a demi-plié. It's a gentle movement, not very deep. And then the second. My heart hammers in my chest as I think about what may happen in the next few moments. But I shove those thoughts away and concentrate on the movement.
The grand plié is much deeper, lower to the floor. And then from there, I let myself fall into the kneeling position he asked for, my hand still stretched up, holding onto the barre.
The music fades out. And there is silence.
“Who owns you, Cassia?”
“You, Sir.” I don't hesitate to give him this truth.
“Do you wax or shave your pussy?”
This may seem like a huge assumption on his part—that I do either—but most ballet dancers I know keep bare. Our leotards are so revealing—and costumes as well—that most of us want everything to remain smooth.
“Wax,” I say.
“Good. That's my preference.”
Excitement throbs between my legs. I shouldn't care what his preference is, but the fact that what I do is what he wants makes the place between my legs ache with need for him to possess this thing that has pleased him.
“When is your next waxing appointment?”
“In two weeks.”
“You will cancel it. I will be waxing you from now on. Do you understand?”
I can't think. I can barely make the words form, but I force them out because it pleases him to hear them. “Yes, Sir.”
