‘You must take your drink,’ you said, confident and direct. ‘For your nerves.’
‘Are you not coming with me?’
‘Of course I am,’ you said, as if it that was obvious. Taking my glass I began to walk slowly outside, shamelessly enjoying having the eyes of all the soloists upon me. Step by step, moment by moment, leaving a trail for myself that I knew I would one day come to carefully retrace.
The city seemed to have moved closer to us as we went outside. The distant silhouettes that I had first admired through the window had now expanded. A photographer leant out of the door, wielding his camera with studied abandon. ‘A quick snap of the two of you?’ he asked. As if we would obviously consent, you placed your glass quickly on a table and I felt your shoulder press against me. I looked up at you, wondering if you would wrap your arm around me, and as the photographer prepared I found my fingers pressing awkwardly into the small of your back. Many months later I would finally get my hands on that photo, with me bunched into you like a child. You, concerned and grinning, keen to play the part. Me, with the tips of my hair blonde from the summer sun, my nose wrinkled at the sudden attention.
The bulb erupted. ‘One more?’ he asked, gesturing at us to move closer to one another. At that moment I moved my head over the triangle of skin exposed by your open shirt, and you placed your arm around me. It struck me how natural it felt to move into your space. Caught in that moment of lust I felt sure we had betrayed what we would become. When people later saw that photo they presumed we had been together a while when it was taken; not that it was our first night together.
The dancers drew the photographer away. ‘Have you been up here for long? I asked, as you took out a cigarette.
‘I’ve moved around quite a lot. But recently, in the last year, I have started to feel at home here. And you?’
‘People talk about “home” like it is a good thing. I am still running from it.’
‘There isn’t much more room to run. Much further and you’ll be in the sea. Perhaps you should try and stop running?’
I laughed at the boldness of your implication.
‘What are you running from?’ you asked.
I’m running from silence, I thought. From being treated like a human punch bag. From being told I am disgusting, so many times that I sometimes even hear the voice say it at night. I even sense that she is in the room, saying it to me. But of course, I could not say that. So I shrugged.
‘How long is the run of shows up here?’
‘Only a week, and then four weeks of rest, and then… who knows where I will be?’
‘Back to St Petersburg?’
‘I can’t,’ I said, despairingly. ‘I mean, I really don’t want to go back there. I need to move on.’
You looked inquisitive.
‘Why have you decided to settle up here?’ I asked. ‘Surely as a writer you can go anywhere?’
‘You don’t like it up here?’ You considered your cigarette for a moment.
‘No, I do. At least, I’m starting to. But I’m interested to find out why you do.’
‘It’s hard to say exactly. Part of it, perhaps, is that I was here as a student. I came with lots of ambition about what I wanted to achieve, and though in many respects I failed, this place still reminds me of that time, and so being here drives me forward. You see that row of houses on the other side of the river?’ You traced out a haphazard line of elegant houses with your lit cigarette. ‘When I first came here I knew no-one. I didn’t know where in the city I wanted to live. But I used to walk down here, to the quayside, on Sundays when I had a moment to myself, and imagine living in one of those houses. I don’t think I can leave this city until I’ve achieved it. They seemed to epitomise success to me.’
‘I envy you. You’re not shackled to anywhere, nor so uprooted that you cannot imagine a home.’
‘You don’t have to feel uprooted. Perhaps on your travels you will one day decide that somewhere is right for you?’
I decided to seize the suggestion. ‘Do you think here is a good place to settle?’ I couldn’t look at you.
‘I think you should probably stay here long enough to find out.’
‘I might do. Perhaps. If you could talk to your famous friends,’ I said, waving airily, ‘and find me a penthouse with a riverside view.’ I peered over the edge of the balcony.
‘Anything else?’
I smiled. ‘A concierge. And an enormous bathroom, with a full size mirror. And a sexy Spanish chauffeur to take me to ballet rehearsal every day.’
‘I know a Portuguese taxi driver,’ you said, your eyes moving with mine. ‘But I don’t know about the sexy.’
‘And you can come and visit me. And I can make you pancakes.’
You laughed. ‘Why pancakes?’
‘Because it’s the only thing I can cook,’ I said, feeling tempted to stretch my legs out on the balcony rail, but thinking better of it.
‘So what you are saying, is that if I sort you out a home, and a toy boy, you will make me possibly burnt pancakes in return?’
‘Exactly. Don’t pretend to not be tempted by the offer.’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ you said.
I caught Michael’s eye. He was flanked by three floating soloists, all framed by the doorway. ‘Yelena, I am about to make a speech,’ he called. ‘Can the two of you come inside for a few moments?’
The two of us. I rolled it around on my tongue. You pressed your hand against the base of my spine and a tingle reached from there, knifing up through my body, and glistened around my cheekbones as we began to step inside.
The night ended at around ten. And although you left my side for a brief while, to congratulate Michael, and for a few worrying minutes to laugh with Eva, we remained close to one other the whole evening.
As a waiter drew my coat over my shoulders, I found you back at my side. You looked concerned. ‘It is still light outside, how about we check out your future home before calling it a night? I’ve not been down there for a while.’
‘Okay,’ I said, trying to sound wary. I turned to look for Michael, as if to seek his consent, but he had already left, as if deciding that you and I leaving together was inevitable.
You kept your arm around me as you guided the way towards the elaborate staircase, and I wondered if your interest in me would disappear now we were alone, no longer garnering the attention of onlookers.
But nothing changed. I skipped ahead of you slightly, as if ready to dance, and you trod slightly impatiently in my wake. Already, I had grown to like this grumpiness, which I knew I could soothe if it suited me. I moved towards the bridge, and you took my arm. ‘Where are you running to?’ you said, forcing a smile onto your suddenly serious face. I feigned being dramatically pulled into you. I looked up, and you moved into my body. The wind passed overhead like applause, and I took in your fragrance. It felt natural to be close to your body. You lowered your head, and I suddenly felt very small, as if I had been sealed shut for years, as you kissed me. I opened my mouth, but only for a second. A sharp pang of pleasure darted through me. I closed my mouth and pulled away. ‘Where is this house of mine then?’ I asked.
As we walked over the bridge, the city before us seemed to settle into itself expectantly. The water below was still and dark, winding its way mysteriously out of the city. At the other end of the bridge we could see on the quayside women in sparkling dresses, purposeful yet lost, trailed by their woozy men. Once on the other side of the bridge you led me down half-lit alleyways, trying to remember how to find your way to those houses. There was one small, concealed entrance we would be able to use you said, but you had to remember where it was.
‘Down here,’ you finally announced, leading me down a small flight of stairs. I suddenly found myself in a brightly lit courtyard, surrounded by saloon cars. Looking around me I felt like Alice, having fallen into Wonderland.
Taking it in, I understood why, as a lost youth, these homes had been so significant to
you. They clearly represented an enclosed idyll, a world of easy affluence that seemed impermeable to danger. Pale white apartments studded with wide windows, set above us by pillars, skirted the courtyard. The streetlamps in the yard tastefully lit our arrival, and yet were too delicate for the occupants of the apartments to be roused by our late entrance. Through the windows we could see flashes of the worlds these homes contained. In one, a chic looking woman with dark hair sipped a flute of champagne over a suited man, who was reclining on a white sofa. In another, we could hear the muted laughter of a dinner party, of chinked glasses, and we saw slim silhouettes pass through one another like ghosts. It was as if we had stepped into an enclosed universe of easy luxury. I could tell that you were still not quite sure why you had brought me here, after what had been only our first proper conversation. But the look you gave me suggested that with me at your side, for the first time you did not feel like an alien in this place.
‘It is beautiful.’ I said. You looked relieved.
‘Have you seen the one you want yet? I couldn’t guarantee you a parking space, but I’m sure there’ll at least be a railing to chain your bike on. It wouldn’t be very far for you to walk to the conservatoire.’ You spoke as if you were selling me a lifestyle – as if you actually possessed the means by which to give me this life.
‘That one up there will do,’ I said, pointing out the home of the champagne woman. Such warmth emanated from those houses. Even the most opulent homes in Donetsk had always seemed so spare, so cold. It sounds strange, but I had never seen somewhere before that I’d have liked to have lived, somewhere I could imagine being. The courtyard gave me that sense of aspiration for the first time. I looked up again. I wanted to live in that home, stand at that window after a dinner party with your friends, wearing a glistening black dress. Considering how I had drowned my past in the river below us, I imagined how triumphant I would feel. And that sudden flash of inspiration was all that was required to illuminate for a second how my current state of mind looked. Dark, dusty, and littered with half-buried skeletons.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ you said. You took my hand. You must have wondered if you had lost me at that point, but I felt a need to show that you had not. Usually flirtations are exchanges of variable temperature, with each party taking it in turns to push and pull. But here, so sacred did this link seem, that I was too cautious to test it, even gently. We had demonstrably come to this place as some sort of flirtatious joke, but the serious undertones of this visit had become quickly apparent. ‘I think any of them would do,’ I said. And then I realised the champagne woman was watching us.
I wondered where the evening might have taken us next, but I wanted to leave it on a high. At the ballet, at the launch party and in the glittering courtyard you had only ever seen me in glamorous settings. I didn’t want to take you back to the squalor of my flat, and prevent you from imagining me as the woman I wanted to be. Perhaps I didn’t want to yet see your life as it really was either. I knew my façade was important to you, but I think yours was equally to me as well. We had constructed certain images of ourselves, through our shared sense of possibility. And in that delicious shift of intimacy that life can occasionally offer, we had begun to build that world through our joint association with it.
You walked with me until we were a few streets from my flat. At times I darted ahead of you, and when I fretted over having caught my dress on a fence you told me that it didn’t matter – I would look beautiful regardless. Usually I found it distasteful when men called me beautiful, especially if they didn’t know me. But I was almost able to take the compliment from you. I was still aware of how little I knew you, but I could feel myself grow into the role of a seductress. And far from that role feeling fake, I felt it actually portrayed the real me. Emerging from the charred, frozen ashes of my childhood.
‘I live two blocks down,’ I finally said. ‘But I think you’ve taken me far enough. I’m worried that you’ll get lost on your way home.’
I wasn’t.
‘I’ll try to flag down a cab,’ you said.
We paused.
‘I could get one now, and take you to your door?’
‘There’s no need,’ I answered. ‘It’s fine, it’s only a minute’s walk from here.’ I lingered, and smiled at the ground.
‘I can’t believe I took you to a stranger’s courtyard. Why on earth did I do that?’
‘I liked it.’
‘We should have gone for a drink.’
‘We can,’ I said. ‘Another time perhaps.’
‘Are you free this week?’
‘I should be,’ I said, a little too quickly. ‘Yes I am, this Wednesday night.’
It would be the first night of the week we would not be performing.
‘Let’s go out for something to eat then,’ you said. ‘It’d be good to see you again.’
I opened the clasp of my handbag, praying that I had not forgotten my phone. It was there. I handed it to you, feeling myself tense as you fiddled with the buttons and rang yourself. I waited for a moment, keen to move home before you guessed where I lived. Wasn’t I insecure? After all that had happened. You waited, for an eternity, and I worried that the spell would break. ‘Thanks,’ you finally said, handing it back. ‘Are you sure that I can’t take you to your door?’
‘Quite sure,’ I said, and turned into the night. I stopped, darted back, and kissed you on the cheek.
‘Goodnight Yelena.’
‘Goodnight Noah,’ I answered.
I don’t remember the walk home, but I do recall the moment I opened my front door. Because at that moment a heavy shroud overwhelmed me, my shoulders shrunk, and I felt suddenly crushed. It was a feeling that in time I would come to dread, and it made it almost impossible to climb up the two flights of stairs. The vivid colour of our encounter had only made your departure a more black experience. As I walked it hit me how important the night had been, and it exhausted me to know that, as a consequence, much would soon be required of me. But I didn’t feel adequate enough to live up to the sense of expectation. I suddenly felt so tired that I could barely open the door and clamber between the sheets, still fully clothed. As I closed my eyes I prayed that the feeling would pass, once sleep had taken me in its arms. Because I knew that if the pressure of expectation made me retreat, then I would never forgive myself. But at that moment I did not have the strength to even fear that was the last we could see of each other. I just had to hope that when I awoke in the morning I would have enough energy to dance again.
With love from,
Yelena
Dear Noah,
I remember the days that followed that evening so vividly. With the opening night in two days’ time, I had to keep the thought of us stashed away in a treasure chest as the greatest test of my career lay ahead. Fortunately the darkness of that night had dissipated with the morning light, and I felt almost energetic when I awoke. It would be the first time I had danced as a Principal ballerina, and even if I would not be performing in the title role of Giselle until the following Monday, every minute was now part of the psychological preparation I needed to undertake. As you know, Giselle is the most coveted role in ballet. I would be playing an innocent young country girl, naïve to the dangers of falling in love, and also her ghost, resisting the lure of evil spirits and trying to save her lover’s life. I had never acted, so I was sure Michael had cast me as Giselle because he saw parts of my character in her. This aspect of the upcoming challenge was to make the next few days even more demanding – I was yet to know the personal demons I would be confronted with dancing as Giselle. I had longed to play the part as a little girl, but could not have envisaged what this might actually require from me. I had to embody the role, and thus every night I would be playing the part of a young woman destroyed by her love. I was not to know it yet, but surrounding me were other forces, quickly building, that I would soon have to contend with too.
I could not allow myself to ruin this opportunity b
y being too lovelorn to make my mark. I told myself that I could enjoy the few hours of that Wednesday evening with you, cautiously perhaps, but that after that I had six more days in which I would need to be Giselle during every waking hour. On the nights I wasn’t playing Giselle, I was the lead soloist; so in a way, I needed that evening with you, just to get through the coming week. During the final practice before the opening night my movements were nervy, and I was only sporadically able to lose myself in the dancing. Nonetheless, I found in myself a certain hunger, one that I imagine originated from this new and burgeoning sense of meaning in my life. This hunger told me that I could do it. After all, I had danced for you with what had felt like the weight of eternity on my shoulders. Nevertheless, I found myself in that sure state of mind only fleetingly. During rehearsals that day Michael accosted me, sometimes rather sharply, when I didn’t get it quite right, particularly towards the end of sequences when my concentration began to falter. ‘Don’t travel on a jeté,’ he would command, and I would curse myself for having messed up so close to an ending.
The opening night was completely sold out, and peering from the wings before the show the theatre looked like an expansive black hole. I couldn’t imagine in a few nights commanding the attention of the whole room for an entire performance. After all, what gave me the right to take centre stage in such an extravagant setting? Despite all my commitment, I couldn’t understand how I had got to this point.
That night, during my solo, I felt myself quivering. My body felt frail, my temperament too emotional. I must have looked as if I would fall at any moment, and yet somehow I kept it together. Afterwards people praised the dramatic element of my dancing, which had not been entirely intentional. However, Michael was not in a generous mood, and in the days that followed he pushed me harder than ever. I had seen that night the gulf between me and Erin as she danced the lead role. But she had also traced out for me the path that I would need to follow. While I still had no idea how I would dance the opening night, she was utterly in control. As I was reaching for perfection, she seemed above the idea of it, looking down upon it as something she could play with at will.
Letters from Yelena Page 3
