With Natalya at my side, this time I warmed up more professionally. She wanted me to take longer over it than I thought necessary, but I see now that flexibility is so important. When I went in to audition I felt for the first time poised and assured. I wished that my mother could see me now.
Throughout the barre work I felt composed, finely attuned not only to what they would ask next, but also to how to do it confidently. I realised how underprepared I had been the year before. After the barre work, I noticed that two of the panel were keeping their eyes fixed on me. Many of the other girls seemed tired, covered in sweat, but I felt that I had barely started. When we moved into the centre, unlike the previous year, I did not feel anything constrained inside. In fact I felt as if some ugly edifice inside me had taken a huge, mortal blow, and was now crumbling in every passing second. I felt all of the skills I had gradually learnt whirl from my body, spin from my fingertips, and surround me with their colour.
‘Thank you,’ the woman said, as the music faded. ‘We appreciate your time. You are now free to go.’
For the next three days Natalya called me every evening to check if I had received the letter. It was on the Wednesday that I came home from school to find my father holding an envelope addressed to me. It seemed that he had asserted himself this time, and stopped Bruna from intercepting it first. I looked at the small, crisp envelope, and my father called my sister down from her room. Bruna sat in the corner of the room on a wicker chair, her eyes steady and unwavering. In brisk, formal language the letter told us that I had got in to the Vaganova.
The first thing I saw was my father’s face, which erupted in delight. Something wonderful had happened within the small walls of our home. An exciting sense of possibility had suddenly blazed into our lives. My sister jumped into my arms, and I saw Bruna slouch back in her chair, and the colour drain from her face.
I phoned Natalya to tell her straight away, not daring to think that she might not answer.
‘Yelena?’ she said, as the line activated.
‘I got in!’
‘My God, yes!’
She sounded utterly thrilled, and insisted that the two of us go out for dinner to celebrate. My father was waiting in the doorway, listening to our conversation with a smile on his face. When I’d finished on the phone, he brought out two boxes. In one, he said, was a present for Natalya. In the other, a present for me. A dress from Paris, saved up for and brought from France by Uncle Leo. ‘I knew you’d get in,’ he said.
In the half hour it took for me to get ready for dinner I was shaking so much that I was barely able to even apply lip-gloss. So much of life is taken up by working tirelessly for our goals, and often we do so simply because it distracts us from considering the alternatives. But at the moments when those efforts come to fruition, life at last begins to make sense. That sense of isolation I had felt for many years had finally allowed me to transform into something. I had validated the commitment my father had shown in me. I had validated the curious path I had taken to train my body. I had proven that the criteria I had developed for myself had been correct, even when there had been no-one to check it with. I had done something to set me apart, which my mother would have been proud of. After all of the pain and loneliness and hard work, I had been accepted into the place where many of my heroes had trained. I felt the walls which had slowly built up around me crumble away. As I left the house, I felt as if my emotions would torch the sky. From then on, I knew everything would change. For the first time I would be able to see the world not as somewhere to fear, but as an arena of possibility. Finally, I felt that my life had begun.
Love,
Yelena
Dear Noah,
I felt I needed to write quickly after my last letter, if only to thank you. I had indeed been worried about all I had disclosed in my last few letters. Ever since we met you have always been interested in aspects of my life which I had formerly assumed one never shares. When I first realised that our bond had developed in a unique way, there was always a danger that I might test it too much. I was concerned that in that letter I exploited your interest in me to the point that I might have destroyed it. After all, romances often require you to manipulate your own perceptions to some degree, in order to fit another’s peculiarities. By shattering any illusions in describing my past openly, it occurs to me that I might jeopardise, rather than strengthen our relationship. Your reply, and confirmation that was not the case, meant a lot to me. I know we had agreed in these letters to try and map ourselves completely, but as with any correspondence the caveat had surely been that we would do so within the context we had known each other. Once I posted that letter, it struck me that I had recently blown apart such boundaries. Why exactly I wanted to do that I don’t know. I can only hope it was for brave, rather than foolhardy purposes.
I’m glad you want to know about St Petersburg, and what happened next. But first you should know how liberating it felt, under the crooked shelter of adulthood, to admit my past to you. As a child, having to go through all I did, I completely lacked the confidence to express myself. I did not even realise I had a voice, much less that it might be valid. I feared that if I ever tried to properly speak out, no-one would believe me. Perhaps that is why my father was able to maintain the illusion that Bruna had never done anything that bad to my sister and me. Either way, by writing down what actually happened I felt that I had achieved a breakthrough.
My time in St Petersburg was important not only because it gave me the training that brought me to England and to you, but also because it was essential in sculpting me as a person. It brought me in from the wilderness, and made me palatable to the world. I feel I need to tell you about it so you understand how much I transformed whilst there. St Petersburg was the bridge between the childhood Yelena and the Yelena you later met in England. For you to understand the woman you met, I need to explain how she had become her – how recently she had learned to calm the turbulent waters inside her. But before I tell you about that, I must answer the final question in your letter. Yes, I did try and bring Bruna to justice before leaving Donetsk.
Having been accepted into the academy, I was suddenly in possession of a glimmer of confidence, but it possessed little foundation. I began to see that Inessa and I were in no way to blame for what had happened. On a logical level, I had known that for a while. But having had someone use me in that way, I’d come to reluctantly believe that I must be somehow lowly and inferior. Perhaps that is why I had been so ferociously ambitious, to try and scrub that feeling off me. But then I suddenly understood that Bruna had been trying to keep me down because she was scared that one day I would gain the necessary confidence. And now I had, it needed to be used.
I think when injustices occur – whether they are within a family or an organisation – it’s most likely that the injustice can never be as elaborate as the construction society enabled it to occur within. So unravelling that injustice is always going to be hard, because you’d need to dismantle something that has been built very carefully. Now I know, you might well have to satisfy yourself with merely getting your voice heard. But I think our idea of justice, of making a punishment fit a crime, will always elude us in a world which insulates itself purposefully from the truth, often for some more partial and self-interested cause. So it was with Bruna.
I was reluctant to address this issue; but it was concern for Inessa’s welfare without my presence that pushed me to. Part of me felt I should leave the situation alone; that I would only make it worse. And yet the logical part of me told me that I needed to act right now.
Bruna started to see to it that my father was always busy, so I had to insist we have time together, a meal perhaps before I left. And yet whenever the time for that event neared, Bruna always seemed to intervene. Through sheer persistence, he finally agreed to take me for a drink in a café that Sunday. I noticed that he kept this from Bruna.
When he drove me into the town that day, I remember looking over at him and wo
ndering if I could really do it. Now that he didn’t need to be strong for me, I saw him for the anxious, unsure man he had always been. As he parked the car, a layer of sweat glinted from his forehead, and I saw a slight tremor in his hands as they drummed upon the wheel.
He bought me a milkshake, and as silence descended between us I decided I couldn’t miss this opportunity. It was then, as his hand clattered around a teacup, that I told him what had happened. At one point tears came into my eyes, even with me skirting over the details, but my father resisted taking my hand. As I looked up, he avoided my eye. The gap between the end of my sentence and the start of his was evocative of the years that had passed since the abuse. It ached and waned for an eternity, and yet the confession still seemed so raw and exploratory for me.
‘Yelena,’ he finally said. ‘I don’t know why you do this.’
I couldn’t speak. From then on, his eyes stayed trained on a portly woman at the end of the bar who was picking at a plate of chips. Eventually, the waitress came over to take our bill. We drove home in silence. The silence on his part did not seem angry, but deeply contemplative.
In the final days before I left, my father made it clear he would not discuss the issue with me further. Nonetheless, I felt a gulf gradually widening between him and Bruna. One evening as I was packing, Inessa came into my room and told me that our father had asked her about it. Inessa had been reluctant to confirm that all I had said was true, preferring instead to remain silent. She clearly feared being harmed in my absence as a result of this new intervention. I had not yet realised the weight of what is not said, and the importance a few words can afford. How silence can underline those words. I could not understand why Inessa had clammed up at the moment she could have ensured her own security, but years of abuse and endless bullying had taught Inessa not to act.
Strangely enough, without me saying anymore, in my final days I felt as if my father had started to turn, like a vast ship. There was a harsh negotiation going on, between the part of me wanting to leave and the part of me feeling guilty for abandoning my younger sister. If I felt conflicted, then Inessa’s manner towards me seemed just as confused. She seemed to resent me achieving my ambitions, and yet deep down she also feared the effects of me staying. As a result, my relief was tempered with self-loathing because I had not been able to manage the situation better. When I finally left, my father and Bruna felt so distant from one another I knew it was only a matter of time until he finally left her. However, as a consequence of Inessa’s silence, Bruna escaped any sort of punishment, and despite my best attempts, I was unable to take the issue further. Our family had developed its style of communication for subjects of great importance, and it was of little use now. The thought that someone could abuse vulnerable children and yet escape justice was agonising. As a result of growing up with Bruna I had grown used to injustice – but seeing it perpetuated even once I had found the courage to address it was too much. Eventually the issue became so poisonous that I had to force myself not to think about it. I didn’t know if I had it in me to handle the challenges ahead, but I needed to start preparing for them.
That unresolved issue did not dampen my euphoria about finally leaving. Photos were taken for local newspapers, and people I had known for many years suddenly started looking at me differently. I felt a little sad to be leaving Natalya, but with a look of gratitude she told me that I had helped her find direction in her life. The pale, rather lifeless woman I had first met now seemed invigorated, even surprised by her new vigour. I caught the train from Donetsk and had to prepare myself for the toughest test of my life.
The Vaganova was unlike anything I had experienced. I feel it’s important to explain to you how I handled it, because I had to suddenly develop new components to survive that time, and it’s important you learn how recent they are. I believe I can never connect fully with you unless I have shared with you my darkest moments. Only by confessing them to you can I feel it possible you will fully understand me.
It felt strange to be arriving there this time knowing that I would be welcomed into the very heart of the institute. Having long harboured dreams of getting in I was completely unprepared for the highly disciplined, almost military environment. Strangers weren’t allowed into the academy, and security guards stood at each entrance. I felt a silent thrill as they ushered me in, watching the most recent applicants linger just outside the gate. It all added to the sense that as a student here you were somehow different, special even. The price for this feeling however, was high. Utter dedication in every waking hour was demanded.
I was the only Ukrainian in my year, on a hallway surrounded by Korean girls. They were welcoming but clearly had a very different mentality to me, all of which reinforced the sense of loneliness I already felt. I shared a room with two of them, in which all my belongings were stuffed into one corner. A small window overlooked an unkempt courtyard, and behind it I could see a small square of St Petersburg sky. The halls were run by matrons who were strict women with a high sense of duty and expectation. As the matron explained on our first night – you stood when staff entered, you said hello to any adult who you passed in the corridors. I was there to become a professional ballerina, and that was all that mattered. Like the other girls on my hall I had never experienced discipline like this before. One of the Korean girls, whose sister had trained here, told us on the first night that any kind of individual expression was not only discouraged, but almost impossible. Any emotion or pain that I felt at any time was simply irrelevant. This was how the country had been able to make its ballet so famous. I was grateful for the warning.
Waking up in the morning I would immediately take my holdall and tramp slowly from the fifth floor down to the practice room. We began at nine and ended at six, sometimes later if we were rehearsing for a performance. We worked six days a week, often in repetitive classes where we had to stay at the barre for many hours, refining the simplest of movements. Our academic work was not allowed to suffer at any point and there was great pressure to stay on top of that as well. During the ballet classes, boys and girls often trained separately, and the pressure to get a repetition right could sometimes reduce a girl to tears. Though some tutors would try and reassure the students, others would have little patience for this and order them outside. If they stayed, the girl next to her might try to whisper her an encouraging word or two, but you didn’t want to get caught doing this. Dedication to the task was more important than anything. Dreams of being a star pupil often met a quick and cruel death. This was not about sheer effort; the tradition of excellence had to be honoured at all times.
As time progressed I saw the unusual manifestations of this pressure on the students. They gradually turned from slight, elegant humans into walking works of art. Poised at all times, utterly focused. They retained a childlike enthusiasm and a singular dedication, as well as a pretty strong sense of entitlement. I was one of the eldest, and yet there was noticeably no outlet for my relative worldliness. The students merely supported one another in the moments when they could. When Sunday finally arrived we were usually too tired to do anything other than watch DVD’s or go for pizza in the nearby square (hunger was a persistent problem, and we all waged our personal wars with it).
But even during those quiet times, the sense of history was ever present. It was in the framed pictures of Nijinksy that watched over us in the studios. It was in the sterile atmosphere of the canteen at lunch times, where a few slices of fruit were given to sustain you. It made you feel important, worthy of focused attention. It was a new feeling, and one I tried to welcome into the core of my being.
On the few occasions I was able to leave the academy I would often walk, pulling my tattered coat around me to protect me from the cold. I liked to take the short walk to the Church of Spilt Blood, and though I didn’t feel able to pray there I found the powerful, orthodox sense of calm there nourishing. I would then cut into the Mikhailovsky Gardens, where performing musicians once drew in great crowds
before it was banned. That perhaps explained the sense of absence that pervaded there. It was the start of autumn, and the secretive wind that swept around the trees confirmed that this was where I should be. Cast against the attainments of history, battling to assert myself. I would mutter to myself, and giggle amongst the trees, and wonder what I had done to bring myself here.
At night, a curious feeling would arise in me the moment the lights were turned off. I began to long for something, but I didn’t yet know what it was. The days were streaking by in a flurry of pain and expectation, but despite my newfound sense of purpose I still felt lost. Where exactly did I belong? I had only ever wanted to escape from home, and to do so I had needed a destination. But this was clearly not a new home, simply a means to an end. Sometimes, when tiredness got the better of me, I felt a pulsating sense of anxiety. Could I really get through these ten months? What was all this leading to? Sometimes I feared that having got what I wanted, I now felt more lost than ever. Being here didn’t answer my questions, it only provoked me to ask new ones. But at least it was something. And at least I now felt able to ask questions, even of myself, with a clear and crisp voice.
Living with the other students, I was unable to employ my usual strategy of wilfully isolating myself in order to focus upon a goal. I saw that the next issue I had to address was how to endure, and perhaps even enjoy company. The difficulty was that Bruna was still a part of my inner audience, assuring me that any moment I would be found out. This made being sociable even harder, as I tended to feel that being in the company of others meant I was distracted. But I knew something must change, and so I started to try and develop a kind voice, which I used to nurture myself during the gruelling sessions and the nights of uncertainty. I began to self-medicate, banning myself from using words like ‘failure’, ‘fat’ and ‘useless’, and instead saying under my breath statements like ‘well done’ or ‘keep at it’. Self-loathing was just too easy and I credit the Vaganova for making it redundant as a coping mechanism. I was determined to purge myself of all self-pity. Self-pity might have driven and nurtured me for many years, but here it would be of no use. I knew that I would never be naturally light hearted, but I could at least learn to smile and laugh. A ballerina may be exhausted and underfed; her toes may be bleeding, but ultimately all that is of no consequence. She has to learn to smile, because deep down she loves every second of what she is doing.
Letters from Yelena Page 10
