Letters from Yelena

by Guy Mankowski

  Hearing the clamour outside my dressing room, I felt like a true ballerina for the first time. Dabbing on makeup, I now fully understood the aesthetics and demands of the job. I knew that I could draw from something personal to make the role dramatic, and I knew I had trained so hard technically that I could fulfil those requirements too. That night, charged with success perhaps, I felt ready for the life of a dancer. Alina, once so aggressive and attention-seeking in her dancing, was calmer, more generous, and my Albrecht was devoted and loving to the end. I decided to be more sensuous, more assured. My heartbreak was perhaps slightly more aesthetic at the end of the first act, and I kept something back for myself. I simply could not go through that torrid heartbreak in quite the same way again. But wanting to imbue the second night with something special, in the second act I imagined Noah that you were Albrecht. It was at the close of the first act, just before the spiral into madness that I saw you, sat just on the edge of the orchestra pit. The idea came to me then. And when the curtain rose for the second time, I imagined that you and I were Giselle and Albrecht dancing. Of course, I did not know at the time how much that dance would represent what would happen between us. I had only just overcome the intoxicating challenges of the role, and at that moment I would not have had the strength to even begin to fight the spectres that were about to encroach on me. But I had seen in you someone like me, fighting for something that they suspected was a lost cause. As Albrecht grieved over the death of someone he lost through his own betrayal, I too felt that you would grieve over something you’d lost – the hope of a nourishing love perhaps. The piece seemed to predict not only my future sufferings but yours as well. As Giselle danced to save him from death I felt I too was dancing to give you hope. I felt as if I had risen from the grave, the grave of silence that I had long buried myself in. And when my dancing had finally fought off the spirits, and saved you from death, I shot you a glance. How, through the dance, I became able to map out our lives, is beyond me. I had searched out this medium as a way to create something that resonated in time, and somehow I had succeeded. When, at the finale, I felt I had overcome those obstacles I wanted you to see that it was possible. The look you returned seemed to acknowledge that it was. And yet we could never have spoken of this strange and secret dialogue. How could we ever have possessed the tools by which to do so?

  I wondered if you had seen what I was privately doing up there in front of all those people. The strange and mysterious dialogue I was undertaking with my past and my future. Only art can allow us such vague and resonant interactions. That night I didn’t dance to seduce you, I danced to save you. And I did not yet know it, but the act of saving you would herald the moment the season ended, thereby bringing to a close a difficult but triumphant chapter in my life.

  Love,

  Yelena

  Dear Noah,

  How could you worry that I might have felt overwhelmed by your last letter? You needn’t ever think that your interest in my life could seem excessive. I had never been able to thaw out the frozen river inside me for anyone before I met you, but now that I have it is all there for your consumption, Noah. And besides, you know how the details of your life fascinate me.

  I remember that when Giselle finished you went out of your way to collect all the press cuttings you could find from my two nights. Every time we met you seemed to have another one. I didn’t recognise the pale woman in the photos, she looked like a frightened fawn from a fairy tale, her body barely covered by a white tutu. I was keen to put that chapter of my life behind me, as a triumph I could recall if I wanted to. I couldn’t help but be reminded of it intermittently though. After all, you insisted on quoting the articles whenever you could. A favourite of yours was The Observer: Yelena Brodvich was born to play Giselle. Her performance was a triumph. And you’d always follow the quote by saying, ‘He’s never given me notices like that. Or even at all.’

  I remember my last morning at the studio, yes. It brought to an end one era and heralded the start of another, one that would offer challenges that I could not have foreseen. Giselle had just ended and that morning, for the first time, the studio seemed like a playground to me. It always surprised me that you found that studio such an evocative place. To me that glass panelled building simply represented work. That building represented the ultimate challenge to me because not only was it where I had honed Giselle, but it was also where I first struggled to connect with the dancers in my company. At first it felt as if a desert stretched out between them and me, a desert where language, culture, idealism and temperament floundered. And yet the desert did not only exist on that plane, it existed too on the endless expanse of the dance floor.

  When I first began training there the sheer vacancy of the dance floor overwhelmed me, but it is only with fire, passion and a loss of the ego that one can emerge from them with dignity. Self-consciousness is no longer important when you are on the dance floor. Do you feel self-conscious when you write? It occurs to me how similar an empty dance floor is to a blank page, both wait lethargically for someone to come and ignite them. They are often brutal with their demands; although when those demands are dropped how wonderful it is to use that space as you wish. To write and to dance without purpose, simply because you enjoy being in the act. That was how I felt the day after Giselle ended.

  The light from the high windows of that dancehall usually made the unblemished floor appear intimidating, but that day the luminescence excited me. The light now marked out parameters of possibility; how exhilaratingly wide they seemed. That day, for the first time in my life, I danced out of sheer pleasure. I’m glad you were there to be a part of this new chapter of my life.

  I see now how accustomed you already were to that world, even without having visited it. There is an imperceptible gulf that dancers and writers traverse when they begin to work. With their head down, mute to the indifference of the world, throwing themselves into a task without a thought for themselves. They often fail, and they often fall down. They smear their sheets and kick at the air in protest. And then they stand on the precipice again and wait to leap across a divide that many don’t know exists. The last we see of them, as they brace themselves for the fall, is the final moment when they gather themselves before diving once again. Every time, blindly trusting they can make something beautiful out of their next descent.

  It was Erin’s birthday, and the studio was empty except for her, Michael and me. The July heat made the air outside the studio shimmer, and the surrounding city became beguiling and enticing. The vast, metal doors to the studio were open and you were stood outside, leafing through your red notebook, and as I approached, I could hear the strains of OutKast’s Miss Jackson. I greeted you with a kiss. You and Michael conferred, his hand on your shoulder as Erin turned the music up. I stripped down and began to dance.

  That was the summer Erin introduced me to R&B. I instantly loved that sensual, glacial music, perfect for nights of cocktails and flirtation. That morning Erin taught me how to bump and grind to Justin Timberlake, and Michael laughed at the sight of two Principal ballerinas dancing like that. Erin taught me how to grind my hips, the two of us dancing to the rolling, melodic music until our bodies were covered in a sheen of sweat. We had the whole summer ahead of us, and we couldn’t stop giggling.

  ‘If you like this sort of music,’ she said, ‘then there’s a club you must come to tonight.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said.

  Afterwards I came over to embrace you, surprised that you didn’t blanch at my shining, panting body. My hair was pinned above my head, and one leg of my tracksuit was rolled up around my thigh. ‘She’s not bad, your girl,’ Erin said. ‘Are you coming out tonight for my birthday too?’

  ‘Of course,’ you answered.

  That night, I was able to enjoy the city for the first time. I had seen how, as the weekend approached, the city built a unique melody. By Friday the girls were in their finest dresses, and the streets were throbbing in one lilting song. It swam
around the city walls, and I so badly wanted to discover the source of that sound.

  We all met at a faux-exotic bar, on a roof garden high above the city. It seemed full of painted mouths, lustrous plants and elegant limbs. As I arrived, it occurred to me that some people lived their whole lives in places like this. My life had so far demanded I move from one precise venture to the next, never pausing to enjoy an atmosphere.

  Erin, Eva and I were in our best summer dresses, and we headed out to toast the end of the season. We’d knocked back a few shots by the time I saw you moving towards the bar. Your friend Nick was at your side, and you were laughing as you met my eye. This would be the first time I would see you in your element, as a creature of the night. I saw the way you gripped Nick’s arm as you laughed with him, just like you were brothers. I saw the way you effortlessly moved amongst all the women greeting you at the bar. How keen they were to be draped over you, photographed with you. How readily they laughed at any humorous intonation in what you said. Erin nudged me as Nick made his way over to us, with you just behind him.

  ‘My friend Noah claims that he knows you girls,’ he said. ‘And that it would be alright if we sat with you. But if he’s lying we can easily go somewhere else.’

  ‘Well, there isn’t much room here,’ I said, trying not to smile.

  Nick turned round. ‘Noah, she says she doesn’t know who you are.’ He turned back to me. ‘I’m sorry, he does this all the time.’

  You came past him, laughing as you kissed me on the cheek. ‘Yelena, this is my friend Nick. Nick, Yelena is a ballerina from the Ukraine. Yelena, Nick is an idiot. And a film maker.’

  ‘You’re a ballerina? How interesting,’ Nick said. ‘How long have you been in England?’

  I remember that you and I kept our eyes locked on each other as I answered. Soon he had caught Erin’s attention, and he started to untie balloons from nearby moorings, to offer her as birthday presents.

  I felt your arm curl through mine. ‘Are you relieved now that it’s all over?’

  ‘I am. It’s kind of strange,’ I said. ‘For the first time in my life I feel I can really let my hair down.’

  ‘Starting from tonight,’ you said, with a smile.

  As the people swirled around us, you kept your attention focused on me. You asked where I had found the distinctive silver ring I wore on my right hand, and I told you that Inessa had bought it for me just before I left home, and I hoped it was the first step in us growing closer again after our childhood, how we had grown more comfortable with each other once she started working with my Uncle Leo. I told you my plans, of where I wanted to travel, of how I wanted to be a choreographer one day when all this physical work was no longer required of me. I remembered wishing all my intentions were like yours, sharp as arrows, apparent to anyone present. As we talked, I finally felt like the woman people had always described me as. I had never recognised her in my own self-image before, but your attention made it all fit.

  ‘Where are we going tonight then?’ Erin asked, over the music. ‘The club won’t get going until half eleven at the earliest.’

  ‘I’m having a few friends over for a party at mine,’ Nick said. ‘We’ve just finished wrapping a film I was working on so we thought we’d have a few celebratory drinks. And with you three also having a cause for celebration as well I’m thinking…’ He weaved his fingers together, biting his bottom lip.

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure your housemates won’t object to you inviting a group of ballerinas along?’ Eva asked.

  ‘I mean it’s not something we’d usually tolerate, but it’s an important night for you three so I’m sure we can make concessions,’ Nick said with a smile.

  ‘You’re so kind,’ Erin said.

  A few cocktails later, our strange group raucously wound its way down to Nick’s house. Erin already had her arm around Nick, who had tied a balloon onto each of her tiny wrists. I remember her trying to stop him from doing the same to her ankles.

  ‘I really think you should let me,’ he continued, as she tried to stop laughing for long enough to fend him off her feet. ‘Wouldn’t it be great to just float into the party? Then my housemates really won’t mind you being there.’

  ‘She only weighs about four stone,’ I called. ‘Any more balloons and she’ll float away.’

  ‘Then she can go ahead of us, and tell everyone we’re on our way,’ Nick called back. Erin slapped him as he pretended to write out a note to tuck into her ankle bracelet, as if she was some sort of balletic carrier pigeon.

  As we ascended a small flight of stone steps I saw that Nick’s home was not the bohemian out-house I had assumed it would be. I looked up to see an elegant townhouse, its large windows filled with vague silhouettes. The sound of laughter and chinked wine glasses filtered down as your arm linked through mine. I could hear New Order’s Temptation playing above us. When Nick opened the door he was greeted with a welcoming roar as we sidled in behind him. ‘You go out for a pint and then you come back with a group of supermodels,’ someone commented, as we removed our coats. ‘We should have known.’

  Upstairs, the chic furniture had been pushed against the walls, and the place seemed filled with the city’s wildlife. They sprawled over couches, blew smoke through opened windows and flirted self-consciously with each another. The girls all seemed curiously doll-like, dressed in printed dresses; their dark hair held back with silver clips. The boys wore checked shirts, their high quiffs bobbed as they laughed and their lips were constantly pursed, ready to roll the next cigarette.

  You moved into them with such ease. ‘This is Yelena,’ you said, to everyone who smiled at you. As people welcomed me with open arms and sloshed wine into my glass I felt myself open. I quickly learnt how to sip at wine while my eyes vaguely scanned the room, just as they all did when they weren’t speaking. I learnt how to draw decadently from a proffered cigarette, how to touch up my lipstick while simultaneously talking, how to look up with cherubic eyes at any man who spoke to me. I saw the way people responded to me, and to fit the implicit expectations of their treatment I became more elegant and more composed. I learnt to take compliments, to smile benignly, to detach at will. I did not stop to think how a new, seductive persona might invite complications. Cameras flashed, their owners each time imploring us to bunch together. As each photo captured us I felt more startled, yet somehow calmer. My presence was in demand for the first time, and it felt good.

  ‘So, how do you two know one another?’ Nick asked, refilling my lipstick-tinged glass.

  ‘Noah started coming to watch us practice while he was researching his next book, and then at the opening party we got chatting.’

  ‘And has he told you that he’s a famous writer? That he’s kind of a big deal?’

  You looked frustrated, and shook your head.

  I laughed. ‘I worked it out for myself. He was no help.’

  ‘Have you read his book?’

  ‘I haven’t read his book, no,’ I said, directing the remark to you. ‘Is it any good?’

  You cocked your head, and looked blank.

  ‘It’s hard for me to say exactly, because I still don’t really understand it. Well, I don’t understand how a book about a modern messiah living on a council estate in Holloway could get published when it was written by an author who’s clearly never been anywhere near a council estate.’

  ‘I have been near a council estate,’ you insisted.

  ‘Russian ones don’t count,’ he answered.

  ‘I didn’t think it’d get published,’ you said.

  ‘Neither did I,’ Nick answered. ‘It’s pretty depressing, but then all half-decent books probably are. I liked the bit when the messiah called people to his house via a link on Youtube. What did he say again?’ Nick adopted a grand pose and a haughty tone. ‘Guttersnipes, underdogs, dreamers of the nation. Boys in satellite towns, girls waylaid at minor train stations. Flock to me and I’ll shield you all, under my damaged wi
ng.’

  I laughed. You were still looking down.

  ‘I liked that bit. Shall we turn the music up?’ he asked, registering your embarrassment.

  The room swelled until it was so humid, so fleshy, that it could not incorporate another body. At that moment the music was cut and Nick made an announcement. ‘Edna and Rupert next door have asked that we cease and desist. I think that’s reasonable. So we’re going to The End.’

  As one straggling procession, the party made its way up to the nightclub. From the outside it looked like nothing more than a black door amongst a row of indie shops. But as we walked up those stairs the vibrant music from within reached our ears, and I felt adrenalin course through me. At the top, a woman with pink and green hair greeted you with a kiss and ushered us to the front of the twitching queue. It gave me a guilty thrill to pass the assembled throng, and as the inner doors opened the music instantly ensnared our bodies, making us part of a single mass. The club was one long rectangle full of nylon dresses, coiffed hair and shining stilettos. You placed a hand at the small of my back as we started dancing. The noise and the proximity forcefully encouraged physical expression. All around us people moved from being strangers to being confidantes in one quick, physical negotiation.

  Every few seconds another woman – usually flamboyantly dressed – greeted you with a cry of delight and kissed both of your cheeks. They were all quirky and beautiful, and as you cupped hands over each other’s ears I wondered how intimately you knew each of them. Their sticky goodbyes, with their fingertips clinging to yours, suggested that you’d been close to all of them. That and the way they only looked at me for a millisecond, with a flash of a smile, as you introduced me. I told myself to keep drinking and not question how you knew every woman in here. I gradually grew familiar with the dull pain I felt every time you spoke and their mouths erupted with laughter. I thought of their faces twisting in pleasure as you found yourself inside their long, shining bodies. But then the thought would be crushed by a huge whoop from the crowd as a beloved song began, causing every hand to push instantly into the air. And you’d take my hand, spin me in a pirouette, and kiss my cheek.