Letters from Yelena

by Guy Mankowski

  After a couple of weeks of haggling, Inessa and I secured an apartment not far from the quayside. It caters to Inessa’s cultural pretensions well, but I also find it pretty homely. I think you will approve of it, Noah. It is next to a music venue, and we hear the strains of distant melodies late into the evening. Inessa has filled it with modern sculptures and reproductions of paintings and already the air is constantly filled with the unique fragrances of her experimental cooking. She is trying to brush up on English culture. Last night we watched Dickens adaptations and had fish and chips. I’ve never seen her so happy. She keeps taking photos of us undertaking relatively mundane activities, and then texting them to God knows who in the Ukraine.

  I enjoy the ordinary pleasures of this fragmented and sumptuous world so much. This morning I went shopping, and I loved being amongst that array of colours, being pulled in by the boisterous cries of the market traders and then sampling exotic dishes from around the world. I particularly love the walk from the Monument down to the quayside – the misty site of so many of our delirious adventures. At night I savour the experience of watching the moving water and the glittering skyline. In the dark, the city seems to breathe with laughter and possibility. It feels incredible to be able to walk amongst it all again.

  Still, I have to ease myself gently back into the pool of life. I sometimes wonder about how to live, about what the rules are. To be honest, I still have no idea how I am expected to conduct myself on a daily basis. I know it sounds strange as I was only away for six weeks, but I sometimes wonder how long it is reasonable to stay in a shop for, how long I can sit alone in the square without looking odd. It all makes me wonder how you gained the confidence to live a life governed by its own rules. Due to your profession, we both now seem well acquainted with the interiors of the cracks in society. We must just be cautious enough not to become caught in them.

  I found your last letter very soothing. You stated that there were no rules on how to conduct your life. I will get used to that ethos. Any difficulties I currently have adjusting are overpowered by my new hunger for experience. It’s already led me to enquire about night classes, to go out into the city for drinks with Inessa, to sit in diners and watch the city shake off its shroud as evening gently arrives. Inessa and I are both learning to seek out enjoyment together. I feel as if the wounds of the past are being gradually treated.

  This brings me to our letters. When we first began exchanging them we hoped that they would function as maps of ourselves, maps which would lead us right to the heart of one another. The first few, we agreed, would probably be successful only as rough outlines and each progressive missive would hopefully fill in more details, plot uncharted territories, and define vague boundaries. But as the date of your return draws closer it occurs to me that as a consequence of these letters I now exist. I’ve realised that although I can credit you for that development, I must now start to see beyond you. I understand now what a pedestal I put you on; how I saw you as I someone I always needed to please and keep close. But now I am starting to understand that another person should never be needed in that way, and that I should look only to myself for comfort.

  When the letters began, in the real world I felt like something of a non-entity. I was physically weak, practically lost, and emotionally damaged. But through words and letters I gradually rebuilt myself, and I feel proud of my act of reconstruction. If someone held all of the letters I’ve sent to you in their hands, they would be holding the real Yelena. Far more than they could if they ever tried to lovingly gather up this bag of bones in their arms. In justifying and detailing myself to you, I became flesh and blood. How strange it is that such thin, weak slips of paper can become durable pillars of a person’s being. And so I can never thank you enough, for provoking me to write these letters. We always feel that those lonely, cold moments that we experience will continue to exist just inside us; that they will never be brought into the light for consideration by others. I am glad to see now how untrue that is. The world applies suffering to us in whatever rational and wild methods it sees fit, and yet by chronicling each act of suffering, though it is not always easy, those dark moments cease to be yours alone.

  These letters were intended only for you, and yet now they have been written anyone could read them. Through the exquisitely intimate act of letter writing, my fears have been ventilated one by one. And so I see why people guard their letters so furiously, because in the end they contain blueprints of themselves.

  For my part, I do not feel a need to protect them. They were meant for you, and after that I feel too much gratitude towards them to feel I have a say in their future.

  For my part, I must admit that your letters have worked very effectively as maps of you as well. In those crisp, hidden missives, I firmly believe that there enough shards of Noah that I could put back together, with care, the shattered mirror and present you with your own beautiful reflection. It may surprise you to know that I find the Noah in your letters a beautiful proposition. The Noah in your letters – particularly in the ones describing the darkness of your working life before you found writing – is a very different Noah to the suave, earnest man I was introduced to at the launch party. In your letters I have often found you alone, frightened, disappointed and cynical. I take it as no small achievement that I remain more willing than ever to stand by your side despite that, that in fact I feel more closely bonded to you for it.

  When we were finally reunited in the rose garden, we were like foreigners to one another, with no common language. But through this exchange I now feel that we have developed our own language, and our own comprehensive maps to which we can always refer for the other. How few relationships have that starting-off point? Has it ever occurred to you, Noah, that when we next meet we will be building from the very place that every couple strives towards? All we have to overcome now is the social awkwardness that’s arisen due to a few months’ separation. Something both our cultures might tell us is hard to overcome, but a challenge which you and I, with our private reservoirs of courage, both know is relatively small. Finding our way to one another for the first time was by far the most difficult part. The next and perhaps final step, I think we both know, will be far easier.

  If, for that reason, this feels like a moment of revelation, or celebration, then I am glad. But something occurred to me last night, when I awoke from my usual recurring dream of the first time you saw me dance. That it’s not the journey we described in the letters, which was where the greatest hardship took place. The hardest part was getting to the point where the journey began. I realised, in the dead of night, that I always recall the moment you first saw me dance in my subconscious because that is the moment I was first discovered. That was the moment that the hardest chapter of my life drew to a close. I was able to describe my loneliness so precisely from then on, because no matter who separated us or what country you were in, I was never alone.

  I feel I have learnt solutions to problems only a few are familiar with, and am already more confident. I feel ready to take on the world by myself, on my own terms, not looking to another for guidance. Instead drawing from all that I have learnt and now become. By coming to terms with my past I have began to build a secure base for myself from which I can explore the world.

  I hope you get to write to me again before you return. I am so excited to see you, Noah. Even if getting to know one another again is a little awkward, knowing how we can be together makes the challenge all the more worthwhile.

  With love from,

  Yelena

  Dear Noah,

  I understand you are now in La Rochelle. Thank you for your postcards, they are now pinned to our new fridge, which hums with domestic joy. It gives me pleasure to see how each progressive postcard resembles my current surroundings more and more, as you draw closer to home.

  Going to the theatre on the Sunday of your return sounds like a lovely idea. However, I cannot help but think of Dr Ibarra’s advice, that I adjust slowly to life
and do not expect too much of myself. But the production sounds wonderful, and I would love to go to the theatre again, as it is has been so long. Wait for me there on Sunday night and if I do feel up to meeting you, then rest assured that I will. There is just so much to adjust to right now!

  With all my love,

  Yelena

  Dear Noah,

  I just wanted to send you a brief note. Firstly, to say how glad I am that I did decide to come and meet you on Sunday, and that we are now ready to include one another in our lives again. Secondly, to say how wonderful your company was, and how much I enjoyed the theatre. And lastly to say, given what happened afterwards, this will most probably be the last of the letters I will need to write to you.

  With all my love,

  From

  Yelena

  Dear Margaret,

  I’m sorry it has taken me so long to reply to your letter. The truth is, when I received your package I instantly dropped everything and started to read my mother’s letters immediately. After a few days of gorging myself on them it feels like only now I am coming up for air.

  I can’t thank you enough for handing these letters over to me. When reading them, at times, I finally felt close to my mother. How can I ever explain the value of that to anyone? It was not always easy to read about the hard times she endured, but it was a very necessary journey for me to undertake. I became able to understand, given the pain she experienced as a young person, why she found it quite so difficult to be close to me during her lifetime. I have started to stop blaming myself for not being closer to her, now that I have seen the bigger picture. The letters also allowed me to understand where my name came from, from the one woman who I think first gave my mother hope during her life. I like to think she named me Natalya because when I was born I represented hope to her too.

  Reading the letters I was in fact struck by how fortunate my mother was to have met Mr Stepanov. If she had not, I think she most likely would have gone through life without ever opening up to anyone. I feel fortunate to have been given this legacy. How often do people strive to completely capture themselves in the written word? There were good reasons why my mother felt she had to do this. Fortunately, they eventually were of great benefit to me.

  Had I known in advance the important role Mr Stepanov played in her life, I would have taken the time to properly thank him when I briefly had the chance. I hope that when he passed away he understood that he had offered me something I had craved for many years. Nevertheless, his offer would have been meaningless without your support. Between the two of you, you have given me an understanding of where I came from, and who I am now. It is rare indeed for us to experience such clarity in life. I feel it has cleansed me, invigorated me. Allowed me to lay the past to rest. In all honesty, I suspect even if my mother had taken the time to speak to me she would never have been able to communicate as candidly as she did in her letters. The wait has been worthwhile, because it has belatedly allowed all my questions to be fully answered. These letters have allowed me not just to get to know my mother, but to make my peace with her too.

  With my warmest regards to you and your family,

  Natalya

  This is dedicated to Professor Graham Beaumont,

  with thanks for his support.

  Guy Mankowski was raised on the Isle of Wight before being taught by monks at Ampleforth College, York. After graduating with a Masters from Newcastle University and a Psychology degree from Durham, Guy formed a Dickensian pop band called Alba Nova, releasing one EP. After that he started working as a psychologist at The Royal Hospital in London. Guy is currently undertaking a PhD in Creative Writing at Northumbria University and writing his third novel, entitled How I Left The National Grid.

  In 2011 Guy was awarded a Research and Development Grant by the Arts Council which allowed him to travel to St Petersburg and research the lives of the young ballerinas there. He worked backstage at the famous Mariinsky Theatre and was one of the few English people to ever be granted unmitigated access to the prestigious Vaganova Academy.

  Guy was also a Writer in Residence for the North East based Dora Frankel Dance company, and is currently working with them as a Dramaturgical Consultant.

  Acknowledgements

  In writing this book I was grateful to be able to draw upon the experience of English and Russian ballerinas, dancers and choreographers who gave me their time and knowledge. In particular I was fortunate to interview the exceptional Isabella McGuire Mayes, the only British ballerina to have been accepted into St. Petersburg’s Vaganova Academy, and I am very grateful for her input. I am also grateful to Stephanie Gordyniec for facilitating this. I am particularly indebted to the choreographer Dora Frankel, who let me interview her at great length. Her dancers Holly Irving and Natasha Kowalski were generous in offering me their insights. Beth Loughran kindly allowed me to sit in on her professional ballet classes at Dance City in Newcastle.

  I would like to extend special thanks to Christine Chambers at Arts Council North East for her guidance and support. Much of the research and development time for this novel was funded by a grant from the Arts Council, to whom I am thankful. Their support allowed me to travel to St Petersburg in Russia to research the novel. Whilst there, thanks to Alexey Fomkin, pro-rector of the Vaganova Academy, I was allowed to tour their prestigious ballet school and spend time with the ballerinas. Masha of St Petersburg Tour Guides served as an excellent translator for me, even in the face of questions of considerable and sometimes questionable detail. She gave me an illuminating insight into the cultural heritage of St Petersburg and its ballet.

  I would also like to thank my family – Vivienne, Andrew and Oliver Mankowski and Shirley and Stanley Firmin, who have been very supportive.

  I would also like to thank the publicist Lucy Boguslawski and the director Tom Chalmers at Legend Press, a company it’s been great to work with. My editor Lauren Parsons-Wolff was instrumental in developing the novel and I am particularly grateful for her help.

  I would lastly like to thank Sarah Assbring, whose music as El Perro Del Mar first inspired Yelena.

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