I glared at her.
“Yeah, why didn’t you take the Mercedes?” Renata grinned.
“I don’t know,” I blushed. “Ask my dad.”
Ilona and Renata shook their heads in disbelief and went back to their stretching exercises. Like most of the other girls, they were from a rich Communist family that lived in beautiful Old Town Prague. They wore new leotards every year, and also owned a lot of sedgeka, which were little plastic letters you could connect on a chain and wrap around your waist like a belt. In 1984, sedgeka were the big craze in Czechoslovakia, and you could really buy them only in Tuzex or on the black market. I had five sedgeka letters, which I had found at school the previous summer, and my ballet costume was the ugliest in the class. My mother had made it out of an old tank top and it was sewn together with big, irregular stitches. As I hurriedly put it on, I heard Mrs. Saturday bellowing my name. I stuffed the wooden tips of my ballet shoes with pieces of cotton wool, tied the laces around my ankles, and hurried out of the dressing room.
In the studio, the girls were already kicking out from the bar and Mrs. Saturday was pacing around them. She wore an orange-and-blue dress that looked like an apron.
“Furmanova!” she said as I entered. “You’re late!”
When I opened my mouth to explain, she silenced me with a wave of her hand. “No excuses!” she snapped. “While we all admire your vivid imagination, you’re not here at this school to tell stories. You’re here to dance! And dance you will!”
The class drew in a collective breath. Mrs. Saturday’s temper was legendary.
“Move to the bar!” she ordered.
I trotted to the wall and squeezed in beside Linda Linkova, who was the daughter of a popular country music singer. I drew my legs together, set my feet into fifth position, and started to kick my right leg in the air. Bohunka, the fat piano player, continued with her regular waltz, while Mrs. Saturday stalked around the room clapping her hands. “Un, deux, trois!” she cried. “Grand battement! Piqué! Grand battement! Piqué!”
I swung my leg up and down, tapping the floor with the tip of my toe. It hurt, but I gritted my teeth and swung as high as I could.
“See, now here’s how you do it.” Mrs. Saturday grabbed Klara Kutilova’s leg and lifted it so high it touched her ear. She looked like a marionette in Mrs. Saturday’s hands, and smiled beatifically throughout the demonstration.
This went on for two hours. The minute hand traveled slowly around the clock on the wall until class was almost over. Finally, Bohunka pulled a packet of biscuits out of her bag, and Mrs. Saturday put a disc on the ancient record player. The needle scratched across the vinyl, and the “Song of the Dying Swan” crackled out from the speakers.
“Five minutes of improvisation!” Mrs. Saturday ordered, and everyone hesitantly stepped away from the bar. Without instruction, they didn’t know what to do. All the girls were tremendously afraid of making a mistake, so they turned, as they always did, and waited for me to start dancing. I listened to the music, and the dying swan’s melody filled my heart with sadness. I experienced a strange sense of tranquility when I was allowed to move freely. I didn’t see the studio with bars and mirrors, I moved and was moved in a different space. I was a swan and not an ugly duckling, and as the moonlight glittered on the surface of the lake, I spread my wings and began to fly.
The next thing I knew, Mrs. Saturday was clapping her hands.
“Very good,” she said. “Girls rehearsing for The Nutcracker, please stay in the room. Everybody else is excused. See you all on Wednesday.”
A group of older girls who were dancing in The Nutcracker were standing at the door. They remained silent until I had taken my last steps, then they burst into the room, filling it with chatter. I took off my ballet shoes and walked alone into the dressing room. I was the only girl in my class who wasn’t in The Nutcracker. Mrs. Saturday hadn’t given me a role on the grounds that I was too small for the costumes.
I changed into my street clothes and walked up the empty corridor, wishing that there was some kind of magic potion that would make me taller. My big dream was to dance Odette in Swan Lake, but I was willing to settle for the tiniest role in The Nutcracker. I could do a much better job than Bara Fisherova, who hated dancing and couldn’t even do the splits, but I knew she was given roles because her mother bought Mrs. Saturday presents whenever they traveled to the West. My dad couldn’t do this. His papers were bad and he drove a rusty Skoda. Once again, I was having trouble fitting in.
I was so depressed, I almost collided with a small woman who had just walked out of the main studio where the National Theater Ballet Company was rehearsing Sleeping Beauty. A young ballerina rushed out of the room behind her.
“Hold your thumbs for me tonight, Mrs. Paskova!” she begged, which is the Czech way of asking someone to cross their fingers.
The small woman smiled and put her arms around the girl. “Ptui, ptui, ptui!” she said, pretending to spit on the floor, which is a more intimate way of wishing someone good luck.
“Break a leg, my dear. I’m sure you’ll be wonderful,” she said.
The ballerina blushed and disappeared inside the room, and Mrs. Paskova continued up the hallway. I wandered along behind her, and as I did, I suddenly realized that this was the woman Vendula Backyard had told me to say hello to. She was obviously a very important person at the school, and I picked up my pace and trotted up behind her.
“Hello, Comrade Paskova!” I called out. “Comrade Paskova! Hello!”
The woman stopped and turned to face me.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Vendula Backyard told me to say ahoj!” I exclaimed. “Do you remember Vendula? She is my friend and she said you used to be her ballet teacher. She said that you would remember her, but in case you didn’t, I should mention her father, Doctor Backyard, who is a very famous surgeon.”
Mrs. Paskova looked down at me and smiled. “Of course I remember Vendula. How is she?”
“I think she’s very happy,” I replied. “Whenever I see her, she’s sunbathing in the orchard and eating chocolates, and she has two horses and a pony and a goat!”
“I see.” Mrs. Paskova looked vaguely amused. “And who are you and what are you doing in the hallway by yourself? Shouldn’t you be rehearsing for The Nutcracker?”
I smiled and tried to make up an excuse, but my eyes filled with tears. Before I knew it, I was pouring my heart out to Mrs. Paskova. I told her that I didn’t have a role in The Nutcracker because I was too small, and that I never got any roles. I was afraid that I would never get to dance in any of the big productions. Mrs. Paskova put her arms around me and gave my shoulders a friendly squeeze.
“Well, that’s no good,” she said. “As is happens, I’m looking for a little girl to carry a candleholder across the stage in Rigoletto. Do you think this is something you might like to do?”
I nodded so hard I nearly sprained my neck.
“Very well,” she said decisively. “If you come to the lobby at seven o’clock tomorrow evening, I’ll have a word with the casting director and we’ll try you out for the role. Bring your parents with you. If it all works out, you can alternate with one of our junior cast regulars.”
I let out a squeal of delight and shook her hand vigorously.
“Thank you, Comrade Paskova! Thank you!” I exclaimed.
“It’s only a little role,” Mrs. Paskova smiled, pausing at the foot of the stairs. “But it’s a start. All the great dancers carried spears when they were young. It’s part of the tradition. Oh, and do say hello to Vendula for me the next time you see her. Her father is a great surgeon. He saved my life, as it happens.”
THE NEXT DAY in class, I squirmed triumphantly on my seat, wanting to tell everybody about my role in Rigoletto. Mrs. German sat on the corner of her desk, dictating an article about Comrade Yuri Gagarin, the first man brave enough to orbit the Earth in a Soviet-made space-ship. She carefully enunciated the difficult words
like “cosmonaut” and “atmosphere,” repeating each sentence three times while we wrote it down in our notebooks. Her son, Eugene, was as quick at transcription as I was. Between sentences, he would stare out the window, biting the end of his pencil and humming to himself. He had sandy blond hair, and I thought he was even more handsome than Mr. Slavicky from Swan Lake. I pretended that I wasn’t looking at him, but I secretly was. After half an hour, I finally nudged him with my elbow.
“What do you wants?” he whispered.
Eugene’s accent was even thicker than his mother’s. The troublemaking boys at the back of the class mimicked it, yelling “Fucks you!” at each other during the snack breaks.
“Would you hold your thumbs for me tonight?” I asked him. “I’m going to dance in Rigoletto at the Smetana Theater, which is very exciting, but I’m also a bit scared, too, you know?”
“Okay,” Eugene whispered back, hiding behind his notebook. “What time do you wants me to holds them for you?”
“Eugene!” Mrs. German slapped the blackboard with the palm of her hand. “Is that you I hear whispering?”
“It wasn’t me, Mum.” Eugene looked up with a innocent expression.
“What do you mean, it wasn’t you? I knows it was you!” Mrs. German’s accent grew thicker as her voice rose in volume. “Put that notebook down! And off you goes behind the door!”
Eugene’s face turned red. He climbed to his feet and the whole class roared with laughter. He looked at me bitterly and clenched his fists.
“It’s not his fault,” I blurted. “It’s my fault, Comrade German! I asked Eugene to hold his thumbs for me and he did. See, look—” I pointed to her son’s clenched fists.
“And just why were you asking him to holds his thumbs?” Mrs. German demanded.
“Because I have a role in Rigoletto and I’m going to dance in the Smetana Theater tonight,” I explained. “And I need someone to hold their thumbs for me. I’m very sorry. I was trying not to ask, but I couldn’t help it. It’s the first role I’ve ever got!”
“You’re dancing at the Smetana Theater tonight?” Mrs. German was very impressed. “How absolutely wonderful! I’m sure the whole class will holds their thumbs for you if you ask them. Shall we holds our thumbs for Dominika, class?”
The class groaned and made a sullen display of holding their thumbs.
“Very well!” Mrs. German said approvingly. “I’ve always wanted to goes to the Smetana Theater. It’s supposed to be one of the nicest theaters in Europe, but it’s practically impossible to get tickets to it these days. You need to have very good connections. I hears the shows are sold out three years in advance!”
“Do I still have to goes behind the door?” Eugene asked.
“I’ll lets you off this time,” Mrs. German said sternly. “But if I catches you again, you can stay behind after class!”
Eugene glared at me as he returned to his seat.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, trying hard not to smile.
AT SIX O’CLOCK that evening, my mother and I stood next to the big pile of sand inside our front gate and waited for my father to return from town.
I was dressed in my best clothes, and my mother was wearing high boots, a leather coat, and a black cowboy hat. I had butterflies in my stomach and my mother was tense. Not only was Dad late but my sister had made a scene during dinner, refusing to come to Rigoletto on the grounds that she had to write a letter to an Italian man she had met during her summer holiday in Hungary. Klara had gone to Budapest on a youth exchange program, and had met a handsome young man at the famous Vidampark. She assumed he was Hungarian, while he thought she was an American actress or model, and they had somehow struck up a conversation in English, which Klara had studied along with Russian in high school. The young man’s name was Renzo, and he was an engineering student in Florence. After a romantic afternoon at the amusement park, he had followed her around Budapest for the rest of her vacation, begging for her address until she finally gave it to him. After that, his letters regularly appeared in our mailbox and Klara became very interested in Italy. These days, her standard way of getting out of doing something was to say that she had to write a letter to Renzo. It was an inspired excuse, because if my parents refused to let her, she could (and would) accuse them of trying to break her heart. She would burst into tears and lock herself in her room, and after the usual shouting and banging, my parents would eventually leave her alone. I was sad my sister was going to miss my first performance, but I was secretly excited about her Italian romance, so I told my mother that I really didn’t mind.
The sky turned dark as we waited. It was now half past six and my mother’s face was very grim beneath her hat. Finally, the yellow Skoda roared up the hill. My dad threw the gears into reverse, but midway through his three-point turn, his engine cut out.
“Jezis Marja!” my father exploded. “Stupid piece-of-shit car! Sorry girls,” he growled apologetically, “I’m going to have to ask you for a push.”
This was another one of our routines. We put our hands against the trunk and pushed the Skoda through my father’s three-point turn. The car started to roll down the hill and we ran behind it, faster and faster until the exhaust pipe spewed a cloud of smoke in our faces. The engine shuddered to life and we scrambled inside, brushing soot off our clothes and scraping mud off our boots. When we finally arrived at the theater, Mrs. Paskova was in the lobby, anxiously checking her wristwatch. It was five past seven. My father led the charge through the big revolving door, pushing so hard that my mother and I were spun around twice.
“You must be the parents of this charming little girl,” Mrs. Paskova smiled, presenting my dad with two Rigoletto tickets.
“Sorry we’re late,” my father said gruffly. The whole way into Prague, my mother had fulfilled her part of the routine by screaming even louder than his Skoda’s noisy engine.
“Really, it’s not a problem. I hope you enjoy the show,” Mrs. Paskova replied. “Your seats are upstairs, third balcony on the left, and be sure to watch out for your daughter in scene five.”
She took my hand and led me down the passage that connected the Federal Parliament building with the ancient Smetana Theater and into a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors. In one of the dressing rooms, I glimpsed a group of medieval knights sitting around a small television set, puffing away on their cigarettes while a lady dressed as a queen idly flipped through the pages of a magazine. Men in overalls pushed huge props around on wheels, and the floor was a complex network of rails. The Egyptian pyramid from last week’s Aida had been wheeled aside to make way for a huge cathedral that was going out onstage. Mrs. Paskova steered me into a room that was crowded with women wearing big Italian wigs. “Fifteen minutes,” a speaker crackled overhead. Talcum powder flew in the air as the wardrobe assistants bustled around their ironing boards. In the distance, I could hear the orchestra tuning up.
“Take your clothes off,” Mrs. Paskova said as a woman wheeled in a rack of junior costumes.
“What’s your size?” the wardrobe lady asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. My size was so small I wasn’t even sure if it had a name or number. Whenever we went shopping, my mother always bought the smallest size in stock, and even then she would usually have to alter my clothes at home.
The wardrobe lady rattled the hangers. “This is the smallest I have,” she said, handing me a black velvet jacket with beautiful sleeves and a lovely starched collar. I put it on and buttoned it up, desperately trying to make myself look taller. I craned my neck and stood on the very tips of my toes, but the costume was still several sizes too big.
“Hmm. That’s not going to work,” Mrs. Paskova said. “You really don’t have anything smaller?”
I looked pleadingly at the wardrobe lady, until she sighed and disappeared into a nearby storage room. I listened hopefully to the clattering of hangers, but the woman returned empty-handed.
“I’m afraid not,” she told Mrs. Paskova. “That
’s definitely the smallest jacket we have. You’re going to have to find yourself another girl.”
She collected my costume and went back to her ironing board as though nothing had happened. It took me a moment to realize that I had just lost the role. I started to sob uncontrollably.
Mrs. Paskova took my hand and whisked me from the room.
“Now, don’t you worry,” she said, leading me back toward the Parliament lobby. “I’m sure we can find something else for you. How about one of the little hedgehogs from Janáček’s Smart Fox? The costumes are simple and I’m sure they’ll fit you.” She gave my shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “Besides, the candleholder is quite heavy and you would have had a hard time carrying it across the stage.”
I blew my nose into a handkerchief. “No, I wouldn’t,” I sniffed. “I can carry twelve liters of milk across the hill!”
Mrs. Paskova took me to the cafeteria and bought me a lemonade to calm me down. She ruffled my hair affectionately and wrote the rehearsal details for The Smart Fox on the back of a napkin. Then she rushed back to the Smetana Theater, looking for a taller girl to fill my position.
I sat in the cafeteria and waited for my parents. The overture from Rigoletto started up in the distance, and a tired-looking waitress wiped her counter with a sponge. In a nearby booth, a group of old firemen were playing mariash, the Czech version of penny poker. I looked at the piles of change in front of them and wished that I had thirty halirs to buy myself half a slice of bread with mustard. This was not only the cheapest meal in the cafeteria but one of the few a dancer could eat on the premises without being yelled at.
“I’ll see your twenty,” an old firemen wheezed, pushing some coins out on the table, “and raise you fifty!”
“I’ll see your fifty and raise you a crown!”
Two hours later, after the sound of applause finally died inside the theater, my parents walked out into the crowded foyer. I ran over and met them with the bravest face I could manage.
The Twelve Little Cakes Page 31
