Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  “Sasha, Sasha!” he said, reaching up to pat me on the back, without rising, when I approached.

  “Uncle Oleg.” I nodded. “Pasha,” I said to my cousin, who did rise, and shook my hand.

  “Sit, sit,” my uncle insisted, scooting Pasha over and plumping the lounge pillow between them.

  He always acted like we were the best of friends. Utter bullshit. But I was game. I smiled and sat between them. I asked him if he knew anything more about Tatiana. He shrugged. I never understood why he wanted to meet all the time if he had no real updates. I suspected my mother wanted to keep an eye on me, and used him to do it. He told me he thought Tatiana was still in Tokyo, dancing in a club. Meaning a strip club. He feared some of the clubs might be running prostitution rings in the back. She might have become part of one of those.

  The thought made my blood boil. And he knew it. He wanted to worry me. I’d always looked for her, every time I went to Tokyo.

  “You told me that last time,” I said. “Do you have anything more specific?”

  He shook his head and passed me a folded piece of paper. I opened it. It had a list of strip clubs. It was the same list he’d given me before. I’d already checked a good number of them.

  “These are the same as before?” I said, questioningly.

  He shrugged again. “I suppose.”

  “Why do you always want to meet if you have no new information?” I asked, though I knew I wouldn’t get a truthful answer.

  “Aw, we want to see you! Come on! You’re family! We never got to know each other before you left. Why waste more time? Why should your mother lose more than one child?” He patted me on the shoulder.

  I didn’t buy it. He wasn’t here to get to know me.

  I looked at the list. The thought of Tatiana being held in a prostitution ring against her will made me sick. I grabbed a cocktail napkin and fisted it into a ball. I downed the rest of my whisky sour. It stung. It felt good. Xenia and I were to perform in Tokyo in three weeks. I assured my uncle I’d continue looking in the clubs I hadn’t yet checked off. It was like trying to find the proverbial needle in a haystack, though, without more specific information. They knew I wouldn’t find her without more.

  The rest of the evening consisted of small talk. They tried to get details about my life in L.A., but I spoke only in generalities—yes, I liked my studio, my partner, my job, etc. They said my mother was so worried about Tatiana, and me, she was always sick. She hadn’t been diagnosed with anything, but they worried she would be. Bullshit, again.

  We shook hands and I assured them I’d look some more in Tokyo during my upcoming trip. They promised to let me know if they obtained any more specific information. I pretended to believe them.

  As I stood out front waiting for the valet to return my car, the strangest sensation came over me. I was facing Sunset Boulevard. There was a traffic jam. I felt her. I felt her presence in one of the cars. I looked out. Of course the windows were too dark. I couldn’t see anyone inside. The valet pulled up with my Porsche. I briefly turned away from the busy street to give him his tip and take my keys. When I turned back, the traffic light had changed, and the holdup was clearing. Weirdly, I still felt her eyes on me as I got into the driver’s seat. Uncanny, most definitely. I’d had this feeling before, that Tatiana was watching over me, and it had always freaked me out because I felt like that meant she was dead and was looking down on me, even though it didn’t necessarily feel that way. But this time, she was in one of those cars. But once I’d started the ignition and was pulling out, I realized I hadn’t sensed Tatiana, but Rory. Now it was not so unsettling. It warmed my soul. Rory hadn’t been at the studio to watch me dance, but we’d connected tonight nonetheless. All was good in the world.

  Chapter 5

  The following Monday night Xenia and I practiced together for the last time as partners. I knew at the beginning of the coaching we would break up that night. I somehow knew this when I saw Rory walking into the practice room, to take the practice space next to ours. I knew she’d be back.

  I hadn’t seen Rory since I’d seen her in my mind’s eye Saturday night outside the Chateau. She was more beautiful than I remembered. She practiced a simple rumba basic, over and over and over, scrutinizing every detail of her movement in the mirror. She was the exact antithesis of Cheryl. She was working her ass off to get the simple basic completely perfect. We were cut from the same cloth, she and I.

  Basic as it was, her concentration was so intense it was captivating just watching her. She had the steps down pat, but hadn’t yet perfected her technique. There needed to be better flow and more organic movement stemming from her rib cage, to her hips. Oh how I could help her, if she’d only ask. It took everything to keep from interrupting her, from walking over and making some small corrections. Minor as they were, they’d make all the difference. Her innate talent shone through. She’d only been here a few days. Of course, I wanted to do more than correct her technique when I touched her. But she wasn’t mine to touch or to teach.

  “You’re not here,” Xenia said, stiff-lipped, as we marked our routine. “Where is your head, Sasha?”

  “Of course I’m here. We’re just marking.”

  “Okay, Sasha and Xenia, you’re up,” Bronislava, another Russian teacher, called out. Meaning, our samba music was next up on the main speakers. It was our turn to dance to our music.

  We started the routine for real, dancing full-out. But, as usual, we were a complete mess from the get-go. We couldn’t even do the opening steps, a simple samba roll, right. Our bodies just weren’t molding together at all. Her pelvis kept bumping into my groin, and she kept toe-picking my toes with the heels of her shoes. She seemed to be intentionally offbeat. A pro as accomplished as she couldn’t possibly make such basic mistakes.

  “It’s not my fault,” she said, reading my mind before I spoke.

  But I didn’t stop. “Just keep going. Let’s finish to our music.”

  We did a volta, a sideways step far easier than the roll. The same thing happened.

  I took a deep breath.

  “It’s not my fault,” she said again, louder this time. I shushed her and continued dancing.

  Now came a slightly harder move where I continued with the volta while twirling her in front of me. She’d never had a problem before, but was now all over the place. She seemed to have no sense of balance, of how to move in a straight line, or of how to follow my lead. I had to continuously reach around her body with my free hand to try to guide her back into her line. Though she’d probably criticize me for grabbing and pulling, if I let her go, she’d spin out of control and fall, and I’d really hear it.

  Toward the end of the spin sequence, she must have just gotten tired because she completely stopped. The music was still going.

  “Come on, let’s finish,” I said, not letting her go.

  “Take your hands off me.” She struggled out of my embrace, shook herself all over as if shaking herself free of me, of my germs.

  Of course we spoke entirely in Russian, so no one except Bronislava and my Russian students, who were watching, as always, could understand. It was pretty clear, though, from her actions and the anger in her voice what she’d said. I was sure Rory understood.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know how to begin asking why she was suddenly so lacking in balance and orientation. But I wasn’t the first one to speak.

  “You are pushing me all over the floor!” she screamed. “I can’t…” She rubbed her wrist—the wrist I’d used to turn her. “You’re really going to hurt me.”

  I felt Rory’s gaze from my periphery. I felt my face heat up.

  “I am not hurting you. I have to use force to keep you from falling all over yourself. What’s up with you? It’s like we’ve never danced together.”

  She threw her arms up and tossed her hair back, platinum strands flying everywhere, some of them smacking me in the face. Her hair was like a heavy load of straw.

 
; “Falling all over myself? You are falling all over me because you are not looking where you’re going! You’re looking at…ugh, other things! You’re distracted and you blame me!” Her eyes focused straight on Rory now, without even glancing back at me. She was the epitome of lack of discretion. She still spoke Russian, but it was clear she’d said something nasty about Rory.

  Rory looked back and forth between the two of us, her eyes growing wider. She knew we were talking about her. She looked nervous.

  “You want to dance with a child?” Xenia said. “You want a beginner? Of course you do. You can’t handle a real woman.”

  I cocked my head back at Xenia. I had no idea what had made her so bitter. She’d been jealous whenever I so much as looked at another woman. But that’s when we were romantically involved. She had a new boyfriend now. She cared nothing for me that way anymore. Yet she still seethed with envy. She was right to an extent; Rory was a beginner. So why was she threatened?

  I looked back at Rory. She was still wide-eyed, but she was now trying to concentrate on herself in the mirror. I could tell it took effort not to look at the crazed, warring Russians.

  “I can’t believe you,” Xenia said. “You’re obsessed with her. Pathetic!” She snickered, shook her head at me, and placed her hands on her hips. She had venom in her eyes. The last thing I wanted to do right now was take her back in my arms to dance again.

  I turned once again to Rory. I remembered how she’d been so light on her feet, so easy to lead the night I’d danced with her. She’d not once stepped on my feet, lost her balance. As far as she had to go technique-wise, she had natural movement ability, and that obvious ballet background enabled her to do basic dance steps, not to mention the kind of turns I was trying to do with Xenia, so beautifully. I wondered how easy it would be to lead her in the same turns I’d tried with Xenia. We’d done very similar spins the night we’d danced foxtrot, but these were with a samba beat, very fast and very different.

  “Sasha! Look at me!” Xenia roared.

  I held up my index finger to her, indicating just one second. “I want to try something,” I said. I heard her heel grind into the floor as I walked toward Rory. I had no idea what I was doing, I really didn’t. I just knew I needed to dance with Rory right now. Someone who wouldn’t fight me.

  I lightly touched Rory’s shoulder blade. She was wearing a scooped-back leotard that revealed her creamy, silky skin. She flinched and her doe eyes widened, connecting with mine in the mirror. She emitted a slight gasp, then bit her lip.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just wondering if I could borrow you for a second. To demonstrate something.” She turned fully toward me now. I saw her glance at Xenia behind me. I could see the intimidation in her eyes. “It will only be a second. I promise,” I said, commanding her attention from Xenia, back toward me.

  She blinked, then nodded. “Of course,” she said with a slight, nervous laugh.

  “Thank you.” I turned her toward me and took her into basic handhold. I knew she didn’t know samba, so I began a rumba basic, the same she’d been practicing. When I felt her rise too much, her hips not connecting with the ground through her feet, her rib cage not sufficiently connected to her hips, I gently pressed down on her back, underneath her shoulder blade, where I held her. As I settled into my hip and began to rotate my pelvis, she did the same. She instinctively began to follow my body. We were fully connected without any preparation. It was amazing. She could easily learn to be perfect. If only she was my student.

  “Is he serious?” Xenia said to someone in Russian, likely Bronislava.

  Bronislava and I had danced together briefly, at one point while Xenia and I were taking a break from each other. They’d once been jealous and hateful toward one another too. But now there was a new person to direct their animosity toward, apparently. They were suddenly friends.

  I could teach Rory rumba. But I didn’t need to teach her much in the way of chaîné turns, the ballet step she’d made clear from our foxtrot she knew quite well. The turns Xenia was suddenly unable to do with me.

  “Okay, ready?” I said to Rory. I should have prepared her but there was no time. I knew she could do it anyway.

  She raised her eyebrows, looking simultaneously confused and excited.

  Before she could ask me to elaborate, I raised my arm—the arm holding her hand—and stepped sideways into my volta pattern. I guided her into a spin, turning along with me in my line. At first I went slowly. When I could feel through her connection that she was comfortable with my lead and knew we were doing the same step Xenia and I had just done, I turned her faster. And faster. And faster. I could hear the Russians in the back exclaiming.

  She was like a tornado she turned so fast. We flew straight past Xenia. I knew she was pissed, and I could have cared less. I could feel the crowd’s energy. And I could feel Rory’s fire. She was spotting and spinning faster and faster, but I could see the look in her eye as she focused on me before whipping herself into another turn. She was concentrating hard, but she was also full of the same deep, animal passion I was. I felt her adrenaline erupting from her core, flowing through her fingertips out through the pores of her skin, merging, through our connection, through our fingers, with my boundless energy. We worked together effortlessly. We were a true partnership.

  “Sashaaaaaa!”

  The heel of Xenia’s Latin stiletto sounded like a steel ice pick as it stabbed the parquet. I felt the vibration, even though we were far past her. Rory did too. I felt her nervous energy. I slowed the spins, until she gracefully finished, then slowly dipped her. She développé’d her leg slowly upward, extending her pointed toe up toward the ceiling. Gorgeous finish. Cheering from the onlookers seemed even more intense than anything I’d heard when I danced with Xenia.

  We remained in that position for several seconds, while her breathing slowed and she cooled down. I lifted her back up. She was either blushing or red-faced from the workout. Probably a little of both.

  I felt Xenia’s glare pierce my skin.

  “Thank you,” I said to Rory, with a bow.

  She made that sweet little gasping sound again, nodded, and turned, a noticeable skip in her step as she made her way back to her spot on the floor, tiptoeing around Xenia.

  I took a breath, knowing well how much trouble I was in. Xenia’s eyes were narrowed and her breathing was uneven. It was like she was about to blow steam through her nose. I’d seen her mad before, but not ever quite like this.

  “It’s…just turns, not really that hard. You can do them too—” I began.

  But before I could finish I felt the weight of her palm as it crashed into my cheek. I somehow heard it before I felt it. It didn’t even occur to me that it actually stung until she did it again. And once more, for effect. I was stunned silly, then finally backed away.

  “You bastard!” she screeched. “You use that poor, pathetic girl to show up your partner. You cheapen both of us. You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re a child. You’re…” She screamed at the top of her lungs, in Russian. She came toward me again.

  This time I was ready. I raised my hand and caught her wrist right as she went to smack my cheek again. “Stop it now,” I said, under my breath, the antithesis of her wild screaming.

  “Let me go!”

  I released her but made clear with my still raised hand that she wouldn’t be slapping me again. Tears pooled at her lower eyelids. She sniffed, looked down, backed away from me, and stomped.

  “Ridiculous,” Bronislava said to me in Russian, shaking her head.

  I wasn’t sure whether she was talking about me or Xenia, or both of us. I chose to ignore her, as well as the staring crowd.

  Rory, sweet girl, continued focusing on herself in the mirror, still doing that same rumba basic. It was actually better. There had been improvement in the forty-five minutes she’d been in the room. Practice, and some instruction, would truly make her perfect. Or as near perfect as one could be. I didn’t walk to
ward her, but stood in my space. I did the same basic she was doing, in time with her. I could see her watching me out of the corner of her eye, and in the mirror. She watched the movement as it flowed through my entire body, from head to toe. I could see her trying to emulate me, to move the same way. It was working, my teaching, however indirect. The more she focused on my body instead of hers, the more she emulated tiny, subtly different movements, which greatly improved the whole. I looked at her and she looked at me, now too focused on my body to be self-conscious, as she always seemed to be.

  And then, Bronislava had to ruin our rhythm.

  “Is real disgrace. You should say sorry. Both,” she said, now in her broken English. She obviously wanted Rory to understand her. She looked at me and eyed Rory, then the door.

  Now able to comprehend her literal word, albeit likely not the context, Rory looked truly confused. She regarded Bronislava, then the door, then me. Suddenly a thought seemed to pop into her eyes. She looked down, a dejected look shadowed her features, and she shook her head, as if she was suddenly embarrassed. What happened? She glanced at the clock, ran to the back bench, grabbed her bag, and fled, not looking back at me once.

  Bronislava glared. Were she and Xenia up to something? Without asking, I walked past her, toward the door.

  “You shouldn’t do that, you know,” Bronislava said to me in Russian as I passed.

  “Do what?” I stopped.

  “Play one of them against the other.” She raised her head and peered down at me, as if to scold me.

  “That’s ridiculous. I did no such thing.”

  “You know you did. You did it all the time with me and Xenia. Don’t think I don’t remember.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, then realized Bronislava wasn’t worth it. I needed to catch Rory before she left.

  I ran down the stairs, to the lobby. But no sign of Rory. I was too late.