Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  “Ugh? The ugh kind?” I gave her a cocked smile.

  “Ha, no, not exactly. I mean, I’m just working at a small firm, doing lots of different stuff. The trial is a criminal matter. It’s a pro bono case—a poor person who can’t afford a lawyer and who we’re representing for free.” Her voice petered out toward the end, like she was embarrassed. Why?

  “That’s very noble of you,” I said.

  She looked at me, surprised. “Thank you,” she said. “Most people, I mean, my ex and his friends, criticize me for doing pro bono work, instead of, you know, taking the big, moneymaking cases.”

  I had to refrain from making a nasty remark about her ex not supporting her, and being a money-grubbing a-hole. That wouldn’t be nice.

  “Okay, warm-up is over. We should begin.” I released her and stepped back, walking toward the iPod. I turned on the music very low. “Okay, show me your rumba walks that you spent nineteen hours practicing,” I said, trying to make my tone somehow both teasing and commanding.

  She shot me a “be serious” look. I remained unfazed. She should have practiced more if she didn’t want to embarrass herself.

  “I’m waiting.” I folded my arms before me and leaned back against the wall.

  “Oh, I was waiting for you to count,” she said, taking position near the mirror. I narrowed my eyes at her, still with the cocked smile to let her know I was playing. For now. This was the last week she was getting off. I’d be very serious, very soon. “I mean, I don’t need you to count. I mean, I can hear the beats from the music. But I thought…I just wanted to follow you. I mean, I can, I’ll count on my own,” she stuttered.

  She cracked me up, she was so nervous in my presence. I couldn’t help but expand my sly smile into a wide grin. “I will trust that you can count.”

  She took a breath and turned away from me. Immediately, her chin lowered to the floor. Was I going to have to go over there and hold that head up for her as she walked? I would do it. No problem at all. But she seemed to read my mind without looking at me. She lifted her head right away.

  She began the walks, brushing her right toe forward, stretching those gorgeous, never-ending legs, one in front of the other, back toe pointed beautifully behind her. She was simply mouthwatering. Delicious, but not perfect. Nothing was ever perfect.

  “Good,” I pronounced, after she’d made one full rotation around the room. “It’s very slightly better. Very slightly,” I added for effect, wanting to prevent her from getting a big head, and wanting to ensure she knew there was always room for improvement.

  I walked up behind her, and cupped my left hand around her waist. It startled her and she jumped.

  “Sorry,” she squealed.

  “It’s okay. I will walk with you in shadow position so I can correct the mistakes,” I explained.

  She nodded. I placed my right hand on her right shoulder, then brushed my fingertips slowly and gently along her arm from the shoulder down to her wrist. I moved in close enough to guide her, my pelvic bone grazing her waist, my right leg between hers, my left brushing the outer side of her left thigh. Our lower bodies deliciously intertwined, I placed my left hand on her front side, between her hip and abdomen. Her body felt warm, as if her insides were heated. She squirmed ever so slightly.

  “Good. We are good size together. We match,” I said, a little worried I was making her nervous with the proximity of our bodies, which reflected in my broken grammar. “Okay, two three four… And two,” I called out, stepping with my right foot on the second two. But she didn’t understand.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I know,” she stuttered.

  “Shhhh,” I responded. She didn’t need to apologize; she just needed to get it right.

  I repeated the counts. This time, she began with me, but took too small a step, sending my pelvis ramming into her rear. I said nothing, but just kept going. She tried to make up for it with the next step, but that one was too big and I had to lunge to keep my hand around her waist and keep us in proper shadow position.

  “In Latin the step you take is no bigger than the distance between your hips. We are not in ballet doing jetés,” I said, hearing the frustration in my voice.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, nodding rapidly.

  “Try again.”

  We did. This time her step was too small. I nearly tripped over her. I kept going but it continued this way. Our steps were never in unison, making us totally off balance. I finally stopped and patted her on the waist.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m just not used to dancing with someone whose lower body is, like, braided into mine—”

  I removed my hand from her waist and placed my finger over her lips. “Shhhh, no excuses.” Students were always talking, trying to explain things. They needed to learn by doing. We didn’t need to talk things out in dance. Dance is about movement.

  She opened her mouth to say something else but I spread my fingers over her mouth, covering it completely. We stood in silence like this for several seconds.

  “Okay, are you ready to listen to your teacher?” I said.

  Her eyes widened and she nodded.

  “Good. You are not following me. You are not feeling me. Or the music. You are thinking way too hard. You are trying to measure your steps and anticipate mine. Just feel my lead, my body. Don’t think. Just feel.”

  She nodded again, regaining that fearful doe-in-headlights look.

  I was being too rough too soon. “Let’s just try again.” I tried to make my voice less commanding, more sensitive. Something I’d never been good at.

  I could feel her muscles tensing up, her body tightening. Then I caught her looking in the mirror. Always a mistake for beginner students, especially women. You fixate way too much on yourself, on how you look, and you really lose your sense of feeling your partner.

  “No, no, no, don’t do that.” I stopped, released her, and stepped back. “I told you to feel, not look. You are using the wrong sense.”

  Again, I could hear the frustration in my voice. She’d stepped on my toes several times with the heel of her shoes and I was in a bit of pain. But more importantly, I needed her to be able to do this. I needed her to be my partner. I didn’t know why I felt that since I had Arabelle, but I did, and with an urgency. I needed to get her over her fear of me and her self-consciousness. And her attempt to overthink. I could feel her analytical skills working overtime, overtaking her body’s mentality.

  “I don’t want you to think about my steps and yours and the distance and all that. I just want you to focus on feeling the way my body moves behind you so that you learn proper technique. I need you to learn correct way so you practice this for next two weeks while I am gone. And when I come back, it will hopefully be perfect as possible. I mean, it will never be perfect. Nothing ever is. But close.” My grammatical lapses were horrendous. I needed to calm down. But I was going away, to Tokyo to do a show dance with Xenia. Rory and I were going to miss precious time. I needed her to practice in my absence.

  She initially smiled, then frowned. “You won’t be here next week? At all?”

  “The front desk didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  I wondered how many of my other students they hadn’t told. I shook my head and blasted them, in Russian so she wouldn’t know. “I am going to Tokyo for a week and will be gone next Saturday, so there will be no private lesson.”

  “Tokyo? Wow!”

  She was clearly impressed, which initially confused me. I was only going to Tokyo to do the showcase Xenia and I had already committed to, and to search more for my sister. Probably in vain. “My former partner and I have been commissioned to perform in a presentation of world finalists,” I said. Of course, I said nothing about Tatiana. I could never reveal that part of my life to anyone else, most of all sweet, innocent American Rory.

  “That’s so cool,” she said.

  The way she said it, all wide-eyed, was cute. She was such a novice, and so full of amazement. Unlike me; th
ese performance were so old-hat. I nodded. “Come on, I want you to get this down so you practice it right,” I said.

  We did the walks again but this time instead of me simply walking behind her trying to lead her with my body, I corrected her placement as we went. I left nothing out.

  When we’d taken about five steps, I stopped, realizing we were out of time. She looked beyond overwhelmed.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in,” I said, trying to calm myself down so she’d calm down. “You’ll remember it once it’s in your muscle memory. And we’ll do it repeatedly until it is.” I forced myself to smile. I was being hard on her. And I didn’t fully know why.

  She walked to the back bench and picked up her bag.

  “So you will practice and I will see you very shortly,” I said, trying to soften my tone. “Believe me, two weeks is nothing. It will fly by.” And it would. It always did when there was a big competition upcoming. Or when there was a lost loved one to find. Suddenly, it struck me that I’d miss Rory while I was gone. I didn’t even know her that well, but I felt it. I’d miss her. I reached out to her, but stopped short of pulling her into an embrace, dropping my hands to my sides. “We will go over it all again. It will get easier each time.” My voice was a whisper now.

  “Okay,” she said and took a breath. “I believe you.”

  “You will be good. I promise,” I said, trying to reassure myself more than her.

  She nodded. I noticed water pooling along her lower eyelids. What was that about? She took another breath. “I’m so glad you have faith in me.” She secured the strap of her bag over her shoulder and with a shy smile, began to walk toward the door.

  Of course I had faith in her. Did someone in her past not have such faith? Was it someone important—a teacher, a family member? I realized then she might well have demons, like I did.

  Suddenly, I remembered she’d mentioned needing a new place. I’d remained friends with the landlord of my first apartment in L.A., Frank. He liked renting out his units to dancers and artists. One of his buildings was very close to the studio. The accommodations were small but safe and clean. I actually held an apartment there. I wasn’t using it, but was saving it for my sister. When I found her. I paid him every month. It would be perfect for Rory. If I found Tatiana, she could stay with me for the time being. Or I’d find her something else. We’d work it out. Rory could use it in the meantime.

  “Oh, by the way,” I called out as she neared the door. She turned back and swiped at her cheek. I noticed she had a few tears. I didn’t know what to say. She really was upset. Why? “Ah, you said you’re moving. Where do you want to live?”

  “Oh.” She shook her head as if trying to regain her thoughts. “Um, well, I was actually looking for a place in Hollywood. Somewhere not too far from the studio. But somewhere safe. I mean, I’ll be a single woman,” she said, laughing. I was falling in love with that little laugh. Perfect: she wanted to be near the studio.

  “I live nearby too. Hollywood Hills. I’ll keep my eye open for you.” I didn’t want to tell her I had an apartment for her. I’d feel the need to explain why I was keeping it when I wasn’t using it. Instead, I’d have Frank contact her.

  “The Hills! In a house or apartment building?” she asked, her mood brightening.

  “House,” I answered, feeling like a mensch. How I wanted to take her there. Right now, as a matter of fact.

  “Oh, wow!” she gushed. Then her face reddened again, as if she was embarrassed. “Well, have a good time in Japan,” she said, nearly skipping out the door.

  “Good luck with your trial,” I called out to her rapidly receding back. “And Rory, prrrractice.”

  “Yes, I will. I will,” she said, bouncing away from me with a giggle.

  Chapter 13

  Before I left for Japan, I called Frank and told him I had a dancer friend who wanted to look at my apartment. I didn’t want to refer to Rory as my student. I was beginning not to see her that way anymore. I knew deep down she would someday be my partner.

  “Dancer? Great,” he said. Frank’s younger sister was a ballet dancer. She’d passed away tragically. Brain tumor. Crazy for someone so young. Now he wanted to support dancers. He’d had his outs with his sister and made amends too late. “Are you going to keep paying, or is she going to take over the rent?”

  I didn’t know how much Rory made, or how much she could afford. I didn’t want to assume that just because she was a lawyer, she made a lot. I didn’t want to outprice her. So, I told him I’d pay a fourth of the rent, and to quote her the rest as her price. Without telling her, of course, that that was the situation. I could afford to pay the whole thing. I’d done so for a year, after all. But something made me think this woman would mind very much having someone pay her way.

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  I gave him her name and said she’d likely be calling sometime next week. Then I left a sealed note for her at the studio’s front desk and told the receptionist to give it to her Monday.

  ***

  Xenia and I arrived in Tokyo a day early so she could do some shopping, and so, as usual, I could search for my sister. I looked at my map on the plane. I’d already gone to all the strip clubs in the central, touristy area that catered to foreigners and where I figured she’d most likely be, being a foreigner herself. There were several I hadn’t been to in the shadier parts of the red light district, where I hoped she wouldn’t be. I decided to try that area.

  I had the same response as usual.

  “Hello,” I said to the bouncer in perfect Americanized English. He nodded and held his hand out for my I.D. Once I gave him my Russian passport, he looked me up and down several times, sizing me up, squinting. Same reaction I’d received each time. I assumed they associated Russia with gangsters. With my American accent no one took me for Russian until I showed that damn I.D. I wanted to become an American citizen for so many reasons. Finally, he decided I didn’t look that thug-ish, and let me pay my money and walk past him.

  I walked around to the various rooms, the alcohol and sex-drenched atmosphere making me sick thinking my sister might be here, or at a place like this. Dancing for these drunks. I tried to keep a low profile, not wanting to stand out as I looked around. A woman said something to me in Japanese and smiled, pulling her top off her shoulders and exposing her deep cleavage, all the way down to her waist. All but her nipples. I smiled politely but shook my head. I told her in English I was looking for someone in particular. Hoping she might help, I handed her Tatiana’s picture. But either she didn’t speak English, had never seen her before, or was insulted I wanted a white girl, or something else. She gave me a nasty glare and stomped off.

  I walked around some more. The lights were dim and I kept my head down. I approached the edge of one of the stages, alongside several other men. The dancer made eye contact with me. She looked at me as she mouthed the lyrics to Janet Jackson’s “Nasty,” blaring over the speakers. Either she knew some English or American pop culture. I smiled and stuck a five dollar bill into her G-string. She didn’t seem to mind it was American money. I was hoping to speak to her before she left the stage, but right after the song ended, she took off to the back.

  “Wait, Miss, Miss,” I called out to her.

  “Can I help you, sir?” I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. It was another woman, slightly older, also Japanese, but English-speaking. “I can give you champagne dance? I dance sexy for you,” she said snaking her hips and licking her lips.

  I considered playing along until I had her in a back room, but the thought of getting a lap dance made me sick. All I could think about was my sister doing the same.

  “Thank you very much for the kind offer,” I said. “You’re very beautiful. But I’m actually looking for this girl.” I pulled out Tatiana’s photo.

  She took one look. Her eyes registered no recognition, but she frowned. “You a cop? You FBI or something?” she asked.

  “What? No, of course not.”r />
  “Then why you want to find her?”

  “I…she’s not in trouble at all. No, this girl is, she’s very special to me and I want to find her. I promise you she’s not in trouble,” I stuttered. I hadn’t told anyone she was my sister. Maybe I should have. Because, as always happened, this woman wanted nothing more to do with me. Her frown grew into disgust and she walked away. Apparently, I must have looked like an FBI agent—at least when I spoke English and didn’t have to produce my Russian I.D.—because this wasn’t the first time I’d been asked.

  I walked around some more. But now it was as if word had spread that some white guy was going around looking for a blonde. Because now all the dancers regarded me suspiciously. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

  I found a seat amongst some young men who didn’t look too rowdy. A cocktail waitress came by and I ordered a Hennessy. I didn’t want it. But I needed to fit in somehow, and that’s what these guys were having. When she returned, I took out the picture and began to hold it toward her. But before I could even say anything, she just shook her head and took off.

  I turned to the man seated next to me. “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh good. I was just wondering if you could tell me if you’ve ever seen this girl in here before. Or anywhere?”

  He took the photo and perused it carefully. After a few beats, he slowly shook his head. He passed it around to the others. One by one, they all answered in the negative.

  “Very pretty,” said the first man, handing the photo back to me. “Too bad I didn’t see her.” This made them all laugh. I wanted to punch him but of course didn’t let those feelings show. I simply nodded and thanked them.

  I took my drink and walked around some more, asking various club-goers as well as cocktail waitresses. No one had seen her. I looked closely at people’s faces, their eyes and mouths when they first looked at the photo. It didn’t seem like her features rang a bell with anyone. I believed no one had seen her. Or else everyone was an amazing actor.