by Tonya Plank
I parted the curtains using the remote. “Same as outside the breakfast nook.” I turned on the outdoor lights. She could at least see the patio furniture, the hot tub, and the pool diagonally behind it. She still couldn’t see the canyon because of the darkness.
“Whoa.” Her eyes immediately fell on the hot tub. She was a dancer, after all. Dancers liked to soak.
“That is for relaxing. After the hard work is done.” I emphasized the word after. “And not every day, of course. Only special days, when we just…click.” I snapped my finger and raised my eyebrows. Her cheeks regained that oh-so-sweet rosy hue. Good, she was catching my drift. “Would you like something to drink?” I said, opening the liquor cabinet.
“Are you going to play bartender?” She laughed.
“We should probably just have water for now. Or an energy drink. Cocktails are another thing that should wait. That should wait for the hot tub.” I shot her my roguish smile and she squirmed.
But then, something happened. Her eyes flashed with fear and she gasped as if something was stuck in her throat.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She swallowed hard and nodded, now laughing nervously. The fear—or maybe it was panic—was still there but had abated.
“Okay? Good,” I said, confused. She wasn’t choking. It seemed her panic wasn’t physical. I opened the refrigerator and looked around. “Would you like sparkling water? Or still water? Or juice? I have some green juices made of kale and celery and green apple? Or regular fruit juices. Orange and cranberry.” I loved juices. They were great for maintaining energy and stamina, healthy, and delicious—at least mine were. And pretty easy to make. I loved living in California, in the land of plenty, with its incredible abundance of farmers-market-fresh fruit and vegetables. Those markets were so not Russia; part of, to me, what defined this miraculous existence I now had. How could anyone not want to be a part of this?
I looked back at her. Her skin looked wan. And her eyes had a darkness in them. My first partner had suffered from anorexia. I noticed Rory, who was already thin, had gotten thinner since I first met her. I hoped she didn’t have that problem. It could be devastating to a dance career. To a life.
“The green juices are quite good. And not many calories,” I said, trying to tempt her. “Here, I think you will like it. Just a small one to start?” I looked at her with my best pleading puppy dog eyes.
She slowly nodded.
“Good.” If she had an eating disorder, it wasn’t all-consuming. I pulled out a bottle, along with an elegant, long-stemmed champagne class from the cabinet. “I will make it pretty for you,” I joked, handing it to her.
She looked at it for several seconds, then took a sip. Her face lit up.
“You like it!” I’d begun making the juices with my blender. I enjoyed working outside of the recipes and instructions, blending the right amount of the right ingredients just so for maximum flavor. I felt like our taste buds were on the same page.
“Yeah, it’s good,” she said with a shrug, then set it down and pushed it some distance away from her. After only one sip. Maybe the eating problem was more severe than it initially seemed.
I eyed the glass. “You’ll finish it later?”
“I…yeah. I think.” Her tone changed. She seemed somewhat defensive.
“I just want you to have energy, Rory. We have lots of hard work ahead.”
She nodded and took the glass, drank some more. Then, she took a breath and stood.
Okay, that was as good as I was getting for the time being. I wouldn’t push her any more right now.
I walked out to the center of the floor. “I would like to start by getting a sense of your body weight.”
“Body weight?” She looked down. “Um…I haven’t weighed myself in a while…”
If she had a body image problem, I’d just exacerbated it. I needed to get a sense of her though, so I didn’t push or pull too much. This was standard. Certainly she’d experienced this with ballet. “I don’t need to know the number of pounds,” I said. “I need to feel you so I can partner you well. Come.” I extended my arm toward her and motioned with my fingers for her to come to me. I shot her a cocked smile, hoping to put her at ease and make her feel sexy.
She walked to me, slowly.
“Good. Now, I want you to lean into me. Just stand before me and let yourself go. Don’t hold yourself up.”
She blinked hard, then did as I asked. I reached out and held her with my arms.
“No, lean into me completely. You’re still holding yourself up. I can feel it in your muscles,” I said.
She laughed nervously. “You could feel that?” she said, shaking out as if to force herself to loosen up.
We tried again.
“You’re still holding yourself, Rory. Come on. Fall into me.”
She harrumphed. “I’m trying.”
“Pretend like we’re playing that game, Trust, and you just fall into me. Let me support you. Trrrrust me,” I commanded, intentionally rolling my r’s. I was desperate to get this girl to let her guard down. Maybe I needed to do the same and embrace my Russian accent. My Russianness intrigued her anyway; it didn’t serve as a source of mockery.
Her body went limp. Finally.
“Yes, good!” My biceps flexed as I held her. “Now, I am going to lift you. Put your arm around my neck. You plié and jump and lift your legs and I’ll put my arms around them and hold you, like in a cradle.”
She nodded.
“Okay, plié.”
She bent her knees and did a little jump. She pressed her hand, now on the back of my neck, down so as to hold herself up as much as possible. My arms were wrapped tightly around her legs. I could feel her pull her center in, trying to make herself as weightless as possible. This was what women generally did during lifts. But I could tell she had some kind of weight issue. She was trying too hard to become light as a feather.
“I am strong. I can carry you. I promise.”
She loosened her arm.
“Not enough. That was just your arm. I want you to let it all go. Like a rag doll. Like a child.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes! Of course. I will not tell you something I am not sure about. Trrrrrust me, Rory.”
She giggled. “Okay.” She forced a breath out, deflated herself. She wiggled her toes. Fluttered her fingers. Literally became a little girl again, in a protective man’s arms.
“Thank you. See I am very, very strrrrong. I can hold you, no prrroblem.”
She giggled again. Okay, I could work that accent. When it counted.
I placed her back on her feet. “That was good. But enough of that for now. I need you to learn the main characteristics of each of the five dances on the competitive Latin syllabus,” I continued. “You with me, Rory?”
She looked like she was somewhere else. Now was when I needed her the most. She had a lot to learn in a short amount of time. I waved a hand in her face, then snapped my fingers off to the side of her cheek.
“How did you know my mind was wandering? I mean, just a bit. But, I mean, damn?”
“I am a mind reader, Rory.” My eyes grew large, like I was pretending to be an evil sorcerer. She laughed. “Seriously, though. I can read your body, your muscles, and through those, your thoughts. But now we must concentrate. No scrrrewing around. We don’t have time.” She knew about my upcoming Japan trip; she knew we’d miss a few days. As much as I wanted to play, and get to know her, we had a lot to accomplish in a short time.
She nodded, intensity evident in her gaze. Excellent.
“We start with paso doble. Spanish dance. Man is bullfighter, woman is bull. Or cape. Varies. Mood is fighter, intense, sometimes with flamenco undertones.” My grammar was a mess. I heard it. But I couldn’t help it. Whenever I started training, I just got so worked up. I proceeded to explain the character of all the dances, and showed her the basic steps of each. Since she’d had a few months of rumba, we managed to get through not
only the first level but the entire syllabus, all the way through to open gold.
“Okay?” I said, at the end of it all.
I could tell her head was spinning. I could see it in her eyes. I had driven her hard tonight. But it had to be.
“Wow,” she said, eyeing the clock. “It’s almost midnight. I have to get up early. I…how did time go so fast?”
“You worked very hard,” I said. Then, with a devilish raise of my brow, “Don’t worry, I will get you home in no time.”
She smiled. Yes, I had a hot, fast car.
“I will be back next Sunday. We will meet again at the same time?” I said, holding the door for her.
“Oh yes.” She nodded rapidly.
“As I told you, I’ve arranged several sessions for you with Greta while I’m gone. She will teach you the rest of syllabi. So you will know all the basics when I return. Other than that, prrrrractice as much as you can.” I hoped the rolling “r” would ingrain the word into her beautiful brain.
She nodded excitedly.
Chapter 17
After I checked into the hotel in Tokyo with Xenia, I returned to the agency Tatiana had worked for, as I’d told my uncle I would. I knew they wouldn’t give me any information, but I hadn’t had success with the clubs; it was worth a try.
“Can I help you?” asked a young blonde woman at the front desk. She had an American accent. She didn’t even bother to ask if I spoke English. She was very pretty, with a small nose, wide-set almond eyes, and full lips. I wondered if she was a model as well.
“I need to speak with Madeline Scott.”
“Okay…your name?” she asked, picking up the receiver.
“Oleg Gavrilene.” I gave my uncle’s name, figuring she might be more inclined to see him.
“Oleg Gavrilene is here to see you,” she said. Though I couldn’t discern words, I heard Madeline’s voice rising on the other end.
“Okay, I’ll let him know,” the girl said. She nodded, as if she was beginning to hang up.
“I’m not leaving till I talk to her,” I said, voice hard, cold and serious. Exactly the way my uncle talks.
“Um, he said—” Then I heard Madeline’s voice again. She was yelling at the girl, as if it was her fault for not getting rid of me. The girl smiled nervously as she placed the receiver down. “She says she doesn’t have much time but will talk to you briefly.”
“Thank you very much,” I said.
Madeline appeared around the corner in a few minutes. When her large, brown eyes connected with mine, she stepped back, surprised.
“It’s me. I need to talk about my sister,” I said, standing, speaking in a soft tone, smiling serenely.
She looked both relieved and annoyed.
“Hello, Mr. Zakharov,” she said. Her handshake was firm and all business. It had only been six months since I last saw her but she looked several years older. Her model face bore noticeable lines now, particularly around her eyes and full-lipped mouth, and I detected a slight bit of gray lining her parted blonde hair. She was a thirty-five-year-old version of the models she hired. She was still waif thin, and wore tight, low-cut jeans, high black pumps, and an electric blue top bearing a Versace tag.
I walked toward her, assuming I’d be following her to her office, but she motioned for me to take a seat in the reception area. Just as I’d suspected: once she saw it was me, the non-threatening one, she’d give me nothing.
“We don’t know anything beyond what I told Mr. Gavrilene,” she said, sitting down in a lounge chair and motioning for me to take the seat opposite her.
“So you still know nothing of her whereabouts?” I said.
“No, we don’t. And we likely won’t, Mr. Zakharov. Now that her bills are paid, she’s none of our concern.”
I snickered and shook my head. “You brought her here as a child. She gets lost on your dime. And she’s none of your concern?” I said, my anger growing by the second.
“Mr. Zakharov, she was not a minor when she came to us. She is not a minor now. She is not a child. We have no control over her.”
She was right. Tatiana was barely eighteen when she left for Tokyo. But the agency took advantage of her. They threatened my parents, saying she needed to repay her debt to the agency for room and board. It was their fault she got no work. They’d promised her work. I felt Madeline looking at my hands. They were bunched into fists. I was fuming. If I let my anger get the best of me, she’d call someone to come remove me. Like last time. It couldn’t come to that.
“Look, Mr. Zakharov, if she comes back of her own volition, I will call you,” Madeline continued. “But I doubt that. She’s wanted nothing to do with us for some time. Now the feeling is mutual.”
But I had more questions. About the payment of her debts. I needed to refocus the conversation. “When exactly were the debts paid off?”
She looked up to the left, thinking. “A few weeks ago.”
“Who gave her the money? It was a lot. Who would pay it all off? And why?” I was getting worked up. There were too many questions. It was ridiculous for her not to care.
“I don’t know that, Mr. Zakharov. I only know they were paid.”
“How? In cash? Did she come in and pay them?”
“I don’t know that,” she said, shaking her head.
“What do you mean? How could you not know that? Did she bring the money into the office? Send it in? In cash? You have to know something.”
She continued shaking her head. “Mr. Zakharov, please. I only know that the sum of money she owed was wired to the agency from an unknown account. It is not our business to ask questions. We received the money, that’s all we require.”
I was about to jump out of my seat and shake her down. They cared only about money. They cared nothing about these girls, what happened to them, where they went, how they fared in a foreign country with no support, the lives they might have ruined. My fists were bunched again.
“That’s all the information I have. I must get back to my desk now.” She stood and extended her hand to me.
“What if she was kidnapped? What if her debts were paid off by someone with an ulterior motive?”
“Mr. Zakharov, there’s no evidence of that,” she said, lowering her hand.
“There’s no evidence that the person has her best interests in mind either,” I said. She shook her head, like I was being completely unreasonable. “There’s no evidence either way because there are no records. Maybe you want it that way.”
Her eyelids fluttered and she briefly looked away. When her gaze returned to me, her mouth was drawn in a hard line. “I don’t expect her to return but I will tell you if she does. Mr. Zakharov, look elsewhere for your sister.” She walked toward the hall, then turned back to me, still seated. “Mr. Zakharov, I must ask you to leave. Or I will have to call security,” she said, before continuing down the hall.
I remained seated a few moments. This did mean Tatiana was still alive. Not that I hadn’t known she was all along. But was she okay? Was she enslaved somewhere by someone who simply wanted to cut off all ties so that no one would search for her? Would I ever find my sister? I looked up at the receptionist weakly. She smiled nervously at me, as if to tell me she really didn’t want to turn me in, and begging me to leave. I nodded, stood and walked out. I felt like warning her to get out now, while she still could, but refrained. Maybe she already knew that anyway. Maybe she was working the front desk to pay off her debt instead of stripping.
On my way back to the hotel, all I could think about was the last time I’d spoken with Tatiana. By phone. The landline in Siberia. She had no cell phone, of course. She was so excited about the job. I’d congratulated her. She was leaving Siberia. She was getting out. She was going to have a future. She was elated. I knew she didn’t want to go back home. I knew because we were siblings. And I knew myself. She shared my desire for more. For life. But what had happened to her? What had happened to that innocent, ecstatic eighteen-year-old so full of h
ope?
I didn’t call my uncle. Why did he even suggest I go to the agency? Just to get myself all worked up over information he knew I wouldn’t get? We wanted different things for Tatiana anyway. He wanted to force her to return to my mother. I wanted to find her to ensure she could live her life on her own terms. Our desires were clearly at odds.
I walked haphazardly around central Tokyo, approaching random people and showing them Tatiana’s picture. I stayed out so long, hoping someone somewhere would know something, or know someone who knew something. Talk about needles in haystacks. It turned to dusk. I had to get back to the hotel.
I made it just in time to take a shower and dress for the show. Xenia was deeply annoyed, to put it mildly.
“Where the hell have you been? They wanted to treat us for dinner. I kept trying to call your cell. I had no idea where you were.”
I checked my phone. I did have several messages, all from Xenia.
I should have apologized and told her I had a lot on my mind. But I was too angry and frustrated. With all that Tatiana might be going through, who the hell was fortunate, pampered Xenia to complain? “How was I to know that? They should have invited us before,” I said.
She threw her hands up and harrumphed.
Still, the performance went very well, as usual. We set the audience on fire with our first show dance.
Then, something happened that made me do something I’d never done before. We had a short break between our routines, while a ballroom couple performed. I checked my cell phone again. There was a call from a number I didn’t recognize. It was a local number. They didn’t leave a message. I walked to a quiet spot and called it. It rang several times. Nothing.
“What are you doing? Can’t that wait until after we’re done?” Xenia huffed.
No. This could be my sister. Who was this? I called and called but the phone just rang and rang. No voicemail. Nothing.
“Sasha?” Xenia called out, stomping her foot.
I gave her my palm, and tried again. Someone had to pick up. They’d called me. This was a valid number.
