by A. Zavarelli
And it hurts mercilessly when I squeeze my feet into the toe box. I take three deep breaths and push until my foot is in position. The beautiful shoes don’t take away my pain, but they do hide the ugliness of the sport. I sever the mental connection with the agony of my body before joining the rest of the cast. My guard follows dutifully behind me, weaving through the chaos that is the Met. Throughout the halls, the structure is alive and buzzing with art in its many forms. In the basement, the Met orchestra rehearses “Mahler’s Symphony No. 1,” while on a separate level, a craftswoman paints hundreds of flowers for Madama Butterfly. Somewhere between the wig room and costume shop and the class where our ballet mistress whipped us into shape earlier, there is hair and makeup, which I skip since I always elect to do it myself. At one point, we pass by a statue being erected for Tosca, and a rapper/drag queen who is more well known for his role as Prince Coffee.
Upon arrival at our final destination, the stage is already abuzz with energy. Dancers in costume whip out the moves they struggle with most, practicing tirelessly while they still have the chance. Also busy at work are the conductor, lighting manager, master carpenter, and stage manager. Just a few of the cogs that make this giant ballet machine purr.
There isn’t enough time to prepare. The only faith I can subscribe to is my unwavering practice. I have lived, breathed, eaten, and slept with this ballet. My mornings are spent with the company. Warm-ups at the barre. Rehearsals and exercises followed up with more training on my own time. Yoga and Pilates for strengthening any of the perceived weaknesses jotted into my journal. I have subsisted with the intent that this moment would be perfection. That every chance I seize to shine will be perfection. If I am to be appointed principal, I must be faultless. Every role, large or small, is an opportunity to prove my worth. Time is not a dancer’s friend, and when you are the daughter of Manuel Valentini, it can only be your enemy. I have a dream, short lived as it may be. As long as blood warms my veins, I will fight for it.
There are no excuses.
So when I am called upon, I float onto the stage, and I dance. Sometimes, false bravado is all you have. You can only hope and pray that you’ve done everything right. I slept for nine hours. I ate some light protein. I’ve stretched, though not as much as I would have liked. Now, I have only my skill to rely on.
The initial shot of adrenaline flooding my veins buffers the pain, gifting me false confidence. But upon stepping into my first croisé position, I become aware that something isn’t right. The toe box is cramped, and I blame myself. I should have been better prepared. I should have tested the shoes one more time backstage to ensure everything was correct. But my duty was to my father. I must always do what’s right.
The choreography lives on, and so do I. Regardless of the distraction, my moves are flawless, but I don’t allow myself an ounce of arrogance. Every position is performed with care, each step precise and light. My father is watching from the audience, of that there is no doubt. I can’t disappoint him. Every performance is a justification for the countless years I have dedicated to my practice.
I need ballet like I need air to breathe. It is my life. My heart. My soul. And the thing I fear most is what will become of me when I am no longer a dancer. I’m on track. For as long as I can remember, this train has been moving in one direction, and I’m going to get there. It’s in my bones. It’s the only thing I know for certain.
But Vivi would be quick to tell me that nothing in life is certain.
The first blow comes when I rise en pointe. White-hot agony pierces through my toes without warning, and warm, sticky blood fills the toe boxes.
I close my eyes and attempt to breathe through the pain while I come to terms with one unwavering certainty. My shoes have been sabotaged. There is nothing I can do but go on with the performance and pray I don’t bleed onto the floor. Whatever tore through my flesh is already embedded there, and I don’t care. I must finish at any cost.
I must not falter.
It is with this grand intention that my entire world topples in a matter of seconds. One leap and one failed landing, and it’s all over.
As I crumple to the floor, the fear at the forefront of my mind is the snap I felt in my ankle. Logically, I’m aware an entire audience is present for the worst moment of my life, but I have disengaged. Clouded by disbelief, I attempt to get up, only to collapse again. My ankle no longer functions. It doesn’t move.
I could think of a thousand ways I would rather die before someone finally takes pity on me and carries me off the stage.
“Have some mercy, won’t you?” Papà’s shadowed figure whispers from behind the curtain.
“Were you under any illusions that this might end differently when you made the agreement?”
“She is my only daughter.”
“Ahh, yes. That does pull at the heartstrings, I suppose. But I believe she was also your only daughter when the matter of collateral was explained to you. If you are not happy with this solution, then perhaps you should pay the debt and be done with it.”
“You know very well that I can’t,” my father says. “She is injured. At least allow her to heal, and then perhaps we can work something—”
“She can heal just as well under the supervision of my doctor.”
“But the bills,” Papà protests.
“You wouldn’t be able to pay them anyway. They will be added to your debt. And when you come to collect, as I know you will, she will be good as new.”
“I cannot stand for this. This is not the way she was raised. She is a good girl. Her reputation will be ruined—”
“What choice do you have?” the unforgiving Russian asks. “It is you or your daughter. And I’m afraid I have little use for you.”
Silence follows.
My eyes are still and closed, but sleep has evaded me. The trauma of this evening has drained me of my will to think, feel, or even breathe. I have pleaded with every deity I could think to summon. I have prayed. I have cried. I have swung violently between hope and despair.
Intellectually, I’m aware of what’s taking shape right now between my father and Nikolai. But I can’t find the presence of mind I require to care. What does anything matter when the only thing I ever wanted has been so viciously taken from me?
It still feels like a nightmare I can’t wake up from. No matter how many times it goes round and round my mind, I can’t force it to make sense. Certainly, incidents like these are not unheard of. Life in the world of ballet can be a blood sport. Jealousy is rife, and the competition is ruthless. But I never once thought anyone in my own company to be capable of such viciousness. The most I have ever been victim to is a dirty look or catty comment. Such an extreme measure has blindsided me, and I’m left to wonder how I didn’t see it coming.
A hand grazes my arm, and when I open my eyes, my father is at my side, his face grim. Beside him is Nikolai, unnervingly quiet. He doesn’t belong here, and I don’t know why my father allowed it. My world has always been small, but the only thing I’ve ever known my Papà to be is powerful. His men do what he tells them. I do what he tells me. Everyone falls into order when he speaks. But not Nikolai. In this new chain of events, Nikolai is the one giving orders.
“Tanaka.” Papà’s voice doesn’t waver, but it’s softer than I’ve ever heard it. “There has been a change of plans. You must be a good girl and do as I say. Do you understand?”
My only response is to blink. I’m too numb to argue. I’m too wrecked to give him a verbal response. Something he would chastise me for at any other time.
“Nikolai has graciously agreed to provide some accommodations for you while I am away on business. There is no need to worry, though, little lamb. It will only be for a short while.”
I don’t have the emotional capacity to accept this as my reality right now. For years, my life has been on a straight course that never deviated. Principle and ballet. Those were my only goals, and I had such little time to make them happen. I was supposed
to marry Dante. That’s what I’ve been told. That’s what I’ve been preparing for. For my entire life, I’ve been sheltered. Schooled at home. Forbidden from having friends or leaving the house. I could not be alone with a man, ever. It’s what I’ve been taught and what I’ve always abided by. My father arranged my marriage, and it was set in stone. But now, he tells me he is sending me away with a man I don’t know at all. One who appears to have none of the values instilled in me.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder what Dante will say. And then my thoughts gradually drift back to my company. A tear leaks down my cheek, followed by another. I don’t know anything other than one unalterable truth. I’m a dancer. It’s all I have. It’s all I am.
When the doctor returns to discuss my fate, his face is clinical. Detached. And he barely glances at me before addressing my father as he’s been instructed to do.
“Mr. Valentini, your daughter has ruptured two ligaments in her ankle—”
“No.” I try to move, but one look from my father halts me.
“I’m sorry.” The doctor looks at me now. “Your injuries will require surgery to repair the ligaments and remove the glass still embedded in your toes.”
“But I’m a dancer,” I whisper.
His eyes betray the words his bedside manner won’t allow.
Not anymore.
Kosmos—our Vory owned club—is a no-frills establishment. Women and booze are the main attractions up front, and in the back, we run our operations. Today is the 3rd of the month, which means I am due to report for our monthly meeting.
I arrive early to socialize, as is custom, but the man I’m really seeking out is later than usual. Alexei has been preoccupied with his new blonde toy as of late. I think we have all cut him some slack since he’s long overdue for a female companion, and Talia seems to suit him.
Viktor approaches me during the social hour, his face drawn and his eyes tired. Many things have been weighing on his mind in recent weeks, and I can only hope I have not contributed to his worries. The pakhan to our Vory brotherhood, Viktor is the boss and our leader. He is mature in age and harsh in character, but overall, I find him to be a fair man.
“Kol’ka,” he greets me. “How are you?”
“I am well. How is your family?”
He nods and takes a sip of his scotch. “Well enough.”
There is a strained moment of silence between us in which I know what will come next, but I do not show weakness or make excuses. During our last meeting, I was promoted to the rank of avtoritet in my father’s stead. An honor on any other occasion, but I am certain my father does not see it that way. Especially not after I cut off his ear at the order of Viktor.
“Have you heard from Sergei?” Viktor scans the room for the man in question.
“No, we have not spoken since our last encounter.”
Viktor’s brows knit together. “I don’t suppose the events that took place that day bred good will between father and son.”
“I understand why it had to be done.”
“I will not stand for such behavior in our organization. Sergei took too many liberties with his position, and he did not deserve the title he bore.”
“I agree.”
I’m not saying so for the sake of pleasing Viktor. Sergei has always had a head too large for his shoulders, and it gets the best of him often. Familial blood or not, my loyalties lie with the Vory. If Sergei cannot live with our rules, then he is undeserving of the stars we bear.
“Any word on the Rembrandt?” Viktor changes gears.
“No,” I admit reluctantly. Lately, my time has been preoccupied with other pursuits. Most notably, the acquiring of Tanaka Valentini. The time and effort I have spent to bring her into my possession have become a distraction, and my Vory duties have fallen by the wayside.
I could describe what I do in many ways, but the truth is the most simplistic. I am a thief at heart with art being my specialty. I steal it, and I create it, and sometimes, I even destroy it. It is a job unique to someone with my talents. Gone are the days of gangsters shaking down local businesses to earn a nickel or two. In the modern world, times have changed and so have our practices. Priceless art has a large collateral value in criminal organizations, and it is often used for bartering. However, with Viktor’s blessing, I’ve chosen less primitive methods of utilizing the items in our possession to turn a profit.
Typically, the pieces I deal with are opportunistic ventures, but on occasion, I don’t mind a challenge. At some point, Viktor determined a stolen Rembrandt would make a lovely gift to his eldest daughter, should I be able to track it down, but he’s recently become more persistent.
“I don’t suppose she would settle for a forgery?”
Viktor smiles. “Don’t be daft, Kol’ka. She’d never know the difference, but I would.”
“Indeed,” I answer. I can respect that he only wants her to have the best. Something rare and priceless. And the hunt has always thrilled me. Finding something rumored to be lost for so many years gives me an adrenaline rush like no other. My travels have been extensive, and my recoveries worthy of a museum in my honor. But my position requires me to remain humble, no matter how big the score. Our clients value anonymity, and they would not pay such steep prices for something anyone could own. The stupidly wealthy are just another form of crooks, and they get off on the thought of owning stolen artwork, too. To be in possession of something so valuable they can only share it with their most intimate and trusted friends is a thrill that expensive trips or flashy cars can’t replicate.
Viktor glances at his watch. The meeting is due to start in several minutes, but he is not finished with this conversation, and already I am weary of what comes next.
“I’m sure it will come as no surprise that I have some questions for you,” he says.
“Of course.”
“Tell me about the girl.”
I drain the rest of my vodka and lime and dispose of the empty glass on the table. I have only been avtoritet for several weeks. What I did was ballsy, and some might say stupid, but in my eyes, I have earned my title and the power that comes with it. This was not an impulse decision. I have been waiting my whole life for answers.
“She is the daughter of Manuel Valentini.”
“I’m aware,” Viktor muses. “He has requested several meetings with me already. What I want to know is why she is with you.”
“Her father owes us a great deal of money. I am merely motivating him to pay it back in a timely fashion.”
Viktor’s dark eyes move to mine, lancing right through the half-truth. “Do not trifle with me, Kol’ka.”
My eyes move over the room and land on Sergei, who has finally made an appearance. His head is still bandaged where his ear used to be, and he is absent of the smug expression he typically wears. It’s safe to say he has come back with his tail between his legs.
“Does this have any relation to your father’s business dealings in the past?”
I return my attention to Viktor, affronted by the observation. Discretion is a quality I take great pride in possessing, and it never crossed my mind that he would so clearly guess my intentions.
“There have been many rumors over the years.” Viktor retrieves a cigar from his front pocket, pursing it between his lips as he speaks. “He once said himself that your mother ran off with an Italian.”
“That isn’t true.” My tone is careful and deliberate, but it makes little difference. The fact that I am defending my mother at all is the answer to his question. When she disappeared from my life at the age of ten, the only explanation I was given was that she was a liar and a whore, and I was never to speak her name again.
Viktor gestures for my lighter, and I hand it to him. He lights up and takes a few puffs of the cigar while he settles on the right words. “The truth is, I’m not certain what happened to your mother. She was a good girl. Too sweet to be caught up with the likes of your father. If you do discover the truth, Kol’ka, I would like to
know myself.”
His words ground me. I did not ask for his blessing, but in his own way, Viktor has given it. He is aware of my true intentions, and I can do what is necessary now that we have come to an understanding.
Viktor checks his watch and abruptly decides this conversation is over. He announces that the meeting is about to start, and social hour is finished. The brothers file into the meeting room, and I walk beside the pakhan. Before we reach the door, one last thought occurs to him, and he halts me.
“There is just one thing I must insist on.”
“Yes?”
His nose wrinkles in distaste. “The girl is not Russian.”
“I’m aware.”
He flicks a piece of lint off his jacket, the gesture symbolic of a warning. “So don’t get attached to her.”
“Do you like?”
The Russian dancer leans forward to show off her new pair of tits while I smoke a cigarette. Her name is Mara, and I fuck her on Tuesdays. Lately, she’s been out of commission on account of the surgery. I haven’t seen her around for a while, and now I know why. Beneath her tiny bikini top, the implants look like grapefruits. They don’t move at all. I know because it came to my attention when I fucked her ten minutes ago.
Mara’s wondering why I didn’t touch them. She’s pursing her lips, and those look a little swollen too, if I’m not mistaken.
A wisp of smoke coils out from the corner of my mouth. “They’re lovely.”
Sometimes it’s better to lie. I’m a man who prefers sins of the flesh, not silicone. This will be the last time Mara and I meet. But while she’s here and it’s easy, I gesture to my dick, which is hard again.
The beautiful thing about a woman like Mara is that’s all it takes. We are both too jaded to believe in love. She uses me for the void that Daddy left her, and I use her because it’s uncomplicated. She does her best work on her knees, and there’s no shame in that.