Letters from Yelena

by Guy Mankowski

  The more approachable I looked, the more the other students started to come up to this reticent stranger. The other girls had bonded with one another immediately, and I was determined I wouldn’t be far behind. Ultimately it was my passion for dancing which brought me out of seclusion. Some of the younger girls admired my dancing and looked to me for advice. I felt so honoured that they had turned to me that I gave them all I could. Soon I learnt that they too could help me in ways I had not imagined. When all I wanted to do was be alone, they encouraged me to join them for films and I started to see this was better than isolation. We messed around with makeup, painted one another’s nails, and practiced our retires on the radiators. Many of the girls could still only do this slowly, and with some wobbling. I taught them the technique Natalya had shown me – to take a sharp intake of breath just as you snap your foot into position. When it spared a couple of them the rod in our next session at the barre, they were very grateful for it. I soon found myself turning to these girls for laughter and comfort instead of bottling it all inside.

  With some of the students looking to me for guidance, my instructors made it clear that I was towards the top of the class, with only a couple of the more expensively trained dancers ahead of me. I wasn’t only becoming popular in class – a couple of the boys would insist on walking with me whenever we moved between lessons. The Korean girls saw this as more of a compliment than my European contemporaries, and they encouraged me to start wearing more makeup. I was still cautious around boys though. It seemed ugly to use my body for sex, when I felt its purpose was to dance. Relationships at the academy were discouraged, and that reinforced the feeling I already had that sex was wrong. My whole thinking about it was negative and restrictive. But some of the more mature boys at the academy helped me to gradually soften my perspective.

  Inessa and I started to write to each other. She was not very good at expressing how she felt in writing, but I guessed at her silences and tribulations. I hoped for the opportunity to get her away from home, but I knew that in time, she would be perfectly able to do this herself. She said she did not recognise me in the letters I sent her. She said it sounded as if my life had become very glamorous. Once she even said she wished I could have taken her with me.

  Slowly, as my guard came down, I started to enjoy my new life. My preparation for the graduation dance, known as the Sdacha, became my welcome distraction. Teachers began to ask me what role I would like to dance in it; I would be prioritised along with Freijer, a catlike Danish girl who I grew close to when our joint ambitions presented us with similar challenges. I knew that a high percentage of pupils would not make it to graduation, but I didn’t fear this. One day, my teacher Massine confirmed that he had picked me to dance the famous pas de deux from Romeo and Juliet with a young Argentine called Julio. I had never spoken to him, but I had admired his dancing for some time, and so I thought our partnership might work. I had reasons to be enthused.

  Thank you for allowing me to share these hidden moments with you, Noah. By revealing them through a letter I feel I have excavated a period of time which otherwise would have always remained concealed. It’s strange how when you open up to someone you assume your candour and their receptiveness will consistently endure. But writing to you today I see instead how miraculous it is if you ever get to reveal yourself at all; how many people must keep their stories supressed for the whole of their lives. So you allowing me to express myself more than once causes me to owe you a debt of gratitude that I don’t think I can ever repay.

  Love,

  Yelena

  Dear Noah,

  It wasn’t a dancer who first overcame my defences. Rehearsals for the Sdacha had just begun when I met Vlad, a man who flaunted his charms almost aggressively. Difficult as it might be, I feel I should tell the story of what happened with him. Otherwise a key part of who I am now will remain unmapped.

  Although at that time we were all becoming more and more focused, a sense of excitement was also building. All the students were exhilarated to think that we would soon be dancing at the world famous Mariinsky Theatre. Amongst the elite in St Petersburg, taking your children to watch the ballet there has long been part of a cultural rite of passage. The Mariinsky is an elaborate building not far from the academy – its exterior a unique blend of blue and green, studded with white pillars. It would be the scene at which many of our ambitions would soon either be fulfilled or dashed.

  As the date of the Sdacha grew nearer we started to hear about the many talent scouts from around the world who would be present at the performance. We knew impressing them would be key to ensuring a career in ballet. As if this was not enough to take on, as a result of my prominent role I was told that some local culture magazines were keen to interview me in advance of the show. The largest of these would also be interviewing two other dancers from the Vaganova for an article entitled ‘Tomorrow’s Stars of Ballet’. The journalist assigned to interview us was called Vlad, and when his name was first mentioned I noticed a frisson go around all those present.

  It was on one particularly balmy day in April that I first saw Vlad backstage at the Mariinsky. Rehearsals had now transferred from the studio to the theatre itself, and I had just finished practicing. For the performance a special, sloping stage had been commissioned to match the floor we had all trained on. Looking out from the stage, the theatre itself was undeniably intimidating, with its infinite rows of red seats framed by gold stalls that rose to the grand ceiling. The centrepiece of the ceiling was a great chandelier, skirted by painted cherubs. The vast stage, teetering over the orchestral pit, directly faced the Royal Box. I was stood on the side of the stage, getting my breath back and taking it all in, when Vlad first caught my eye.

  We held each other’s gaze until someone called his name. As he turned to respond I took in his profile. He had a high, almost aggressive jaw line, further pronounced by the half-light backstage. He scribbled something in his notepad, and while he did so, people came over to him in a manner that suggested his presence was somehow validating. I was not sure exactly what it was that made people consult him so much, but when I later spoke to him I realised that every movement he made was imbued with an unusual confidence.

  Freijer came over and told me that this young man apparently wished to interview the two of us. He was keen to see our dressing room, and Freijer and I exchanged amused glances. Throughout the interview I couldn’t help but be detached and distracted, and at the time I barely noticed how this seemed to intrigue him and make his advances even more overt. The other ballerinas were vying for his attention, and yet I was treating him with total disregard.

  Afterwards, the girls started to make their way to drinks at a nearby bar, and I heard the photographer ask Vlad if he was coming. He loudly said that he would if I accompanied him and…

  Are you sure you want to know these things? I remember how badly it stung me to read about you and Catherine’s past. I’ll gloss over the parts that might be tricky to read, but you cannot ever be jealous of Vlad, Noah. The only important point to make is that for the first time, I genuinely intrigued someone; at least that was how it seemed. At some point over the course of the evening we ended up alone together, and he was keen for us to talk into the small hours. And not only talk. I had never known someone be so intrigued by my answers that they expressed a compulsion to chase the numerous implications within them. I felt helpless, overpowered. It seemed that everything about me amused, unsettled, intrigued him. I told him about Natalya and he wanted me to physically describe her: how exactly had she inspired me? I mentioned Donetsk, and he wanted to know all about my friends there, what the school had been like to live in. A pithy answer provoked some minor deconstruction of my personality, and yet however much I dismissed or belittled his attention, every time he implored me to reveal more I felt myself weaken. All the time he drew physically closer, and all the time I was made to feel that was natural, and not overly intense at all. He was masterful at seduction.

/>   He had this very easy way of being tactile without seeming intrusive. Freijer took me to one side during the course of the evening. ‘You know,’ she said. ‘He is quite a big deal. I know that he only seems interested in whoever looks to be the next big name, and that’s probably the case, but he’s making quite a name for himself as a journalist. You could do a lot worse than have him as a boyfriend.’ I laughed the remark off, but there was no denying that his focus on me drew the attention of everyone around me. Suddenly, I was not only a promising dancer, but a talking point too.

  At the end of the night he offered to walk me back to the academy. As he did so, I remember him expressing some jealousy towards me, which I found quite strange. ‘You’re going to be famous,’ he had said. ‘Aren’t you?’ I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to confirm or deny this. At that moment his eyes narrowed, and I laughed to dispel the tension. ‘If I’m not careful, you’ll outshine me,’ he said. I thought nothing of it. When he asked me if he could take me for dinner that week, I found myself accepting.

  He met me at the Vaganova, and he seemed keen to see as much of the academy as was permitted. He had arranged for us to have a choice table at the Rossi restaurant, on the end of my street.

  The conversation had a level of intensity I had never known before. The smile when greeting me seemed warm, but was somehow predatory too. The pauses between statements were never longer than they needed to be. He again pushed for details, but knew when to relent and give me space. All the while, everything was tended to – did I have the right kind of wine? I had never experienced how on a date a person can anticipate your next response, and always have something ready to intrigue you with next. I know that you don’t like being reminded of another man’s romantic cunning, but I didn’t want you to think that I yielded to Vlad easily. I didn’t think that the careful appliance of attention might be the actions of a slick salesman. Vlad had done his research on me, and had decided in advance that he was impressed, regardless of what I said or did. When I in turn enquired about him I always met a curious blank. I see now how clever that was – in not revealing himself he urged me to strive and understand him. By catching myself in the act, I would therefore think myself taken with him.

  I didn’t normally drink. But he made every offer of wine seem decadent, yet also perfectly natural. At the end of the meal, he suggested that we go for a walk. It was spring by then, and I had barely left this quarter of the city for months. It was late on a Saturday night, and the sun had just begun to descend behind the high buildings. I told him that I didn’t know where we should go. I wasn’t going to take him to the Mikhailovsky, that belonged to me. ‘You mean to tell me that you live here, but have never seen the city?’ he asked, as we made our way down the Nevksy Prospekt.

  During that walk, St Petersburg reached inside me and took a hold of something, for the first time. We were passing the Kazan Cathedral and maybe it was the wine, but as we walked past, the two wings of the building suddenly seemed to spread out in an encompassing embrace. Its high pillars towered above us, solemn and patriarchal. The cathedral was bathed in a gold glow, and the city’s lights flickered over its exteriors. It reflected them, resolute amongst the tides of history. Around it, vendors loudly announced their wares and I could hear eighties pop music emanating from a nearby car. The combination of the music’s plea and the building’s resolve was suddenly gripping. I felt as though time slowed to a pace in which all the sensations around me were absorbable. Advertisements bristled with colours and persuasion, capturing lifestyles most of us would never have. I thought how, regardless of the era, people were always sold dreams that they could never fully consume. They never ceased in their striving, they consumed ravenously and wanted lustily too. Vlad saw that I was moved by the spectacle, and he placed his arm around my shoulder. ‘At last, you are fully seeing the city.’

  That night we walked down to the Admiralty Gardens, which skirted the great, ice blue River Neva. It was where our quarter of the city ended and the next province began. We came to the fountain in Alexander Garden, which spurted thin jets of silver in glistening arcs. All around the fountain couples clung to one another in the fading light. Vlad invited me to sit down on one of the benches, and as I did I felt part of a couple for the first time. We fitted in so neatly amongst the other nestling couples around us. In the dark I felt him reach to put his arm around me, and something inside me gave way as I leant against him. It had stood resolute for many years, but it had been eager to crumble so readily.

  In the weeks that followed our romance moved quickly. His apartment, a chic, lavish affair just around the corner from me, became my second home. I did wonder as to what degree this affluence was a result of his achievement, or parental funding. On his wall was a pop art portrait of himself and his new business partner. Photographs of him at Spanish and English festivals emblazoned the wall, his eyes curiously glazed in each. On Sunday mornings there was the cleaner, who eyed him narrowly as he fussed over breakfast for us.

  It was inevitable that I would want to seek out his company the minute I was free. After all, it came with such immediate rewards. He would often arrive to meet me laden with flowers. When I came for dinner there would inevitably be some small, wrapped present waiting on the table; a poetry book perhaps, with the sections that reminded him of me underlined. I had never been courted, and so being fussed over made for a pleasant change. Sometimes it seemed impossible for me to say anything he disagreed with. The only time his sleek, immaculate exterior became threatened was when he was in the company of somebody he felt was superior to him. In late night dinners, or moonlit walks, he was always the same: self-enclosed, eager to praise, and yet always resolute. For some reason I didn’t find the sense of distance at all concerning, merely charismatic. I tried to address this boundary by opening up to him in a way that I had never done before. I told him a little about Bruna, and that I had always felt sure I would never be able to share these dark chapters with anyone. I explained that because of what had happened, I’d wondered if I would ever be able to have a relationship. He replied that we were simply very lucky to have found one another.

  There was another Vlad, which remained out of reach. In his absence, my sense of excitement was maintained by his constant messages. He wanted to cook dinner for me on any night he could and show me off at social occasions, telling people what I did before he explained who I was.

  Even now, I cannot trace the exact moment when he decided I was no longer worthy of his attention. Just as his immediate affection had seemed unearned, so too did his sudden disdain. I was too young to notice when someone liked me for what I was, rather than who I was. His messages gradually became terse, his disdain for me more apparent in public. It was as if he found it distasteful that I was not everything you’d assume a rising ballerina to be. I was unashamed of the fact that I had got to this point through sheer application. But Vlad had fallen for a package, so he felt cheated when it was not all as he had hoped it would be. At first he had found my lack of cultural sophistication charming, but it now frustrated him. If someone would mention an English band I didn’t know, his brow would crease as if somebody had just vomited next to us. In my heart, I was still the same girl who had felt lost even in Donetsk, so I certainly did not have the confidence to apply myself in social situations here. I was not prepared to fake myself either, and so floundered in the middle ground. As a result, his messages suddenly dwindled, and he took much longer to reply when I tried to get in touch. It was a fortnight later when one of the Korean girls told me she had seen him having dinner with Freijer.

  When I called him to ask if this was true, his phone was turned off. After agonising for another day, I called again the following evening. This time it rang out. When he finally answered his phone, his first words were, ‘Come over.’

  It’s hard to dwell on the vaulting feeling that overwhelmed me when he answered the door.

  ‘Is it true that you have started seeing Freijer?’ I asked, as I stepped
over the threshold. His eyes widened, and he grabbed his coat. He looked at me with an expression that I struggled to see as anything other than pity. ‘Let’s go out,’ he said, ushering me back through the door and closing it behind him. As we turned I saw how quickly certain areas, once conducive to a bond of some sort, could be closed off. A couple of months ago he had urged me to treat his home as if it was mine. But now something had shifted, and like any spurned lover I was expected to immediately relinquish any intimacy with place as well as person.

  ‘Why can’t I come inside to talk?’

  He pulled the coat around himself. ‘You can do if you want. It’s just, I thought you might prefer to walk and talk.’

  ‘I’d prefer to know what has happened between you and my friend, Vlad.’

  He continued walking, half a step ahead of me. We passed down a series of side streets, and I sensed him growing out of breath. ‘Slow down,’ I said. ‘I can barely keep up.’ It was only when we came to the canal that he finally slowed. ‘Just tell me if you took her for dinner.’

  He stopped, and leant against a rail. ‘Well we went for dinner, yes. I don’t see the harm in that.’

  ‘You invited her out?’

  ‘There were things she wanted to talk about.’

  ‘What things?’

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He stood agape for a moment, looking slightly ridiculous. His aggressive sensuality was not attractive now, but somehow bohemian and distasteful. ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.’