‘So you’re saying she asked you?’
‘Yelena, what do you want me to say? I thought we were just friends, but we just... kind of hit it off whenever we saw each other.’
‘And so you thought you’d follow that interest up with a date, without telling me first?’
‘I’ve had a difficult year,’ he said. ‘Don’t make this harder for me.’
I bargained and pleaded with him. What about all the gifts and flowers and meals, how could he so quickly change his mind? But he just looked at floor, and hugged himself, and said ‘These things happen.’
It reminded me of the way Bruna had left me feeling; that no matter how much I developed, or what I proved to myself, I would always be beneath contempt. I felt so embarrassed by this turn of events. Everyone at the academy had known we’d been dating, and now everyone would see him with Freijer. I said this to him, but he just shrugged. I had never before known that feeling, of suddenly being unable to engage with someone who you’d felt close to. When you are wanted by people like Vlad, you can do no wrong. Everything you say is funnier and more interesting than what anyone else can say. But when they have consumed you, it is as if you have an aroma that is unbearable. And if you are unsure of yourself, it can serve to confirm your darkest doubts. Which is what began to happen the moment I left him, mute and inarticulate, his resolute air only temporarily bruised.
The raw hurt I felt made me curse my decision to be less introverted. Over the next few days I remained silent in class, and then holed myself up in my room when the day was over. The romance with Vlad had only lasted a couple of months, and I berated myself for having let it get so public during that time. It meant that my sudden introversion drew more attention, induced more gossip, but I didn’t know how else to get through the day. The girls in the hall responded with unexpected kindness, wanting to distract me by inviting me to watch films with them. Afterwards, they would try and get me to open up. Others comforted me with the previously withheld knowledge, that he had a long history of forging public relationships that his vanity could not maintain for long. People didn’t speak of Freijer though, and what all this said of our friendship. When I saw her in classes she was inevitably smiling, and sensing my gaze she would quickly turn away from me. I learnt to see her as just another member of the class but it was hard, as we would soon be performing in the same show.
I became acquainted with a new kind of silence, one very different from the type I had cultivated in Donetsk. This was the silence of emerging resolve, and the silence of a great city. In a strange way, I learnt to draw comfort from it, and see how this short relationship was of so little consequence given all that was happening to me. I knew I had to regroup quickly, as my graduation performance at the Mariinsky would be my one chance to impress people who could ensure my success. I knew that a good performance could see me being permanently accepted as a dancer at the Mariinsky. This would give me financial security as well as ensuring my career as a ballerina. Yet at this crucial hour I felt so flat and dejected.
I walked around the fringes of the city, as if hoping to find a place in which all this confusion made sense. But over the course of those many long walks I realised that answers could not always be found externally. I grew to know the uncompromising silence of the outside world and in abandoning my resentment, started to search for meaning inside myself instead. I learnt that within me there existed a labyrinthine world of my own making, which I was the architect of. I saw that I could seek infinite comfort from its textures, but I would never be able to share them with another. It seems strange now that such a shift in my worldview occurred from so brief a romance. But my life had been a wilderness for so long that the discovery of intimacy had seemed a belated invitation to join the real world. Now it had been snatched back, and I felt like I was an outsider again. It had briefly seemed that I might be able to exist in the limelight of people’s attention, but this break up confirmed my suspicions that I would always exist on the perimeters. Knowing this, I developed a hunger for solitude that persists even now. Vlad would never know this, but by prompting me to seek strength from myself, he gave me the tools with which to finally become a ballerina.
I had been mentally preparing for my role in the Sdacha for a while, but now I needed to perform physically too. I was not feeling very strong. My sense of confusion and anger was still very fresh, but I knew that I would be back to square one if I missed this chance. I had to find the strength to get over this pain and give the performance of my life.
People often talk about channelling despair and anger into a worthwhile activity. At that point, dancing became an aggressive distraction. Sensuous expression was not top of the agenda. To be considered for the Mariinsky, the next step was to dance well at the end of year exam. That was the only way to be one of the dancers that the director would choose for consideration at the theatre.
At the exam I consciously tried to channel my hurt and pain. At the barre I would continue to hold a position even when I had been told I could relax, just to show what I was capable of. I was simply refusing to fail. I was utterly focused, but it was at the expense of any self-expression.
I was told after the exam that although I was still being considered, I had not danced with enough versatility to guarantee anything. My next chance to prove myself would be at the audition for the theatre, where I would need to dance not only in front of my own teachers, but also the directors.
The days that followed were perhaps some of the hardest of my career. If I failed, I couldn’t use Vlad as an excuse, I would have only myself to blame. This opportunity would not come again. The exam had taught me that at this level, focus, determination and precision were not enough. I also needed to display something special, something that set me apart from all the other girls.
I was told in advance that at this audition, I would be dancing alone in front of the panel. The night before I decided to walk around the city, although it was already late, and I was feeling tired. I wanted to try and reconnect with exactly why I was here. At first I replayed in my mind all that I had gone through, but that only made me feel more anxious. But as I was turning, rather disconsolately, back towards the halls it came to me. I was here because I was the girl who had sat in the stalls at the Ukrainian ballet and felt sure it was my destiny to one day dance the greatest role in ballet. All this was nothing more than a means to that end.
The nervousness I felt was hidden by years of practice. I wore a determined smile throughout the audition, and as I danced I gradually became looser, and the smile became more genuine. Afterwards, catching my breath at the barre, I was told I had danced well, but that unfortunately it was not enough. I needed a very good graduation performance and only then would I be considered.
I decided to simply stop feeling overawed by the Mariinsky. Seeing it merely as a theatre, an arena for opportunity, and for the first time I did not feel conscious of its history. I told myself that I would dance as I had always meant to – with passion, and hunger, and pleasure. I wanted people to be able to forget themselves as they watched me dance, to give people solace and a means of escape.
In the days leading up to the dance I developed a couple of habits that have always stayed with me. I put Juliet’s music onto my ipod and I listened to it during every free moment – over breakfast, over dinner, and before I went to sleep. In so doing I grew to learn its nuances and love its intricacies. I stayed on the stage for longer than I needed to, familiarising myself with it, as if it was my own.
Backstage, the Mariinsky is a rabbit warren, made up of little intricate spaces and concealed chambers. Although I was sharing a dressing room with the other dancers, in my mind I pretended I was a Principal, and I acted with the focus that you’d expect of one. The time that I normally would have spent with the other girls I was on the next floor, where the haberdashers worked on all the beautiful costumes. I wanted to make sure my costume was exactly right, and we kept at it until it was perfect.
We
were told that during the dress rehearsal there would be no time for repetitions or corrections. I was relieved therefore to see that out of everyone, I seemed the most prepared. Julio was utterly focused on the task too, and with him I danced as well as I ever had. Freed of the burden of an audience I was able to imagine we were alone in my room, or even that it was just a dream. After the dress rehearsal some talent scouts approached me. I took their cards, but did not allow myself to be swept away by their attention. After all, I knew it would soon evaporate if the Sdacha did not go well.
I told myself to enjoy this final flourish; that I deserved it. My father and Inessa flew in to watch the show, and it filled me with happiness to see them taking their seats at the front as the orchestra warmed up. Inessa looked overawed by the beautiful and historic surroundings, and my father had a look in his eyes that suggested he was quite overwhelmed to think that his own daughter would be coming on stage, here, at any moment. It was enchanting to see an expression on his face that I had never seen before, created as a result of my own effort. It made me feel more confident as I looked out onto the lavish array of rapidly filling seats from the wings. Before the show I sat backstage, listening to the building clamour of the audience. Our teacher came back to offer some last minute reassurance. I smiled at him, and he patted me on the shoulder.
I heard the corps de ballet enter the stage and I felt the soft thump of their feet through the floor. Eventually, the horns that heralded the close of their sequence began. A stagehand appeared at my door and nodded. I tiptoed out onto the stage, the lights instantly blinding me. I felt a murmur of appreciation fill my ears and I looked up and saw Julio enter from the other side of the stage. He held out his hand, and something inside me instantly spread out like wings. That night Julio was a wonderfully attentive partner, and if I slightly overwhelmed him with my jagged and unpredictable style, he was generous enough to accommodate it. I felt utterly in control of the moment, as if it was mine to manipulate and experience at will. My concentration was such that I felt time slow down to the pace I needed it to be. As the piece came to a close I felt a sudden ecstasy tumble through my limbs, and Julio’s smile suggested he was relieved and happy too. As the audience rose to their feet in ravenous applause I felt as if I had suddenly closed the door to a painful chapter of my life and been ushered into another – one full of light and hope. The audience’s applause came as an unexpected balm. This was what life was about. I would always know I could bury myself in that thrilling, visceral noise. We were called back for three ovations, and at the final one, some of the girls at the edge of the stage turned and applauded me. I felt tears slipping down my cheeks, but I always kept smiling.
Afterwards, I went backstage to find the dressing room filled with flowers. A representative from the Mariinsky came back and offered me a place in the company for the next season. When Inessa and my father came back they looked utterly thrilled – Inessa was actually shaking with excitement. It seemed that I had finally found my place in the world, and I could not have felt more relieved and gratified.
With love from,
Yelena
Dear Noah,
Of course I understand if you didn’t know quite what to make of my last letter. If it seemed cruel to send you an account of my first heartbreak, I can only apologise. I never intended to be unkind, only myself. You said that you found it morbidly fascinating to read about Vlad, though it is not a letter you will probably read again. I can understand that. But I was grateful to read that you enjoyed the story of my graduation. It is a story that I often replay to myself, and therefore one I felt I had to share with you.
It is true that I do not dwell on my time at the Mariinsky. It’s not because it was not important to me, more because it is not important to us. I was proud to have gained my certificate, and though I entered the corps de ballet feeling excited, it did not last long. I had drawn attention to myself with my graduation performance, and did not realise that consequently some people might want to knock me down.
However, the looks I got from some other members of the corps when I entered suggested that I was vulnerable. I remember I started compulsively tying and untying my pointe shoes, a nervous tic that had suddenly started. From the corner of the hall, a cluster of girls studied me, their hands on their hips. I looked back at them, trying to be impassive. Sensing this exchange, a girl with auburn hair came over to me, reached down, and neatly tied the ribbons of my shoes around my calves in one go. I looked up at her, pleased and surprised.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’m Yelena.’
‘I know,’ she answered. ‘I’m Alina.’
At that moment the choreographer entered. He was a slight man with a rather squat face, his eyes moved analytically over us. As we moved over to the barre I whispered to Alina that I didn’t know how to play it for the first session. In quick, hushed tones, Alina told me the advice the choreographer had given the girls at a pre-season party the night before. I barely had time to thank her before the barre work began.
But when my moment came, towards the end of centre work, I found that everyone was doing the opposite to me. Whereas my dancing was full of dramatic flourishes, the rest were being very minimal and crisp. The music suddenly rolled to a halt as the choreographer snapped his hands. ‘You,’ he said, pointing at me. ‘What is your name?’
‘Yelena,’ I answered.
‘Everyone observe. This – ’ he started to do an exaggerated version of my flourishes and turns, ‘ – is the last thing I want to see this season. If you want to find yourself at the back of the pack Yelena, continue to dance like this. Maestro, please.’
I looked over at Alina. She was smiling at some of the other girls, who raised their hands to their mouths.
I recovered from this inauspicious start, and learnt to be more selective about who I trusted. I worked hard, and after a year I began to feel a part of the group. I quickly graduated as a second soloist, and a few months later grew into first soloist roles. I slowly came to deeply love rather than fear that wonderful theatre. I expanded my repertoire with many of the most beautiful roles in ballet. I danced as all the fairies in Sleeping Beauty, and in some of the most testing solo roles from Paquita. The choreographer even began to praise me personally, particularly when I danced as Gamzatti in La Bayaderé.
Soon I was twenty-four, and more settled than I had ever been. St Petersburg had gradually become my home, although there had been little time for anything other than ballet. I had grown into the lifestyle and had found a way to make it suit me. Although it was the most famous dancers who were generally taken on tour, opportunities had started to arise to allow me to dance around the world.
For a while producers had been watching me, saying that I was ready for Principal roles. One day, after practice, I was introduced to the director of an English company, a rather unsettling and curious man called Michael. He had come to Russia to scout for talent, and had been ushered in my direction by our choreographer. To my amusement, he insisted on taking me out for dinner, and over a small bowl of pasta he enquired what role I most wanted to play.
Of course, I told him it was my ambition to dance as Giselle. He seemed to already know this. When I told him that the role had always thundered with personal meaning to me, he was not as impressed as I had expected. ‘Ballerinas can over-identify with a role you know,’ he answered. I argued that just as all dancers have their speciality, mine would be the personal dimension I brought to it. I told him that there were personal reasons that I felt capable of dancing Giselle. He waved his hand dismissively and said, ‘I don’t need to know.’ But a couple of days later, I was delighted to receive a phone call from him offering me a place in his new company. Breathless with excitement, but trembling with fear, I accepted the offer to move to England.
By then I was used to intense application, and having danced my last at the Mariinsky, I focused all my energies on learning about English culture. I didn’t have to try hard – the country had long existed in m
y affections. No longer needing to listen to the soundtrack of my next performance, I instead silently mouthed along to English speaking tapes over the course of that fortnight. England felt like the right place to go next, and I hoped that journeying there would enable me to reconnect with my mother somehow. As soon as visas were arranged, I found myself on a flight to Heathrow. The tour would take me all over your country for six weeks, closing with a week at a prestigious new theatre in the North East where we’d perform Giselle – with me in the title role on the final two nights.
Those six weeks felt like a breathless sweep across the dusty stages, service stations and dry wipe hotels of your country. As a child I had romanticised the land beyond belief, it seemed to me a place where it was possible to lay your delicate mark upon history. It was the land of David Bowie’s glamour and pomp, in my mind populated with witty, arch Peter Cook types who placed themselves amongst history simply through the natural expression of their personalities. It seemed a land that lent itself to immortality, a place where a little serendipity could usher one into eternity. The ghost of my mother, and the ghost of Giselle, leant those six weeks an elusive, resonant meaning. When I was not focused on my next solo role, I was chasing spectres with my eyes across the moist, fertile land that span outside the train window.
During the occasional day off I went looking for my mother. Searching, rather desperately, for traces of a slight, pale woman I had barely known. Trying to imagine how she might have felt as a young woman, when my existence was so remote as to be negligible. Did she have the same thoughts I had? Was she prone to flights of fancy, awkward in social situations? I walked around and wondered how she might have looked, on the edge of the pack perhaps, trying to find her way into the world. At times, I felt tempted to try and communicate with her. I felt that she, and she alone would understand what I was going through at that moment. Sometimes, I couldn’t help lamenting that I had never known my mother, and I worried what would happen if I ever became a mother myself. How would I know what to do? When to be there? I would have no-one to model myself on, I barely remembered her and there was nothing about Bruna I could look to.
Letters from Yelena Page 12