Letters from Yelena

by Guy Mankowski

  That evening, Inessa went to bed early. I tried not to think how she must have felt, helping her older sister into bed before going alone into the nurses’ home, where the bath was hand-pumped and the ironing boards were chained to the walls. I tried not to think of Inessa’s own silences as she lay down on the bed, in a country where she knew so little.

  After breakfast the next day, Inessa took me out to watch the new rose garden being planted. It encompassed a small square of earth, dug up by a gardener in a flat cap, who planted each small rose bush before carefully placing moist soil around its roots. Inessa asked him why the garden was being created now, and without looking up he said it was for the women on the ground floor, who had nothing to look at from their windows.

  ‘We didn’t get to see too many roses in Donetsk, did we?’ Inessa said. It was still early in the morning, and the grass was wet with dew. Although it was Inessa who wheeled me out into the still, cold morning air I’d still felt a maternal feeling arise in me as she did so. That morning her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, and she looked untainted, innocent somehow. The night before I had wondered if, given the pain she had gone through, it was possible for her to ever fully live as others do. But watching her amongst the roses, as she touched and smelt them, I realised that of course she could. I could too. I wondered if in fact, because we had known such darkness, Inessa and I could now live more colourfully, more hungrily than anyone. I must have been smiling at that thought, because when Inessa caught my eye she smiled too.

  ‘I’m moving to England,’ she said. I looked up at her, and her smile persisted. ‘I’ve made enough money from selling the business to leave the Ukraine, and I want to come and work here. I want to leave behind all that’s happened and start afresh. I know I haven’t been the best sister in the world but I do hope that there is still time. And if you like, once you’re ready to leave here, I thought that perhaps you could come and live with me?’ We both kept smiling for a few moments, until it grew ridiculous. ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Honestly, Noah, the pleasure of that moment was such an unexpected surprise. During our time together so much that had been repressed for many years was finally expressed. I’m sure I would never have been so relieved to have first bonded with you had Inessa and I connected at a younger age. In a strange way I therefore felt as if I needed to tell you about what happened between Inessa and me when she came to stay. As I know only you understand how rare and precious such moments are to me.

  With love from,

  Yelena

  Dear Noah,

  During the remainder of the time Inessa stayed with me, our conversations were full of plans about our new life. From talking to her, I think my father also sensed a sea change occurring in the relationship between her and me. With her moving to England I think he saw that now was the right time to start resolving matters with me. Inessa made some tentative enquiries about him and me speaking on the phone, properly speaking on the phone, unlike the few, stilted conversations we had had during those early days in the hospital, and a few days later, he called me.

  At first I didn’t recognise the voice on the end of the phone. It seemed more ragged and timid than I had recalled it being. He asked about my recovery, asked what I thought would happen now with my career. We leapt between conversational islands, neither of us seemingly wanting to glimpse below at the raging torrent of questions that lay underneath. I felt slightly resentful of his sudden interest in me now that Inessa was drawing close to me, and yet the possibility of putting aside my bitterness towards him was liberating. Throughout the conversation I tried hard to remember just what Inessa had said about him, that at the root of all that was a love for us. I tried to connect that sentiment with the distant voice on the phone. At times I could sense that what she had said was true. If it was not enough to solve my reticence, then it did at least feel like somewhere to start.

  During that time, Eva came to visit me. She told me that along with another Principal ballerina – one who had trained at the Bolshoi – she’d decided to start a new dance company in the North East. She said that once I had got back on my feet she would be very keen for me to become deeply involved with it. ‘If we’re going to put decent performances together I’ll need input from as many experienced dancers as possible,’ she said. She mentioned that she had employed a famous choreographer as a consultant for the new company, and she intended to learn the skills of her profession from her. ‘You should join me, in being trained by her,’ she said. ‘But only if it would not feel too difficult to become involved with dancing again, of course.’ I was surprised that someone who appeared so naïve had been able to coordinate a venture so detailed and ambitious. I was full of excitement at the prospect of being part of this exciting new company, and I realised that I’d underestimated the girl with the wide, innocent eyes and disarming manner. Her expressive, animated demeanour began to inspire me.

  For some reason I didn’t admit that in fact I felt strangely enlightened by the idea of not dancing again. At least being a choreographer would allow me to pursue my love of dance while avoiding making the sacrifices required to dance myself. I started to wonder if my accident had lit a vague path through the dark woods that I had ultimately found myself in.

  Despite her enthusiasm, I did sense in Eva some concern about the psychological difficulties I had experienced. She kept making repeated references to ‘your state of mind’ and how ‘of course, everything depends on that’. When I told her about my sessions with Dr Ibarra, and my plans to live with Inessa, she looked relieved. ‘That all sounds very… helpful,’ she said.

  The sessions with Dr Ibarra seemed to be approaching a resolution. He mentioned that he thought I was almost ready to meet you again, and we finally discussed the possibility of you coming to visit me. He had come to believe that my ‘psychotic episode’ had most likely been a phenomenon caused by the many upheavals I had been experiencing. I felt as though I could look back on the place I was in prior to the accident, and feel sorry for the person I was. By confronting my fears, discussing and dissecting the very fabric of my life, I felt as though years of hardship were finally breaking away. The focal point of our sessions became my imminent discharge and assimilation back into normal life. Inessa’s impending move to England seemed to give everyone the confidence that I would have the support to tackle life outside The Cedars. I would occasionally be visited by Grace and Dr Ibarra, and with them keeping an eye on me, and the skills I had picked up from our sessions, I felt I would be prepared to take on the outside world again.

  Finally, after five weeks of intensive rehabilitation, I was deemed ready to see you again. I was barely able to contain my happiness, but by then I felt so deprived of pleasure that I daren’t think it might actually happen. I was right to hesitate, because in the next breath, Ibarra told me that you were about to go away for three months on a European book tour. I couldn’t help but feel crushed by the revelation; and I felt barely able to look at the crumpled piece of paper he handed me as he gave me the news. ‘I have spoken to Mr Stepanov, Yelena, and he has asked me to pass this onto you. It’s the addresses of everywhere he’s staying for the next three months, with corresponding dates, until he’s back in England.’ I saw that the piece a paper contained a list of fourteen addresses of various hotels scattered across Europe. Peering over the edges of his spectacles, and lowering his voice he added, ‘Write to him, Yelena. I guarantee he will write back. He has missed you just as much as you have missed him. He has inevitably suffered a great deal as a result of being apart from you. And, if I may say, I think writing to one another might be a good way for you to both come to terms with what’s occurred between the two of you.’ As I turned the piece of paper over, I saw that there was a small Polaroid picture attached to it. It was the picture of you and me taken at the launch party. I looked so young, and you looked so scared.

  Despite my initial resentment, by that time I had grown to see Ibarra as something of a father figure. I’d never b
efore had someone take the time to fully listen to what had happened to me and then make a reasoned judgement on how best I might conduct my life, and for that reason I remained grateful to him. With hindsight, I now question the logic behind him keeping you and me apart for so long, especially if he was aware of your impending tour. But he came into my life at a time when I craved guidance and direction, and he gave me both. So if he felt that we were finally ready to see one another, then I bowed to his judgement. After all, I had often worried that if we reunited too soon you might come to me with bitterness and reproach in your eyes rather than relief.

  The next day, during physiotherapy, I saw Ibarra waiting for me outside the gym. When he spoke to me he was predictably brief, but his manner was also somehow apologetic. He asked if I would like you to briefly visit me before you went away in two days time. Drained from the session with Grace, I just nodded my approval. Though I barely dared to believe you would come.

  And so the next day, after almost six weeks apart, you came to see me. For the first time since my accident, I made a real effort with my appearance. I didn’t just want to look presentable; if possible I wanted to look attractive again. My skin was paler, and my hair less lustrous than it had been as I’d placed a silver tiara on it to dance as Giselle. When I brushed the smallest amount of rouge on my cheeks the result was a little startling. My cheekbones were more accentuated than ever. I could feel myself becoming uptight, but the tension was instantly dispelled when I looked behind me to see Grace laughing in the doorway.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

  ‘I just find it hilarious that you think you have to make so much effort. He is just a man Yelena.’

  I looked at her as if she was mad.

  Still chuckling, she stepped into my room. ‘However much of a catch he might be, he is still just a man. And he can’t have much money, he is a writer for God’s sake. And I find it very improbable that he is even half as good-looking as you. I think it must be the Eastern European diet that made you so trim, I’m sure if I had been brought up in Ukraine then I would have a figure just like yours.’ And then she did a little dance, until I reluctantly cracked a smile.

  When it was time, I pulled my black trench coat around me and made my way on crutches outside. To my surprise you were already stood at the gates, nervously waiting for me to appear.

  There you were, your essence burning perceptibly behind your eyes as you approached me. The second before we made contact you smiled, then hugged me and kissed my cheek. I couldn’t help seeking out your scent, and once I found it I felt both overwhelmed and relieved. You glanced at my face and then hugged me again, harder this time. I sensed a small movement in the curtains of the drawing room behind us, and I wondered if Grace was watching the whole event.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ you said. I felt something well up in my throat, but I turned it into a laugh. You held me at arm’s length. At first your look seemed one of pride, and I was reminded of how handsome you were. Then the pride turned into something softer, a look that I had not seen since the last time I had lain in your sheets. ‘Let’s walk,’ you said, looking up at the windows. You waved. I turned to see Grace waving back at you, shamelessly.

  There was, inevitably, silence as we walked towards the rose garden. As if both of us were considering the next step on our convoluted and private path through all that had happened. ‘I’m so glad you came,’ I said, as we came to the edge of the garden.

  ‘I’ve wanted to visit you for a long time,’ you replied, looking down at the frozen grass. ‘But Dr Ibarra said… ’

  ‘I know.’

  You tried to smile.

  ‘I want you to know how sorry I am, Noah, for… ’

  You shook your head. ‘From now on you must look after yourself. I mean… really look after yourself.’

  ‘You can help me,’ I said.

  You looked back at the grass. ‘I hope so. I mean, of course I will. Can you walk okay?’

  ‘The bones will have healed by now. If I’m careful, I can walk without crutches. I’m just keeping them for a little while longer. To be on the safe side.’

  ‘Good. This garden is rather beautiful.’

  I looked around me. ‘The gardener here is obsessed with planting roses for the women on the ground floor. But because the roses are out of season, he’s worried they might not survive the winter.’

  You touched one of them gently. ‘If he keeps an eye on them… maybe.’

  I suddenly felt all the silence of the last six weeks gather inside me. I felt the clinging, selfish emptiness I’d experienced in the room at the hospital. The poisonous hunger growing inside me during the nights when I’d missed you, when I didn’t know where you were, when I had no idea what you were doing. The way every plane and feature of my room had felt like yet another place that my mind could not help but explore. I remembered the confusion that had lingered inside me for so many days, which had sometimes grown so powerful that I’d been barely able to speak. And I remembered the increasing sense of helplessness, and the sheer frustration at not knowing what to do with it. I remembered the surety I’d had that nothing could ever work out again, because I’d simply been through too much to now be able to believe in my own reasoning. I was suddenly aware of the emerging belief I had, that I would always fail in whatever I wanted to do because I was somehow marked. And lastly I remembered the way I had felt all my emotions bubble to the surface when Dr Ibarra had first tried to get me to open up, how difficult it had been to ease each feeling out of me, one by one. I wanted to tell you all about those feelings, but I knew it was too soon. You were looking down at the roses, and you weren’t yet ready to even meet my eye.

  The cold began to close around us. We decided to head back inside. It was then, during that brief, careful walk, that you suggested we write to one another while you were away.

  ‘After all,’ you said, ‘far too much has happened when we have not been together. If we write to each other, we can learn about everything that we have missed. And… I do want to know it all.’ You stopped. ‘To be honest, Yelena, I think that I need to know it all.’

  I knew I couldn’t guess at your silences. Mine were labyrinthine enough, and I could only imagine at that point how solemn and elaborate yours might have become. Having begun to accept the thought of us being apart again, I found the idea of us exchanging confessional letters moved something inside me. I could see it hurt you to think of us being apart for three months this time. It was only later that I learnt why you’d agreed to the tour, to help yourself handle the possibility that we could be kept apart for even longer. Wanting to ease that expression from your face, I suddenly became determined to convince you that our separation could be of benefit.

  ‘We can tell each other everything in these letters,’ I said. ‘Everything we have been unable to say in the last six weeks.’

  ‘The next three months will be bearable if they are filled with letters in which we finally share it all with one another. And close the gap that’s inevitably opened up between us.’

  The way you looked at me, it was clear you felt sad that was the case. Sad that we could not immediately have a remedy for that.

  ‘But our letters to one another could achieve much more than that,’ I said, as we lingered in the driveway. I saw one of the nurses tentatively begin to approach us, and I wished she would hold back. A certain spark seemed to have just reappeared in your eyes, and I wanted to help it ignite into something greater. ‘I want these letters to like be maps of ourselves, Noah. Maps which… eventually lead us back to one another.’

  You took a step back, but I sensed that a seed had been planted. You looked up and smiled at the nurse.

  ‘I’ll be back in three months, Yelena. Twelve weeks, that’s all. It’s really not long.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You have the addresses, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘You shouldn’t be staying out in the cold for too long,
Yelena,’ the nurse said.

  ‘I’m taking her back inside,’ you answered.

  We hesitated for a moment. I felt rather limp and helpless on my crutches. You stepped closer to me and kissed me on the cheek. I felt your hands gather my hair, and then, as if unable to prevent yourself, you quickly kissed me on the lips.

  ‘People are watching,’ I said.

  ‘Twelve weeks,’ you said.

  You smiled, and rather disconsolately turned to make your way out of the driveway. I didn’t want to watch you fade into the distance; that would have felt so melodramatic. After all, there was little reason to mourn. I had these letters to write, with all their secrets, longing and regret.

  Two days later, just as you were arriving in Strasbourg, I wrote my first letter. In which I told you about the recurring dream I’d had of when you first watched me dance.

  With love from,

  Yelena

  Dear Noah,

  I am still not quite able to accept that in three days’ time you’ll be back in England. I’m glad that the final European leg of the tour has not been too bad. I know you were worried about Russia after the visa issues last time. I’m glad to hear you’re safe in France now, I know how much you love it there. When you get this, you’ll be about to head north once more. I hope you’re looking forward to coming home as much as I’m looking forward to seeing you.

  Five days ago I moved out of The Cedars and in with Inessa. It’s surprised me just how differently I see the world now that I have been allowed back into it. In the past I just accepted that the world whirled around me. It felt full of distractions and obstacles. I never took the time to appreciate its colours and vibrancy. Anything I couldn’t immediately contain I saw as a threat. I see now how that mindset would always struggle in a world of such glorious chaos, in which so much of our happiness is contingent not on expectation, but on perspective. The chaos that I previously feared, I cannot help but now enjoy. It feels reckless and bold to do so, and that encourages me. My months of denial have given me a hunger for life that I now cherish.