* * *
Mashenka was walking across the bridge. Plié, plié! Knees out. Jeté forward, assemblé to the side! Rond de jambe, plié, extend! Fondu sur les demi-pointes! Your back!
What was the point? She hadn’t been there very long, but she still couldn’t get the words out of her head. Her heart started beating fast, though why should it, really? The Vaganova school … her dream … all that time not eating, not drinking, training until she dropped, leg cramps, and her ardent daily prayer to her home icons: Ulanova, Pavlova, Nijinsky, Lopatkina … and then—ta-da!—the envelope, please. The letters make it simple and clear: corps de ballet. Chin to chin, nose to nose, left-right, fire—dive, little soldier …
Masha was still foggy about what would happen to her afterward; she had dreamed only of victory. Roses by the basket and admiration. So there’d be none of that? She didn’t care if she had to slave twenty-four hours a day, didn’t care if everyone in the theater hated her, didn’t care if there was blood in her shoes every day, that didn’t scare her. What did? Being like everyone else, going around in Turkish sweats like everyone else, talking about television, trembling to save up for an apartment in Kupchino with her beer-swilling old man. Then going to a job her whole life, coming back in the evening, choosing wallpaper, hanging lights, closing the doors on people coming off the streets so the lobby wouldn’t stink, doing homework with her children, occasionally breaking free and going abroad to stroll in a crowd. What for? She hated all that, hated it. After all, times had changed. Anything was possible! Leave and find a job dancing? They would appreciate her there! But where? In a strip joint? Or one of those classical-cabaret kind of ballets that does The Birch Tree? Wait for some fat sugar daddy to make her his mistress? But she’d dreamed of creating a world of beauty around herself; she loved art, the audience, and she loved a city—Petersburg. She didn’t care if it was dark there nearly year-round. Its lights lit at night, its golden spires aimed for the heavens, the festive crowd on Nevsky, the Hermitage, architect Rossi’s street—their names alone made it worthwhile!
She found being ridiculous humiliating. She bathed for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening, washing away the dirt, transforming herself into a pure angel twice a day. Because of the washing, she moved out of the ballet dorm and in with her aunt almost immediately. You can’t bathe for two hours a day in a dorm, and anyway she was afraid of being on her own while still so young. Her aunt and uncle loved her as if she were their own, and she even called her aunt Mama. Only they tried too hard to feed her, always pushing fish oil on her, and this irritated Mashenka. She struggled mightily over each extra bite.
Of course, Masha idolized the ballet, but not to the point of oblivion, not to the point that she could stand in a single line her entire life. And who said you could hang on in the first row? You’d be trampled there too. Proud but poor—that’s the only way for primas—your success is your applause, your seething blood, your power over the audience.
Mashenka seemed to wilt utterly. She walked around in a funk, and if you called out to her she didn’t call back. She was used to working hard, and she expected recognition for that, her teachers had praised her for that, and now everyone had betrayed her, she had no one to count on, and only she herself knew how special she was and that she definitely had not come into this world for the corps de ballet. The others, anyone who didn’t understand this, became her enemy. She threw the portraits of her idols in the garbage. Masha raked her aunt’s collection of porcelain ballerinas off the shelf and hid them under a pile of linens. Her aunt bit her tongue, but she wept all night with pity for the girl. She and her husband loved their niece very much, but they had not discerned her morbid pride and did not worship her great talent, so she found their consolation utterly banal. Masha’s aunt had herself been a musician. She taught at the conservatory and played violin in an orchestra. She’d never aspired to being a soloist, but then she wasn’t wracked by a passion like Masha’s, or perhaps she’d left it behind, somewhere in her past. This weakness stirred Masha’s contempt. What could you explain to a spineless jellyfish? That was why Masha was sweet and polite with her relatives but kept them at arm’s length. She danced in her corps de ballet and took sedatives after each performance to ward off hysterics—yes, after the performance, because the applause took the worst toll: the harsh pounding of hundreds of palms that had nothing to do with her, the unlucky, persecuted ballerina …
The pills helped. Little by little she began making kopeks on the side writing about ballet and fashion for a magazine. Because she had a head, as well as legs up to her ears. Then suddenly things started going well for her, swimmingly, marvelously. She started getting invitations to receptions with stars, designers, and directors, but she wasn’t making enough money to dress for them. She couldn’t make that kind of money at the magazine, of course—there weren’t enough fees in the world for her to go to a dressmaker. Somehow certain fine gentlemen just approached her and suggested that she might do well to write a letter and expose the unsightly truth about their prima ballerina, and they also asked Masha to stop by the makeup room for a moment while the star was working onstage.
These services, which made trouble for their prima, fetched decent money. But Masha was willing even for free. This prima was a shrew, and she’d been seducing other women’s husbands! Her stage triumphs weren’t enough—no, she had to get her grubby paws on it all! They should be punished, people like that, which was why Masha had no regrets or remorse.
Also at that time she had an unusual romance, something she had waited for for a long time. Only she’d pictured it rather differently. She’d thought she would come down off her cloud for this love and allow him to kiss her knee, but the reality was otherwise. It didn’t matter, though. This happiness’s name was Vsevolod—Seva—and he was a somebody. He didn’t just have money and connections, he didn’t just have power, he had all three, and he was a celebrity in the city and beyond. He was respected—not that he blew his own horn. Seva could do a lot, a whole lot, almost anything, and it was he, a man like this, who was inspired at first glance, who immediately “got” Masha—that she was special, one of a kind—and he promised the world would soon know it too. You shouldn’t be so afraid of the corps de ballet. It’s a start, a jumping-off point, and with him she would become a golden girl, a sovereign over men’s minds, and looking at all this riffraff, these ballet stars, would be like looking at charwomen, at the staff, but Masha still had to select a field of endeavor.
Seva began taking her to serious gatherings and introducing her to the powerful of this world. He gave her some valuable stones, so she would look more confident. Masha calmed down and left the theater—and sat down to her books, feeling she lacked education. To distract her, Seva let her dabble in power—run charitable balls and various formal ceremonies. People sought her advice, flattered her, and she started feeling her lack of money, which she needed, of course, to keep up appearances. She wasn’t some errand girl who could feel comfortable in sweats with pimples on her nose. Since she and Seva still maintained separate households, she didn’t think she could ask him for money. And Seva seemed not to notice that creating an image—stylish, festive, elegant, and at the same time with the most maidenly innocence and a light transparency to her face—meant hard work, hard work every day. And money.
She’d not stopped writing since she discovered she had this talent. Her range of topics had expanded and now touched on business and politics, though all that was of little interest to her personally. But when Seva’s people suggested what might be good to write about, she did it without a second thought. She interviewed one public figure and they had a marvelous chat. A witty fellow, what was his name? Dima … true, he dressed kind of like a tramp. Then Seva told her to make an appointment with this Dima so they could go over the interview together. It could have been sent by e-mail, of course, but Dima didn’t refuse to meet. Why shouldn’t he hang out one more time with a girl like Masha? They set a time a
nd place, and then Seva said, “Don’t go.” And she didn’t, of course, and Dima was accidentally run down right where they’d agreed to meet. And killed. Run over totally by accident. She didn’t know and had no desire to know these affairs of Seva’s. And that Dima shouldn’t have poked his nose where it didn’t belong … The main thing was, why? They were just making publicity for themselves, but they made it seem like they were so honest, fighters for justice … it was sickening … He took her by the arm then, and laughed: “You’re an odalisque, not a journalist …” And for a moment she actually wished he’d put his arms around her, but Masha paid no attention to that, or rather, she was able to pay no attention to that because she had an iron will and discipline.
She didn’t want to think about death. Later, someday later, she’d decide what she felt about it. Even when her mama died she hadn’t reflected on mortality. She simply forgot it all instantly, as if nothing had ever happened. That was when her distant relatives sent her to ballet school. The girl had been saying since she was five that she was going to be a ballerina, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it, and now her mother was gone, so why not? She boarded the train and was off, especially since her aunt, her mama’s sister, lived in magical Petersburg. And at school Masha had hard work to do, and she had to survive among strangers. And survive she did. She even pulled off that whole business with the corps de ballet. Only because heaven sent her a miracle. Sent her Seva—a gentle, smart, kind, courageous warrior who feared no enemy. And who believed in her.
Only why wasn’t he here yet?
All of a sudden she remembered and actually staggered. How could she have forgotten? Well, yes, she could have because yesterday it was said through laughter and drunken eyes … The girls from the theater all lied, they were insanely jealous, but yesterday they dropped blatant hints that he’d found some other dancer—some corps de ballet louse, a pale moth … with freckles to boot … third in the back row … What if it were true? Was her life ruined? My God, oh my God … though why, why was she getting herself so wound up, why was she blowing things out of proportion?
Masha grabbed the railing of the bridge and jerked her hand back—cold, nasty metal. Just as she loved to touch granite, she hated metal. Her hands would smell of it for hours.
The round lamps lit up and shone on the turbid, swirling water. Here it was, the canal’s icy ripple. Only now it was summer and it was still icy … A pleasure boat rammed through the water and the laughing, tipsy tourists waved to her. Masha turned away. Why did Seva want to meet here? Now she had to jut up on the street like a column, to the amusement of the rare passersby. On one side of the Kryukov Canal loomed the Mariinsky; on the other, a ridiculous construction site that in the uncertain future was supposed to be the theater’s second hall. When the Mariinsky was still her theater, she’d waited anxiously for what would happen when they moved to the new building and renovations began in the old. Day after day she’d watched them clear the ground for the new one and wreck the First Five-Year Plan Palace of Culture, a fairly dismal example of Stalinist empire style. For a while, like a graphic illustration of the empire’s fall, only the huge czarist columns rising out of the mountain of wreckage and debris were left standing. Masha imagined that before she knew it they would be putting in stone benches here, like an amphitheater, and instead of actors they would bring in captive gladiators—and the new theater would be ready. But they dynamited the columns, razed a couple of other old buildings, and for a long time the construction didn’t even begin; they probably hadn’t been able to find the money. Still, in that time, the time of Masha’s maturation, an eternity passed! The building put some meat on its bones and was gradually transformed into a boring concrete box with the bare ribs of its framework poking out indecently. Instead of captive gladiators, migrant workers showed up and scurried from floor to floor like ants from morning until night. And now, despite the late hour, the figure of some detained construction worker stuck up in a window. He might be sleeping right here. He might have nowhere else to go.
People just keep coming, as if the city is totally elastic, so you can’t walk calmly down the street anymore, Masha thought with irritation.
But if you hire someone like that, you don’t have to pay him a lot, and when this moth leaves the theater he’ll push her off the bridge and no one will notice … What thoughts! What evil thoughts! But it was true, no one would see. At night … but he’s just the kind you shouldn’t get mixed up with … he’d spill the beans. But if this young lady were to walk up … She rented an apartment a little ways down, on Masterskaya … maybe she just rented a bed, not an apartment … and if no one were around then, Masha herself could ask her for a light … Oh, what nonsense. After all, if the girl were pushed, she would cry out … and then—stop. After all, Masha didn’t know for a fact whether Seva had anything going on with her. Insanity, that’s what passions lead to. She closed her eyes and thought she could see that pale freckled vixen go flying into the cold water—a split second, and that would be the end of her.
Masha leaned slightly over the railing. Why, it was so low … No mesh whatsoever, just two crossbars … Yes, yes, my life is ruined … Take Dima, for example. Where is that Dima now? Before him there’d been someone else, Sergei Pavlovich. She’d forgotten all about him until now, all of a sudden … She wrote something about him on Seva’s orders, back at the very beginning, when they’d just met, and that Sergei Pavlovich—no, Konstantinovich, definitely Konstantinovich, like her prodigal father—jumped out a window … Enough! If she didn’t go tomorrow and get a decent pedicure and if she couldn’t pay Lastochka for her hair, then she couldn’t go on living. She had to find a way out somehow. Lastochka charged so much now. The nerve of her! On the other hand, you weren’t going to find anyone better … Seva had no idea how she put herself together every day, starting early in the morning, her weekly purchases were expensive—or did he think she washed her hair with rosemary and covered her hands with sunflower oil?
She’d promised to stop by her aunt’s a month ago, but no, she wouldn’t go. Those visits sunk her into an awful depression, she felt like hanging herself, and then it took so much time, and Masha didn’t have any money for the psychologist now. The psychologist would squeeze her dry. Her aunt could sit there alone and fancy herself a widowed duchess. When Uncle Pasha died, she’d exchanged the apartment at the favorite niece’s wish. Masha got a room, which she now rented out, while she herself rented a decent separate space, and her aunt got a room too. It was her own fault for ending up in a housing project. Masha had tried to talk her aunt into agreeing to an apartment outside town, where she would have fresh air to breathe and could lead a circle at the club. They were easing her out of her job anyway. No, she clung to her city, but why? Here, they wouldn’t even let her pick up her instrument; her neighbors immediately started making a fuss.
Masha found all this depressing. No, nothing like that was going to happen to her. She would age beautifully, maybe have a child—one—not that she was particularly eager, but men needed that … Why wasn’t he here? Where was Seva!
Maybe he was with that mangy vixen and had forgotten about her altogether. Lord, my God, my heart’s really beating … No, I can’t leave it like this.
* * *
“Look, there’s water coming in under the door. They shut me in but forgot to turn off the tap. There wasn’t any hot water for a couple of weeks so the taps were all left open. But if I’m not going where my Masha is now, where the rivers meet, what’s the big surprise if the water’s running like this, flowing like hot blood, turbulent, and the little boats darting this way and that through it, like the needles in the neighbor boy’s veins, the needles he pokes into himself in the kitchen, thinking I don’t notice. I wanted to ask him, but I was scared of frightening him. What do I need a needle for? What about lighting this airshaft—what if it lit up all of a sudden? Somewhere where there’s no light at all, just a wolfish-gray longing … This is how I dreamed of hell: I’m sitting i
n a deep but narrow hole looking up the whole time, at a dim light very high up … but I’ll never get there. Never.
“Dreams are the only reason I’m still moving, because I started having terrible dreams. Once I dreamed I was in a well, not an airshaft like this one, but a real well, only without water, and up above vampires were reaching for me with their long feelers. But I’m not afraid. I know if I start playing it will all pass, but the neighbors say it’s too loud. I could now—no one’s there … but today I actually shouldn’t play. Under no circumstances should I, since someone else is already playing, and playing beautifully. I just don’t know who … somewhere, up above …
“The water is flowing and flowing, nonstop. Oh well, if I’m not going where the rivers meet, it will play a trick—a cheap trick!—and arrange a trap, so that it can always play cat-andmouse with me—catch and release … catch and release.”
* * *
Vsevolod parked his car rather far away. He was walking in no hurry, though he was late for his date with Masha. A real piece of work, but a foolish piece of work; a useful piece of work, but a stultifying piece of work. To tell the truth, he’d been attracted to dancers practically since he was a kid, but the kind without ambitions. He didn’t care for ballet stars and never went after the big names. A no-name little ballet girl—that was as good as it got, that’s how he’d come across Masha. Long neck and big eyes, she bat her eyelashes and caught his every word; she was always hungry. She was afraid of making any unnecessary movement, so as not to disgrace herself. After all, she came from the sticks to live with her aunt at someone else’s expense. She called her aunt “Mama” and her uncle “Papa” because she had no mother and she’d only seen her father a couple of times in her life. As skittish as a hare, and she did everything without a murmur, no matter how you posed her. He took full advantage of that—lying, standing, upside down.
St. Petersburg Noir Page 16