The Other Me

by Saskia Sarginson

  My father can be frightening. But I’ve never thought of him as being someone to make fun of. Not until I saw the boys at school marching behind him, making silent salutes, their fingers under their noses, arms like pistons punching the air. Sieg heil.

  * * *

  “Klaudia, I notice that you don’t speak to me at school,” my father said today. “Is there a problem?”

  I wrapped one leg around the other and gazed at a spot just behind him. “No.”

  “Well.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you are embarrassed to have a father that is a caretaker. Perhaps you think it’s too lowly a profession?”

  I shook my head. He was testing me.

  “Good, honest work is nothing to be ashamed of.” He poked his chin forward, so that I saw the throb of his throat. “We are plain people. But we’re giving you the advantages we never had. After everything your mother has done for you, you must work hard, help pay her back for all the sacrifices she’s made.” His disappointment in me pulled the edges of his mouth down. “Your mother is a saint, Klaudia. Neither of us deserves her.”

  His face transformed at the mention of her name, mouth and eyes turned upwards with delight, his eyes glowing with the same fervent look he gets when he is praying.

  But then he frowned again. “A lot of those kids, they have no discipline. No belief. No work ethic. They are foolish. And they get into drugs and so forth.” His hairy eyebrows met in the middle, his eyes narrowing into a blue glitter. “I never want to see you behaving like them. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “It would kill your mother.”

  He glared at me as if I was already a heroin addict, had already driven my mother into the depths of despair.

  * * *

  Mum is gesturing for me to stand, the hymn book flopping open in her other hand. The congregation is on its feet, singing “Christ, Whose Glory Fills the Skies.” I catch my father’s deep, throaty roar. For once his accent is disguised inside music and all I hear is the power of his voice.

  My tongue is dry. No sounds come out. My mother holds the book towards me so that I can read. “Pierce the gloom of sin and grief … scatter all my unbelief.” I mouth the words looking down at my shoes, seeing the hazy reflection of myself in their blue-black shine.

  ELIZA

  1995, Leeds

  May

  LIGHTS FLARE OUT OF DARKNESS. Guitars screech over a pounding bass. The place has all the pulsing energy of a funfair at night. I’ve never been a fan of fairs. Or gigs. I’m trying to keep my feet inside the crush, bracing myself against the push of elbows and shoulders, as a crowd, high on music, cheap lager and drugs, judders and jolts against me. I scan the moving heads; I’ve lost the friends I came with. Except Meg, just in front of me, waving her arms, hair sizzling with static. Then, as the lead singer leans over the edge of the stage, howling into his mike, spraying the front row with saliva, I feel a weight dropping onto my toe, crushing it.

  The hulking culprit at my side is oblivious. His arc of hair glows purple in the strobe as he yells along with the lyrics. Pain shoots through my foot. I shout. But my scream hits a wall of sound.

  “Meg. I’m leaving. Now!”

  I prod her damp T-shirt. She turns, puzzled, watching my mouth moving. I point towards the exit, making a face meant to express frustration and agony. Pushing my way through the doors at the back, I limp into the bright lights of the pub. It seems quiet after the raging concert, but it’s a usual busy Friday evening: locals and students converging on the bar, flock wallpaper, brass fittings, cigarette smoke and conversation.

  Sinking into the nearest empty chair, I slip off my shoe and sock, worrying that my toe is actually broken. My nail is stained, color seeping like a smashed plum. It’s hot. Throbbing.

  Meg arrives at my side. “Let’s have a gander…” She peers at my foot and purses her lips, sucks in air with a quick rush. “God! Looks like an elephant stepped on your toe!”

  “One with a Mohican.”

  I flex my toe gingerly. It seems to be working. “I knew we should have gone to see Braveheart.”

  A slight frown of concern creases Meg’s elfin face, and then she gives me her familiar cheerful grin.

  “You’ll be fine. And we couldn’t miss The Flying Ducks. Only one night in Leeds. Would have been a crime.”

  She sits down, chin in her hands. “Want a bevvy?”

  I nod. “The pain-killing kind.” Although it’s not the pain that worries me, it’s if I’ll be able to stand in pointe shoes tomorrow.

  “Cider it is then. Hang on a mo.” She grins and is off to the bar, pulling at the hem of her skirt, covering her bottom and swinging her hips.

  I see the ice before I see him. A hand curled around a large plastic beaker. The faint crackle of cubes, piled to the brim.

  “Excuse me,” I call from my seat. The ice cubes stop, suspended in mid-air by a male hand. I take in the flimsy plastic container, mercury-like drops of condensation, the gleam of frozen water. My gaze follows the line of his wrist up his arm to the shoulder, and a face. Surprise raises his eyebrows and then recedes. He has friendly, crinkly eyes I notice, and a generous mouth that’s mid-wince at the sight of my toe. Sitting with my bare foot up on the velvet seat, I have the instinct to cover it up.

  I clear my throat. Try to pull dignity about me. “Could I have a couple?” I move my gaze to the cup.

  “I was just taking them back to the rabble at my table. But it looks like your need is greater than ours.” He frowns politely. “What happened?”

  I incline my chin towards the back doors, where the growl and clamor of The Flying Ducks emerges, muted but self-explanatory.

  “Are you a student?” He gazes at me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”

  “Yes. No.” I curl my toes, flustered. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me that’s making words shrivel in my mouth. “Well. I was. But I’ve dropped out. I’m taking a dance course instead.”

  “A dancer?” He sticks his fingers into the beaker and then changes his mind, puts it on the table. “Can’t have you hobbling around with a bruised toe. Have the lot,” he says. “On me.”

  He begins to walk away and then stops and turns. “Arnica,” he says. “Keep it elevated. And painkillers. With Ibuprofen. Take the swelling down.”

  Meg nearly collides with him. “Who’s that?” She widens her eyes at me. “He’s dead gorgeous. Is he a doctor or something?”

  I’m already wrapping frigid cubes in my scarf, pressing the blessed angles of cold to my aching toe. I shake my head. “Nobody. A kind stranger. Isn’t it nice to think they exist?”

  “Cynic.” She pushes my glass of cider across the wet table. “Course they do. World’s full of them.”

  But I’m not really listening to her; I’m watching the back of his dark head as he disappears towards a table of rowdy students in the corner. Shouts of hilarity greet him. A blonde girl reaches up and curls her arm around his waist.

  Meg sees where I’m looking and shrugs. “Students. From the look of them, I’d say they’re third years. They’ll be celebrating their finals.”

  I won’t see him again, then. The disappointment is a sliver of ice. A small injury, melting away into the liquid chill of what might have been.

  October

  Leeds is a gray city. But the first thing my gaze falls on is bright red and full of Spanish sizzle: the poster of Strictly Ballroom that I stuck to my wall with illegal tabs of Sellotape. Put there for the purpose of inspiration and motivation. Paul Mercurio clasps Tara Morice to his chest, her flamenco skirts frothing around her knees. What I wouldn’t do to have the chance to dance in that film with that man.

  There’s a rap on my door and Lucy peers in. She has her pleading face on. “Is that your milk in the fridge, Eliza?”

  “You can have it.”

  “Thanks! I’ll pay you back.” She grins. And she’s gone.

  I yawn. At least she asks. And now I’
m properly awake, which is good, because I need to get up. The minute I’m out of my fusty nest of blankets and sheets I’m shivering, except my ankles, which are scorched as soon as I switch on the small fan heater. The heat bites at my skin like an angry Pekingese. There’s a note stuck to the outside of my door. I rip it off and read: Going to spend night with Pete. Don’t ask. Meet you there tomorrow. Meg x

  In the empty kitchen, I tip out the last granules from a jar of Nescafé, pour on water and gulp the acrid, burning liquid next to the sink. Lucy’s bowl is on the side, her half-eaten cereal going soggy in the last of my milk. I empty the coffee dregs over a pile of dirty crockery that’s teetering at the brink of the washing-up bowl, balancing the unwashed cup on top.

  It’s raining again. The weather comes straight off the moors here, sweeping over desolate rocks and beaten heather. I check my watch. I have to be at the studio in half an hour. Out on the steep incline of our street, my legs tense to keep traction on the slick wet surface as I hurry to the phone box on the corner; I haul open the door, shaking water from my hair as I step inside. It’s fuggy with steam, sour with stale breath and the smell of old paper. I dial the number that I know off by heart, holding the greasy black receiver close.

  “Hello, love.” She answers after the first ring. I call her every other day at nine o’clock and it’s always her that picks up. Never Dad.

  “How’s everything? Are you working hard?” she asks as usual.

  “Yes, Mum. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Are you eating enough?”

  “I promise I’m eating really healthily. I’ve got quite good at cooking actually. I’ll make you something special when I come home.”

  I can hear her smile.

  “Well. I’ve got to go. I have a class. Love you. Say hello to Dad.”

  * * *

  Lying is an art. It takes time and practice to get right. Two important things to remember: either make your lies so big and bold that nobody dares to question them, or stick as close to the truth as possible and lie by omission.

  Another thing I’ve learned is that once you’ve lied, there’s no going back. With every lie comes guilt. You can’t share the guilt, just as you can’t expose the lie. It wouldn’t be fair to other people. Confession would only hurt the ones you love. It’s kinder, braver even, to maintain the untruth. In fact it’s a duty.

  * * *

  Light gleams over the wooden floor of the studio, catches in the wall-to-wall mirrors. Girls cluster in groups, chatting, tying ribbons on shoes, flexing shoulders and adjusting leg warmers. Meg hurries over, hairpin in her mouth, hands busy twisting her hair into a bun at the back of her head.

  “You missed the big announcement,” she mutters, lips clamped around the hairpin. “Today’s the day that Voronkov’s going to choose two girls for solos for the show next week.”

  She tucks the ends of her long auburn hair under a hairnet and sticks the pin through. “He’ll pick you, Eliza. He’s bound to.”

  I love her for her confidence in me. Her loyalty. But the thought of dancing a solo makes my skin crawl. I’ve never performed in public before and the idea terrifies me.

  The class begins and we work our way through pliés, battements frappés, développés and grands battements. I raise my leg high, powering it from the back of my thigh, pointing my toe. Sweat trickles down my spine. Voronkov corrects the angle of my head. His fingers pinch my chin. My arms maintain my position, the line flowing from my shoulder to my fingertips.

  Voronkov’s face is ageless. Thick gray hair grows from his temples like wings, yet his skin is unlined. Meg says either dance is the elixir of youth, or he’s had a facelift.

  I’m certain dance is better than anything a surgeon could do to erase wrinkles; it’s like a magic potion. It sets me free. I am myself as soon as I begin to move. Tension leaves my face, drains from my limbs. The joy of it sings through my veins. I even smile through the warm-up at the barre and Voronkov’s sarcasm. I still can’t believe I’m really here, doing what I’ve always wanted. There are twelve of us in the class and we’re reflected in four walls of mirrors. I catch multiple glimpses of myself grinning at different angles. Our working legs strike the floor in a series of battements tendus. Piano music plays from a cassette recorder.

  “Again.” Voronkov rolls his eyes like a wild horse.

  I snap off my smile. My fingers clutch the barre. He notices at once. He notices everything.

  He raps my knuckles. “Is sinking ship?” he asks me. “Is for guidance only. Not hanging from like woman drowning. Higher.” He takes hold of my foot and raises it towards the ceiling. I try not to grab at the barre for support. My pivoting thighbone jams deep inside the socket. My toe quivers in his grasp.

  He lets go. I squeeze and tense with the effort of holding the position, but my foot drops from grace, weighted by gravity and human failings. Even this feels good. Feels right. Nothing worth anything was ever easy. It’s the kind of thing my father would say. But it’s true.

  The lesson over, we’re alert with anticipation, flexing our aching feet, hands patting loose strands of hair back into place, trying to appear relaxed. Voronkov paces the room in silence, legs turned out like the Bolshoi dancer he used to be.

  “I have no names,” he declares at last, shoulders rolling in despair. “Not yet. Maybe nobody. Ever.” His eyes stare at each of us in turn. “Not one of you is ready.”

  He curls his mouth as if he tastes something disgusting and stalks from the room. The two halves of his rounded buttocks quiver with disappointment.

  There is silence. I hear the girl next to me sniff. As soon as they are certain he has gone, the complaining starts, everyone talking at once.

  Meg raises her eyebrows. “Such a drama queen. He just wants to keep us all guessing.”

  * * *

  We hurry home, dodging puddles. I imitate Voronkov’s serious stare, the monotone of his accent. “I have no names. Maybe never.” I pull my eyebrows into a bristling frown. “Maybe I send you all to Siberia for bad arabesques.”

  Meg laughs inside her hood. “It works though, doesn’t it? Being chosen by him feels like some kind of royal honor.”

  I’m relieved that Voronkov is holding out on us. It gives me a bit longer to talk myself down from my fear of performance. Although I’m sure he won’t pick me. I’m the least experienced student in our class. I dry off in the bathroom, toweling my rain-darkened hair until it’s tamed into a brown bob tickling my chin while Meg makes us cups of tea, shouting through the surprising news that there’s no milk, so we’ll have to take it black.

  Sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, I busy myself with sewing ribbons onto my new pointe shoes. I’ve already broken them in and scored the blunt ends with a knife.

  “Well.” Meg blows on her drink with contemplative satisfaction. “Only two more weeks before I’m off.”

  “Swapping Leeds for Paris.” I look up at her. “You must be mad. And don’t think we’re going to miss you, because Lucy and I are subletting your room to a gorgeous man.”

  She sticks her tongue out. “You’re going to miss me so much.” She elongates the “o” in “so,” like a note in a song.

  “What, you mean your horrible habit of swigging orange juice from the bottle, and the state you leave the bathroom in?”

  I’m struggling to keep a straight face. I look away, licking the end of the thread and squinting while I push it through the eye of the needle.

  “All right,” I relent, snapping off the cotton with my teeth, “I’m going to miss you every second of every day. Satisfied?”

  “Then come and stay.” She puts her cup down and shifts onto her knees on the bed. “Come for Christmas. Please!”

  I look down at the shoe in my hand. The slippery pink is cool on my fingers. I press into the hard square of the toe.

  “What’s to consider?” She’s waiting. I can feel the heat of her stare on my cheek. “Have you actually got any plans for the ho
liday, little Orphan Annie?” She’s half teasing, half serious.

  In my head the fake tree opens its plastic branches. My father turns his opera record up loud and my mother emerges from the kitchen with a batch of freshly cooked biscuits on a plate.

  “Some dull and distant relatives I bet?” Meg’s shaking her head. “Doing your duty. They’ll understand. Christmas in Paris. Come on. How can you resist?”

  I bite my lip. Mum won’t forgive me if I’m not home for the day itself. I can’t disappoint her. But I could buy her an amazing present in a Parisian boutique, and be back for Christmas Eve.

  “Of course I’m coming…” I jab myself with the needle and wince, sucking my finger. “I’m not going to turn down a free holiday, even if the catch is having to put up with you. But I can’t stay for Christmas. Sorry. I really do have plans.” I notice a tiny speck of red on the fabric of my shoe. “Even orphans have obligations.”

  “Yes!” Meg rubs her hands together. “I’m well made up! Let’s book your ticket together. I want to know the date you’re coming. Dad’s renting me a garret at the top of one of those tall houses in the Marais. It’s going to be great. I just wish you were doing the course with me.”

  A year at a dance school in Paris goes beyond the bounds of my imagination. Things are different for Meg. Her dad is proud of her dancing. He’s a golfing, gin-and-tonic kind of man, happy to pay for his little girl to learn ballet and French at the same time. I’m not envious. I’m living my own dream.

  ERNST

  1994, New York

  EVERY TRIP TO THE HOSPITAL is exhausting. Maria takes my arm, her face set in a mask of determined good humor; she carries a padded bag packed with things I might need, as if I’m an overgrown, ancient baby. Out of the elevator, I limp through the lobby, she and Frank on either side, guiding me to the yellow cab that waits grinning at the curb. I am lowered like a bundle of washing, eased through the door so that I can slide my sharp behind across the seat, the two of them huffing and hanging onto my elbows, rolling their eyes at each other across my head. Frank steps back, tips his peaked hat, and brushes down his doorman’s coat; waves us off as if we’re going to a party.