Her teacher had called her mother, and Jeong Mi-young had come straight from work to sit on the front steps of the studio with her teen daughter and listened to her explain it between sobs. “Then you will just have to be the best,” her mother had murmured gently, stroking hair back from her tear-stained face. “You must be worthy of the trust placed in you, agi sae. When you are a famous dancer perhaps you can pay to train two dancers.”
Hayan had sniffed and looked up at the falling and rapidly melting snowflakes, and promised in her thirteen-year-old heart, “Then I will train at least ten of them!”
Her chin snapped up, reminding her of her present location and less supportive company. Someone scuffed their shoe, and she caught a snatch of a whisper “. . . paying for a North Kor . . .” that turned into a cough.
She squeezed her shoulder blades together and let her stage smile stretch her face. “We dance the Nutcracker too. It is expected that the senior students teach the children their roles, so that the teachers can focus on those who will be performing with the national companies.”
They did not need to know about her scholarship or her past at all.
“And Mr. Soaper,” she added, “perhaps it would be easier to call me an English name?”
Eli nodded, his eyebrows raised expectantly, and Hayan felt all the eyes in the room watching her. She thought about her conversation with Ken. She thought again of her mother and of her smaller self and the conversation six years ago that had brought her here.
“You can call me Snowbird,” she said.
Chapter Three
Emerging from the shared stairwell into the upper-floor showroom was like walking into an iridescent rainbow. Tutus hung on one wall like oversized flowers, racks and shelves of leotards formed graduated arcs of color, and in one corner large arched windows and honey-colored wood flooring framed a barre and mirrors.
It was beautiful. It was overwhelming.
After almost a month of daily classes in several identical studios—between dark winter commutes, both morning and evening—this room made Snowbird feel like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis to its first sight of its own wings.
She pulled one leotard out from the row, her hand caressing the flawless glossy fabric. But her fingers yanked away quickly when she saw the price. She could live without. Jeong Mi-young’s sewing skills had kept them housed and fed for her childhood, and her leotards were custom made, with love and embroidered good-luck charms sewn into each one. The bright fabrics cradled Snowbird, never growing smelly or stretched.
Shoes, though. She had tried all of the archaic and superstitious and practical measures she knew to preserve them. Glues to stiffen them, embroidery to hold the worn satin together just a little longer. They trailed a soft mint smell from the dental floss she had used to sew on the ribbons. She had whispered to them in both Korean and the little French she had learned from ballet classes, telling them stories of the dances they had yet to do together.
It had worked, for a time. They only had to last until the performances, and then her shoe stipend would begin.
Today in class, however, she had snapped a shank and felt the shoe die under her foot. There had been no time to mourn it, and they were working on piqué-heavy choreography, so continuing with a soft and support-less shoe had not been an option. She scurried unevenly to her duffle bag, only to find the other pairs even softer, almost worn out. She had been saving them for variations where a soft shoe was an asset, but now . . .
“Sorry,” she whispered, holding them gently in her hands. “You won’t do at all.”
She felt their disappointment as they sank back into the bag, but she raised her chin and went to apologise to Eli.
To her surprise it was sorted with minimal fuss. Ken, who had grown up attending this school and knew his way around the offices and wardrobe departments and the easiest routes to the best ballet-supply stores, was tasked to assist her. Now, less than an hour later, she stood, still gaping a little, in a literal treasure trove of dance essentials, with the code to charge several pairs of pointe shoes back to the school, and her scholarship training-equipment stipend tucked carefully into her bag. Ken had left her in the foyer with instructions to find him in the same-day ticket queue at the Winter Garden Theatre next door.
A fitter was already busy with another dancer at the pointe fitting barre, so Snowbird sat down on the padded couch, feet and thighs glad for the rest.
“Didn’t I see you last month?” the fitter was asking, slipping a brand new, ribbon-less shoe onto her client’s foot.
“They weren’t as good a fit as we’d hoped.” On a second look, the dancer was at least a decade older than Snowbird. No taller, but she filled out her leotard in a way that would render her unsuitable for most classical companies. “I’m just . . . not making any progress.” She bent her knees in a stiff little plié, relevéing up on to her toes. The shoes fitted snugly, contouring to her feet, eager to be chosen.
But they weren’t perfect. After the first wear, when any shoe would look good, they would be too hard, and the dancer would struggle to get onto her toes. To Snowbird’s relief the fitter noticed it too, clucking her tongue, motioning the dancer off her pointes, and ordering her to remove the shoes. They tried several more pairs, settling on one that was probably adequate for a hobby dancer.
Their fit was not nearly close enough for Snowbird’s liking. She could almost hear the discordancy. Like most things handmade, the shoes would have a temperament that needed matching with their wearer. A good dancer could work with most pairs of shoes, coaxing them or forcing them to meet the wearer’s needs. But novice and professional alike benefited from symbiosis.
Rising from the bench, she ran her fingers along the clear plastic bags of pointe shoes on the racks, all deceptively identical in pink satin. There they were, her familiar and favoured shoes—Bravura Codas. Under her touch they hummed softly, butting at her hand kitten-like, wanting to be worn. She pulled them from the rack, taking the three pairs in her size, suddenly impatient to wear them.
She tucked the slippery plastic bags under one arm, feeling in her duffle bag for the paper with the code. Her fingers brushed over soft quilted fabric. Instead of paper, she pulled out a small circular bag tied with a ribbon. A smile touched her lips at the sight of the familiar silk. It had once been the sleeve of her saekdong hanbok, the first garment her mother had made after they were safe and settled in South Korea. She had declared herself too old for a child’s garment, but now, remembering her mother’s happiness and the wishes for protection and good luck sewn into it, she was glad of it.
Later, Jeong Mi-young had remade the patchwork sleeve into a gift bag which she handed to Hayan at the boarding gate for the plane to New York. After take-off, Hayan had opened it to discover paper American dollars and a note. In her mother’s uneven hangeul she read—“For shoes or other special dancing things. Yours are almost worn out, agi sae.”
Snowbird’s heart warmed in love and thanks as she remembered. Her mother was quite particular when it came to the traditions around buying and giving shoes. Snowbird vividly remembered how, when they selected her school shoes together, Jeong Mi-young handed her the money to take up to the counter. Shy, she had protested until her mother caught her by the shoulder and said, “Giving or buying someone shoes—you are telling them that you want them to put them on and walk out of your life. So here is money, and you will buy them yourself.”
Snowbird shook her head at how nervous her younger self had been and how proud when the task was complete. While she resettled the shoe packages under her arm, her gaze caught on some pointe shoes posed atop a shelving unit.
They were the color of fresh blood.
She wanted them.
They already had ribbons attached, and the ends reached out like creeping vines, looping around her wrists, strangely quiet. If they brought anything to mind, it was the sound of snow falling in a winter forest, the softness of footfalls crunching through the upper cr
ust into the soft powder beneath. The quiet of knowing there would be no rescue.
On the tips of the shoes and halfway up the blocks where the dancer’s toes would bend, old dry bloodstains darkened the satin.
“You like them?” The shoe fitter Snowbird had seen earlier approached, face attentive.
She did. However, she also remembered suddenly the voices of the old ladies in their apartment building passing judgment on another girl’s bright-red lipstick. Red—a masculine color symbolising fire and passion, inappropriate for a proper young lady. She hesitated, pushing the ribbons away from her arms. “I couldn’t find a tag,” she murmured, a half-hearted excuse.
But she couldn’t deny the desire pulsing in her veins. Somehow, looking at those shoes, she knew with complete assurance that she would dance perfectly in them. It made no sense—as she looked more closely it was clear they had been worn before, moulded to another dancer. Their shape was old, the blocks wide and deep, the tips rounded. The satin was wrinkled and creased, the shank made of wood, the darning on the toes worn smooth and soft. These shoes had first seen a stage in the days of Anna Pavlova, at the dawn of the twentieth century.
The fitter picked them up, bundled together in one hand. “I thought they’d make an interesting display. I’ve never seen anything like them. They’re certainly old enough to be intriguing, maybe even valuable if they belonged to someone well known. But I’ve got so much new stock coming in, and, well, they don’t really go with the aesthetic.” She waved a hand round from the shoes to her brightly laden chrome shelves, the pale woods. Then she shivered slightly, facing Snowbird again. “I don’t know . . . there’s something I don’t like about them. Maybe it’s how worn and stained they are, or just how . . . friendly.” She picked at the ribbons as they sinuously wound their way up her arm.
Snowbird felt inexplicably chilled.
“Oddest thing too,” the woman continued, taking Snowbird’s other intended purchases then heading in the direction of the suddenly shadowy counter. The light in the room seemed to dim almost imperceptibly as the shoes swept past each rack. “I just found them in the back room yesterday, under a stack of old stock. They weren’t there at our last stocktake, and I’m the only one with a key this weekend.” She shrugged slightly, ringing up the Bravuras, which again made their soft, comforting, purring sound.
Then she lifted the red pointe shoes, wiggling them in front of Snowbird.
“Last chance. I’ll give them to you for thirty since you’re buying the others.”
Ken had obviously given up on Winter Garden tickets and was waiting in the foyer where she had last seen him, studying a bright-colored pamphlet. “Hey! Was beginning to think I’d missed you. Didn’t want you getting mugged and losing all your new haul.” He tilted his head at her small carrier bag. “You just get shoes then?”
Snowbird nodded. She felt odd, as if she were wrapped in heavy cotton. The whole world felt slightly dimmer and quieter. It had started as she slid the notes across the counter, sealing the deal.
“What subway station are you near?” Ken asked, taking on an almost apologetic tone. “It’s just, my halmeoni would be pretty mad if I didn’t walk you back.”
“Christopher Street, I think?” Snowbird found it harder to remember than usual. “I’m in Greenwich.”
He nodded, turning decisively left out of the doorway and heading back the way they had come earlier in the afternoon. Snowbird had to scramble to keep up with his long stride, stuffing the plastic bag into her duffle along the way. “Does your grandmother live with you?” she asked, feeling it was safe social conversation. He had mentioned his halmeoni twice now.
Ken nodded. “Only for the last few years, since my halabeoji died. Before that, they were up in Brooklyn.” She must have shown some surprise, because he explained further. “They came over before my parents were born. My poor grandmother is horrified about how little Korean we speak. She’s been trying to teach my sister to cook, but I’m learning more just by watching than she is by doing. It’s not such an important thing for her, I guess. I just want to learn what I can. Our grandmother is pretty frail now.”
Snowbird’s mouth watered, thinking about her mother’s cooking. She’d held onto the last piece of Korean food she had, a sticky-sweet rice cake from the flight over, for as long as she could, but it had been gone for a couple of weeks now.
As though reading her thoughts, Ken shot her a knowing look. “I bet you’re missing home-cooked food right now.”
Snowbird nodded. “My roommate has been very kind, preparing meals. And she’s a dancer too, so she knows . . . but half of it I’ve never seen before, like quinoa . . . and all the fruit. Fruit is really expensive in Seoul.”
“I’ll take you to Koreatown next time we have a half day,” he promised as they joined the stream of people heading down into the Washington Square Subway Station. “We can get you groceries, and you can introduce me to the best foods! Or, maybe next time my halmeoni decides to cook, you could come. She’d probably enjoy having someone to talk to. Unless . . .” He stopped walking mid traffic-flow, and several commuters pushed past him, muttering angrily. “Unless you don’t want to talk about, you know, coming from North Korea. Because she’ll probably try to find out all your family history.”
“I was only five when we left. I don’t remember much about it, or about our time in China. My mother protected me a lot, I think.” Her brain still must have been stuck in that strange fog, for all that she felt back to her normal self, because she wrapped her arm around his shoulders in response to his sympathetic look, just as she would have done with any of her ballet or school friends back home.
His surprised expression brought back all her careful study in American social customs. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot . . .” She let go of him, bringing both hands up to cover her face in a semi-playful gesture of embarrassment. Snowbird peeked between her fingers, but to her relief he was laughing.
“You’re lucky I’ve seen enough Korean Drama mini-series to know what you were meaning.” He nudged her with his shoulder, moving them out of the flow of traffic.
Snowbird reached into her duffle bag. She had been saving the fruit from her lunch for later—an unconscious habit from a time when the next meal wasn’t a certain thing—but now, on impulse, she looked up at Ken. “Jae sagwaleul pada juseyo?”
She saw him pause, lips moving as he parsed it out. “Will you accept my . . . apple?” His eyes narrowed as he saw the bright red apple she held in one hand. Ken rolled his eyes at her, accepting the offering and taking a bite as he did so. His other arm he slipped around her shoulders and squeezed gently. “Yes, and I accept your apology as well.”
It was worth the late-night sewing and telling the tales to her new shoes. The following day during practice, Snowbird found herself receiving praise from Eli multiple times for her extension, her balance, the quickness with which she learned the second new choreography of the day.
At first, she thought him confused. Moira was clearly the best in the class. Moira had the most beautiful line in her arabesques. Moira had not only picked up the choreography but was already adding in her own identity and musicality.
“New-shoe talent.” Snowbird heard Ashlee whisper. And perhaps a little of it was—the glamour of stain-free, crease-free shoes did spread onto the dancer who wore them. One reason why professional dancers went through so many pairs of shoes.
But she felt herself improved, truly improved. She knew that the dancer she saw in the mirror was wholly and entirely herself and her skill. Smiling at her mirrored self, she watched the dancer with the night-black hair, caught for an instant in a pose between a leap and a turn, smile back.
Later that night, while sewing ribbons onto her second pair with the Bolshoi Ballet’s variation of the Nutcracker playing on the laptop beside her, Snowbird remembered the other pair of eyes that had been reflected in the mirror and meeting her gaze. Moira had been staring at her, not with the usual disinterest or even dis
dain, but with a clear, chilling fury in her golden glare.
Once upon a time there was a dancer who listened to the story but heard something entirely different.
Over generations, the narrative changed. The young dancers no longer whispered of a disappearing classmate, but of other mysteries. Unfamiliar music heard well after curfew in the otherwise deserted practice rooms. A light visible under a door where no door existed.
Everyone knew not to be the last one left practicing, not to seek out the music that they had never been able to remember the next day. Everyone knew that a boy who followed the music would be forced to partner with the lost dancer, while a girl would follow in the steps of the solo. They would dance until they were exhausted, muscle stripped from bone, hard shoes crumbling, tights fraying, mouth dry, hair thinning.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Once upon a time there was a dancer who listened to the story but heard something entirely different. She sought out the secret practice room, dressed in her newest leotard, in pointe shoes that were practically part of her feet, stalking the hallways until she saw light coming from under a door that had been bricked up long ago.
Every student in the school heard the music all night long.
In the morning she limped into the studio, pale, her shoes so blood-stained they were entirely red. The instructors stared at her, her classmates stared. They tried to help her take off her shoes, but they were stuck fast. She danced—tombé, chassé, pas de bourrée—out of the room. Out of the school, and as far as anyone was aware, out of existence.
Once upon a time, there was a dancer who listened to the story but heard the whispered promise behind it: That if a dancer was skilled enough, stubborn enough, and strong enough, she might survive the dance.
And if she did more than survive—if she triumphed—then by some strange alchemy she could become something new.
Five Poisoned Apples Page 35