Letters from Yelena Page 15
After many clammy dances and cigarettes on the fire escape, you finally led me back down those stairs. It must have been about four in the morning, and only then did I wonder where Erin and Nick had gone. I didn’t recognise the voice that came out of my mouth as we staggered outside. I sounded like one of your women: vulgar, confident, only interested in the next buzz. For a moment I wondered if I was being moulded into someone, and if so where that might take me. But as we left the alleyway you held me still and kissed me, and I felt myself calm. I was glad to leave the urgent desperation of the dance floor. It seemed to cover everyone in a sheen of denial, which I knew would stay on them long after they left.
You took me down to the quayside. Now devoid of people, it seemed to persist in a state of shock. The lights from the city, yellow and red, quivered on the water. Silence emanated from the houses around us, settling our insides. We sat on the small artificial beach, enclosed by rope, above the water. It was almost too dark to see one another, and until the first light of morning we built castles out of the damp, soft sand. Once they were made I placed my head on your shoulder I closed my eyes, only opening them when the sun began to rise.
We sat for a few moments in silence, watching the city return to us. Then you led me back along the road, before raising your hand at a lone taxi.
Love,
Yelena
Dear Noah,
In the weeks that followed I enjoyed complete freedom for the first time in my life. The day always began when morning light fell against the blinds in your room. It started as a shaft of white that lit up my side of the bed, before gradually crawling over the rest of the room, lighting up the piles of books and all the discarded clothes. Having clung to one another all night we’d reluctantly separate, and you’d stagger off to the university to give your morning lecture.
Do you remember how you used to always hurry back for me? I’d be awoken by the clatter of your keys on the table and the sound of your coat falling to the floor. As you bustled into the room I’d sleepily pull my hair from my eyes. The sound of your belt unbuckling would always fill me with excitement as you slipped into the sheets beside me. I’d help you ease off your trousers, conscious of my creased appearance but excited by the intimacy that would follow. You’d let out a small sigh of relief as you pressed against me, kissing me as if you hadn’t seen me in days. I’d prise myself from the sheets and lay on my back, wriggling as you rolled my panties from my hips. And then I’d sigh loudly at your audacity, as you first kissed my neck and then eased yourself carefully inside me. Our hands would clamour over each other’s backs, our eyes would widen, and your hand would gently press over my mouth so the neighbours didn’t hear us. We’d grasp each other joyously in our moment of release, before curling our arms around each other through the few minutes of calm.
I saw what a fine instrument my body had become, honed by years of discipline. Slowly I learnt to see it as more than a medium of expression. You showed me that my body was mine, and therefore ready to issue pleasure at any moment. Every second of pain it had experienced had refined it for every second of pleasure now. I gradually learnt to use the skills I had gained to give us both pleasure, and by enjoying my body for the first time with you an unassailable bond was forged between us. I feared the consequences of entering this bind – would it only resonate on a physical level with you?
It shocked me to learn that I had unwittingly possessed such abilities for so long. In those secretive, rapturous mornings we created an atmosphere of intimacy and decadence so potent that I knew we could step in and out of it at will. We started to map out with one another all the desires that we had long kept within ourselves. I realised that within us all there exists a crystalline, half-buried world of desire that can only be completely excavated if we meet the right person. It had been buried so deeply in me that it was almost irretrievable. I grew to love the decadent thrill of absenting yourself from the world and taking desire to its very extremes. On those excitable, urgent mornings we fully excavated those half-buried worlds. We learnt how to kiss and goad one another, how to delay and how to enthral. I learnt how satisfying it felt to allow another to find the root of their desire in you, expressed through the simple undulations of your body. I learnt how it felt to be so urgently desired that your mere presence became all that another could experience until they had finally found satisfaction.
It was not only physical intimacy that I came to enjoy. When we would lie in the sheets afterwards we slowly began to open up to each other, revealing the many zones we had kept hidden inside. In the past I had wondered how much one can endure before they’re no longer able to speak openly again. At what point the cynicism and caution, cultivated by pain, becomes too stifling. I thought I had long passed that point. I didn’t know that the shadow of caution could always be dispelled. It simply required the right person.
The closer we grew, the more I sensed that there was something important that you were holding back from me. It was apparent in the way that you always cradled your head on your fist and focused the conversation on me. And one morning, when you had been particularly evasive, I decided this needed to be addressed.
You had mentioned Elizabeth before, as the last woman you had called your girlfriend. I’d also heard the name Hannah mentioned a couple of times, but I had never enquired about her further. That morning I felt we were at the point where such names could become uncharted territory, but I also feared the impact of finding out something I did not want to know.
You were half out of the bed, perhaps trying to escape my apparent resolve, when I asked the question.
‘Who’s Hannah?’
You dropped your shirt and turned to face me. ‘Have I not told you?’ you replied, reclining on the pillow beside me. ‘Hannah is my daughter.’
‘Your daughter?’
‘Yes.’ You looked apologetic, suddenly vulnerable. ‘She’s five years old. I had her with Elizabeth.’
‘You had her with Elizabeth?’
You lay flat on the bed, looked squarely at me. ‘Somehow, I thought you knew. I’m sorry. We should have talked about it before.’
‘I know,’ I said.
‘I was… I don’t know.’
‘I know,’ I said.
You smiled, awkwardly. Then I smiled back, as if that could restrain the huge tension I’d felt suddenly arise in me. I feared that if this revelation did not knock me over now then it might do at a later date. I remember that for some reason I couldn’t even look at you. I started fiddling with the blinds, all the time feeling your eyes on the side of my face, narrow with concern. As if you knew exactly how painful this conversation was for me.
‘I’m still good friends with Elizabeth,’ you said. ‘Just friends though. I see Hannah every weekend – well every weekend that I’m in the country.’
You moved closer, and placed your hand on my cheek. My face must have grown cold, because your hand felt hot and heavy.
‘How do I not know this?’ I said, struggling to meet your eye.
‘I know. You should know it all by now. Elizabeth and I dated for a couple of years after university. I met her as a student. In retrospect we were not as careful as we should have been. By the time she learnt she was pregnant we had broken up. To be frank, I didn’t handle the whole situation well at all. In fact I was a coward. But I’ve gradually adjusted to being a father, and Elizabeth’s been very patient with me.’
I tried to look composed. I knew that you could see this struggle – the slight withdrawal of something in my flesh when you reached out to me.
‘I’ve been waiting for the right time to properly explain,’ you finally said.
‘You kept it from me,’ I answered.
‘It’s not that. But – I should have told you sooner.’
‘Yes.’
I forced myself to keep it together. This doesn’t have to be a problem, I thought. You don’t own him; he’s only been with you for a matter of weeks. I looked up at you and smiled. But
you couldn’t quite smile back.
The truth is, part of me was devastated, and I knew you could see that. This felt like a sudden, deep wound that could easily become infected. I knew I had much to be grateful for in having met you, and I decided instead to try and dwell on that.
A few days later you asked if I would like to meet them, and when I said yes some of my excitement was genuine. I wish that I had been more aware of my state of mind when I agreed to that so soon. Dancing Giselle had taken a huge amount of endurance and discipline, and all that pressure had suddenly released the moment the final curtain fell.
I didn’t know then that when a vat of pressure is released from one chamber in the brain then it must be replaced by something else; it cannot remain a vacuum. Now that part of my mind had been relieved of a certain presence it needed to replace it with something. It was happening as inevitably as autumn slides into winter.
Just as we had opened onto one another, we similarly began to open onto the city. We had found out how to live intimately with another, and then through the city we found out how we wanted to live. Although you always had an extroverted side, it was only with my accompaniment that you were able to finally live there as you had always wanted to.
Both of us, suddenly emboldened, took to the city with a ravenous hunger. I saw that you were now able to hone your appearance so you could dress how you had always wanted to. It was as if with me at your side, you were confident enough to step out of your shadows. In the past I had always rejected outfits that clung to my figure. But now for the first time I felt able to embrace my attributes. A dress was no longer something I had to live up to, if anything it became a container for my exuberance. I fashioned my hair into a modern style that I had seen in magazines. I began to never leave the house without a flash of red lipstick and a sharp pair of heels. I even allowed you to occasionally buy me jewellery, when we saw something in a shop window that I took a fancy to. You encouraged this development, but for some reason I felt sure that it had emanated from me.
I learnt that I had fully emerged from my cocoon one night when we entered a bar together. I had on a chocolate coloured fur coat, to go with my new hairstyle. Nick was sat in the bar with some friends, and I saw the way they all turned to look at me as we drew near. That had never happened before.
‘Noah,’ Nick said, rising to greet you. ‘You haven’t even ironed your shirt. You simply do not deserve to have this beautiful woman all to yourself.’ I laughed as his friends all roared in agreement. You dismissed them with a gesture, but I could see that you also looked a little proud. I got the slightest feeling that you wanted us to stay longer with them because of how well my presence reflected on you. It was not a feeling I had ever experienced before.
During the evenings we started going to concerts in the great hall that overlooked the river. I remember how precious I felt every time you proudly introduced me to some famous writer or journalist after the show. I felt ornate and exotic, because for the first time that was how I looked. At drinks parties, held in apartments high above the city, I finally started to carry myself as if I was something to be revered. When introduced to me, men stooped as they delicately kissed my hand. The other guests were inevitably decked in evening wear, their laughter laced with the inflections of the privileged. Yet I felt comfortable around them, and able to act aloof and bored like they did. But I was never bored, never for a second. I was enchanted by everything the city had to offer us. My new pose was seemingly not simply an act, but an elongation of my personality. At the parties and concerts, and as we flitted between the bars, it felt as if the two of us had been given the keys to the city. The famous writer and the accomplished ballerina, side by side, two sparkling new features on the skyline of the city.
Love from,
Yelena
Dear Noah,
I never told you that on the nights leading up to that dinner I repeatedly dreamt of Elizabeth. It happened the first time after I had returned to my flat to take a call about our next season. After all the rich experiences with you I felt cooled by the many pale planes of my room. But the phone call left me feeling very uncertain about many aspects of my life. As I lay in bed alone that night I tried to not let the questions engulf me. It was then that I had my first dream of Elizabeth.
My mind was moving at a lumbering pace; it felt intoxicated and nauseous. An image arose out of this fog – one of a singular eyelid, painted dark purple, which extended out to a long, curved eyelash. Panning back from this image I saw a woman, small and contained, who even in stasis possessed a distinct liveliness. She had long dark hair and an open, unguarded expression. There was a slight hint of mischief in her smile. She was sat at a small trestle table, upon which were placed several tumblers of whisky. They sparkled in the ochre light of the rather cluttered drawing room she was seated in. Panning back further, I saw that she was surrounded by five men, all of them gazing at her as they chatted amongst themselves. The smile that teased at her lips betrayed her pleasure at this usual turn of events. Considering her more carefully, I decided that she had a cultured, European air about her. Even without speaking she conveyed an aura of exoticism. She was wearing a caramel brown dress, and despite being only faintly made up she seemed very comfortable in her skin. As the dream continued the men drew in closer around her and she lay back on the chair. The chattering grew louder, with all the men turning to one another and loudly agreeing how desirable she was. The dream ended with the image of her smile, broadening slightly as the men drew in closer. The name Elizabeth was never mentioned, but I knew it was her.
When I met her in the Italian restaurant, she was exactly how I had imagined her. Perhaps a little less refined, a little less hidden. You and I were sat at the table by the window and when she came in she was holding Hannah’s hand. As she smiled at us I remembered the fragment of a dream that had followed the scene of her with the five men. In it, I had seen her step onto the back of a motorcycle, still in the caramel dress, clasping her body against a handsome man as the bike roared to life. As the motorcycle had streaked past me, I had seen that the man driving it was you.
As they rounded the tables I saw Hannah properly for the first time. At that instant I realised that however close the two of us became, Elizabeth had still given you something more beautiful than I ever could. As they moved to the table I felt ridiculous and insignificant.
Before leaving your house I had fretted over my outfit, before eventually choosing a white dress with cream flowers faintly sewn into it. As she came to the table I saw that Elizabeth was also wearing a floral dress, but one bustling with rich red roses. Next to her I feared I would look drawn and lifeless, but your evident sudden happiness dispelled my negativity. As she greeted you, orange and yellow flames from the open kitchen torched the ceiling. Hannah turned and laughed at the spectacle as you kissed the side of her head. Then I kissed Elizabeth’s cheek, her hand clasping momentarily on my shoulder. It gripped me, a little too tight. Over the years I had grown convinced that my aloofness protected me. But Elizabeth’s air of instant intimacy made me question if that approach had been unnecessary.
Hannah wanted to look at the open kitchen, with all its bright and dancing flames.
‘Darling, come and sit down,’ Elizabeth said, taking her by the hand. ‘We’ll go and say hello to the chefs later.’
‘You’ve promised now,’ Hannah said, clambering onto her seat. She took a big sip from the glass of water you had waiting for her, before she gave in to your smile and scrambled over to hug you. You kissed her on the head again, and then placed her squarely onto your lap.
‘Hannah, say hello to Yelena,’ Elizabeth said, looking over the menu. ‘Yelena is Noah’s new girlfriend.’
‘Are you an actress?’ Hannah asked.
‘She’s a ballerina,’ Elizabeth said.
‘A ballerina,’ Hannah repeated, chewing on her thumb.
‘She’ll worship you now,’ Elizabeth said, flashing her eyes at me. ‘She loves balleri
nas.’
I smiled.
‘Are you the Swan Queen?’ Hannah asked.
‘I was once,’ I said.
‘That’s good,’ she answered, vaguely.
‘What was it this season?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘I’m sure I saw you in the papers.’
‘She was Giselle,’ Noah said.
‘Giselle,’ Elizabeth said, pronouncing it incorrectly. Noah smiled apologetically.
‘I always wanted to be a ballerina,’ she continued. ‘It’s one of those many things that I always felt was unachievable though.’ She laughed, raised her eyebrows and began to flick through the menu.
‘What do you do?’ The nerves exaggerated my accent, and I felt Noah look at me from the side of his eyes.
‘I mainly direct small, and very temporary arts festivals. Which basically means I pamper the egos of artists and pretend that I understand their work, even when it’s just lots of photos of apples sat on cushions like it was today.’
‘Is it paintings?’ I asked.
‘Often it is,’ she replied, tearing off a strip of bread. ‘And to be honest, I prefer it when it is because despite the… hokum I often have to sell, my love of paintings hasn’t diminished. Which unfortunately means my flat is full of discarded paintings that are pretty much worthless. Noah will tell you.’
This reference to your shared past made me recall the second dream I’d had of Elizabeth, the night after. With you on top of her, pushing her onto the floor and tearing off her shirt, surrounded by paintings that were yet to be hung. After a few glasses of wine you’d spontaneously decided to try and to conceive a child that night, and as a result you were tearing into her with a ferocity that you’d never had for me.