Letters from Yelena Read online

  You remain untainted in this dream, Noah, even with the self-flagellation our dreams are often stained by. After the dance has finished, you note that I am alone. The girls wipe themselves down with stiff towels, laugh conspiratorially amongst themselves. They remain cautious, if unburdened. Conscious of the sheen of sweat on my back I look over to you, exhilarated and relieved, and the door to the city opens a little wider. The stagehands spill out into the summer’s evening, keen to encircle the girls. You catch my eye and give a little flutter of your hand, ironically, as if you have just performed for me. Which, I must admit, you have though your performance was complete the moment you sat down. You have your fetishes. I know that you are probably fascinated by our outfits, by the faint scent of makeup in the city air, by the sunlight on our skin as we pour outside. I see you begin to move outside – from a bird’s eye view indistinguishable in location from me, and yet formally the two of us have not yet spoken and we could not be more apart.

  I hope that you are intrigued by me, intrigued enough to want us to speak. But you do not yet know if you possess the dexterity to overcome my natural and cherished awkwardness. And just as you are preoccupied by my details, so I am with yours. As you step in my wake, as I move outside. The synchronicity of our movements is not set to music now, it’s merely punctuated by time. I am fascinated by you, by your mysterious red notebook, the contents of which I can only speculate over. Outside, I sit on a block of concrete, and I hope I somehow stand out amongst my peers. The sky in that quarter of the city has an untrammelled pureness to its blue, reminiscent of the kind of world I later learn that you wish to live in. I know I have become furniture in that world merely by sitting just there. You have begun to respond to me a little, for what I threw at you in the dance, and for where I now sit, a rare stone amongst the jewellery shop of this city. I already want us to be splayed amongst it, for us to cover every corner of it together. I want my presence to be so evocative that it is indistinguishable from your vague fantasies, to be the most potent amongst them. I assume that role happily though, because I already need to be a part of your world. I accept a cigarette from one of the girls, because I know that I need my apparatus too, my levers and pulleys to pull you in. There is still paint on my eyes and skin, and sweat on my legs. I can feel the sheen from my exertions shimmer on my chest, and I see your eyes catch the glowing skin above my breasts at least once. They rise and fall in the corner of your eye, and I know your body registers every undulation. I don’t want this vast vat of blue to ever fade from my eyes and the eyes of the other, now beautiful dancers. I want to embody this symbol for you for as long as I can, as I know you will draw from it during the dark and isolated moments that are still to come in your life. For a moment I suspend myself in my current state, and I sense the weight of meaning upon me; a beautiful, timeless weight. And for a moment I actually feel playful. I laugh with the other girls, and I’m not scared of them. I love them and everything around me because I know it all means so much. I love feeling important for once. I love to drip with meaning like this, to finally be a part of something timeless. I just know that in time you will come over to me, and only a few moments later you do. I feel your approach in the corner of my eyes. There is no hurry; I have never been so sure that something will happen. You consider me for a moment, perhaps balancing the weight of your fear against the loneliness you will later feel in your room if you do not speak now. And then, having made that calculation, you move over to me. And you are not yet able to meet my eye, as you ask, ‘Would you like a light for that?’

  With love,

  Yelena

  Dear Noah,

  Thank you for your letter. Isn’t it strange how two people can recall the same events so very differently? You say it was during the opening night party that my presence first had a great impact upon you; that watching me rehearse merely laid the groundwork for that. I can see how that party could have acted as a fertile ground, in which secretly planted seeds could flourish.

  I remember the exuberant performance the corps de ballet gave as the guests began to arrive. Having the event in a lavish art gallery overlooking the river contributed to that excited, intense atmosphere, mirrored in the bodies of the ballerinas as they took to the floor. Their nervous energy commanded the guests’ attention. Nine dancers with feather plumes, their athletic bodies clad in stiff tutus. This was their moment, tonight they had the attention of the discerning for those few fluttering minutes. The three Principal ballerinas in evening wear, who were stationed at various corners of the room, exchanged amused smiles as the dancers braced themselves to begin. And then the air was filled with the striking of strings, followed immediately by the quick, arching movements of lithe arms, legs quivering as they went en pointe. They exchanged glances as they darted around the room like small sparrows, destined one day to soar, a trail of talcum powder spinning in their wake. The men, enchanted and engrossed, gripped their champagne flutes harder. The women, knowing and composed, watched them with narrowed eyes.

  I remember the unique sensations of that evening so precisely. I can still recall the excitement and relief I felt; its unusual potency moves me still. There I was, anxious, suspicious little Yelena, finally in England, at the launch party for the first ballet that I would dance as a Principal.

  The windows of that high-rise gallery captured the city’s vivid bouquet of colours, splashing amongst themselves as far as the eye could see. Below me were the intricate houses of the city, each holding such comfortable concerns. Thin strokes of purple and red dispersed amongst the ice blue of the summer sky, which seemed so wide and promising. The glistening arch of the bridge below us, visible in the expansive windows, the city’s lights reflected in its concave frame, illuminated amongst the deepening dark. And inside, all around us pyramids of champagne glasses bubbling away like small gold fireworks. The long arched necks of the dancers, their hair pressed into precise buns, immobile as they considered the city they were about to enchant below. That gently insidious music that accompanied the corps de ballet, propelling each of us dancers in brief and sensational moments to move along with it – and in so doing to show hints of our potential. It was the first time that excitement had felt pure, unspoilt by anxiety. That excitement passed between the lips of each dancer as their performance ended, as if it was our secret. What a glorious night that was.

  I admit it was at the launch party where we spoke enough for our unspoken pact to feel validated. After the rehearsal Eva, still bewildered by your presence, had asked if you would be coming to the launch. You looked me up and down and I smiled, bemused by the way you so shamelessly considered the quality of my presence. But I didn’t mind that, and felt excited when I heard you turn to her and say you thought that would be a good idea. And at the launch, when I saw you enter the gallery, that sharp pang of excitement returned as I realised that a new chapter of my life was about to begin.

  I could tell you wanted to believe that I always inhabited the world of glamour represented that night. I could tell you liked the idea that I represented access to that world. Perhaps I had been able to sense, already, that need the first time we met. I know you mock me for this, but I believe it is a ballerina’s job to relieve the trapped tensions of an onlooker through their movement. We act as a conduit for the observers’ unexpressed desires, the silent appreciation they may contain for anything; a lover, a river, a building even. I know you are amused by such pretensions Noah, but they are essential to me. Ballerinas make the vague, the fleeting, the contained into something physical and real. Do you think that we dance the same for every audience, just as we make love in the same way with each partner? Of course we don’t. But during the moments that all fears are allayed and our pleasures expressed, we realise our obligation to commend the audience, or lover, for prompting that in us. And as if to prompt a fine display of myself, I knew how to present myself in the array for you that night.

  It was only the thought of your presence which prevented me from feelin
g utterly removed that night. The dress rehearsal that had finished a few hours before had been a strangely flat, insular experience. But now it seemed that the glamour of the art gallery could light the evening ablaze for me. And you would supply the spark.

  When you arrived, I saw your excitement at this glittering façade. At the strangely childlike ballerinas, awkwardly holding their glasses of wine and struggling to remember how to enjoy themselves. Their presence more potent than they yet realised. For them, the party was a brief respite from the pursuit of perfection. For me, it felt like a different type of excursion. I could feel myself adjusting to become the person I wanted to be in your eyes: indifferent, graceful, and quietly confident of my abilities. I stood in a triangle with Erin and Eva, the two other Principal ballerinas on this final leg of the tour. I saw Michael, the director of the ballet, come to the entrance as you ascended the stairs. He reached out to you and you looked up. In a flash I took in the trilby, perched on the crown of your head, concealing your dirty blonde hair. I absorbed the deceptive heft of your presence. The way that your ruffled good looks instantly lifted the room. Michael, effusive and ingratiating, anxious to find you a glass of wine. Impressed by your accolades and reputation, warming himself on your presence. If I chronicle what followed too exactly, it is because at night I have been practicing my lines.

  Eventually, Michael brought you over to the three of us. Eva was wide-eyed, learning to be pleasantly surprised by the new role Principals could play on such a night. Erin watched almost maternally over the two of us, her severe beauty intimidating and commanding.

  ‘Ladies,’ Michael said. ‘There is someone here who you must meet. This is Noah Stepanov.’ Eva smiled, her head to one side. Erin squinted suspiciously. I tried to look pretty and not like an alien.

  ‘This young man is something of an enfant terrible in the literary scene. His last book was about a modern day messiah, who happened to live on a North London council estate. But for his next work he has decided to use perhaps a more evocative setting. We are fortunate that it is going to be based in the world of ballet. I have permitted him to sit in on some of our rehearsals as he researches it. And Noah, darling,’ he continued, ‘this here is Erin, the Principal ballerina who’ll be dancing the role of Giselle for four nights on the closing leg of the tour.’

  ‘Hello,’ she said, with a pinched smile. Most of the other ballerinas were terrified of her, but whenever I felt I might become so I always reminded myself of the time I sprained my ankle in rehearsal and how, without fuss, she massaged it in the wings before Michael noticed, whispering in my ear, ‘Smile my dear, and he will never know.’

  ‘And Eva,’ he continued. ‘One of our more promising soloists. Eva will be dancing her first Principal role for one night as Giselle.’ Eva smiled intensely, excitable and tender. Sometimes, as we daubed ourselves in paint at the mirror before shows, she looked at me with frightened eyes and I’d hug her with one arm. She would always devour this comfort and her anxiety would immediately vanish. That night I felt appreciative of her kind and fragile presence amongst all the glassy stares.

  ‘And Yelena,’ Michael said, turning to me. ‘Yelena is, I think we would all agree, the most exciting dancer in our company. She is dancing the lead role of Giselle for the two closing nights of the tour. And I am sure that her volatile, exquisite dancing will help us close this tour with a bang.’

  I had never heard him speak in such floral terms, and despite the compliment could not help but dislike this flashing consideration of me.

  ‘Yelena,’ you said, getting it wrong.

  ‘Noah,’ I said, getting it right. A little too enthusiastic on the ‘h’. Our eyes locked into one another’s. I looked at you as though you had already taken me; you looked at me as if promising you would try. Up close the tilt of your eyelids and the slightly aggressive sensuality of your lips made you more feminine and tender than you had been in my memory. I saw then, in a way that I could not now, the manner in which you considered everything around you, me included, with a precise eye.

  A few minutes later, once the group had drifted apart, I pulled out a flower from a bouquet at the wine bar and twisted it around in my fingers. As I did it, I felt childlike for the first time in a while. How could one man’s gaze liberate me from my own personal wilderness? How was I now able to feel happy like a girl, while still looking like a woman?

  Recently I had understood that, without pretence, I normally behaved the way most people might while they recovered from loss. In my spare time I always wanted to wall myself off and walk around the city or along the beach, and drink in cafés by myself. I hoped I did not act this way as a result of some perpetual vanity, or to imagine myself as the heartbroken protagonist in my own film. But I have always been drawn towards solitude, melancholy, removal. It has always been my way of buffering the world, or perhaps of digesting it – the way you would later digest, in your writing, all you had devoured with your eyes. As I twisted the flower I saw that all of those days of consideration had been merely training, to build my strength up for the moments that mattered. Moments like these.

  I saw you hover behind me, and then collect at my side.

  ‘Yelena, isn’t it?’ you said, getting it wrong again. I smiled.

  ‘Yelena,’ I corrected. You laughed. I felt pained by my disappointment of you. I liked your hands, so long and damaged. But I didn’t like your voice, tripping over itself, not as resolute as I’d have liked. The process of negotiation, between the imagined and real lover, had begun.

  ‘And you?’ I asked.

  ‘Noah. We were just introduced.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ I twisted the rose around on my nose.

  ‘This must be an exciting time for you. All of that work, about to finally pay off.’

  ‘We are not ready,’ I said, flicking my eyes up. ‘You see that dancer, Erin? She has always been ready. She plans everything far ahead. But Eva and I… it is our first time. We are not quite there yet.’

  ‘But the question is, do you think anyone will notice?’

  I laughed. ‘To me, it doesn’t matter what other people think.’

  ‘It must do a little.’

  I smiled. ‘Okay, a little. It does affect things, obviously. It is nice to be complimented, and I still feel it when I’m criticised. But ultimately, it only really matters how I feel about it.’

  ‘And how do you feel about it now?’

  I was taken aback by your intensity. But you leant in, and seemed genuinely interested. ‘That’s quite a personal question,’ I said, before realising in the echo of my voice that it was not.

  ‘Forgive me, I’m a typical nosey writer. A complete voyeur, always interested in things that I probably shouldn’t be.’

  ‘But that is your job. And so,’ I put the head of the flower on your nose, wondering idly if it would change colour at its tip, ‘you must ask.’

  ‘You are quite evasive.’

  ‘You are quite over-familiar.’

  ‘Are you queuing for a drink?’

  ‘Will you get me one?’

  You didn’t even wait for an answer, disappearing on my command. There I was, alone again, drenched in solitude. I dropped the flower in disgust. How pathetic I am, I remember thinking. To think you can enchant a man just by using a withered flower. Do you think he has not seen flowers before? And suddenly my stepmother’s voice came to me, and squeezed me around the abdomen. Why must you act like a child? it said. Why can you not be like a real woman? I felt my blood freeze.

  It thawed a little as you appeared from nowhere with a flute of champagne. ‘Here,’ you said. ‘Something to still your nerves.’ I suppressed a giggle; hated myself for being so coquettish. And then I hated you for bringing this upon me, when my solitude had finally become a comfort. Moment by moment, you were already taking that old friend away from me.

  ‘What makes you think I am nervous?’ I asked.

  ‘I know it must have been strange,’ you said, surveying the burgeo
ning crowd. ‘To have a man sit in the aisles, watching you all practice. I felt like I must have looked like some sort of... I don’t know. But it was in the name of my book, and I had to remind myself of that. But being there, I learnt how readily ballerinas express themselves with their bodies.’

  ‘But some of us,’ I said, ‘have forgotten how to really express ourselves with our bodies.’ You pursed your lips, and I couldn’t help blushing. I pointed out Eva, and felt a surge of confidence. ‘Take Eva, for instance, her life is ballet, and she is yet to fully embrace adulthood. Her bedroom is still full of toys. As far as I know, she is yet to have a boyfriend.’ I said it almost defiantly, as if wanting to mark myself as different to her. And then I turned, and could not read your expression. ‘Listen to me, I am making it sound as if I am a woman of the world. When I am anything but.’

  ‘I’m trying to place your accent,’ you said, narrowing your eyes. ‘You’re from East Ukraine? Perhaps via St Petersburg?’

  ‘I’m impressed. Did Michael tell you that?’

  A pause. ‘Yes. I sometimes like to make myself sound more cultured than I am.’

  I laughed. ‘And why would you want to do that?’

  You shrugged, and I suddenly sensed the eyes of the other two Principals upon me. I knew they had already taken in the invigorating presence of your intentions. At that moment it was as if you sparkled. You verified me by being talented, intriguing, and shamelessly interested in me. Your body moved like a sunflower bending towards the light. Your movements, I could already tell, were suffused with a little desire. I felt the stares of the other ballerinas, softened to try and look friendly but undeniably laced with aggression. In that mad moment of happiness I decided to pursue my advantage. ‘I need some air.’