Letters from Yelena (11 page)

Therese told me that the panel look at the physique of the applicants’ parents as well, needing to see that they are slim and athletic, to ensure that their offspring will develop
appropriately. While the mothers corrected their daughters’ hair and drilled them with instructions, Therese looked vacantly at the ceiling, as if she had suddenly regressed to being a child.
I suddenly felt very small, in my cheap Ukrainian gym clothes, and I wondered if Bruna had been right after all.

Therese promised she would meet me in the hall outside as soon as the audition had finished. As she left my side I hoped the next time she saw my face, it contained pride rather than shame.

I was part of a group of seven girls that were shown around the academy before the interview by the director. We were then given a five minute break before the auditions started, and in that
time I shut myself in the toilet and tried to calm my nerves. In those desperate, jagged moments I told myself that this was my only option, my only chance. I simply had to make it good. There
would be no-one to comfort me if I messed up, and no-one to blame but myself. I imagined how I would feel if I danced well and was accepted. It was too painful to imagine the alternative.

A few minutes later we were led upstairs into a great, high ceilinged hall. I saw that a black and white portrait of Nijinksy was looking over us. As I stepped into the room, I felt that my
every footstep was clumsy. From watching videos with Therese I knew what the protocol would be – we would simply dance a usual class that the director at some point would come along and
observe. The other girls seemed so much more assured than I at this point, and I wondered how many of them had already walked these historic floors. We each found a place at the barre. The door
closed with a great bang, and then six members of staff, some carrying clipboards, came in and stood at the other end of the room. None of them smiled, they merely raised their heads expectantly.
The girls consulted nervously with one another and looked to their feet, trying to find their first position. The maestro took to the piano in the corner of the room and one of the people,
evidently the ballet mistress, ordered us to prepare, in brisk Russian.

The music began, and to my horror I felt suddenly overwhelmed by the turn of events. I missed the first step. Bruna’s laughter returned to me. Not now, I told myself. I felt the ballet
mistresses’ eyes upon me, but a moment later I sensed that her attention had moved on. I could see the panel conferring with one another out of the corner of my eye, and then one of them
motioned to the mistress. She ran over to the maestro, his music suddenly stopping before he began the piece again. It was only then that I saw, from the expressions on the other girls’
faces, that many of the others had fallen behind too. I was relieved beyond words to see that the music had not stopped just because of me.

From practicing, I was used to sweating a great deal at the barre, but today I could already feel it pouring out of me and I had barely begun. I implored my mind to catch and then follow each
instruction, to be agile enough to also show grace and flexibility in every move. As the music began again the mistress did not show us the whole moves, but merely suggested them with a flick of
her hand. As we progressed through the
pliés
and the
slow tendus
I saw the mistress pacing around the room. Occasionally she would stop, and touch a girl gently on the
shoulder, and they would scuttle out of the room. I focused on staying on top of the music, and straining to hear every word that was said. A few minutes later I sensed the mistress at my shoulder,
and my body tensed as she leaned in. I could smell her expensive perfume. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when they opened she had passed me by. I had not yet been discounted, and I felt
determined to carry on.

After a while the mistress motioned for us to leave the barre and move into the centre. I heard the panel mutter amongst themselves. Many of the dancers did not even look at one another as they
prepared to start again. As I began to dance, I felt my body relax, and to my surprise I began to dance fluidly. My body became a little freer. I attacked my pirouettes, and they seemed crisp and
confident. My mind had been sharpened by years of practice, and as the nerves faded my movements were as sharp as they had ever been. Once or twice I saw the mistress tap another girl on the
shoulder. Some already seemed resigned to this, and almost relieved to finally bow out of the room. As the session began to draw to a close I knew that they would be looking for me to show
endurance, creativity, grace under pressure. Yet I felt something tighten inside of me that wouldn’t release just when I needed it to. I felt their eyes scour down my back for telltale signs
of restraint. I knew that I would need to display great poise during my big jumps as the class ended, and I desperately hoped that my body would not let me down. From one corner of the room, one by
one we followed the music and in the final grand
jeté
I felt myself just reach the height required. During these routines I even started to put in little flourishes and expressions
that Therese had always told me looked good. When the music finally faded, I realised my body was screaming out in pain. I had never felt more emotionally or physically exhausted in my life.

‘Thank you,’ the director said. ‘Those of you that are still here have danced well. We will let you know our decision in due course.’

The flight home was unbearable. I was terrified that I would return back to instantly find a letter to say that it had all been in vain.

I waited, day after day checking the post, but there was nothing. Then, finally I came home from school to find Bruna waiting on the doorstep. I looked at her, and tried to read her expression,
but it was dead. ‘You didn’t get in,’ she said. I took the letter from her, my blurred eyes looking down to see the six or seven lines printed on it. ‘Of course you
didn’t get in,’ she said, and then she swept past me, laughing.

With love from,

Yelena

Dear Noah

For that next year life in Donetsk became an endurance test and I am still unsure exactly how I survived it. Therese was offered a job as a choreographer in England, which she
immediately accepted. I had no option but to carry on training by myself, in the hope that I would be able to secure a second interview the following year. I knew that there were other places my
dancing could have taken me, but I had had my sights set on the Vaganova. Getting in would teach me that I was capable of something special; that all the extra effort I had put in had been
worthwhile. It would prove that Bruna was wrong. It would show my father that I had achieved something special, given all the investment he had put in. I also would be achieving something that I
knew my mother would have been very proud of. This was to be my time in the wilderness, and I know you are aware of how difficult and yet necessary that time is.

In your last letter you asked me how I could have felt gratitude towards my father, despite his support, given that he didn’t confront Bruna. I can see that when explaining the intricacies
of how another family works it is often impossible to justify them. The truth is that only now do I see how weak and scared my father was.

For a few months I carried on with my dancing and schoolwork, and I tried to fight the bitterness festering inside me. Every day I would go to school and curse the ride there, the people around
me, the mental prison that I felt trapped inside. I started to feel like I was suffocating, and worse that my moment had passed. That year taught me self-discipline, how to endure, and it gave me
an academic fall back position. Those qualifications also started to prove that I was not as useless as Bruna said I was, and that gave me some comfort. The qualifications seemed to signify that in
time I inevitably
would
leave this town. In moments we were somehow alone together, Bruna would tell me that given my father’s effort I should feel ashamed for not having achieved even
better grades. By then I had adopted a dismissive demeanour to her face, but later on that night I would often need to let off some blood just to get through the darkness. A rot was starting to
creep over me, and I didn’t know how it could be prevented.

Therese’s replacement eventually came. Natalya Jalinski’s impending arrival was announced a few weeks in advance, and having undertaken some research into her background I was
surprised to find pictures of a bright eyed, waif-like woman, almost ethereal. She had not only trained at the Vaganova, but had also been accepted afterwards as a dancer at the Mariinsky Theatre
in St Petersburg – where only the finest ballerinas are accepted. It looked possible that I suddenly could be back on track. Natalya would have skills and knowledge far beyond those Therese
had possessed. But first I needed to convince her that I was worthy of receiving intensive training from her.

I was nervous about meeting her in person, but for once, my father was there for me. During a rare afternoon alone together he told me I shouldn’t allow this setback to prevent me from
pursuing ballet further. In the past few months he had seen his daughter change from someone stoical and driven to someone whose failure had started to corrode her. There had been times that I had
cursed my sister, screamed in frustration at my father, and quietly threatened Bruna. Looking back, this time was a crossroads. Many people are not fortunate enough to go the right way, and I
believe their lives can become one long bitter lament at having taken the wrong road. My father knew how pivotal this moment was, and he wanted me to meet this new and rather exotic sounding
teacher at the first opportunity.

In the end I met Natalya on the first day that she began at the school. On entering the dance studio, I was surprised to meet a pale and slightly disconsolate woman in her late twenties. The
first time I saw Natalya she was standing by the window looking over the school courtyard, with a rather melancholy expression on her face. It was only after the lesson that my father told me that
injury had prevented her fulfilling her promise at the Mariinsky, and had pushed her towards a life of teaching instead.

As Natalya turned to face me, I saw that she wore her long, dark hair in a lose knot at the side of her head. As my father introduced us, Natalya looked at me with sympathy. I think she had
already picked up on the aggression of my ambition, and I wondered if she thought it naïve.

On my father’s insistence the elderly music teacher was summoned as I demonstrated my barre work. Although I was a little rusty I could see Natalya’s eyes widen as I threw myself
into the dancing. She lit a cigarette and inhaled it deeply as I went through the sequences, with her instructing me when to
plié
,
tendu
and
glissé
. My energy
started to imbue the piano music, keeping up with the momentum even when she interrupted the sequence. After the barre work was completed I was sweating, and I suddenly realised I had given it my
all. Still standing by the window, Natalya narrowed her eyes and lit another cigarette. ‘Let’s do some jumps from the centre,’ she said, and before I knew it she was rushing me
through from small jumps to the great, grand allegros, which require you to be at full stretch. My father pursed his lips, leant against the wall, and I sensed him refraining from speaking.
Eventually Natalya waved at the teacher to stop playing.

‘How long have you been dancing for?’ she asked, moving over to me.

‘Since she could walk,’ my father said, from the back wall.

Natalya ordered me over to the barre, and as I went
en pointe
her hand brushed against the back of my calf, and against the small of my back. ‘Neck up,’ she said. I could
smell the cigarette smoke as I tried to hold the position without quivering. ‘Who told you to land like that?’ she asked. Her fingers traced the straightening of my neck.

‘Therese, my last ballet mistress.’

‘Right.’ Her hand brushed down my back, and I felt a quiver of electricity flow through me. I suddenly felt an inexplicable devotion to her. ‘She sounds like bad news,’
she muttered.

Eventually, when the cigarette had finished, Natalya resumed her position at the window.

‘Well?’ my father asked.

‘Technically, Mr Brodvich, Yelena does have potential. But to be honest technicality is only a small part of being a ballerina. She has a great deal to learn, and she doesn’t have
much time in which to do it. You see, a ballerina doesn’t only act the role, she also has to live it with her very essence. I don’t know if it will be possible for her to do that with
so little time.’

‘Will you try?’ my father asked.

Natalya looked me up and down. I raised my neck again, as she had just shown me how to.

She sighed. ‘I’ve not decided yet,’ she said and turned to face me. ‘You can certainly dance, Yelena, but I need to see how you respond to the drama, the fire, the
passion of ballet. Only then can I properly see if you have what it takes.’

I had no idea what she meant, but I was soon to find out. The Ukrainian National ballet in Kiev was about to open with a season of one of the most famous ballets,
Giselle
. To my delight,
one day after a particularly quiet practice Natalya told me that she had secured tickets for us to go together on the opening night.

‘I can only know if you have what it takes after I have seen your reaction to this show,’ she said, rather cryptically, and she would not be drawn any further on the matter.

I didn’t know at the time that my father had had to pay her a good deal to take this trip with me. The trip would require a fifteen-hour overnight train journey, with the two of us in one
another’s company for every moment. It would certainly be a great adventure for me, but I was yet to see what it would be to her.

On the train journey there, the conversation between us was rather halting. But this slightly withdrawn woman suddenly opened up when we came onto the subject of dance. It was as though through
dance we were finally able to fully address one another. As she spoke, with flickering eyes that seemed to replay potent memories, I sensed that I had found someone with a similar soul –
troubled, and yet strangely determined.