Black Adagio
Authors: Wendy Potocki
Black Adagio
By Wendy Potocki
© 2013 by Wendy Potocki
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in wr
iting from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
The train shot down the tracks in a blur erasing time. The young girl’s frantic heartbeat keeping pace with the relentless advancement, every turn of the steel-rimmed wheels brought Melissa Solange closer to achieving her dream. Like a shiny brass ring, her goal was tantalizingly near. In front of her, and right around the next turn, it was there for the taking. If only … if only she were deemed good enough to dance.
It was so completely ironic that being good enough was the only question that really mattered to a dancer, and yet, it was one that none could answer for themselves. Always left for someone else to decide, it had hung over her head like some dark cloud. Overshadowing every achievement, it had even tainted her recent high school graduation. The lauding of scholastic honors seemed so trivial. After all, what did school matter when her whole life was dependent upon dance?
It seemed so unfair. While all the hard work and brutal training had never bothered her, the placing of that judgment in someone else's hands did. Suddenly forced to confront that reality, she
did her best to convince herself that she was lucky. After all, she’d at least been willing to take the chance by confronting her worst fears. Opening herself up to possible rejection by attending an audition offered by Velofsky Ballet, it had promised the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of becoming a member of the newly-created company. She’d passed the first test by earning an invitation to attend The Velofsky School of Ballet, but the ordeal was far from over. The lessons taken at the remote location over the next few weeks would be used to cull the herd down to the final chosen few.
Initially exhilarated, the fleeting joy had slipped away. What remained was a desolation that told her fate would dictate the outcome—and nothing else. Trying her best to convince herself that the grueling hours of training put into perfecting her craft would win out, her intuition would not let go, turning what should have been a merry journey into one eerily surreal. Her thoughts were in diametric opposition to what’d she’d been taught. Inculcated by the notion that anything was achievable provided you put in the hard work, perhaps ignorance had been the source of that rationale—maybe she’d never stood a chance.
Demoralized by this harsh conclusion, it was “do or die” time. Letting everything ride on this one roll of the dice, she was resigned to letting the decision reached by Madam Velofsky determine her future. It was the way it had to be. Unwilling to allow anymore of her father’s money to be wasted in an attempt to achieve an impossibility, she couldn’t in good conscience continue to be a burden. Her family was far from wealthy, and not being accepted meant getting a job and enrolling in a community college. A major in business seemed a logical choice. Determined to begin acting like an adult, she couldn’t remain a child forever.
Nature’s beauty rushed past. Cities cast aside in lieu of thickening woodlands, tall stately trees turned the view into a watery sea of brilliant reds, oranges, and gold. Causing her to shift her focus to the rustic splendor, the scenery bestowed the unexpected luxury of shaking loose of the disturbing thoughts. A sense of calm veiled her doubts. Not really surprising, beauty was the one thing that she fully understood. After all, the creation of it was the whole reason for her obsession with the art of dance. Pressing her head back into the chair’s cushion, she was grateful for the respite.
Sinking into the splendor of the autumnal palette, fall was undoubtedly her favorite time of year. Its mood coinciding with her spirit as no other season could do, while the coolness of the air was still pleasant, there was a seriousness to it that erased the ebullient joy begun in spring. The happiness that blossomed in summer dwindling like a flickering light, fall’s approach heralded death on the horizon. Coming with a scythe in its hand, it readied to kill everything within its withering rage.
The morbid metaphor did nothing to lighten her mood. Only succeeding in heightening her fears, now was not the time to begin indulging in musings about the processional march of seasons. Mistaking the scenery for a pleasant diversion it was, in fact, a trap. Seizing her mind in firm jaws that would not relinquish its hold—the forest’s allure made her a captive.
Enhancing her distrust of the world, a nervous energy triggered a pervasive paranoia. In spite of the day being brightened by the sunlight streaming down on the dense forest, there—in between the crush of trees—were spaces. Allowing just enough room for things to hide and be tucked away, dark things were waiting to jump out and destroy a life. One tentatively balanced between success and failure, in those slices of emptiness were secrets—ones that could smother it like a match plunged into Vaseline. An onslaught of tears drizzled down her pale skin like frost on a wintry rose as her inner turmoil was being projected onto a wider screen. Secrets were the reason she was so desperate to succeed. Failure meant returning empty-handed to the life she was trying so hard to escape.
The image of a child sprang to mind. Trying to walk backward by awkwardly placing their tiny feet into a set of footprints already forged in snow, retracing the steps would only lead them back to the dismal place they started. For Melissa, that place was a dead end that consisted of drowning her grief in a bottle waiting to be rediscovered. The model had been set just like those footprints, and it was all such a shame. She’d struggled so hard to pull herself out of the quagmire created by someone no longer here, but she wasn’t willing to linger by that lonely grave. At l8, she was so ready to become someone else, knowing that the metamorphosis would free her from her tortured past. This change was the prime motivation for pouring limitless energy into the conversion. Accomplishing part of the goal, she’d transformed into a nimble sylph. As agile as any mythical woodland creature, she was certain that her bad memories would be gone upon compl
etion. They’d die alongside the someone buried deeply underground.
Gazing outside, she brushed away the damp residue of the past gathering in her hollow cheeks. Her unsettled soul was the reason why she loved this season. It understood her sorrow, comforting her within soon-to-be bared boughs. Crossing her arms, she attempted to still the tremor running amok throughout her being. The unwelcome anxiety always appeared when she focused on the true source of her problems—and she knew why. Only a very real sense of guilt, it was the result of a misplaced loyalty for her tormentor. Her mother, the person that should have been the closest to her, had produced all the pain.
Still finding it inconceivable that the person that had given her life was responsible, it was this abuser that had enrolled her in her first class at Leighton School of Dance. Done for all the wrong reasons, she’d been bombarded for being ungainly ever since she’d begun to walk. The lessons were intended to be a perverse punishment—a chance for her mother to enlist new allies in her war to annihilate her daughter’s spirit. Luckily for Missy, her teachers relied on the truth of what was before their eyes, and not what her mother wanted them to see. The teachers ended up providing a safe harbor. Allowing her to receive praise for the first time in her young life, it turned out to be the talisman that successfully warded off the hostile environment found at home, but the refuge only fueled her mother’s rage. Angry over the school’s growing influence, Sylvia attempted to rid her daughter of the outlet by forcing her to quit.
Backed against the wall, Missy had retaliated. Finding the courage to stand up for herself, she wasn’t about to give up without a fight. Appealing to the silent partner in the household, her father, Kenneth, caved into the pressure. Trying to atone for his own sins in doing nothing to alleviate the unhealthy situation, he attempted to make up for his own impotence by indulging her in the one thing that was vital to her well-being.
While the issue should have been resolved, it was far from over. Her mother bitterly complained in between guzzling from the ever-present gin bottle. Often wondering whether her mother loved alcohol more than her, the mystery had been solved in a blistering verbal attack. Accusing her of being the sole reason for why she drank, she said it helped her deal with the fact that Melissa was a complete disappointment. Calling her an ungrateful brat that would never amount to anything, she placed the blame of the family’s financial crisis squarely on her sloped shoulders.
“We're drowning in debt and it's all your doing, Melissa! You and those stupid lessons! You're not good enough to be a dancer! Hell, you're not even good enough to be a daughter, you selfish, little bitch!”
The devastation caused by those crushing words was still alive, but there was more to come. Eventually accusing her of creating the animosity in her marriage, she stated it was Melissa’s insatiable needs that were driving Kenneth away. Responding the only way a child could, she’d retreated to her bedroom, staying insulated as much as possible. Suppressing all the hurt, she used her daily ballet classes as stones to cross the troubled seas. Now it was time for her father and her to see if the gamble had paid off. Too late for her mother to see anything, she’d died two years ago from cirrhosis of the liver. Having no doubt that if her mother’s ghost were to appear, it would be to tell her that the illness had been her fault also.
Numbed by the repulsive memories, she sat motionless as more bitter tears dotted the face drained of color. Two years were not nearly enough to purge the verbal abuse from her brain, but the central question of whether she were talented enough to dance professionally cropped up like an unwanted weed. Raising the subject so many times with Phoebe Leighton, the studio owner’s calm response was,
“Self-doubt kills the soul, Melissa. And it’s from the soul that we dance.”
Certain that it was what she would say now, Missy retrieved a small malleable ball from her pocket. Starting to knead it in her right hand, she’d read that her favorite ballerina used this trick to gain articulation for pantomime. Immediately incorporating the practice into her regime, it was the subtleties that spoke the language of dance. Her mood darkening, the opening salvo of self-deprecation would not go away. It didn’t help that Velofsky School of Ballet was the brainchild of Una Velofsky, the premiere ballerina of the famed, now defunct, Monarch Ballet.
Established in St. Petersburg, Monarch Ballet had reigned supreme, eclipsing the more established companies until the death of its founder and resulting financial problems relegated it to the pages of history. The brilliant ballerina matched the company’s moniker. Her dancing resembling a glorious butterfly, invisible wings had allowed her to achieve the impossible in executing positions that defied gravity. On terra firma, her quicksilver movements and dramatic stylings charmed audiences. It hadn’t taken long for her genius to spread beyond the boundaries of her birthplace. Making several triumphant tours throughout Europe and the United States, she’d returned to her homeland with tumultuous applause still ringing in her ears.
Melissa had watched old films of her. The images shaky and not the best quality, they were nonetheless important in allowing fleeting glimpses of why she’d been celebrated. As to what accounted for her bravura skills and unsurpassed musicality, some attributed it to hard work. Still others maintained she’d been lucky in inheriting good dancing genes. Her grandmother, Anna Tritta, had a long, distinguished dancing career. Una’s mother, Maya, and father, Oleg, were not so fortunate. Struck down in their primes, they’d died together in a tragic accident. The doting grandmother had stepped in to care for the three-year old. Fortuitously, that exceptional care included instruction in the difficult ballet lexicon.
This was the scenario that Melissa was poised to step into. While the prospect of learning ballet from one of the greats excited her to her core, she felt unworthy. Conflicted about whether she could absorb what one of the world’s greatest dancers had to say, she was angry at herself for simply not accepting the tapping of the magic wand on her shoulder. Haunted by that dark voice telling her that she wasn’t good enough, she didn’t want to travel down the road of blaming everything on her dysfunctional childhood. It wasn't healthy to go through life laying blame on the doorstep of someone no longer here. Besides, the truth was that there was something else holding her back—something that she’d tried to get to the bottom of many times before. Troubled by bad dreams that revolved around dance, there was a melancholy about her—a seriousness that drove people away. Certain that it was this sadness that was ruining her life, her mentor disagreed. She’d insisted that it was what would make her great.
Her depressive mood erased her preconceived notions. Expecting this challenge to lessen her doubts, she’d thought that it would instill a healthy dose of confidence, but everything in her was telling her to quit. Not about to back out, she’d invested way too much to throw it away. Refusing to give into the negative thinking, she’d have to physically be tossed out of the ring. Her own black, soulful eyes were reflected in the surface of glass. Placing her fingertips over her image, she promised herself that she would give everything she had to ensure making her wish come true. There would be no holding back, and no excuses. She’d give her all—or die trying.
The resolution of the battle brought a smile to her glorious face. The sunlight bounced off the glass, the yellow weaving throughout the countryside, tying it up in a bow. Like a golden ribbon, it beckoned for her to pick it up and run. Joining the delightful game, she closed her eyes, imagining herself grasping it in her hands and dancing, dancing, dancing in the forest to thunderous applause. Losing herself to her dream, it seemed so real.
A loud whistle broke the golden spell cast upon her future. The train shuddering, it quieted its speed. The brake applied, the wheels squeaked under the restraint of momentum. Her body shifted, gently pushed back against the ample cushioning. The steed she rode gently dove into completing a graceful arc. The cars ahead of her carefully and safely rounding the turn, the silvered bullet's measured speed allowed her to view September’s spectacle at a more leisurely rate. Translating the quieter tempo into terminology she understood, “
The train slowed down its speed”
morphed into “
the train having finished its coda was now performing its adagio
.”