Letters from Yelena (3 page)

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 feeling 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 burgeoning 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.’

‘You must take your drink,’ you said, confident and direct. ‘For your nerves.’

‘Are you not coming with me?’

‘Of course I am,’ you said, as if it that was obvious. Taking my glass I began to walk slowly outside, shamelessly enjoying having the eyes of all the soloists upon me. Step by step,
moment by moment, leaving a trail for myself that I knew I would one day come to carefully retrace.

The city seemed to have moved closer to us as we went outside. The distant silhouettes that I had first admired through the window had now expanded. A photographer leant out of the door,
wielding his camera with studied abandon. ‘A quick snap of the two of you?’ he asked. As if we would obviously consent, you placed your glass quickly on a table and I felt your shoulder
press against me. I looked up at you, wondering if you would wrap your arm around me, and as the photographer prepared I found my fingers pressing awkwardly into the small of your back. Many months
later I would finally get my hands on that photo, with me bunched into you like a child. You, concerned and grinning, keen to play the part. Me, with the tips of my hair blonde from the summer sun,
my nose wrinkled at the sudden attention.

The bulb erupted. ‘One more?’ he asked, gesturing at us to move closer to one another. At that moment I moved my head over the triangle of skin exposed by your open shirt, and you
placed your arm around me. It struck me how natural it felt to move into your space. Caught in that moment of lust I felt sure we had betrayed what we would become. When people later saw that photo
they presumed we had been together a while when it was taken; not that it was our first night together.

The dancers drew the photographer away. ‘Have you been up here for long? I asked, as you took out a cigarette.

‘I’ve moved around quite a lot. But recently, in the last year, I have started to feel at home here. And you?’

‘People talk about “home” like it is a good thing. I am still running from it.’

‘There isn’t much more room to run. Much further and you’ll be in the sea. Perhaps you should try and stop running?’

I laughed at the boldness of your implication.

‘What are you running from?’ you asked.

I’m running from silence, I thought. From being treated like a human punch bag. From being told I am disgusting, so many times that I sometimes even hear the voice say it at night. I even
sense that she is in the room, saying it to me. But of course, I could not say that. So I shrugged.