I do not remember falling asleep, but when I awake, I am in Rudi’s bed. I have never been in Rudi’s bedroom before, but I know it is his because the sheets smell like him. I have no idea how I made it up the stairs from the taxi. Yesterday feels like a blur, like some crazed fever dream, but it must have been real because here I am. I blink the sleep dust from my eyes and let my surroundings come into focus. Rudi’s room is small and cramped, but he still has a barre installed on the wall. I know that, just like me, he warms up here every morning. It makes me smile to think of Rudi and I practising at the same time as one another, miles apart but somehow still connected in our shared passion. Other than that, Rudi’s room is very utilitarian. He has a single shelf of books, a small chest of drawers, and a desk with one framed photograph. I climb out of bed and slowly hobble across the room to examine it. How Madame Lebedev expects me to dance the principal role in her ballet in a few days is beyond me, but I will deal with one thing at a time for now. I pick up the frame. The picture inside is bent and torn, but two women are gazing proudly back at me. They are dressed in fine silk gowns, and dripping with jewels; their hair has been swept up to reveal their long slender necks, and in the arms of the younger woman is a tiny baby, clutching a glittering brooch almost as large as his fist. I look at the young woman again. I would know those eyes anywhere. This is Madame Lebedev before she fled Russia. The older woman must be the grandmother Rudi has always spoken so fondly of, and the baby must be Rudi himself.
There is a knock at the door and I almost drop the frame in surprise. I hastily return it to its rightful place and clamber back into bed just as Rudi opens the door. He has one hand over his eyes and he is holding a steaming mug in the other.
‘Are you decent?’ he asks and then drops his hand at the sound of my laughter.
‘Oh, Rudi, we have changed in the wings of the stage, side by side a hundred times,’ I snort. ‘Would it really matter?’
‘Yes, well this is different,’ he says uncomfortably, his eyes not quite meeting mine. ‘I brought you a cup of tea, with one lump of sugar. I know it cheers you up and you could probably do with the energy.’ He places the mug gently on the bedside table and I sense the heat rise in my cheeks, feeling slightly exposed by just how well he knows me.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, grabbing the mug to warm my hands and to give me something to focus on.
Rudi lingers awkwardly in the centre of the room, and for once I can tell it is I who must take charge.
‘Won’t you sit down, Rudi?’ I ask him. ‘You’re acting like a guest in your own home.’
‘I don’t want to impose—’ he starts, but I cut him off.
‘Oh please, will you stop acting like I am a complete stranger? You speak as if we hardly know each other.’
‘Well, Clementine, you have been acting quite strangely the past few months. I sometimes question how much I do know you these days,’ he says and takes the seat at the desk, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘I-I do know that,’ I stutter, feeling a little pang in my chest to hear him say it. ‘I’m sorry. I know I have been all over the place, and you have only been trying to help me. I just want to say how thankful I am to you, and Grace, for … for everything.’ My eyes well up with tears. ‘I don’t know how I can ever repay you.’
‘By getting back into rehearsal,’ he says brusquely, and I realise, rightly so, that it will take more than a limp apology to win him over. ‘If we are to pull off this performance, we need to get you back up to scratch as soon as possible. I will leave you to warm up, then meet me downstairs in the studio when you are ready.’
He stands abruptly, only ballet on his mind, and I watch him leave, straight-backed and serious, before rising from the bed once more and stretching my arms towards the sky. I eye the barre warily. After several weeks confined to my bedroom, the once comforting allure of the barre now fills me with dread. Madame Lebedev once told us that for every practice you miss, it takes three times as many to catch up. I have no idea how I am going to get back to where I started by the end of the month. I remember my dream, the one where Rudi and I were in Paris. I must try. Everyone is counting on me, and there is the scout from the Vic-Wells Ballet. If I can impress them, I could finally win my ticket to freedom. After all, I cannot stay in Madame’s flat forever, and I certainly cannot go home.
I spend half an hour warming up at Rudi’s barre. Somehow, it feels both strange yet natural to be stretching once again. Even without Mr Popov’s music playing and Madame Lebedev’s voice floating instructions over the top of the melody, I know by heart the steps, the timings, which muscle to control. Dancing is instinct to me; it is the only time I feel fully in control. The backs of my legs feel tight from misuse, and I know I will suffer this evening when the muscles contract and stiffen if I overstretch them now, but my heart feels light and free in a way it has not felt for weeks.
‘That is what I like to see,’ says a familiar voice from the doorway, and I turn to see Madame Lebedev smiling at me.
‘Oh, Madame!’ I exclaim, and I rush towards her open arms. ‘Thank you for taking me in, thank you for saving my spot in the ballet.’
‘Of course, my darling, it was always yours and this place will always be a home to you.’ She strokes my hair, and my heart swells so much in my chest, I can barely take it. I squeeze her tightly as fresh tears roll down my cheeks, just when I thought I was all cried out. How do I tell her that I ruined her dress? What if she never forgives me?
‘Madame?’ I whisper at last, mustering the courage.
‘What is it, dear?’
‘There is something I need to tell you.’ I sniff, and she takes a step back to look at my face.
‘Whatever it is, it must be very serious if it has got you this upset.’ She sits down on Rudi’s bed and pats the space beside her. ‘Come now, what is wrong?’
‘Well, this whole mess started with the fancy dress party – the one Rudi and I borrowed costumes for. Only, I wasn’t supposed to go; my mother forbade me from attending at the last minute.’
‘But you still went?’
‘Y-yes, I did. It seemed important that—’
‘You don’t need to explain your insubordination to me, Clementine.’ She smiles affectionately. ‘I do remember how it felt to be young.’
‘Thank you, Madame.’ I blush, picturing how her son’s hands had brushed my cheek that night as he drew me in for a kiss.
‘That is not what you are upset about, is it, Clementine?’ she continues, her astute gaze resting firmly upon me.
‘Oh, Madame!’ I cry, dropping my head in my hands. I cannot bear to look at her. ‘I borrowed your beautiful dress from The Dryad, and, and …’ I see it all again, the vindictive glint in Mother’s eyes as she tore the dress to shreds. ‘It was ruined!’ I croak at last, not able to tell her exactly what happened. I cannot bear for her to know just how weak and powerless I am.
I feel her hand on my shoulder. It is warm and she squeezes me gently. ‘It is just a dress, Clementine.’
‘But it was your dress, from the Bolshoi! I should never have taken it without your permission.’
‘No, you should not,’ she concedes with a little nod. ‘But I was never going to wear it again. It is just a dress. Do you not think I remember how the satin felt against my skin? The warmth of the lights that shone down on me, the smell of sweat and perfume and make-up that clung to me and my fellow dancers? Do you think that now the dress is gone, I don’t remember how it felt to be lifted by my partner? The strength of his arms, the look that would pass between us that said “I have you, and I will never let you fall”?
‘I learned a long time ago, Clementine, that life does not exist in the objects that we cling to so dearly. It is not mementos we need, but memories. I lost everything when I fled Russia at the start of the Civil War, everything but my dear mamasha and Rudolf. They were all I needed. Does that mean I have forgotten all about my life before the men with the guns came and began kicking down doors? No, of course not. Anyway, I’m rambling, darling, all this to say do not fret about the dress. What’s done is done, and I think you have been through enough. Please don’t punish yourself further.’
I nod, roughly wiping away my tears. It seems silly for me to be the one crying after everything Madame has been through. I wish one day to be as resilient as her.
‘Now, how about you continue your warm-up downstairs in the main studio?’ she suggests. ‘I suspect Rudi is already there. Don’t feel like you have to hide away, Clementine. You have been doing that for far too long already.’
I grab my things and head out of the flat and downstairs to Madame Lebedev’s studio. I can hear piano music tinkling on a gramaphone and the soft thud of Rudi’s feet as they make contact with the ground. A smile creeps across my face, and I linger in the hallway, listening to the sound of his movements. They are so familiar to me; I can picture exactly what he is doing. He is practising his half of our opening scene. I poke my head around the corner to see if I am correct, and of course I am. Even when Rudi is practising, he dances with such passion and enthusiasm; the itch I feel to join him is unbearable. I wait for my next cue in the music and take my place beside him. If my sudden appearance surprises him, it is only given away by the merest rising of his eyebrows. He smiles graciously and I cannot help but return the sentiment. The steps do not come as naturally to me as they did a few weeks ago, and I occasionally find myself a beat behind the music, but Rudi is such a considerate partner that he slows to my tempo, allowing my brain the time it needs to send the signals to my feet. With Rudi’s encouragement, the routine comes back to me, and by the time the music ends, we are in our final positions, panting heavily, our brows gleaming with sweat, and faces wreathed in smiles.
‘You remember it all so well,’ Rudi says at last, breaking the silence and stepping to his feet. ‘I was worried you would be a little rusty. I should have known better.’
‘Remembering the routines will not be the problem,’ I tell him, crossing my arms across my chest and gazing at my reflection in the mirror. ‘I danced them every night in my sleep. However, my body feels out of practice … I do not feel strong anymore. I need to take a break already.’
Rudi looks at me in the mirror, his expression stern. ‘You know you will get your strength back, Clem. Remember what I told you all those years ago when we first met? Ballet made you strong once before; ballet will make you strong again now.’
‘But there’s so little time. Opening night is only a few weeks away—’
Rudi silences me by placing a finger to my lips and they tingle beneath his touch.
‘You aren’t starting from the beginning, solnyshko. You have only been away for a few weeks. With some extra rehearsals, you will be back to your usual stamina in no time. Trust me.’
I take Rudi’s advice, and soon he and Madame Lebedev have me on a rigorous schedule. We wake at dawn, stretch at the barre for half an hour, then eat a hearty breakfast of boiled eggs and toast. We do not speak over breakfast. Rudi is not a morning person; he sips moodily at a cup of coffee, one long leg folded over the other, his long nose deep in a book. Meanwhile, I play over and over our routines in my head, occasionally getting carried away and finding myself puppeteering two pieces of toast across my plate. When the sparkle has returned to Rudi’s eyes and he is once again capable of forming sentences, rather than simple grunts, we make our way down to the studio. We spend another half an hour at the barre, practising fondus, tendus and battements until we are entirely warmed up. Then we move to the floor and rehearse our scenes from Giselle together over and over. We keep going until the opening notes of the music make me want to tear my hair out. Then we break for lunch, taking a walk to the local park together, wrapped up in coats and scarves to keep the bitter chill of November at bay. We sit on a bench, sharing hot soup from a flask, watching passers-by, and spending one blissful hour talking about anything but ballet. Then it is back to the studio to iron out any flaws in the morning’s rehearsal with Madame Lebedev. This usually goes on for a couple of hours, giving us one hour to rest before the official classes begin. For me, that means assisting in the teaching of the younger ballerinas. This has always been how I have paid my way for tuition to Madame, and now that I owe her for bed and board too, I feel even more indebted to help however I can. At five o’clock, our official lesson begins with the rest of the girls from our class. As Rudi and I practise our own routines earlier in the day, this is our opportunity to go through the Dance of the Wilis.
To say that Alice Blakely was frosty when I reappeared after my three-week break would be to put it lightly. Her face turned such a violent shade of purple that I thought she might faint from the pressure. I would not go as far as to say she has warmed to me, but she has finally begun to acknowledge that I am in the room again (though personally, I think I preferred it when she did not). Our class finishes at seven o’clock, but I purposefully linger in the studio until all the girls are gone. I do not want to add fuel to the fire of their suspicions by allowing them to see me going upstairs to Madame’s home. Madame Lebedev, Rudi and I usually share a small dinner around the kitchen table once Rudi and I have finished cleaning the studio. Madame talks on and on about the minutiae of our performance from that day, things like, ‘Clementine, I do think you could get your leg another fifteen degrees higher with a little more practice,’ and we usually nod emphatically, knowing that she means well. However, when she says, ‘Rudi, you were a beat behind the music in the Dance of the Wilis tonight,’ Rudi throws down his fork in exasperation.
‘Because I am exhausted, Mamasha!’ he snaps despairingly, and when I look at him, I see it; two shadowy half-moons cradle his sunken grey eyes, and he looks pale.
Madame and I share a brief, wide-eyed look which he catches.
‘I’m sorry,’ he sighs, rubbing his face roughly with his hands. ‘You’re right, of course, I was behind the music. It won’t happen again.’
‘You know, Rudi, I was tired too, when I packed a small bag of belongings, gathered up my infant son and abandoned my home in the middle of the night while soldiers were banging down my door,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘I was tired when I sold everything I had worked so hard to earn to assure our safe passage to Paris. I was tired when I arrived in Paris and the people there looked at me like I was a criminal, something less than them, an inconvenience. I was tired when I auditioned for the Ballets Russes but they said they had no place for me this late in my career. I was exhausted when I made the decision to move to London and start all over again. But did I give up? No,’ she says tersely, her gaze focused on him intently. ‘Lebedevs don’t quit. Lebedevs don’t settle for second best. They will not stand for sloppiness or tiredness in the Vic-Wells Ballet, Rudolf, and if that is truly your dream then you must work harder.’
‘I think I need to go to bed,’ he announces, standing abruptly. He still leans to kiss her on the cheek and bids me goodnight, but the urgency with which he exits the kitchen leaves an undeniable atmosphere.