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IGOR SHIFTED THE MAIL he held to his hand and rifled through it as we left the cafeteria, headed back to our rooms to change for first practice. “Oh, this one is for you, Vasily,” he shoved a small square at me.
I took the postcard, a faded, vintage picture of the Arc de Triomphe on one side, and some scribbling in French on the back. “What is this?” I asked him, throwing him a confused look.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Who is it from? Has our dear Vasily got a secret admirer? Read it to me, brother. My French is poor, you know.”
I glared at him, because I knew his French was better than mine—hell, his everything was better—but intrigued myself, I read the postcard out loud.
“A girl. I like this,” he interrupted right away. “Jaquellyn,” he let the name roll of his tongue with his strange southern Russian accent.
“Igor,” I cautioned. “Where did this come from?” The name on the postcard looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Then it occurred to me. I’d lost my best jacket and list of names from the Opera de Nationale at the bar that night, and Alexie did not find it. I was sad to know I would never be able to help another artist, but that was weeks ago, and I’d dismissed it.
Igor shrugged with a smile. “I know not.”
“No shit,” I said, and he mock-gasped at my rare swearing. We stopped in front of the double doors that led to our dorms on the third floor. “You wrote to her, didn’t you, Igor? Did you take my jacket, too?”
“I did neither!”
“You did!”
“I did not!” he protested again.
Glaring at his lies, I pushed through the doors and we ascended the stairs. Igor’s dorm was the second door on our floor, and he unlocked it with ease. “Are you going to write her back, Vasily?”
“I don’t think that would be good idea. I do not know this woman.”
He stepped into his dorm and opened the closet behind the door to throw the mail on the shelf. “Is it because you are scared to write her in French? Or, maybe she knows our native Russian?”
“My French is fluent, according to Madam Tousaud,” I quoted our French teacher, the one Igor routinely called “the old tart.”
Igor just shook his head. “You have to take a chance on something, brother. Even if she is in Paris.” Tearing something off the hanger behind the door, he tossed me the jean jacket I thought was gone forever. I caught it, shocked.
“You did take it,” I accused.
“You misunderstand my sneakiness. Besides, you know Mira’s French is slightly better than mine.” He shut the door in my face and called out, “See you at practice, brother!”
I stood in front of his closed door, staring at it. Mira and Igor were never going to stop, were they? I laughed and shook my head, before I wandered down the hall to my own room, staring at the precise, beautiful handwriting on the postcard. “Maybe she will be young and sweet,” I spoke to the air as I opened my door.
I decided to write Jaquellyn Arnolt a postcard, but this time it would be from me, and not from my meddlesome best friend.
Before I lost my rare resolve, I donned coat and hat, and decided to take a walk down to the corner shop, the one that sold beer, vodka, cigarettes, and unbelievably, postcards. I could see them in my eye, the little revolving rack that stood on the counter holding cards decorated with the towers of the Minsk and the downtown lights of Moscow.
As I walked, I wondered what Jaquellyn was like. Not about her ballet skills, which I’m sure were good, but what did she look like, how old she was? I had no idea. She could be an old woman for all I knew.
Jaunty Russian folk songs played loudly as I pushed through the glass doors into the shop. Wasting no time, I grabbed a couple boiled eggs from the deli counter and slapped them onto the counter. Waiting for the cashier, I flipped through the revolving stand, picking two cards – the Minsk and the other a shot of Misha and Igor from our spring ballet performance. I wasn’t surprised to see them on the card. Last winter, Igor had met Mina, who had been tasked with capturing the photography of our performance. They were a good match. She balanced his passion for dance with her passion of the camera.
If nothing else, their relationship was encouragement to never date another dancer. I had tried, once, my Master year. Ballerinas were often self-absorbed and conceited, and tried to tell us what to do. It was no surprise that Tanets often separated the male and female classes. The few combined classes we had, morning and evenings, were hell. They batted their eyes at me, trying to find a catch no doubt, but they were throwing their cast in the wrong direction. I bothered little with them.
I paid for my wares, nodding to the sleepy looking cashier as I made my way back to the dorm.
I tried to compose my postcard to this mysterious French girl in my head. I knew Igor had the best of intentions, but what who was this girl? Woman? I didn’t even know a single thing about her. Worse, she was a dancer, like me, and my experience told me this was a bad idea. But I was lonely, and a little curious. What was ballet like in France? Did she have an instructor like Pytor, or were hers nicer? Maybe they didn’t scream and slap her, or force ballerinas out of the room or emasculate the men?
I sat down to pen Jaquellyn a card, if for nothing else, to feel a little less alone in the world.
God help me, I gave her my phone number. I wasn’t sure what my international fees would be, but somehow, I wanted to hear her voice, even if she was old enough to be my babushka.