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SECOND PERIOD PRACTICE had just ended, and I followed Igor and the others to lunch. I was still mad at him for writing this unknown woman in France, and the last few weeks we had barely had time to talk, let alone step out for our weekly nightcap. How dare Igor and Mina conspire against me to write this woman? At least she seemed formal and nice — at least from her postcards — and now I knew she was around my age and had many siblings. I envied her sense of family; I’d lost my parents at a young age and was raised by my Aunt. My cousins, Sergei and Vlad, were much younger than me. When I was ten and my parents’ small inheritance kicked in, I was only too happy to move into the dorms at Tanets. It was hard to believe that was twelve years ago. As Christmas drew closer, I really should call Aunt Aloyna and check on the boys. They lived in St. Petersburg, seven hundred miles away, but only a three-hour high-speed train ride. Despite Russia’s excellent train system, I hadn’t seen them in three years.
I stopped outside the cafeteria doors as my phone rang, sharply pulling me out of my nostalgia. I stared down at the international number and panicked. I only had so much time on my phone, and this would likely eat it all.
It could only be one person, the only person outside all of Russia that knew this number. I brushed my finger of the screen. Should I answer?
My hand had other ideas as it pressed accept and said hello. Too late, I realized I’d done it in Russian. Igor threw me a look, motioning me to follow them. I waved my hand, telling them to go on without me.
The French came easily to me when I heard her voice. It was light and high, and young, as I knew she was. Surrounded with Russian accents, however, her heavy French reminded me of my teacher fifth year, Madame Gerard. We could barely understand her, but her Russian to French accent had been immaculate.
“Jaquellyn?” I stumbled over her name, cursing to myself in Russian. “Uh...” I mumbled, seeking the French. “Un minute?”
“Oui,” her French accent came through loud and clear with such a simple word.
I ducked into the bathroom to take the call, as the others pushed through to get their food. “Jaqui? Are you there? It is nice to hear your voice,” I replied in French.
“Oui,” she answered, “I’m here.”
“You sound younger than I thought you would.”
“As do you,” she responded, but even I could hear she thought it was a lie. We had discussed ages, but no one ever told me my throaty rumble sounded “younger.” Aunt Aloyna had often confused me with her son, Sergei, on more than one occasion.
“I didn’t think you would get my letter so quickly,” I offered, unsure of what to say. I shoved into a stall to continue our semi-private conversation, hoping no one would come in and they would all stay in the cafeteria.
“How are you?” she asked, her voice soft and demure.
“Morning practice just ended. Our instructor Pytor fired another ballerina today.”
She didn’t answer for a few minutes, but I could still hear her light breathing. “Are you there?” I asked, worried she had changed her mind and simply hung up.
“Are you at Tanets Academy?”
“Da,” I said in Russian, but switched back to French as soon as I realized my error. “How did you know?”
“I, uh, just had a feeling,” she said.
I frowned. I didn’t believe her. “It is popular,” I admitted. It was world-renowned, I knew. But did she?
“Tell me about it,” she asked. “What is it like there?”
“There is snow,” I said.
“About the ballet.”
“Ah,” I responded. “What is it you need to know?”
“Who do you dance with? What is your schedule like? You like to draw ... what do you draw?”
I nearly chuckled. She as full of questions. “Just ...” What did I want to tell her? I realized I didn’t really know. Even for Tanets, we were horribly behind schedule.
“What are you practicing?” she interrupted.
“One of the danseur’s, Misha, fell yesterday in the middle of a 540,” I said in halting French.
“The 540? That ancient move? Does anyone do them anymore?”
“Misha does. The rest of us wouldn’t dare try it,” I offered, biting my tongue to tell her of my failed attempts.
“My cast comes off today,” she suddenly changed the subject.
“Will you go back to the ballet?” I asked.
“I don’t know. My father offered me a chance to work in Moscow. Teaching ballet at some academy.”
That threw me off. Postcards, hearing her voice, those were one thing. But to have this woman in Moscow? A delicate French flower? That was not a good thing. I immediately thought of Natalie, and how naïve and fragile she was. No, Jaquellyn could not come here. “Hmm,” I mused.
“What do you think?”
She was asking me? Didn’t she have other friends, or even family, to consult? I was basically a stranger! “About what, Jaqui?” I asked cautiously.
“Do you think I should move to Moscow?”
“I think it would be nice to meet you, Jaqui Arnolt,” I said slowly, “but...”
“But what?” Her voice suddenly changed, as if she was growing angry. Where was the innocent young woman from our postcard exchanges?
“I think it would be nice to meet you, Vasily Petrov,” she added when I stayed silent.
“I do not think it would be a good idea for you to come here.”
“And why not?”
I knew I had mad her angry. I winced. “It is dangerous here for a woman alone,” was all I said.
“But I know you.”
“You don’t, not really. How do you know I am not some mad killer?”
“I just ... know,” her voice was suddenly quiet again.
I sighed. I couldn’t tell her I needed a friend who didn’t try to set me up, who I could enjoy Moscow with, without the fear of her trying to take me to her bed. Women were all the same, I realized. Would Jaquellyn be any different? I prepared my protest, my lie, to keep her away, but my heart betrayed me. I swore softly in Russian.
“I would love to show you Moscow,” I said quickly, “for it is beautiful. I would buy you a drink and take you to concerts.” I sucked a breath in. She would hang up, I knew it. I was too forward.
“I would like that,” she instantly replied, much to my surprise. “You are not what I expected, Vasily Petrov.”
That surprised me even further. “Why is this?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
The silence hung between us, until I heard a soft knock on her end and some muffled French I couldn’t translate.
“Just a minute!” Jaquellyn called, and I held my phone away from my ear. “Vasily?”
“I’m here.”
“I have to go. To the doctor. Can I text you at this number?”
I paused, mumbling about international fees. As much as I wanted to know her more, this was quickly getting expensive.
“Oh,” she interrupted me, “the fees. I’m sorry. I will call you later, okay?”
“I would like this,” I said honestly.
“Jaqui? We have to go,” another female voice called, but decidedly not in a French accent.
“Who was that?” I inquired.
“Coming!” She yelled. To me, “My mother. She is American.”
“American! And you live in France?”
“My father was French.”
“Was?”
“He died,” she said bluntly, her voice emotionless. “Four years ago.”
“Ah. My apologies,” I said.
“My step-father is American, too.”
“Strange?” I didn’t know what else to say.
“It is a long story. I will write back and tell you about it.”
“I would like this.”
“Au revoir, for now.”
“Poka,” I said in Russian, “Goodbye, Jaquellyn.”
No sooner had I hung up the phone than the door to the bathroom clanged open and heard someone clear their throat. I waited to hear him enter a stall, then ducked out the door to rejoin my comrades.
***
“WHO WAS THAT ON THE phone?” Igor asked, as I sat down next to him, Misha, and Sasha with my tray.
“My sister,” I said suddenly.
“You don’t have a sister,” Sasha jabbed.
“I may,” I told him.
“Come now, Vasily,” Misha interrupted. “We know you have no siblings. Yes, Igor?”
Igor was eying me. “Why are you flushed, Vasily? There is heat on your cheeks.”
“I ran back to the dorm to grab my card, of course.”
“You were in the bathroom,” Sasha added, “I saw you.”
I moved my jaw, trying to distract my anger with food. “It is okay.”
“You were talking to her,” Igor said softly.
“Who?” Misha said, picking up Igor’s whisper. “Does Vasily have a girl we do not know about? Or perhaps a sexy man, instead?”
“He is red,” Sasha laughed. “It was definitely a girl, Igor. Good catch.”
“It was not a girl!” I exploded, pushed my tray away from me.
“Why do you deny?” Misha chuckled. “Tell us it was not a ballerina. They are bad trouble for us, and Pytor would have our heads.” He glanced across the room, behind me. “Except for Svetlana. She is a special treasure, I admit.”
“How is the nose, Misha?” I asked suddenly.
Refocusing on me, he slammed his fist on the table. “Do not ask me this!”
“Why not?” I crossed my arms. “I’m sure even Igor here can execute that move. Why cannot you?”
“I hooly?” Misha exclaimed.
Sasha and Igor both turned to him. “Misha...” Igor warned.
“You can do better?” Misha stood, scooping up his tray. “I’d like to see you try, vyperdysch,” He stomped away.
Sasha reluctantly stood with him. “I should calm him down before he puts a fist in a wall.”
Igor nodded to him as they both left.
“What was that, Vasily?” Igor leaned over the table. “Misha has pull with Pytor. It is not wise to piss him off.”
I shrugged. “What I do is none of that idiot’s business.”
“What has gotten into you?” Igor leaned over and whispered. “Six years I’ve been here, and you have never picked a fight. Has this girl given you spirit, my brother?”
I shrugged. I couldn’t explain it, not even to him. We all took the teasing and dismissed it, but after twelve years, I’d nearly reached my breaking point. But I wouldn’t tell Igor that.
“Do try to get along with them,” Igor continued, standing and picking up his now empty tray. “Who cares if you talk to this Jaquellyn? It will silence their rumors of your masculinity, Vasily.”
“I care,” I said, “they will tease me about a French girl. She is not Russian.”
“They will not.” Igor paused, looked like he was about to say something, but changed his mind.
“They tease you about Mina.”
He just nodded. “Da, but that is different.”
“How?”
“They accept her,” he sighed. “Besides, being Jewish is much worse than who I date, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I see your point, friend,” I said carefully. “Jaquellyn wants to come here,” I blurted, but kept my face neutral. I didn’t want Igor to think I hadn’t planned to say that.
Igor froze at that. “Really?”
“Yes. And even worse, I think she might be Pytor’s new assistant.”
Igor’s tray clattered to the table, spilling the last of the coffee in his mug. “Oh, no, Vasily. Tell her she must not come,” he hastily wiped up the mess. “A day does not go by that he does not send a ballerina crying to her room. Danseurs, too. This you know.”
“Da,” I agreed, “I must convince her not to come.”
“You must, Vasily, do everything you can, to keep her in France.”
I nodded. I knew he was right. I watched him leave and hastily finished my food, following him back to the dorm. I pulled my last postcard from the night stand and sat down to write the harshest words of my life.
Of course, I hadn’t told Igor on top of her new position, part of me couldn’t keep her away. Our brief postcards, letters, and even phone conversation today told me that Jaquellyn Arnolt was not to be underestimated. I prayed I was wrong.
With everything in me, I wanted to meet this little French girl, but the time was not right.
Not now, or maybe ever. Teacher or student, Pytor would destroy her. She was not meant for Moscow.