| |
––––––––
I SAT IN MY ROOM, HOLDING my pointe shoes and wondering why I even bothered. Moscow had been a mistake, but damn it all if I wouldn’t go down fighting. I wasn’t going to give up this time. I was going to make Vasily the best damn understudy possible, even if it meant I had to spend time alone with a man who apparently hated me.
How could I tell him every time he was near me, every part of me yearned for him, but my brain screamed he was just like Claude? That he would hurt me, as they all did in the end? I wanted his touch, but I was reviled at the very thought of it? He wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t comprehend I was damaged.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts, and I jumped up, hoping it would be Vasily to apologize. Maybe this time I could shut my brain off for just a moment and hug him. That’s all I wanted, was someone to tell me it was okay, I belonged here, after all.
My unexpected visitor was the last person on earth I wanted to see.
“Misha.” I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. “What do you want?”
“I saw you with Petrov,” he said in broken English, pushing his way into my room and shutting the door behind him. “As for what I want, the other half of my payment you owe.”
“Did you bring what I asked for?” I was ashamed of myself.
“How is the ankle?”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Did you bring it?” I asked again. I cursed myself for running out of what I had brought from home. Just walking was killing me, and I needed something to take the edge off.
“Da,” he answered, reaching in his jacket pocket and withdrawing a zip lock bag. He turned it over into my hand, and a half-dozen pills dropped into my palm. I reached for a glass of water near the bed, but his hand stopped me.
“One at a time, princess,” he tsked, “or do you want to end up in a coma?”
I nodded, shoving the rest back in the bag, dry swallowing one. I reached for my purse and pulled out the bills, not even sure how many he needed.
He snatched the purse away from me, throwing it against the wall.
“Hey!” I tried to protest, reaching for the spilled contents, but he stopped me with a hand on my chest.
“No cash,” he said, his breath hot in my face, “this time I thought I would take my payment in other ways. That is ... unless you want Pytor to ...” he paused, no doubt searching for the right words in English, “discover this episode?”
I backed up against the bed, my shins hitting the edge painfully. “What is to stop me from telling Pytor about the blackmail?”
He shook his head, not understanding me. “What is to stop me from telling Pytor about those?” He motioned to the baggie in my pocket.
“I need them, to stay awake, and to chase the pain away!” I protested.
“Then, you will give me what I ask.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wide white ribbon. “These leave no marks, yes?”
“How the hell did you...” I backed away from him, terror rolling over me swiftly.
He reached out and pulled the arm up on my sleeve, roughly caressing the inside of my wrist. “During practice I saw the marks, princess. You are not so different than Svetlana, and like the pain. It is an escape from the pain of dance, da?”
The sight of the ribbon sent visions through my head of Claude’s assault, and even consensual, many times he’d left me barely conscious and in pain. My thoughts raced a mile a minute, confusion coiling around me as my brain argued it was wrong, I would like it, I should give in, but I couldn’t do this anymore. The familiar warm curl settled below my waist, begging to be released.
I shoved everything back in my mind and focused as hard as I could. With all the energy I had never thrown at Claude, I screamed, “No!”
“No?” Misha repeated back, shock flooding his face.
I threw the pills back at him, hitting him on the chest, where they fell to the floor. “I’ll quit, I’ll leave! I’m not afraid of you!”
His cheeks reddened, and I feared he would just take what he wanted anyway. He advanced on me. “I’ll scream,” I said, “what would Pytor think of his precious Prince then?”
He swore at me in Russian and retreated.
“Just get out,” I yelled at him.
“I’m going!” He yelled back, and as soon as the door shut behind him, I raced to it and threw the deadbolt.
Never again.
***
“JAQUI? ARE THINGS OKAY?” Vasily asked me in French the next day. He sat across from me, a cup of coffee in his hand.
I picked up my tray, standing. “I’m fine.” I glanced around the room, looking for Misha, but didn’t see him. He was no doubt in Pytor’s office, telling him everything.
Vasily frowned as I turned and fled the cafeteria, where I ran headlong into Igor, barely awake this time of the morning. “Where are you headed in such a hurry, Mistress?”
“To practice!” I pushed past him. “Be prompt!” I called behind me.
I stopped at my room to shrug into my coat. I needed out, I needed fresh air. The academy was stifling me. I glanced at my unmade bed, where I had spent most of the night tossing and turning. What would Misha say about me? My time here was done. He would jump at the chance to have me gone.
But yet, he’d left the pills, and my ankle was throbbing so hard I could barely stand. I popped two pills, downed a glass of water, and left the academy alone to wonder the streets of Moscow in the pre-dawn hours. I didn’t want to walk anywhere, and with no Russian skills to speak of, I found myself on the subway somehow, and ended up in the Red Square. I tried to imagine my mother on the subway, instead of the back seat of her new Mercedes. The thought made me laugh. My mother? Travel like a street commoner? Never.
The sight of the Red Square took my breath away. It was nearly empty this early, except for a few shop keepers sweeping thresholds and some officials that wandered attentively, their expert eye fixed on foreigners like myself. I’d never seen the Kremlin outside of pictures and postcards, and even fully lit in the darkness, it was breathtaking. Even in the dark it was lit up on every level, the pink, blue, and red domes towering over the square spoke years of magnificence with their power. Even the worn red bricks under my heels were ancient and majestic somehow. I didn’t know much Russian history, but how many had tread lightly here, how much blood had been spilled, and how much rejoicing had these bricks seen in their lifetime?
I shivered at such dark thoughts, feeling the effects of the pills slowly wash over me finally, a feeling of euphoria that made everything in my vision blurry yet sharp. Colors popped and dazzles, but the path under my feet felt like air. It started to snow fine dust-like particles, tiny dancers swirling through the air that landed on my hair and shoulders. I looked around for a place to get coffee, or something warm at the very least.
The only shop open this time of the morning was a small bakery, or so I noticed the neon sign for ‘bread’ in Russian in the window. I ducked in, and an elderly man greeted me excitedly in Russian. He was perfectly Russian, and I almost giggled when that thought popped in my head. Short, squat, with a balding head and a groomed gray mustache, he wore a blue apron over a starched white shirt and khaki pants.
“Kofe,” I said, hoping he understood. “S’molokom,” I asked for milk as he nodded.
He got up, smiling, and reached for a mug a little further down the counter. The dark bread and circular pastries under the counter reminded me of home, even the half-moon shaped loafs that resembled croissants.
I looked around at the shop, not just a bakery, but a mixture of tourist items: postcards, flags, and even stuffed animals littered the shelves haphazardly. While the man prepared the coffee, I wandered, looking at the different items.
Against the back wall, a large canvas sat propped up in the corner, a tiny price tag displaying a hefty ruble amount. I glanced down at it, and gasped, my fingers pressed lightly to my lips. The blond hair that swirled around the women’s face, those jade green eyes ... she looked eerily like, well, me. Even the pink jacket was something close to what hung in my closet at home.
Who had painted this? There was no artist signature I could see.
“Kofe,” the older man said behind me, and I jumped. He frowned at me, confused, then looked at the painting. He mumbled something in Russian, and though I couldn’t understand it, I heard a familiar name: Vasily Petrov.
“Vasily? Vasily painted this?” It made much more sense now.
He looked at me, smiling now, and nodded. “Da, he paint,” he said in a thick accent.
I looked at the price tag more closely as I took a sip of the coffee, which was much weaker and more pleasant than the swill served at the academy. Five-hundred rubles. Not much, if I could recall exchange rates, certainly not enough for the obvious talent. I’d seen worse hanging in the halls of the Louvre at home.
“I’ll take it,” I said, pulling a bill from my purse. It was twice what he asked, so he tried to refuse it. I sipped my coffee again, and hoisted the picture under my arm, leaving the bill on the counter above the delicious looking pastries. “Spasibo za kofe,” I thanked him and left the shop.
I tried to hurry away from the beauty of the red square, but my wandering and the pills hurriedly leaving my system made for a sore ankle. I hailed a cab this time, knowing I was already late for practice and Pytor would have my head, plus I still had to stop by my room to grab my leotard. Luckily, the normal bumper to bumper traffic of Moscow was late, and I made it back as dawn crept over the horizon.
Unfortunately, Misha was waiting for me when I got back to my room.
I stopped, looking around for anyone else on the floor, knowing they would all be down at the cafeteria by now, or perhaps even warming up. I didn’t have time for this. Yet, the question burned in my brain. “You didn’t tell Pytor,” I mumbled.
“Tell him what?” He laughed. “And both of us be punished? No, Jaqui, we have our secret, for now. I will have my payment one way or another.”
“Just leave me alone, Misha.”
“What have you there?” He motioned to the painting.
“Nothing,” I said, pushing past him to unlock my door.
He grabbed my arm, and instinctively, I flung the remains of my coffee in his face. At first, I froze. I couldn’t believe I had actually done it. But after two days of his unwanted advances, I was done. Plus, I was still feeling the aftereffects of the medicine, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. Nevertheless, it was barely lukewarm after a freezing walk and cab ride, but despite that he stumbled backwards, groaning and wiping at his face as he swore at me.
“Touch me again and I will tell everyone of the blackmail,” I said, gripping the empty paper cup until it wilted in my hand slightly.
“I’ll cut you off!” He screamed at me, still backing up. “You’ll get no more!”
“Good.” Partially glad we were already late to practice and the hallway was empty, I stepped in my room and shut the door in his face. I didn’t need his magic pills anymore. Every day I spent with Vasily dancing, my ankle got stronger, better. He was only going to destroy me, and I wouldn’t let him.
He pounded on the door for a few terrifying seconds. “Open door!” He yelled in Russian.
“Nyet!” I screamed back at him. “Go away, Misha. Leave me alone,” I followed in English. I locked myself in the bathroom, just in case he broke the door down.
The pounding faded, and I heard him retreat down the hallway towards the elevator.
I sat on the commode, staring at the picture before me. Vasily really was good. A talented artist. I had no idea. The resemblance to me still confused me. I had so many questions I longed to ask him: why was he in the Red Square? Did he go there to paint often? And why did he paint, well, me? Sighed, I gave up and tried to stand, knowing time was slipping away from me and I didn’t have a moment to spare. I nearly fell, gripping the towel rack next to the toilet, as my weak ankle gave way. Hobbling to the sink, I stared down at the zip lock bag on the counter. You’ll get no more! Misha had screamed. I’d have to make these last. I carefully took out one more tiny white pill, washed it down with a nearby glass of water from the sink. I threw a towel over my shame, and grabbing the picture, shoved it in the back of the closet across from the tiny bathroom. I started to dress for practice quickly.
The fact that Vasily had painted such a masterpiece left a seed of hope in my heart. Maybe he wasn’t as cold as I thought he was. Before we had even met, he had thought of me. And maybe he would forgive me for what I’d done.