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THE TRAIN RIDE BACK to Moscow had been difficult. I struggled with my feelings for Vasily, sitting next to him as he held my hand. Every nerve in my body screamed I needed his touch as I tried to quiet them. His “threat” to show me what he meant replayed in my dreams at night. I still couldn’t believe he had turned my offer down. What man does that? This one, apparently, who surprised me at every turn. Our last night in St. Petersburg ended just how our arrival did: gathered around the piano with his family. Though I had done it a million times with Renee, somehow this time was different. It was a house filled with love. Something the mansion back in Paris didn’t have—or, I had ignored it. My obsession with the ballet had made me so absent, something I was going to fix, if I could ever go back.
Even the presents had been different; homemade and given with thought. Not the expensive electronics, paintings, and technological toys my mother and step-father lavished on us. Vlad drew me a picture, Sergei had whittled a keychain of the Eiffel tower, and Aloyna had knitted me a scarf and hat in perfect pale pink, my favorite. But Vasily was the best gift of all. His patience and loyalty were worth more than a new iPhone or a shiny new pair of pointe shoes.
“Where do we go from here?” I asked as we stood in front of Tanets, after a full ten days in St. Petersburg. From frozen rivers to terrorist attacks and a pas de deux I thought I’d never perform, it had been a whirl-wind winter vacation. I fingered the ruby pendant around my neck absently.
Vasily gripped my hand. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “What are you thinking?”
Now life was normal, or as normal it would be in the wake of blackmail.
“I’m scared.”
“Me, too.”
I could hear the terror in his voice, and I just nodded slowly. “I’m terrified to face Misha, Sasha, Svetlana and the others.”
“But?”
“But with you there, I know I can do it.” I’d spent three hours on the train running plans over in my head. My short nine weeks in Russia had been all of the world I ever wanted to see. After the Nutcracker was over, I wanted to convince Vasily to visit Paris with me.
And hopefully, stay.
As we entered the academy, however, something was wrong. It was dead silent, more quiet than usual. It was early in the afternoon, and the dancers should have been rushing to lunch. But no one was in sight, and no chatter or laughing came from the cafeteria at the end of the first story hallway.
“Where’s Grigor?” Vasily asked about the janitor who usually kept his place at the desk this time of day.
“I don’t know,” I said, frowning.
Behind us, three paramedics pushed through the revolving doors, expanding a gurney as they hurried towards the elevator.
“What’s going on?” Vasily looked at me, his eyes wide.
Before I could answer, Igor shouted at us, rushing from the elevator where the paramedics had disappeared.
“Comrade!”
Vasily gripped his arm in greeting. “What’s happening, Igor?”
He shook his head, panting, leaning over with his hands on his legs. He swore in Russian and exploded with a string of words I didn’t understand. He turned and ran back to the elevator, motioning Vasily to hurry.
Vasily dropped his suitcase next to me and ran after him.
“What’s going on?” I struggled to drag my suitcase and his but couldn’t keep up.
“Misha,” he said, deadpanned, his words coming out in choppy gasps as he hurried after Igor. “Unconscious. Go find Pytor.” He disappeared behind the closing elevator door, while I was still ten feet away.
I dropped both suitcases and leaned against the wall, my hand over my mouth. What just happened?
***
HAULING THE SUITCASES up the stairs to Pytor’s office on the second floor was no easy task, but I made it, panting as I pushed through the metal door to the hallway. No sooner had I reached the door to his office than did it open in my face. I jumped back, the suitcases swinging in my hand.
Svetlana, who was sobbing heavily, rushed out the hallway to the elevator, not even looking in my direction.
What the hell is going on? I left the suitcases in the hallway and pushed Pytor’s door open.
He sat behind his desk as usual, but this time his hand rubbed his temple thoughtfully, and his eyes were closed. I cleared my throat. He looked up immediately.
“Ah, Jaquellyn. You and Vasily have returned?”
“Yes, but there’s no time for that. Igor and Vasily are upstairs, apparently Misha is...”
“What?” He interrupted, standing.
“...Unconscious?” I hesitated. I really had no idea what was going on.
Before I could even move, Pytor pushed me aside and rushed out the door.
I was torn between following Svetlana and Pytor, knowing they were both going to different floors. But I also had to do something with two heavy suitcases, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know what was going on with Misha, but I was now the second in command—and I had a feeling all hell was about to break loose.
Two young dancers rushed by me then, yelling Misha’s name. I stopped them and in halting Russian I shoved the suitcases in their arms and barked at them to get them to the ninth floor, then told them to get to the cafeteria, and drag along anyone they could find. Using a lot of hand motions, I think I got the point across. They pushed through the stairs door and disappeared.
I hurried to the elevator and punched in the third-floor button. I didn’t have much of a plan really, and I didn’t want to get in the way, but I needed to know what was going on before I tried to contain the situation, if I even needed to.
The doors flung open and I stepped back as the paramedics pushed a gurney through the doors, squeezing into the narrow elevator. Pytor stepped in quickly after them. Before I could escape, I saw Vasily and Igor pushed through the stairs on the opposite side of the hallway. I tried to call out to them, but the doors shut too quickly.
Misha’s stretched out form was terrifying. His skin was paler than normal, almost blue, his face obscured by the blue oxygen mask that one of the paramedics are pumping. The other was taking vital signs while talking to Pytor in hushed tones. Everything happened so quickly, a flash of Russian I couldn’t understand, as they conversed on the short ride to the first floor.
All the blood drained from Pytor’s face, but his eyes and lips were twisted in anger. He silently nodded to the paramedic, but I could see his fists clench by his sides.
“Is he ...” I started in French, and Pytor glanced sharply at me, as if he hadn’t even noticed I was in the elevator.
He shook his head, but I wasn’t sure if he meant he wasn’t alive, or now was not the time. The elevator doors opened again, and the paramedics rushed the gurney out the front doors of the academy.
Pytor turned to me. “Overdose,” he muttered in French, searching for the word. “They say he took pills.”
My mouth gaped open. Not in surprise; I knew Misha had access to them, of course. But was he suicidal? Cool, confident, asshole of a dancer? How could he be?
What the hell had happened in the ten days we were gone?
“Go to hospital,” I said to him quickly. “I’ll keep down the fort here.”
He stared at me, not understanding my strange phrase, I was sure. It was something my sister said, I vaguely remembered, when she told my mother she couldn’t visit because she was busy ‘keeping down the fort.’ I didn’t know what it meant, either, but it escaped before I could think about it.
“Go!” I shouted and pushed him towards the front doors.
Without waiting for him to leave, I turned and ran to the cafeteria.
It seemed Vasily and Igor had rounded everyone up and had the same idea I did. Vasily was standing on chair in front of over a hundred dancers, even Grigori and a few other staff I didn’t recognize.
Only one face from the Master class was missing: Svetlana.
Igor pulled me aside when I entered. “Tell me what happened,” I said.
“I’m not sure. Misha didn’t come to practice this morning, and Svetlana said he was ‘sick.’ Sasha was worried and went to check on him, and found him collapsed on his bed. He wasn’t breathing.”
I looked around the room. Sasha was front and center at the table before Vasily, his arms wrapped around him as he stared at the floor. Even though the man reviled me and sent an involuntary shiver down my spine, I small felt a twinge of apathy. I shook it away and crossed my arms. “And?” I urged Igor to continue.
“I don’t know,” he said rapidly. “I ran into Sasha in the hallway, screaming he was dead. I called an ambulance. That’s when I ran into you and Vasily. When Vasily and I arrived, they had managed to restart his heart. Pyrtor chased us out of the room, and Vasily decided we needed to contain ...” he waved his hand across the room, “... whatever this is.”
I looked passed him to the nearly full cafeteria, which was oddly silent, all dancers staring at Vasily as he rattled off something in Russian. “Where’s Svetlana?” I asked, turning back to Igor.
He looked around the room. “I don’t see her. Why?”
“She was in Pytor’s office, crying. I feel like she has something to do with this.”
“Why?”
“She was clearly with Misha ...” I trailed off.
Igor just stared at me.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. Stay here, help Vasily. I’ll go find her.”
“Check Studio V. She goes there when she has a fight with Misha.”
“Thanks!” I pushed through the cafeteria doors and ran down the hall, hooking to the right behind the mailroom, to the smaller studio where Vasily and I had practiced.
There was, sitting in the middle of the room, looking at her hands.
“What you want?” she said in broken English, looking up as I slipped in quietly to the dark room.
I realized most of our interactions had happened with Vasily there to translate, and she didn’t speak a word of French.
Shit.
“What happened, Svetlana?” I tried, demonstrating with my hands, “to Misha?”
“Fine last night, but morning ...” She trailed off from her broken English into a sob, mumbling in Russian. “Found him. Dead. Told Sasha, next door.”
“Not breathing?”
She shrugged. I didn’t know if she understood me. Her grief seemed adequate but somehow, too much all at the same time.
I inched closer to her, sliding into a sitting position across from her. “What’s really going on, here?”
She pressed her hands to her face and cried into them. “Ya beremenna,” she muttered, over and over again.
“Beremenna?” I repeated. I had no idea what she meant.
“Enceinte,” another voice said, this time in French. It was Vasily, who stood just inside the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He spat on the floor. “Of course, she is beremenna.”
“Pregnant,” I repeated in English. “Oh, no. Svetlana. Misha’s?”
She stared blankly at me, and then Vasily ordered her something in Russian. Looking at her hands she mumbled something.
Vasily’s eyes went wide, but he shook his head, saying nothing. He just stood where he was, staring at us. He asked her something again in Russian and she shook her head. The only word I caught was Misha.
“What did you say?” I looked up sharply.
“I asked her how she planned to dance with, uh, what is English for baby sick?”
“Baby sick?” I frowned, but almost laughed. Is that what they called it? “Morning sickness,” I said. I remembered it well from my mother with my two sisters. Darci had been the worst, landing my mother in the hospital every few weeks.
Svetlana was looking between us, not understanding our switch between languages. I sighed and stood up. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” I tried to gently help her up, but she shoved me away. I stumbled, almost falling, and Vasily caught me. “I just want to help you!” I nearly yelled at her. “Tell her, Vasily!”
Angrily, she spouted something in Russian. Vasily translated: “She says she wants to see Misha.”
“I think your priority right now is sleep,” I argued.
Svetlana stared behind me at Vasily, silently pleading with him to agree with her.
“Get up, now,” Vasily commanded her, and that much as least I understood. Without any help, she stood. She threw her head back, glaring at me. “Go to your room and stay there until summoned. Please.”
I stared at Vasily, who never ordered anyone to do anything. Svetlana left the room, still proud and haughty as she walked away.
“What’s going on in the cafeteria?” I asked him when we were alone.
He shook his head. “Igor is handling it.”
I gripped his arm and stared at him and it suddenly occurred to me the gravity of our situation. “The Nutcracker is only three days away! And we’ve lost both our prince and our Sugar Plum Fairy!”
“It’s a good thing we know the pas de deux,” he stared beyond me, not meeting my eye, and seemed turned out I was even there.
“You can’t be serious,” I said forcefully, careful to keep the whine out of my voice. “I’m barely able to complete the pirouettes at this point. I can’t perform.”
He snapped out of whatever daze he was, and finally looked at me. He folded his hand over mine. “If Pytor says you must, then you must. Svetlana has an understudy, you know.”
I shook him off and crossed my arms. “You’re Misha’s understudy. You must feel pretty good about this.”
“Me? I’m terrified.” I heard his words, but yet he smiled slightly.
“You don’t look it.” I eyed him. “Why are you smiling?”
He shrugged. “I’m Russian, we don’t show emotion.”
“So, I have noticed.”
“Come, I need your help.”
“For what?” I fumed silently as him. What the hell did he have in mind? At a time like this?
“What is it the Americans say? ‘The show must go on’? We still have practice, Jaqui.”
“But Pytor isn’t even here!” I protested, but didn’t pull away.
“Then that would make you in charge, da?”
“I suppose so, but...”
“Jaqui!” he snapped at me, “everyone is confused, saddened.”
“And in no mood to dance!” I pulled away from him. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to ...”
He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me towards the door. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” he said in my ear, “is distract them.”
I resisted, though his touch didn’t scare me, but old habits die hard. I pushed his hands away. “Why didn’t you just say that?”
He looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry. It’s just ...” he sighed. “It’s chaos, Jaqui, everyone is scared for Misha. And Pytor is gone to hospital, yes?”
I nodded.
We have to, if only to hold them together in a time like this. Come, let’s whip this company into shape.”
“You sure do know a lot of American phrases.” It was no time to smile or make a joke, but I did anyway. His face was dead serious, concern, but he broke into an almost-grin.
“I watch TV,” he said softly.
I sighed. It was my turn to pull him towards the door. “Fine. Let’s round them up.”
***
IT WAS HARD TO TELL who was more surprised about the practice that afternoon – me or Pytor, especially when he hurried in, having clearly run from the front of the building, at least. Heaving and panting like he’d run a marathon, he stood against the door, watching us before he even made his presence known. I was used to him sneaking in on us now, so I knew he was there the entire time, but I was too busy concentrating on twenty some dancers to acknowledge him.
In fact, in the last hour, I’d been swept up with keeping the company on their toes. With Vasily’s help, I’d learned many phrases in Russian, and though rudimentary, the surprised look on the dancers’ faces when I was able to communicate with them made all the difference. Over the few months, my teaching style had developed, as Vasily called it, into offering softer encouragement. The stark contrast from Pytor’s yelling and physically abusive tendencies I think shocked some of them into compliance.
Vasily and Igor, two background dancers suddenly shoved into leadership today, were working with the jete and grande jete movements of the male danseurs, while I focused on the women. I knew every part of the Nutcracker by heart, every movement and act, and we moved through it slowly in preparation. In the few days we’d been gone, Pytor definitely had whipped them into shape, as Vasily put it. They were nearly ready.
As practice winded down and Pytor slipped into the room, I headed to the center of the floor and urged everyone to sit. Though it wasn’t an open invitation to talk, the whispers circled the room. Those that hadn’t been in the cafeteria certainly knew what happened with Misha now. Only Svetlana was absent, and Igor had reported she was finally sleeping in her room.
Sasha, who I had successfully avoided the entire practice, now leered at me from the back of the room. Refusing to sit with the others, he stood against the barre, his arms crossed. While Vasily quickly translated my encouragement and notes for improvement for tomorrow’s first dress rehearsal, Sasha just continued to glare. When I finished, I opened the floor for questions, and Sasha’s was the first hand up.
“Who will be prince now?” He asked. Murmurs flew around the room, and I knew they were all wondering. A few threw glances as Sasha, Misha’s previous understudy.
I looked at Vasily, distraught. Without Pytor, I wouldn’t be able to...
“Vasily,” Pytor spoke up, joining me at the center of the room. “You performed excellently today. I’m impressed. As Prince, I expect the same level of precision throughout this production.”
A few shocked gasps, quickly silenced, spread across the room.
Vasily cleared his throat and nodded. “And Fairy?”
“Given Svetlana’s recent, uh, illness,” Pytor said, shifting his feet nervously for the first time, “Jaquellyn will take the Sugar Plum Fairy role.”
How did he know? An alarm clanged in my head. Of course, he knew, I thought, she had been in his office moments before I arrived. That explained her outburst. I bowed my head in respect at him. I wanted to argue, but now was not the time. I bit my tongue.
“But Master! I am understudy!” Dina called from the center of the circle, the whine in her voice amply clear.
“Then it is unfortunate that you and Svetlana did not work closer together. Your current role of Clara will fit your expertise.”
The company quieted after Pytor’s loud command, as they always did. He dismissed them, but when Vasily walked by with me trailing him, Pytor stuck his hand out against Vasily’s chest, stopping him. “You two, stay,” he told us.
When the studio was empty except the three of us, Vasily thanked him for the decision, but I stayed silent.
Pytor, however, frowned, looking mildly angry. “This decision is not final. Can you perform the pas de deux from Act III? I trust your time in St. Petersburg was not wasted, as most young people do?”
I stepped in front of Vasily. “Master, we can perform the pas de deux as needed.”
“Good. Show me.”
“Now?” Vasily asked. “With no music?”
“Good dancers do not need the music.”
I sighed and tugged Vasily’s hand. “We can do it.” I raced away from him to grab my pointe shoes and expertly tied them on.
Vasily tucked his towel over the barre, waiting, as I danced the solo portion, focusing beyond Pytor at an imaginary crowd, like I had been trained for so many years. Forcing a brilliant smile on my face, I lifted my arms into the fifth position as I waited for Vasily’s arms around my waist for the pirouette and resulting lift.
We had practiced this a dozen times in St. Petersburg, some under Anna’s watchful guidance, but mostly by ourselves. But this time, it was somehow different. I felt his hands on my waist, and the electricity of his embrace shot through me. When Anna made us perform facing each other, I imagined Vasily’s calm and focused face before me, and somehow it energized me. We performed the choreography, both focusing on our pretend audience, our bodies danced more in sync than they ever had before.
I felt the sweat spread across my bow as we moved into the final lift on Vasily’s shoulders, the one we had much trouble with and still hadn’t perfected. But as I leapt, and he pulled me up, the move was executed perfectly.
We ended the scene, and much to my surprise, Pytor began to clap. “I see Anna has finally made you into danseurs,” he told us, his face emotionless. “Yes, your chemistry is clear, and your pas de deux immaculate. Well done.”
“In all my years, he has never offered such a compliment,” Vasily whispered to me as he sat me gently on the floor.
I thanked him, and we both bowed together for a finale.
Pytor nodded to us, and turned to leave the room.
“Master!” Vasily called after him. “What news of Misha?”
Pytor spun on his heel, glaring at us. “Not that you need to know, understudy, but they were able to pump his stomach. The boy will live.”
Vasily and I waited as Pytor seemed to struggle with the next words. “But he will not dance in this company ever again.”
“What?” I let slip, before I could stop it. “You fired him?”
“Not in my ballet,” Pytor barked, and was gone.
Vasily and I stood in shock for a moment, both of us processing what just happened. A few hours ago, we had arrived from St. Petersburg and walked into this chaos, and now Misha was gone ... for good. I hated him for everything he had done to Vasily, and to me—and I felt my shoulders droop with relief.
I sensed it in Vasily, too. His arm snaked around my waist, and I welcomed his touch. His grip was firm, as if I was his anchor in this moment.
“It’s finally over,” he spun me to look at him. “Things are improving now.”
I draped my arms over his neck. “Finally.” I closed my eyes. I expected him to kiss me in such a tender moment.
Instead, he pulled away awkwardly, mumbling he was sorry for taking advantage.
How could I tell him I wanted him to this time? I bit my lip. What if he said no? I couldn’t bear his rejection, not again. But how did I tell him his touch didn’t scare me like it once did, and it was a place of comfort? I let him gather his things, watching him silently.
“What do we do now?” I asked him.
“Now? We have lunch. Train food is the most awful.”
I slipped my arm into his. “As long as we don’t go to a grocer, I’m up for anything.”
“No grocer’s,” he frowned at me, gently pulling my arm away. “Just coffee, maybe. Let us go.”
I followed him out of the studio, with the terrifying and exhilarating feeling that maybe, just maybe, we could perform, and the Nutcracker would be saved. Yet, I cursed myself for these feelings I didn’t want. This was a job, my life, my career, and he was disrupting all of it.
And somewhere inside me, I couldn’t be happier about it