Letters from Yelena (2 page)

No-one could have told you I feel sure of anything as I nervously try to find my first position. The maestro seats himself at the shining set of keys in the corner of the hall, and looks over at
me. The
corps de ballet
watch me expectantly, waiting for inevitable errors. At the entrance, the hired hands pass amongst the sunlight. The girls conspire amongst themselves. I flex my
muscles. I am alone, Noah, so painfully alone that I feel sure that I cannot dance. Least of all now. But I know I must, because you are watching. Because however inevitable our union feels at that
point, I still must prove it to you right now.

I  return  to  a  barren  wilderness  every  time  I  begin  to dance. I know I have told you before that no matter how many other ballerinas
I’m dancing with, I feel sealed apart from them. They flit about me like excuses. Every one is a distraction from my movement, from my expression. They are all in competition with me; at
least that is how it feels. At this point in the dream the feeling of loneliness becomes so acute that I always struggle to breathe. However much after the dance people tell me that I moved
beautifully, I feel as if they are talking to me in a bubble and that I am completely insulated from how I felt at the time. The praise by then feels as if it belongs to someone else. Sometimes, in
my dreams of dancing, I trip over and fall to the floor just as I begin. When this happens the other ballerinas simply dance over me, until my body becomes a bloody pulp twisting into the ground.
My thin figure becomes bruised and damaged as their tiny, muscular feet pummel into me. I become as indistinguishable from the ground as sunlit dust is from the sky, while it quietly circles our
movements.

I want you to know how I felt at that moment, as I began to dance and tried to dismiss these fears from my mind. At that moment the isolation isn’t like it was when I first moved to St
Petersburg from Ukraine. That isolation existed as a kind of hollow pain in the pit of my stomach. The soft thump of ballet pumps at the Vaganova Academy made for an aching and resonant sound, but
they were washed with a kind of nauseous excitement, because I knew that I had finally escaped my stepmother. I knew that I had arrived at the point where I could begin doing something of worth,
and so the pain was not unchecked. I had only ever felt fulfilled before that on the afternoons I’d volunteered at the children’s home, but that had felt different, that had been a more
nourishing, steady fulfilment. That excitement had twisted into something new by the time I moved from St Petersburg to England, where you would finally watch me dance. At that point, a new thought
had started to consume me, like a parasite – the thought that I could never truly be a dancer, that I lacked the nerve. And yet here I was, hundreds of miles from my childhood in Donetsk,
struggling with this new language, amongst a troupe of women more talented than I, wondering if I was always doomed to failure. A failure that now could not be soothed by even the paltry comforts
of home.

I won’t remind you of how long it had been since I had felt a kinship with anyone. The wilderness stretched from the brittle terrain of friendship, through the chalky turf of
professionalism. Isolation skewered through the sinewy paths of intimacy and had now settled into every second of my life. As I tensed into the first position, I was living in exile. And yet the
heat of your gaze meant that at that moment all the loneliness was erased by the thought that I could yet be saved from it all. As it was the first time you watched me, so it is in the dream.

This dance feels so different from any other, because you are there. Any beauty I manage to carve out in this barren place is not wasted because it is for you, and that is what I tell myself as
the music starts. I sense you raise your chin, and I turn mine perpendicular to yours. The piano chords begin to roll, and their momentum soon overwhelms me as I start to move.

I don’t look to you at any point in the dance and more than ever I dance as me. For once I do not feel removed from the dance. I give myself the room to indulge a little, a small emphasis
here and there as I always imagined it should be, as I would never have permitted myself were the choreographer present. My
attitudes
are more elegant, my
adage’s
more pointed.
But with you watching this is not only permitted, but expected. Finally, I am dancing for a purpose. Though you will not review my dance for a broadsheet paper, and though it will not be festooned
with stars on an infinite number of cheaply printed sheets, this dance has more meaning than any. I am creating a piece of work that stands outside of time, a shard of self-expression that for once
is not futile, and gradually, above all others, you are seduced by my movement. I feel the weight of pressure on me, the gorgeous weight of knowing that just this one time I must be incredible.
That I must create movements whose meaning extends beyond the realms of the mundane. At first I feel your eyes possessively pore over my limbs as they extend and contract. You consider the white
flesh of my clenched thigh as I
plié
, and the flashes of my body that my outfit reveals as I stretch and gambol. I am inevitably mapped out, a good portion of me at least, for the
duration of the dance.

That is why I thought it apt to tell you of this dream in the first letter I’m sending you. At our reunion three days ago, in that beautiful rose garden, we agreed to be completely honest
in these letters. Meeting one another made our lives extraordinary. Perhaps that is why we agreed in these letters, the first we have ever written to one another, to chart what has happened between
us since we first met. In doing so, I hope to discover what caused the remarkable events that followed our introduction. But I have another, more personal hope for these letters. I hope that
through them we can also work out exactly what we are to each other now. However pure our union first felt, we have, in all honesty, taken each other through dark places that no-one could have
envisaged. Through these letters I hope to illuminate these sunless corners of our lives. To illuminate exactly who you and I are now, as a result of what we have done to each other.

My letters to you, my darling Noah, will be maps, in which I hope I can be found. Like that time you once mentioned, when you saw a glimpse of me, naked in front of the mirror, through 
the  open  bathroom door. You  said  you  had  seen me, not composed, but unadorned. Physically and socially unadorned. And that is how I hope I will be in these
letters and how I hope to find you in yours too. I have always struggled to be anything other than stiff and secretive, and even now I struggle to find the language to be open and intimate. But if
I can at last do it with anyone – finally ventilate all the hidden compartments of myself – I believe it will be with you. I don’t believe we could ever write in such a way to
anyone else. I hope we can do this. If we are to supply any remedy to one another, for the ills of fate and circumstance, then I feel sure that it will be through these letters.

Towards the end of the dream the dance ends and I start to remember who you still are to me. Just a writer in a navy blue trilby, clutching a red notebook, who’s been reluctantly granted
permission to sit in on our rehearsal while researching his next book. A voyeur, that is what you are – by your own volition. A voyeur is criticised for granting himself access to something
which he is not privy to. And in that case, in that context, that is what you are. And yet it is not so simple. Because I made a decision at the moment the maestro seated himself: to play the role
of a seductress. Therefore, although it is demonstrably me who is under scrutiny, you have been stripped of the power of your role. And from that moment on, the two of us were absented from usual
life.

You remain untainted in this dream, Noah, even with the self-flagellation our dreams are often stained by. After the dance has finished, you note that I am alone. The girls wipe themselves down
with stiff towels, laugh conspiratorially amongst themselves. They remain cautious, if unburdened. Conscious of the sheen of sweat on my back I look over to you, exhilarated and relieved, and the
door to the city opens a little wider. The stagehands spill out into the summer’s evening, keen to encircle the girls. You catch my eye and give a little flutter of your hand, ironically, as
if
you
have just performed for me. Which, I must admit, you have though your performance was complete the moment you sat down. You have your fetishes. I know that you are probably fascinated
by our outfits, by the faint scent of makeup in the city air, by the sunlight on our skin as we pour outside. I see you begin to move outside – from a bird’s eye view indistinguishable
in location from me, and yet formally the two of us have not yet spoken and we could not be more apart.

I hope that you are intrigued by me, intrigued enough to want us to speak. But you do not yet know if you possess the dexterity to overcome my natural and cherished awkwardness. And just as you
are preoccupied by my details, so I am with yours. As you step in my wake, as I move outside. The synchronicity of our movements is not set to music now, it’s merely punctuated by time. I am
fascinated by you, by your mysterious red notebook, the contents of which I can only speculate over. Outside, I sit on a block of concrete, and I hope I somehow stand out amongst my peers. The sky
in that quarter of the city has an untrammelled pureness to its blue, reminiscent of the kind of world I later learn that you wish to live in. I know I have become furniture in that world merely by
sitting just there. You have begun to respond to me a little, for what I threw at you in the dance, and for where I now sit, a rare stone amongst the jewellery shop of this city. I already want us
to be splayed amongst it, for us to cover every corner of it together. I want my presence to be so evocative that it is indistinguishable from your vague fantasies, to be the most potent
amongst  them.  I  assume  that  role  happily  though, because I already need to be a part of your world. I accept a cigarette from one of the girls, because I
know that I need my apparatus too, my levers and pulleys to pull you in. There is still paint on my eyes and skin, and sweat on my legs. I can feel the sheen from my exertions shimmer on my chest,
and I see your eyes catch the glowing skin above my breasts at least once. They rise and fall in the corner of your eye, and I know your body registers every undulation. I don’t want this
vast vat of blue to ever fade from my eyes and the eyes of the other, now beautiful dancers. I want to embody this symbol for you for as long as I can, as I know you will draw from it during the
dark and isolated moments that are still to come in your life. For a moment I suspend myself in my current state, and I sense the weight of meaning upon me; a beautiful, timeless weight. And for a
moment I actually feel playful. I laugh with the other girls, and I’m not scared of them. I love them and everything around me because I know it all means so much. I love feeling important
for once. I love to drip with meaning like this, to finally be a part of something timeless. I just know that in time you will come over to me, and only a few moments later you do. I feel your
approach in the corner of my eyes. There is no hurry; I have never been so sure that something will happen. You consider me for a moment, perhaps balancing the weight of your fear against the
loneliness you will later feel in your room if you do not speak now. And then, having made that calculation, you move over to me. And you are not yet able to meet my eye, as you ask, ‘Would
you like a light for that?’

With love,

Yelena

Dear Noah,

Thank you for your letter. Isn’t it strange how two people can recall the same events so very differently? You say it was during the opening night party that my presence
first had a great impact upon you; that watching me rehearse merely laid the groundwork for that. I can see how that party could have acted as a fertile ground, in which secretly planted seeds
could flourish.

I remember the exuberant performance the
corps de ballet
gave as the guests began to arrive. Having the event in a lavish art gallery overlooking the river contributed to that excited,
intense atmosphere, mirrored in the bodies of the ballerinas as they took to the floor. Their nervous energy commanded the guests’ attention. Nine dancers with feather plumes, their athletic
bodies clad in stiff tutus. This was their moment, tonight they had the attention of the discerning for those few fluttering minutes. The three Principal ballerinas in evening wear, who were
stationed at various corners of the room, exchanged amused smiles as the dancers braced themselves to begin. And then the air was filled with the striking of strings, followed  immediately
 by  the  quick,  arching  movements of lithe arms, legs quivering as they went
en pointe
. They exchanged glances as they darted around the room like small sparrows,
destined one day to soar, a trail of talcum powder spinning in their wake. The men, enchanted and engrossed, gripped their champagne flutes harder. The women, knowing and composed, watched them
with narrowed eyes.

I remember the unique sensations of that evening so precisely. I can still recall the excitement and relief I felt; its unusual potency moves me still. There I was, anxious, suspicious little
Yelena, finally in England, at the launch party for the first ballet that I would dance as a Principal.

The windows of that high-rise gallery captured the city’s vivid bouquet of colours, splashing amongst themselves as far as the eye could see. Below me were the intricate houses of the
city, each holding such comfortable concerns. Thin strokes of purple and red dispersed amongst the ice blue of the summer sky, which seemed so wide and promising. The glistening arch of the bridge
below us, visible in the expansive windows, the city’s lights reflected in its concave frame, illuminated amongst the deepening dark. And inside, all around us pyramids of champagne glasses
bubbling away like  small  gold  fireworks. The  long  arched  necks  of  the dancers, their hair pressed into precise buns, immobile as they considered the
city they were about to enchant below. That gently insidious music that accompanied the
corps de ballet
, propelling each of us dancers in brief and sensational moments to move along with it
– and in so doing to show hints of our potential. It was the first time that excitement had felt pure, unspoilt by anxiety. That excitement passed between the lips of each dancer as their
performance ended, as if it was our secret. What a glorious night that was.